Weak Things Become Strong

Please note: All quotations in this post are subject to the inaccuracies of human memory. I have told it in the best way I know how, but it is filtered through my own experience.

The first time I remember feeling frustrated about women in the church was during high school seminary. My teacher split the room up into boys and girls; the boys were to talk about how to develop a desire to serve a mission and then how to prepare for it, while the girls discussed the age at which they would like to get married.

I could explain the quantitative and qualitative differences in these tasks, but I will leave that up to you to ponder. Suffice it to say, I considered quitting seminary for a week. 

I hold onto that memory not to preserve anger (I do believe that seminary teacher was doing the best with what he knew, and I do believe he was and is a good man), but instead to see that my concerns about women in the church were brewing before I came to college. In college, though, they grew. By the end of my freshman year, I was asking longingly for my Heavenly Mother and mad at more than one conference talk's treatment of women. I was hurt in that deep, jarring way that can only be inflicted by the things you love enough to keep in the innermost part of your heart. I felt uncertain, fearful, and lonely.

Somewhere in that hurt, I concluded that the male leaders of our church could not possibly understand the experience of women in the church. That when they go to seek revelation, they do so through the lens of their own (male, 1960s) experience, and that couldn't include my experience. 

For many, loving and trusting the leaders of our church comes as naturally as breathing. Others, like me, look at our leaders and cannot find one that represents their experience in terms of race, culture, gender, socioeconomic status, sexuality, age, ability, etc., and find it difficult to understand how they can lead the church with us in mind. 

At first, I thought that this made me somehow a "worse Mormon" than those who had an easy, natural testimony of our leaders. However, my perspective changed upon reading D&C 21:5: "For [the Prophet's] word ye shall receive, as if from my own mouth, in all patience and faith." In this verse, I learned two very important lessons. First, God knew it was going to be difficult to follow his human mouthpieces, so He asked us to employ all of our patience and all of our faith in order to believe that their words come from His mouth. Second, He knew it was critical enough that we follow His prophets that He commanded us to do it, regardless of difficulty level.

In other words, I learned that it was not wrong for me to find it difficult to trust our leaders, but I needed to find a way to do it anyway.

In the days and years since my deepest feelings of distrust, I have been working to apply Heavenly Father's recipe for this struggle: patience and faith. In order to follow our leaders, I need to trust them, and in order to trust them, I need to believe that they love me, so I look for ways in which they demonstrate their love. So far, I have found that they do so by teaching me of a Savior who loves me perfectly, by expressing their hope for the welfare of my current and future family, and by asking me to participate and to love others in my local congregation. I am working to build my thought patterns around these actions being signs of love, rather than seeing comments about how more lipstick would get me married as signs of a lack-of-love. I can't say that all of my fears are gone or that the positive thought-processes come easy, but I celebrate the little victories and have seen progress.

With this particular struggle to improve myself in mind, I want to share an experience that I had recently that taught me just how aware my Heavenly Father is of my struggles and my efforts to overcome them.



A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to conduct a regional Young Single Adult (YSA) fireside with Elder Bednar. It is in my personality to love such opportunities for involvement in our community, so I was thrilled to accept. That said, I was not yet at a place where I could go into the event expecting to feel loved. Instead, I considered it a win that I had only lingering fears of expecting to leave hurt. 

So when Elder Bednar asked me in a quick meeting before the fireside, "What do they need?" I was surprised. I hadn't really anticipated that he would make an effort to engage with me, and at this point he had already asked a few questions about where I was from, what I was up to, and what my future plans were. I pondered the question about "them," which referenced the several hundred YSAs in attendance. "They need to feel loved," I said after a moment's thought. Silently, I noticed that I didn't say "we," because I had low expectations for my own upliftment; I thought that feeling loved by a General Authority was still out of reach. 

Just a few moments later, having made all necessary announcements, I settled in to watch the fireside as an observer. Elder Bednar explained that it would be a Q&A session, and we could text questions in anonymously and have them appear on his iPad. He explained that all questions are good, but the best questions are specific to the time, place, and person. 

A few questions in, Elder Bednar looked at his iPad, and then turned to me from the pulpit. "Chloe, would you help me?"  he asked. "Not a command, but an invitation," he added. "Sure," I said, my mind racing through the possible reasons for his request. I walked towards the pulpit, but stole glances into the audience looking for a friend to share the moment with. As I arrived, we shared a brief smile, and I felt more confident in my second "sure" to Elder Bednar's "You ready?" 

He proceeded to read a question from his iPad: "How can we, as disciples of Christ, make sure women feel valued and important in our wards and with church callings?" He finished the question, looked to me, and sat down. 

Alone at the pulpit, I looked out at the hundreds of people in the chapel. Dozens of thoughts flickered through my mind. I wondered if Elder Bednar could know how much I had thought about women's involvement in the church, how deeply it mattered to me, or how much I wanted my voice to matter enough to be heard. I did not feel very much fear of the crowd, but I did worry about finding the right thing to say. I worried that there were others in attendance who similarly wished their voices could be heard, but they were not the ones at the pulpit. I was, and I needed to represent them as I spoke. 

"Wow," I said, realizing that I needed to start saying words but still needing a moment to process. I still didn't know what to say, but I realized that I wouldn't get anywhere if I didn't start speaking. Thinking of my recent experience in my own ward, I began, "Well, I feel valued in my ward because I feel heard and trusted." Talking became easier, and I thought of a story. 

"I was an RA in a freshman dorm last year, and in a dorm there are some people who want to play loud music at 10PM, and others who want to sleep at that time. There is no way to keep everyone happy at once, given those desires. But if you listen to both sides, and make sure that both of their needs are met in turns, then everyone can feel heard."

I wasn't quite sure this story made sense yet, and tried to clarify as I continued: "Women and men in the church are not at all like people in a freshman dorm, but we see in both questions the need for everyone to be heard."

I don't remember what I said here, but words began to flow and I remember coming to the point: "I don't represent all women in here, or certainly all women in the church. But in order to make people feel valued, you have to listen to them. Especially in positions of leadership, you have to ask those you represent what they need. You cannot assume you understand their experience or needs, because they will be specific to each person, time, and place."

Then, after this reference to Elder Bednar's three requirements for a good question, the words stopped coming. I looked at Elder Bednar, who was looking at me with trust, waiting for me to finish. I nodded to him, and returned to my seat.

Elder Bednar came back to the podium and explained to the audience, "I'm modeling. Do you get that?" 

I didn't hear enough of what he said after that. I just sat, soaking in that moment. That moment where I had just had an apostle step aside, and ask for my thoughts instead. That moment where I hadn't been certain what to say, but I opened my mouth, and words came. That moment where that apostle then explained that this action was a model -- that this is how we should be making women feel welcome in the church.

In that moment, beyond any expectations, I felt honored, loved, and trusted. I felt like Heavenly Father knew me, and that He knew that I, like "them," needed to leave that fireside feeling loved. 

Looking back, I find myself considering Ether 12:27: "And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them."

Loving our General Authorities does not come naturally to me, and you may even call it a weakness. But over the past year, I have been working to humble myself by trying to love them and trust that they love me. My own efforts have brought slow, small progress. But when Elder Bednar stepped back and left me at the pulpit, I felt my Heavenly Father take a weak part of me and make it stronger. It was as if He said, Chloe, I hear you. I love you. I know what you need. Through me, these leaders can hear you, and love you, and know what you need, too.

I share this story because I want it to bring hope to others in the way it has brought hope to me. Elder Bednar had no earthly way to know what I needed that night or what I would say when he turned the microphone over to me. But my Heavenly Father knew that I could be trusted and that the opportunity would have a huge impact on my testimony, so He worked through an apostle to enable that growth in me. (Not to mention His working through the Bishopric that asked me to conduct in the first place.) 

I know that in some ways, this experience is little. I am just one person. But it taught me in an ultra-personal way that God knows me(!), loves me, and is capable of working through both local and general church leaders to teach me. Extrapolating, I believe that He knows and loves each of you, and can work through our leaders to reach your needs. I hope in reading this that you can feel God say to you:

Dear child, I hear you. I love you. I know what you need. Through me, these leaders can hear you, and love you, and know what you need, too.