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Authentic Savior

By Kimberly Sears

“We are daughters of our Heavenly Parents, who love us, and we love them.” Those were the words that popped out of my mouth unrehearsed a few months ago while reciting the Young Women Theme, and I’ve said it that way ever since. I’m not trying to “steady the ark” or usurp authority over a …

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The Space Between

By Megan Wilcox Goates

I was okay driving to the cabin, even though it was the first time back since he died. The frosted peaks and winter skyline were familiar friends. This landscape proved a distraction from my low-grade anxiety at returning to the place where everything was a reminder of him. Dave Matthews Band’s “The Space Between” played …

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End-of-Life Lessons

By Megan Wilcox Goates

My dad is the sort of person who eschews purchased gifts, preferring handmade items or acts of service. More than once over the last few years, I have offered to write his life stories down. He liked this offer and thanked me, but didn’t want to actually sit with me and talk about anything. The …

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Doing the Thing You Fear Doing

By Megan Wilcox Goates

I gave my university students a writing prompt recently: write about something you don’t want to do. They mostly wrote about their dread for school, homework, work, being responsible—crossing the toll booths along the highway to adulthood. I wrote alongside them. Here’s mine: I dread finding an agent, revising my writing, selling a book. So, …

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Falling in Love with My Skin

By Sandra Clark

 to enlightne the skinFlat by Ashmae Hoiland. This is a piece Ashmae made from a photo I sent her for a new body project she is working on.

I went streaking for the first time this month. It’s taken a long time to get myself to this point. In truth, it wasn’t really the first time, but streaking at four and under doesn’t count when playing truth and dare and the question is, “have you ever?”

And I hadn’t.

I suppose I didn’t hate my body, but probably from a few years past my preschool streaking I felt bashful about it; like there was something lacking about from the skin I live in. It intensified with age. ( I’ve even written about this before.) Speckled with moles, pocked with skin stretch scars, and a back size that never seems to fit into store sizes; I am one of a kind in my spots, streaks, and smallness. Long forehead, dusty-dry skin, and a slight chest: the list goes on. Whose doesn’t? Peculiarities, idiosyncrasies, or vulnerabilities? Maybe a little bit of all of the above.

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Courage, Dear Heart

By Kellie Purcill

The recent carnage the well-publicised disciplinary councils have wreaked among women I love and admire saddens, scares and angers me. Some of my closest friends have been afraid to be open and vulnerable with friends they’ve had for years, with women they’ve served with, even with trusted and familiar blogs.  I don’t know much detail about the OW movement and recent events, but I have many dear friends who have struggled with issues this month has dredged up for them – not even touching the ordination topic or discipline measures – such as the repercussions of having bad fathers, criticism from others within the gospel, poor priesthood leadership in individual lives, unrepentant family members, and the ebb and flow of their own faith through crisis, abundance and drought. I know many women who don’t care in the least about the OW-media circus, because they’re literally trying to find money to feed their children, deal with a son’s exposure to porn, wrap their panicked thoughts around upcoming surgery, forgive those who have grievously sinned against them, adjust to their mother being in hospice, and/or because they believe otherwise to the loud. They now feel as if their situation, their feelings and thoughts are not as important – or as worth caring about – as the issues being discussed elsewhere. They don’t care about the latest news, but are scared to say so. So they say nothing, and bleed in the dark.

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Open

By Sandra Clark

imageWhen I lived in the city I was accustomed to the kaleidoscope of smashed glass caught in the cracks and rough patches of sidewalk and road. Beautiful, but terrifying trash. I’ve stepped on enough broken drinking glass shards to know to keep my feet covered when I stepped outside. The day I spied a man running down my Baltimore street without shoes I looked once to see him, again in unbelief, once more in disbelief and again because why would anyone in their right mind run down these glass glittered streets without proper footwear? But up the street he ran anyway, not stepping gingerly, but in stride and purpose. Open and free. I just thought he and anyone else reckless enough to attempt such a task was crazy. Then I met one.

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