XIAN MACKINTOSH

On occasion, Xian Mackintosh is also invited to share his side of the story at firesides and speaking events at which his LDS parents, Scott and Becky, are asked to keynote. As referenced in last week’s story, this is something all three appreciate. Both sides of this parent-child dynamic acknowledge their journey has been one of growth, but most of all, love. It’s an impressive consensus as their lives currently look a little different from each others’ and from how they once thought things would go.

Growing up, Xian (pronounced See-an) was very aware of his parents’ expectations for their son: earning his Duty to God award, attending Primary, Young Men’s and seminary, serving an honorable mission, an eventual marriage in a temple to a lovely young woman, followed by fatherhood, callings, and all the other things in alignment with the LDS faith. So when as a young child, Xian started to recognize that he felt more attracted to people of the same gender, he wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but knew it was something he needed to keep to himself.

As a teen, Xian struggled with what he now regrets most—that he wasn’t able to really be himself. Of those years, he says, “I listened to the music I thought I should, and had the friends people thought I should befriend. Every part of my life was focused on not letting people know what I was really feeling.” Xian was convinced he’d take his secret to the grave as he was so worried about disappointing his family. He acknowledges, “I have incredible parents who always made sure we knew we were loved. But I’d seen an older sister give them a harder time and didn’t want to be a burden on them. So I chose to deal with things myself and just handle it. I was always good at that. But it comes to a point where you can’t hide it anymore.”

After realizing his plea bargain to God, the same so many others attempt while serving a mission, didn’t pan out after returning from his honorable Detroit, MI mission and realizing a few months after, as hard as he had tried, “it wasn’t going away,” Xian chose to move to Hawaii. There, as a student at BYU Hawaii in the Social Work program, and later while receiving his master’s degree from the University of Hawaii, Xian was able to let down his guard as the dating pressure was less prescient than in the Utah culture in which he’d been raised. He says, “It was a huge weight off my shoulder when I went to college, but as I was still at BYU, I wasn’t able to be open. I was still closeted.” He only returned home for visits a couple times a year for a holiday or quick visit, minimizing his exposure to the inevitable and relentless “Who are you dating?” questioning.

During his senior year of college, he realized not being able to tell the truth made Xian feel like he was “internally killing myself. I had done all the praying, fasting, begging, scripture reading, trying to stay on the path to get rewarded. I was dealing with a lot of internal sadness, but it wasn’t what I portrayed. It got to a point where I realized I couldn’t do this my whole life.” One day, he decided to change his plea to God. He says, “Instead of praying for this to be taken away, I started changing what I was praying for. I started asking, ‘Am I ok?’ And I felt so much warmth and happiness with that simple question. I felt a, ‘Hey Sean, you’re ok.’ From there, I didn’t really look back. I knew I have a Heavenly Father who loves me, and He’s ok with me. I may not know all the answers, but I know Heavenly Father knows and is ok, so I don’t need to worry.” Xian then began to feel how amazing it felt “to be me and not worry if I’m good enough. It didn’t matter what others felt. God knows, and he’s fine with me, so it’s ok some of those teachings didn’t line up.”

This led to Xian coming out to one of his classes at BYU, and to the night often recounted by his mom. Xian saved his confession to his parents for the last night home at the holidays. While out saying goodbye to some friends in SLC, Xian sent a private Facebook message to his parents. Under the level of anxiety and stress he’d been dealing with, he knew it would not be good for his mental health to physically witness what he anticipated would be an intense reaction. Feeling it was better for all, he typed words along the lines of, “I’ve really been struggling to share this for a long time. Nothing’s changed about me, I’m still your same son, but I am gay.” Xian was able to see via read receipt that both parents saw it, but his dad did not respond. But his mother typed back the words, “Ok, but you need to come home now.” He replied he wanted to talk about it, but wanted the time to say goodbye to some friends first. His mom made it clear she’d prefer him come home now. Xian had borrowed his mom’s car for the night, and later, on the way back, he ran out of gas which resulted in him having to walk over a mile to a relative’s house to get help with gas. “I was worried they’d ask questions; it was kinda an ordeal.”

Xian finally entered his parents’ living room around 1:30am, where Becky was ready, hands clasped. The first words out of her mouth were, “So what are we going to do about this?” The hours passed with Becky assuring Xian she loved him and was there for him while also suggesting having Xian’s testosterone levels checked, the various ways they could keep this news quiet, and perhaps he could still marry a woman. Replaying in Xian’s head were the birthday wishes he’d silently made as he blew out his candles every year since the age of 5—with every wish, he’d plead to have being gay taken away from him. While Xian felt his mom was listening that night but not really hearing him, he did not resent her response. He says, “It took me 20 years to be okay with myself. This was her first time hearing it, so I couldn’t expect her to just know how to handle it. She was raised in the same setting I’d been.”

His patience continued every time his parents would send him scriptures or life advice afterwards that he didn’t exactly find helpful. “It took several years, but eventually they got it. They were just in fix-it mode.” Immediately after, Xian says Becky wanted to tell her oldest son, and Xian senses it was because as the “golden child,” he felt this brother would back up his parents’ religious perspective on things. But Xian wanted to tell his siblings all at once. Eventually, Xian got a call from his oldest brother while out with friends, a call that had “a bit of a funeral vibe.” Subsequently, Xian wrote an email to all his six siblings at once, not wanting to make phone calls that “would have taken a lot of out of me.” Within 24 hours, all his siblings had called him to express their surprise but for the most part, love and support. One call still hurts Xian to this day, as he remembers the words of one of his siblings: “Why are you doing this? Our family is not an eternal family anymore.” Xian replied, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m still the same person. This isn’t a choice I’m making or something I’m just deciding to do.”

After a decade spent watching his six siblings all marry, it was finally Xian’s turn a few years ago. After having a couple longer term boyfriends who were always invited to family events, he eventually found a man he wanted to marry. As the day approached, the same sibling expressed a few days before that she would not be bringing her kids to the ceremony or joining the rest of the siblings in participating in the wedding party. It surprised Xian that his sister was still struggling, but during a heart-to-heart conversation on a park bench, he decided he wasn’t going to be mad at her for it, trusting that she was trying her best. He let her know he loved her and cared about her, and he feels she does love him in return, though feels their relationship is not what it once was.

When Xian was in grad school, he’d still attend sacrament meeting with his Catholic boyfriend at the time, but then would “say peace out” after that first meeting. But when the 2015 policy came out, Xian felt devastated—not because he wanted his future kids to be LDS, but that when he went back to the second Article of Faith, which preaches “men should be punished for their own sins and not for Adam’s transgression,” Xian couldn’t reconcile how if his kids chose to get baptized, they wouldn’t be allowed to because of who their parents are. He says, “It didn’t sit right with me, that Heavenly Father would allow that.” He and his boyfriend at the time went to dinner with his parents to talk about it, and Xian’s parents concurred they felt horrible about it all. While the policy was later reversed, Xian says, “I can only get stabbed so many times before saying I can’t get stabbed anymore. I needed to be healthy and stepped away. I don’t feel upset. I have so much more peace now than when I tried to fit in that box. I still use prayer, it’s a part of my life. And I feel closer to my Heavenly Father, and am more at peace with who I am.”

While Xian no longer believes in the LDS church as the “restored true church,” he says he has no anger with his family members for their beliefs, and would never expect them to change, as they wouldn’t try to make him change. “I try to love them for exactly who they are. If that brings them joy, who am I to take that away? I have so many aspects of my life that are positive from how I was raised. Also, some negative… but I try to compartmentalize and not focus on contention I don’t want with my family. Whether our beliefs are the same or different, we love and care for each other. My family has done a good job at that.”

The Mackintosh family now reflects a lot of diversity, and Xian says his mom Becky has credited his coming out to her ease at appreciating all the differences and “opening her mind to a world that wasn’t what she always thought it was.” Xian says he’s “super proud” of his parents who’ve been such a great help to many others. He appreciates how his mom recently apologized for things she said when he first came out, to which he replied, “I have no resentment. I knew you were doing the best you could at that time.” He loves how his parents both “did their best, which wasn’t great, but ever since, they’ve been learning and expanding. A lot of people don’t do that. Mine did want to understand and were willing to listen. They’ve constantly built on their love and capacity. They hold a LGBTQ FHE at their home, and my mom’s spent thousands of hours chatting with LGBT individuals. She’s come so far from the mom who first wanted me to get my testosterone checked.”

A lover of all things outdoors, Xian is self-employed, building and selling cold plunges. Now living in a home he purchased in North Salt Lake, Xian is healing from a difficult marriage and divorce, and taking the time to “focus on me”—as well as the numerous pets he cares for, as a lifelong avid animal lover and now, also a beekeeper. Xian owns High Mountain Frenchies, LLC and breeds rare Long Haired French Bulldogs. He loves how the pups he has at his house get along well with the very different (hairless) Sphynx cats and also the quail he raises. For Xian Mackintosh, it’s a coagulation of diversity and beauty in creation all under one household, values his entire family has worked to cultivate together as they’ve come together in increased love and understanding. 

THE MACKINTOSH FAMILY

Theirs may be one of the first family stories you encountered at the LDS-LGBTQ+ intersection when you first leaned in, as the Mackintosh’s video about their son Xian has lived on the LDS church’s website for the past seven years. Becky Mackintosh’s book, Love Boldly: Embracing Your LGBTQ Loved Ones and Embracing Your Faith, may have also been one of the first how-to books you read.  

The church approached the Mackintosh family of Lehi, Utah to film a video showing “the reality of having a gay child in the church—that it’s not all tied up in a bow.” The church asked the Mackintoshes specifically to share their story because they knew Xian was in a relationship, and wanted them to answer the question many LDS families were asking at the time: “How do we respond when our child steps away from the church?” Becky’s answer: “Continue to love and include your child in the family circle.” The video has remained on the Church website since 2017, something Becky says a lot of people still don’t know. Deseret Books also initially solicited Becky and family to chronicle their story in a memoir, though ultimately, and with Deseret Book’s blessing, they went with Cedar Fort Publishing for a more expeditious print run. Deseret Books still carries it in their store (as does Amazon). And Becky and Scott Mackintosh are still frequently invited to speak at firesides. They especially love it when Xian is also invited to speak with them. At these firesides, Becky often invites audiences to pull out their phones and go to the gospel library app and scroll to “life help” where they can find “so much support for unique situations like unwed pregnancies, suicide, SSA, and transgender.” There, people will also find Becky’s face as the thumbnail image for the family videos under “SSA.” Becky says, “The story is still so relevant, so needed. However we may respond when our daughters or sons step away, you must love and include. It’s the only way to keep the family together.” 

This is something the Mackintosh family has learned through experience, and over time. When Xian first sent his parents a private Facebook message on the last night of a Christmas break home, telling them in simple terms that he was gay, his parents’ initial reaction was not all sunshine and rainbows. It took Scott some time to come around to a place of affirming his son. Becky was the one to stay awake and wait for Xian to come home that night from being with friends; the two stayed up until 4am talking about it. But Becky says she was the one who “was suddenly an expert on this topic I knew nothing about” and did most of the talking—trying to convince Xian that since no one else knew, it might not be too late to “nip this in the bud and hold to the rod.” Becky pulled out Xian’s patriarchal blessing, reminding him of the passage in which he was told he’d marry a woman; and she referenced an LDS Living article about a mixed orientation marriage in which the man “experienced SSA but made it work.” Becky implored her son not to go back to the BYU Hawaii campus where he was studying social work and tell anyone, worried he’d be kicked out. Xian reminded her it’s not against the honor code to be gay, only to break the law of chastity. Xian went on to explain that while he had tried to date and kiss and like many girls, he had known his whole life where his attractions lied, and also tried so hard to “get rid of this.” Becky remembers Xian telling her he didn’t know what his future held, but he knew he couldn’t marry a woman or live a life alone. 

With this, Becky thought back to his past. She and Scott had raised their seven kids on a farm they’d lived on for 25+ years. Xian especially loved animals and still does to this day, now the attentive owner of a plethora of pets. Becky says, “Xian was always a happy boy with a big smile on his face. He was a leader, liked by everyone, and had a diverse group of friends as he was able to make friends easily with whoever, wherever. He was always easy to love.” Taught to be faithful, Xian was dedicated to the church and served as both deacon’s and teacher’s quorum president as well as the first assistant to the priests. He served an honorable mission to Detroit, Michigan, and when his parents and sister picked him up there, they loved seeing how much the people loved Xian, and he loved them. While many girls chased Xian over the years and asked him on dates, Becky admits the thought crossed her mind he might be gay as “he was such a good-looking young man, and yet not showing interest in all the girls chasing him.” Becky chalked it up to the fact that Xian was very frugal with money and very studious and maybe just didn’t want a girl to get in the way of his goals to serve a mission and save money. She also admits to thinking at the time that “there’s no way my son would choose to be gay.” 

Xian continued to focus on his studies post-mission. He didn’t come home often between semesters--just at the holidays and for a week in the summer after summer sales stints or his internship to Thailand. When he finally did come out in 2012 to his parents over Christmas break at age 24, it was after years of believing he’d take his secret to the grave, knowing how painful it would be for them. Becky says it makes her so sad to think how terrified he was to tell them because they had said so many hurtful things about the LGBTQ community over the years, believing it was a choice. Xian came out to his six siblings a few months later, and while most of his extended family responded immediately with love, some struggled with his news and created barriers that proved painful with family gatherings. With Deseret Books’ prodding, the first chapter of Becky’s book includes Xian’s story, and the last chapter details Scott’s—how he had to really push himself out of his comfort zone to try to understand his son’s orientation, and how realizing that loving his son was the most important thing and leaving the role of ultimate judge to Christ was what changed everything with their family relationship. 

Shortly after, while they were serving in a BYU student ward bishopric, Becky recalls an eye-opening moment when they had to come to terms with the fact that two of their kids had moved in with their boyfriends—one a son, and one a daughter. The boyfriends were also both from different faiths. Becky thought, “What is happening to our family? We must be horrible parents! This is not how we raised our kids.” Since, they’ve realized a different perspective. 

Becky told Scott that if they didn’t embrace their kids and their partners with open arms, then why would they ever want anything to do with them--or the church? She says, “Who would seek to know more about the gospel if the very people they know who go to church every Sunday are so judgmental and cruel?” Scott concurred. They decided to “embrace their reality” and make concerted efforts so that all their children would feel safe and welcome at home. Becky says, “We didn’t have to preach to them. They already know our beliefs and values. The greatest gift we can give them is our love.” 

Now, Becky says she is so glad her daughter married that boyfriend—they are now expecting their fourth child. Xian eventually split up with that first boyfriend, who the Mackintoshes came to love, making it a hard break-up. But after watching his six older siblings get married, it was finally Xian’s turn to do something his parents had always wanted for all their kids: to marry a returned missionary. They just didn’t know it would be to someone of the same sex. Both Xian and a sister went through divorces, of which Becky says, “Divorce happens in gay and straight marriages. No path is easy, whether it’s in or out of the church. We’re all trying to do the best we can. Our job as parents is just to love and support our kids, and meet them where they are.” 

The Mackintosh clan has grown to 32, with 17 grandchildren and counting. A new baby is due in a month. Becky loves her “very diverse family—with a spectrum of different races, religions, orientations, and political views. But we are a united family of respect and love.” Becky works hard to create a space where her kids know they’re loved, and want to come home and be around her. She says, “I’m not sure what the future holds, but that’s our lived experience. At the end of the day, they’re there for each other. I couldn’t ask for more to make me feel successful as a parent.” 

After Xian came out, Becky says she dove into the scriptures and was comforted to be reminded there “are no perfect families, even in the scriptures.” She learned to focus on what she could control, which was how she responded to any given situation. And the answer she always got through prayer was to love and include. She remembers praying, “But he’s dating a boy!” and hearing in return, “Love and include.” She feels it’s this practice that helped set the tone for Xian’s wedding, a lovely ceremony all his siblings and friends attended, sincerely happy for him. She also feels this approach helped Xian feel he could rely on his family when his marriage later began to crumble. Becky feels, “If we had chosen not to go to the wedding to ‘stand for truth and righteousness and not condone,’ he might have not informed us of his later relationship problems.” 

Xian owns a home in North Salt Lake, where he manages his businesses of vending cold plunge freezers and breeding Long-haired French Bulldogs. Given his rigorous work ethic, he financed his college education independently and emerged debt-free, holding a master’s degree in social work from the University of Hawaii.  

Not all of Becky and Scott’s kids are active in the church, and she says once upon a time, she would have been “curled up crying thinking, ‘what happened to my eternal family’.” But now she says, “As I’ve laid things at the Savior’s feet, all I can’t control, that’s when peace comes to my heart. My job is just to love them where they are and trust God with the process.” The Mackintoshes try to maintain a respect for the diversity of choices in their family. Becky’s kids support her serving in the Saratoga Springs temple weekly, and she says she’s never felt pressure from them to choose between the church and her children. That being said, she believes if she were to reject her child, she would not be living the gospel which has taught her the two great commandments—to love God and love others. 

For many years, Becky and Scott have been involved at North Star, and they’ve joined Xian to be the keynote speakers at Affirmation. In 2020, when Scott and Becky were the keynote speakers at North Star, they were surprised to learn it had been arranged that Xian would be the one to introduce them—a touching moment, especially as Xian was married to his husband at the time and still invited in by the more church policy-adherent group. They felt the love of their son in his introductory words.  

The Mackintoshes, most of whom still live in Utah, gather for family dinner the third Sunday of every month. Xian always joins and doesn’t hesitate when asked to give the prayer. It meant a lot to him when one of his nephews also asked him to pray at his LDS baptism. Xian has given his parents his blessing in sharing their side of the story as he believes it will help a lot of families experiencing similar things. He is also willing to share his, which he will soon do in this same forum. Xian also challenges his parents to look at all sides of the issue. When he first came out, he implored his mom to read Carol Lynn Pearson’s, No More Goodbyes, which she was reluctant to finish because the book opened with anecdotes of LDS families kicking out their children after they came out, which she couldn’t fathom, then followed with tales of entire families leaving the church, feeling they had to choose between their child and their church. She knew neither was an option for her, and she never felt she was being asked to choose a side. With Xian’s encouragement to finish the book, she did and that is when Becky felt the confirmation to come out of her own proverbial closet and openly share her story as an LDS mother openly embracing her son and her religious faith. This was two years after Xian’s initial coming out.

With their new desire to openly share their story, Becky’s film school graduate daughter shot a video in which Becky and Xian shared their story and Becky encouraged viewers to invest in kindness. Having served in ward and stake leadership roles for decades, Becky wasn’t sure how leadership would react, so she made an appointment with her bishop and stake president to let them view the video and read the blog post that was about to go live. They responded she was brave and they appreciated her intent. There were hundreds of shares and comments when the video got posted on social media, and Becky was overwhelmed by how many recently returned missionaries related to what Xian had been experiencing and had also felt so alone. Feeling driven to do more, the Mackintoshes have since hosted parent support groups and a bimonthly LGBTQ FHE night for the past nine years, and tried to create safe spaces whenever and wherever nudged.  

As for being a public figure in this space, Becky doesn’t want anyone to think the emotions expressed in their six-minute video of going from “My son is gay!” to “One big happy family” are in real time, for it took time. But her book was written “to relate to parents who are really struggling to embrace both their child and the gospel.” Becky owns up to their wedges, and the positives. “It’s been a diversity of feelings, and not an easy journey, but one I am so grateful for. I’ve learned to lean in to love, show empathy and respect, and look for ways to strengthen our relationship. I couldn’t do it without the guidance of God and our Savior.” She continues, “I’m so grateful for this journey. I can’t imagine my life without all the beautiful people I’ve met along the way. I’m so glad God sent me a son who’s gay (and six other perfectly imperfect children) – it’s completely opened my perspective.” 

LUPE BARTHOLOMEW

Lupe Bartholomew and her son David Archuleta

“If I have to live without you 

I don’t want to live forever 

In someone else's heaven 

So let 'em close the gates” 

They are lines many parents in this space understand. For Lupe Bartholomew, they are the lyrics she inspired in her son David Archuleta’s new single, “Hell Together.” Once Lupe realized the depth of pain her son was experiencing at the crux of his faith transition, she made it clear she would navigate this road with him in words that resonate with many listeners:

“If they don't like the way you're made 

Then they're not any better 

If paradise is pressure 

Oh, we'll go to Hell together”

However, this was not the initial response Lupe offered when David first came out as queer. Having had little known interaction with the LGBTQ+ community until the moment her son shared his news with her on a phone call at age 29, (after three failed engagements with women and years of trying to make the LDS church’s teachings work), Lupe admits it took her time to get to a place of understanding and affirmation. She is now intentional about sharing her side of the story of her recent decision to step away from the church in solidarity of her son and her newfound understanding, so that she might sit with others. In this space, she recognizes many might echo the lyric, “I'm afraid of letting go of the version of me that I used to know.”

That version grew up in Honduras, the youngest of four daughters born to loving parents who worked hard to provide a happy home amidst widespread poverty. Lupe and her sisters loved to sing. After some missionaries introduced their mom to the LDS faith and they were baptized, the Mayorga girls would often don matching dresses and sing at new members’ baptisms and other services, taking their show on the road. At a young age, Lupe was also an accomplished basketball player and champion free throw shooter on Honduras’ national team. When she was 15, her father’s job allowed the family to move to Miami, where the girls continued their missionary efforts, singing at baptisms and church events.

While in Florida, Lupe met a man from church. At the time, she didn’t attend much as she was working long shifts as a caregiver to help her family pay the bills. But as she became more involved with the young man, she also increased her involvement with the church. The two eventually took a bus to Salt Lake City to get married in the temple, then right back to Florida, where four of their five kids were born. There was a sixth child, but Lupe’s third pregnancy resulted in a full-term stillbirth, which devastated her. But with two young toddlers at home, she had no choice but to keep living, not wanting them to “see me crying in my bedroom all the time.” 

The Archuletas traded the sun for the snow when Lupe’s then husband felt Utah would be a better place to raise the kids, surrounded by the influence of the church. They moved west to Bountiful and then Murray, UT, where they could walk to church instead of driving 30 minutes as they had in Florida. Lupe says they loved being surrounded by temples and the church culture. Having always wanted eight kids, Lupe especially loved the supportive environment for men to work and women to stay home with the children. When they were little, Lupe loved homeschooling and taught all of their kids to read by age four. As the children also inherited their mother’s pipes, music filled their home as she taught them to sing. Lupe admits she didn’t love to cook or bake, so instead they would treat their neighbors with Christmas carols at the holidays, and often go sing to residents of senior living facilities. 

David was just 16 when he appeared on American Idol. Though he had won Star Search at age 12, this newfound fame was “exciting, but so unexpected.” Lupe continues, “I had trained my kids to sing for fun, not to be famous… And David had always been so shy.” While the fame was “cool” at first, it quickly became overwhelming for Lupe as it affected the family’s privacy with people taking pictures of their house, randomly knocking on their door, and leaving presents. When people at church would ask, “How’s your son?” Lupe would think, “Which one? I have two?” She recalls, “The rest of us kind of became invisible.” 

Once American Idol launched David’s career, Lupe says he never really came home full-time after that, nor experienced the childhood many other teens get to. His father handled most of the travel with David, while Lupe stayed home with their other kids. And the rest of the world watched as David took bold actions that affirmed his faith—he served a mission in South America. After he returned, Lupe says, “I saw David praying the gay away—he was so righteous. I thought he’d be a general authority or something, he was so obedient and dedicated. He’d stay in a white shirt and tie on Sundays, listening to conference talks. And he was put on a pedestal by the church, like a posterchild.”

Lupe and her first husband divorced, yet she remained devoted to visiting the temple every week for guidance. It was there while praying that God would send someone who understood her needs that a name clearly entered her mind: “Dave.” The next day, she felt a strong presence of love in her living room so overwhelming she started crying. She now wonders if that might have been a spiritual force nudging the union. Although they’d only been out a few times, Dave Bartholomew turned out to be the man she would marry, and later get sealed to in the Salt Lake City temple. With their blended family, they now enjoy time with nine children and 18 grandkids whom Lupe cherishes, saying, “The love I feel for them is so strong it hurts sometimes.” Lupe and Dave have been happily married for ten years, and she now sees how he’s the perfect person for her in all the ways as they have navigated this road together. She has watched some friends’ husbands leave them after calling them “apostates” when they underwent faith transitions, and she appreciates how Dave has stuck by her side.

When Lupe’s son David first called to tell her he was gay, she expressed how his family will always love him and be there for him. But as Lupe had recently increased her own activity in the church after being disappointed several of her family members had pulled away, she was in a place of determination to be the strong one, the example, the one to “gather my eternal family.” When her daughters stopped attending, she appreciates how they supported her still going but scoffed when one day her daughter said, “Have fun” as Lupe made her way out the door to church. Lupe thought, “I’m not going there to have fun! I’m going there to work and save others!” Resolved to keeping one foot in the door with the church and the other with her family, Lupe reasoned she could still love her child no matter what while also believing all the teachings of her faith. This resulted in several challenging conversations with her son as she tried to convince him to backpedal his announcement. She says, “I was struggling with it because in my mind, we needed to obey the prophet, and what the prophet says, goes. And I reminded him how the youth of the church look up to him and how was that going to work?... I worried all these kids would lose their testimonies, and was concerned for the youth if David stepped away and came out as gay.” 

Lupe says she encouraged him to try to work through things and figure out how to keep up with the thousands of people he’d been an example to. She recalls how when visiting home, he’d join her for church at her request, but eventually he expressed it was too painful to keep trying to show up. Around this time, Lupe started to notice things—how when she looked around her ward congregation, she did not see LGBTQ+ people in the crowd. While she had never been interested in delving into church history before, she learned some information that troubled her. While she had been planning to become a temple worker, she started to wonder how honestly she could answer some of the questions anymore as she deconstructed her faith.

And then David’s article in People magazine came out, which opened Lupe’s eyes to realize just how much her son was struggling “having been hurt so much, trying to take his life away, feeling it better to be dead than not be a good example or sinner.” The article that came out on November 1, 2022 shook Lupe, and on November 5 she wrote her bishop after having agreed to say prayers in sacrament meeting along with her husband, but now realizing she couldn’t do it emotionally (although she had always loved praying). She expressed:

“I’m writing this email with tears in my eyes because it hurts so much to make this decision… After careful thought, ponder and praying, we have decided that we’re going to step away from this lovely church and take a break. My family and I have worked so hard on callings, three of our kids served honorable missions and gave everything they had to preach the gospel to others. The reason why we need to take a moment away is because our wounded hearts need some time to heal from knowing not everyone is welcome in this church.”

Lupe’s letter continued to mention how church leadership at the highest level had made some off-putting comments to David that he found dismissive. She also included an excerpt from his interview with People magazine: "For my own mental health, I can't keep putting myself in a place where it's so conflicting where they say, ‘We love you so much, but at the same time, you must change who you are. Oh, you can't? Then we are going to ignore this problem’."

Lupe told her bishop, “It’s hard for us to believe that a loving Heavenly Father doesn’t welcome my son and others like him in this church if it feels to us they don’t fit the profile God's gospel needs to fit: rich and poor, white skin, dark skin, gays, lesbians, all need to be welcome. There are many of them who are beautiful and talented in the eyes of God, but they are not ‘worthy’ like we are.” Lupe then shared the parable in Matthew of the 99 sheep and how Christ always ministered to the one who “went astray.” The Bartholomew’s bishop replied respectfully, letting Lupe and Dave know they were needed and would be missed, but he respected their choice.

Since, Lupe has said her South Jordan, UT community still smiles and waves, yet respects their space and does not pressure them to attend church. Lupe loves teaching voice lessons at the Lupe Bartholomew Vocal Studio, spending time with her husband, and full time grand-motherhood. She tried to attend another church in Draper, but found they had similar views on LGBTQ and concluded, “If everyone is going to be talking about how LGBTQ don’t belong in the church, I don’t want religion in my life. I just want to love my family and move on.” In her deconstruction, she has learned how the Bible was mistranslated in some parts to conflate homosexuality with child abusers and says, “The poor LGBTQ community has been criticized for a misunderstanding. Now that I know LGBTQ people are the most wonderful, caring, fragile, loving and beautiful people, it breaks my heart. David hasn’t changed, he’s always been the same sweet spirit I raised. I know there’s a God and these kids are going to keep coming, like it or not. I now have talks with my nine-year-old grandchild about how these people need to be loved, not bullied. As parents, we need to train our next generation to be more loving.”

Lupe was touched when she received a box of supportive letters from the Mama Dragons after David came out. Together, they went through them and were moved by the outpouring of love. Lupe has enjoyed finding a new community of like-minded mothers who love their kids and prioritize their mental health above all else. Having been on both sides, she says she now sees and understands a variety of perspectives: the faithful side and the ex-Mormon community who often get criticized or called lazy learners or apostates. But Lupe says, “If you’ve never gone through a faith transition, you never know how hard it is. It’s not like you wake up one day and think ok, I want a different life! I’m still the same person. I used to be critical; now I’m not. I read stories of people not talking to their family because they left church. We don’t do that; we still need to be a family, united.”

Of inspiring David’s new song, “Hell Together,” Lupe recalls how David once told her, “When I sang the hymns for the church and did all the things for the church, I meant it.” She says, “I knew my child was not below me because I was staying in a church, so sarcastically, I said, ‘David if you’re going to hell, we’re all going with you.’ I can’t picture my kids in a lower place than me. How can I be higher than them? So I said, ‘We’re walking out with grace.’ That song made me cry when I heard it. He couldn’t have written a more perfect song to describe it. There’s no way I’ll be in a higher glory than my child. He did nothing wrong but shared that he was gay and wants to live an honest life. And he’s ready to move on, and now everyone knows.” 

EVIE MECHAM

Emma “Evie” Mecham laughs that she grew up in a one gas station-town, as in, there was nothing else to do besides go to the gas station. In Firth, Idaho, official population of 539, there were no restaurants, no Walmart, just that fuel pump and a couple mechanic shops. “Most of the parents were farmers or teachers. For entertainment, kids mostly just hung out with their friends.” Though Evie recalls that if she went to her friend’s house, “We’d usually have to help her dad by moving pipe before we could do anything fun.” Students from small neighboring towns melded in to complete Evie’s graduating high school class of 51 students, and her father, a former teacher and librarian, is now the principal of an elementary school of about 250 kids. Yet Evie praises the strong library system and athletic programs of her youth as foundational. She grew up reading, which likely led to her love for writing poetry and other creative writing projects (IG: @theknownpast). When her history teacher begged her to join the varsity soccer team he coached her senior year because they needed a goalie, Evie agreed to do it as long as he didn’t make her run. Holding true to his word, Evie didn’t have to do extra running and says, “We lost every single game, but we had a lot of fun.”

Her home life was somewhat quiet, with her only sibling a brother eight years her senior, so Evie often felt like an only child. He now lives with his wife and four kids about ten minutes away from her parents in Firth. Growing up, it was a joke that Evie was always a lot more like her dad, while her brother was more similar to their mom. Evie loves her family, and says they are always learning how to try to understand each other better, even as Evie has recently come out as gay. In turn, she knows her family loves her and says, “Everything good about me came from my parents.” (Including her nickname “Evie,” a hybrid of her grandmothers’ names Emma and Virginia).

Firth was also a town with a predominant LDS population and conservative mindset—one in which people did not speak of gay people often or with affection. Evie deduces that that, coupled with body image perception and feeling like “not many people pursued me romantically anyway,” led to her putting a pin into coming to terms with her sexual orientation until adulthood. She says, “If you told me I was anything other than straight in high school, I’d have been like, ‘What? I like guys too much.’ And it’s true—but I really like guys as friends--you know, hanging out with guys. But I don’t want to kiss them, or do anything more with them. Romantically, sexually, they’re not my thing.” Since coming out, Evie has found her relationships with her male friends have become more relaxed and fulfilling, simply because the pressure to be anything more than friends has been removed. 

Her upbringing also afforded Evie leadership and speaking opportunities in Family Career Community Leaders of America, where she would do Eagle-scout scale projects, one being to design an incentivized reading program for children with the participation of the fire department. “I had a great FCCLA advisor who took this weird little freshman and turned her into a state champ and national runner up.” Evie had always dreamed of attending BYU in Provo, Utah and was accepted—four times, to be exact. She went straight out of high school, but some mental health struggles and other “weird stuff that got in the way of being able to attend” happened, including the pandemic, leading to a start-stop path that required she reapply four times, but, “each time, I got in!” Evie turns 26 in May, and is now “taking it slow” studying psychology at UVU, where she has also loved working in the mental health training clinic for the past two years. She’s also active in her LDS ward, and considers her inherent belief in God and natural faithful mindset a spiritual gift. Evie says, “When I get frustrated with church things, I think ‘Ok, let’s say I left tomorrow, what would I do?’ I’d still be a Christian. I can’t deny God is real; I’ve had experiences with Him. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints makes the most sense logically to me within the framework of God being real… He’s all loving beyond what we know. My least favorite person is probably still going to heaven, and I love that. I have a strong testimony of God’s love.” Being a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is a core part of Evie’s identity.

Evie loves the world religions class she is taking, and says if she weren’t LDS, she might want to study Islam, as she’s fascinated by other devout religious lifestyles. She feels, “It’s beautiful to believe in something, even if it’s not the same thing I believe in. I think it’s a sign of integrity to believe in whatever it is you do and to be earnest on that journey.” Evie is considering becoming a chaplain, as she finds the relationship between religion and psychology to be so powerful. She has appreciated having kind leaders in her faith who have shown her love and support. She’s come out to two separate bishops while in college, one by accident after “the Holy Ghost snitched first,” the bishop concurring he already knew. That bishop then called her to teach Relief Society, where she has also felt impressed upon occasion to share her real experiences. That bishop went on to become her current stake president, and Evie has offered herself as a resource to her new bishop, with the caveat, “I don’t rep all gay people ever, but if you have a question about the queer stuff, let me know, and I’ll try my best to help” Evie is the first to recognize it can be new territory for some.

While in college, Evie started to wonder if she might be asexual. “I would think, if I don’t like guys, maybe I don’t like anyone,” wondering if in her vast love of music, this might be why she had never connected with love songs. But at the end of 2022, she was attending an activity and hanging out with a girl from her ward, and recalls, “It sank over me—this is something different. This is someone who I want to be more than friends with. This is a CRUSH! It rocked my world. I wanted to be with her, and not just in a lusting after her body way, like we try to boil attraction down to. She was so cool and funny. I’d met guys I thought were cool and funny, but this was an attraction.” Evie says it had never clicked mentally before, but now that it did, she didn’t know what to do about it. It took Evie a long time to approach the topic with God, assuming if she prayed about it, she’d hear a response like, “You’re not gay, pull it together, go date men.” It took some time for her to work up the nerve, but one day she allowed herself to read her patriarchal blessing through the lens of being gay. She says, “When I did, it was like holy cow, everything fit into place and made so much sense.” She finally felt ready to pray and asked, “Hey Heavenly Father, did you know I’m gay? I am.” She immediately felt a response: “Of course I knew. I knew before you did.” Evie then describes feeling overwhelming love, and then a sense of, “Ok, now you know we’re on the same page, let’s get to work. Let’s do this thing.” Evie credits this as being one of her biggest catalysts for spiritual growth, because she no longer had to hide anything from God, realizing He knew since even before she was 13 and got her patriarchal blessing. “He knows, and that’s the point—He did this intentionally.” 

Recognizing there are a lot of lessons to be learned on her journey, Evie says her path is “sometimes lonely, and sometimes good.” But she believes there is good to come. Since coming out on social media in January, she says she hasn’t had any big negative experiences, “no ‘you’re going to hell’ sliding into my dm’s, no slurs.” But she says the sense of loneliness she feels might partly come from the difficulty of people assuming that once you come out, “it’s going to be all rainbows and then I leave the church… I don’t want it to seem I’m like white knuckling it by trying to stay in a church and posting all the time about it. I don’t think anyone cares or thinks about it a ton, but I do. My religious identity is a huge part of me, and I don’t ever want it to come across as if I’m being fake or dishonest about what I believe in, just because I’m gay.” Evie continues, “I haven’t yet found a community where I feel my devoutness to both church and my gayness are fully embraced and loved and understood the way I would like it to be. I haven’t found a place where both are well-held and balanced yet, except with maybe my therapist.” Evie loves that her LDS therapist has been both faith-affirming while also helping her explore her sexuality in a healthy way.  

Regarding relationships, Evie says, “I’d love to explore going on dates with someone I’m attracted to, but I’m taking it one day at a time… I probably need to work more on myself now before I could consider really going on dates. I’m not sure I’d be a great girlfriend right now.” She also expresses that she wishes it didn’t have to be such a big conflict over whether she dates or not. She says, “I wish downloading a dating app wasn’t a huge deal… It’s hard in the church regarding mental health… I don’t know if people understand this is a wrestle every queer member of the church has had to deal with: do I want to live gay or die straight?” Evie says while her mental health in other areas has improved over time, “In relation to the gay stuff, it’s gotten worse.” Upon contemplating the teaching in the temple that it’s not good to be alone, she’s had to consider whether that means friendship or a relationship for her, and “What’s the bigger sin? Dating a woman or killing myself? Thankfully, we don’t view suicide as a terrible, taboo sin anymore, but it’s still obviously not the choice our Heavenly Parents want us to make. I’ve read the church handbook in these sections over and over, and I have thought, if I took my life, I could be buried in my temple clothes, and if I married a woman and passed away peacefully, I couldn’t, which is hard because the temple means a lot to me. It’s a very real wrestle I’m not sure others understand.” 

As she considers her own future, Evie often turns to poetry and music to navigate her thoughts. Her favorite “informal love language” is making playlists for people. Evie loves all genres of music (she’s even starting to warm up to country), and is excited about her concert tickets to Hans Zimmer’s upcoming North American tour. A Twenty One Pilots concert is also on the horizon, and always a favorite. As Evie contemplates the heavier questions of her future, she’s reminded, in the words of Twenty One Pilots, “Life has a hopeful undertone.”

AUSTIN PETERSON

Austin Peterson’s Spanish Fork, UT upbringing was one in which he believed what he was taught, and he often faked what he didn’t feel to fit in with the other guys who surrounded him. He convinced himself that the draw he felt toward some of his male peers in middle and high school was presumably because he was envious of them. When friends would ask which of two actresses was worthy of celebrity crush status, Austin would respond, “They’re both fine.” 

After high school, Austin did all the things expected of him and more. He went on an English-speaking mission to Accra, Ghana, where he also learned various tribal dialects and ASL. Always a top student, he graduated from BYU in linguistics and also studied for a year in Germany. A few years ago, he was on a Terryl Givens kick, reading all of his and Fiona Givens’ books. One day, Austin tuned in to listen to Terryl being interviewed on Charlie Bird and Ben Schilaty’s “Questions from the Closet” podcast. This opened a whole new dimension for him. One podcast turned into a binge fest in which Austin turned up the volume and his inner awareness as he heard the anecdotes of two active LDS, gay men who had experienced many of the same thoughts and feelings Austin had always pushed away. Austin recalls, “Theirs aligned so closely to my experiences, I felt like they were reading them.” But Austin had always believed being gay was a choice, and since he had not “chosen” to be gay, therefore, he couldn’t be.

As time passed, Austin crossed paths with Ben on several occasions as they shared mutual friends. One night they ended up at the same movie night. Ben made a comment about the attractiveness of one of the male actors, and it shook Austin. After stewing awhile, he reached out to Ben, and over lunch on BYU campus, at age 26, Austin came out for the first time ever--to Ben. Shortly after, Ben linked Austin with a friend who was also queer and looking for a place to stay, and Austin’s new roommate became the second person he ever confided in.

Austin recalls, “Gradually, I became more comfortable in my own skin and with queerness in general, and I began to let more people into my life.” He had already built a close friend network of those who would be supportive, and they were. Austin’s younger brother is gay and had been out for about ten years, so Austin found his family to be both comfortable with and supportive of his news. Austin felt a bit more anxious, though, about opening up to his ward, as he had recently been called in by the entire stake presidency and asked to serve as second counselor in the bishopric. At the time of that interview, he did not feel ready yet to share he was gay, but a few months later, when it was his turn to conduct December’s fast and testimony meeting, Austin felt compelled to open up to the ward family he loved all at once rather than in multiple phases. At the podium, he shared how difficult it was for him when some people say “the gospel is not a buffet where you can pick and choose what works for you,” because “being a gay member of the church, some of the doctrines don’t fit with me as a person.” An avid scriptorian who hosted a weekly Genesis study night, Austin continued to share how much he loved the story of Enoch in the Pearl of Great Price in which God weeps and switches the two great commandments to emphasize the need for people to choose to love. Austin concluded his remarks by saying that was his priority and the “one thing I know.” 

After that meeting, some complaint calls were made by ward members, with one stating he should no longer be allowed to work with children and youth, and another saying, “I don’t know if I need to talk to the bishop or stake president, but this needs to be fixed.” Luckily, Austin’s entire bishopric were good friends who knew him well and proved fully supportive. The executive secretary, a close friend, conferred with his own kids and the deacon’s quorum with which Austin had served to make sure none of them had a problem with Austin continuing to serve. No one did.

A member of the stake presidency had been on the stand when Austin came out. At the next quarterly stake leadership training meeting, Austin’s Orem stake president took some time to pass along several teachings he had apparently heard at a training with some general authorities that advised that any youth who identified as trans needed to be visited by their bishopric so they could read the Family Proclamation together in their living room. The next month, Austin filled in for the bishop at a meeting with the stake president who again spent 45 minutes belaboring the point that youth identifying as bi or trans should not be believed, and that the statistics of increased mental health risks and suicide rates for LGBTQ+ youth were false. He continued to say youth identifying as trans should not participate in any gender specific activities or the temple unless they were presenting as the sex assigned at birth. His final counsel was that the handbook would clarify anything else, making “difficult things no longer difficult,” and that “no blessing would be denied to those keeping their covenants.” Austin walked away feeling this was pretty heavy counsel to give to those identifying as LGBTQ+.

Shortly after, Austin found himself falling into a depression. For several weeks, he struggled to sleep, focus, or fulfill his work duties as a business analyst. In questioning the source of his emotions, he traced their timing to the training with the stake president. He had loved working with the youth in the church and serving as an advisor capable of planning a night of activities like crab soccer for fun and fellowship while also giving advice about school and how to build healthy connections. Austin weighed how leaving the church would hurt his abilities to make a meaningful impact, but also knew it’d be painful to stay. “It was a balancing act to determine which would hurt more,” he says. “As long as it hurt more to leave, I chose to stay.”

And then, he attended another devotional. Last June, thousands of YSA around the globe tuned in to hear the counsel of President Dallin H. Oaks and his second wife, Kristen Oaks. In the discussion, President Oaks spent the first half praising all things marriage, young marriage, and the happiness that comes through marriage. He then pivoted to direct the second half of his remarks to expressing the need to “love” and “respect” LGBTQ+ people, while using us vs. them language and reading a letter by a young adult woman that Austin felt painfully othered the LGBTQ community in a way in which many likely left feeling the overall message was, “You can only find happiness in marriage, but if you’re gay, it’s not for you.” 

Austin had already witnessed the fallout from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s “musket talk,” one delivered at a time in which he was still closeted but observed several friends express their hurt and extend comfort to each other. But after President Oaks’ YSA address, in the mental state he was in, Austin decided he just couldn’t do it anymore. It was a difficult choice to leave the church, as he had been looking forward to serving as an FSY counselor again that summer, something he had enjoyed doing the year prior. But Austin considered how as a member of a bishopric, one has to maintain a temple recommend which includes sustaining church leaders. While he was able to rationalize how sustaining can mean wanting the best for a leader or being willing to hear and obey them, Austin decided he was no longer ok with anyone believing he sustains some of the harmful rhetoric that was shared.  As his recommend was up for renewal that month, Austin quietly let his bishop know, without getting into too many specifics, that he would need to find a replacement, as much as he had loved serving in his ward.

Austin also requested a meeting with his new stake president just to let him know how damaging his predecessor’s words had been. As Austin had at that time been volunteering behind the scenes fielding the emails for the “Questions from the Closet” podcast for about a year, he was able to share widespread feedback and best practices. The new stake president took notes from their conversation, asked follow-up questions, and proved to be “amazing.” Austin respects how that stake president took a proactive rather than reactive approach to LGBTQ+ issues, preparing himself for what might come so he could be a positive support to future young people like Austin craving spiritual support. A couple weeks later, the stake president honored Austin’s wishes and released him. Austin was wrapping up his final month of conducting and assigning speakers and musical numbers and now jokes that “because I can be dramatic,” he scheduled himself to play the same piano medley he had played at his mission farewell, a medley of “Consider the Lilies” and “God Be with You ‘Til We Meet Again.”

After Austin’s release and stepping away from the church, he still honored the arrangement for the youth to use his apartment’s pool, and he still regularly goes to lunch or dinner with friends from the bishopric. He also still teaches piano lessons on the side to several youth and adult ward members, with whom he has remained friendly. While Austin says he once spent a lot of time in councils trying to dissuade people from leaving or “calling in lost sheep,” he is now more a proponent of the mindset that if people want to leave, it’s good to give them the freedom to do so, knowing their ward will be there for them if they decide to come back.

Anticipating his first Sunday home to be difficult, Austin arranged to go on a long bike ride around town to distract himself. But he was surprised to see that for the first time in months, he didn’t feel angst and he was able to gently move on, just enjoying nature. He also enjoys skiing, pickleball, binging “bad teen dramas like Vampire Diaries, Teen Wolf, and other shows unrealistically cast with 30-year-olds,” and he occasionally gets on Minecraft. At 28, while he’s dated a few guys, he’s mostly just gone on a bunch of first dates and considers himself “single and open.” And now, when asked what advice he’d give his younger self, Austin marvels at the capability some young people have to be open and allow themselves to actually consider their options and choose their own beliefs. He remembers once being shocked to hear someone say he believed gay people should be able to get married in the temple. He thought, “You can believe that? We’re allowed to think outside what we’ve been taught?” 

As a youth, Austin had never entertained the mindset the church might not be true. It was a seismic shift for Austin when he finally came to terms with being gay and considering his options to either “do everything the church teaches and die a little each week with no relationship, or die and marry a woman and have offspring for eternity, or be gifted to one of those people as a servant.” He rationalized then that, “If the church was true, I could do the alternative of living by my own values and choosing the life I want, then die and go to the telestial kingdom with the rest of the gays and have a party. For me, with the church’s Plan of Salvation, it still felt better for me to leave than subscribe to it if it was true.” A long-time historian who once considered majoring in ancient studies, Austin is now enjoying this period of open-minded discovery--of studying and respecting others’ beliefs. Of learning to form his own opinions and trust his own path.

TOM CHRISTOFFERSON

Tom Christofferson deems it a good day if he can take out his bike for a long ride in the Phoenix, Arizona sun, the place he has called home for the past six years. “The older I get, the more I need that dose of sunshine,” he laughs. Tom also enjoys travel, reading, cooking, writing, time with friends and family, and is a great conversation partner when it comes to Oscar-nominated movies and binge-worthy TV shows. He deems it a cinematic success if a film or show keeps you thinking about it two or three days later. (For instance, he found “The Chosen” episode on forgiveness centered on Peter and Matthew to be profound, and the portrayal of Mary and Martha choosing the better part “pitch perfect.”) His viewing repertoire has also contributed to his original nickname for his current ward, “The Schitt’s Creek Ward,” referencing its eclectic mix of people all trying to get along and see the good in each other has become “The Zion Ward of the Phoenix East Stake. Tom’s journey in the church has been as long and circuitous as some of his bike trails, but right now, he says he wholeheartedly belongs to “The Church of Jesus Christ of the Gateway Ward—because it really is a true and living church of people who care for and care about each other.”

This is a ward that notices if Tom misses a week showing up. A place where he teaches Sunday School, and where he appreciates how a variety of opinions can be safely shared and grace freely given when comments might not always land as desired. He says it’s the kind of ward where people send a “missed you today” text and they mean it, a gesture he appreciates. While he credits many friends and family members who help keep his life full, Tom says, “In my life, which can feel lonely at times being here by myself, that makes a difference, and helps when dating is awful and unproductive.” 

Stepping back into the dating world has been a more recent choice for Tom, who after having a partner for nearly two decades, had taken a long hiatus from relationships after he decided to get rebaptized and reevaluate what the right path might be for a gay man seeking full church activity. But he has found the current dating world to be one that makes it more difficult to maintain a temple recommend with its requisite “Do you keep the law of chastity?” adherence. Tom says, “The current ethos seems to be that ‘I need to find out if we’re sexually compatible, so I know if it’s worth spending time to get to know you.’ It may be the same for my straight, single friends, too. But that’s the opposite of what I was used to, where that was the icing on the cake, but not the cake. That would come farther down the line for me—after I determine if this is someone who’s heart, mind, and soul I’d want to know deeply.” 

While Tom says he’s met a lot of nice guys, “It can get old fast reciting your life story and feeling like you’re auditioning.” He’s given up on the dating apps and prefers to meet someone “in real life. If it happens, it happens.” For now, he acknowledges with feet in two camps, “It can be really uncomfortable to straddle the divide of being gay and dating while also being LDS and active. I want both in my life, though maybe 100% at all times may not be possible. Part of my journey is finding my own path.” Tom, who has enjoyed a long and fulfilling career in institutional investing, laughs that he does indeed have a “shopping list” and is grateful for referrals of potential partners. On his wishlist? Tom would love to find someone who is kind, has a sense of humor, is smart, a good kisser, and is a friend of Jesus, though he has broadened his dating pool to also include some Muslim and Jewish men and respects how they also value religion. Basically, Tom would like to find someone who would welcome praying together as an important part of a deepening relationship.

The decision to wade back into dating is of course always personal, though it’s garnered some chatter in Tom’s world as he is the brother of LDS apostle, Elder D. Todd Christofferson, and famously penned two books with Deseret (That We May Be One: A Gay Mormon’s Perspective on Faith and Family and A Better Heart: The Impact of Christ’s Pure Love). While Tom concurs he owed no one an explanation, before he posted publicly on Facebook a couple years ago about his decision to reenter the dating world, he first consulted with his brothers and some local leaders. The predominate feedback was to take it slow and be cautious. The message he was most grateful to receive was, “The Lord trusts you, and so do I.” From various conversations, Tom appreciated the takeaway that all learning can be consecrated for our good and Tom believes that we should “counsel with the Lord to seek correction as well as direction.” He also loved how one of his local leaders offered, “Tom, you know the temple recommend questions as well as I do. I can’t answer all your questions, though I wish I could. I don’t know how this all turns out, but I love you and care about you, and am here for you whenever you think I can help.”

Similar sentiments once expressed by a New Canaan, Connecticut bishop are what first welcomed Tom back to church after he’d initially stepped away decades earlier. While he first sensed he was “different” around the age of five, Tom didn’t have the language to understand he was gay until age 12. Raised in a faithful LDS home, he followed the common prescribed path in the 1980s and plea bargained with God through prayer, went on a mission, attended BYU, and married a woman in the temple, thinking at some point, these “righteous” actions would surely drive away even the notion of being gay. But when his parents questioned why his very short marriage was being annulled, Tom simply responded, “Well, I guess it’s because I’m gay.” Shortly after, Tom requested to be excommunicated, a more routine practice at the time, feeling he couldn’t reconcile his homosexuality with his membership in the Church. Of that time, Tom says he didn’t leave the church because he didn’t believe in it, but because he couldn’t see any place for him to live his life in it.

Some years later, Tom found a loving partner who was embraced by both his family and that New Canaan ward they both eventually started attending until the church’s actions around Prop 8 caused Tom’s partner to question whether the perceived loving behavior of their LDS friends was genuine. Yet Tom’s parents perfectly modeled how to set a tone of love and inclusion in their home, when his mother gathered Tom’s family members around and said, “I’ve realized that there is no perfect family, but we can be perfect in our love for each other… The most important lesson your kids will learn from the way that our family treats their Uncle Tom is that nothing they can ever do will take them outside the circle of our family’s love.” Tom’s parents continued to honor his partnership, offering them a room upon visits home, and the two joined the rest of the brothers and their wives at many a live General Conference sessions, including the one in which Tom’s brother became an apostle. When the exclusion policy of 2015 was announced, Elder Christofferson expressed to Tom that he would understand if Tom felt a need to distance himself from him, but Tom returned his mother’s unconditional love and said, “You have never distanced yourself from me, and I’m sure it hasn’t always been comfortable for you. I’m not going to back away from you in any way.” 

Around 2007, Tom became more involved in the church, choosing to get rebaptized in 2014 with his partner’s support, although this did later contribute to the heartbreaking end of a 19-year relationship. Tom recalls, “He had reason to feel I had chosen the Church over him, and yet he was willing to support my decision despite its cost in his life. I can think of no higher tribute to pay to his selflessness and love.”

Tom also credits his parents as the template of Christlike people who listen to, trust and support their child and keep the lines of communication open. He says, “If I’d felt my parents knew all the answers and would be unhappy until I had come to the exact same answers, I would have felt less inclined to counsel with them… The way is to act and not be acted upon. My parents were always loving, engaged, and full of grace, like our Heavenly Parents—which we feel whenever we’re willing to turn to them.”

Very much aware of the friction at the LDS-LGBTQ+ intersection, Tom says at least one reason for the Atonement was so Christ could know all the experiences we would have and could succor and be with us in our journeys. In turn, Tom says, “Allowing ourselves to rub against the rough edges of each other is painful, even hurtful, but if we can allow it, the experience can also help us to see the pain of others that drives their behavior.  That understanding can, hopefully, be consecrated to greater empathy for those with whom we assume we have little in common. which might build bridges of understanding and unity.” At the same time, Tom recognizes the reality of the experience in his own life, and for others as well, in allowing yourself space or distance as needed from places or situations in order to rebuild strength and peace. Those experiences, too, he feels, can be used by the Lord to teach us how to share the journey, and the wounds, of those around us. 

When it was proposed by a friend that he apply for the VP of Inclusion role at BYU several years back—a university whose students he loves but grounds he can’t help but feel uncomfortable on after the dissonance he experienced as a student there in the 80’s, Tom thought “Not me, it should be someone with a deep love of the institution.” Yet, Tom says he can still appreciate the work being done there as an institution of higher learning, and tries to lend his voice when he can, if it might be helpful. After the “musket fire” talk given at BYU in 2021, Tom joined Patrick Mason on a powerful Faith Matters podcast to express why some of the words shared were so painful for so many in his community. While Tom has long loved and deeply admires the speaker of that message as one with “a magnificent heart and mind who has worn out his life serving the Lord,” he is quick to wish the speech could be allowed to recede into history. Tom says, “I hope we all can keep focusing on ways to frame our desire for unity in a way that engages everyone, which I think was the ultimate intent of that address.” 

Tom is the first to recognize his path is not a prescription for anyone else’s, and never wants to impose the direction he’s feeling as the right way for anyone else. He is cautious about certainty, and careful to acknowledge his belief that personal revelation is “what God says to me at this time about my life,” and carefully adheres to his own three rules for inspiration: 1) Don’t tell the Lord what He must say, 2) Don’t tell the Lord what He can’t say, and 3) Keep to myself about what He does say. “My prayer is always that the Lord will help me to have a mind and heart ready to accept anything he’s going to say. As the body of Christ, we can all approach it that way, seeking more light and knowledge, but I’m not the one to tell Him how to do it.” Tom says, “This ‘I’m not finished yet’ is not just a statement about this life; I suspect it’s eternal.” Tom loves Holy Week and the chance to think about the events that took place each day. He says, “When I consider the triumphal entry a week later followed by the crucifixion and resurrection, there are peaks and valleys in my life, too, and I love that feeling of connection to Him. I know I don’t understand all He’s trying to teach me. But I love Easter and the new beginnings we get every Sunday with the Sacrament, and every morning with prayer.” Tom expresses gratitude for those who allow his journey to continue, never assuming the story is finished. “That’s what makes life interesting. We’re not static and never finished, and that is what gives me the greatest hope for eternal progression. I can’t imagine we would ever want to stop growing.” 

JAMEE MITCHELL

**CONTENT WARNING: suicide attempt / suicide ideation**

Several years ago, Jamee Mitchell stumbled upon the wedding video from her first marriage. Someone watching the video told her that, “Your body language clearly indicates that you didn’t want to be there.” And most would agree, Jamee looked quite different back then. Jamee was raised and known for most of her life as James, the son of an active LDS family with deep pioneer roots in Bountiful, Utah. From her earliest memory, Jamee felt different, but didn’t have the vocabulary to define the way she felt.  Her family was amused that she played dress-up and loved pink until these things were no longer considered age-appropriate.  Her parents took her to a church therapist at age 11 where she was told that if she would serve God faithfully, that “it would all work out.” 

Despite her misgivings, Jamee worked hard to do everything right and was eventually called to serve a mission to the Philippines. The mission was her first exposure to a culture that experienced gender differently—in the Tagalog language, there are very few gender pronouns. People have a child, not a daughter or a son. People have a spouse, not a husband or a wife. Jamee says, “I loved their beautiful language and how reflective it is of the culture.” While Jamee had no experience in accounting, her mission president called her as mission financial secretary, a rare assignment for a young elder. But this is where Jamee learned the accounting skills that would become her trade as an enrolled agent who now owns her own accounting firm, The Tax Company, in St. George, Utah.

After returning from her mission, Jamee continued her education in accounting. She mostly avoided dating but enjoyed attending institute activities. It was at one such activity that she met a kind but strong-willed girl who seemed determined to get married. That girl later wrote about the experience, “James seemed like the happiest and most carefree person I’d ever met. I wanted to find a way to date him. He had everything I was looking for!”

When the topic of marriage came up a few short weeks later, Jamee succumbed to societal pressures. She regrets not telling her first wife about her gender dysphoria until about a month after their wedding, thinking those feelings would go away. That announcement was understandably difficult, but they decided to stay together and try to work things out. Jamee finished school and they moved to St George, Utah where they began couple’s therapy. When that didn’t help, Jamee decided to throw herself into a life of work, church, and community service, and ignore the feelings she’d been experiencing all her life. Jamee served in the church, became a delegate for the Republican party, president of their HOA, and started her own business.  

Living in St. George, the marathon was in Jamee’s backyard, and she had a visceral reaction her first time watching a friend cross the finish line. Jamee poured her sorrow into the distraction of running race after race, which over the years included close to 60 marathons, several ultra-marathons and even a full Ironman triathlon. One year, Jamee took on the challenge to run all six Utah marathons in the same year. A few years later, she did the St. George Marathon twice in one day, running from the finish line to the start and back again.  She says, “I would run until the physical pain outweighed the emotional pain.” Her spouse hated the runs, and Jamee admits she neglected her spousal and parenting duties as running became her drug.  

This led to a marital separation in 2010 which was kept secret from everyone, including the kids.  In an effort to save the marriage, Jamee enrolled herself into conversion therapy which “was horrible.”  And it didn’t work, to which Jamee adds, “The success rate is negligible, if at all.” Jamee had always been a fun-loving person, but the impossible challenge of changing an unchangeable part of herself led to her wanting to take her own life.  

On one occasion she pulled her car into the garage and closed the door with the engine still on. While waiting for the end to come, she got a voice message from a friend who said, “I’m not sure why I’m calling you, but I feel inspired to let you know that you are a special person and that I care about you.” Jamee says, “To this day, I don’t think he knows that he literally saved my life.”

After that experience, Jamee received a priesthood blessing from her stake president. The takeaway was that the sin was not in being trans, but in harboring shame. Jamee felt the impression that, “You didn’t do anything wrong by being trans, but what you did wrong was to hide your struggle. Stop fighting it.”  Shortly thereafter, Jamee’s first marriage dissolved in a bitter divorce. With four kids including three teenage boys still living at home, Jamee did not want to transition while the kids were still in high school. Instead, she got involved with North Star, where she was able to be more able to be herself and focus on her children without transitioning.  

All of that changed in 2016 when Jamee was training for the Wasatch 100-mile endurance run.  She dislocated her hip and just like that, her coping mechanism was gone. Within a year she made the decision to start hormone replacement therapy (HRT). The changes were gradual, and Jamee began presenting more and more as female. 

Jamee’s legal name change came about once it became awkward to go to the doctor or bank and people questioned her ID. Once, she got pulled over by a police officer who looked at her driver’s license and said, “I take it you don’t go by James anymore?” Originally, Jamee had chosen a different female name for herself but as she started presenting as female, her friends just naturally started calling her Jamee. The unusual spelling is Jamee’s way of honoring her mother who was always proud of her firstborn’s given name. By keeping as much of the original name as possible, it gave homage to her parents. When Jamee was younger, she was never close with her mother, but now she says they’ve become remarkably close. Her dad still struggles, as do her brothers. At their last family gathering, Jamee was able to forge a bond by talking about cars with her brothers, who softened a little. Jamee reasons that, “It took me over 40 years to accept myself. If it takes 40 years for them, I need to give them that grace.” 

Jamee remains very close with her best friend and sister, Jenny, who she once played dress up with, donning their grandma Arlene’s dresses as young children. Jamee loved her grandmother and later took her name as her middle name (instead of keeping her grandfather’s), feeling Arlene would have affirmed her and loved that honor. When Jamee turned seven or eight, she was told she could no longer dress up and do fashion shows in her grandmother’s closet. She didn’t understand why. Over this last Christmas break, Jamee teased Jenny for not having picked up on her gender dysphoria back in high school, saying, “How could you not have known? I worked at a formal-wear shop, had big curly hair, and was so effeminate.” After Jamee’s Grandma Arlene died, her jewelry was divvied out to her granddaughters, but being pre-transition, Jamee didn’t receive any.  Once Jamee came out, Jenny brought over a care package for Jamee with some of Arlene’s jewelry as a gift, which Jamee says meant the world to her.

Three of Jamee’s four children still do not affirm or talk to her, but one is supportive. Her 26-year-old son who has autism lives with Jamee, identifies as gay, and is dating a trans man and is best friends with a trans woman. As this friend struggles to afford affirming care, Jamee says she uses her privilege (having had the funds to pay for medical procedures and the ability to change her name and gender markers on her birth certificate) to help people newer and less supported in their journeys.

A few years back, Jamee reconnected with a friend from high school named Susan Tolman. Susan showed interest in dating. It broke Jamee’s heart to have to tell her that she was trans and wasn’t attracted to girls. Jamee cried for about an hour over the second round of lost love until, to her credit, Susan said, “I don’t love the outside, I love the inside.” Shortly afterward, Jamee went to lunch with a friend who is the parent of a trans child and explained to Jamee she was likely pansexual, saying, “You love hearts, not parts.” Jamee now concludes, “If you have to put a label on me, that’s probably it.” While neither Jamee or Susan identify as gay (both say they’ll turn heads at an attractive man), Jamee says Susan is her best friend and they both realized “certain things are just better when you’re married.” At their wedding on 4/20/2020, Jamee says she “let Susan be the bride” as she had never been married before. Jamee presented as male at the ceremony but wore a black dress in some of their photos.  The two love to laugh and have fun together.  When Susan frets over her looks, Jamee jokes, “As long as you’re with me, honey, no one’s going to be looking at you!”  

After spending decades building her tax business in St. George, Jamee feared she might lose clients after transitioning, but was pleasantly surprised when only four out of thousands of clients left. Her whole office staff still supports her as senior partner.  She laughs, “I’m the girl boss, and I know this because no one listens to me.” Jamee does work hard to make her voice heard in her board role with Pride of Southern Utah. As a still active member of the LDS church, she acknowledges her presence as a trans woman makes some members feel uncomfortable at church; and her involvement in church makes some members of the PRIDE community challenge her loyalty. Jamee says she is an equal opportunity offender and that’s how she knows she is on the right path.  Her relationship with the church is much like being presented with a form asking if you’re married or single. Her best answer: “It’s complicated.” 

As someone who has served in bishoprics and stake presidencies, Jamee believes there is much room for change in the church—though it may take decades. To the “haters on the right and left who say, ‘God doesn’t change,’ I ask if they’ve ever heard of baptism for the healing of the sick?” (An ordinance that was performed in temples until around 1922, in which sick members were dunked in the baptismal font until the church learned about the sharing of germs and discontinued the process.) “To say the church will never accept gay or trans members--I can’t rule that out.”

Jamee recognizes the need to “be patient with others’ reactions and beliefs as we recognize experiences don’t have to be wrong or bad, just because they’re different from our own. Why do we have to have a mold? How shameful is it that there is a mold in the first place? Can we not have diversity? God made lots of different colors and types of people. Why are we trying so hard to homogenize?”

Recently, Jamee was a guest on the podcast of St. George’s ultra conservative city council member, Michelle Tanner, and both were surprised by the amount of backlash they each received from both sides for talking with someone with such different views. One of their interchanges included Michelle saying she doesn’t think people should have to honor trans individual’s preferred pronouns, to which Jamee replied, “Yeah, I could go around and call you Jerk Tanner but that would be rude, and I wouldn’t do that.” After the podcast aired, Jamee got comments from people on the far left accusing her of “being in bed with the enemy,” and notes that often, it is the allies and not LGBTQ+ people themselves who offer the harshest criticism.   There were also comments from the far right calling her to “repent and turn from sin.”  Much of the podcast episode was centered on Jamee and Michelle’s attempts to explain their respective sides, which was the goal of the episode and Jamee’s mission to try to listen better. Jamee appreciated when a prominent Utah politician assured her that “If you’re getting hate from both the left and the right, you’re probably on the right course.” Jamee says she’s strong enough to enter the fray, but there are many who aren’t, and she tries to do the outspoken work for them as much as possible, saying, “I’ve received so much grace—from my family, colleagues, coworkers.” 

One of Jamee’s closest friends and first allies was her secretary. “She pierced my ears after I came out,” Jamee gushes. Recently the two were talking about the phrase, “Be careful who you hate; it might be someone you love.” Jamee says they deduced, “Hate can be an unreliable weapon. It cannot be easily aimed. It can go all ‘Elmer Fudd’ on you real fast and you can end up blackening the face of someone you love and care about. Put that weapon away; never let it see the light of day.”

THE WRIGHT FAMILY

For the Wright family of St. George, Utah, last year was a magical time of dancing and dining amidst twinkling lights with two family weddings.  On September 8, Jancee and Jeff Wright’s oldest daughter, Tylee, married her favorite cowboy, Nate, under the stars on a friend’s ranch in Arizona with a backdrop of vermillion mountains. Nate wore his cowboy hat, there was lots of line dancing and a couple’s first dance to Chris Ledoux’s “Look at You, Girl,” and loads of laughter when, after Tylee’s grandfather pronounced them husband and wife and Nate leaned in for a kiss, he tripped on Tylee’s veil and “it looked like Nate was riding a bull,” laughs Jancee, as the couple fell down together, Nate’s hat dramatically landing in Jeff’s lap in the front row. The candy bar the couple requested at the reception was emblematic of “their sweet hearts and light-hearted personalities,“ says Jancee, who still glows when talking about it. 

A few months later, on December 30, many of the same partygoers donned black tie and traveled to Sandy, UT for the nuptials of the Wright’s oldest son, Jayden, to his fiancé, Connor, at Le Jardin greenhouse. The lush green plants alit in white lights, Connor’s dad married the couple in a “classy, beautiful and perfect” ceremony, before a crowd of 500 joined in at the reception to toast the couple with bottles of Martinelli’s placed on the tables.  Guests also enjoyed snacking on the grooms’ favorites: Chic-fil-a nuggets, cinnamon rolls, chips, and a soda and lemonade bar. The youngest of five kids who are all married with kids of their own, Connor’s locally-based family also turned up in masses, and the room was full of well-dressed partygoers offering their exuberant love and support. Jayden’s newlywed sister, Tylee, produced their wedding video, and Jayden and Connor’s wedding photos were taken in the mountains, their dark, dapper suits a contrast to the white fallen snow. 

“There was so much love at both weddings.  And I felt the Savior smack dab in the middle of it all,“ says Jancee of her kids’ unions. (cont’d in comments)

She planned and partied and posted about each wedding the exact same way, and loved how “there were the exact same feelings of joy and support and each event.”  She was especially touched by the turnout to Jayden’s event by their lifelong friends, relatives, and church leaders--including bishops, stake presidents and a temple president. It was important to the families that all could attend and witness the legal pronouncement and exchange of rings and vows at each event, so the families elected for civil ceremonies, and Nate and Tylee chose to get sealed in the temple the day after their civil ceremony. While Jayden and Connor are both returned missionaries who still attend church in an LDS ward that largely supports them, this is not an option provided to them. 

Jayden and Connor met on a dating app and talked for four months before meeting face-to face.  After so many weeks of FaceTime after work, by the time they said hello in person, they hit it off immediately. Jancee says, “I feel like they’re the same person; they're so compatible in their goals and beliefs. I love Connor so much, it makes me tear up. He’s such a good guy.”  As the youngest in his family, Connor came out to his older sister-in-law first, knowing as a practicing therapist she’d likely be supportive. She was, and encouraged him to come out to his parents and siblings who were all active in the LDS church, with his father having served as a bishop.  Connor was a 14-year-old ninth grader at the time and Jancee credits his family’s support and his own inherent sense of worth as lending to Connor’s sense of confidence at such a young age. “He knows he’s a son of God, he loves himself, and I love this because it doesn't matter what anyone else says or thinks--he knows who he is.” 

Connor is now working to get his master’s to become an MFT, so he can help clients who are members of the LDS faith also navigate coming out. Currently, he works with CPS in Ogden, helping with difficult situations of emergency child and foster placement.

After graduating from Southern Utah University with his bachelor's degree, Jayden took a job working in administration for a national surgical company in Ogden, to be closer to Connor.  Together, the two love to travel, and have the budding photo wall to prove it. They got engaged in New York City, where they proposed to each other, and just returned from a trip to Fiji with Connor’s family in November. “Connor is very adventurous, which has been exactly what Jayden loves,” says Jancee. “They have many great adventures planned.” 

The revelation of Jayden’s orientation leaked back in high school, in an interchange Jancee now regrets, due to her initial reaction. Jayden was a multi-talented high school senior at the time- a triple threat with his acting, singing, and skills on the piano. He was a lead character in the school production of Aida, and happened to be the only child home one night with his mom when Jancee received a text in a thread that she was mistakenly included in. One of Jayden’s friends texted, “I’m gay.” Jayden responded, “I think I’m gay, too.” Jancee’s stomach dropped reading the words. In shock, she charged toward Jayden’s room, shaking, and showed him the message. “You are not gay, this is crazy! Why are you guys saying this?” she exclaimed, allowing fear to drive her emotions. They both started sobbing. Jancee recalls Jayden was vague and he followed her lead, denying his truth. He agreed to talk to his bishop about it, (even though he had not acted on it or done anything considered wrong), Jancee confirmed that was a good idea, and never brought it up again, even to her husband.  

Shortly after, Jayden attended a year of college, then left for a two-year mission to Milan, Italy.  He loved this experience and served honorably and returned ready for the next stage of life.  A month after his mission homecoming, he came to his mom seeking guidance and had her connect him with a life coach from her professional peer group (Jancee is an organizational life coach expert).

Contrary to Jayden’s expectations that serving a mission would “make this go away,” the coach encouraged Jayden to acknowledge what he’d been hiding and fighting--it was perhaps time for him to accept it in order to progress. 

Soon after, Jayden called his parents and asked if they could have the house to themselves one night because he needed to tell them something important. Jancee says the spirit told her,  “He’s going to tell you he is gay.” She called Jeff, a physician assistant, at work and shared this prompting and asked him to prepare for the moment. Jeff agreed and comforted Jancee, who was in shock. But this time, as she approached her prayer bench in her closet, she also felt a calm peace--a much different emotion than she had the night of the misdirected text many years ago. Honoring Jayden’s wishes, Jancee canceled a house guest they’d agreed to host and made sure Jayden’s two sisters and brother wouldn’t be home--unaware Jayden had already told all of them his news.  

Jayden arrived and came into his parents’ room. He had prepared for this, and first wanted to share a song with them, Matthew West’s “ Truth Be Told.” Then he fell apart crying.  He couldn’t say it. Jancee approached her then 22-year-old son, buckled over on the ground, and put her arm around him and said, “Jayden, I know what you’re going to say and it’s okay to say it.” Jayden whispered back, “I’m gay.” Jeff also met their son on the ground in an emotional embrace. Jancee recalls, “The spirit was so strong. It was a really beautiful moment and all we felt was love. Such a different feeling from that first time which was based completely off of fear.” 

Any perceived notions she’d ever had of orientation being a choice or something one could change were gone. Jancee says, “I trusted him. I believed him. And I changed in the blink of an eye.” Jeff also supported his son, though it was a growth journey for all. Both parents were broken-hearted when Jayden told them that he had worried when he was younger, they would kick him out if he told them about this part of him–something they could never imagine doing.

During the first year after finding out, Jancee also sought support of her own. While scrolling through a list of 300 potential life coaches, she landed on the name “Jenie Hunter,” not knowing Jenie’s own son was gay and that she was involved in Lift & Love. Jancee credits such moments as miracles: “God knew I needed Jenie. God loves Jayden, me, Connor and our families. God is just good, and has been present every step of the way.” 

People now frequently ask Jancee how she can stay in the church and support her gay son, to which she replies, “I’ve come to a place where I just recognize the Savior in this whole journey; I’ve written down countless miracles that have happened. The Savior is not behind me, or in front of me, but smack in the middle with me. I’ve seen Him everywhere. As I’ve held onto that and let Him guide me and felt His spirit in this, I want to create a safe space for others coming behind me.” Jancee now gets a call from a worried mom almost weekly, especially since Jayden has gotten married, and she loves providing that safe, comforting place.  She wears a rainbow ring and makes herself available to leaders seeking to understand their journey.  She says, “I know church doesn’t work for everyone; there is so much hurt and pain and you have to choose what serves you best. If you stay or leave we all have our own journey. For me, I choose to stay, but I also know I have a great responsibility to be a voice and a safe place for those coming behind me. I have been able to come to this place only through my Savior, Jesus Christ.” 

When Jayden and Connor even more frequently get asked why they still attend sacrament meetings in an Ogden ward where they’ve now bought a home, they say, “It’s because of the Savior. That’s why we attend each week.” Jancee says, “It’s hard, but that’s been their journey.” When people ask Jancee if her two married children’s unions look or feel any different, Jancee replies, “I’ve loved my kids' spouses long before I knew who they were.

I decided a long time ago that it didn’t matter who they were, I already loved who they would choose.  I trust my kids--this has been a beautiful gift and blessing in my life to decide this long before it happened.” 

Jancee’s scriptural lifeline has been Proverbs 3:5-6, and she recalls many years being on her knees in her closet asking how to navigate her family path with the church, and reflecting on the words: “Trust in the Lord and lean not unto thine own understanding.” Jancee says, “There’s a reason God keeps making children come to earth who are gay. I don’t know why, but God does-- I just get to trust Him. It’s just who they are, and my only job is to Love BIG!”

THE COONS FAMILY

Achievement and distraction. These were the coping techniques that have proved both useful and life-saving for Dr. Kristine Coons, who has struggled with gender dysphoria for as long as she can remember. Now happily married to her wife of 20 years, and working as an internal medicine physician at a hospital among supportive coworkers, Kristine has found her stride.

Growing up in western Washington in the ‘80s as a middle child of five was especially complicated for Kristine. An older brother had contracted HIV from a bad blood transfusion, and as it was the height of the AIDS crisis, Kristine’s parents frequently moved jobs and homes to get their son the care he needed while trying to give all their kids enough fresh starts in new schools that they could overcome the stigma of being “the family of the kid with AIDS.” Kristine, who with Laura is now a parent of four kids ages 18 to 8 (Ben, Rachel Lizzy and Alex), marvels at all her parents endured. 

As a young child, Kristine sensed her parents didn’t need one more thing to worry about, so she tried to lay low and battle her gender dysphoria alone. But every day, she experienced an intense quandary of wondering why she felt like she was a girl in a boy’s body. She says it felt “like a pressure cooker in which you’d stuff your emotions, lock them in place, and watch as the steam built to the point you felt like exploding.” Not wanting to cause trouble, she worked really hard in school while also striving to minimize the static coursing through the headphones of negative self-talk she endured. Sometimes the static is louder than others, sometimes softer, but Kristine says, “Never being able to take off those headphones with the constant noise drains you. It’s absolutely exhausting.”

Kristine’s hard work in school paid off, and she went on to a semester at BYU Provo where she met her future wife, Laura, before leaving for her mission to Phoenix, Arizona. While serving, she and Laura faithfully wrote to each other; the two married shortly after Kristine returned. Of their marriage, Kristine says, “Laura’s amazing, we are head over heels for each other. I love my wife.” As a newlywed, Kristine quietly negotiated her dysphoria, rationalizing something might fix it or make it go away—she trued prayer, fasting and study. She even attempted herbal remedies she’d heard might dampen the emotions, but found no fix. Alas, she threw herself into what she knew best—hard work.

While Laura and Kristine started having children, Kristine graduated in food science with minors in chemistry and business. She then entered medical school. Though she promised Laura they would not return to Phoenix after her mission because of the heat, the Coons moved back so Kristine could attend the Arizona College of Osteopathic Medicine. They eventually moved to Ohio for her to continue her training and residency. There, Kristine balanced working 24-hour shifts, moonlighting on her one night off at an urgent care, serving as chief resident which required scheduling duties and teaching interns, and helping rewrite training manuals once it was decided the osteopathic and medical world would merge. Kristine now calls this harried time “a perfect distraction from myself.” On their rare down time vacation, the Coons would take road trips during which Kristine would insist on driving so she could keep her mind focused on the road and elaborate math problems or mind games she’d play so her brain stayed busy—distracted away from the gender dysphoria.

As Kristine’s graduation day approached, it hit her that all the distractions she created were about to disappear. With a pending fresh schedule and new start, Kristine would have to face all she’d been battling and it scared her. In March 2014, standing alone in her kitchen, Kristine recalls an overwhelming spiritual impression wash over her. She felt the words, “Have you ever considered accepting this as part of yourself?” No, she hadn’t. Instead, Kristine says she’d spent years trying to pray, fast, wish, read, and study her gender dysphoria away, hoping it would just disappear. While the idea of acceptance had seemed foreign thus far, suddenly it felt right, even intentional. At that moment, Kristine had the strong impression to go confide in Laura—right then.

This was terrifying, as the few times her parents had found her cross-dressing as a child had been very bad experiences, as had reading what happened to relationships with a transgender spouse. Laura found Kristine on their couch, shaking and trembling as Kristine admitted she couldn’t keep up the secret any further. She had to tell someone—for the first time ever, at age 32. Laura listened patiently as Kristine shared two very important truths: 1) that she wanted to follow God as much as possible, and 2) she didn’t want to do anything to hurt the family. Those confessions opened up communication lines between the couple, as they both aligned with wanting to keep their family together, continuing their relationship, and working together to figure out what were the right next steps.

Kristine did not transition right away. Instead, this was a time of the self-reflection of navigating a difficult course. How does one manage gender dysphoria, maintain a marriage relationship, follow guidelines arranged by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and interact with a world and community? For Kristine, abruptly transitioning felt drastic and even overwhelming, but she knew it was important to work it out. The course of understanding herself and her family relationships required a significant amount of thought, prayer, and communication with Laura about what felt right and what didn’t. As the Coons moved to Spokane, WA for Dr. Coons to start her first official job in the fall of 2014, she began hormone therapy. She fondly remembers Laura saying it felt like Kristine had finally come alive, suddenly more present and engaging with their children and family life. Kristine concurs that this awakening allowed her to feel more authentic and able to bond with those in their family. In the midst of these transitional years, Laura was thoughtful, loving, kind and patient. However, Kristine’s transition still had its difficult moments for the relationship. In the end, they found working together and with God helped them most in navigating uncharted waters. 

Starting hormone therapy has its physical side effects. As Kristine wasn’t trying to work toward transition or reveal herself to the world yet, it became necessary to hide the effects of hormone therapy under a daily uniform of baggy scrubs at work. There were occasional glances from co-workers Kristine noticed which made her wonder, “Do they know?” One observant nurse suggested maybe she should get her hormones checked, while another patted her on the back in a way she could sense the nurse was checking for a bra strap. Kristine laughs, “Yep, she found it.” Over time it became harder and harder to hide the effects of hormone therapy. 

After coming out to Laura, Kristine and Laura slowly expanded the circle of who she told. Laura needed someone to confide in and share her feelings and Kristine needed to work to overcome her fear. Sensing they would be the most accepting, Kristine opened up to Laura’s family first, and they proved supportive. She mustered the courage to eventually tell her parents via an email and was grateful to have her parents accept her. After receiving the email, her dad called immediately and stated, “First thing, we love you.” Eventually, Kristine, with the support of Laura by her side, explained her gender dysphoria to the bishop and stake president. During these initial encounters with church leaders, Kristine stated she was trying to do her best to balance her reality with the recommendations from church policy (which currently prevent transitioned individuals from holding the priesthood and entering the temple). Unfortunately, that attempt at balancing turned into a “massive list of do’s and do not’s.” The constant worry of potentially doing something wrong intensified and depression led Kristine to a dark place. “I felt trapped. I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place with the pressure of maintaining policy and trying to be myself.” The pressure and depression became so intense she considered taking her life. She recalls, “The thought came, ‘There is a way out, why don’t you take it?,’ which scared me as for so many years I’d prided myself on never getting to that point.” But the feeling became palpable one day while dressing for work. In her closet, Kristine found medication from a past surgery and thought, “All I had to do was take those pain meds and it would all go away.” She lay there looking at the medications, thoughts racing. One of the things that helped her finally get up was her patients in need at that very moment.

As Kristine worked through her morning shift, the floods of thoughts of all the other people who would be affected entered her mind--her wife, her family. She realized something needed to change. She went out to her car, “cried a lot,” and tearfully called the suicide hotline. She says it was a very encouraging call that led her to go home and talk with Laura about what had happened and figure out how to make this work.  Kristine continued to get help from her doctor, and her mental health improved. Both Kristine and Laura knew some things needed to change. Through continued work together and through prayer, there were intense spiritual experiences that offered Kristine assurance. “I sensed He knows me, sees me, and that my task was to continue to try as hard as I could to negotiate this pathway; and that through the spirit, it could work.” In 2022, with the help of Laura and spiritual guidance, Kristine decided to transition. The morning after she made this decision, Kristine woke up feeling a “huge weight off my shoulders.” The mental clarity allowed her to think and feel; gone were the suppressed emotions of anger, happiness, and sadness. Kristine says, “To start feeling those emotions and have them mean something was incredible.” Kristine stated she knew the struggle would continue, but this was her first glimpse at feeling real. 

Kristine began the process of changing her name and markers, and lauds her medical community of bosses, coworkers, and patients who have in all but one or two cases been extremely kind and supportive. When she walks into a hospital room, she says, “Most patients don’t even bat an eye.” Using her medical experience, Kristine became curious about her own genetics and obtained a whole genome sequencing study. Using prior abnormal hormone levels before transition along with journal articles linking abnormal congenital bone growths, leading to eight hip surgeries, Kristine was able to link a diagnosis of congenital hypogonadotropic hypogonadism to her gender dysphoria, with the help of her primary care doctor. The results fascinated Kristine and she delved into an intense study of our genetics and human development. This work demonstrated gender dysphoria and even intersex conditions don’t always derive from one gene. Often, it’s multiple genes working in concert in a massive orchestration of hundreds of genes that lead to a clinical effect.

As Kristine has expanded her research, she started joining online forums where people discuss gender dysphoria, transgender concerns, and intersex conditions. She has even helped others study and decipher their own genetic testing. At the forefront of her mind, Kristine teaches that the problem is not that a child is born intersex or with gender dysphoria, but how do we care for that child so they can grow and be respected and loved in a way that’s meaningful? Kristine now regularly gives presentations to medical students, residents, medical schools and conferences. She shares her own story with colleagues and church members, educating others about our incredible genetic makeup and development that leads to an amazing human diversity to be loved and respected. 

Because Kristine works every other Sunday, she tries to be as active in her ward as possible, where she is called “Sister Coons” (as is Laura). Kristine serves as ward organist. She says, “My prior spiritual experiences have helped me navigate muddy waters, and they are muddy. I find some policies hurtful, but I also know I need to keep going. My faith has grown as I see so many who have been wonderful, kind and thoughtful. I am grateful for my stake president who has said he’s seen a huge change in our stake just from me being present. The vast majority are open and curious in a good way.” 

The Coons family lives near many relatives who they enjoy spending summers with, boating on the lake or skiing during the winter. Kristine says, “My kids like to brag they have two moms. Laura goes by ‘mom,’ I go by ‘madre.’ My kids are amazing. They stand up for me. I stand up for them. We have a great family.” All four of the Coons’ children are on the autism spectrum and Kristine says, “Their spirituality differs from what you’d expect from many other people. They believe in God and know their Savior… whether they keep going or not, I think they’ll navigate that while having a relationship with Christ.” Kristine has become involved with the political scene in states like Florida and Utah among others, contributing her medical research and opinions to policymakers. Because of laws in certain states, Kristine has been hesitant and even fearful of traveling to other states where things are not favorable for the transgender community. But she asks, “How do you negotiate or interact with a group of people who are fighting against you? The perspective I’ve found to be the most successful is to just do the next right thing. One step at a time. A lot of work, a lot of change – one step at a time, along the way – will have positive outcomes. I have to be hopeful with this, look for next right thing, and stand up for what’s right.”

“My work and efforts aren’t finished. I’ve been Kristine Coons now for two years, and I feel and love myself. I love me, I love seeing me, and even more importantly, I love helping others to see themselves.” At work, Dr. Coons has observed that “for some reason,” she is often assigned the transgender patients. “I wonder why,” she laughs. “But every time I interact with these wonderful humans and see what they go through and have to fight for, the more I want to share and work to make sure we have a voice and can stand up for those who don’t.”

SYTSKE WOODHOUSE

Looking back, much of Sytske (“seet-ska”) Woodhouse’s life can be sorted by the before and after of one major life event that initiated an awakening. Before the last of her four sons was born in 2011, Sytske was a dutiful Latter-day Saint defined by titles: supportive wife, nurturing mom, housekeeper--roles she had fallen in line with for about 10 years. Roles for which she’d been well trained. As a child, Sytske’s Sandy, Utah-based family of origin was absolutely dedicated to the LDS church. Her father worked as President of Ensign college for 17 years where he frequently met with general authorities. He also served as a bishop and stake presidency counselor throughout Sytske’s adolescent and young adult years. Her family was the type who read The Miracle of Forgiveness as a togetherness activity, as her four older brothers were preparing to “date to marry.” 

A product of her upbringing, Sytske now recognizes it was her personality to be a bit scrupulous. She remembers a childhood outlook of strict obedience to the point of self-righteousness and intolerance of the “sinners outside the church doing the things I didn’t agree with.” She also recalls struggling to understand why her high school friends would have to go to the bishop’s office to speak with her father on repeat about their weekend activities. She now laughs as she remembers thinking, “What is wrong with you people; what is so hard about keeping the law of chastity? I didn’t get the whole dating and romantic relationship thing. I had no feelings like this until my first year of college and then I thought, ‘Oh, now it all makes sense’.” Only it was women, not men, who Sytske felt drawn to. Still too observant to recognize it for what it was (“I didn’t even know what the phrase same-sex attraction was, let alone gay or homosexuality”), Sytske just thought she was a “really, really good friend” who would go out of her way to look out for her female friends and make their lives easier, seemingly “because I loved them. I’d get jealous when they had boyfriends. I still didn’t know I was gay,” she laughs.

Sytske was instead focused on the checklist she’d been handed—one she felt would give her structure, identity, and purpose. As a Mathematics major at BYU, she’d go to the temple to perform baptisms every Saturday morning. She found a man to marry in the temple and they got started right away on having kids. “I was just going through the motions; this part of my life was a blur. I wasn’t really alive, but just doing all the things a good, Mormon mom does.” Looking back, Sytske realizes she was missing out entirely on trying to get to know and become herself, instead following the edict: “If you do all the things you’re supposed to, you can create this perfect life of how things are supposed to go—missions, college, temples, kids.” 

And then, in 2011, her youngest baby was born. Sytske and her husband began to notice their son, around the age of one, was not developing quite like the others had. An early intervention specialist came to evaluate him and surmised he was on the autism spectrum. “This blew up my entire construct of how I thought life was supposed to go,” says Sytske. Realizing her son might not serve a mission or even live on his own really changed Sytske. “I started asking questions I’d never asked before that had answers different from all the ones I’d been given since Primary. Questions like ‘what does life look like for him? How does he grow and become celestial’?”

Sytske’s older boys, who were 12 and 10 at the time, would say this was “the year mom changed.” The self-described helicopter, controlling parent stepped back and considered her kids for the first time as individuals with their own ideas and potential, not as people to be programmed to fit into a mold. “When I went through that experience and saw the box-checking I’d been doing, a voice went through my head that said, ‘You didn’t come here for this, to just fall in line and go through the motions’.”

Sytske credits this as the moment she decided to really get to know her kids and herself and uncover the shame she had not yet allowed herself to feel for the past 20 years. Sytske felt ready to deal with it. And it was a lot.

Three years later, in 2014, Sytske finally felt ready to acknowledge the attractions she’d had since those early college days. She came out to both herself and her husband. But she wasn’t ready to acknowledge her feelings publicly for six more years. Behind the scenes, Sytske and her husband sought marriage counseling for problems they were finally able to identify more authentically, and they both eventually concurred the marriage was not salvageable, though it took Sytske longer to get there than her husband. At the time, she was also battling the constant impressions she was receiving that to fully heal, she would need to explore the future possibility of dating women. “It was a wrestle because I was a very faithful member, and the shame kept eating at me.”

After she and her husband separated, Sytske asked for a priesthood blessing from her best friend’s son who had just returned from his mission and thought of her as a second mom. In it, he paused and said words Sytske sensed were divinely inspired, especially as she had not mentioned her private wrestle aloud to him. He said, “It’s difficult for us to be seeking for an answer and not find one, or not accept an answer that is given to us.” With this, it hit Sytske that it was indeed God telling her to date women. As she still struggled, feeling like she was fighting between what’s right and wrong, Sytske would reflect on Elder Uchtdorf’s quote: “We can block the growth and knowledge our Heavenly Father intends for us. How often has the Holy Spirit tried to tell us something we needed to know but couldn't get past the massive iron gate of what we thought we already knew?” Eventually, Sytske surmised the gate was now wide open, and she was able to clear her mental block and accept dating women without feeling it was wrong.

Sytske attended Northstar in early 2022, which was the first time she put herself out there in the LGBTQ+ space. At her first meeting in March, she met a woman named Angela. In May, Angela opened up and shared that she had experienced a similar life path as Sytske—marriage to a man, motherhood, and trying to do “all the things.” The spirit nudged Sytske to go talk to her; the two have been a couple ever since. Angela has since moved from Iowa to Utah with her children to be closer to Sytske, and the two go back and forth between their homes, their children now friends. Sytske has since found her spiritual home to be most comfortable with the LGBTQ+ affirming LDS group, Emmaus LGBTQ Ministry, who shortly after she started attending their FHE online group, invited Sytske to join their board. She loves working alongside founders, John Gustav-Wrathall, Erika Munson, and Valerie Green, to prepare devotionals and finds this to be her self-appointed calling, as her current ward has deemed her role as a single mother to a high needs child as busy enough. (Shortly after they divorced, Sytske’s ex-husband passed away, so she now has full custody of her kids.)

While at dinner on her oldest son’s 16th birthday, Sytske told him, “I have something I want to tell you. I’m gay.” He casually replied, “Oh, cool. I’m straight.” Sytske recognizes his nonchalance as a likely product of the fact that they had moved from Utah for a few years to a more progressive region in Oregon, where her kids had several friends at school with two moms or two dads. She also said his easy acceptance might not have been the same back when they were younger and Sytske was not the same mom. “Because I had spent so much time over the years getting to know my kids, they reciprocated and were very accepting. We talk openly about things; it’s in their nature to be open-minded.”

When Sytske started to come out to her Oregon ward, the bishop called Sytske just to check on her, with no attempts to discipline, which she thought was nice. She’d taught Relief Society for four years, and while the RS President was fine with Sytske mentioning her orientation in class, the bishop said he’d prefer she do a special fifth Sunday lesson on LGBTQ+ rather than “spring it on unknowing people in the ward.” This didn’t happen in Oregon, and while Sytske felt somewhat silenced there, when she moved back to Utah, she was touched by her new bishop’s warmth. Upon coming out to him, he said, “I’m so glad you moved into our ward; will you help me teach a fifth Sunday lesson?” In Provo, she says she’s felt not only included, but needed. Angela and Sytske take turns attending each other’s wards, where they feel welcome at both. Sytske honors her ward dynamic as something that “supports me instead of something I have to feel like I show up to ready to defend my community.” 

While Sytske’s parents are now in their 80s and “it’s been a slower process for them to understand,” she credits her coming out as a state of self-acceptance that has transformed family gatherings from a space that once brought her anxiety to now being one in which all of her siblings, nieces, and nephews (some of whom are atheist and many of whom are nuanced LDS) can talk about hard things and disagree, but still love each other no matter what. Sytske says, “I used to blame my family for feeling I didn’t belong, like, ‘Why are they like this?’; but once I became myself, I started to feel I did belong and could love them more, because I now felt more like myself.”

A lover of volleyball, snowboarding, and playing the guitar, Sytske relishes activities that help ground her body and make her feel alive, much like how living authentically has done. “It’s so weird how I now finally feel peace, doing things I was told only lead to misery. I’m a huge advocate of following personal revelation, because no one else will know what your path is besides you, Jesus, and God. I often tell people to really get to know God and Jesus, because I think the ideas we have of them are not always accurate.” Sytske is grateful to have shed the days where she feared rejection and condemnation and instead got to know Them. “Whatever we know Jesus’ character to be, God’s is even more loving and inclusive. They’re not on opposite spectrums. I am no longer ashamed of myself and afraid to approach them, I can feel their presence. That’s why I’m able to go on, do all the work I do with Emmaus, and participate in church functions even when it’s hard to be in spaces I don’t always feel belonging and acceptance.” She continues, “I encourage everyone to ask God how He feels about you – you won’t be let down.  We have so much turmoil in mortality, but there’s a peace that wipes that all away when you’re able to receive the love and grace that is freely poured into you.” 

JOHANNE PERRY

At age 18, Johanne Perry showed up to Provo as a brand-new convert to the LDS faith, convinced she’d never marry a Utah boy. Born in Montreal, Canada and raised in Monrovia, California, the BYU dating scene was new to Johanne. She remembers looking across the sea of shiny-faced students in her Young Ambassadors performance class as Steve Perry, fresh off his mission, caught her eye when he was the one asked to give the closing prayer. She wondered, “What if I married him?” Seven years later, that’s what happened; and the couple (who has resided in Utah ever since) will celebrate their 36th wedding anniversary this May. 

Growing up in the 70’s, Johanne says, “I never knew ‘homosexual’ was a thing… the same way I didn’t know what bulimia and anorexia were. People just didn’t talk about it.” Looking back, Johanne says that as a musical theater major, several of her best friends and the young men she had crushes on later came out as gay—including her own husband. “I couldn’t have cared less about sports and big muscles—all I wanted was someone with a good sense of humor who could sing.” That defined Steve.

As they toured together with the Young Ambassadors and other musical performance groups, their friendship grew. After two and a half years, Johanne invited Steve over for dinner and proclaimed her love for him. He said, “Uhhh, we’re just friends.” Johanne resigned herself to the friend zone, but several months later, they tried dating. When they first kissed, she remembers Steve saying, “It’s like kissing my sister.” Johanne says, “Of course I was devastated, but we remained friends.” Johanne moved on to dating someone else, but after a few more months, Steve called to tell her he’d been up all night thinking and he knew he was in love with her. When she told him about her current boyfriend, Steve promised Johanne they didn’t even need to date, they could just get married. After all, they’d spent all those years traveling together, laughing, performing, and Johanne laughs that Steve already knew what she looked like backstage, “in curlers, sweating like a pig.” A week later, Johanne was engaged to the man who has proven the love of her life.

“Everything about Steve attracted me, but the first thing was his sense of humor. He just exudes goodness. You know he’s a good, kind person all the way to the core. And he’s intelligent – my mom always said the person you marry has to be able to talk about anything, and that’s Steve.” Johanne and Steve have raised four kids together and enjoyed decades sharing their love for music in various formats and professions. In their spare time, they love cuddling on the couch while watching YouTube episodes of the UK show, “Escape to the Country,” and dreaming about places they’d love to travel. They recognize their love story is unique.

“I found out about Steve being attracted to men during our first year of marriage,” says Johanne. “Back then, we didn’t know anything about orientation at all. We–like everyone– thought you could pray away the gay as long as you were righteous enough. I knew he loved me enough. And after years and years, it never did go away. But we never really talked about it.” Busy with their kids and careers, Johanne said it likely never really came up, because he gave no indication he was gay. “He was still attracted to me, we had a great life, great friends; I was totally head over heels in love.”

It terrified Johanne when Steve later shared that he wanted to come out publicly. With his public profile and their professions, she wondered if their whole lives would be destroyed. She also worried about personal safety. While Johanne recognized it was essential for his mental health to do so, each time Steve told her he’d opened up to a new friend or loved one, she’d spend the following two days feeling dizzy and trying to breathe. “Looking back, I don’t know what it was that I was afraid of—them judging me or judging him. Maybe I thought people thought we’d been lying to them, but that wasn’t the case.” As a longtime theater teacher at a conservative school, Johanne also feared what her colleagues might think. She was relieved to sense her boss’ and fellow teachers’ support, and actually discovered many teachers and students identified on the LGBTQ+ spectrum and had already been meeting in their own quiet support groups. The school now has assemblies promoting inclusion of various marginalized populations, and Johanne says several students have commented how much they like the rainbow heart pin she wears to class. 

At home, Johanne was impressed by her own kids’ reactions to Steve’s orientation when she found out he had taken the liberty to share with each of them at a time when each of them had opened up to him about feeling confused or judgmental about themselves. “It was good for their relationship to know that about him—that he was a good, honorable man who had this thing in his life that wasn’t accepted.” The best thing for Johanne about Steve being more vocal is that now they can have open conversations in which he can reassure her about his love for her and their relationship. “Steve has been very humble about the whole orientation thing which has allowed us to keep a good relationship without either of us feeling defensive. He’s always worried about my needs and wants.”

There are times when Johanne has worried Steve may decide to pursue a relationship with a man, and she admits to feeling terrified every time he wants to go to an event where there will be a lot of gay men, as he is “so likeable. But then I wonder, how is that different from a straight man going to work with a bunch of cute female co-workers?” If given the chance to go back, Johanne says she would do it all over again and marry Steve, “Because it’s Steve. I don’t think ‘I’m married to a gay man.’ I’m just married to Steve. Others in our situation have to ask themselves the same question – is the fact that they’re married to a gay man overshadowing that they’re married to this person they fell in love with? I just got lucky with the guy I married. It’s hard to explain–I couldn’t possibly tell someone what to do. But my motto is always to choose love.”

If she could go back and give advice to her younger self, Johanne would say: “Don’t be afraid to ask hard questions.” She says she kept so much bottled inside for years, but “the not knowing was worse than the knowing. I was too afraid to ask because I didn’t want it to end our marriage, but now that I know it wouldn’t have done that, I wish I’d been more willing to talk about it earlier and be curious.”

After going to a support group for wives in mixed-orientation marriages a few years ago, Johanne saw how many women were still dealing with betrayal that didn’t necessarily characterize her situation, as she’d known about Steve’s attractions for such a long time. She didn’t feel a need to engage in those groups anymore. She also steers away from conversations in which she feels people’s pity. But now, the Perrys have formed a group of mixed-orientation couple friends who they’ve met through North Star and Emmaus gatherings. They regularly enjoy going out to dinner with these couples who get their inside jokes and shared language. “It’s good to just laugh,” she says.

While Steve has sent Johanne many podcasts to listen to about others in their situation, and Johanne has found Richard Ostler’s particularly helpful, she says she prefers to enjoy her dog-walking time focusing on nature and saying “good girl” to their lab-pit bull-boxer mix, Blossom. She is optimistic about her future with Steve, and hopeful the church as a whole will move forward with more loving messages from the pulpit where people make it clear that it’s not ok to kick out or minimize your LGBTQ+ children. As she’s become more fully immersed in the community in the past several years, Johanne has been introduced to “some of the most kind, compassionate people I’ve ever met—no one would choose this just to get attention. The people I have met are so humble, genuine and wonderful.”     

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.”