To find out more about why I wore pants to church, and why it was even a big deal, please visit the Facebook page about it here. Also, this Huffington Post article here.

•••••••

Five years ago after marrying a Canadian I moved from Mesa, Arizona to Southern Alberta, Canada.

It was cold.

Those first few weeks preparing to attend church in my new ward (I’m a Mormon, by the way), I voiced my envy of my husband’s standard church attire of suit pants and jacket.

—You look so warm. I wish I could wear pants to church.

—So wear pants.

—Haha, yeah right. I can’t wear pants to church! Absurd.

—Why not? You’d be a lot warmer.

—I can’t! Nobody wears pants to church.

—I do.

—Well duh…but no women wear pants to church. At least no normal women do. I’d get judged.

—Who cares? If you’re comfortable, wear what you want to wear.

—I know, but…I just can’t.

•••••••

Earlier that very year—10 months before I got married—I spent a semester living in Belgium working as an au pair (fancy word for nanny) for a French family.

My first days in Belgium passed in a blur of jet lag and culture shock, and by the time Sunday rolled around I was anxious to attend church services. I had high hopes that something familiar there would make me feel less alone.

I drove myself to the building, arriving torturously late on account of being a new driver in a foreign country (with atrocious street signage and no GPS), but I made it in time for two hours. I entered the building and strains of a hymn drifted through the foyer as I searched for someone to direct me which class I should attend. I felt almost instant comfort. I was among friends.

It was a missionary who finally pointed me in the direction of Relief Society (the hour-long class for women of the church), and I slipped quietly into the back row of the class. The lesson was taught in French and I didn’t understand much except the beauty of the language. The woman teaching the lesson was wearing dress slacks. It was the first time I’d seen a woman wearing pants intentionally to church.

(I say “intentionally” because back home in Mesa there were a few times when recent converts to the church, or women just visiting for the first time, would show up in jeans and a T-shirt. To my knowledge nobody ever treated them rudely for their attire—and certainly nobody ever SHOULD have—but I suspect they might have felt uncomfortable simply because they were dressed differently than the other 200+ people attending church in dresses and suits.)

The teacher finished her lesson. Several women in the class (some also wearing pants) were crying by the end of it, clearly touched by something my language barrier had stopped me from understanding. There was a good spirit in the room, though—a sense of community and friendship—that needed no translation.

•••••••

Today I went to church, as I have nearly every week of my life for the past 26 years.

It was my first time wearing pants.

In the first hour—Sacrament meeting, the hour where the entire congregation sits in the chapel, takes the sacrament, and listens to talks about gospel principles given by fellow congregation members (at the request of the bishop)—I sat behind a good friend who has three children, one of whom a months-old baby. Her husband works out of town and sometimes she has to wrangle all three kids alone, so Kyle and I have gotten into the habit of sitting by her and helping her with the children. I usually get to hold the sweet baby and Kyle gets to entertain the two year-old with funny faces and paper creations until he takes over baby duty for me because my arms get tired.

Today, like most weeks, my arms got tired as I was holding the little baby boy. But this time, instead of having to pass him off to Kyle like other Sundays, I was able to cross my legs, prop up my knee, and rest the bulk of the weight there. I held that baby the whole hour, thus freeing up Kyle to entertain the two year-old and the mother to hold her five year-old son on her lap.

Because I wore pants I was able to render a tiny act of service a little bit better.

In the second and third hours—when most adults attend joint classes and then separate classes—my job is to lead singing time in the Primary (group of children age 3-12, of which there are approximately 50).

It is an exhausting calling every week no matter what I wear.

But this week as I jumped around singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” at increasingly speedy tempos, I felt a little different than the week before. Whereas last week I led the song reservedly and half-baked, this week I was exuberant: I was free to crouch down low and truly touch my toes, because there was no risk of my skirt riding up and—the horror!—accidentally exposing my underoos to 50 impressionable children.

•••••••

As I approached the building on my way in to church this afternoon, I caught a brief reflection of myself in the glass double doors. My heart skipped a beat.

—I can’t believe I’m really wearing this. I should go home and change. We’re early. There’s still time. What if my primary kids ask me why I’m wearing pants? I don’t want to get political. I don’t want to cause any problems. It would be easier to wear a dress. No strange looks, no questions. STOP IT. You’ve gone over this. If a child asks why you’re wearing pants, the answer is simple: Because I was cold. If it causes a major upheaval and little girls throughout the town demand their mothers let them wear pants next week…well, you’ll just have to deal with that if it happens. You can do this. You’ve dreamed of doing this. It’s just pants. It’s just pants. IT’S JUST PANTS.

To my surprise and immense relief, I did not receive a single disapproving look or awkward question. I spoke to many of my fellow ward members up close and personally. I held children on my lap when they were feeling rowdy during Sharing Time in Primary. I led a motley but sincere choir of handbells plunking out the tune to “Christmas Bells Are Ringing.” I felt a calm and reverent spirit as I listened to a story another teacher taught about the difference between light and dark.

I left through the same doors I entered, my earlier doubts and insecurities long dissolved by the edification I received.

There has been a lot of criticism about this day, the most bothersome of which, for me, is: “I can’t believe women are making pants-wearing a cause. 20 children were just shot to death at school two days ago and you’re stressing about wearing PANTS? Get a life.”

I know. I know. I know there are some seriously messed up things happening in the world right now. It is horrific. I hate it. Who on earth could possibly have time to spare even one thought about what I am wearing?

And that is my point exactly.

Share this post: on Twitter on Facebook on Google+