Why I Wore Pants to Church Today since no one asked...

The first outfit I wore during Sacrament meeting.  Because we attended another ward  we had a break between meetings. 

My Sunday School and R.S. outfit. (no one even stared at me.)

I was pretty ambivalent about Stephanie Lauritzen's call to wear pants in support of gender equality. But something changed when I started to read all the negative comments to Stephanie's Face Book event. It wasn't the "those women should be shot in the face" comment from a BYU student that put me over the edge, it was the comment from someone named Cheryl who said, "if some women have a problem wearing a skirt to church, they should just stay home." She had time to re-think that extremely judgmental, less than empathetic comment, but she reiterated it again. Fill in the blank and see it for what it is. If someone has a problem, no matter what it is, that isn't fitting with the typical Mormon, they should just stay home. Stay home, is not the admonition from our Savior. "Come unto me, all  ye that labour and are heavy laden and I will give ye rest." Brigham Young didn't tell folks to stay home either, he said that our "chapels should smell like a tavern on Sunday morning." And of course there's the idea that the church isn't a showplace for the perfect, but a hospital for sinners--which includes all of us. But then wearing pants isn't a sin at all. It's not even church policy for women to wear a skirt, rather it's a pretty strong cultural norm. So once I read Cheryl's over-the-top judgmental comment, I knew that I had to wear pants, at least for a day.

Clear back when I attended USU, over thirty years ago I lived on Darwin Avenue. I met a guy named Rich. Rich was a returned missionary: outgoing, funny, and faithful in the church. He was everyone's friend. About ten years ago, Mick and I ran into Rich and his wife. In the conversation, he asked if he'd ever told us why he'd gotten active in church. We told him he hadn't and he told this story. Remember this was the 70's."I was a freshman. I came to USU and moved in with a bunch of guys I didn't know. They were clean cut returned missionaries for the most part. When sunday rolled around, they tried to get me to go to church and I told them, no way. They pushed and finally I relented on one condition and that was that I would go just the way I was: hair to my shoulders, wearing overallls, barefoot and without a shirt, that's not a white shirt--it's not a shirt--period. Then, if one person said anything to me about my appearance, I'd never go back again. They persuaded me to at least put  a shirt on under my overalls, so I put on a T-shirt. But I still went barefoot and strolled in and sat on the front row. No one said a thing about my appearance and I kept going." Rich was a great guy, fantastic father, husband, and teacher. He died in a tragic accident shortly after he told us this story, leaving behind his wife and children. I am grateful that no one said to Rich, if you have a problem putting on a white shirt and tie--just stay home. So for Rich, I wore pants today.

When we a were young married couple with our first baby, I was called into the Young Women's (for the first time) as a counselor and advisor. I loved it and still to this day run into some of the fantastic women I taught. I'll never forget a question from one of those girls. I was dropping her off at her house after an activity and she said, "Women aren't as important as men in the church, are they?" I was shocked. I didn't feel that way. "No, that's not true. Women are every bit as important as men." "Well, all the leaders are men. When they have general conference, it's all men up there." I don't remember what I said after that because I didn't have an answer, not a good one. So for Katie* I wore pants today.

My son Trevor married Joanna, a beautiful, compassionate and outgoing woman. After they had their first baby and Trevor started a teaching job in Colorado, they saw a young woman struggling to cross the road. She was carrying a toddler in a car seat and pulling another little boy by the hand. Traffic was backing up. I can see how hard that might have been. My daughter-in-law pulled over to the shoulder, jumped out and helped the woman and her children cross the road. Then,  told her to wait, that she'd be back. She then dropped my son and the baby off so there would be room in their tiny car for the woman and her two children. Joanna went back for them and got them where they were going. Joanna found out who she was, where she lived, and befriended the woman who I'll call Tamra*, and then introduced the gospel to her. Tamra, a young African-American, single mother joined the church. She had no car to drive, no dress to wear, but made the effort to attend church--in pants. It's nice that no one in Tamra's branch made her feel unwelcome because of the way she was dressed. For Tamra and all those like her, I wore pants to church today.

My mother-in-law was before her time. In the 40's she left the small town of Garland, Utah and went to arguably one of the most liberal, but prestigious schools in the nation--University of California in Berkeley. After graduation, she taught school, then married a rancher and helped support the family. When he had to take early retirement due to a disability, she became THE provider for the family. Not only was she a good mother to my husband and his siblings, she taught him by her example qualities of a truly equal woman. She died earlier this year. I wore her blouse today in her honor. For Ruth, a feminist before her time, I wore pants today.


*not real name

Church in the Mountains in Montana

I have to admit that I have a love/hate relationship with my religion. I'm on a constant roller coaster of highs and lows, but through it all there's a been a thread binding me to my upbringing. The thread is tradition and love. In 1961 Grandpa Anderson built a cabin in Silver Gate, Montana. Silver Gate is one mile from the northeast entrance of Yellowstone. Every summer since that first year I've spent some time there. When I was really little, Sundays at the cabin were spent having a church meeting with family. I loved these meetings. They were basically testimony meetings where we'd share things that were most important to us--family, love, tradition, the truthfulness of the gospel, how much we loved the cabin, the mountains, nature... When I got my own family we've done this less often. Instead we've followed proper protocol and drove either to Yellowstone to have church at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone at an LDS branch, or later to Gardiner, Montana, but more often to the Cooke Pass LDS branch. Nothing has ever come close to as spiritual as the time I remember Grandpa and Grandma Anderson talking about how they held church in their home in Glendive, Montana because they were the only Mormons in town. Grandpa was the branch president and his family was the branch. At the Silver Gate cabin Grandpa Anderson and Dad passed the sacrament to us. Things were different back then and the Church didn't make a fuss about getting permission to do what my grandma and dad had been ordained to have authority to do. I know I've never come close to feeling the kind of love I felt at those early cabin meetings. My heart overflowed with the spirit. I wanted more than anything to feel that kind of peace and joy every day of my life. Grandpa died when I was ten. We'd said goodbye to him a week or two before at the cabin and drove back to Utah. He died in Yellowstone Park. He was fishing on the Lamar River, caught his limit, and died of a heart attack. My Uncle was with him and couldn't revive him.

It broke our hearts. But  the cabin stands as a reminder of his life, his goodness, his love, his sacrifice for his family and for his religion. He was the best of men.

A couple of weeks ago my family was at the cabin. We shared a few days with our son, his wife, and our three grandchildren. We chose to attend church at a small branch about ten miles from the cabin.  It wasn't as wonderful as those early meetings with Grandma and Grandpa--nothing could be--but it was heartwarming and the tug on my heart, the goodness, the thread that weaves through my life binding me to my upbringing and to my family and to my religion was there.

Top Ten Reasons why Church at an LDS Branch at Cooke Pass, Montana is Better

10: Chance to see wildlife on the way--especially Bison. I've never seen a bison on the way to church in Utah.
9.  I got to go with my grandkids.
8. No church responsibilities.
7.  No classrooms, so priesthood was outside in the pines.
6.  Men wore cowboy boots.
5. My daughter-in-law wore skinny jeans (not even allowed on BYU Idaho campus.) I wore pants. Mick wore jeans--so we were all comfortable. No one cared how we were dressed. I have always doubted that God cares either. 
4. Church was held in a cool cabin with family photos on the wall.
3. Testimony meeting was sweet. People spoke from their hearts and focused more of Jesus and the Atonement than I normally hear.
2. Best Sunday drive after church ever to the top of the Beartooths!
1. Instead of a mind-numbing three hours, church was two hours and they covered everything beautifully without any time for political commentaries from people in Gospel Doctrine class. 

The LDS church in Cooke Pass, Montana

Grandkids over 10,000 feet high in the Beartooths

The Summit of the Beartooths

We stopped to see a waterfall after church.

This is where we turned off for church

The Amphitheater Mountain is the mountain I've looked at from the cabin window for over 50 years.

Youngest grandchild

Lost and NOT Found

On a daily basis I lose things. I'm kind of scattered that way: keys, wallets, money, purses, sweaters, shoes and so on. Most of these things I eventually find though I may be late for wherever I was heading. Most "things" don't mean all that much--not in the long run. Somehow we find out what really matters when we lose something or someone that can't be replaced. Lately, I've been grieving some large losses. Things that matter.

 The first may be too personal for a public blog, and I may regain at least some of this loss. I hope so. The second big loss was my mother-in-law who I blogged about and who we buried on March 31st. She was a one-of-a-kind and a great loss to our family, her friends, and community members. Then on top of those losses another great loss for all of Paradise/Avon and Cache Valley. Twenty years ago when we moved to Paradise, the center of the community stood out.  A quaint Mormon church in a charming town.

On Easter I walked through this door for the last time ever to worship with friends. The bell in the fabulous bell tower pealed. Pealed not to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus so much as to say goodbye. Goodbye to not just the center, but the heart of the town. There's something about destroyed history. It can not be found. It can not be built again. Once gone, unlike my car keys, it's gone forever. Sometimes policies hurt. Policies should not just be made on economics and practicality. Beauty, space, tradition, and sacrifice matter. In a church that spends something like 2 billion on a mall, couldn't a little have been diverted to preserve our edifice? Shouldn't it have been?

I can't help but wonder if the demise of this building would be the same if it was in Salt Lake where the outcry could be heard and seen from church headquarters. If I sound bitter. You are right. I am bitter, but mostly sad. Paradise never was a wealthy town. In the early days, people with money built on center street in Logan. They didn't build out in the boonies. Paradise was a pioneer farming community. The church was the crown jewel.


The Northwest part of the church was built stone by stone, timber by timber in 1877.  In those days church members paid for much of the building and did all the work. They built onto the building in the 1950's and this chapel was added then. Notice the lovely color of the chapel.
                How many LDS churches built today are graced with hand-painted borders and lovely flowers--each one different? The man who painted these was in his 80's when he did it. He had worked on temple murals. These will not be preserved. They will be destroyed along with the building this week. After the meeting, we all gathered in front for photos--just like any funeral. And just like any funeral--we are left with what will never be the same again.