What do Mormons Believe? Part II

by Camille Posted on February 23, 2011

I think the best way to approach my quest into what I, as a Mormon, really believe, is to start with the Articles of Faith.

The Articles of Faith are thirteen statements compiling the central guiding principles of the Mormon faith, written by Joseph Smith in 1842.

They’re like a Mormon credo, in other words. (p.s. Lots of religions have Articles of Faith, I learned.)

Born-and-raised Mormons learn them from the time they start Sunday School (at the age of three), or, if they have extra-devoted and stalwart parents, at home before they can really even talk.

I was a member of the latter group.

Article of Faith 1:

We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.

The breakdown:

1) We believe in God—no such thing as an atheist Mormon. God, as in God the Father, is the Creator of all things in heaven and on the earth. He is the spiritual Father of every living person on the earth, as well as the literal father of Jesus Christ. (I think God needs an entire post all to Himself, which I should add to the queue.) (Do you think God is offended that he’s in the queue and not on top of it?)

2) …and in His Son, Jesus Christ—Mormons believe in Christ. Mormons are often misunderstood as not being Christian, or somehow anti-Christian. But the definition of Christianity according to my MacBook’s dashboard dictionary is “a religion based on the person and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, or its beliefs and practices.” Mormons are definitely Christians.

As for me, if the idea of God seems a little abstract, I nevertheless have no problem swallowing that Jesus was a real living human on the earth, and that He was pretty awesome—there is literal recorded evidence of His existence. And if I believe in the teachings of Jesus (which I do), then it only follows that I believe in His Father, God, because Jesus not only believed in God, but also devoted His entire life to spreading the good word about Him. Check and check.

3)…and in the Holy Ghost—we believe that the Holy Ghost exists.

Some religions bunch the Holy Trinity all together into one lump sum: they believe that the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost each play 1/3 a role in (from what I understand) one single, divine entity.

Mormons, on the other hand, believe that the Godhead consists of three separate beings: Heavenly Father, or God, with His own body; Jesus Christ, God’s Son, with His own body; and the Holy Ghost, a body-less spirit (or in more new-agey terms, I guess like an essence) whose main role is to influence people for the better (like the little angel over the shoulder).

But He’s more than just a conscience, though, the Holy Ghost. He can act as a comforter, or bringer of peace, in times of distress. He can manifest as that good feeling you get when you see an amazing act of humanity portrayed in movies (or dare I say even in real life). He can be that nudging feeling you get to steer clear of dangerous situations. Without a body, the possibilities are really endless.

The Holy Ghost, as possibly the most abstract (I mean, without a body and all) member of the Godhead, is often the trickiest guy for people to believe in or understand.

But I believe in the Holy Ghost.

I felt the spiritual influence of the Holy Ghost one time—one single time—in the most clarifying experience of my life.

I will tell you about it sometime. Probably soon.

But for now, and because these churchy posts are liable to get on people’s nerves if they drag on too long, I will leave it at this:

I am a Mormon, and I believe in Heavenly Father, in Jesus, and in the Holy Ghost.

Posted in Mormonism, what I'm about | 9 Comments

What Do Mormons Believe? Part I

by Camille Posted on February 20, 2011

I am a Mormon, did you know?

I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t know—I don’t write much about it on my blog, chiefly because:

1. I like to keep my blog light, and I don’t take my religion lightly, and

2. People can say whatever crap they want about me—in fact I encourage it [keeps me humble]—but I don’t like people saying crap about my religion. And sometimes people like to say crap about my religion. So if I don’t write about it on my blog, I don’t have to deal with that. (Non-confrontational, holler.)

However, due to a perfect storm of circumstances brewing lately within both my own personal life and the world at large, I feel like the time is over for me to keep quiet about my religion.

Circumstances of The Storm Leading to This Decision (in no particular order):

1. This post was published and the internet sort of exploded for a couple days.

2. The aftermath of same, including but not limited to this moving post by my e-BFF Megan.

3. The fact that I recently got a new assignment at church, which requires regular interaction with the teenage girls of my ward [Mormon word for congregation], and which interaction strongly encourages that I ought probably to set a good example for said teenage girls.

4. The fact that, in order to set any sort of even slightly good example, I need to make sure I know what, exactly, I believe.

5. The other fact (and this much to my own personal dismay), that I might not be sure, exactly, what I believe.

6. The logical conclusion, therefore, that since I’m on a quest to pinpoint my beliefs, I might as well two-birds/one-stone it and get some blog posts out of the deal.

7. And finally, because Why Not? I ask you: why not?

I suppose this might be distressing to some of my fellow Mormons, and maybe even to readers not of my faith—this fact that I, a (for all intents and purposes) grown up member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, do not know exactly what it is that I believe. The fact that I have sort of just fluttered around on the faith of my family for the greater majority of my life. That I have done what I was supposed to do because I was supposed to do it and never really questioned any of it.

I suppose this reflects poorly on my piety and devotion. Perhaps I will be judged—likely will lose a couple readers.

Here’s what I have to say to that:

Judge me.

When I was in high school I was really active in sports. I joined a sport for every season. Volleyball, basketball, track, the like. As part of the requirements for being involved in extracurricular high school athletics, I would on occasion be forced to put in an appearance in the high school weight room, which was equal parts miserable and humiliating for me because, despite the fact that I was active in sports, I was generally pretty lazy and really a spectacularly pathetic athlete, as in the picture of failed potential, and also I hated working out and therefore had very puny upper arms.

I struggled tremendously just to bench press a couple of reps with even the ultra-light bar. With no added weight. Just to give you an idea.

Often during my sessions of enforced public shame, I would complain to the weight room coach, a singular-looking man with hands down the shiniest, baldest head I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing my own reflection in. (Also he had a handlebar mustache, which, coupled with the aforementioned shiny head, lead me to think of him as more of a walrus than a man.)

My usual complaint to the WR coach was something like this:

I’m so weak!

And Walrus’s usual response was exactly this:

It doesn’t matter if you’re weak as long as you don’t stay that way.

Shall I say it again, to reiterate the value of this lesson?

IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU’RE WEAK. AS LONG AS YOU DON’T STAY THAT WAY.

If every day I could push that vile 15-pound rod of steel (iron? copper? magnesium?) off my chest even ONE MORE TIME than I did the day before, I was doing all right.

And so I bring this lesson to my blog: I am sorry that my own testimony is not very strong right now. (And when I say I’m sorry, I do mean sorry in the sense of sorrow. This is not an apology to my Mormon friends who are probably disappointed in me. I don’t owe you anything. This is an apology, an expression of real regret, to my own self for going so long without figuring it out. I have cut myself short. I deserve to know what I believe. And I am sorry that I’m a little weak right now.)

But the point is not to wallow in self pity or self loathing or abjection. The point is not to moan about how weak I am.

The point, just like in old Walrus’s weight room, is to get stronger. To buck the apathy. To shake the stasis.

The point is to get a little stronger every day.

I believe that.

And I am a Mormon.

**********************

I don’t expect that my quest to self-actualisation will come overnight. I suspect this will take some serious time, thought, meditation, prayer—y’know, real soul-searching type stuff. I will blog about it along the way, and if that turns you off, I understand. Come back when you’re comfortable.

But know this: I am not trying to convert you. I am not trying to shove my beliefs down your throat—how could I, when I have just confessed to being a little hazy on them myself? This series is solely for my own enlightenment and spirituality, with the added benefit of blog content. If you don’t care to read the Mormon posts, I encourage you at least to stick around—I’ll be mixing them up with the same vintage AoOL content I’ve always written.

Also—I don’t know how many posts will be involved in the series. I have no idea the order in which I will approach it. I am posting this on a whim, and I’m just going to see where it takes me. If there’s something you’ve always wondered about the Mormon church, feel free to ask me and I’ll add it to my own research queue. If I don’t know the answer, I will find someone who does. I am treating this quest for knowledge like I treat any class toward my university degree, because in the scheme of things, it really is more important. At least for me.

Roger. Over. Out.

Posted in Mormonism, what I'm about | 15 Comments

Pregnant. Pause.

by Camille Posted on February 15, 2011

So you know how when you’re pregnant you sort of stay pregnant for nine-ten months and then you give birth to this little bundle of joy and on the surface you forget all the misery you’ve been through to get to that point, but in the back of your head it’s always sort of there, just hovering, like there’s no way you can experience all that—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually—and then NOT have it somehow change you for the rest of your life, like you can never go back to being a person who hasn’t given birth?

Well, I’m pregnant that way.

Only I’m not quote-unquote with child.

I’m pregnant with my education.

Eighty months pregnant, to be exact. (Eighty months as in nearly seven years.)

If you think it’s rough being at the last week of your third trimester, just think how I feel at this point: I’m in my twenty-sixth trimester of my Bachelor’s degree. I am SO CLOSE to being finished, but there are still so many hurdles—most of which seem insurmountable, probably about as insurmountable as unassembled cribs and unpainted nurseries seem to big fat pregnant women whose, I don’t know, quadruplets are due in two days and who have no health insurance, either. They know the quadruplets are going to come. They know that somehow they will get the cribs set up between now and then.

They just can’t fathom how.

I have pregnancy hormones. Pregnancy weight gain. Pregnancy stress marks. Pregnancy bladder problems/insomnia. Pregnancy constipation. Pregnancy acne. Pregnancy eczema. Gestational diabetes. Prenatal fatigue. Cankles. Varicose veins. Pregnancy cravings.

I have all the worst symptoms of pregnancy without even the added benefits of cute maternity clothes, luscious hair, or glow of any type.

And after eighty-four months, to show for all my discomfort, I will give birth to a $20,000 piece of paper, which will neither cuddle nor look cute for nakie pictures.

After eighty-four months I will officially be educated.

So then why do I feel so very dumb.

Posted in my edjumacation and me | 12 Comments

Good thing it wasn’t whiskey sours or I’d really have poor judgment.

by Camille Posted on February 14, 2011

I woke up at 3:30 this morning to have myself a little pee, and on my way back to bed I did a stupid thing.

I checked my email on my phone.

I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew the consequences.

But I was wondering if any of the notes I was expecting had come since 10:00, so I checked. I did it even though I knew it was bad business.

And I paid dearly.

An hour later I was staring at the shadows on the wall, wide awake and out of sheep to count. I was not getting back to sleep. For some reason (probably the light waves shooting signals to my synopses and telling me it’s time to be conscious), doing any sort of computer/phone activity late at night (or in the middle of the night) seriously hinders my ability to sleep. I can’t check my email right before bed or I will lay awake for an hour kicking myself. The same goes with games, writing little e-notes, or even setting my alarm (I have to set my alarm every morning for that night).

At any rate, by the time 4:30 rolled around I figured it was a lost cause so I got up to work on some nagging projects.

As it turns out, you can get a lot done between the hours of 3:30 and 6:00 a.m., because the next thing I knew, Poor Kyle’s alarm was ringing and he was off to work.

I finally closed my books at 6:30 and went back to bed for another hour, but I’ve been seriously regretting that one poor choice all day. I was sluggish in the morning when I needed to be alert, so I drank a DDP. Then I drank another one in the late afternoon while I was working on a boring paper (gotta keep things interesting somehow), which—you guessed it—means I will probably have a hard time getting to sleep tonight.

What is wrong with me? Why am I all of a sudden making such poor decisions for myself? It’s like I’m a teenager again.

Come to think of it, the last time I was this overextended and stressed was in high school…

That must be it.

Hurry, someone ask me to the prom.

Posted in awesome., my edjumacation and me | 8 Comments

Exnay

by Camille Posted on February 11, 2011

On the list of things I’m balancing in my life right now are the following:

Art History paper due Tuesday (started, not finished)

New job in church (secretary for the teenage girl group, lots to do for that before Sunday, not started, not finished)

Write a sestina for my creative writing class due Sunday (not started not finished and not hopeful)

Planning a piano recital (half started, not finished)

Project 1 for Professor 1 [this is a job I’ve found myself on campus, a real paying job with real money, but also a real job with real time suckage] (not started, not finished)

Project 2 for Professor 1 (not started, not finished)

Projects 1-10 for Professor 2 [another little side job, again with real money but real time constraints] (not started not finished)

Marriage Sustainability (umm, I guess that’s in a constant state of not finished)

********************

Therefore and so I move that we switch back to Saturday Stealing only once per month, on the first Saturday of every month. I will remind all y’all of this every week so you can remember to be thinking about stealing. If you have lots of steals stocked up, you can even post them throughout the month and link to all of them during the first weekend extravaganza. (Sorry if you already had one for this weekend. Post it and just link up in March, if you want.)

I second the motion.

All in favour?

Aye.

Well that settles that.

And what are you up to?

Posted in Saturday Steals | 4 Comments

This one could apply to approximately 4/5 of my teachers and professors throughout the course of my life.

by Camille Posted on February 7, 2011

Dear Emjie,

If at any time this year I have doubted myself or my ability to succeed, it has been your doing.

You who looked at me with that cynical, condescension that made me feel like a cockroach.

You who sneered at me with those beady, beady eyes and made me want to punch you.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t punch you.

Because you’re older.

Wiser?

And so feeble that a punch might’ve killed you, and then you really would have ruined my life.

I would have been a felon, been put in prison for years or for ever, all because of your horrible bedside manner.

The only faith you showed in me was the faith that I would fail.

The only motivation you inspired was that I might prove you wrong.

One night I had a dream about you.

Yes, Gee-emme, you even invaded my dreams.

My dreams that I normally love so dearly.

My sleep that I normally cherish.

You even took that.

In my dream, my nightmare, you were enormous—you were the size of a university campus.

Every professor was you.

Every assignment was you.

Every shaded window looking out on the coulees was you.

And while I realise this may sound like a love poem, I assure you:

It.

Is.

Not.

You were everything bad on a feverish rampage to destroy everything good.

I shriveled and died in the presence of you, which was every presence.

My words choked in my mouth because I could not speak to you.

You stole my voice.

And I hated you.

When I woke up and saw it was just a dream,

I still hated you.

But I like this poem—these words that I’ve written to you. Because of you.

They prove you have not beaten me.

And you will not beat me.

So I forgive you.

All my best,

cpsf

Posted in my edjumacation and me, watch out or I'll blog about you | 3 Comments

Saturday Steals: Frodins for PK

by Camille Posted on February 4, 2011


Hello, and welcome to another rousing round of Saturday Steals, where what you get is what you see and what you see is cheap or free!

To participate, simply:

1) Steal a steal.

2) Write a post about it on your blog, mentioning that you’re participating in Saturday Steals (you can steal the above image if you so desire), and

3) Add the link to said post to the list at the bottom of this post.

****************************

Poor Kyle refuses to pack his own lunch for work.

I guess I shouldn’t say “refuses.” He has never actually looked me in the face and said, “NO, I WILL NOT PACK MY OWN LUNCH FOR WORK.” It’s more like he simply doesn’t do it, which, to me, feels like a blatant refusal, but really I know it’s just sheer laziness and disinterest on his part.

He’s not trying to piss me off…he just does.

(I think we need marriage counseling.)

Anyway, I have a hard enough time packing my own lunch; I usually only do it for half the days I’m at school (although ever since deciding to go to Paris I have had double motivation to save money and have thus not missed a single day in two weeks). But with my own lunches, I know what I like, I know what will be exciting to eat the next day, and it’s relatively easy to get my act together and get that dadgum lunch packed.

But with Poor Kyle, a lot of things I send with him end up staying on his toolbox for two weeks only to make an ignoble return home after I realize that every single piece of generic Tupperware™ we own is mysteriously missing, and sit PK down for questioning. And he doesn’t even have the decency to empty the containers out before he brings them home. He just dumps them on the counter for me to deal with: mold, stench, and all.

(Again: marriage counseling. I have a lot of anger in my life.)

This he does on account of his phobia of leftovers, which alleged phobia hails from unknown origins but which I secretly suspect came from his mother coddling him as an infant, and which phobia I myself was never granted the luxury of developing because if I didn’t like what was served for dinner I didn’t eat.

And also which phobia I consider the single greatest barrier in my ability to love my husband unconditionally, even greater than his tendency to leave his dirty clothes all around the house in exactly whichever location he was when he decided he could not possibly stay clothed for even ONE MORE SECOND, including but not limited to: the bathroom floor, the kitchen table, the basement sofa, the basement bathroom, the bedroom floor (not hamper), the laundry room (not hamper), and even, once, the back deck (don’t ask).

Although, I grant, my own homemade meals are never that great even the first time around, so he probably has good reason to avoid them during Round 2.

But then even when I pack sure-fire winners, like PB&Js, even then he sometimes doesn’t eat them and they just go stale. I don’t know why he does this. He claims he gets busy and forgets to eat, but I’m thinking ain’t no one I know’s too busy to eat.

And no, it’s not like it’s so difficult to make PB&Js. But I really hate the idea of wasted food and wasted time. Plus making PB&Js is a tedious task for me, one that I put off because of the tedium, so when I actually do sacrifice the energy to make them for my husband, it really irks me for them to go uneaten.

And now I am 501 words in to this post and thinking it is getting altogether too long and complainey, so I will cut to the marital chase, and the steal portion of this Saturday Steal:

Poor Kyle spends a lot of money on lunches every week, and usually crappy fast-food lunches at that, which, considering both his personal cholesterol and our joint financial situation, is just a really bad idea.

In an attempt to cut down on his spending, I tried packing his lunches.

Which became an even bigger waste of money because not only did he not eat my lunches, but also he still bought lunch for himself at around $10 per diem.

And so, in a greater attempt to make SOME sort of progress, I discovered an acceptable solution to my unacceptable problem:

Frodins.

(Trendy talk for Frozen Dinners.)

Of course, though, out of some exasperating snobbish phobia developed early on in life, Poor Kyle snubs any and all frozen dinners that come compartmentalized with mashed potatoes and mushy vegetables (i.e. the cheap kind).

But, wonder of wonder MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, he will eat this one particular kind we found whilst grocery shopping a couple weeks ago:

Healthy Choice Gourmet Steamers™, also known as the little frodin that could.

Healthy Choice Gourmet Steamers™ are found in the freezer aisle at my local Real Canadian Superstore (actual name), and are often on sale for $3 each, which is admittedly pretty high for a frodin, but is 70% cheaper than the lunches Poor Kyle normally eats from Wendy’s et al.

Also, I see that I now have the opportunity to follow HC on facebook, which might land me at least a coupon or something.

These dinners are pretty tasty, which isn’t much for me to say because I will eat cardboard and enjoy it if it’s all MY WIFE PACKED FOR MY LUNCH THAT DAY, but even Poor Poor Kyle himself acknowledges that they are good (although he prefers the bowls with rice, because why not be picky if at all possible).

Here’s how they work:

Step 1: Remove from box and marvel at the frozen contents.

Step 2: Place in microwave for allotted time (times may vary). Wave the micros right out of that frodin.

Step 3: Remove from microwave immediately after the timer dings, ignoring the recommended wait time, which is for pansies. Remove plastic film.

Step 4: Lift top steamer bowl out of bottom sauce bowl and dump contents of top steamer bowl into bottom sauce bowl. Discard steamer bowl and do your best to ignore the nagging guilt that this meal could’ve been made, by you, without the use of any plastic whatsoever. Rationalise that desperate marital times call for desperate marital measures. If you think it will help.

Step Who Cares: Stir innards into the sauce and enjoy.

This particular version, the Beef Merlot, is my own personal favourite. The sauce has a really good, gravy-ish flavour, but isn’t too thick or heavy. It actually tastes like this really delicious coq au vin I had once in Belgium, which: amazing. The carrots are admittedly kind of mushy, but the green beans are surprisingly crisp, and the beef is really tender and much better than any sort of pot roast I’ve ever come up with. The potatoes are nothing to sneeze at but really, it’s a frodin—what do you expect?

And the best part of all:


Only 210 calories for the whole shebang! Fewer calories than a Snicker’s bar, and much more filling!

The ones with rice and noodles have a few more calories, but I don’t think any of them exceed 300 calories, which is really good for a lunch or dinner. Sometimes PK eats two in a sitting because he likes to undo all my hard work, but even then I can feel good about his calorie intake and his budgetary intake because both are lower than his normal course of action.

So you can think of this steal as a health steal or a money steal, but either way you wave the micros, it’s a dadgum steal.

*******************

Now it’s your turn! What have you stolen lately?

Add your steal to the link list below. It will be open from now till Sunday at 11:59 p.m.

Posted in Married Life, mediocrity, Poor Kyle, Saturday Steals | 8 Comments