[creative nonfiction]
Today, I picked up a discarded piece of paper. My curiosity reached for the ink scrawled on the page. I unfolded it and found a letter to God.
“I wish I were better,” it started. Wishes she could be perfect, could follow the commandments, could follow through. That her desire to do good is easy, but the rest is hard.
Was dating person X a mistake? Am I sinning by wanting to be with person Y? Am I crazy? Am I dirtied? What am I supposed to do?
“You promised I would understand my role when I read my blessing”—the patriarchal blessing that, in LDS church culture, foretells your challenges and promised rewards; in this case “patriarchal” being apt, as the primary role she was chosen for was that of mother. But she doesn’t understand her role, doesn’t know her place, doesn’t know what “should be” looks like.
“I want all of my heart on you. You’ll keep it safe and I trust you.” — “Why can’t I just be a better daughter?” — “Can I have the strength and wisdom to do what I am supposed to?” I don’t know if it’s a moment of introspection or a plea, a please, please, give me the strength and wisdom, can I please have it, please.
I wish I could find the girl who lost this scrap of paper. Tell her it was misdelivered. That I don’t know her, but I like the shape of her W’s and the A’s. That I’m not her patriarch, but I think she should be more careful with her heart. That I’m not God, not God, but I wish I could hold her like a father would and tell her, you are perfect, you are the daughter I always wanted, the sort of beautifully broken human that I made the world for—and that love is not a splendid thing sometimes, that love suffereth long.
And I would take parts of her letter and throw them away. I would discard “should” and “pure,” toss aside “perfect.” I would write in new words: “honest,” “brave,” “enough.” Instead of problems of X and Y, I would make love an essay question. Write me a paper telling all the ways you are beautiful. Write me a paper telling all the ways you are good enough. Write me a new blessing, in the form of a choose-your-own-adventure. Illustrations are optional.
But I don’t know her, couldn’t find her if I tried. My teeth grit as I go to throw the paper in the trash; it doesn’t feel right to just throw someone’s prayer away. I hesitate … then recycle it instead.
[true story]
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