Take, for example, my most recent acquisition:

The bishopric appeared pleased that Sister Somewhat-less-active agreed to speak in sacrament meeting on her favorite topic, family history. But they must have been surprised when she announced, “I may not come to church much, but I’m d*!# good at family history.” She continued her talk, liberally sprinkled with the “nice” swear words, but the bishop turned white when one of her concluding statements was that she thinks “family history is bi#$@-in’.”

I don’t necessarily wish my young, impressionable children had been there for that, but you can be dang sure I’m adding it to my collection. I was in attendance at a fast and testimony meeting when a sister from South America bore her testimony about how disrespectful and immodest Americans are for allowing their children to wear pants to the primary program practice in the chapel. Apparently, it is a casual practice that would never happen in her home country. The testimony was long (10 or so minutes) and quite in-depth. The next sister to the pulpit announced that she “couldn’t agree more,” and bore her testimony about how too many women don’t wear pantyhose to church, a casual practice as disrespectful as wearing flip-flops. It was after that lengthy testimony that the bishop felt he needed to get up and explain that he wasn’t “one to know about women’s pantyhose,” but he was sure “we were all trying to be respectful and reverent in our buildings and will try harder.”

Well, at least no one fell asleep that day.

I could tell many more stories. I could tell you about the man who brought a glossy, 8 x 10 photo of his new car so he could visually demonstrate that his car is worth “$72,000. Yes, that’s right: $72,000!” Apparently, the $72,000 car helps demonstrate that the atonement is “priceless.” Or I could tell about the closing prayer in which a sister prayed that “we can solve the mystery of the missing David Jones,” a man later discovered to have ditched his family and headed to California. [By the way, I changed the name in that one, but the rest is absolutely true.]

Perhaps my all-time favorite is the elderly sister who bore her testimony on fast Sunday about how wonderful all the ward members had been during her husband’s recent “scrotum surgery.” People had brought meals and sent cards, showing true charity in the recovery after the scrotum surgery. Truly, she had seen the goodness of God because of her husband’s scrotum surgery. She sat down and her husband marched in a stiff gait to the pulpit. He leaned in close and announced loudly, “It was my sternum,” then marched back to his seat.

I love my stories, but some are getting old. Can you add to my repertoire? Remember: firsthand knowledge of the story. If you don’t want to add to my sacrament meeting story collection, you could always send me a bookmark.

The jolt came when I quit singing after verse three (that’s all there are in my hymnbook) and all my Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters continued with verse four.

Cyberhymnal tells me there are actually six verses in the hymn by Julia Ward Howe. Just out of curiosity, can some of you more musically-inclined bilingual persons tell me which verses are included in the Spanish hymnbook? Is it common that the songs vary between the hymnbooks created in different languages? Anyone know why?

I have not considered myself among those who seamlessly coordinate reincarnation with Christianity. But the following quotes have given me pause to reconsider:

The character of those who are such sticklers for it [working against law and Christianity] will perish, for they are taking the downward road to destruction. They will be decomposed, both soul and body, and return to their native element. I do not say that they will be annihilated; but they will be disorganized, and will be as though they never had been, while we will live and retain our identity, and contend against those principle[s] which tend to death or dissolution. I am after life; I want to preserve my identity, so that you can see Brigham in the eternal worlds just as you see him now. I want to see that eternal principle of life dwelling within us which will exalt us eternally in the presence of our Father and God. If you wish to retain your present identity in the morn of the resurrection, you must so live that the principle of life will be within you as a well of water springing up unto eternal life.  JD 7:57 ? p.58, Brigham Young, June 27, 1858

President Brigham Young has suggested that the ultimate punishment of the sons of perdition may be that they, having their spiritual bodies disorganized, must start over again—must begin anew the long journey of existence, repeating the steps that they took in the eternities before the Great Council was held. That would be punishment, indeed.  John A. Widstoe, Evidences and Reconciliation, 213

Perhaps a limited reincarnation—according to these statements—is compatible with my LDS beliefs. In fact, while I certainly don’t want to repeat a thousand awkward high school moments or the day I fell rock climbing and shattered my leg, being “dis-organized” and trying the whole thing again sounds better than the hell of outer darkness—not that I’m aiming for either of those options. A God who gives the worst of the worst a “do-over” sounds like just the kind of merciful Father who does all in His power to bring about the salvation of his children.

Could we schedule anything else? Seriously. I cut back on parties and try to simplify, just like nice mommy articles suggest. I do. I make or buy four carefully chosen presents per child in pre-set categories, so I don’t overspend. I refuse every invitation I can. But what else are we going to cut? The first grade Gingerbread Man play, the Christmas piano recital, or the December Dance Showcase? The Christmas Cruise or the Living Nativity? The ward Christmas party that we’re helping with or the employees’ Christmas party (not that—I got to meet Ben Huff’s parents!)? I admit that I set myself up for failure years ago by starting traditions like decorating the Monday after Thanksgiving without fail and cooking a specific Christmas Eve dinner, Christmas day morning breakfast, and Christmas day luncheon. What am I going to do—disappoint everyone by serving cold cereal and leftovers? Refusing to put up decorations this year like I threatened to do? Every year my dreams of sitting cozily by the Christmas tree and reading cute stories flitter away just like the glitter dust we throw at the city’s “Lights On” Ceremony.

I am tired of decorations. There is too much clutter and mess, and I resent the time it takes to put it all up and the time it takes to put it all down, not to mention the annoyance of cleaning around and over and through holly garlands, Christmas figurines, and pine needles. I make Christmas jam in June or July for neighbor gifts, but I still have to deliver them and carol at the doors for a list of people that grows longer by the year—not that I’m complaining about having too many friends, truly I’m not. But I am tired of organizing my Christmas card list (why do you people have to move to new houses all the time?), folding cards, addressing envelopes, and sticking stamps. But I love to receive cards and hear what people from my past are doing, so I have to send out mine.

And service projects. Don’t even get me started. You are going to get mad at me, I just know it. But I have to tell you that I am pretty sick of service, too—or at least, of service projects. We have the ward service project, the elementary school service project, the middle school service project, the National Junior Honor Society project, and various school class service projects. There is the homeless shelter food drive and pick-up, as well as the deserving people and organizations asking for help and donations at every single store or business I go to this month. In the mode of “cutting back on Christmas,” I’m skipping the service-learning project in my class this semester (Shhh. Don’t tell.) and the December blood drive. I’m sorry. I know I’m being sarcastic, so you might not believe me when I say that I feel guilty about my bad attitude. Money is tight, but there’s still that nasty choking in my throat each time I walk by the ringing bells of the Salvation Army and don’t hear my coins clink in their metal buckets. I gave at the last three stores, so I have to avert my eyes when the cashier asks, “Do you want to donate to ____?” and I say with pretended cheerfulness, “Not today!”

I wonder what all this teaches my children about service. I want them to love being charitable, so you’d think that would make me want to run around doing every single service project out there. That would set a good example of service, right? Oh, it makes me tired just thinking about it. My Christmas dream is to slow down and focus on our family service project. It’s personal, it’s serious, and it hits close to home. My children are emotionally invested in our project, and I think it’s important for them to actually work and serve in a way that impacts their lives. Our family service project was chosen to do that. But what about the rest of the projects? What do my kids learn when they see their exhausted, Christmas-worn mom run to the store (again) and shell out a few more dollars for one more can of this or that, which they then toss flippantly into the service box at school? They don’t learn the value of money, the value of time, or the value of their mom. They think service is bringing a note home, showing it to the adult, and carrying back whatever the adult tucked into the recycled grocery bag. What can I do? The projects are all worthy and valuable, but we’re spread so thin. I’m left feeling haggard, miserly, and guilty, and I hate December for making me feel like that.

So that is my whining. I’m sick and tired of December. Or maybe I’m just tired. That happens to me occasionally. But I’ve decided to suffer through for a couple of reasons. First, I can never get enough Christmas music. Bring me carols, ring me bells, sing me “Hallelujah.” Praise the Lord in song! One month is not nearly long enough to listen to everyone from Fred Waring to Rebecca St. James, from David Lanz to my new favorite, Celtic Woman. The peace and joy that is supposed to be Christmas pours down and washes over me through a rousing rendition of “Hark the Herald!” or “Joy to the World!” Even a serene, instrumental version will cause me to take a deep breath, smile, and remember. Because there is something else I can never get enough of: celebrating the birth of my Savior. A baby was born in Bethlehem, and I believe he grew up to become my way, my truth, and my light. A mere month per year is not nearly long enough to honor Him.

With the first snow of the season drifting down outside, me feeling warm and cozy here on my soft couch, the white lights of the Christmas tree sparking in that bright glow of white winter, and the kids still fast asleep, the clutter and confusion fade for a minute. A cup of hot cocoa would complete the Christmas image, but today is Fast Sunday. I’ll be fasting in gratitude.

Let’s talk about my October 31 fears. Last year, I picked up my daughter from middle school and discovered the truth: Halloween is just a widespread excuse for immodesty. Oh! The mini-skirts! The black fishnet stockings! The spaghetti straps! The teenage cleavage! And thighs! I haven’t seen so much skanky clothing since, hmmm, I don’t know, . . . high school in the 1980s. What is it about Halloween that brings out the inner tramp in these girls? While wearing a YW medallion or Armor of God pendant might not be the height of en vogue, neither is it a fashion faux pas with most of my daughters’ friends, so I surprised at the (lack of) costumes.

That was last Halloween, and I never got around to blogging about it, which showcases another fear of mine: unfinished projects. Then I attended our ward’s Halloween party and realized this problem is much, much deeper than I had previously supposed.

Halloween is not just an excuse for young and (this is even more scary) not-so-young girls and guys to expose themselves. Many of us also use it to express our hidden fascination with the gruesome, the grisly, the violent, and the macabre—our inner ax murderer, so to speak. Look, I come from a family of hunters and guns, and we raised our own beef cattle, which we slaughtered, thus I’m no stranger to blood and guts. I really did not enjoy it, but I felt like it would be hypocritical to eat meat and refuse to participate in the process. Halloween costumes take things to a different level of gore and human bloodshed. It seems like a celebration of disgusting inhumanity. How else can I explain the knives sunk to their hilts in the soft neck tissues and all the colorful clotted blood dripping down to one’s fingertips? Just the neighbors I want to sit by at the ward chili cook-off/trunk-or-treat activity. Yummy.

Of course, by now you are saying, “Sister Kylie, you take this all too seriously. Relax. You’re sounding judgmental and squeamish.” And you’re right. There are plenty of princesses, pumpkins, and teddy bears in the costume line-up. No doubt they are expressing their inner regality and loveable-ness, and they will all grow up to be fabulous, contributing members of society.

And it’s certainly possible that Halloween costuming doesn’t express anyone’s inner desires at all. Maybe they just bought that costume because it was cheap, or maybe it was a hand-me-down, or maybe it simply was what their mom or dad made for them. Maybe they are just costumes. See, Kylie, there’s nothing to be scared of.

So I can just end the blog right now and go finish my costume. Because yes, I, myself, enjoy a bit of holiday revelry, though I’m not one who dusts off her Christmas Pageant angel costume a few months early for Halloween double duty. No, no. I recently discovered my prom dress in my mother’s basement. I am happy to say that it still fits, which, as any stylish mother of five knows, is reason enough to wear it. Plus, I am feeling the need to be a 1980s Prom Queen. Because I never was one, you know. Not even a Prom Princess or Attendant or whatever they were called. I’m not bitter, and I’m not upset about that at all. So don’t read anything into it. It’s just a costume, albeit one that needs some alterations on the sleeves to make them completely modest.

I do not know all the reasons why the neighbors four-doors-down have been less active in the church for years, nor do I know what has prompted their slow but steady return to activity. What I know is that they are kind and decent; they are the type of down-to-earth people who, upon learning about a load of free railroad ties, call all the neighbors to see if anyone else wants some—and then go, pick up the load in their work truck, and unload the dozen ties that you want right next to the garden you are trying to edge.

I do not talk my neighbor three-doors-down very often. I wave and smile when I see him. Unfortunately, years of living surrounded by well-meaning, but at times overzealous and conversion-oriented Mormons has made my born again Christian neighbor reticent and sometimes hostile. My decent, less active neighbor may be the only person in my neighborhood that my Christian neighbor talks to on a consistent basis (besides his mom, who lives two doors down).  I’m just glad someone learned about his sudden seizure, the small brain tumor, and surgery that occurred this week.

During the next few days, a parade of well-meaning Mormons will bring casseroles to their born again Christian brother—all arranged by the Christ-like neighbors we don’t always see at church.

The Lord moves in mysterious ways. At times I catch a glimpse of His pattern and stand back in awe. It’s a joy to play my small part and learn. Like I said, dinner is no problem.

I’d like to start a few other traditions to mark the occasion and, hopefully, give my children happy memories to associate with General Conference. Ideas?

This is my point of view (and, yes, they are real scenarios):

Know a ward member lied about doing home teaching? Not my problem. He, his conscience, and Heavenly Father can work it out.

See a ward member with beer in her grocery cart? Not my problem. Maybe she makes beer bread or does a beer hair rinse. Even if that’s not her plan, it’s not my problem. (Except for drunk driving in the neighborhood. That’s my problem, and I call the police.)

Notice a ward member digging a basement with a backhoe while on my way to church? Totally not my problem. Not going to look nor care. Teach them correct principles and etc.

Fighting with a ward member over a fence line or a dirty yard? Try talking. Or, if it escalates, mediation—and I’m not talking mediation in front of a Judge in Israel.

Okay, okay—I’ll admit that there was one time I tattled. I felt a student was in danger of harming herself. I asked my immediate supervisor what I should do and followed her suggestion: I first talked to the student and indicated that I was concerned but had no expertise to help, and I reminded her that many options for help were available, often free of charge at the university. Then I contacted her bishop. To the bishop, I said, “I’m really worried about [name].” He said, “Yes, I counsel with her weekly.” I said, “Thanks. I’m really glad you are aware of her needs and are helping her. Good-bye.”

After running through dozens of scenarios, I have come up with a few other situations that might involve tattling. I have decided that I would contact a bishop if a sexual predator had unknowingly been placed in a position to harm children (though how I would know that when no one else did is a bit of a mystery to me). And I know someone who felt like he should contact a bishop because that bishop’s first counselor had joined a fundamentalist group and was a practicing polygamist. That would have been a hard one, I guess.

I’m sure there are other situations, and I’m here waiting for you to tell me what they are. But, as far as I’m concerned, there are very, very few times to become an ecclesiastical tattler, and the motivation to do so baffles me. So, please, enlighten me. When is the appropriate time to tattle?

(Exception for my kids: I need my kids to tattle on each other. They miss important tattling opportunities and cause me trouble: “HELLO! Why didn’t you TELL ME your sister was scribbling on the walls while I was typing?”)

That must have been a great comfort to pioneer Mormons diligently working away at their pioneer tasks and the daily duties of feeding, tending, and raising a family. Household and farm chores became the makings of godhood.

It seems to me that we—much more unconsciously—have maintained the “useful” traditions of our fathers and mothers. Here’s a smattering of examples:

”A Message Concerning Preparation for Relief Measures” (1933) quoted in the 2003 Ensign suggests that the LDS leaders persuade members to stay out of debt and be frugal because “by no other course will our people place themselves in that position of helpful usefulness to the world which the Lord intends we shall take.” The same article reminds members of Acts 20:35: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

“Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel” encourages saints to be “willing” and “wear the worker’s seal” as they “put their shoulder to the wheel” and “push along.” Other verses glorify those with “helping hands” and those who “don’t stand idly looking on.”

The hymn “More Holiness Give Me” explicitly equates being “more fit for the kingdom” and “more, Savior, like thee” with being “more used.”

Numerous scripture references speak about being “instruments in the hands of God,” or, in other words, being useful to God through missionary work or in some other way—and numerous talks by General Authorities quote those scriptures and expound on those ideas.

At times I have found the idea of usefulness to be very motivating. I was a shy child. At some point in time, I realized that God needed me (I’m not generalizing here; shyness is not a sin) to be more open, more able to speak in public, and more able to handle social situations. I am more useful to him if I am less withdrawn and introverted. The idea of being useful to God in the building of his kingdom has motivated me to learn skills, acquire knowledge, and alter parts of my personality so I will be a suitable instrument in His hands.

However, I am now questioning the usefulness of “usefulness.” I acquired some permanent health problems a few years ago. Now that I feel dramatically less useful than I used to, I’m wondering how helpful the rhetoric of usefulness is. On good days, I think, “Well, I’m being used to my capacity, and God knew this would be my capacity. It’s not a very great capacity, but I do what I can.” On bad days, I think, “Sure, I’m useful. I’m useful for everyone else to practice their charitable instincts on,” which is a rather depressing thought to one raised with an ethic of hard work. I sit while others decide whether to serve me. It stings.

This is a bit more than the old “we can all give help and sometimes we need to accept help” type of comment. Trust me, I can accept a casserole when my baby is born as well as anyone. The question is one of when needing help is your permanent condition. What if—for the rest of this mortal life—you will be taking rather than giving? Who can help but remember that it is more blessed to give? How “useful” to her family and the kingdom of God is a disabled mother? Or a disabled child? Or a mentally handicapped person? The questions are abhorrent because they equate the value of life with utility. But doesn’t the rhetoric of usefulness set us up to do just that?

I realize that all of us are more or less useful to God. We are all less obedient, faithful, or willing than we could be. So, yes, in a sense all of us are handicapped; we are not as useful to God in the building of His kingdom as a perfect person would be. Yet obedience, faithfulness, or willingness are generally within a person’s capacity to control; physical, mental, and emotional issues may be stunningly less so. Is a person excused from the rhetoric of usefulness if he or she is mentally, emotionally, or physically disabled? Can I opt out of singing, “More used would I be / more Savior like thee”?

Is it really more Christ-like to be more useful?

My husband’s mission president was once teaching us about obedience. He said, “If God wants you to sit there and twiddle your thumbs, you do it.” For years, I’ve (ironically) found that saying to be a rousing call to action; I like to work hard doing whatever God wants me to do. Now that I am less useful, I hate the idea of twiddling my thumbs for God; I find that it is much easier said than done. Even on days when I can’t do much else.

Synonyms for “Useful”—helpful, practical, functional, of use, constructive, positive, valuable, handy

Synonyms for “Useless”—ineffective, hopeless, of no use, a waste of time, futile, ineffectual, inadequate, worthless

While some women would probably herald this young bride’s embracing of her body, the feminist in me wants to remind her that she has a great mind, a kind heart, and many talents. I would tell her: “Be glad you’re a woman. Celebrate your female body. Just don’t forget the rest of who you are.” The feminist in me also can’t help wondering if a man would ever include his measurements. I’m frustrated with our culture’s fixation on an almost-impossible, ultra-slim, well-endowed female body, and I’m frustrated that girls soak up that fixation.

The mother in me wants this bride to know that anyone with a lick of sense will love her whether or not she remains an XS all her days. I’m proud of her for working and maintaining a trim figure, but it’s just not the most important thing. I believe that Heavenly Father sees beauty in all stages and phases of a woman’s life, as well as in all the sizes that his daughters may be. The mother in me also hopes that this bride didn’t include her sizing to brag or make others feel jealous, since that wouldn’t be very nice.

The Miss Manners in me thinks it’s tacky to include such information. If someone doesn’t know you well enough to know your bra size already, then he or she has no business buying you lingerie.

The thirty-seven-year-old in me is shocked. Apparently I’m old and out of touch and on the verge of falling into a generation gap. I’m a short step away from an “in my day” sentence that will date me forever.

The older sister in me feels like offering two bits of advice on sex. I would tell the bride a giggle-inducing bit of advice I heard at a different bridal shower: newlyweds should fight naked. From that, I learned that sex is an important part of marriage; it can both create and help resolve tensions. Sex is a big deal, so I’m glad she’s excited. But I also remember standing by the kitchen counter when my mom decided I was old enough to learn why some family friends were divorcing. She stopped her dinner preparations and started crying as she thought about her friend facing life with five children and no husband. She told me, “Sex is enjoyable. It’s fun. But it is never, never worth losing an eternal marriage, an eternal family. Nothing is worth that.” I hope that this bride’s focus on the sexual part of marriage is balanced with other vital aspects of a covenant relationship.

The friend in me isn’t too troubled. If I know the bride well enough to buy her underwear, then I’ll go ahead and run down to Victoria’s Secret. If I’m a more casual friend, I’ll bring a blender—despite her blatant hints in another direction.

I’m not there yet, but the mother-in-law (to be) in me has no idea what to do. I only met my mother-in-law once before my own bridal shower, and I have a hard time imagining that I would ever want to buy lingerie for a young woman that I barely know—however much my son loves her. Maybe if the bride has been a longtime friend or girlfriend, I’ll feel differently. I don’t know.

I am not a man, so perhaps you of the male persuasion can fill in your own comments. How would you feel if this not-so-blushing bride were your wife-to-be, daughter or friend?

All in all, I am—as I said—troubled. Do I think including your bra size in a bridal shower invitation is immoral? No. Scandalous? Not really. Edgy? Out of my comfort zone? In bad taste? Definitely. I sure hope my daughters and future daughters-in-law choose not to.

——P.S.—- A few friends who have proofread this blog for me said it is missing one thing: the bride’s actual measurements. They say I should let my audience feel the same squeamish shock that I felt when I saw it printed in black and white. Sorry, I’m sure I’m losing some impact, but I just can’t spread it further. I already have too much information about this bride—more than I ever wanted to know—as do dozens of others. I’ll leave it there.