STEVEN PERRY

“Dear Friends, In the interest of relating to people I love, I do have something I’m sharing with people one-to-one, no big Facebook announcement. I’ve had a strong spiritual prompting the last year and a half to start coming out to people—so that’s what this note is, me coming out to you as a gay person.” So began the personal letter that Steven Kapp Perry felt compelled to share with close friends, after 35 years of marriage to his wife Johanne. Knowing there’d likely be obvious questions, Steve’s letter addressed them: “(It’s) something I’ve always known since nearly my earliest memories, but sort of squashed down as something to deal with later as I grew up. I do happen to be happily married to the only woman I’ve ever loved and had some attraction for—we can’t explain that—maybe just a miracle? So, nothing is really changing for us, but it has become important for me to invite people we love into our circle...”

Steve was relieved his letter was largely received by friends with grace and love. While some may question his need to come out after all this time, and especially as he was choosing to stay married to Johanne, for Steve, it was imperative that people he loved fully know and love him. 

An award-winning playwright, songwriter and broadcaster, Steve now works for BYU Broadcasting as the host of the “In Good Faith” podcast and as an announcer on Classical89.org. Many have benefitted from the musical talents of his family line, and Steve affirms that his mother, renowned composer Janice Kapp Perry, is “just as sweet as you think she’d be.”

Growing up in the Perry’s very musical home, Steve sensed something about him was different and wondered why it felt painful to go on dates. “I think I just buried it; some things felt too hard to know back then.” Steve was born in a different time, within just a few months of the moment BYU’s President at the time Ernest Wilkinson delivered his infamous quote admonishing anyone with homosexual tendencies “to leave the university immediately” so that others may not “be contaminated by your presence.” Ironically, the building named for that president at BYU now hosts the Office of Belonging, where Steve consulted for creating an inclusion event for LGBT student employees and their supervisors at BYU Broadcasting.

As a youth, Steve understood being gay as something not to talk about, that it wouldn’t be safe to share.  He’s grateful for moments when God spared him the shame so many others have felt while reading past teachings and edicts. Upon reading President Spencer W. Kimball’s The Miracle of Forgiveness at age 16, when Steve came to the chapter where the author calls homosexual people “abominations, perverts, crimes against nature, etc.,” Steve says, “a little voice in my head spoke up—not audibly, but just the way there is suddenly knowledge in your head that you didn’t put there?—and it said, ‘He doesn’t understand, and this is not you’.” 

He again heard that voice when the exclusion policy was announced in 2015. Steve says, “The minute I heard it on the radio, that same voice or knowledge was there and said, ‘This is wrong and it will not stand.’ So I tried not to worry about it and was relieved when it was altered in 2019.” Steve explains, “Since our leaders don’t yet have any doctrine about why God sends us LGBTQ people to earth as we are, that the Lord sometimes sends his Spirit to save us from harm, even if well-intentioned.” 

Steve is ever grateful for the guiding hand that nudged him toward marrying Johanne after several years of close friendship. In the coming out letter Steve shared with friends, he says, “When we did fall in love after years and years of friendship, I think I naively thought that I was just a slow bloomer, but while our love is very real, my same-sex feelings never went away.”

The two met as performers in BYU’s Young Ambassadors program and spent many long hours bonding on bus rides across the nation, and while performing together in firesides and in Steve’s family’s musical, “It’s a Miracle.” They married when Steve was 28 and Johanne was 24, and had their first baby within a year. Steve and Johanne have since raised their four children (Emily--who is now married to Skyler, Jason--who is married to Marisa, Alex and Ben) in Utah, and now enjoy two grandchildren. They also laugh that their youngest child, Ben, has continued the musical legacy having received his Masters from the Boston Conservatory at Berklee in Choral Conducting, after also once being their child who shouted, “Everyone stop singing! There’s too much music in this house!” In their young adult years, Steve came out to his kids individually at a time that felt appropriate, and says they were all great about it. He was touched his daughter-in-law said, “This doesn’t change how I feel about you,” and knew he was safe with his son-in-law, who was already an open ally who had marched in Pride parades in Salt Lake. Only one of the four Perry children is still involved with the LDS faith, but Steve says they all are respectful of his and Johanne’s continued activity in the church.

Leaders have fluctuated in response over the years as Steve has felt comfortable opening up about being gay. The first bishop he told, about 15 years ago, immediately released Steve from his calling in the Young Men’s presidency in his ward, saying he couldn’t be around children. Steve says, “I’ve since learned that this is a common misunderstanding, but knowing they thought I was a pedophile triggered years-long major depression. This was especially hard since at the time I had my three boys in the YM program or just about to go into it.”

Since then, he’s witnessed progress. When he and Johanne moved from Cedar Hills back to Provo in 2016, he told his new bishop who only replied, “Ok, fine, but will you accept a calling?” Six months later, that bishop called Steve as one of his counselors. Later when he came out to his stake president, he thanked Steve for trusting him and said, “We are so lucky to have your experience on our high council.” While Steve is often tapped to help with the music, which has included directing a regional choir for general conference, Steve has most recently served in his ward’s Elders Quorum presidency and with Johanne as members of their area Communications Council.  When asked to teach an Elders Quorum lesson recently, Steve felt prompted to come out, to which he thought “that’s weird.” But heeding the counsel of the stake president who had that very morning said the stake needs to do better at understanding LGBT members, Steve opened up to his quorum. He’d given his quorum president a heads up, and the president opened the meeting reading the lyrics to the primary song, “I’ll Walk With You.” Steve says this “rolled out the red carpet and just felt right” for the rest of what he shared. Since, he’s had people thank him for his vulnerability and had parents come to him for advice with their own kids.

Steve shares that his need to come out more widely was a life-saving, or at least mental health-saving decision. Several years ago, he began having anxiety and panic attacks at church, and only church. He explains, “Like I’d be in bishopric meeting and suddenly I knew my body was going to stand up and leave the room, so I made excuses as I left and stood outdoors in the breeze and loosened my tie and just breathed… This was causing me to be dangerously depressed, more than the usual low-level depression I’ve always dealt with—not hard to guess why, now that I think about it. So, Johanne and I with a counselor decided that since the box I felt around me was slowly shrinking, that I would just step out of the box.”

The panic attacks stopped as soon as Steve started to come out to close family and friends, and eventually to people he worked with, one by one at a time that felt right. He says, “It’s not that they needed to know, but I needed to know that they knew and that we were still good.” Steve often hears the phrase, “You can never know you are truly loved until you share who you truly are,” repeat in his mind, and also wanted to add his voice to the movement that visibility and representation matter. He feels, “Both our society and our church need to know just how many LGBTQ people are in every congregation and every class and quorum and know that it’s not ‘Us vs. Them’ somehow, but that there is only ‘Us’.”

Eventually, Steve took the initiative to organize an LGBTQ inclusion event at BYU Broadcasting in 2021, during which he introduced a panel of students and employees who are out who all shared their experiences. It was a packed crowd with an overwhelmingly positive response, something that once seemed impossible back when Steve was a Young Ambassador student on that very same campus. 

Every time Steve shares his story (which he has also done on Richard Ostler’s Listen, Learn and Love podcast), he and Johanne are quick to recommend that others don’t take their mixed-orientation marriage as a prescription of how to live, recognizing “that usually leads to disaster and broken hearts in about 70% of the cases, from what we’ve read.” But whenever he shares his personal experience, Steve reaffirms that he and Johanne “married for love and are staying married for love. Each of us has offered the other to dissolve the marriage on different occasions, if that was the best thing for the other's happiness, but neither of us has ever wanted to take the other up on that offer. We just are each other’s person.”

(Join us next week when Johanne Perry shares her side of the story.) 

THE DAVIES FAMILY

Last December, Shelley Davies of Centerville, Utah rallied the arts community her family had performed with for so many years to fill the Centerpoint Legacy Theater for a special event: her son’s coming home (and coming out) tour of his first album, “Not Standard.” Matthew Davies has spent the last several years as a performer in several national Broadway tours. While studying in New York, he was encouraged by his colleague, friend, and mentor, Patrick O’Neill, to cut an album. Matthew worked hard to gather some investors, and his mom sealed the deal by launching a cinnamon roll fundraiser. With the generous aid of North Salt Lake recording studio Funk Studios, the album came to life in April of 2023. December marked the moment it was time for Matthew to come to Utah to perform in front of the community that had raised, loved, and at times, shunned him. 

Shelley sat among the packed house of 340 ticket holders, which included many of Matthew’s LGBTQ+ and New York friends, as well as choreographers and dancers he’d worked with over the years. She listened and laughed as her charming, dynamic son performed numbers that culminated as “a love letter to the LGBTQ+ community.” At times, she also cried as he described the depths of grief he’d experienced. “I can count on one hand the times (in my 70 years) I’ve felt unsafe or rejected, and this boy went through that for 20 years, every day in some form. And yet, he has broken through that cloud of grief to have so much joy in his life now. It was an eye-opening experience for me as his mother,” says Shelley.

In Matthew’s show, he touched on some of the pivotal life experiences he’s faced, including how he’d chosen to serve as a performing missionary (with a few other closeted missionaries) at Nauvoo rather than serve a traditional proselytizing mission. Matthew also touched on his experience attending BYU, where he performed alongside other closeted students. He was the Dance Captain for BYU’s Young Ambassadors program for two years. After graduating from BYU, he left for New York to pursue his dreams. This move gave him the freedom to grow into himself and ultimately led to him meeting his now fiancé, John, on the National Broadway tour of Cinderella.

When Matthew’s one-man show ended, Shelley basked in the euphoric feeling among the crowd’s standing-ovation, finding it hard to believe he’d survived as well as he did and found so much joy. She only wished more church leaders and families struggling to accept their kids had been there to witness the beauty of the event among this community. Most of all, she’d hoped more young queer kids could have been there to experience hope--including a teen in their community who had just recently taken his life, unable to bear the pressure anymore of being gay and ostracized, despite being a top student at his high school.

As the director of culture and engagement at the theater, Shelley was also asked to share her story onstage of being Matthew’s mother as the pre-show announcement for the evening. She shared one of her favorite quotes by her friend, Melinda Welch:

“I have been taught all my life to try to be like Jesus. Jesus loved and ministered to those who were not always understood or valued in society. I don’t know, but I like to imagine we were given a choice in the pre-existence to be hetero or homo or anything in between and those who do not follow the sexual majority of the straight 92% of us, are special angels sent here to earth to help ALL of us examine our own prejudices and more out of our ego drive tendencies into Christlike ones. The LBGTQ were willing to have a more difficult earthly path in an effort to guide us all into a more loving space. Why do some of us continue to add hurt to this path?”

Shelley also shared a recent conversation she’d had with Matt where she sat him down on the happy, yellow couch in their home, put her hands on his shoulders, and said, “I could not be more grateful for you. You have blessed my life and taught me about God’s love in ways only you could. I’m grateful for the ways you’ve enlarged my heart.” Shelley then added, “I want all of you in the audience to know this love exists for you in this world. I used to pray Matt would be healed. I didn’t know I was the one who needed to be healed. I’m not all the way healed, but because of Matthew, I see all the colors of the rainbow, and my heart has been enlightened and opened. Matt came exactly the way he was supposed to come. I want you all to know there is always a place at my table for any who want to come and sit there.”

Since his birth, Shelley felt the magnitude of Matt’s influence to come. The last of her seven children to be born, Matt’s delivery ended up in an emergency situation after which he scored a 1 out of 10 on the Apgar scale. When Shelley cried out on the delivery table, “Father, please let this baby live,” Hannah’s petition “For this child I have prayed” from the Bible came to her mind. Luckily, both mother and child survived, and Shelley says, “Having Matthew as part of my journey has been such a blessing since. He was supposed to come the way he was. Part of MY journey in this life is to love him, as he is, and be an ally and advocate for the LGBTQ community.” She also emphasized that everyone should be granted grace as they navigate understanding and hopefully eventually embracing not only those of the LGBTQ community, but all of God’s children. “Everyone’s journey is different and we need to allow them that grace. Hopefully, this evening will be a bridge between our communities.”

Matthew was the “happiest little boy,” a regular, giggling fixture on his 17-year-old sister’s hip who would take him all over high school. Family friends loved his white-blonde hair, big dimples, and big blue eyes and would come by their house just to play with him. He was also a born performer. Shelley remembers 5-year-old Matthew sliding down their long banister covered in ribbons and bows. When she asked what he was doing, Matthew replied, “I’m your best present, Mommy!” His theater-loving sisters had a blast teaching him to perform the lyric, “Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee” from Grease, and the acting bug stuck. Shelley and her late husband Bill (a former baseball player) signed Matthew up for sports but noticed he was more interested in the dandelions than the soccer ball on the field. He was drawn to theater, where he “stole everyone’s hearts” as Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol and Jojo in Seussical. When thoughts would emerge that Matthew might be gay, Shelley said she would push them away, thinking, “That couldn’t be us.” Their family had been energetically intentional in immersing their family in the gospel. 

When he was 12, Matthew came running home from a birthday party in tears and said, “Mom, why am I like this? Why do they make fun of me?” It broke Shelley’s heart. In the ninth grade, he came to his mom and said, “I think I need to tell you I like boys.” Shelley replied, “I think you’re confused,” and asked what he thought of girls. He replied he thought they were pretty and nice. Shelley sent him to counseling--counseling that frankly, in hindsight, was brutal. Matthew went through high school pretending to like girls, who seemed to love him (he always had a date to the dances). He’d try to have a girlfriend for a week here and there, but he never felt that spark that others talked about. 

Shelley watched as her teen-magnet house with its sports court and theater/game room attracted a full house on the weekends. But many of those same kids she bought pizza for every weekend and taught in seminary would make fun of Matthew at school throughout the week. On a school Madrigals trip to New York, one of the mom chaperones started to advertise she thought Matthew was gay, and Shelley watched over the next five days as more ostracizing and hurt took place. Shelley wondered how the woman could do that, while in her heart knowing it was true, but still also thinking it was something that might be “cured.” This kind of hurt and ridicule led Matthew to not come out for another six years.

When Matthew graduated high school, this pain of being “othered” continued, as he had been excluded from a graduation trip that his close friends had planned. This infuriated Shelley, but on the morning of the friend trip, after a long night stewing, she found herself at Walmart at 5am, buying the group travel snacks which she placed on a doorstep along with an anonymous note wishing them a great trip. When she came home, Matthew asked how she could do that. Shelley responded she had to find a way to metabolize the anger she was feeling. She feels like she actually learned that from Matthew. Of her son, Shelley says, “I have watched him--the blessing of this child. He approaches everyone with open arms. When he’s betrayed or misjudged, he uses that formula to metabolize unkindness into understanding and love and grace. He has an amazing capacity for love and nonjudgment.” Back in high school, Matthew started a musical theater program for kids with special needs called Friend to Friend that his mom still runs to this day, and he sometimes choreographs for. Hundreds of these amazing children have benefitted from this weekly venture into the world of music and dance. 

About two years after Matt left for New York, he sent a “very sweet letter” to his parents that said, “I have fought this too long; it’s important I become who I am. I am ready to live as an openly gay man and am asking for your support.” When Shelley asked her husband Bill if he’d gotten the email, he said, “Everything’s ok, dear – God is in charge and everything’s ok.” Shelley says it still took her many days to wrap her head about it, but found 1 Nephi 11 coming to mind, where Nephi says, “I know that God loveth his children, nevertheless I do not know meaning of all things.” Immediately, Shelley’s heart filled with how much her Heavenly Father and Jesus love Matt, just how he is. 

Matt’s siblings (Brooke, Jaman –who passed away of the Swine flu at age 30, Krista, Megan, Jordan, and Taylor) and his nieces and nephews adore him and always have. Shelley also has a gay grandson, and she can’t help but think Matthew’s journey has somehow made this nephew’s path a little easier to navigate. Matt doesn’t participate in church but believes he’ll see his deceased brother and father (who died of pancreatic cancer two-and-a-half-years ago) again, and says he supports everyone’s right to their own spiritual journey. Shelley is thrilled Matthew plans to marry his “wonderful fiancé” next year. 

When it comes to Shelley’s faith, she says, “I do not know the meaning of all things. I do have some have some thoughts about some things. I know in this life I may not see the complete picture, but I know how deeply and fiercely my boy is loved by our Savior and Heavenly Father, so I can reconcile that… A mother’s love comes the closest to how the Father loves. We would do anything to protect, love, save, and cherish our children.” She continues, “I think when we meet the Father and Savior and whoever else at the bar, we’ll be judged not on our accomplishments, wealth, job description, or callings, but on how we loved each other and how well we encircled others with that love. That will be the bar of judgment. If it is, Matt’s in really good shape.” Shelley believes true beauty is found in the way we treat others. “When Jesus said love everyone, there were no exceptions. At age 70, I only have one job left in this world – to love. And occasionally make a batch of gooey cinnamon rolls.”

CLARE DALTON

As a child, Clare Dalton would watch her dad go off to teach seminary or institute and ask if she, too, might be able to do that one day. His answer was no, as back then, the church encouraged women to stay home with their families. “That made sense,” Clare says, considering all she’d observed at the time. But after growing up in Arizona, Clare would pursue many opportunities. She served an LDS mission in Barcelona, studied linguistics at the University of Arizona while coaching high school girls’ basketball and a variety of middle school sports, worked at a group home, used her bilingual skills to teach driver’s ed, did door to door sales—which she says is everything they say it is (lots of money, lots of crazy), then ultimately ended up back in her parents’ basement, wondering what was next. One day, her father asked her to substitute teach a seminary class. This time, there was space for a woman in that classroom and Clare had an awakening—finally able to combine her two passions of teaching and working with kids. Clare spent the next eight years being called Sister Dalton in Gilbert, Arizona high schools where parents and students regularly asked for their kids to be placed in her seminary class. That is, until she came out as gay. 

Clare had known since she was a child she was different, most consistently feeling “like an alien.” It wasn’t until the pandemic in 2020, at age 32, that Clare finally felt the courage to ask God: “Hey, this SSA stuff I’ve been researching and keep finding my way back to… this topic? Is this me?” She felt the affirmative answer she received didn’t need to be anyone else’s business, and fought God hard on that. Clare laughs, “God and I are good at fighting. I felt strongly prompted by God to come out on social media, and it took us months of back and forth to get me ready to take that leap of faith.” She was perplexed by the timing of it all, and taken aback by the immense outpouring of people in the space seeking connection. “People were starving to be seen and heard, as this affects so many lives.” 

Soon, Clare understood the urgency of her prompting to be more open. A former seminary student reached out and said that on the day they planned to take their life, a friend had forwarded them a screenshot of Clare’s post, which ultimately proved life-saving. They told Clare her example made them realize, “This could be a part of my life that might not ruin everything. Maybe I can stay here.”  Clare says, “That gave me added perspective of what God means by the invitation, ‘Come, labor in my vineyard and be an instrument in my hands.’ Now, I feel called to this space. It’s worth standing here, even if it feels lonely, to hold space for others coming along so we can make the space even bigger.” Clare credits Charlie Bird, Ben Schilaty, Meghan Decker and Tom Christofferson as some of the pioneers who first helped open that space publicly.  

After her public announcement, Clare immediately noticed a shift in her seminary classes. Some students and families started behaving differently towards her. She started hearing secondhand conversations about her, initiated by parents and local leaders who had never actually met her. She says, “It hurt that those with accusations and even just questions didn’t have the courage or integrity to talk to me face-to-face. As a religious culture, we believe in the phrase ‘to stand for truth and righteousness.’ So when we feel we’re on the moral high ground, we like our faces to be seen. But when we don’t have that, we turn into middle schoolers and tattle up the chain to take care of uncomfortable situations we don’t want to face ourselves.” Clare saw “really awful” emails and texts that were passed around about her as she was accused of horrific things that were utterly untrue. She offered to meet with parents, to no avail. “The things I was accused of have left scars, and they’re from parents who had no valid ammunition—just fear. The scary problem is that they don’t need any. I didn’t have to ever actually do anything wrong to be perceived and painted as a threat. Just being gay was enough.” In contrast, Clare will forever remember how some families reached out and some colleagues stepped up to show how much they needed someone like her in this space—an LGBTQ voice who’s connected with God and the church. 

Clare wanted to continue to help people, but started to feel the pushback and belittlement as if “I was being patted on the head, like, ‘You can be here, but don’t make any waves.’ But I kept seeing parents and students who were hurting and who didn’t want to come into a church building because of their experiences. The seminary and institute programs have done so many amazing things for years and can be helpful, but I can’t unsee the broken hearts who don’t fit into that system. Who’s helping those kids and families?” Clare says her faculty would look at the lists every year of students not registered or attending, and consider the tools they were trained and instructed to use to “rescue Israel.” But, “Those tools can be perceived as weapons to people who don’t fit in. Tools like, ‘Let’s go over to someone’s house and invite them to seminary and to read the Book of Mormon.’ What does that tool feel like to someone who was called a slur by someone in their seminary class, and they step into our building and hear that slur again? Or a person of color who studies 2 Nephi and their class discussion isn’t nuanced or sensitive? And in class, when we double down on weaponizing the Family Proclamation, are we gathering Israel, or inflicting wounds that lead to hemorrhaging faith and testimony? People say, ‘We need LGBTQ people in the church,’ but it is so hard to stay when everything from the overt to the subconscious message is ‘You don’t belong here’.”

A lifelong athlete, Clare’s sports brain recognizes the best change can come if we recognize that humans do feel the difference between being “allowed” and being “needed,” or between feeling “welcome” versus “essential.” She likens it to a team on which a coach says, “Here’s a jersey, get used to sitting and watching” versus, “We need what you have. We’re going to build this team and offense around you.” Clare decided that since God had called her, she didn’t need to just sit there, she needed to do something. And if that space didn’t exist, she needed to help create it. She credits many others as being part of the “explosion of people right now wanting to create spaces (books, podcasts, support groups, etc.) with God that haven’t been created before. God isn’t just allowing it, God is inspiring it,” says Clare.

Now on the advisory board for the Gather conference, Clare says it’s been so eye-opening to work in a space without a manual; just a connection to God in which one can ask, how can we do this? With this newfound flexibility, Clare’s been able to tap into part of her spirit that she says has felt dormant to channel the Christlike attribute of creativity. She says, “When we move into the unknown with God, we sample what it’s like to be a creator. We get to accept the invitation to create with God.” Along with a committee of four (including Allison Dayton, Ben Schilaty and Austin Peterson), Clare is now developing the Gatherings curriculum (the free curriculum is available on gather-conference.com under “Gatherings”), a companion study for Come, Follow Me, designed for “the population of those who might find church to be unrelatable, painful, or unsafe. It’s for those who may nervously anticipate General Conference, awaiting the next ‘you’re no longer welcome here’ stone to hit. The team hopes that with the Gathering curriculum, someone can jump into scripture with a different perspective and find themselves in the sacred text … and say, ‘Oh, I’m more like Nephi than I thought’.” Clare reasons, “Constantly deflecting stones from friendly fire takes such an emotional toll and can be a barrier to spiritual growth. When you’re ready for a blow to come, it’s hard to have a soft heart that can be receptive.” 

Reflecting on the recent inaugural Gather conference in which she was the second speaker, Clare says she arrived two hours early, stepped into a giant meeting hall with 1200+ chairs waiting to be filled, and had this moment of, “This is unreal… I didn’t even know to dream on this level. No part of me as a little kid was like ‘I want to get up on a stage and talk about the thing that makes me different.’ But I had this moment of awe—how good God is to be able to move so many things and people. I was able to stand at one of those connection points where so many lines come together and connect you to everyone else. That’s what Gather was—seeing people friendly, happy, smiling, using different pronouns or clothes or for the first time, trying something they had not been able to before. And we all fit in the family of God, in a future that had been described with so much uncertainty for us…” Clare continues, “It doesn’t take away our problems, but it does give us a foundation so we have a place to stand for all the things to come. That’s what I see and want; that’s what Gather is doing… It’s a beautiful sentiment to feel we’re not just taking up space in Zion, but that we literally cannot build Zion without this essential part-us. As we move closer to the Second Coming, God’s moving more and more people.”  

A self-proclaimed introvert who is a voracious reader of fantasy and YA fiction, Clare is now happily dating her girlfriend and figuring out what their path in the church looks like together. They are active in their local ward, and Clare says that living the gospel for them is “more focused on trying to become like Christ and less focused on checking all the to-do boxes. While I hope every week that Sacrament meeting and second hour will be the sacred renewal that I crave, there are times that I have to leave the church building and find that connection with God elsewhere.”

But Clare says, “What gets me out of bed and keeps me going is faith. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s the first principle of the gospel. We have too many cultural patterns that have become patterns of fear. And God is trying to root out that fear. In order to do that, we have to check our patterns, assumptions, and mindsets.” Clare says she did all she could to live a life where she “moved within those patterns and fit in and looked really good on paper, but that wasn’t where God was guiding me. I hope that every member of God’s family remembers that God invites us to talk to Them and find out our individual purpose together with the divine.” As for Clare right now, she is focused on the gathering to come.

The Cooper Family

Jason Cooper’s childhood home was one that tackled hard things with humor. So in hindsight, it was a little comical to his mom that one day while sitting in the living room in the dark in serious discussion with her (gay) husband, he blurted out, “If I have to stay married to you for one more day, I’ll kill myself. Don’t take offense to that.” Jason’s mom, Janet Rawson, had known her husband Farris was attracted to men for over a decade, but not before their wedding day. Back then, in the 60s-70s, Jason says it was common to grow up with the mindset to “do your duty in the church—serve a mission, marry in the temple, have kids.” And that’s what the Coopers did. Jason was four years old when the dissonance his father was struggling with became too much and he revealed this part of himself to Janet. Another decade later, Jason’s father sat his oldest three kids down to tell them that he’d been excommunicated from the church, but didn’t get into too much detail about why. While Farris told his kids not to let that affect or skew their standing in the church, he encouraged them to find out for themselves whether it was true. He and Janet told their children a few years later that he and Janet were divorcing. The kids also learned they would be staying with their mother, and Jason’s dad warned them not to give her any trouble.

After an atypical divorce, the family dynamic continued in an atypical way, with Jason’s dad “walking in Christmas morning to the house he was no longer a part of to open gifts with us. He was at all the big things he could be, while living 200 hundred miles away in Salt Lake City.” When Jason was 17-years-old, his father finally came out to him. Jason replied, “You’re still my dad and I still love you.” Eventually, Farris introduced his kids to the partner he’d been living with in Salt Lake. From then on, the couple remained an important part of Jason’s and some of his siblings’ lives. Farris’ partner had also grown up LDS in small town Wyoming and served a mission to Mexico City, and Jason fondly remembers him being the one to purchase most of Jason’s mission clothes. Jason met his wife Stephanie on their respective missions to Tucson, AZ. Near the end of Jason’s mission, he developed feelings for Stephanie and he knew he’d need to feel out whether his dad’s relationship would be a dealbreaker for her. Luckily, it wasn’t, and Jason now laughs at how Farris’ partner would leave food for the young couple in the fridge when they’d come over, with notes like, “Remember who you are and why you’re standing. If you’re not standing, you’re not remembering. Signed, love your wicked stepmother.” While Jason’s father passed in 2007, Farris’ partner is still a part of the Coopers’ lives, and they regularly spend holidays together. But when it comes to celebrating his birthday, Janet laments, “It’s hard because I can’t find a card that says, ‘Happy birthday to the man who stole my husband’.”

Jason and Stephanie Cooper have raised their five kids (Tucker—27, who is married to Mikayl—25, Cole—24, Ben—19, Lola—15, and Grace—11) between Salt Lake and Idaho Falls, ID, where they now reside. A special memory for their two oldest boys was getting to run errands with Grandpa Farris and his partner in SLC when they were younger, and Stephanie and Jason were at work and school respectively. Tucker and Cole would join the men on errands as they picked up supplies for their cosmetology practices and took them to restaurants like the Soup Kitchen and Skool Lunch where employees would gush, “Where are your boys?” Later on, these memories of the gay grandpas being mostly accepted (but often not in mostly conservative Utah) would prove a significant impact on Cole, who would later navigate his own orientation.

From a young age, Cole was known as the Cooper family’s second mother and the one appointed caretaker of his siblings when his parents were away. His friends would jokingly call him the “old lady,” because when they’d go swim in the river, he was the one elected to hold their phones and towels and make sure they didn’t do anything too stupid. In high school, Cole played drums and percussion in the band and was involved in student council-- “a typical kid,” says his father, though “remarkably mature.” Cole started to figure out his sexuality around age 12, and by age 14, was texting a friend about how cute a guy was. Stephanie was checking to make sure that Cole’s phone was turned in for the night when the text message came in, and seeing this message sparked a conversation in which he came out to her, but told her “not to tell dad.” Jason’s not sure why this was Cole’s instinct, especially regarding his open acceptance and love for his own father, but wonders if perhaps there was something non-affirming he had said that his son had picked up on? Stephanie agreed Cole should be the one to tell Jason, and Cole waited until he was 18 to deliver what Jason describes as an organic conversation, “nothing like a big gender reveal or mission call opening.” As he had when his father had come out to him, Jason calmly replied, “It’s okay; I still love you—you’re my son.” Jason said his only sorrow expressed in this conversation was that there might be many people in their faith community who would reject the opportunity to get to know how amazing Cole actually is, after learning this one fact about him.

Just as Farris had been raised to do his duty to be faithful in the church, so had Cole. He assured his father, who was the bishop at the time, that while he had spent his life preparing for a mission, out of respect, Cole would not be seeking the Melchizedek priesthood, knowing its associated covenants were not something he would be able to honor. He and his parents now extend a mutual respect to each other’s varied beliefs and church affiliation. Jason says, “Cole knows that if there are things that prick him—policies, procedures—he can talk to us about it. He’s never asked us to choose one or the other, and we would never ask the same of him.”

Cole is now studying Communication Disorders at Utah State University in Logan, and is interested in pursuing a doctorate in audiology after he gains some work experience. His siblings have always proven supportive, especially older brother Tucker, of whom Jason says, “I always wondered if they’d ever become friends, but now Tucker is his fiercest defender.” Jason was also touched when his youngest child, Grace, found out about Cole’s orientation and simply said, “That’s ok. You love who you love.”

As a “fairly sizable introvert” who has been told he comes across as “intimidating,” Jason admits he didn’t ask too many questions about Cole’s personal life until he was called out in this last year. While visiting one weekend, Cole asked, “Is there a reason you never ask about my dating life?” Jason said he just figured if there was something Cole wanted them to know, he’d tell them. Cole then revealed he’d been dating a guy for over nine months. Cole’s boyfriend also has an LDS background, and Jason says the two make a great couple and complement each other very well. Jason also feels he owes a debt of gratitude to the “extremely loving group of like-minded friends in Logan that Cole found—folks in the LGBTQ+ community who I think probably saved his life.” After a camping trip last year, the group spent an evening in the Coopers’ home, and Jason calls them all, “great, great people.”

Jason makes it a point to make his allyship known in his ward, wearing a rainbow pin on his lapel every week. Stephanie does the same. When a Harley-riding, “rough customer type” asked him why they wore the pins, Jason replied, “Why not?” The man responded, “Hmm, okay,” and sauntered off. While still serving as bishop, Jason felt inspired to teach a fifth Sunday lesson in which he could address his congregation’s relation with those who are LGBTQ+. His ward council backed the idea, in the in time between the approval by the ward council and the fifth Sunday lesson, Jason was asked to also speak at an upcoming stake priesthood meeting. He was given cart blanche to talk about whatever he wanted, and while nervous that he felt compelled to share his personal experiences being his father’s son and his son’s father, Jason says his message about making more room at the table was well received. A native of Idaho, there were several men in the audience who had known Jason since his childhood, and he initially worried how they’d react. But several made concerted efforts to reach out afterward and tell him just how much his words mattered. In preparation for the fifth Sunday lesson in his ward, He deliberately let his facial hair grow to a scruffy state before the presentation, so he could feel “just a little uncomfortable—something our LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters likely feel showing up every week.” After Jason’s fifth Sunday lesson which centered on how to more fully embrace any on the margins—including LGBTQ+, divorced, widowed, and single parent members, Jason said a handful of youth and members—including a full-time missionary—privately came out to him, now trusting him as a safe space. Jason and Stephanie likewise cherish the safe space of their local LGBTQ+ support group, appropriately called Open Arms. The organization has recently become a non-profit called Open Arms of Idaho (openarmsidaho.org).

After Jason gave a fifth Sunday lesson in a neighboring ward, there were those, however, who showed they’re still learning or gave a little pushback behind the scenes. The mother of a close friend expressed how her family missed seeing Cole and asked Stephanie to “tell Cole we love him and miss him.” Stephanie replied, “You need to tell.” Now that Jason’s been released as bishop, more people seem to feel safe approaching him. Jason says he likes following Ben Schilaty’s advice to ask the LGBTQ+ person closest to you about their experience and just listen. “We get so caught up with who we think an individual is, and don’t listen to who they are—which is what we should be doing as Christians trying to follow the two great commandments. It’s pretty straight forward–love your neighbor. That doesn’t mean you have to like them all the time; my wife probably feels that way about me--but she always loves me.”

Jason continues, “I know the relationship I had with my father benefitted the relationship I have with my son. I can’t imagine the things my parents went through in the 80s, but I’m grateful for the experience, and have to think it was preparatory and helped foster a better relationship with Cole. I’m glad I didn’t have to start from zero. There’s always room at the table.”

KELLEEN POTTER

(Content warning: mention of suicide, and suicidal ideation)

Nestled against the picturesque landscape of the Wasatch mountains, former Heber City Mayor Kelleen Potter wears many hats – as a leader, a lobbyist, and most of all, as a devoted mother who describes her kids (Daniel-26, Benjamin-24, Faye-22, Hannah-20 and Abby-16) as a bit of a Benetton ad in their diversity. The line-up includes everything from an Air Force intelligence officer who learned to speak Russian on an LDS mission, to two queer kids, to her youngest, who was adopted from China. 

Raised in the LDS faith, Kelleen was committed to her goals to have a large family, but laughs she “got a late start,” (by church culture standards), at age 30. Her life took an unexpected turn when her eldest son, Daniel, began struggling at the age of 12. The once vibrant and academically advanced child started to withdraw. Unbeknownst to his mother, Daniel was grappling with the societal pressures and bullying that often accompany the discovery of one’s sexual orientation. She assumed the kids at school were just teasing him because he was so well-dressed, believing, “He had a little girlfriend, so he couldn’t be gay.” 

Daniel confided in his bishop about his feelings, and was told, “You’re not gay; the world will tell you that you are gay, but you just have talents like fashion and photography which will bless your life if you follow the Church’s teachings.” Upset about this, Daniel told a trusted friend/scout leader who was worried about Daniel and told Kelleen.  At the time, Kelleen did not know anyone who was gay besides the cousin of her husband - a cousin Kelleen now regrets not reaching out to for advice and insight. All she knew about homosexuality was from church and from reading the oft-prescribed book, Miracle of Forgiveness, of which she now says, “I find it horrifying that an entire generation of LDS gay members and their families had only that to turn to for information concerning this topic.”

Seeking comfort and guidance, Daniel requested his patriarchal blessing as a freshman in high school. In it, he was told a beautiful wife was being prepared for him and someday he’d meet and marry her. Kelleen noticed that that was when Daniel started to give up. Daniel has since shared his experience that a child at that age feeling so rejected by their church community and no hope for the future usually has feelings of ending his life. Daniel did make an attempt. “Fortunately, it wasn’t successful, and I didn’t know about it until 12 hours later.” Finding him in the basement, Kelleen had a painful conversation where she found herself at a complete loss for words. “Looking back, there were so many comforting things I should’ve said, but my entire upbringing was through the lens of the church, and I was full of fear about handling it wrong.” 

Kelleen had a roommate in college who ended up marrying a gay man, who had been encouraged to enter into a mixed-orientation marriage by church leaders. The marriage lasted two years. That experience made it clear to Kelleen that this was not something Daniel had chosen or could change. But at the time, she still believed the church should be able to offer him answers. Busy with her stake Primary president calling while also serving on the city council, Kelleen now tried to fit in navigating finding those answers. Daniel warned her not to tell people about him being gay, fearing some in their conservative town might slash her tires. School life was increasingly tough for Daniel, where he’d received a text that said “Watch out, homo,” and a teacher confirmed to his mother Daniel was being bullied. 

Needing a change of scenery, Daniel went to live in Orem with relatives. They ran the Hale Theater, where Daniel got a job and found it to be an accepting place. He came out in his new seminary class to a very affirming teacher, but there was fall out from other students. Ultimately, Daniel ended up at the Walden charter school, which Kelleen jokes felt like “the land of misfit toys,” but where she found the people to be wonderful. During his junior year of high school, Daniel went to Anasazi wilderness camp, which became a beautiful thing as through letters back and forth, Daniel was able to share more of his story and his heart with his family.

Kelleen began turning to non-church resources for help, including her friend, A. Todd Jones, who she had worked with in the EFY circuit, and who had recently come out publicly about being gay on social media. A. Todd connected Kelleen with Wendy Montgomery of Mama Dragons, and soon after, Kelleen found herself at a retreat with 40 other moms who ultimately became mentors as she went around interviewing everyone to figure out how she could make the church work with her family dynamic. Kelleen said she left that weekend feeling like she was hit by a lightning bolt--believing that the church was actually wrong on this issue. She recalls, “That was the first time in my life I could not just take everything they said and act on it… I now see how we in our church and culture have caused a lot of shame for people like my son, who are made to feel like they’re fundamentally flawed… What a terrible message to receive when they are simply a biological variation, a beautiful creation of their Heavenly Father. That’s it. There’s so much beauty in who they are. These bright, beautiful kids, sadly with their light dimming, fearing being cut off from family, friends and community simply for being who they are.”

Kelleen then began to finally take seriously the council to pray about what leadership says, then take personal accountability. She decided she would lead with love over anything else. Up until that point, Kelleen says, “It was so easy to put people in boxes, it became so refreshing to think, ‘Nope that’s not my job. I just get to love people.’ It makes life a lot easier to navigate and has been one of my most important life lessons.”

As Daniel become more stable after Anasazi, Kelleen‘s third child, who was in the eighth grade, also started struggling with mental health. Faye, who had always been so gifted and talented, also began to withdraw. One morning, Kelleen found a note on Faye’s bedroom door that said, “Please take me to the hospital.” Faye’s school also reported a school computer search engine revealed suicide was on her mind. This led to Faye being checked in as an inpatient for five months at Primary Children’s Hospital. 

Right before she returned home, Kelleen saw a text on Faye’s phone that revealed Faye, who had been assigned male at birth, said her fantasy was to go to a dance dressed as a girl, and be accepted. Kelleen says all this made finding out you have a gay kid seem easy. Kelleen is now a lobbyist at the Utah state legislature and struggles as she hears people talk about trans issues, knowing how it will affect a child--her child and so many others. She says, “My Faye is a sweetheart; she is so tender. I hate having to fear dropping her off at a bus or train station, knowing the things people might say to her, for simply living her truth in a way that is best for her mental health.” 

It took some time visiting various doctors and psychiatrists for Faye to fully come out, and for Kelleen to feel the spirit hit her hard and tell her that she could choose to support her child and keep Faye alive and have a relationship, or not. Kelleen has tried to help Faye the best she can with therapy, and credits Lisa Hansen of Flourish Therapy as being a true lifesaver for Faye. Now at age 22 and 6’3, Faye notices the funny looks she gets in the small town where she lives. Of this, Kelleen says, “Thinking of all the steps a trans person goes through in a society where people don’t seem to accept them, even though they’re not hurting anyone… It’s a big journey. I’m so proud of Faye.” While Faye is witty, clever, and talented, Kelleen says her journey has seemed to derail her for a time as she navigated coming out in adolescence and young adulthood. 

During her tenure as mayor of Heber, Kelleen spoke with many people about LGBTQ+ issues. She says, “It was a privilege to be a safe space for parents and LGBTQ youth… I think our church and community and state have made a lot of progress in this area. Several of Daniel’s friends from high school have come out since – some of them also endured hospitalizations along their way for mental health.” 

While serving as mayor, Kelleen was approached to hang Pride flags on Main Street, and she agreed as she felt it was following the law and showing support for these kids. This incited complaints on Facebook and voicemails as Kelleen received the backlash. “The most offensive messages seemed to come from people who proclaimed to be the most religious, and used God‘s name to attack and threaten me.” Around this time, Kelleen knew of several kids in town who struggled with suicidal ideation, not having affirming support at home, which only increased her desire to keep the flags up and hope for some healthy conversations and education in her community.

The backlash made national news and caused many people in town who had been Kelleen‘s prior supporters to not post her campaign signs the second time around. Kelleen was asked if she realized she might lose reelection over this and she said she would happily die on that hill, politically; and indeed, she says her support for the flags, along with a few other issues, led to her losing reelection by 64 votes.

Kelleen harbors no regrets though, saying, “Those kids needed our support. They are so afraid. We have a whole community who knows nothing about LGBTQ issues except what they’ve read in the Miracle of Forgiveness, but the core teachings presented there are not true or healthy. Especially for someone who is part of the LGBTQ community and who wants all the same things as others – family, love, connection. People in the church are speaking up as allies, but the core doctrine currently leaves no room.”

When Faye was in the hospital over those five months, Kelleen increasingly struggled at church to teach Relief Society and Gospel Doctrine lessons on topics she found problematic--like the Family Proclamation. Once, while watching general conference as a family, Daniel walked in and slammed off the TV, shouting, “PTSD!” Kelleen says, “I didn’t realize the damage it was causing.” She did take advantage of the teacher’s podium, though, to share her son’s story and Elder Cook’s quote about LDS people needing to be more loving and compassionate to the LGBTQ population. She says, “Most people wouldn’t look at me after that lesson, though some whispered to me that they had a gay family member they loved.” The same week she gave that lesson, Kelleen was released from that calling. 

Preparing for her own daughter’s upcoming hospital release, Kelleen decided she was not going to say, “Bye, Faye! Sorry I’ve got to go to church where you don’t fit in, and leave you here at home.” She deduced, “The people in church buildings here have people who support them. Those on the outside, like Faye, don’t. It’s almost like they are refugees, with no place to go. We need to honor them, even when they’re not attending, especially when they are not attending. We so often misunderstand people who don’t come to church because we think we know what’s best for them, but we have a lot to learn.” Shortly after Faye came home, a queer friend who had been close to Faye in the hospital tragically ended up taking his life.

Kelleen has since moved to Midway and is one of the few in her neighborhood who does not attend church, though she still has many close friends and family in the faith. When people tell her, “I’m sad you gave up church activity for this,” Kelleen says all she can think is, “Have you ever considered that perhaps this is my calling and purpose, and God is guiding me just like you?”

DR LISA TENSMEYER HANSEN

Chapters. That’s how Lisa Tensmeyer Hansen describes the various seasons that have directed her to what she now regards as the pinnacle of her life’s work. All along, she has felt the guidance of an all-knowing hand. 

The PhD and LMFT now resides in the heart of Utah Valley with her husband Bill, where she is co-founder and CEO of Flourish Therapy, which provides life-saving therapy for LGBTQ+ individuals. While none of her seven biological children, her foster daughter, or other “bonus children” identify as LGBTQ+, they joke that “maybe someone will come out for mom for Christmas.” Besides having a gay nephew whom she adores--and who is soon graduating in vocal performance from the U where he started a gospel choir. Lisa agrees it’s interesting how her path has brought her to this particular space. But she can’t look back without recognizing she’s always had an awareness and empathy for those often deemed marginalized.

Growing up in the LDS church, Lisa says, “I spent a lot of time thinking about what God as parent would want their children to grow up and be and do.” As she experienced various stages of faith development, she started by believing in a God who had reasons for the rules, even those that seemed to make less sense. She began to recognize a God who valued development and not just blind obedience--a God who saw something in each of us that needs to be deeply valued and seen and understood.

As a teen, Lisa believed somewhat in the idea of “the elect”—that finding a way to be like God was a narrow path and not everyone was destined for eternal greatness. But as she became a parent, she recognized that every single individual’s growth matters. That everyone has been given something to bring them closer to God and something to believe in. This paradigm was further cemented when her youngest children’s involvement in a theater program enlisted her to serve as the program’s director. A former member of the BYU Women’s Chorus, Lisa also ran her stake youth choir and served in the stake Young Women’s presidency. In these capacities, she recognized how some of the most vibrant and lively performers were those brave enough to later come out as gay. 

In their small community of Payson, it was easy for Lisa to see how the community of church and school did not provide a safe haven for these performers to be powerful leaders and contributors, despite their phenomenal skills and talents. She witnessed some be excommunicated because they identified a certain way. Another was refused participation in a temple opening extravaganza even after being selected for the top spot, because they were gay. She saw many who were relegated to second class citizen status if they chose celibacy, but “never fully celebrated as they would be if straight.” Lisa says, “That was a powerful message to me… These were not people who were anxious to leave God behind; these were amazingly spiritually deep people whose communities decided they had no place for them.”

In another chapter of Lisa’s development years, she witnessed racism firsthand. Growing up in Indiana, there were both schools and swimming pools segregated based on the color of one’s skin. When Lisa enrolled in an integrated college preparatory high school in her neighborhood, her understanding of what it means to live in a democracy with people who are treated as less than shifted as she heard various viewpoints and recognized her own privilege. At the time, largely due to the teachings she was immersed in via gospel discussions in her home and what was taught over the pulpit, she complacently believed that “God had reasons for the way things were,” even racism. Never hearing anything else, besides the incredulous objections of her more broad-minded classmates, Lisa assumed things would just be that way forever. As she matured in the gospel, and especially after reading Edward Kimball’s carefully crafted summary of the events leading up to his grandfather’s reversal of the priesthood ban in 1978, Lisa experienced a substantial eye-opening. She came to realize that it wasn’t the people waiting around for God to change His mind or make His ways known, but that the people themselves needed to change. She asked herself, “Are we content to keep others at arms’ length so we feel we are holy enough?” As this dissonance set in and Lisa pondered her participation in what she had always believed was the restored gospel, she had an awakening to the reality that even though Jewish leaders at the meridian of time when Christ was on the earth kept many from full participation, that God continued to work in that space. That this delineation didn’t obliterate Christ’s teachings about scripture, prayer, the law and prophets. Lisa says, “This seemed like a path I could emulate.” Perhaps there was something to be gained, or something to be done, in this space of nuance.

As she watched so many in the LGBTQ+ space be excommunicated from a church she as a straight woman could still belong to, Lisa decided to do what she could to elevate the LGBTQ+ community “in the eyes of people like me, and in their own right.” She decided to start a gay men’s chorus in Utah Valley, patterned after the one she’d seen in Salt Lake. “So many I knew cherished the Primary songs and wanted a sense of connection to God that was being denied to them,” she recalls, in reference to LDS markers like missions and temple marriages. It took awhile, but Lisa was able to put together a small gay men’s choir that rehearsed and performed at UVU, the state hospital, and various library holiday celebrations. Once Lisa went back to school, one member of the Utah County Men’s Choir started the One Voice choir in Salt Lake City, and most of the performers followed him to that organization.

With this goal achieved, after some prayer, Lisa felt what she should do next was go back to school with a focus on studying mental health. She knew this is where she could be of most use to the LGBTQ+ community within the context of LDS life, and ultimately chose her alma mater of BYU as the only place to which she’d apply, after a former colleague agreed to mentor her. “At 50 years old, I felt lucky someone wanted to work with me,” she says. The timing was ideal, as BYU was facing accreditation challenges in 2010 and needed to enhance their LGBTQ+ research—a role Lisa eagerly took on. As she put in her hours toward earning her LMFT and PhD, her first client in the BYU clinic was someone with gender identity questions. Soon after, Lisa received an influx of clients who identified as gay, lesbian, gender queer, nonbinary, SSA and bisexual. She says, “I felt like this was confirming a particular direction for my focus.” 

Lisa was instrumental in starting a research group at the clinic based on Kendall Wilcox’s Circles of Empathy wherein gay people would come and share their experiences with straight student therapists. Through the four sessions in which it ran, therapists-in-training participated at least once to expand their understanding. She was also able to help a professor build his curriculum on the topic and has been asked back to the MFT program more than once to talk about LGBTQ+ clients. Of her time in BYU’s graduate program, Lisa says, “I felt a lot of support for the things I wanted to do to benefit and support the LGBTQ+ community while at BYU.”

Just as she was graduating with her PhD, Lisa was approached by Kendall and Roni Jo Draper about helping start the Encircle program in Provo, launching her into a new chapter. She recruited two clinicians she knew to help advise a program in which they could offer free therapy. Along with Encircle director Stephenie Larsen, Lisa was there for the opening of the first home in Provo, where Flourish Counseling Services was born (as a separate entity). While “it was the right thing at the right time,” as Lisa oversaw 13 therapists to meet the clients’ needs, ultimately Lisa parted ways with Encircle. However, she still refers young people to the program for their friendship circles, music and art classes, therapy, and as a place where “they can be themselves without their queerness being the most important thing about them.” 

After moving off campus from Encircle with those 13 therapists, Flourish Therapy is now its own entity with 80 therapists offering approximately 2500 sessions a month in offices from Orem to Salt Lake, all on a sliding scale based on what clients can afford. Thanks to generous donors and insurance subsidies, Flourish is able to keep their session costs well below national average and even offers free therapy to those in crisis who cannot afford it otherwise. Lisa says, “We deeply depend on people paying it forward.” Because of the large number of therapists available, clients are often able to select a therapist with a similar gender identity or orientation, if they prefer.

Unlike LDS Social Services, Flourish is able to freely adhere to APA guidelines and honor their clients’ authentic selves, however they may show up. They have clients ranging from those trying to stay in the LDS church with temple recommends (whether in mixed orientation or same-sex marriages), to those trying to withdraw their names from the church or seek letters for transitional surgeries. Flourish also often treats missionaries referred by mission presidents when the assigned field psychologist perhaps might be struggling to understand. Lisa’s efforts have been widely recognized, and she considers it “a real honor” that the Human Rights Campaign gave her its Impact Award a few months ago. The Utah Marriage and Family Therapy Association also recently awarded Lisa Supervisor of the Year for her work in mentoring student and associate counselors and Affirmation International awarded her Ally of the Year for her work in steering Flourish through its first five years and maintaining its mission to support the LGBTQ+ community despite outside pressures to change their structure and process.

When the tough questions resurface and dissonance reappears, Lisa finds herself traveling back to the early answers she received in Chapter 1 living—when she first knelt and prayed around age 10 to ask whether Joseph Smith had really seen the Father and the Son. She says, “I felt an enormous feeling of light and love. I received no specific answer to my prayer, but felt a love wherein I recognized that something here is the answer and secret and why of everything. God feels this way about us here on earth–that’s what has sustained me all this time and made me feel that what’s inside of us is valuable to God. God’s not looking at us to shed what we have that’s divine but to lean into it and live and cherish and value the learning experience. We will then become able to recognize everyone’s lives—identity and all--as stepping stones.” Lisa concludes, “The things that are true about me are what have moved me into this space where I hope I’m lifting others to that same place wherein they can see how their Creator recognizes the value—the holiness—within all.”  

THE AHLSTROM FAMILY

Char Ahlstrom of Los Alamitos, CA knows what it feels like to “do all the things.” She and her husband Tom had devotedly raised their six kids in the LDS faith where they both served faithfully in the church. In fact, Tom was serving as their stake president and Char was teaching early morning seminary in 2014, the year they found out their fourth child, Kyle, was gay. Soon after, Char read a message on an open computer screen that made her wonder if her youngest son might be gay. Char is the first to admit they perhaps did not initially handle these news flashes as well as they should have. But she now often shares her story of growth and shifting perspective, hopeful it may ease others on similar journeys who realize doing “all the things” means nothing if they lose sight of what it really means to love.

When Kyle, now 32, first told his mom (six months after returning home from his mission) that he was bisexual, she says she wasn’t entirely surprised. She’d had inklings, but never talked about it. She observed he liked girls in high school, but never had a girlfriend. Whenever other possibilities presented, Char says, “I always pushed it away, believing, ‘I could never have a gay child because we are doing all the things in church’.” She’s embarrassed now to admit that at the time Kyle came out, she and her husband told him to just “keep up the façade”--that if he was bisexual, he could still remain active in the church, marry a woman, and pursue that path. 

A few months later, when Kyle revealed he was actually gay, not bi, he still wanted them to believe he intended to marry a woman and stay in the church. In the months after his mission and during what he calls “the days of growing darkness in my soul,” Kyle visited the Salt Lake Temple often. He says, “I did as Nephi had done, ‘I arose and went up into the mountain, and cried unto the Lord.’ I did not go to ask anything particular of God, I wasn’t looking for permission to come out; no such endeavor was in my mind. I knew the path and the promises I had made and was committed to keep them even unto death, which with suicidal ideation, was coming quicker than it should. I simply went to the temple to cry, knowing I needed the Lord’s strength to carry on.” 

While participating in an endowment session, Kyle says his mind wandered to a place it hadn’t before. He clearly saw his own wedding day, and to his surprise it wasn’t in the temple and it wasn’t to a woman. Kyle says, “It was to a talk dark haired man; we stood hand in hand under an oak tree near a pond. Feeling this fantasy must be a temptation from the enemy, I cast the thought out of my mind, trusting it had no place in the Lord’s house.” But the vision came back two more times. Kyle dutifully pushed the thought out a second time but by the third, he says, “The scene had rested upon my mind so gently, the way a parent’s guiding hand might lightly aid a child learning to walk, that I didn’t notice the delight of a smile, pure and powerful, had stretch across my face for the first time in months. And I heard a voice say only the word ‘Yes’.” That permission through revelation received in the mountain of the Lord’s House softened and sustained Kyle’s heart. He says, “I had been visited three times, and knowing what happens when you deny the Lord three times, I determined I would no longer bitterly weep; I had made enough of that noise. I knew from that moment on with the conviction of Moses taking off his shoes before the burning bush that my promise and my path now was to put off the shame I had been steeped in for years, was to welcome this new and everlasting vision for my life, and was to say only ‘Yes’ to love.”

Other facets of his story are “his to tell,” says Char, but this was a time in which they worried about his mental health as he struggled with depression, anxiety and suicidal ideation. An eye-opening, life changing moment for Char was when one of her sons said to her, “I’d rather have a gay brother than a dead brother.” That’s when Char started to realize as much as she loved her son, she needed to find a way to accept and support him better. Kyle started seeing a psychologist and started medication. Soon after, he started making his way out of church. The family started noting positive changes in Kyle as he seemed happier and more at peace with himself. As he started dating men, Char remembers “kind of wanting to know” details about his dating life, but feeling too scared to ask. One day, Kyle said, “Mom, if you want to know something, you’ve gotta come straight out and ask.” For her, it wasn’t easy, but she did. Since, she’s been able to have open conversations with both of her gay sons about everything from dating concerns to HIV prevention best practices, which she appreciates.

While Kyle opened Char’s mindset, it was still very hard for her when she discovered the boy her youngest son, Keith, had been messaging was actually his boyfriend. She admits she “did not handle things very well. At the time, I thought, I’m dealing with one son who is gay who I’m loving and supporting, though not happy with all his choices. And now I have another?” Char remembers trying very hard to push both her gay sons to stay active in the church, believing that while the Savior wouldn’t change this part of them, that He would “lead them in a better direction than I thought they were heading. I was so scared and worried for them and couldn’t believe this was happing to us. We were that typical, conservative Mormon family.” 

The night Keith told Tom and Char that he was gay, she opened her scriptures to D&C 78:18 and read: “You cannot bear all things now, nevertheless, be of good cheer for I will lead you along.” Char says it was such a comfort that “God did know how hard it was for me!”  She struggled with how to be of good cheer when it seemed like things were falling apart. But, as a seminary teacher, when she learned that in some translations “good cheer” meant “have courage,” she says, “then I realized that’s what He was telling me – to have courage and He would lead me along and I wouldn’t lose my eternal family, which I was worried about. He did lead me along; he led me to new thoughts and ideas and people to reach me. After many years, I see very clearly how God has led me along.” Later in the temple, Char contemplated another rift in testimony she’d experienced, now believing that her children were gay and that wouldn’t change with any amount of therapy. So if that was true, and knowing what the church taught, she wondered if God actually did make mistakes. But in the temple that day, she was told the only thing she needed to do was to love her children and trust that God loved them.

At the time, Char was experiencing turbulence with all her kids – including some moving around the world and three of the six leaving the church. One day, she was listening to a podcast on which Tom Christofferson shared that what children need is for parents to both love them and accept them where they are. That was a switch in Char’s thinking, having believed people needed to do certain things to be met with approval. She explains, “So I didn’t feel I could love them where they were because it wasn’t where I wanted them to be. But the Spirit said, ‘No, you need to see them where they are and love and trust that they’ll make decisions for their life that are best. They’re not alone.’ The biggest change for me was to accept them and their decisions.”

Char says she was taught by the Spirit and came to understand that Kyle and Keith were not some kind of mistake. “I was taught that who they are, who they love, is exactly how God made them. Their sexual orientation is not something they need to endure in this life, and it will be gone in the next. That was a huge revelation to me and changed everything going forward. That understanding, for me, took much of the fear away. I personally came to understand that a loving God will include ALL. So when he said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone,’ it meant ALL humans in this world. I think eternity is going to look much different, way more expansive than we are taught. I have asked in prayer many times if I am wrong, deceived even, and every time, I get the same answer: ‘No, you are not deceived’.” Char loves that so many other parents express they’ve been taught the same about their LGBTQ kids. “I’m not alone!”

Around this time, Char’s husband was released as stake president, and despite Keith no longer participating in church after a rough semester at BYU-Idaho, he was invited to lunch by the new Long Beach stake president, Emerson Fersch, who said he just wanted to get to know him. Char says President Fersch was so kind and loving in response to Keith telling him he was gay, and asked him to speak at stake conference and share his experience. Keith didn’t want to do that, but after receiving a warm, knowing hug from their new leader in the hallway at church, Char suddenly had an impression she should speak at stake conference. Turns out that inkling manifested when she was soon after asked to speak about her journey as the mom of two gay kids. 

In front of her stake, Char shared the nuance and cognitive dissonance she’d developed, and afterwards, many confided in her that that was also their experience. One man reached out to say, “I have a daughter who’s a lesbian and I don’t speak to her anymore. What do I do?” Char replied, “Call her! Still today, people call me for advice.” When asked to speak in Elders Quorum a few years ago about her experiences, an 85-year-old man raised his hand and acknowledged, “If I’m understanding this correctly, you’re saying WE need to change, that our hearts need to change and we need to be more loving?” Afterward, another man came up and said, “I understand what you’re saying but that’s not what the church is teaching.” Char replied, “Welcome to my world.”

Under President Fersch’s leadership and efforts by families like the Ahlstroms to have LGBTQ+ FHE and ally nights, the Long Beach stake became known as a friendly place for members who’d been pushed out of other congregations. When Covid shut things down, the groups stopped and they unfortunately have not restarted with a new stake presidency. While they still attend church as visible allies, Char says most of her and her husband’s interactions with other parents in their situation happen one-on-one.

While living in Utah, Kyle started to date one young man in particular. At first, Char felt scared to meet Chandler because she knew Kyle really liked him, but after she got to know him, she had no doubts this man was good for Kyle and she says she could see him as a “part of our family.” The shock of this realization made Char reflect, “What an interesting journey I’m on.” After dating for five years, in 2020, Kyle and Chandler married not under an oak tree by a pond but under the redwoods by a stream, with all the Ahlstroms in attendance. Char knew she supported it financially and emotionally, but wondered how she’d feel spiritually. She’d read an article about a BYU professor who wrote about how he’d felt the spirit at his daughter’s wedding to a woman, and Char says at her own child’s ceremony, she also “felt God’s love there.” Now when she looks back on the rhetoric she used to believe, how gay marriage would be “the downfall of our society and wreck traditional marriage,” Char reflects on all she’s learned watching Kyle and Chandler, who “go to work, come home, plant a garden, take care of their house, go for walks with their dogs” as they build a life and family. Kyle works as a photographer and Chandler is an event planner who has worked at Sundance. They love living near the mountains and getting outside in Utah where they reside.

Back in California, Keith and his partner of four years, Derek, live in Los Angeles, where Keith works for a production company, and Derek is a “very talented” filmmaker and director. Their relationship started as roommates when they both moved into an apartment with a woman. While Char was first apprehensive about who Keith might date in LA, she now says, “Derek is part of our family.” 

Of her growth, Char says, “One thing I look back on now is how I was scared to be curious, to ask questions, because I didn’t want to hear answers. But now I see how wrong I was. They wanted me to ask questions, to want to know. I advise parents not to be afraid to be curious, to ask questions and try to understand where they’re coming from. Your kids are still the same people they were yesterday or before you found out they were LGBTQ+. Love them, accept them as best as you can. Trust them.” Recently, a man approached Char for advice about his trans daughter. She put him in touch with other friends with trans kids and advised him to “accept her, call her by her preferred pronouns, do all you can to love and accept her for who she is right now. God will give you peace about that.”

As most parents do, Tom and Char think that all of their children are wonderful people and greatly respect each of them. What was once fear and worry about Kyle and Keith has grown to a vast appreciation for everything those two in particular have taught them about love for everyone.

The exclusion policy of 2015 was the first time Char had ever questioned a prophet, and she says this has all made her look at leaders differently, and taught her it’s okay to question things. Now she has three children out of the church who maybe sometimes wish their parents weren’t so active (one of them jokes, “hate the sin, love the sinner” regarding his parents’ attendance at a church he finds non-affirming). But the Ahlstroms remain close, and siblings Kevin and his wife Bree, Krista and her husband Tallon, Kasey and his wife Didi, and Kenny, as well as Char and Tom’s seven grandchildren, all embrace Keith and Kyle. They gather every year for a reunion, where Char says they enjoy being around each other and she especially likes the brothers’ fun competitiveness. Nowadays, the Ahlstroms’ list of doing “all the things” prioritizes love, togetherness, and inclusion. 

After her kids first stepped away from the church, Char learned how to respect their various journeys and to trust they’d all find their best paths forward. But she worried that first year about how to handle things like holidays and mealtime prayer and family Christmas traditions, which had once been so spiritually centered in their home. She didn’t want to offend or alienate anyone. Recently though, when Char talked to Kyle about coming home for Christmas this year and which traditions she could incorporate to “not make it weird,” he assured her, “I’m better with that stuff now. We can do the Nativity. I kinda like that story.”

THE GILES FAMILY

The crux of the LDS-LGBTQ+ dilemma is most frequently characterized by the perception of three limiting life paths when one comes out as gay: 1) Stay in the church and live a celibate life. 2) Enter a mixed orientation marriage. Or 3) Date and allow yourself to fall in love according to your attractions, and necessarily leave a church you may still love and value. But what about when none of these options feels like the right fit? What if you choose to carve out your own way by entering a same sex marriage while still showing up to your faith community of choice, even when its underlying teachings seek to minimize your union? For Liz and Ryan Giles of Yakima, WA, that is the exact path they’re navigating right now, and their new Instagram account @the.fourth.option’s rapidly growing following suggests many others are also intrigued by this option.

Like much of their relationship, Liz and Ryan’s wedding was off the beaten path—literally. In August of 2021, about 100 of their close friends and family joined them in the Washington wilderness at Camp Dudley—a summer camp Liz had been involved with since 2009 as a camper and later counselor and teen director. Ryan had always felt typical wedding receptions were “boring,” so they offered their guests the option to go boating, rock climbing, ziplining, and do archery during their special weekend. After their ceremony, Liz and Ryan stole 15 minutes for themselves, and stepped away from the crowd to a secluded place on the shore to pray together and have their own form of a covenant making ceremony in nature, an experience they loved. 

It was the perfect setting for former high school English teacher, Liz—25, who now runs year-round outdoor education programs for fifth graders. Ryan—28, and originally from South Jordan, UT, is an EMT and was just accepted into an occupational therapy program after which she hopes to work in pediatrics helping kids to navigate the emotional and physical connectivity of their health. Together, the two love to do puzzles and play board games like Parcheesi and Scrabble, as well as go rock climbing, explore parks, and “chronically rewatch TV shows” like Schitt’s Creek, the Fosters, Gilmore Girls, The Good Place, Jane the Virgin, and Grace & Frankie. Currently pup parents of dogs Kevin and Casper, Liz and Ryan are currently finishing up their home evaluation to become foster parents. They say they would love to foster-to-adopt sibling pairs who often struggle to stay together, and are also supportive of the reunification track for kids who benefit most from that route.

Liz and Ryan have realized a love that over the past seven years has at times felt complicated. For some in the wards they’ve attended as a gay married couple, their union does complicate some’s sense of “how we do things.” But Liz and Ryan hope that their openness about their marriage will help others, especially LGBTQ+ youth or closeted adults who want similar things, to view it as a possibility, while also helping those for whom gay marriage is uncomfortable to warm to the idea that “their agenda” in attending church doesn’t vary from the average person’s objective to show up to find community and draw closer to Christ.

The Giles’ story started with a meet-cute in 2016. Liz was a freshman at BYU and her roommate had gone to high school with Ryan--who had just returned from her mission and moved in next door. For months, they were just friendly-ish neighbors, but Ryan had never fully caught Liz’s name and after three months, she says, “It felt too late to ask.” Ryan didn’t think she’d see Liz enough for it to matter, but Liz says, “Like a Whacamole, I just kept popping up.” As the friend group continued to hang out, the following semester they all moved into an apartment together where game nights frequently involved improv comedy skits in which Liz and Ryan would draw scenes from a hat and have to act them out. Liz says, “But we’d always draw scenes in which we had to act like a couple. So then as a joke, we started calling each other babe like we were a fake couple within a roommate context.” Ryan adds, “And then, it became less fake than we thought it was.”

The next few years were filled with navigation as the two individually figured out their orientation, their attraction to each other, and their other life plans. As Ryan headed to Paris for a study abroad, and Liz left several months later to serve a mission, they both tried to convince themselves that this was all just a fluke, that they were still straight (Liz thinking this more so than Ryan), and that maybe, sometimes these kinds of things just happened with roommates? Nine months into her mission, Liz came to the realization that her feelings for Ryan (and, on a bigger scale, her same-sex attraction) were not a fluke. After Ryan returned from her internship in Paris, and while Liz was still on her mission, they came out to each other and acknowledged that what they’d felt was real. This didn’t exactly make Liz’s church service easier. At the time, Liz was spending her days with a mission companion who loved to recite the Family Proclamation while they drove around their (very large) area. Although she loved many things about this companion and their several transfers together, she knew that kind of setting was definitely not a safe place to come out. Yet it still took her nearly a year after her mission to realize that she did not want to pursue option one or two in her life—that while she longed to have a family and be a mother, Liz did not want to deny herself a relationship filled with chemistry and deep love. 

When Liz returned, Ryan was patient and careful not to put any pressure on Liz. Ryan had already come out to her parents “accidentally” after she was watching general conference with her brother and dad and a speaker focused on what to do when you feel “the Lord is asking too much of you.” Seeing his daughter become upset by this, Ryan’s dad prodded her to be more specific about what hardships she was facing in a big, long discussion of which Ryan says, “My dad was amazing.” This was a welcome surprise, and the next day she came out to her mom who had a harder time at first, but who she says has also been amazing. Ryan remembers fondly that one of the first questions she asked Ryan was, “Does that mean you’re going to have to cut off all your hair?” Ryan laughed and replied, “That’s not required anymore; we’ll leave that be.” As Ryan continued her schooling at BYU, she felt it wouldn’t be safe to risk her diploma by coming out publicly, so she quietly considered her future options, none of which felt right. Before she’d come out to her parents, Ryan says she’d felt sick to her stomach for months before getting a priesthood blessing from her dad in which he talked about how she’d live “an uncommon life.” He didn’t say directly what that meant, and he had no idea the reality she was mulling, but through personal revelation, this cracked open the possibility that perhaps she would be able to marry someone she loved while “doing all the things I find most important and affirming regarding my relationship with God and participating in a faith community. Maybe none of that had to change.” She says, “That’s when I decided to pursue this option and try to find someone willing to do it with me. I was hoping that person might be Liz, but I didn’t express that yet.”

After returning to BYU from her mission, Liz also planned to stay closeted but admits she had “holy envy for Ryan’s plan because it sounded like such a better plan than the trajectory I was on. I felt a lot of depression and hopelessness deconstructing my faith because I didn’t see a future that was truly happy for me. I’ve always known I was meant to fall in love with a life companion, share my life, be a mother… things that didn’t feel possible to me with a man. It was tough at that point, so I was grateful to ultimately get guidance from Heavenly Father the other way.”

The two remained just friends for about a year, respecting Liz’s process and the BYU Honor Code they’d each signed, until the combination of COVID and botched travel plans placed them both in quarantine together. Liz had just flown to Washington DC to present at a teaching conference when she landed and learned the world had essentially shut down. She spent the next five days alone, reflecting on how unsettled she’d felt about not dating women when she knew where her attractions lied. Considering the “divine plan” intended for her, that week she even wrote a 30-page letter in her journal to her Heavenly Parents to weigh her options. By the end of the week, she felt she had a strong answer she was supposed to be with Ryan and that she could do a lot of good in the world if in that companionship. Liz returned a week later to Provo which had become a ghost town. The rest of their roommates had returned home, leaving Liz and Ryan to spend time together and the freedom to openly express their love. When Liz shared her feelings, Ryan says, “I don’t think I‘ve ever been so happy in my life.”

Ryan graduated that spring, and Liz had one more year that proved a roller coaster for many for LGBT students with the fluctuating “bait and switch” BYU Honor Code regulations regarding public displays of affection and dating allowances. Both women felt the frustration of feeling they had no say in how they were able to live their lives. For Ryan, this felt like the 2015 exclusion policy then 2019 reversal, but in reverse. “It caused so much damage to begin with and a lot of fear for people as a lot had started to come out and be open, then they had to go back into the closet in fear.” Like many, transferring schools wasn’t a realistic option for the women so close to graduation, with the added reality that many of their religious credits wouldn’t transfer at all. 

But as quarantine became a defining factor of 2020, both Liz and Ryan say they benefited greatly from home church where they could think about what their identities meant in relation to the Plan of Salvation as they fully came out to their families and many of their loved ones.

After Liz graduated from BYU in April of 2021, she came out publicly, then drove home to Washington. Two weeks after coming out online, Liz posted she and Ryan were dating, then two weeks later, posted they were engaged. Although Ryan had been showing up in her Instagram feed since 2016, the announcements created some whiplash for Washington ward members who had known Liz since she was in diapers. One said, “I didn’t know Liz was gay or dating or engaged, then suddenly, she was getting married.” As they’ve been more public with their relationship, responses have run the gamut from one relative writing them a letter expressing disappointment that Ryan and Liz had “decided to let go of the rock of the gospel” and that they “would never find peace on this path,” to another relative holding a family intervention behind their back to decide “how to handle the situation.” Attending Ryan’s family ward alongside her family as well as the Instagram trend of “Ask me anything” presented opportunities for the women to publicly share their continued beliefs and why they were choosing to stay in the church. They appreciate when people ask them directly, rather than talk around or about them in ward councils.

The Giles have attended two wards since their marriage a little over two years ago. Of their Houston, Texas congregation, they say, “The people overall were welcoming to us, but most of them never talked about our queerness. It was the elephant in the room they never discussed, but they loved us. In Washington, people acknowledge the wholeness of who we are but it’s more complex—some keep us at arm’s length while others noticeably honor the intersectionality of us being here.” When they left Texas, they were touched when an older woman in the ward threw them a big, fancy going away party that was even announced over the pulpit. Attendees included their bishop and stake president. They appreciated these gestures after they had to carve out their own callings as the “go-to service people,” feeding the missionaries every other week and helping with lots of service projects. This was after their bishop mentioned he'd find a calling for them but never did, besides a ministering assignment. While they have not been sent to a disciplinary council or had their membership records removed, as was the case recently for a gay married couple they’re friends with, their leaders in Washington have reminded them they can’t partake of the sacrament, give talks, bear their testimonies, or have callings on the roster. But they haven’t been told they can’t participate in lessons, so they do that, and Ryan is relearning how to play the piano because she heard their Primary often needs a pianist and she wants to be ready—just in case.

Many in their current ward knew Liz growing up. She says, “One of my former Young Women’s leaders made our wedding cake. The Primary and Relief Society presidents have really stood in for the Savior for us, too, advocating so we can participate as much as we can. It’s so comforting because even though we don’t have a voice at those tables… they are making an attempt for us and telling the ward council we want to be here and serve and be members of this community.” She continues, “As a queer member, it’s really painful being seen as less faithful or more sinful to some. Seeing we’re married, some discount our testimonies or how we can build Zion. As someone who’s just trying to live her most authentic life and follow the Savior, it's hard to see how people treated me then versus now. Even though my beliefs are deeper and I’m so much happier, and in a position to do so much more good, I’m seen somehow as weaker or as an apostate by some. It’s hurtful.”

Of their newfound online following, the Giles have been overwhelmed by how many people have reached out from places spanning from West Africa to Australia to Utah, sharing similar desires and experiences of trying to find their place. They also recognize that while they’ve been able to find a somewhat safe space to occupy at church for now, that could change, and they express that their path is not always the best option for others. There are days when Ryan recognizes, “Going to church might not keep me close to God today; maybe today we go to the mountains instead.” Ryan adds, “We’re showing up because we want to be closer to Christ and connect with our community. If we accomplish nothing else externally (knowing that internally, we do accomplish more) other than showing that LGBTQ+ people do want to be there to stay connected and desire to be Christlike and closer to our Heavenly Parents, I hope that us continuing to go helps people see that.” 

THE SMITH FAMILY

For 20-year-old Kyle Smith, life’s a journey—and quite literally, as right now he’s culminating eight months of adventure spent working in Alaska and backpacking through Europe, before taking a month-long cruise through Hawaii and Polynesia with his boyfriend, Ethan. The sense of freedom he now feels seems apropos for a high achieving young man who earned it, after excelling during four years of varsity soccer and his state-champion show choir as a teen, while also being elected his high school student government’s head boy and earning a 4.0 GPA. But discoveries and admissions along the way did result in misunderstandings and challenges in Kyle’s church community and even among his loved ones, that thankfully, with the support of his family, he was largely able to overcome.

Back at home, receiving virtual postcards of his adventures, awaits the Smith family (mom Ashley, dad David, sister Hannah and her husband Matt Herron and their children, and brothers Jamison—25, Spencer—23, Cedric—16, and Levi—13), who just four years prior had undergone quite a transition. Just as David was being released as bishop—ironically being told that “someone in the ward needed some things addressed that might go better if he wasn’t bishop,” Ashley had just completed a victorious campaign and was elected mayor of their Cañon City, Colorado town, after serving four years on city council. Over the years of serving and campaigning in the community, she had been struck by how many wonderful LGBTQ+ citizens she’d met who, despite what she’d been taught while being raised in a conservative religious climate, seemed to want the same things as her family. It was at this time, at age 16, that Kyle told his parents something he’d known since age 11.

Ashley now laughs how she’d unassumingly made Kyle a rainbow cake with eight layers of colors for his eighth birthday, not knowing the significance that symbol would later take. As Kyle sat in primary as a child, he’d hear that everyone is a child of God and loved, while knowing he was different and didn’t seemingly fit the mold of what an “acceptable” child of God was “supposed” to be. In high school, he finally opened up to Ashley and David saying, “I just can’t keep getting hurt so much; I need you to know where I’m at.” His parents had watched him shun recent pressures from friends to get a girlfriend, saying things like, “I just want to be friends with everybody!” But at 16, Kyle was ready to tell his family he was gay, after which he subsequently broke down and asked, “Am I destined for a life of misery and grief?” This launched a re-examination into what his parents had been taught and taught themselves for many years. When Ashley told Kyle’s two youngest brothers Kyle was gay, she said the look on their faces was as if he’d been killed in an accident. “I thought, ohmygosh, what kind of hole have we dug for ourselves?”

This was the launch of many conversations for the Smith family. Ashley says the first two years were messy. It was not like a like switch of understanding instantly turned on, but rather a slow process of searching for understanding. She credits Kyle’s patience, saying, “He was really gracious and said, ‘I know this is the culture you were raised in, but I can see you are making an effort and trying’.” The Smiths are grateful Kyle also made efforts and they still have a close relationship. Ashley and David’s children and several immediate family members have also embraced Kyle. But many did not.

When the Smiths first approached their bishop at the time with Kyle’s news, he firmly responded that “the world” will tell them it’s okay for Kyle to be gay, but that it actually wasn’t. “That was NOT helpful,” says Ashley. A few years later, the same bishop said he thought the ward “handled Kyle’s coming out pretty well.” While allowing the bishop the same grace Kyle offered them, Ashley felt that perhaps it would have been better for the bishop to have replaced the discomfort of that conversation with curiosity. A more useful conversation would have been to instead ask questions like, “How has this affected your life? What do you wish people understood? What would you like us to know?” Luckily, their stake president was more understanding and shared his belief that Kyle could be gay and still be a happy person and even a productive member of the church.

The first Sunday after Kyle came out publicly, the whole family was very nervous about attending church. But a Sunday School teacher came right up and gave him the biggest hug, which brought some relief. So did the pandemic shortly after, as home church became the norm. Kyle found he appreciated the reprieve and Ashley says she likewise loved feeling like she could experience church “without getting stabbed in the heart. It gave us time do our own healing in home church. Kyle never went back after that.” Even pulling into a church parking lot to play a game of basketball now gives Kyle PTSD reminiscing the many times he’d come home from church or seminary and declare to his parents, “Well, I was told I’m going to hell again today.” While all of the other Smith children still attend church and several have or are currently serving missions, Kyle feels closest to God in nature. His first summer spent working in Alaska as a zip line guide gave him a lot of time hiking in the mountains with wildlife, “a chance to heal.” He’s now dating Ethan, a young man he met while working at Breckenridge. Ethan was also raised in the LDS faith in Utah, and the Smiths love that both families “just get it” with their commonalities and support their sons’ union.

Living in a rural community, Ashley says they’ve felt like they’ve been pushed to the outskirts even by some close friends, “not fitting that tribe anymore.” She currently serves as a Primary teacher which she loves, calling the kids “her happiest constituents.” Ashley’s stake president made it very clear that her main calling was to be her tenure as mayor, a role she feels God also called her for and has given her a voice to broader audiences. After the article she wrote in a 2021 issue of LDS Living about what to say when a loved one comes out as gay was published, Ashley had people reach out hoping they hadn’t played a role in alienating her family (which they didn’t). Some were grateful to find better words to start conversations, and other church members either further distanced themselves or pushed back with even more open prejudice. In the end, friendships have been lost.

Ashley says, “I don’t feel we’re in that warm, fuzzy, cozy circle anymore, but we’re there because we believe in Christ, our kids need to have a relationship with God, and we need consistent reminders of all the things that help us become good human beings.” She recognizes that things are different based on where you live and when recently asked to give a presentation to a stake Relief Society gathering in Denver about their journey, Ashley was pleasantly surprised to learn of an openly gay member of a bishopric in the area. Grateful for the resources she was able to turn to when Kyle first came out, Ashley now tries to point others to the same as well as be a resource herself, with her article and also having been interviewed on both Richard Ostler’s podcast and Kurt Francom’s Leading Saints podcast.

Four years later, David says, “I like the person I am so much more now.” Ashley concurs, “I am so grateful to have a gay son… I’ve experienced a lot of spiritually profound experiences from God. I’ve found peace in not knowing everything and just having a foundation of Jesus Christ.” As a member of many civic committees for different issues in which she tries to make voices from all sides heard, Ashley prioritizes “having resiliency, especially while watching all that’s going on in the country (politically, socially and within schools and church walls)… including contentious school board meetings with people fighting against the supposed ‘satanic evils of those grooming children to be LGBTQ’.” Ashley just wants a world where one can have a gay kid who can go to school to learn math and reading, not be bullied, and live their best life. While she is not running for another term, Ashley believes, “We still need to have forces for positive change and leaders to challenge old assumptions and prejudices.

Of her own journey, Ashley loves how being Kyle’s mother has taught her to “double check my assumptions, and have more compassion as I listen to other stories and seek to understand on many levels.” She frequently reflects on a quote from Darius Gray, a prominent Black member of the church who headed the Genesis group of the 1970s, which has largely been credited as being instrumental in the reversal of the priesthood exclusion policy. Darius said, “If we endeavored to truly hear form those we consider as ‘the other,’ and our honest focus was to let them share of their lives, histories, their families, their hopes and their pains, not only would we gain a greater understanding, but this practice would go a long way toward healing wounds.” Ashley reflects, “This is a mantra I hold to now, as I try to be more open to hearing and understanding those who are different from me. When I do this, I realize we have a lot in common.” 

THE J KIRK RICHARDS STORY

On this day of Thanksgiving, just on the periphery of BYU Provo, a group of loved ones encircles a table. They sit near a brightly hued stained-glass window that provides a direct view of the historic LDS temple just a couple blocks away. But within these walls, this gathering at this table is embracing one of their own. A rainbow hangs over the child’s head. Rich amber, indigo, and cerulean hues permeate through their tablecloth. In this room, this child is “Encircled” by love. And this hypothetical child is safe here, on the walls of the Encircle home one of artist J. Kirk Richard’s first iconic, affirming paintings still calls home seven years later.

His work is a salve to so many in this space. It hearkens, it heals, it hangs on the walls of the real families who encircle. It is oft gifted to new families first embarking on their journey through prints and greeting cards. J. Kirk Richards’ breath-taking creations have also hung in museums and universities worldwide as well as at LDS church headquarters. His “Encircled” piece in Provo is especially appreciated by his nephew, who has spent much time at the house that Encircle founder Stephenie Larsen first envisioned being a home away from home for LGBTQ+ kids who needed it, complete with warm, fresh-baked cookies greeting those who gather for friendship circles and after school hangouts. Seeing his uncle’s painting has allowed Kirk’s nephew to feel safe in talking to him over the years. The Encircle team has since commissioned Kirk to paint several pieces that hang in the various homes, one of the several LGBTQ+ mental health-focused nonprofits to which he often donates his unique gifts. In his ever-broadening ally fanbase, Kirk says one of his favorite byproducts is encountering bishops and seminary teachers who share they’ve displayed his images in their offices and classrooms as a sign they’re safe.

Of his allyship, Kirk claims he’s not ten steps in, rather, “I’m just doing things from my corner of the world. I get sheepish about allyship – how people should or shouldn’t be an ally. Maybe I don’t meet a lot of people’s criteria, but one thing that helped me not worry so much was when Troy Williams from Equality Utah told me at a dinner, ‘Just do your thing, don’t worry about doing it perfectly. Of course, we want to learn as we go, but Rome is burning, and we need to work together and not fight each other.’ So that’s what I do.”

As the holiday season heightens, Kirk is currently completing his submissions to the annual creche exhibit in Palo Alto, CA, as well as several private commissions for holiday gifts. A 2000 graduate of BYU Provo, Kirk and his wife Amy (a CSW/therapist) have raised their four kids, Maegan—22, Bryan—20 (married to Aubree), Kate—17, and Jack—14 in Utah valley. They now call Woodland Hills, Utah home. Kirk’s always been a working artist, though admits in the beginning, they lived quite frugally. When he reflects on what or who got him started painting images for LGBTQ+ people, he mentions several former mission companions and childhood friends who later came out as gay. One in particular stands out as having been “extra compassionate, the kind of mission companion who agreed to let us go home on one particular day I was just feeling completely tapped out, rather than making me feel bad about it.” Several years later, once Facebook became a thing, Kirk reconnected with this former companion and saw he had since married a man and was living happily in Canada. Then he found others.

“Watching all these stories of people I loved, it became clear to me that pressuring people into a mixed orientation marriage was not something I thought we should be doing as a community. Of course, if people are choosing that and it appears to be working for them, I wouldn’t want to discourage that, but I didn’t want to pressure or encourage it, based on watching the lives of my friends and mission companions,” says the artist.

Fast forward to 2008; Kirk was serving in a Utah bishopric during Prop 8. Word came down through the channels that leadership needed to be prepared to start mobilizing ward members to call Californians to encourage them to vote against same-sex marriage. Kirk said this was a moment when he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. He felt very uncomfortable at the idea of asking ward members to call California and ask them to vote on “this thing I potentially don’t agree with.” He tried to watch the church-provided videos online to find a good reason for the policy, but said he’d come away with a sick feeling. Kirk was relieved when his ward ultimately didn’t end up being asked to make the calls.  Shortly after, Kirk participated in a solo art show where all the paintings were of different shapes. He included one called “Jesus Said Love Everyone,” in which Jesus wore a multi-colored robe and embraced the small figures around him. “This was one of my first paintings that was explicit about not continuing to exclude and marginalize LGBTQ+ people.” 

When he steps into his studio to create a new rainbow-hued commission, Kirk often channels his formative years as one of eight kids growing up in a big LDS family around a dinner table in the tree streets of Provo where the early morning kickstart to the day was musical instrument practice and scripture study. “As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had to really examine what in my faith practice and belief is from God and what isn’t. A lot of my artwork is meditating on that.” Kirk says he comes back again and again to “themes of healing and teaching and community and love and mercy and grace.” 

Recently, as part of his daily painting series with artist Melissa Tshikamba in which the two create smaller masterpieces that are auctioned via Instagram, Kirk titled one piece, “By their Fruits, ye shall know them.” He ruminates that Jesus offered so many ways to interpret what these fruits might be. “There are many ways people are using religion to control others… I’m 47-years-old and I may interpret things differently now than I did in my early years.” He strongly feels, “The teachings of Jesus transcend easy interpretations and are worth wrestling within the complexities of life. These are the things I think about while painting. If what I’m painting strikes a chord of emotional and personal significance, then the art feels true and become greater. If it’s imbued with emotion and meaning and truth, it’s a much stronger piece for me.”  

His mantra being the golden rule, “something Jesus taught and most major religions have in some form,” Kirk goes on to surmise, “We can’t really treat others like ourselves unless we can imagine being in their shoes. We have to try to empathize with their position and imagine what it would be like to be them. I don’t think we can ask people to forego a committed, passionate relationship with someone they’re attracted to in any ways we’re not willing to forgo ourselves. That’s kind of become the foundation of my thoughts about life and relationships.” 

THE JEFF ANDERSEN STORY

His face is a familiar one for many in the LDS-LGTBQ+ space. Several may even consider Jeff Andersen of @latter.day.stonecatchers their pseudo-Sunday school teacher—you know, the one who meets you in the parking lot (via Instagram) on days your actual Sunday School teacher has taken the discussion to a place where it feels necessary for you to walk out. (Why are there so many days when it feels necessary to walk out?) This is a question Jeff Andersen understands. While he currently has no personal “skin in the game” in the form of an LGBTQ+ immediate family member that he’s aware of, Jeff has made it his mission to catch the stones hurled and offer solidarity to so many who long to hear they’re loved, just as they are.

For several years, Jeff and his brother have competed in adventure racing. An outdoors enthusiast, Jeff loves any type of nature retreat; but adventure races bring an entirely different kind of competition to the forest. Over 4-24 hours, competitors canoe, bike, and run through a massive wilderness area containing several checkpoints. A compass and paper map (which they typically receive just an hour before the event) are their only guides. Jeff says, “You can go any direction you want, and sometimes we have to bushwhack through crazy stuff to find the checkpoints. But you just go and do the best you can while enjoying the beautiful but sometimes harsh wilderness you’re in.” 

It's a metaphor Jeff has relied on as he’s turned to personal revelation in lieu of handbooks over the past six years since he stepped into the open ally space. Born and raised in “Happy Valley” as a straight, white, cisgender male, Jeff did all the things: he served a mission, attended BYU where he got a master’s degree in accounting, married his wife Jessica in the temple, and they are now the parents of three children. But sometimes, Jeff hears things from the pews that similarly prick other families. Sometimes, Jeff ends up in the parking lot for car church himself, providing comfort, solace, and always Jesus’ teachings in his trademark rainbow-hued bowtie—a wardrobe choice he started about one year ago to present himself as a safe place to any who may need it. 

Jeff’s faith expansion first occurred when a job transfer to London opened his mind to other faith traditions as he fell in love with cathedrals and saw people connecting with God all over the world in different ways. He recalls, “Their faith was as beautiful and valid to them as mine was to me.” He hadn’t thought much up until that point about how church could be a struggle for some; but after returning to live in Utah again, a gentleman who Jeff had noticed was always showing up to serve the ward in any way possible, spoke up in Sunday School. Jeff felt a distinct impression: “He is gay. You need to invite him over for dinner.” Jeff and Jessica did just that and while their young children went out to play, the man broke down crying with gratitude at the Andersens’ kindness. He shared that since his difficult recent divorce to a woman, he had been having a difficult time. He loved the church and wanted to be a part of it, but it felt so impossible because others felt he shouldn’t be there. Jeff said this admission was a first for him and it “just felt sooo… wrong.” Jeff resolved he needed to do something about this—that if someone “wanted to be with us at church participating, they should be able to.” 

This launched Jeff’s quest to understand more about the LGBTQ+ experience. He read and listened to everything he could get his hands on. The pandemic of 2020 resulted in a welcome break from church for Jeff and family, as did their subsequent move to Virginia, during which they lived with his brother’s family, a situation that necessitated they continue home church longer than most. This sacred time of focusing their spiritual study on inclusive and loving lessons did not make the return to church seem too appealing, but then Jeff and his brother received a unique call to teach an early morning seminary class together. At first, Jeff was hesitant, but having learned of the recent statistic that nearly 20% of LDS youth and YSA identify as LGBTQ+, Jeff felt uniquely called to be a stone catcher among this young audience. He says, “I had an overwhelming feeling that in a seminary class of 20, 4-5 would be LGBTQ+ and needing to know God loved them… I felt really good about being there for them.” Throughout the school year, Jeff and his brother subtly displayed inclusive art pieces including Tara and Sage’s “God is Love” and J. Kirk Richard’s “Friends at Church” to make the visual point that all were loved and included in their class. While there was a family who pulled their child from the class, there were others who lamented the brothers’ departure year-end when Jeff’s job situation made the calling impossible. Jeff says one student came up to him and thanked him for displaying the pictures they did because it was the first time the student ever felt Jesus loving them as they were. Jeff says while that broke his heart to hear that, he felt so grateful the individual trusted him with that information.

While there were 20 kids in that class, Jeff left feeling like there are tens of thousands in his world who needed to hear messages of inclusion. “The thought that anyone might think God wouldn’t love them because of who they were was unbearable to me,” he says. This is when Jeff started his popular Instagram site and podcast, @latter.day.stonecatchers. He admits, “It’s grown a lot more than I ever anticipated.” While Jeff and wife have received pushback in the largely conservative wards in which they’ve lived—being told their expressions of Pride flags and rainbows are “too political” or hearing that they shouldn’t be considered for certain callings, they have taken the time to express to their kids why Jeff wears his bowtie every week: that while doing so puts a target on them, and possibly even the assumption he is gay, but hopefully makes LGBTQ+ people feel included and loved. Once, while driving to the temple with his kids, they considered the matter and asked if they, too, could buy a rainbow bow tie or earrings, willing to take risks in order to represent what they feel is a loving gesture.

One Sunday, there were some things being said in Jeff’s sacrament meeting that he didn’t agree with, and he walked out—wanting to find somewhere where he could feel God’s love. He retired to his truck with his scripture bag, and pulled out the words of Christ. He remembered someone on a podcast saying that in their car is where they often experienced their church on Sundays. Jeff says he felt a unique connection to all of these people throughout the world, sitting in church parking lots, trying to feel God’s love in a place that for many, made it hard to feel that. This is when Jeff’s alternate Sunday school messages began, and have since proven a respite for those seeking Jesus’ stone catching ways and words. Jeff recognizes how some genuinely feel the impression from above that it’s okay not to go to church, but for those like him who feel called to keep trying because the Lord “has things for (us) to do,” Jeff is dedicated to his ministry.

Jeff says he’s surprised at the massive variety of people he now hears from—most being LGBTQ+ individuals or family members. Many left the church five or more years ago, but are still seeking messages from the Spirit or want a relationship with God but don’t feel wanted at church. Jeff especially credits the moms of LGBTQ+ kiddos, saying, “I honestly believe LGBTQ+ moms are going to change the church. While it’s not happening as fast as it should, you ladies are amazing.” Jeff attempts to post messages that can be shared by more progressive members to their more by-the-book friends, but recognizes that some posts do push boundaries and he laments that some of his thoughts have resulted in a loss of followers. He greatly appreciates when he hears from people who are not quite in a supportive mindset yet–but are trying.

Jeff is often asked, “Why do you stay?” His response: “This is where I feel God wants me to be. I don’t think it’s the right place for everybody, but through personal experiences, I know this is where God wants me to be. If I did not know that, I would have left.”

Jeff says, “I think we need to be gatherers and not gatekeepers. We need to trust in the divine diversity that’s so evident in God’s creation, and have faith that each of us has been created with a unique purpose that no one else could ever fully understand. Rather than doubting others, we need to see their divinity within and know that God loves them just as they are.” Jeff struggles to see why, “for some reason we’re always trying to leave someone out. We need to knock that off. It’s evident in scriptures and our own church history. We need to trust and believe in God when they say everyone’s in. I don’t understand why we feel we need to prevent people from participating in sacred spaces, whether chapels or temples. God wants them there.”

The Ence Family

In February of 2020, Andrew and Tiffany Ence of Stansbury Park, UT were preparing for a trip to Italy, where Andrew had served a mission for the LDS church. It was the first time they’d be leaving their three kids (Winter—now 20, Matthew—17, and AJ-13) for an extended period. Tiffany went downstairs one Sunday morning to see if they were ready for church, and to talk to her oldest about expectations while they were gone. Winter started crying and said, “I don’t want to go to church.” Then and there, Winter dropped the bombshell that they were bisexual. Winter begged Tiffany not to tell Andrew. Tiffany reassured Winter their dad would be more understanding than they thought, while silently fearing what Andrew might actually say about the situation. She delayed the conversation, but a few days before their flight to Italy, Andrew told his wife he’d seen a text on Winter’s phone that she should be aware of. Responding to a girl who’d texted, Winter replied, “I feel like I need to tell you—I know you like me, but I’m bisexual.” Tiffany looked at her husband with trepidation and said, “What do you think?” Andrew’s reply was a massive relief: “We just need to love him.” (Winter, who is nonbinary, now prefers they/them pronouns.)

Unsure of what their next steps should be, Tiffany simply asked Winter, who was 16 at the time, to wait until they turned 18 to fully express their true self.  She was terrified of what the response would be from their very conservative community. She says, “A lot of that had to do with our impression of how the church would respond.” 

Then the pandemic happened, and the whole world shut down.

Winter was an essential worker as a cashier at a grocery store and struggled having to deal with difficult people at work all day, then come home and only be with their family, no friends. They fell into a depression. It was around this time that Winter came out as pansexual, saying “I love everyone,” and changed their name from the birth name they’d been called for 17 years to their preferred name, Winter. Andrew says, “As much as I said previously ‘Let’s just love him,’ I found myself pushing back on this, thinking how hard it would be, personally, to make those changes. We argued with each other and against each other as a couple.” Tiffany concurs, “It took us awhile to realize we were overreacting.” But it was hard for them to hear the phrase “dead name” be used to identify what they prefer to call the “birth name” they’d given Winter. Tiffany says, “All our kids have family names. When you say ‘dead name,’ you’re talking about the name of my Grandpa William.”  It took Tiffany and Andrew some time to understand that Winter didn’t feel the same way about the name.

Tiffany now laughs when she hears people talk about how wonderful home church was during the pandemic. “For us, it was not fun. It was like pulling teeth, it was so hard to get our kids together.” Tiffany found herself inwardly struggling as well, unsure of whether she could support the church anymore, feeling that the church didn’t support her child. Tiffany had been raised by parents who she felt never chose her—her mom was a recovering addict, and her dad died by suicide. “When I became a mother, I knew I would always choose my children, no matter what,” she says. Andrew, too, was wondering if he needed to put some distance between himself and the church.  It was at this time, in the fall of 2020, that Andrew got called into a new bishopric. Tiffany says, “I felt like that was Jesus grabbing the back of my shirt and saying, ‘Nope, we’re going to keep you here’.” Andrew, too, was comforted by the bishop saying he was aware of what the Ences were going through at home and thought they would have valuable experiences to share. These feelings were confirmed quickly by multiple friends and neighbors who were also experiencing similar challenges.

Andrew recalls Winter’s last couple years of high school being rough, with them starting to push back on the typical rules parents place on teens.  It felt like every weekend was a battle with Winter.  Sundays during this time just didn’t rejuvenate them the way they once had. Andrew remembers one such Sunday during this time, where a friend on the high council greeted him and asked about his weekend. The friend saw through Andrew’s, “It’s fine,” response and recommended a Liahona article that had come out a year before in July of 2020 called “You Love, He Saves” by Krista Rogers Mortensen. 

Andrew and Tiffany say that article changed everything for them. They’d go on their nightly walks and talk about all they were experiencing and that they were in agreement of what to do but unsure how to do it. That article taught the concept that their only duty as parents was to love their children; it’s Christ the Savior who saves. Andrew says, “It changed our perspective. We didn’t have to stress anymore over them going or not going to church. We could just be in the right place to show love. That’s what has driven us since.” 

In her work life, Tiffany started to wear rainbow pins on her lanyard at the charter school where she taught, indicating she was a safe space. She freely shared her experiences about Winter to her coworkers.  After hearing some troubling comments about LGBTQ+ kids from teachers at her school, she asked if she could give a ten-minute presentation at a staff meeting to educate others about the trans and nonbinary community and preferred pronouns, and the importance of being open to just listening and not inserting your religious or political opinions. This opened a lot of conversations she feels have been productive.  One coworker, whose child had just come out as trans, was struggling because her husband had responded with an, “I will choose my temple recommend first.” The friend asked if the couples could go to dinner, and Tiffany’s friend was so relieved that Andrew was able to speak to her husband about how he had been processing everything in a more supportive way. The husband was able to learn what the Ences had learned – he just needed to love his child.

Tiffany now teaches first grade in a public school, and feels she has to be more subtle about her advocacy, but she still wears rainbow earrings and hair clips. Tiffany feels, “If you can’t be a safe space for all, that’s a sad thing as an educator. By all means, send those kids to me. Like if a kid has disabilities, you wouldn’t say, ‘That person just needs to learn how to talk or walk differently.’ Why would you make any negative comments about anyone on the margins?” As her county has lost more than a few LGBTQ+ kids to suicide, Tiffany feels strongly about speaking out and would love to turn that into a career.

Tiffany and some friends went to a presentation Ben Schilaty did at a library, and afterward, asked Ben if he’d come speak to their stake. He said he would as long as their stake president was on board. Tiffany feared it would be a flat out no from the stake president, but was surprised when he considered the prospect, saying in the seven years he had been in his role, no one had ever approached him about having a presentation like this before. After thinking about it, he said he’d like to start by having the Ences be the ones to share their experiences with the high council to gauge their feelings on the topic. The high council agreed, and the next step was for the Ences to present their story with the stake leadership at large.  Right before this plan was executed, the stake presidency was released, and a new stake president was called. Tiffany approached the new stake president a couple months ago to ask whether he was aware of the plan and was told to send an email. Every time he sees her, he says, “Waiting for your email, Sister Ence.” She still feels it’s an important endeavor to help educate people so families like theirs don’t feel alone the way they have, but hesitates at the process of putting herself out there, knowing the opposition she may encounter: “Even me five years ago would have judged me, ‘Well, she must not have been doing this with her kids…’ I used to think that way, too, but I’ve learned a lot.”

Reflecting on when Winter first came out, Tiffany says her mama bear heart just wanted to protect them. Winter had a few negative experiences at church and with a seminary teacher who said something, which led to them walking away. “They feel like an enemy of the church, that they are not wanted there.” But both Winter and their partner Jo, have expressed support of Tiffany and Andrew’s efforts to share their story and be there for others. Andrew has worn an “I’ll Walk With You” CTR-shaped pin every week to church for the last two years.  When he was asked to remove it once after the bishop received complaints, Andrew responded, “If this is sparking conversation, then that’s a good thing.” The Ences’ younger two sons have also stopped attending church. They say, “Sometimes we feel like we’ve failed as LDS parents; but we’re just going to love our kids.” A friend at church once told Tiffany, “Don’t worry, someday we’re going to get a letter in the mail about Winter’s mission call.” Tiffany says she thought, “You can live in that fantasy world, but I’m choosing to love my kid. I’ll support them whether this is a phase or not. I just hope they can look back and know ‘my parents loved me’.”

Andrew and Tiffany say Winter has always been a loving and loyal child who stands up for what they believe. When they were in elementary school, the Ences got a call that Winter had gotten into a playground brawl because a kid was making fun of their cousin. Andrew says, “I know it’s one of those experiences where I’m supposed to be upset, but I was so proud of Winter standing up for their cousin.” After school, Winter’s uncle rewarded them with a Gamestop run. Musically inclined, Winter’s fourth grade teacher taught them the viola which expanded when a middle school band teacher encouraged Winter to also learn the clarinet, saxophone, guitar, and banjo. Winter always had an easy time making friends, and Tiffany wonders if this is what made them first identify as pansexual, feeling they wanted to love everyone across the LGBTQ+ friend group in which they identified. 

The Ences recently attended the Gather conference and appreciated meeting other people who are in their same boat, and not just on social media. They were especially touched by Bree Borrowman’s presentation about what it takes to look in the mirror and get to a place where you like what you see. Andrew says, “To hear Bree’s experience and then to see the challenges the world puts on people just trying to do that.  They are just trying to be happy within themselves.  Four or five years ago, I might have thought that was silly, but now, I get it.” 

Reflecting on their experience and progress, Andrew and Tiffany say, “We think we understand the path and game we’re playing of ‘holding to the rod.’ But there are still potholes that come. You can still twist your ankle. We may have felt that the church couldn’t support us in our choice to love our child and who they are becoming; but now, we see our experiences have value and a purpose and that’s why we’re here. That we as parents in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints will love our children through the challenges and changes.”

THE JEAN & ALLISON MACKAY STORY

At 16, Jean MacKay is already an accomplished pianist, singer, and composer. He’s also a stage actor who played Mr. Macafee in Bye, Bye Birdie as well as the challenging role of Man in Chair in The Drowsy Chaperone. A serious academic, Jean has been taking college courses through ASU, and will graduate early from high school later this year. Intrigued by the bio-medical side of psychology, Jean hopes to become a forensic psychiatrist and study how various substances affect the brain to hopefully help rehabilitate people who have gone through the criminal justice system. 

Considering all these remarkable attributes, Jean (he/him) says he becomes frustrated with often being reduced to his identity as a trans person. “That’s a facet of me, but it’s not all of me. It’s okay to celebrate one’s identity—that’s fun, but try to see the person before you see the label.” 

Jean grew up in a family that moved around a lot. When asked about his home life as the oldest of six kids who homeschool, he smirks, “There’s a lot of screaming.” An early childhood illness kept Jean out of the first grade for an extended time, and he realized he preferred doing school independently. This kickstarted his online/charter educational path. As the MacKays would move for his father’s job, Jean says he often felt like an outsider navigating the social hierarchy of places like Utah and southern California, where his family now resides. But he says while his social development has perhaps been stunted, charter school has been worth the tradeoff.

For Jean, being trans was “never really a thing for me—I always just thought, ‘I’m a person’.” Jean first heard the word “trans” at age 10. When he looked it up, he thought, “Oh yeah, that’s me,” then didn’t think about it for awhile. Jean’s mother, Allison, said that even as a young child, Jean never gravitated toward baby dolls and playing house like their other children assigned female at birth. He always preferred to dress up like characters like Lightning McQueen, Indiana Jones, or Anikan and play with a Mickey Mouse doll. “He was never on the path of ‘I’m going to be a parent someday’.” But it wasn’t until puberty that Jean began to feel very uncomfortable in his body. Allison says that first he came out as aromantic, then nonbinary, then queer. “It’s a process. He’s still in process. I’m trying to hold space and be open for that to happen.” In the meantime, she marvels at his academic interests and ambition that so strongly juxtapose what she was most interested in at that age: “I was having way too much fun to want to graduate early,” she laughs.

Allison says that each time a new aspect of Jean’s identity comes up, like when he decided to change his name, she’s gone into her prayer closet and pleaded, “Show me how I can relate to this and understand. And every time I’m shown—oh yeah, this was always that way. I just imposed my belief system onto it. Or I just never thought of it that way, but it is true.” Allison says she’s now able to better navigate a journey of endless possibilities “because we let them be.” When Jean was younger, he cut off his really long hair to donate it to a foundation for leukemia. A few years ago, he chose to do the same; and this time for Allison, it felt like an important milestone, like, “I’m never going back to that little girl; I’m leaving her behind. It felt like layer after layer of cultural and familial expectations were removed.” 

Many members of the MacKay’s extended family first expressed that calling Jean by Jean seemed to come out of left field. But Allison would clarify, “No, Jean’s been doing this since he was eight. Jean’s always had issues with clothes. Now, he has his own style and everyone comments how much they love how Jean dresses.” She’s grateful he’s shed the black, baggy clothes that seemed to characterize his mood for awhile.

Jean says, “I used to be part of a church that was not necessarily accepting of people like me, and I didn’t like what puberty was doing to my body. Those two things made me spiral, and I was pretty depressed for about a year.” Now Jean is more comfortable expressing his identity as both trans and asexual. He says when his parents first gave him the traditional “sex talk,” he thought, “Yeah, I never want to do that.” Being asexual while being raised in the LDS church environment was “not the worst thing in the world because with the law of chastity, people were constantly telling you, ‘Don’t do this’,” says Jean. “But what bothered me was the expectation I had to get married and be a mother and have kids. Most of the stuff they taught focused on marriage and family, which are not bad things, but they’re not for me. This expectation was frustrating—I felt like I was being diminished. To have my worth identified by things I don’t identify with was not interesting to me.” Jean says the things that interest him most in life—career and music—are what he wishes to be the most identifying parts of his life. 

Allison embraces a set of beliefs and practices about the divine feminine and Godhead that differentiate her from many mainstream members of the LDS faith. Being verbal about this as well as some aspects of church history that troubled her led to her excommunication several years ago, which she now sees as a blessing because it gave Jean a safer place to land at home when he made it obvious the church didn’t work for him.  “Jean saw me going through that process publicly, and it allowed him to have a safer space to talk about it at home. So in some ways, I see how the experience I went through made it safer for Jean to leave – and I would take the flack for anyone needing to do that. Because there were months we didn’t know if Jean was going to be able to stay here (on earth), if I can even make that one thing easier, then that’s ok.”

Allison was raised in a traditional LDS home and has learned unique lessons with raising each of her kids. But regarding Jean, she says, “I’m so grateful God would soften my heart to this child so that he could teach me who he is, and open this sphere of possibilities of who we are as humans, because before, I wouldn’t look. I was just doing and believing what I was told. I wouldn’t look and ask for myself. That was so wrong. I am so grateful Jean was courageous enough to show me that, and preserve our relationship. And I know Jean will teach me so much for the rest of my life.” 

Jean’s father and some of his siblings still attend church, and Jean himself was expected to go until age 14 when the family realized it was in no one’s best interests to mandate that anymore. He had struggled to connect with many of the church milestones over the years, including at age 11, going to the St. Louis temple for the first time with his dad, which was not quite the experience he had anticipated it would be. But Jean says, “The thing that broke my shelf was going to seminary. I got it into my head that I could tear down all the things in my head by tearing down my seminary teachers and their classes. But I realized trying to tear down a religion by mercilessly tormenting seminary teachers isn’t going to help—or produce anything besides tormented seminary teachers. I don’t have a problem with people being a part of the church—it’s not a bad thing; it’s just not for me.”

Nowadays, Jean says he’s in remission from any religious PTSD he may have faced, but says spirituality isn’t really a part of his life anymore. While he considers the term “atheist” as useful shorthand and lets people know he’s not really interested in those discussions, he says he’s probably more agnostic, though he doesn’t love how that term essentially “puts him on the bench, and that’s not it.” Jean says, “What does matter is the things we do in this life and how we treat others.” Jean says he’d like religious people to know that the reason so many may perceive atheists as “angry” is perhaps misguided. “They’re not angry at you, the religious person, but angry at themselves. They feel tricked. Now that they see closer to their truth, they’re frustrated by harm they faced. They’re not trying to tear down your faith nor are they possessed by the devil, but frustrated because they don’t want others to be hurt anymore, the same way they have.” 

Regarding the current political landscape, Jean advises, “No amount of anti-trans legislation will stop people from being trans; but it is going to result in dead children. So if you’re really pro-family or pro-life, please stop it. We need to foster understanding. I get it, if you’re unaware of what being trans means, it can sound scary or confusing. But my advice would be to talk to trans people and see how and why they feel the way they do.” 

Upon reflecting on her experience getting to raise a child as unique and special as Jean, Allison advises, “Parents, set aside what you ‘know’ and listen – our kids are such amazing teachers. They are so smart.” Allison now believes Jean’s bravery might be paving the way as one of the oldest of 40 cousins. She wonders, “How many of those kids might one day say, ‘Ok, Jean did that; I can do this.’ And how many will sleep on our couch if their parents kick them out? Those who come after Jean won’t have to be alone. Jean can shine that light.”

THE LAUREN JONES STORY

Lauren Jones has spent much of her life running. “Running always felt like a safe place for me,” she says. “I was always the skinny kid who was never picked for other sports, but who could run fast. I never felt like I belonged with the boys. Once I started running, I no longer felt lost.” With a father in the military, high school was spent in Germany and then Norway where Lauren first signed up for a cross-country team. In a 2018 feature story on athleteally.org, she shared, “I fell in love with running because I’ve always been an independent person, and I love that running is all about doing my best as an individual.”

During that time, Lauren was struggling with her identity, and while she did not yet understand what being trans meant, she knew she felt more comfortable with the girls’ team. “I kept feeling like I wasn’t competing in the right category as a boy. My race performance was affected, because I was not racing as myself and instead with a mask I never wanted to wear.” Despite that, Lauren was fast enough to sign with New Mexico State University’s men’s team where she competed in the 5k, 8k, and 10k. Lauren has run six marathons, her fastest at 2 hours 52 minutes. She hopes to qualify for the Olympic trials one day.  

In college, Lauren struggled with her mental health, saying she found joy when winning races or doing well in school, but that she never felt truly happy. She began exploring her identity in secret, but was scared to come out because she wasn’t sure if or how she’d compete as a trans athlete. “The last thing I wanted was to lose access to the sport I loved.” Toward the end of her sophomore year, Lauren injured her knee around the same time her beloved dog passed away from cancer. Not being able to run, her depression worsened, and Lauren says she’d cry herself to sleep every night and considered ending her life. When she was finally able to run again, she summoned the courage to find community with the LGBTQ group on campus. After meeting a nice friend who listened to her story, Lauren finally realized, “Yes, this is me; I should do me.” She started to come out to her close friends, all of whom were supportive. Valuing her integrity as “an honest person above all else,” Lauren told her friends she would never race without knowing her hormone levels and making sure they were within the required range for trans athletes.

Lauren had grown up Catholic, and when she expressed her desire to transition to her parents, they were not supportive. Their response, “Go to church and pray about it,” turned her off from religion for a long time. Lauren says she suffered a lot of physical and emotional abuse and trauma in her development years, which likely affected her choice of career path. After studying counseling and minoring in history, Lauren completed her undergrad and moved to Arizona for grad school to work toward a masters in general counseling. There, she found a group of trans runners who helped her find confidence in her ability to compete “as who I truly am.” Lauren has found most competitive runners to be open-minded, saying, “They really don’t care too much about what one’s orientation is. Whenever there’s a competitive sector, more pressure exists on where one’s hormone levels stand.” During this time, ASU did a research project and documentary segment on Lauren, as one of the first competitive runners to transition. They found that her heartrate did indeed drop from circulating 140mL of blood to 80mL on testosterone blockers. (link to doc available in stories) This important study revealed much about trans athletes and how hormones affect performance. Of transitioning from male to female, Lauren says, “You lose so much strength and speed—you are not the same at all.”

Around 2019, Lauren was working as a counselor and had undergone HRT (hormone replacement therapy) for quite some time. Battling her eating disorder, Lauren was put into a residential treatment center where she met a Christian woman who she says, “didn’t understand LGBTQ, and I didn’t understand religion and why she’d read the Bible all the time in the common area, but we became friends. We’d wake up every morning and sing ‘Do You Want to Build a Snowman’ together and would laugh and joke so hard at the dinner table until the employees had to tell us to stop.” After they exited the program in 2020, the two stayed close friends, and Reagan invited Lauren to church. But when she told that church she’d like to be baptized, Lauren was told, “Well, you know what the Bible says about this and this…” She, “Okay, no.” 

After visiting the University of Utah for a doctor’s appointment for a gender-affirming surgery, Lauren fell in love with mountains similar to the ones she’d loved as a teen in Europe. She decided to move to Herriman, Utah in 2020. Lauren got a job working as a therapist in Logan, UT and had her surgery in 2021. Everywhere, her friends and coworkers would tell her about the LDS faith. “All the people I met were so nice and had similar values—they were kind, cared about others, wanted to help. They weren’t into cussing or substance abuse and all that, and they didn’t just go to church, but maintained what they learned in church. They weren’t hypocritical.” 

Lauren asked a physical therapist whether she should look into the church and requested some missionaries. Elders came and said they’d send sisters, but they never did. Finally, Lauren went on the church’s website and requested sister missionaries. Two came and Lauren is still friends with them today. “There was no talk of LGBTQ, they just handed me a book.” Lauren read the first few pages that night and thought it was just what she needed. After having a “deep talk about LGBTQ stuff” with the Relief Society president who Lauren loved, she says they “tried to get me into a building.” Lauren was too scared the first few times, and a job transfer moved her back to Arizona where she met with new sister missionaries. They invited her to be baptized, but church policies required Lauren (who had transitioned) meet with the mission president and bishop who would have to write the first presidency of the church a letter for approval for her to be baptized.

Lauren waited from January until June to hear back. “It was radio silence.” All that time, Lauren says she spent with her new “chosen family” (of close friends who love and treat her well), reading her Book of Mormon, going to church, eating Korean food, and listening to her beloved KPOP and Taylor Swift music. The wait became too much for Lauren’s mental health and she had to go to the hospital for a few days. There, the sister missionaries and Relief Society president visited her, and Lauren was touched by their desire to help. One day, Lauren got a text from the missionaries telling her to call them, they had some news: “Guess what, you’re going to be baptized!” Lauren didn’t want to wait any longer and chose to do it that Friday. She says, “It was really cool to know the prophet knows who I am and accepted me.” Lauren bought a white dress, and was baptized by the bishop, who she says was “a sweet older man” (who unfortunately has since passed away). He gave her a calling on the activities committee, and then met with the stake president to be able to get a patriarchal blessing. Lauren finds her blessing very helpful and affirming.

The church honored Lauren’s name and pronouns on their records when she was baptized. While she says she’d like to go through the temple and serve a mission, she says she doesn’t want to bring it up because of the anxiety she’d endure, not knowing if it’s even possible. “I had to wait six months just to be baptized. I think I know the answer to whether I could go inside, and it’s not upsetting to me because I feel church with friends and people, not with buildings. But I do like to drive to the Mesa temple grounds just to read, which is nice.” Of joining the YSA ward, Lauren says, “I knew this was my group of people and still do, but sometimes it’s really hard. I’d go every Sunday, to all the events with a group of friends. Everyone wants to hang out with me and go to lunch and get Swig. I can talk to anyone, I picked the right profession,” Lauren laughs. “It was hard having to wait, but in the end, it worked out and the prophet heard me, God heard me; they felt my testimony.” 

Lauren currently lives back in Las Cruces, New Mexico where she got a job working as a therapist with kids via telehealth. She is on the records in a family ward, where she is the first trans person in their ward. She wants a calling and hopes they will give her one soon. 

She often travels to Tempe, AZ where her “found family” and YSA friends live and is currently there recuperating. After a long morning run, Lauren suffered a heart attack a few weeks ago, so she is taking some time now to get healthy. While she was in the hospital for a week, she was again touched by the many LDS members who came and visited.  

If Lauren could go back and offer advice to her younger self, she’d say, “Don’t be afraid to be you; just be yourself. Try not to worry about what people think.” She reflects, “If I hadn’t been so worried about how transitioning would affect my running career, or worried about my parents’ reaction, I would have transitioned sooner. But also… things happen when they happen. I just want people to know me as a genuine, honest, loving, and kind person. I’m so grateful for all the friends I’ve had through all this. There were moments I wanted to give up, but life is better just being myself. I’m tired of hiding.”

THE ELLSWORTH FAMILY

(Content warning: suicidal ideation)

Gina Ellsworth’s first tip-off occurred when she and her daughter Lila were leaving to go to church. Lila’s phone connected through bluetooth to Gina’s car, subsequently streaming the “Questions from the Closet” podcast episode entitled “Am I Gay?” into the quiet space of their garage. Lila quickly fumbled to shut it off. Sensing her panic, Gina didn’t press. But Lila offered that her seminary teacher had recently recommended the class listen to such podcasts to try to have an open mind and understand different perspectives—something Gina found refreshing and “pretty cool.” But when Gina soon after emailed the seminary teacher to say as much, his “not sure exactly what you’re talking about?” response revealed that perhaps Lila had discovered this podcast on her own. 

Shortly after, Gina was again in her car leaving the house when once again Lila’s phone connected to the car while Lila was up in her room. This time, another podcast episode started playing that proved Lila had a vested interest in the LGBTQ space. Gina didn’t say anything to Lila, but later brought up the incident to her husband, Matt, who reminded his wife about the times in middle school when Lila had obsessed that if she phoned or invited her female friends over too often that they might think she liked them in a “different way” – a fear they found odd. As Lila struggled with anxiety and intrusive thoughts at the time, they just assumed this was her way of worrying too much. 

A few months later, Gina decided to make her and Lila’s upcoming road trip from their home in Gilbert, AZ to Salt Lake City, UT one in which they could really talk. Lila, who was 17 at the time, was being recruited to play ice hockey at the University of Utah and was excited to go meet the coaches with her mother. Gina was anticipating this alone time in the car to hopefully ease her 

daughter’s mind and reassure her that she was a safe space—with whatever might need sharing. Once on the long stretch of highway, Gina told Lila she wanted to ask her something. Lila had a look of fear in her eyes but said ok. Hesitantly, Gina asked “Are you gay?”

Lila was quiet for a moment, then her face turned bright red and tears filled her eyes. She said yes. Gina immediately reached for her hand and held onto her tightly. Gina told her how much she loved her and that love would never change. Lila had just finished her junior year of high school, but had planned to wait to tell her parents until she had left home for college. Gina was relieved she finally knew the truth, but also heartbroken to know that Lila had carried this all by herself for so many years. Gina says, “She had the mentality that if she did everything perfectly with the church, this would be taken away from her.” 

For the rest of the road trip, Gina and Lila were able to finally talk openly. When they got to Utah, Lila asked if they could go to Deseret Bookstore and get some books. They took turns reading Ben Schilaty’s and Charlie Bird’s first memoirs about LGBTQ inclusion. When Gina called her husband to confirm Lila’s news, he simply said, “Tell her I love her.” 

The following year, Lila’s senior year, was probably her hardest, Gina says, having to deal with conflicting views as her parents and only one extended family member knew she was gay—a relative Lila said her mom could tell because, “Being sweet, she wanted me to have some support.” Lila would go to seminary and church where several peers would say things about LGBTQ+ people that “only amplified how she was feeling and made it hard for her to feel good in her own skin.” Terrified what might happen if she revealed that their comments were directed at her, Lila remained quiet. Gina was also struggling at church and in their community with things people would say, and she often deliberated whether speaking up about how she really felt would subsequently out their daughter before she was ready. 

Lila asked her mother if she’d be okay with her dating, and Gina replied with support: “As long as they’re a good person and they respect you, then of course.” Matt was more quiet about things, which was sometimes perceived as a lack of support, but when he did have a heart to heart with Lila, he assured her again he loved her and was proud of who she is. 

During her sophomore to senior years of high school, Lila played on the only girls’ travel hockey team from Arizona, and they achieved their goal to make it to Nationals. Gina loved going on hockey trips with her.  It was a great bonding opportunity for the two of them and they had a blast together. “But then we’d come home and I’d be up all hours of the night with her as she’d curl up in the fetal position, sobbing that she’d rather be dead than gay. She was terrified people at school and church would find out who she was,” says Gina. “When we were on those trips, Lila had one focus and that was hockey. When we would come home, the reality of being gay would set in. Lila never attempted, but she was scared she’d hurt herself. Luckily, she’d reach out to me and talk about it.” On one particularly dark night right after coming home from an amazing hockey trip where Lila’s team qualified for Nationals, they were both exhausted after an especially long breakdown. Gina says, “I remember her crying and saying that she didn’t want to live anymore. That broke my heart to hear. I replied that ‘I could never be mad at you, but I would be so sad if you took your life, because I’d miss you so much’.” Lila replied, “Then I’m going to live for you this week.” Gina remembers feeling like, “That was a win. But that that’s all she felt she had to live for was so sad.” 

Attending church had been hard for Lila long before her parents knew she was gay. She especially felt her dad’s pressure to go, but they had no idea they were pushing her into an unsafe space. Gina says, “It was hard to see that in a place she should feel safe, she wasn’t.” Despite the off-putting comments of peers in seminary, during her senior year, the Ellsworths were given a gift by way of Lila’s first female seminary teacher--one who was remarkably helpful and understanding. Lila’s attendance had been pretty sparse, but Gina felt she could only tell the teacher that she just wasn’t doing well and struggling with some things. The teacher was concerned and expressed love for Lila. Lila felt prompted to tell her teacher that she was gay. The teacher helped Lila by switching her scripture buddy when her first one said too many hurtful comments, and then later helped facilitate Lila being able to complete many of the assignments online so she could graduate. This same teacher invited them to attend their first ALL Are Alike Unto God LGBTQ+-affirming conference in Arizona, something the teacher also attended and supported. Gina says, “It was amazing to be in a room with that many people striving for the same thing.” Lila wasn’t out and Gina asked her how she’d feel if they ran into someone they knew, to which she replied, “At least we’ll know they're a safe person.” They loved the conference, which overlapped with their stake conference that weekend, and Gina says, “I felt the spirit and love so much more at ALL than at the stake conference, where some of the talks at the Saturday adult session put me in tears. But at ALL, we all belonged.”

Lila was accepted at the U where she now plays on the women’s hockey team along with her girlfriend, who was also on her travel team in Arizona. While her girlfriend is not religious, she has attended the YSA ward and activities a few times in Salt Lake to support Lila so she doesn’t have to show up alone. Her girlfriend recently attended the Gather Conference with Lila. She has been a huge support to Lila on this difficult journey. Gina says, “It’s amazing that Lila is able to date and feel what it’s like to love somebody, but she still battles the shame that she’s ‘acting on it.’ Trying to stay affiliated with the church has been hard for her.” 

Since day one, Gina has found support through listening to the Listen, Learn and Love, Questions from the Closet, and Lift and Love podcasts, and more recently, she’s been touched that her husband has agreed to tune in here and there. This last year, he was eager to attend ALL with her and made it a priority. They’ve been able to join a quarterly parent group, where she has smiled with affection, listening to him proudly introduce them: “Hi, we’re Matt and Gina Ellsworth. We have a daughter who’s 19 and gay.” Gina is so grateful for this group where they can openly discuss their lives with people who understand both their painful and positive experiences. Too many other things have proven difficult for Gina, like most recently watching general conference where she had a hard time with some talks, but could find hope in others. Gina has also felt the need to pull back from some people to try to preserve her sense of safety and minimize the feelings that her family is being judged. “It’s hard to be in this space and explain it to those who haven’t—it’s hard to feel understood. It just feels very heavy and isolating.” 

Recently, Gina has decided to pull back from attending church. “It’s been really hard going and seeing things through a different lens now. Yet, I’ve gotten so close to God because I truly feel like I don’t have anyone. Even though my husband and I are on the same journey, we deal with it differently. He still goes, saying the gospel is what keeps him strong and reckoning he can 

support the church and his daughter. I feel a lot of sadness; I don’t know where Lila fits in all of it. I have the belief that when we’re done on earth, God will be gracious enough to know Lila’s heart and mine and things will work out in the end – but I have a hard time feeling it at church now.” 

Gina has had unique experiences of peace at the temple where she has had strong confirmation that Lila is perfectly made just the way she is. Overall, she recognizes her daughter’s coming out as a blessing, saying, “I do feel like my love for people in this space has expanded so much because of Lila. Stepping into these spaces with conferences, parent nights, and support groups, we’ve gotten to hear all walks of life speak of their experiences. We’re better for it. I have a lot of peace about who Lila is. I wish the rest of the world could have that love and peace. The most important thing I can do is love.”

THE BRYCE AND SARA COOK STORY

Bryce Cook is a name many in this space may recognize after having stumbled upon his 2017 landmark work, which can be found at mormonlgbtquestions.com. His comprehensive essay impressively details the history and evolution of LGBT policies in the LDS church and presents the rationale for a more inclusive path forward. His personal experience, along with that of his wife Sara, as the parents of not one but two gay sons, only lends to the family’s credibility on the topic.

Bryce and Sara are founding members of ALL (Arizona LDS LGBT) Friends and Family and co-directors of the annual “ALL Are Alike Unto God” conference held every April in Mesa, AZ, that has before included guest speakers such as Steve and Barb Young, Terryl and Fiona Givens, and Richard and Claudia Bushman. But when Bryce considers the parents they were two decades ago, the parents who were stunned in disbelief at their oldest son’s admission to them that he was gay, and sadly acknowledges that up to that point he was “homophobic,“ his story provides hope that all have the potential to evolve on this issue.

“Mom and Dad, I know this will come as a shock to you, but I am same-sex attracted,” were the words that first launched the Cooks on their journey. Penned in a letter by their oldest son, Trevor, who was a freshman at BYU in Provo at the time, Bryce and Sara were completely stunned. Bryce thought, “How could this be? We were a faithful Mormon family, we had regular family prayer and scripture study, we had a very loving relationship with all our six children. And how could this happen to Trevor, a young man as honest, upright and moral as any young man I knew? It just wasn’t possible!”

But as he kept reading, Bryce saw the great turmoil his son had endured for years—feelings of guilt, self-loathing, failure and shame. Bryce’s mind then clouded with the painful reality that their son had not felt he could trust his parents with this information sooner. “He wanted to bear the burden alone, to spare us the grief.” Trevor had been afraid to admit he was a “failure” as a son, to acknowledge he was “one of those awful gays” he had heard his father reference. Bryce admits that until that moment, he’d held very un-Christlike views toward gay people and had likely contributed to the silent agony his son had suffered for so long. Bryce reflects, “By the grace of God, he had not been driven to suicide, as too many gay LDS youth have.”

While the Cooks were initially shocked and saddened by their son’s news, they let him know that no matter what, they loved him. Bryce confesses that at the time, they secretly held the hope that somehow, some way, he might be able to change. “The change, however, occurred in us.” An immediate change was the Cooks’ attitudes about gay people, thanks to their deep dive study into scientific research, evolving statements by church leaders, and the numerous experiences of LDS gay men and women. Their conclusions were threefold: 1) Being gay is not a choice. 2) Sexual orientation doesn’t change. And 3) Being gay is not just about sex—any more than being heterosexual is just about sex.

As the Cooks became more familiar with their newfound knowledge, they became more comfortable with who Trevor was, and no longer felt a need to hope for things that were not meant to be. They watched in wonder as Trevor chose to serve an honorable mission and finish his studies at BYU, and then continue to live a closeted life for 11 years before he opened up to anyone outside of his parents. During that time, Trevor watched as countless roommates loved life, dating, and making out with girls while he silently struggled to understand their heteronormative affections, knowing it wouldn’t be fair to force a relationship with a woman. On a trip to China to visit Trevor where he was working at the time, Bryce and Sara listened as their son said, “Mom, Dad, I want the same thing you two have—a companion, love, a family. I want that with someone who I can love, and that’s what I intend to do.” While they expressed their support, on their nightly couple walks, Bryce and Sara continued to ruminate on the “why us? Why our family?”—recognizing those thoughts now as just what their culture had taught.

Finally, at the age of 26, Trevor felt ready to share his news with his siblings and extended family. They all gathered together at the appointed time, wondering what it was that Trevor wanted to tell them, and in such a formal way. Sara remembers noticing that their youngest son, Tanner (a recently returned missionary who was attending BYU Provo and who joined the gathering via Facetime), had a “deer in the headlights” look upon hearing Trevor’s big announcement. Within a few weeks, Tanner told his parents that he, too, was gay and only had the courage to tell them after seeing the family’s positive response to Trevor’s announcement. When asked if Trevor and Tanner have a special connection, Bryce says that actually, all six of their children (who range from ages 32-38 and include Carly, Lindsay, Tyler, and Kristen, as well as several in-laws and seven grandchildren) share a close bond. Most of the Cook kids live near their parents and still gather for weekly Sunday dinners, where Bryce does most of the cooking. The Cooks are eager to have their family grow with two new official members. Trevor is marrying his partner of eight years, Ben, this November, and Kristen is marrying her longtime boyfriend in Cancun next year. Tanner is working as a physician’s assistant.

After Trevor opened up to his family, and soon thereafter, to his YSA ward, Bryce and Sara, initially wanted to keep this personal family information on the down low—especially in their ward. But Bryce could not ignore the persistent, strong impression that they must use their voice and the knowledge they’d gained to help those in their church who didn’t have a voice and who were facing a similar situation. Frustrated with the lack of resources they’d been able to find, Bryce began to research and compile all he could. The couple did a big Facebook post in 2011 in which they “came out” as the parents of a gay son. They helped start the ALL Arizona support group, they attended LGBTQ conferences, worked for anti-discrimination legislation, and came to know and love hundreds of LGBTQ people both in and out of the church. After being immersed in this world for several years, Bryce kept thinking someone needed to write a thorough treatise, from an LDS perspective, of all the arguments for inclusion that could be made. He kept hoping and expecting that someone would do it, but as time kept passing without anything emerging, he decided to take on the task himself. And with that decision, a creative muse showed up that guided and inspired his thoughts and writing over the course of a year as he worked an hour or two each evening until he completed his work in 2017.

Before making the essay public, Bryce sent drafts to various LGBTQ friends and church leaders he knew to obtain their feedback. Although he believed the essay took a respectful and even-handed tone with respect to the church, he was concerned that some church leaders still might find it critical, and thus faced a possible risk of church discipline. However, the initial feedback was uniformly positive, with one progressive stake presidency member telling him, “We’ve been waiting for something like this!” The essay went live on the website in March 2017 and was also published in the summer 2017 edition of Dialogue, a Journal of Mormon Thought. The website and essay garnered lots of attention and positive feedback, with Bryce being asked for interviews on a number of Mormon-themed podcasts. But in addition to the positive responses, he learned that the essay had also come to the attention of the church’s highest leaders, some of whom were displeased with it and thought it required an opposing response. Bryce couldn’t help but wonder whether the October 2017 general conference talk of a certain apostle (who spoke pointedly on the family proclamation) was directed his way.

Over their many years in the church, the Cooks had served in most of their ward’s leadership positions and were looked up to as strong, faithful members. But as they continued to speak out on behalf of their LGBTQ family and friends, they began to sense an uneasiness from some of their fellow members (even though the Cooks were never confrontational or disrespectful of the church or those members). On one occasion, after Sara opened up to her visiting teaching companion (a member of the primary presidency and the wife of a stake presidency member), sharing her heartfelt concerns and questions about how church leadership was dealing with our LGBTQ members, Sara was quickly released from her primary teacher calling without any explanation. From other experiences like this, the Cooks began to feel more and more like they didn’t fit in, which ultimately led to their deciding to move out of their very politically and religiously conservative ward to a less-LDS-concentrated area with a little more diversity.

Like many families in their situation, the Cooks’ children have also had to grapple with their relationship with the church, with five of the six deciding to no longer participate. While Bryce and Sara’s relationship to the institutional church has evolved over the years (particularly after the 2015 exclusion policy), they enjoy their local ward and serving in Primary (where he’s the pianist and she’s a teacher).

As a forensic accountant who testifies as an expert witness on financial and economic issues, Bryce is grateful for what he’s learned from his other role as an advocate for LGBTQ rights and inclusion, and most especially for the many friends he and Sara have come to know and love. Although six years have passed since he published his groundbreaking essay, it still attracts new viewers every month and continues to be widely shared. When asked if he thinks the church might change its position on LGBTQ issues in the future, Bryce can only offer a “Who knows?” but says, “You’d think if the church is going to survive, both in terms of attracting new members and in retaining the younger generations, it will have to change at some point. Where would the church be now if there was no 1978 revelation that overturned the race-based ban on priesthood and temple? It would probably be a strange little sect that no one paid any attention to. If it wants to grow and remain relevant in the world, I think it will have to change with respect to both its position on LGBTQ issues and on giving women an equal voice in leadership.” But he doesn’t think anything will happen under the church’s current senior leadership.

Given where Bryce and Sara are in their lives with respect to the institutional church, they are no longer bothered by what happens in Salt Lake, except to the extent it hurts their fellow LGBTQ members and their families. For that reason, they still try to share their voice and do what they can to bring about positive change among the members. Despite the difficulties and challenges they faced in their early years as orthodox members with gay kids, they say they wouldn’t change a thing about how their life has unfolded. Bryce says their hearts and minds have expanded far beyond what would have ever been possible had they not embarked on this journey.

Bryce Cook’s essay can also be read here on the Lift+Love website

THE MEAGAN SKIDMORE STORY

Meagan Skidmore of has carved out her space in the hope and healing industry. With her podcast Beyond the Shadow of Doubt™ and work as a Life Transition Coach, she specializes in helping queer youth and their families of conservative faith backgrounds cultivate their inner authority and move forward with confidence, clarity, and compassion. As the mother of a trans masculine son, Meagan has a personal stake in the field and knows it is often difficult terrain.

Meagan comes from deeply rooted pioneer stock. Parley P. Pratt is her 3rd great maternal grandfather; paternal 3rd great grandmother, Jane Johnson Black, was a midwife who helped deliver eight or nine babies the night the Nauvoo saints were forced to cross the Mississippi, an event that triggered labor for many women. Meagan was baptized at eight, president of her Young Women’s classes, served a Spanish-speaking mission to Houston, attended BYU, and met her husband while getting her master’s degree in school counseling. After her husband, Micah, finished his second year of BYU Law School, an internship took them and their two-week-old, Abi out of state. A year later, he accepted a full-time offer.  AJ was born almost three years after Abi, and Meagan enjoyed staying home, raising her kids and staying active through 12 years of service on the PTA board.

When he was in the seventh grade, Meagan noticed AJ gravitated toward anime shows where the characters seemed ambiguous in gender. That year for Halloween, AJ requested his visiting grandmother sew him a gender-neutral character costume. Meagan didn’t want to make it a bigger deal than it was, but she continued to notice some curious clothing preferences and photos AJ would upload to the cloud. One day, Meagan saw a text to a friend that indicated her youngest (during a time where he was not yet aware of his trans identity) identified as lesbian. Meagan was in shock and shared it with her husband. She recalls this as the beginning of “a terrifying journey. I felt so lost, all I had to go on was what I had been taught. I had access to personal revelation from God, but it was really hard to give myself permission to feel okay about it when stuff would come up that seemed contradictory. It was a really confusing, painful time.”

Meagan says, “I had always felt compassionate for those who identified as LGBTQ+ and were faced with the reality of having to spend life alone without companionship. It didn’t sit well with me. It didn’t align inside. I remember thinking I’d never wish that on anyone. I’m someone who’s suffered from depression since my teens, and one of the antidotes to depression is companionship, relationships, intertwining your life with others who care. It sounded like a lonely, torturous existence to me.” As she prayed for guidance, Meagan remembers feeling the divine impression to “Just take it one day at a time. Or if you need to, one hour at a time. Or one minute at a time. That was the beginning of a completely different vantage point in both my spiritual and mental space.” 

That summer, Abi went away for three weeks to hike Philmont, and it was often just Meagan and AJ home alone at the house, working on a painting project for a bed for their loft. Meagan remembers having moments of being unable to catch her breath, so overcome with fear and panic. She says AJ also remembers this as a traumatic time in which he felt he couldn’t rely on his parents. Much of Meagan’s emotions came from the realization that this information put their family at risk, as they lived in a state with increasingly strict anti-LGBTQ+ laws. She did not know any other families with LGBTQ+ children and was unsure how to navigate it all in the Bible belt. Sure enough, a group text chain with AJ’s rec volleyball team which included most of his close friends became problematic after he announced his news, and felt the friends trickle away. Some close friends and families also made painful comments like, “We can still love them even if we don’t agree with their choices.” 

As AJ slipped further into the “othered” category, he really began to struggle with his mental health. About three weeks before school closed due to the pandemic, when AJ was in 8th grade, Meagan got a call from the school counselor asking her to pick AJ up. Some texts had been turned in to the assistant principal that revealed AJ had shared some self-harming thoughts with a classmate. He would need to seek professional help before being able to return to school. Luckily, Meagan was close with her own therapist and they were able to get him in for a session that same day. That relationship continued throughout the pandemic via telehealth, which Meagan credits as being a life-line. She is also grateful for the quiet of the pandemic where they could process in relative privacy. She could find solace and have one-on-one time with AJ since salons were closed, so she’d often dye his hair and they’d talk. 

One day, Meagan learned AJ had been self-harming when he refused to wear a short-sleeved shirt. Once school opened up again, AJ decided to remain virtual, to better monitor his mental health. In spite of this, the rest of his high school experience was difficult. He especially struggled after his older sister went to college. This was right as AJ officially came out as trans male, at the start of his sophomore year. While Meagan had noticed signs in his dress and appearance, this time she waited for him to share the words. 

Meagan says a gradual name and pronoun transition helped ease her in to their new reality. But several of AJ’s teachers and classmates refused to honor his new name and he/him pronouns. Meagan’s heart dropped when she received a text from AJ that said, “How do you share you really feel like a boy on the inside?” Meagan says, “I KNEW to my core, though I didn’t understand what this all meant and felt like, but I knew my kid wasn’t making this up.” The Skidmores continued to work with the school counselor, and it was decided AJ should graduate a year early. AJ was more than ready to be done with high school—and the church, as was his sister Abi, who said, “I can no longer associate with an institution that continues to hurt the people I love,” referring to AJ as well as several queer relatives. After a rocky few years, Meagan feels so grateful AJ earned his diploma, and has opted to have a little more time at home this fall as he’s still 17. He will begin college in January.

During the beginning of the pandemic, Meagan discovered life coaching through Jody Moore’s program, and began certification through the Life Coach School in September of 2020. This became a mental health lifeline for her. She created her own LLC in spring of ’21, and it’s been growing since. She has found her niche working with LGBTQ+ families of a conservative faith background, both in her area and online. In a highly conservative area, with laws that now mandate reporting for any child under 18 who begins the transitioning process, Meagan has her work cut out for her. She says several of the Christian churches in her area advise parents to kick their kids out if they come out. As such, many people do not talk openly about being queer. Even some allies are afraid to post a bumper sticker or wave a flag. 

Meagan volunteers and now considers herself a “hope dealer,” donating her 6-week course program to kids who need the support. She also works with the Cathedral of Hope (the self-described “largest affirming church in the world”) which is led by gay pastor Dr. Rev. Neil Thomas who was raised LDS in the UK and also made his way to Texas, feeling called to the ministry. Through these links, Meagan works with families with the goal of reaching a mutual understanding so the kid can move back home, and the parents can feel good about loving and supporting both self and child. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of work and mindset shifts needed; there’s often some grieving and mourning to do,” she says. “I’m doing my best to navigate a nebulous space. I’ve learned through my own experience and study that it’s easier to lean into uncertainty and leave it up to God to fill in blanks I used to try to fill in. I’ve learned how to better separate religion from spirituality.” 

For Meagan, God can be found in so very many spaces. She feels religion/church is a manmade construct that helps people grow closer to God and their own spirituality within a community where ideally one feels belonging.  She views her journey as more of a pivot than a faith crisis that she now actually labels as a faith expansion, saying, “I deeply feel we have so much more we have yet to know and understand about God and this world. I go back to the two great commandments—to love God and love our fellow man, like ourselves.  This is impossible if we do not first love ourselves. When I lead with love, I can feel good about the steps I take, knowing my intentions are in the best place. This journey has forced me to stop looking on the external to interpret, classify and label…all the things we use to define ourselves, and instead to see the heart. I like to say I’ve learned how to put on my eternal eyes and see people as God would—as the blessing they are to self, their family, community, the world. I would never trade where I’m at.” 

One thing Meagan has learned to be aware of through her evolution is to identify the emotions driving her thoughts and behaviors. “If it’s fear, that’s an immediate red flag for me to stop, step back, and assess what’s going on in each situation. I don’t have to rush to figure out all the answers. I break it down to figure out what’s going on right now and how can I see it through a more loving God-lens. I’ve learned more about the nature of God and it’s not the hellfire damnation god so many grow up believing in. God is so much more all-loving than I ever realized.” 

She continues, “I used to think I was a good Christian and knew how to love and not judge. I served my brains out, was a self-defined member missionary, I tried to do all the things… I’ve learned living a Christlike life has a lot less to do with all that than I thought. Very little, actually. Living a Christlike life is just loving. Love is an all-encompassing God-energy. It’s what we’re all striving to find and connect with, but so many things in this mortal life get in the way. On this road less travelled, my path has brought me closer to knowing and understanding the Savior than anything else. Scripture says he was often alone and acquainted with grief. I get that.” 

THE GEARHART FAMILY

(Content warning: references to the Club Q+ mass shooting and advocacy for victims of sexual assault and violence)

On Sundays, Jolene Gearhart of Colorado Springs is typically on call for a job that demands she sit with people undergoing unspeakable trauma—people who have found themselves suffering not in a church foyer, but in an emergency room or shelter or police car. As a volunteer victims’ advocate, it is Jolene’s duty to hold the hand of those who are often experiencing their very worst day—assuming they let her. As many of Jolene’s clients have just been rescued from domestic violence or sexual assault, physical touch is often the last thing they want. But Jolene makes it her mission to at least seek a moment where she can look them in the eye long enough to say, “This is hard work, but you are worth it. You deserve freedom, happiness, safety.” Jolene believes, “I can’t change the world, but I can try to give people hope.”

Last November, Jolene was called onto the scene of a horrific tragedy that hit too close to home. There had been a mass shooting at Colorado Springs’ only LGBTQ+ nightspot, Club Q, the night before Transgender Awareness Day. Three emergency rooms were swarming with people hoping to identify their loved ones on the lists of survivors. Jolene steeled herself to provide support to numerous families asking the toughest of questions. One family was unsure how to answer whether they were looking for a Jane Doe or a John Doe as their child identified as transgender—which ended up being an important distinguishing marker that night. Unfortunately, that family, along with four others, received the worst news—among the 24 injured by gunfire, their loved ones would not be coming home. It was a long week for Jolene as she worked alongside the care staff, hoping to do whatever she could to help her community heal. As a victims’ advocate, and the mother of an LGBTQ+ child, Jolene was uniquely qualified to serve in that unpleasant space—a role she says has only brought her closer to her Savior.

The Jolene Gearhart of six years ago might not recognize who she is today—an evolved figure of strength who works as an ally and advocate in spaces she once found foreign and uncomfortable. But when she looks back on all she’s learned since her oldest daughter came out, Jolene recognizes how far one can come to inhabit a space of love that also demands action. Just as she serves as a victims’ advocate, Jolene has taken it upon herself to speak out about how we can better love and serve the LGBTQ+ community--something she says she initially struggled to do, having been raised in an extremely by-the-book, LDS family.

Jolene and Thomas Gearhart’s oldest daughter, Alli (almost 24), broke the expectations of her conservative upbringing by choosing to not attend a church school after high school. Instead, she flew over Utah and further west to Laguna Beach, California, where she enrolled in the Laguna College of Art and Design. While Thomas was supportive of whatever school Alli chose, Jolene was anxious about who she might be surrounded by while taking comfort that at least, she’d have relatives nearby. Alli’s parents said they were thrilled to see her seemingly thriving in college. They were much less thrilled when Alli called them during spring break of her freshman year to tell her parents, “I think I’m bi.”  (Alli now identifies as lesbian.) Jolene says Thomas was very calm about it, but that she “cried and cried; I spent a week in bed. I definitely said some things I wish I hadn’t—I know so much more now.”

Jolene spent those initial moments reflecting on her daughter’s high school years—chalking up her lack of dating interest to the fact there were few LDS options, and anything else would defy Alli’s strict “only date LDS members” upbringing. But Jolene considered how Alli also hadn’t seem very interested in church dances, or girls’ camp. Her mother had always figured that was because she was a little more introverted. Now, this same daughter was telling them she’d seen a movie she really identified with that had helped her come to terms with her orientation.

Jolene says, “I felt like I was grieving like a kid had died. It was hard for me to navigate.” Alli had told her siblings (Claire—now 21 and married to Brandyn, Ainsley—20, and Rainier—15) her news six months prior to telling her parents, and the kids all reacted well and were supportive of Alli, though they were upset at the tumultuous homelife they experienced navigating their parents’ emotions at the time. But her siblings were the first to say they’d understand if Alli left the church if it caused too much pain. Jolene says, “We asked dumb questions about LGBTQ issues, and wondered if her coming out might be because she was hanging out with other LGBTQ people—myths we had trained ourselves to believe to get away from accepting the community.” But as their new reality settled in, Jolene decided she needed to learn a little more, and began to look for resources. She says she remembers feeling like “a dirty kid” buying Richard Ostler’s book, Listen, Learn and Love. But as she read it, something sank in—the feeling that Ostler’s approach of listening, learning, and loving made common sense. Now it’s a book she recommends wholeheartedly and often.

When she asked her daughter why she didn’t say something sooner, Alli told her that due to the faith in which she’d been raised, it was all so off their radar, she never even thought she could know or explore something different than a heterosexual relationship. This is why Jolene tries to be an outspoken ally now and openly tell their story so hopefully, other LGBTQ+ kids will be able to learn and grow and process this part of them in their homes, under their parents’ tutelages, and not “after they’ve moved 800 miles away. Why are we sending kids out into the world to figure these things out? Adulthood is hard enough. I would have loved to have Alli by my side, and not having to figure this out on her own.” Jolene appreciates that in her former ward, there was a gay young man who the bishop took under his wing and designated as a quorum leader, embracing his authenticity. It’s sad to her Alli didn’t have a similar experience.

After facing a few tough years, Jolene is so proud that Alli has since graduated from college and is now working a “grown up job and can pay all her bills and live on her own. I never thought I’d be so thrilled to have a kid working, but I am. I love that she’s happy and busy working.” Alli tried to attend the singles ward near her college for a few months, but after a particularly painful talk on the Family Proclamation “broke her,” she ran out of the building crying and hasn’t been back since. Jolene says she’s fine with this now, but it saddens her how Alli’s at times struggled alone in California to figure things out. While shunning the idea of a loving God and sometimes struggling to share the interests of her family, Alli has joked she’s the “black sheep” of the family, having developed an affinity for crystals, tattoos, and is independently spiritual. Jolene says, “To me, to not believe in a Savior and Redeemer in life is heart-shattering and I worry. But she has a good head on her shoulders.”

Jolene says that now that Alli’s out of the church, she still recalls how “we judge people and what we think of people like her. Alli rightfully still fears that people discount what she has to say because she presumably ‘is following Satan.’ Alli grew up in it and says she values it, though it’s not for her.” Alli had always maintained a close relationship with her sister Ainsley, but things became a little awkward when Ainsley prepared to leave to serve an LDS mission to Mongolia in June of 2021. Jolene also felt a “ton of anxiety and conflicting feelings about Ainsley going. I’ve questioned why I’m sending a daughter out—though it was her choice—to preach and share the gospel when we now have very conflicting ideas? We say one thing and do another.”

Jolene found much comfort, though, and “felt seen by God” when Ainsley was called to a nametag-free mission to Mongolia where, rather than a proselytizing one, her mission emphasizes Christlike love through service. Ainsley is currently teaching English to kids and can only “missionary” if someone asks. Ainsley spends a couple hours each P-day on Facebook messenger with her mom and sisters, a time the women cherish. But church-centered experiences like these can still be hard for Alli—like when Claire recently got married in the temple and she had to wait outside. Jolene is very grateful more couples like Claire and Brandyn now prioritize civil wedding ceremonies in addition to temple services that can feel exclusive. She loves how both Alli and their son (who was 12 at the time) got to stand up and watch their sister exchange vows.

Claiming she “wears my emotions on my sleeve,” Jolene has found much comfort in talking with other mothers in this space about the best ways to support their LGBTQ kiddos. In the beginning of her journey, she frequented the Lift & Love online support meetings and still regularly recommends them to other friends and most recently a family member so they can join in community with others from across the nation and “be honest about how we’re feeling. In this space, we can find our way, preserve our authenticity, stay in our religion if we choose, and really help educate others so our kids can be who they are.” Jolene also reveres an experience she had visiting the St. George Encircle house with friends on a rainbow moms retreat and feels church should be more like that—a place where people can “be honest about who they are, bear each other’s burdens, and mourn with those who mourn. You can skip over the fluff and really connect on a deeper level in this space. People respond so much more to real experiences.”

Jolene has seen how being Alli’s mom has brought her much closer to the Savior and what really matters to her, which no longer includes the do’s and don’ts of shame-inducing outward behaviors like “overemphasizing dressing modestly and whether or not you smoke or drink coffee or tea”—practices that may just be a part of one’s upbringing or culture, and policies she has observed that in her past serving as a Relief Society president have led friends she’s deeply admired away from a church that should have been there to embrace and love them fully. “What kills me is we’re denying good people temple blessings because they smoke.”

While continuing to volunteer as a victims’ advocate, Jolene is concurrently working to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. After learning she could study religious trauma and work as a therapist on a sliding pay scale so all could afford her services at places like Encircle, she resolved, “This is one thing I can do to help out in this space.” Jolene recently worked with a beautiful young woman Alli’s age who is an unhoused drug addict who’d lost custody of her young daughter. When Jolene handed the young woman a blanket, the woman looked at her and said, “You’re weirding me out because you’re being so nice to me.” Jolene says the woman had been raised on the streets and “couldn’t take an ounce of kindness.” Jolene realized that, for so many in privileged circumstances with support systems, how “blessed and ignorant we can be as to what’s really going on out there. Functioning people with healthy families are the minority.” Jolene says, “Both in respect to my job and institutions like church, I often wonder, how many do we exclude because they don’t meet our criteria? They don’t talk like us or do what we want them to, so we push them away. We can’t change the world, but I can try to give people hope and bring them in.”

Jolene often thinks of how her daughter must feel, being pushed out of a system that has no place for her. It’s a similar feeling to when she holds the hands of some of the victims she works with when authorities come in and force them to “answer ridiculous questions” as part of their investigation, shortly after a survivor has suffered assault. Jolene says, “The Savior wants us all to be victims’ advocates. We may not all have huge traumas, and I hope we don’t; but the Savior is there for all. He wants us to be there for each other.”

THE AUSTON FAMILY STORY

We are thrilled to introduce Darice Auston as our new Lift & Love Family Stories Coordinator and we are excited for her to share her story with us.

Darice and husband Darryl lead with love, and prioritize making their home a safe space for their girls (Bazel—20, Scout—17, Harper—15, and Sawyer—11) and all who enter there. With a professional background in communications and PR, Darice delights in connecting with people. When it comes to her passion of creating affirming environments for kids like her own, Darice is a pioneer armed with resources and personal experience, who works diligently to make her area of Colorado a more inclusive space.  

In middle school, Darice and Darryl observed that Bazel gravitated toward an LGBTQ friend group. They let Bazel know, “Hey, if you’re afraid to tell us this is where you belong, don’t be. We completely love and support you.” Bazel assured them this was just her friend group, not her identity. It wasn’t until after high school graduation that Bazel told her parents she was bi, which Darice says she understands can often be considered a “gateway identity,” for kids to test the waters. At this same time, in May of 2021, Darice was called to be her stake’s Relief Society president, which she feels was no coincidence. “It felt very much like God’s timing--that there are others also on this journey who need me to advocate for them through my service in this capacity. I felt such a strong call to reach out to those on the edge and champion belonging.”

That October, Darice and Darryl got a text from Bazel saying, “I’m trans and I want to go by she/her pronouns.” They were shocked. Darice says, “I was a very vocal ally—in and out of the church and on social media, but I felt we had a lot of work to do. For me, it took a huge leap as working with gender identity is a different ballgame than just attraction. There were a lot of questions I hadn’t thought to ask.” 

Darice has always relied on her husband to help process things and feels grateful they are generally always on the same page.  The evening of Bazel’s text, she and Darryl laid side by side, staring at the ceiling and thinking, “How did we not see this?”  She says, “It never crossed our minds not to affirm our child.  Acknowledging the complexities our child would face and how best to address them became our first priority.” As Bazel was away at college, they were grateful for the grace period they had to process this information together before welcoming Bazel home from college.  It gave them time to get up to speed about how to affirm their trans child. 

Especially with the current climate of hate toward the trans community, they worried about Bazel’s safety and how she would be accepted by her peers and by their friends and family.  They never tried to talk her out of it, but instead accepted her pronoun and eventual name change. Bazel was no longer participating in church, which made things easier in that they weren’t having to navigate the youth program with a trans child. They did, however, take their time sharing with family members and friends. To their relief, both sides of their families have been incredibly loving and inclusive of Bazel and her partner. And although some friends have shied away since this change, others have stepped in, eager to show love and support not only to their daughter but also to Darice and Darryl as parents.

Bazel chose to come home after a semester at school.  Although her time there was brief, it turned out to be fruitful because it was there she met her partner Bugs (they/them), who Darice says is a perfect fit and welcome addition to their family. Darice says, “It’s been amazing to have these two in our lives, teaching us about loving others and loving oneself.”  In a recent family discussion, they observed that being trans can be a way of honoring your body—helping it become something you love rather than something you hate.

Through experience, Darice knows that parents of LGBTQ kids go through all sorts of emotions when a child comes out, including grief as you mourn the child it feels like you’ve known and lost, “but it’s not the kind of grief people bring you a casserole for.”  Darice found this to be true—although friends were loving and supportive, many just didn’t know what to say.  She doesn’t fault anyone for that.  Darice just does not yet feel like we’ve have developed a good vocabulary for responding to news that someone has come out.  She says the best reaction her family received when she shared Bazel’s news was when someone replied with how much love they had for her child and for their family.  Darice also appreciates when people felt comfortable asking about pronouns and name changes, signaling they love and respect her child enough to honor these changes.  Darice says that hearing how friends express how they admire the Auston’s advocacy and acceptance of their child’s choices has meant more than she thinks people know.  

Darice has spent countless hours in discussions with local church leaders on the topic of LGBTQ inclusion and creating safe spaces.  She’s found it is evident that many still feel uncomfortable talking about this subject.  In hopes of demystifying the subject and signaling to anyone that they are welcome in her congregations, Darice wears a rainbow pin to church every Sunday. In talks and lessons, she’s shared openly about the complexity of having an LGBTQ child and although that has upset some, for others it has signaled a move away from shame and harmful rhetoric they unfortunately hear sometimes in church settings.  Taking what is sometimes considered a “taboo” topic and normalizing discussion of it has been a focus of hers during this journey.  Darice hopes to always advocate for belonging and reaching out to the marginalized.

But the lack of church-supported resources for LGBTQ families has been a source of concern for Darice.  She’s observed, “In the church, we offer a lot of support for families and individuals impacted by addiction, but when it comes to support for LGBTQ families, there is nothing (not to equate the two, except to show the contrast in church-run support). In the absence of church resources, we do our own work and build our own communities.” 

Together, Darice and her friend, Carey Baldwin, formed the support group Rainbow COnnection to kick off Colorado-based inclusion events. Their inaugural speaker was Dr. Ben Schilaty, who traveled from Provo to speak this summer. The event was successful, with a large turnout. Darice says, “Anyone who attended was so moved by Ben’s words and his spirit. You can’t listen to him and not feel uplifted.” Many in attendance, both LGBTQ individuals and their family members, shared how they are suffering in silence, desperate for support from their church community.  Darice sees the lack of resources as an opportunity to grow as a faith community and advocates for better training for leaders and members to feel comfortable showing love to all.

Darice says this year’s Come Follow Me studies in the New Testament have been eye-opening. “As I study Christ’s ministry, the parallels between the work of inclusion and Christ reaching out to the marginalized are everywhere. I also can’t unsee the parallels of leaders both then and now focusing on ‘the law’ over love of ‘the one.’ Having a trans child has brought a new perspective to gospel teachings that has been expansive and beautiful.  I’m thankful for the faith expansion I’ve experienced on this journey. I love the people I’ve meet while doing the work of advocacy and inclusion. Creating connections with people is my love language.”  

Darice is “encouraged by the progress we are making as a faith community and anxious to accomplish more in building God’s kingdom—one that reflects the divinely-designed diversity that is united (not uniform) in our Savior Jesus Christ.”

(For any willing to share their family story, reach out to @dariceauston or email darice@liftandlove.org)

THE JON ROGERS STORY

For any parent, the subject of coming out is a tricky conversation to have with your teen daughters. But for Jon Rogers of Idaho, the person needing to come out was him. Two years ago, the 42-year-old married father of two decided, under the weight of some personal events in his life, that it was finally time for him to share the news that he is gay with his daughters, after having just recently told his wife. In the same family discussion, he also shared that he and their mom would be getting a divorce, making this “the most difficult conversation of my life, seeing the heartbreak and tears in my daughters’ eyes is still so hard to think about today,” says Jon.

The past two years have been “filled with hurt, mourning the loss of our family unit, healing, and also hope” as Jon has come to embrace this part of him and live with a sense of authenticity that he says many others in his situation have never been encouraged to pursue. Jon has observed and admired the many younger LGBTQ+ people who are nowadays often highlighted in social media “which is great, and a product of where we’re at in society, where younger people feel more comfortable being themselves.” Jon also boldly shares his truth and story now, with hopes he can be a support to others like him who were born in a different era.

Growing up in the 80s and 90s, “being gay was very much not accepted,” says Jon. “It was considered a choice, and a wrong one. It was something shunned by church and society in general.” Jon grew up in a very loving, conservative, and active LDS family who “did all the things.” The Rogers went to church and mutual activities every week, watched every session of general conference, and had daily family scripture study and prayer. “I loved it—I still do,” says Jon. He says he’s “always been blessed with the spiritual gift of faith. I’ve never questioned the truthfulness of the church or any leader.” Jon recognizes this could appear confusing, as he is now living as an openly gay man who has gone through a temple divorce, and who now attends church with his boyfriend. But Jon says, “I don’t question the church. There are things we don’t know yet—maybe certain leaders have certain biases or have not had the whole plan revealed yet. We don’t know everything, but I believe there is more to come.” Jon says he has continually felt compelled to have patience through this journey. “It’s hard to understand why Heavenly Father hasn’t revealed more, when you see all the hurt and suffering people go through with this. But I try to rely on faith, trust, and patience. I believe Heavenly Father has so much more mercy than what we give Him credit for. He is more understanding and loving than we know, especially in this space, seeing how His LGBTQ children suffer so. That doesn’t always help in the day to day, but I hope and think everything will work out somehow.”

As a teen and into his adulthood, Jon says he never allowed himself to nurture thoughts that he was gay. He moved forward, believing that his only path was to marry a woman. He pushed away his attractions, and says he felt the shame, guilt, denial, and self-hatred brewing within, but was “scared to death to tell anyone anything and see that disappointment in their eyes.” Like many, Jon would pray nightly, in tears, “to remove this from me.” He wondered, “Why can’t I be normal?” Jon felt like he had the faith to make it happen, but says it never went away.

Jon attended Ricks College and served an honorable mission in Washington D.C. Before and after, he tried dating women, wanting the companionship he saw so many of his roommates and friends find, but he says he faced a lot of rejection while trying to date women. In April of the year he was 26, Jon met a woman he quickly grew to love, and they were married in the temple in December of that year. When his parents questioned the quickness of the romance, he reminded them they got engaged the week they met. “It runs in our family.”

Throughout his 16-year marriage, Jon says he never wanted to put his wife through the torment of his inner thoughts, hoping he could fix it with time. So, he stayed quiet. He says ultimately, it hurt her deeply that he had never felt like he could trust her enough to share. As a husband and father, Jon says he tried so hard to hide any sign he might be gay, trying to carry himself in an “extra manly” fashion. He verbally disparaged any gay themes in tv shows and music thinking if he could distance himself from it all, it would go away. He says this made it additionally hard on his girls, who were so confused when he came out, they had to then re-envision the father who had raised them.

After years of inner torment, before he could get to this place of being truthful about who he was, Jon first had to come clean with himself. This happened one night when he was cooking dinner. He had been listening to an interview with Al Carraway and Charlie Bird in which Charlie shared his coming out story. Jon felt the impulse to pray right there next to the stove to ask what his Heavenly Father thought of him being gay. He says he felt “God tell me He loved me no matter what and that I was created this way on purpose; I was not broken.” Jon dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor and cried. He had never prayed about this before (feeling it would be wrong to even think to do so, knowing the answer would be it’s wrong), and he says in an instant, “all the guilt and self-hatred I’d been carrying for years just vanished. I now have zero issues with being gay. I don’t care who knows it.”

Jon says coming out to his parents shortly after was another “scariest thing imaginable,” but he was overwhelmed with appreciation for their response. They told him several times they loved him and would support him no matter what. His mother mourned that she didn’t know how he could have gone that long, harboring all of this in secret, trying to still live the gospel. While Jon acknowledges waiting so long to come out was certainly difficult on his wife, kids, and parents, he credits the strength of his testimony as a positive byproduct. He’s not sure if that would have been different had he come out sooner. “Everything that’s happened has made me who I am today.” Jon’s two younger sisters and their families have also been supportive. (After coming out to them, one of his sister’s replied that she was not surprised.)

Prayer is now vitally important to Jon, who at age 44, says personal revelation is everything to him. He believes in recording the spiritual impressions he receives, a practice that he says increases the number of impressions that have come. When he doubts the nature of his spiritual confirmations, Jon returns to his notations and says every time, the flood of emotions of the original experiences comes back, confirming what he’s been told is true. One strong impression Jon had came after studying Exodus 14:14 during a Come Follow Me lesson. He was reminded that “the Lord shall fight for you, and you shall find your peace,” just as it had happened when Moses led his people to the Red Sea, which they had no idea how to cross. Jon says, “How often do we come across something so hard we don’t know how to get around it or go through it, and then the unthinkable happens? I’ve had that same experience, being gay in a relationship and in the church. But I’ve had the strong impression the unimaginable will happen.” Jon has had other experiences that confirm somehow, someway, in the next life, everything will work out. He trusts, “I was told to let go of my worries and give it to Him. He’s got this and loves me beyond anything I can comprehend. He is aware of what I’m going through.”

While Jon does not try to be prescriptive in any form to others his age on a similar journey, he encourages the gay friends he has in mixed orientation marriages to pursue personal revelation and follow whatever route is presented to them through prayer. 

Jon now cherishes spending time with his girls every other weekend. They all still live in the same town in Idaho, about 15 minutes away from each other. Jon credits his ex-wife with how she has handled everything, though admits it’s understandably been very painful. The two have a cordial relationship now, always trying to put the girls first. Jon says he tries to be loving, patient, and understanding with how hard this has all been for everyone. Recently, the girls agreed to spend a weekend with Jon’s boyfriend and his family, which felt like a huge milestone. Now, he’s excited they’re planning more time and vacations together.

Jon met his boyfriend Nate through Instagram, after letting a friend know he was looking for someone who was of a similar age, background, and career status, and who was equally committed to the LDS faith. Jon says once the friend presented a picture of Nate, “I was done.” Nate had also come out within the last decade. Jon reached out on the same day he saw Nate’s picture and says not a day has gone by since that the two haven’t communicated or spent time together. Nate lives in Salt Lake City, and as Jon works remotely as a customer success manager, it’s easier for him to travel to Nate’s hometown for their dates. He says when they attend church together, “sometimes people fall over the pews to shake our hands and welcome us. They know we’re together; we’re not keeping it a secret. His ward is very welcoming.” Together, the two love traveling, hiking, playing games, doing Spartan Races, and Jon, along with Nate, is very dedicated to weightlifting. They both hit the gym six days a week to stay in good shape.

In his past relationships with women, Jon says it was always hard for him to feel comfortable being affectionate as “it didn’t feel natural,” but now, he says there is a night and day difference, and the two love holding hands and snuggling on the couch. Jon says they’ve each had “spiritual impressions that we’ve been led to each other and to keep going and have faith in this relationship. It’s been amazing.”

Jon appreciates how there is now so much more understanding for people in his situation than there was 20 years ago. “I understand that everyone will have their different paths, and it’s important people find theirs through personal revelation and prayer. For me, I knew I couldn’t be alone post-divorce, and I felt strongly directed in my path to then find companionship. It can be confusing and hard, and it’s easy for someone else to tell others what’s right and wrong. But I’ve come to understand grace and love, and the importance of personal revelation.”