Feeling the Pull of Nostalgia

[_Runtu]

This last week in Utah has been almost surreal. Much of Utah County has changed, and not all for the better. Suburban sprawl is everywhere, and the place seems like wall-to-wall strip malls (reminds me of Sugar Land with mountains). But I've done a few things just for nostalgia's sake, such as driving through my old neighborhood in Orem and wandering around the BYU campus, and much of that hasn't changed much at all.

The other night I went to the BYU Creamery, which is just north of Deseret Towers, southeast of the temple, and south of the MTC. I came out with my cone in hand and looked at the temple, remembering the long walk up the hill I made the day I went into the temple the first time. I carried a paper bag with a pair of unopened garments in my hand, a light snow falling that day. Although the sun was blazing the other day, I remembered feeling a mixture of awe, excitement, and humility as I walked up the hill, not really sure of what was coming.

I sat outside Saturday and thought of how much I had lost since then: the innocence was gone, the wonder at the gospel and the church, and most of all the faith. All gone, like the now-demolished dorms where I had made my home that year. As I ate my ice cream, I felt sorrow and grief for that loss and a longing for life to be like that again. I wanted the simple faith of my youth to work for me. But it can't. I walked south along the sidewalk to the pile of dirt that once was V and W halls, looking for something familiar but seeing only a few strands of twisted coax cable sticking out from the pile of dirt. A sign on the corner showing a map of Deseret Towers still showed the two halls, but that's all there was of them.

And that's what happened to my faith. I can only see it as a memory. Some of the signs still point that way (I still catch myself praying for some kind of comfort or truth through feelings), but the structure is gone. Thankfully, I only seem to want it back on rare occasions. I don't miss the dark and rather suffocatingly small dorm rooms, but rather the feelings associated with them: friendships, wonder at a world that was opening up to me, and comfort in my convictions. And so it is with my faith. I miss the surety, the belief that I understood how the world worked, that everything had a reason, and I was part of something grand and eternal.

But then I remember that most of my growth as a person has come since I moved beyond Deseret Towers, and I'd like to think that I've grown since leaving behind the remnants of faith in Mormonism, however sheltering and comforting they were.

[_barrelomonkeys]

Just wanted to tell you that your story touched me.

[_beastie]

Runtu,

It's good to see you back.

Losing faith is such a complex, poignant, and painful process. It is truly a loss of innocence, of eden. I don't mean eden in the idyllic sense, but in the sense we were as ignorant of crucial parts of reality and life as Adam and Eve were in mythology.

I do miss some things about it. When a close friend of mine died after a long, horrible battle with cancer, leaving behind a husband and two young children, I mourned that I no longer believe I will ever see her again. I dream about her, and this is as close as I will ever get. I dreamed about her a few weeks ago, and she was young and healthy again - the way I once believed we would all be in the Celestial Kingdom. I touched her face and told her I love her. And then the dream was over. I mourn that it will never be anything more than a dream - I mourn that her children won't be reunited with their mother - whole and happy - one day. So much of their young lives was spent with a sick mother who was just a shadow of who she once was, that they never really had a chance to know who she really was - what an amazing, strong, and vibrant woman she was. I can't get over the cruelty of life, and yet know that the cruelty of life on a larger scale in this world far overshadows my small loss of a dear friend. It is hard to have to face these things without the comfort of "happily ever after".

But as you so well illustrated with the small, stuffy room - this idyllic illusion comes with a price tag. Under Mormon theology, she would be forcibly divorced from her family just as I would be. She knew about the LDS church's claims and fully rejected them. She was a mainstream Christian, brought up by her preacher father and stay at home mother, and used to tell me her childhood was literally Ozzy and Harriet (in the good way). But, under Mormon theology, they will have no familial rights to one another. It's another form of cruelty in a world of religions often littered with such cruelties.

So, since everything has a cost, I guess it's better to leave Eden and try to deal with the world as it really is.

Welcome back.

[_KimberlyAnn]

Hugs for Runtu {{{{Runtu}}}}!

Thanks for the story, friend. I'm glad you're back.

KA

[_Runtu]

Hugs for Runtu {{{{Runtu}}}}!

Thanks for the story, friend. I'm glad you're back.

KA

Thanks for the hugs. I can't believe I still feel some nostalgia for the church, but there it is.

[_wenglund]

This last week in Utah has been almost surreal. Much of Utah County has changed, and not all for the better. Suburban sprawl is everywhere, and the place seems like wall-to-wall strip malls (reminds me of Sugar Land with mountains). But I've done a few things just for nostalgia's sake, such as driving through my old neighborhood in Orem and wandering around the BYU campus, and much of that hasn't changed much at all.

The other night I went to the BYU Creamery, which is just north of Deseret Towers, southeast of the temple, and south of the MTC. I came out with my cone in hand and looked at the temple, remembering the long walk up the hill I made the day I went into the temple the first time. I carried a paper bag with a pair of unopened garments in my hand, a light snow falling that day. Although the sun was blazing the other day, I remembered feeling a mixture of awe, excitement, and humility as I walked up the hill, not really sure of what was coming.

I sat outside Saturday and thought of how much I had lost since then: the innocence was gone, the wonder at the gospel and the church, and most of all the faith. All gone, like the now-demolished dorms where I had made my home that year. As I ate my ice cream, I felt sorrow and grief for that loss and a longing for life to be like that again. I wanted the simple faith of my youth to work for me. But it can't. I walked south along the sidewalk to the pile of dirt that once was V and W halls, looking for something familiar but seeing only a few strands of twisted coax cable sticking out from the pile of dirt. A sign on the corner showing a map of Deseret Towers still showed the two halls, but that's all there was of them.

And that's what happened to my faith. I can only see it as a memory. Some of the signs still point that way (I still catch myself praying for some kind of comfort or truth through feelings), but the structure is gone. Thankfully, I only seem to want it back on rare occasions. I don't miss the dark and rather suffocatingly small dorm rooms, but rather the feelings associated with them: friendships, wonder at a world that was opening up to me, and comfort in my convictions. And so it is with my faith. I miss the surety, the belief that I understood how the world worked, that everything had a reason, and I was part of something grand and eternal.

But then I remember that most of my growth as a person has come since I moved beyond Deseret Towers, and I'd like to think that I've grown since leaving behind the remnants of faith in Mormonism, however sheltering and comforting they were.

What a coincedence. I spent a semester in V hall shortly after my mission, and I just happened to notice it having been torn down while driving to the Creamery several weeks ago (my best friend and his 10-year-old son were participating in the BYU Golf Clinic, and I joined them after the award ceremony, and the three of us went for treats at the Creamery).

I, too, have grown much since my days in that dorm. However, rather than loosing my faith, I have since increased and developed in my surety of things spiritual and natural and my understanding about both worlds as well as the reasons and grand and eternal scheme of things. And, while I have many fond memories of that semester in the dorms (mostly having to do with practical jokes and clashes with dorm administration), I thoroughly enjoy the level of faith and knowledge that I currently have, and I wouldn't think to trade it for my V-hall days, even were that possible.

Isn't it interesting, though, how people can walk relatively similar paths of life, and yet end up at different spiritual places in life and with markedly divergent perspectives?

To each their own I suppose. I do hope you know that I wish you all the best for your newfound journey, Runtu.

Thanks, -Wade Englund-

[_moksha]

Thanks for the reminiscences Runtu. Too bad that during that walk you could not have stepped briefly back in time. Speaking of which, I remember whenever I visited the BYU campus, it reminded me of a step back in time.

Lack of faith is one answer to disillusionment with former beliefs, but a progression in faith to a more workable belief system is an even better answer.

[_Bond...James Bond]

Hey Runtu,

Glad to hear you're out and about in Zionland...I'm sure in no time you'll be ruling that city like you did most of Texas (like an iron-fisted King)....was the ice cream good?

[_huckelberry]

Beastie, I have considered a reply to your exposition of the good sense of nonbelief which you are posting in several threads.

I was encouraged to make an attempt by your image of the persistence of a loved one in our connection to them. I certainly heard your belief that that connection will fade instead of grow.

I think that human spirit, however the mechanics of that work, is something that functions in the connections between people. Humans are funny in the combination of being solatary and individual in some important ways yet we are community creatures. We hardly function without extensive connections with other people. Even alone and out of touch with other individuals we are members of groups and we are not human without that community. I think religious belief grows out of that spiritual dimension of our experience. People everywhere have religious beliefs, it expresses a basic human reality. Yet as you point out religion is a the same time a source of hurtful distorted ideas that can harm the very thing it grows out of. People need to constantly put religious beliefs to critical cleansing. It is not necessarily an quick process. I understand religious history as a process of that kind of cleansing. I suspect rather strongly that disbelief can be a positive element in the processing of cleansing religion of destructive destortions. I would be sure you would expect real clarification of human spritiuality would include the progressive elimination of a transcendent divine partner in this spritual community. Well, the journey is not over yet. It appears so far both belief an non belief have the capabilty of generating destructive or chaotic confusion.

I was thinking of floating the definition of God as that dimension of our spritual experience which makes us most genuinely human. I realize it is a definition which caries a strong likelyhood of meaning God exists without demonstrating that "God" still refers to theism of religious doctrine. Yet I think it is the God religous doctrine aims at. I do not think it will become y sure if that is closer to theism or atheism without humans continuing on the journey, and not giving up.

[_mentalgymnast]

Runtu,

It's good to see you back.

Losing faith is such a complex, poignant, and painful process. It is truly a loss of innocence, of eden. I don't mean eden in the idyllic sense, but in the sense we were as ignorant of crucial parts of reality and life as Adam and Eve were in mythology.

I do miss some things about it. When a close friend of mine died after a long, horrible battle with cancer, leaving behind a husband and two young children, I mourned that I no longer believe I will ever see her again. I dream about her, and this is as close as I will ever get. I dreamed about her a few weeks ago, and she was young and healthy again - the way I once believed we would all be in the Celestial Kingdom. I touched her face and told her I love her. And then the dream was over. I mourn that it will never be anything more than a dream - I mourn that her children won't be reunited with their mother - whole and happy - one day. So much of their young lives was spent with a sick mother who was just a shadow of who she once was, that they never really had a chance to know who she really was - what an amazing, strong, and vibrant woman she was. I can't get over the cruelty of life, and yet know that the cruelty of life on a larger scale in this world far overshadows my small loss of a dear friend. It is hard to have to face these things without the comfort of "happily ever after".

But as you so well illustrated with the small, stuffy room - this idyllic illusion comes with a price tag. Under Mormon theology, she would be forcibly divorced from her family just as I would be. She knew about the LDS church's claims and fully rejected them. She was a mainstream Christian, brought up by her preacher father and stay at home mother, and used to tell me her childhood was literally Ozzy and Harriet (in the good way). But, under Mormon theology, they will have no familial rights to one another. It's another form of cruelty in a world of religions often littered with such cruelties.

So, since everything has a cost, I guess it's better to leave Eden and try to deal with the world as it really is.

Welcome back.

Within Mormon theology what kind of relationship do you think they could have? Would there be no possibility of happiness?

Regards,
MG