By Angela W. Schultz

I’m not the easiest person to live with. I have lots of good intentions, which I often push too far. Some people might call me downright peculiar—even for a Mormon.

I abhor waste. In the summer I collect all the unwanted produce from everyone I know. Yes, including the zucchinis. I grate them and freeze them and cook with them all year.

In the name of frugality, I went several winters in Salt Lake City without heat.

And preparedness? Sometimes even I wonder if I am pushing the food storage thing too far. A few months ago my four-year-old was watching me nurse our newborn when she asked, “Is the baby drinking powdered milk?”

Thankfully, I have a husband who understands. Don supports my zucchini habit. He doesn’t complain about eating beans night after night. And when it comes to thrift, sometimes he even one-ups me.

Don has a history of bringing home strange things from work. One time he called me from the college and said, “Ang? I found some meat. I’m bringing it home.”

“You found it?”

“In the freezer. Here in the biology department.”

Even I have limits. Really, is there any compelling reason to eat a mysterious piece of flesh found in the life-science department freezer?

Then there was the lovely flower arrangement and scented candle that he brought me on February 15th. The day after Valentine’s Day. I was confused at first. I mean, I remembered the childhood stories Don told me about Santa coming late to his house because payday wasn’t until the thirtieth. But he didn’t get paid on the fifteenth, so what gives?

Re-gifting. The flowers were leftovers from a student who owns a flower shop. The candle was passed on by that lab tech who always wants Don to massage her shoulders. I’m not sure if her idea was to annoy me or to enhance our marriage.

Interestingly enough, it did a little of each. Yes, I appreciate new, on-time gifts once in a while. But knowing that I may be the only woman on the block getting day-old gifts also makes me feel special. It reminds me of all the eccentricities I love about Don. And all of the ones he loves in me. You might say that for us, being cheap is a mark of affection.

When we married fourteen years ago, I thought Don loved me. But when I see him working twelve-hour days to single-handedly roof our house, I start to understand how much. Sure, he could always call a contractor (and phone the florist while he’s at it), but I think his style shows a lot of creativity—and commitment.

His creative approach has taken several turns. A few days ago I noticed a strange imperfection on one of my teeth. “Do you think this is a cavity?” I asked Don.

“No,” he said knowingly. “That’s definitely a chip in the enamel. You don’t need a dentist for that. I can fix it for you. All it takes is a little epoxy.”

Did I mention that this is the man who, when I was preparing to give birth to our first child, offered to build me an electric breast pump from our old aquarium equipment?

I turned him down then too.

(from the Fall 2006 issue of Segullah)

Many years ago in a small town in the southern part of the state of Utah, my great-grandmother was called to be the president of the Relief Society. During this period of our Church’s history there existed a very bitter and antagonistic spirit between the Mormons and the Gentiles.

 

In my great-grandmother’s ward one of the young sisters married a Gentile boy. This of course did not please either the Mormons or the Gentiles very much. In the course of time this young couple gave birth to a child. Unfortunately the mother became so ill in the process of childbirth that she was unable to care for her baby. Upon learning of this woman’s condition, great-grandmother immediately went to the homes of the sisters in the ward and asked them if they would take a turn going into the home of this young couple to care for the baby. One by one these women refused and so the responsibility fell completely upon her.

 

She would arise early in the morning, walk what was a considerable distance to the home of this young couple where she would bathe and feed the baby, gather all that needed to be laundered and take it with her to her home. There she would launder it and then return with it the next day. Great-grandmother had been doing this for some time when one morning she felt too weak and sick to go and perform the service that had become her custom. However, as she lay in bed she realized that if she didn’t go the child would not be provided for. She mustered all her strength and went.

 

After performing this service she, and I suppose only with the help of the Lord, was able to return to her home and upon entering her living room, collapsed into a large chair and immediately fell into a deep sleep. She said that as she slep, she felt as if she were consumed by a fire that would melt the very marrow of her bones. She began to dream and dreamed that she was bathing the Christ child and glorying in what a great privilege it would have been to have bathed the Son of God. Then the voice of the Lord spoke to her saying, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me.”

[Anonymous, published in a 1970s priesthood manual, quoted in Chieko Okazaki's Cat's Cradle, pp. 205-206]

In his post Steven eloquently says, I can’t reduce [the Savior's] birth to a story separate from my own. As the birth was so intended, it touches and intertwines with mine and the story of the Savior’s birth becomes part of my story.

Today, as my family celebrates that birth, I give thanks that his story is part of mine–and that my story is part of his. I can’t put my arms around him and kiss his cheek and hold him tightly in love and gratitude, as I would like to do. But I can embrace him by embracing my loved ones. And that’s exactly what I will do again and again as we eat together, sing together, and retell the Christmas story, which is anything but ancient history.

Due to brain lag from overconsumption of fat-laden food this weekend (I just ate the last piece of pumpkin pie for breakfast), I don’t have a review to offer up. But I do have some semi-random thoughts about female spiritual leadership that I’m sure you’re dying to hear. And I’m dying to hear yours.

I’m not one for feminist utopias. I believe matriarchy has been and would be just as fraught with problems as patriarchy. Different problems, perhaps, but generally speaking women are just as susceptible to corruption from power as men. Case in point: Diamant’s majestic yet cruel Rebecca. 

And yet, I pine for highly visible, spiritually powerful women leaders in the Church. I am not calling for priesthood ordination for women. I don’t think that’s necessary or desirable. But we believe that “Gender is an essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose,” which means (among many other things) that women have particular gifts to offer the church. And regrettably, this influence mostly takes place behind the scenes.

I don’t believe that the largely private nature of women’s influence in the Church means it’s less valuable. I believe Neal A. Maxwell’s remark that “greatness is not measured in column inches–in the newspaper or in the scriptures” (or in the General Conference report, I might add).  But I’m hungry for more interaction with our female leaders. I wish there were more of them (don’t ask me how–I haven’t come up with any ideas yet). I wish there were more occasions to hear from them. And really I wish the RS broadcast didn’t have to be about Relief Society per se. RS is only one spoke in the wheel of female spirituality, and the conference is our lone annual tent meeting.

Speaking of which, I’m all for a monthly women-of-the-ward meeting where we lie around and talk for three days. And eat honeyed cakes, and all that. Are you with me, sisters?

Most people believe that they don’t enjoy poetry.   Perhaps they’ve been over-exposed to poetry that is inaccessible. Perhaps they can’t separate poetry from their high school or college experiences of being forced to write papers about poems that other people say are good.  Whatever it is, there are definitely some mental blocks out there when it comes to reading poetry. (Despite the number of people who WRITE it, which is the subject of another post I hope to write soon.) I see Segullah as being in a good position to broaden its readers’ exposure to poetry and show them that it can be enjoyable. 

Of course, this can’t happen if we don’t get enough quality submissions!  At Segullah we are hoping that with publicity and with our poetry contest we will gradually begin receiving more and more good stuff. And as poets realize there is a place for them to publish, they will be more willing to see themselves as poets and perhaps work harder. 

I can’t over-emphasize how important it is to a poet to know that there are places to publish.  I myself didn’t start writing poetry as an adult until I discovered Exponent II and Irreantum as potential places to publish. So I have a definite sense of mission for Segullah, both in terms of creating an audience for poetry and providing a forum for poets. 

But I have some mixed feelings when it comes to setting standards of quality for Segullah.  When I was first writing poetry, I wrote some stuff that was, well,  not really great. At that time, Harlow Clark was poetry editor at Irreantum and he accepted some of my (weak) stuff. He even wrote an article in Irreantum around that time called “Room to be Lousy” (which he insists wasn’t specifically about me, but hey, I’m not stupid) in which he spoke of the need for a place for growing poets to publish even when they are not very good yet. I can’t argue with him—probably if I hadn’t seen that success early on, I would have given up.

Which puts me in a difficult position as a poetry editor now. I want to foster the growth of new LDS poets. But if I publish lousy stuff, better poets, potential contributors, will read Segullah and think that it is not for them and so they won’t send me anything. I want to keep high standards so that we will receive high-quality submissions and so that the audience will learn what good poetry is. But I want to give “lousy” poets who show some potential a chance.  When I don’t feel we have much really great stuff to put in an issue, how far should I lower our standards in order to fill pages and in order to give new poets a chance?  Do you other editors struggle with this question?

At Segullah, when we (the poetry board) are deciding what to publish and when we have enough decent submissions that we can be picky, here are the criteria that we use:  Is it a quality piece?  Does it speak to a woman’s experience?  Does it speak to a Mormon’s experience?  Even better:  does it speak to a Mormon woman’s experience?  Does it address our issue’s theme?  Although we hope we haven’t published any bad poetry, we sometimes publish poetry that is less technically skilled because its theme is pertinent to our mission, or because it fits the issue’s theme so well.

For example, here’s a poem of mine that Segullah published a few years ago.

Angels of Mercy

by Darlene Young

 

The Seventh Ward Relief Society

presidency argued long and soft

whether Janie Goodmansen deserved

to have the sisters bring her family meals.

It seems that precedent was vague–

no one was sure if “boob job” qualified

as a legitimate call for aid.

Janie herself had never asked for help–

a fault they found it harder to forgive

even than the vanity behind

the worldliness of D-cup ambition.

But in the end charity did not fail.

The sisters marched on in grim duty

each evening clutching covered casseroles

(for, after all, it wasn’t the children’s fault).

More than once, though, by some oversight

the dessert came out a little short, as if

by some consensus they all knew

that Janie’s husband, Jim, could do

without a piece of pie that night.

Obviously, this is not a very technically accomplished poem. BUT it addressed the Mormon woman’s experience and it fit the issue theme (bodies) perfectly. We’re hoping that very skillful poets will not read this poem and decide that we do not prefer to publish technically accomplished poetry—and at the same time, we are hoping that people who think they do not like poetry (or can’t understand it) will read a poem like this and think, “Hey, that said something in a new way. That’s a poem, and I enjoyed it.”  Of course, we are often able to balance less-crafted poems like this one with other more-crafted poems within the same issue (but not always—we can dream, though, right?).

(And I do have to say here that I am not using terms like “crafted” and “technical skill” to mean “less accessible” and “requires a dictionary and a book of literary allusions in order to understand.” These terms are not equivalent, and the mistaken belief that they are has caused many an unfortunate situation for people who might otherwise like to read or write poetry. But that’s another topic for another post.)

How about you other editors?  What is your submission pool like?  Do you get enough quality submissions that you are able to pick poems that contribute to a certain flavor you wish to convey? Do you have a sense of mission? What do you hope for the future of poetry in your publication?

And what about you readers? Do you enjoy the poetry you’ve found in independent LDS pubs? What do you want to see more (or less) of?

(Q) What do Trent Reznor, Sarah Hughes, and Vince Neil have in common? 

(A) A cameo in this just-right-for-Monday essay.

(Enjoy. And do tell us all about YOUR memorable mission comps–it’s been a LONG Monday.)

Downtown Sister Brown and the Department of Defense

By Courtney Kendrick

The phone rang awfully early for a summer morning. “Ms. Kendrick?” a man’s voice summoned me from my sleep. “This is George Eckles from the Department of Defense. I have some questions to ask you regarding a former mission companion of yours.” Now this is extraordinarily cliché to say, but that is a statement I never thought I would hear. “When and where can we meet?”

Years of my husband Christopher making me watch Alias had taught me well that you always meet a person from the Department of Defense in a dark alleyway at night. Chances are that you fall in love with that person, only to find out later that that person is really an alien from some dark corner of the galaxy, and whose mother was a sexy spy from Russia with really toned arms. Anyway . . .

I chose my house as the location, the following day, at 900 hours. I spent the morning making a mental list of the possibilities. Which companion was running an underground terrorist cell? A quick glance at my mission scrapbook lead me to three likely suspects.

Suspect One: Sister Nixon—Very Sneaky

You call them dork dots. The red sticker a sweet lady lovingly presses against your new name tag as she welcomes you, and your luggage, to the Missionary Training Center. It seems that there is a whole chain gang of these women that you meet as you leave your family—for good—in the Weeping and Wailing Room. One checks to make sure you have the correct papers, another checks your mental stability, another one (with gloves) checks your head for lice. Then you are sent to your dorm and told to wait there until another person with a similar dork dot shows up in your room. This means that you are companions.

In my case two sisters with red dots showed up. This meant that we were a threesome. One of the two, Sister Nixon, wore those eyeglasses that tint in the sun. When she showed up in the room, hauling in her luggage, her glasses were dark, which to me, made her look a bit mysterious. Mostly because I didn’t remember sunglasses being a part of the sister missionary ensemble. I started to worry . . . should I have brought my Jackie O glasses? Would that make me more approachable?

As it turned out Sister Nixon and I became like sisters. Actually, I’d like to think that I took her under my wing. She was as smart as a cricket (am I mixing up my similes?), but not especially cool. One night before evening study I asked if I could give her a quick sister missionary makeover, to which she obliged. I taught her how to use mascara and a slight wisp of blush. I tamed her otherwise nappy hair and last of all gave her free reign over my closet. I still remember that she picked out my yellow silk jacket, and against her olive skin it made her look radiant. Typically, I would never use such a word, but in this case, it was true. The elders were stunned and graciously remarked on the transformation.

After that night everything changed. Some mornings I would awake to find Sister Nixon sleeping at the foot of my bed. She’d steal my name tags, hide them, and then help me search the room high and low—all the while supporting me through my bouts of self-questioning, which were peppered with phrases such as “I am losing my mind!”

Later, I’d find her wearing my tags when she didn’t think I was looking. Her closet raiding became more frequent. Makeup was missing. She started writing my family. Sister Nixon was slowly and surreptitiously becoming . . . me.

It was eerie, really—she even gave up eating grits for breakfast! That’s when I started getting worried. Our other comp noticed it as well, and we decided that as weird as it was, we’d let it go. Truly, as long as I could at least keep my loyal boyfriend off-limits, as well as my own underwear drawer, I didn’t mind sharing identities with my confused companion. I considered it an honor, really.

When our two-month sojourn in the MTC finally ended, Sister Nixon and I parted for good. She was off to Africa, to a place far away where it was rumored that people ate monkeys for dessert. I hope that Sister Nixon found someone else to become when she arrived on that continent—because if she were me, there would be some real issues with monkey eating.

Is it just a coincidence that sneaky Sister Nixon also shared the last name of a famous American crook? Could she be stealing identities, perhaps dork dots, for questionable countries?

Suspect Two: Sister Dean—Questionable Background

It wasn’t long before I was wrangled into another threesome out in the field. Having been in two threesomes within three months, I feel a certain expertise on the dynamics of such a group. My confident conclusion: they’re a disaster. Yes, necessary at times, I realize, because sisters go home sick a lot. (And I feel like I can say that with equal confidence. They just do). However, necessary doesn’t mean ideal.

In my second threesome there was Sister Dean, who wore low-cut dresses to impress the elders, and had a family picture that (how do I put this kindly?) looked just like the Addam’s Family—complete with Cousin It. Always anxious and easily upset, Sister Dean wanted to be a good missionary; she just felt she couldn’t be one with me around. She had it pretty good before I came along, too. She was companions with the fun sister in the mission who sang opera in the shower and made the most excellent apricot chicken dish. The less-active families loved to take care of Sister Dean’s emotional needs and the district leader felt useful when he called every night to resolve her concerns. She was most skilled in getting people to eat out of her hands.

My transfer into the area was no favor for Sister Dean. I still wonder what I did exactly to upset the balance of her orbits, but she didn’t like me for it nonetheless. When I asked, she avoided questions about her family, Cousin It, and her past in general. As time passed she became quiet and sullen. A month after my arrival Sister Dean was transferred. I saw her in passing at mission conferences every few months. It seemed like she tried to busy herself in conversation when she saw me coming. I think sometimes we just have companions who will eternally baffle us.

It was rumored that a former sister went to see Sister Dean after the mission and she would only open the door a crack. She seemed none-too-pleased to have visitors.

Did I push Sister Dean into criminal activity? A mafia family with Cousin It?

Suspect Three: Sister O’Brien—Irish Thunder

Sister O’Brien, from California, made me a mother. In mission president’s terminology that means that I was her trainer. I couldn’t have been more proud, either. Sister O’Brien was a semi-professional figure skater. On P-days we would go skating with the zone, and she’d put those hotshot elders in their places.

“Sorry, what, Elder Hoskins? Were you asking me about goals? I was just watching my daughter do a triple axel!”

This was especially cool because we were in Canada. In Canada there is nothing to do on P-days unless it has to do with ice. Or hockey.

Sister O’Brien was the real deal. Her Irish background had graced her with the gift of gab, and she’d keep me awake at nights telling me colorful stories about her family. She never needed a coat and insisted on drinking only lemon water. Also, to my advantage, was the fact that she was a graduate of hair school. I have some fancy pictures of me with cornrows (it really was too bad that I didn’t have my Jackie O sunglasses). Come to think of it, I don’t remember cornrows being a part of the sister missionary ensemble either, but it made great fodder for the elders.

Sister O’Brien’s mission was cut short when her real mother became terminally ill with heart complications. She arrived home in time to say good-bye. I felt a loss when I heard the news. After all her storytelling, I felt like I was part of the family.

However, as it pertains to why the Department of Defense was calling, I concluded that perhaps Sister O’Brien could have ties to that whole Russian figure-skating bribe scheme. But why would the Department of Defense care to launch an investigation? I dare say we Americans won fair and square in 2002 with that perky Keri Strug. Rather, I think Keri was the gymnast. Who was that wisp of a girl that won in Salt Lake City?

But I digress . . .

All night long I had nightmares of what was to unfold the next day. I woke up several times throughout the night. I kept telling myself, “It’s only 200 hours, go back to sleep” or “I have a couple more hours to sleep, as it is only 400 hours.” Admittedly, I had never actually used military time, but it only seemed appropriate.

When 800 hours came around I was awake and alert. My husband offered to sit with me during the interrogation, but I was willing to take one for the country. What did I have to hide? (Well, besides the big black spot on the carpet where Mr. Eckles was to sit during the questioning.) When he finally arrived he first flashed me his badge, “Ms. Kendrick, my credentials.” Then he handed it to me. Flustered I took the badge and looked it over as if I did this sort of thing all the time. I remember seeing a picture, an official-looking seal, and some blue writing. “Looks good,” I said in a semi-approving tone (I didn’t want him to feel too comfortable). “Please come in.”

The Department of Defense sure looked funny sitting on my yellow couch with floral pillows. “You had a companion, Wendy Brown, (and let me interject here that of course I have changed all the names; I can’t take any chances) who has applied for a security position with the United States Government that requires top-level security clearance.” Well, of course, Sister Brown. She who had a photographic memory, learned Hebrew and Arabic in her spare time, and went to Syria occasionally for fun. (I was actually scheduled to spend a summer with her in the Mediterranean but at the last moment got married instead.) My own comp, a member of the “big brother” team. I was so proud.

I acknowledged that I knew Wendy and loved her as a friend as well as a companion (hopefully that would help her get the job.) He asked me things like, “Did she work at this place?” and “Did she go to school at this LDS higher educational institution?” It amazed me how much I knew. Good thing I really listen when she occasionally calls.

After a while he started asking me more detailed questions. “Does she keep secrets?” I couldn’t recall sharing secrets with her as a missionary. Although I did remember the time I dumped my bowl of tofu soup back into the pot when our dinner appointment answered the phone in the next room. She didn’t tell anyone, but boy was she disappointed with me—and let me know it on the car ride home.

“Does she adjust easily to a variety of situations?” A less-active sister used to let us wear her wigs. Sister Brown looked fabulous both as a blonde and a glossy chestnut brunette. She even let me dye her hair fire-engine red on her birthday. I knew she could adjust to hair color!

“Has she done anything in her past that would embarrass the United States Government?” A pre-mission picture she shared with me of her before a Mötley Crüe concert in London came to mind.

“Does she associate with upstanding citizens?” You mean besides the time that Trent Reznor asked her out?

Last of all there were questions like, “Does she like to snow or water ski?” Then I imagined my comp skiing down the Alps while locating a secret Al Qaida Swiss bank account tucked away in a discreet cave.

“No,” I said. “I don’t believe she likes either.”

Mr. Eckles was impressed with my honesty and he told me so. “It sounds like your friend here has lived a very interesting life.” And the cool thing is, I got to be part of that interesting life, at least for five months. At the time I thought five months was a long time with a companion, but perhaps she’ll think of me when she’s undercover wearing a wig while eating tofu soup in some far away place. I just hope for her sake that it’s not that place in Africa where they eat monkeys for dessert.

• The staff of Segullah wants you to win!! By that I mean that we are pulling for the people who enter this contest.  We never forget the women behind the stories. And many of us (me, at least) are not widely published, and still consider ourselves to be novice writers.   Trust me: we are a sympathetic audience.  We are rooting for you.    Not everyone can win, this is true. But we appreciate each woman who takes the time to share her life with us through writing.
• Contest winners are held to higher standards than regular submissions.  Regular submissions go through a revision process, working with our editorial board to do at least three revisions, sometimes four, before we publish them. However, our contest winners are published as-is, with minor copyediting.   What this means for those who enter is that they need to take the time to send us the very best version possible. Publication-ready. Please, find someone who can see your writing clearly, and have them give you honest feedback.  Then revise.  Then find someone else, and get more feedback, and revise.  Then do it again, as many times as you can before the deadline.
• Do not be daunted if you have never published before! You don’t have to have published anything before to do well.  I speak from personal experience: “Finding Myself on Google,” which won an honorable mention in the 2006 essay contest, was the first essay I’d ever published.  I don’t think that’s true of our other winners, who had more writing experience than I did, but it’s true of me.  You can do this!
• If you’re wondering where to go with your next draft, and having a hard time finding a good editor, read the writing tips section of Segullah’s blog, and evaluate what you’ve got based on some of the ideas there.
• There is no theme for either contest (I’ve gotten that question a couple of times this year, so I wanted to clarify it).  Write about whatever you want that fits in our mission statement.  Read a few back issues to get some ideas of what we are looking for.
• If your essay doesn’t win, it still has a good chance of being published in Segullah after working through our editing process.  For me, one of the best things about my involvement in Segullah is finding people who will critique my writing with expertise, honesty, and kindness.  So if your essay doesn’t win, but it’s accepted for publication, that’s going to be good for your future writing.  You’ll have the chance to revise it under the guidance of one of our editors.  You’ll get published, and become a better writer.  Yeah, yeah, winning would have been better.  But this is pretty good, too.
• Follow the submissions guidelines I linked to above.  Pay attention to word count–our space is limited, and we’d hate to disqualify your essay from consideration because it was too long.

There you have it–behind the scenes at Segullah.  Now get writing!

p.s. I’m happy to answer any more questions you have about the contest in the comments section.

–Emily Milner, Assistant Editor, Segullah

Kerry wowed our staff with this submission to our first annual essay contest. After today’s abortion threads at T&S and BCC, I found this only too fitting. Unfortunately, my head is too full of abortion rhetoric to formulate an insightful discussion question. So I’ll simply ask this: What stands out to you as a reader?

2005 Heather Campbell Essay Contest Winner

When Life Begins

By Kerry Spencer

It is looking at a British Gravestone, of all things, that makes me think the question.

The gravestone is old and covered with some sort of green fungus. There are many people listed on the stone, though their carved names have been degraded by elemental wrath. They have been dead so long that my question seems completely incongruous, though I know it isn’t.

At what point does life begin?

It’s something I’ve thought about since the day that we found out in vitro fertilization was the only way to have a baby, since the day we flew to London for the cheaper procedure, and since the day they implanted two blastocysts into my uterus. IVF requires the creation of multiple embryos. But not all of them survive. This isn’t due to any sort of deliberate weeding out—if there is any way on earth you can get an embryo to turn into a baby, you do it. If you have to freeze it and use it later, you do it. But between the day of fertilization and implantation, some of your embryos die. It’s almost a biological imperative.

We’ve lost fourteen embryos so far in the process.

I scan the names on the stone to see if any of them are my ancestors, whom we’re here looking for, but the ancestors remain elusive. Beneath lies only an unrelated someone who was once an embryo.

When does life become life and when can you call the loss of it death?

I push my way through grass that hasn’t been mowed in months. I think I can feel insects creeping across my arms and legs as I push through. The sun glares to my left and I am squinting against a massive headache. It is the hottest summer anyone in London can remember, and we are combing the cemetery plot by plot.

I wrote a paper in freshman biology arguing that life began at the moment of conception. I spent a week in research, but no time in actual thought. It was easy to argue what I already believed, easy to leave unasked the difficult questions.

But the truth is, as I scan the names on gravestone after gravestone, I don’t want to have been right. I don’t want life to begin at the moment of conception. Because that means that life is just too full of death. There would be just too much to mourn. Janet Shibley Hyde and John D. DeLamater argue that as many as forty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage.[1] About half of them occur before the mother even knows she’s pregnant. A perfectly fertile couple can try to have a baby for an entire year unsuccessfully, and who knows how many embryos are lost in the process? I don’t want to stand above the toilet every month and wonder if this is the month I should be mourning the loss of human life. I just don’t.

In God’s way, statistically speaking, it takes several embryos to create one human life. All IVF does is make you aware of what is being lost.

A man with a lawn mower fastidiously mows and re-mows the newer plots at the edge of the cemetery. I want to call him over, tell him that very dead people deserve mowed grass as much as newly dead people. But he moves off, the hum of the mower slowly fading to an insect-like background hum.

I remember what I don’t want to think about: that there are two embryos floating somewhere in my gut. Two blastocysts. A fifty percent chance of conception, they tell me.

2 blastocysts = 0.5 human beings.

But it took sixteen embryos to create those two blastocyts.

16 embryos = 0.5 human beings.

I know that my math is simplistic. Statistics tell you nothing about the particular. They only tell you what is more likely. A single embryo can become two or three human beings. Two embryos can fuse into a single fetus with a double genotype. And fourteen embryos can die and no human beings ever result in the meshing of their cells.

“Hey, I think I found something,” Steve calls out from a few gravestones away. He has taken out the camera and is taking pictures of the inscriptions on the small, rose-colored tomb of an ancestor—James Felix Jones, a sea captain who died toward the end of the nineteenth century.

My sister, Kate, and I make our way over to the grave. I squint, trying to read the dirty inscription on the tomb. I make out only what I already knew: his name, his occupation, the date of his death.

The embryos in my gut have a fifty percent chance of death. Or life.

Of all of the possible odds, I think 50/50 is the worst. There is no comforting yourself—no saying, “it’s more likely this way or that way.” It is equally likely yes. And equally likely no.

Steve is meticulously snapping shot after shot of the grave. And I am baffled by him. We were sent here on this ancestor mission by my Aunt Maurine, the family genealogist. “Why do you care so much about my ancestors?” I grumble at him. I am irritated. Irritated at life, death, my ancestors, the world. My legs are itchy from too-tall grass but because the grass is so wet, scratching only makes my legs sting more. I blame the leftover hormones that still fly around in my blood stream for the bulk of my irritation, but I am probably mostly irritated by the odds: 50/50.

I don’t remember what Steve says back to me. I want it to have been something about life—that life matters. As short as it is and as hard as it is, it matters. I want to believe that more than anything else. But my irritation keeps getting in the way.

It is when we get home to our one-room, overheated, London flat that we get the messages.

The fertility clinic has been trying to call us over and over.

“It’s urgent,” they say. “Please call back.”

We are confused. We were done with the clinic. They told us they wouldn’t be contacting us anymore. We didn’t even bother to keep our phones with us.

“Your embryos,” they say when we finally get ahold of them. “We thought two of them were dead, but they weren’t. They started dividing again. But now it’s too late.”

Too late?

“Too late. They’re too big to be frozen now; they won’t survive.”

Two blastocysts in my gut.

Two blastocysts dying in the lab.

4 blastocysts = 1 human being.

But now it’s too late.

I am crying before I am off the phone with the clinic. The nurse is upset too. “Why didn’t you take your phone with you?” she is asking. “Why didn’t you?”

I was doing genealogy. I was doing the right thing.

I curse the ghosts of my ancestors.

Steve is crying now, too. He holds me and we cry on the bed. I cry and cry and I can’t stop crying.

Kate starts to get frantic. “You’re killing the babies inside you!” she is saying. She is holding a chocolate muffin and smears of chocolate encrust the bottoms of her fingernails. Maybe they even encrust her mind, because she is hysterical.

“STOP! STOP CRYING!” she says.

And I can’t stop.

Steve takes me into our tiny blue bathroom, away from Kate. I sit on the toilet and he sits on the edge of the shower. It is so hot that we turn the shower on cold and let the spray bounce off of the floor and hit us. Steve looks at me, holds my swollen face in one of his hands. We can say nothing to each other. We can just stare. Mourning the fifty percent chance of life now dying in the laboratory. Mourning the fifty percent chance of a family.

Neither of us knows when life begins.

All we know is that something has been lost.

Once you’re done crying, read the book.

“Enjoy it!” she said to me, thinking her advice was falling on eager ears.

I will, if you will! I thought, remembering her countless complaints, her apathetic husband, delinquent son, and lazy five-year-old.

“Enjoy it” has been offered up to me as a gift of consolation for three years of infertility. But couldn’t that advice apply to just about anyone? And why can’t I ever convince people enough that I already have that particular plan in motion?

Courtney Jane Kendrick (aka c jane) needn’t fret. This collection of 137 witty/sassy/sexy/crazy blog posts will convince even the crustiest of souls that she delights in daily life. Even when she can’t ovulate, and Target is closed, and the pumpkin tarts are sold out at the bakery.

Join c jane as she dazzles her way through infertility, pregnancy, and brand-new motherhood with a cast of characters that includes one husband, two parents, five brothers, three sisters, dozens of nieces and nephews, several dogs and celebrities, various disembodied voices, and a nicotine-addicted ghost thrown in just for fun.

The collection was compiled and edited by the staff of Segullah, with a fabulous cover design by our very own Maralise. Rather than pursuing a book contract with a traditional publisher, Courtney opted to self-publish through Lulu.com to maximize royalties, all of which will benefit her sister, Stephanie Nielson.

So, whip out those credit cards and buy yourself a great new book and a big warm fuzzy to go with it. As an appetizer, we’ve included a sample post below (which was also published in Sunstone last year). Enjoy It!

Modest about Modesty

When I moved into this ward, I had a neighbor tell me that she thought I’d be the next Young Women’s President.

“No way, “ I countered. “I don’t dress modestly enough.”

To which she replied, “Then it’s about time you start.”

A year later, that calling came and I thought I’d feel a massive spiritual attack to clean out my closet in preparation for a more reserved collection. Conversely, I have felt somewhat of an undertaking to redefine LDS fashion. And right now I’m using big words so that you will think I’m intelligent—and, undoubtedly, right. But truth be told, this is a lonely calling in life. I get a lot of “What in Lucifer’s House are you wearing, child?”

Ahh, the fine art of dressing up for church. I’d like to think that I give it my full attention (It’s a spiritual gift, really). Before I head out the door, I look in the mirror and ask, “Is this lovely or is this sexy?” Because to me, that’s the all-important difference. (But what do you do with those of us who feel that nothing is lovelier than feeling sexy? There, I said it.)

I had a remarkable experience at the World Wide Leadership Training a couple weeks ago. There was much to learn and insight given. But I’ll never forget the beautiful woman in the front row of Elder Holland’s “class” who wore knee-high black boots, tights, and a short plaid skirt topped off with a black turtleneck. In all my life I had never seen someone from Church HQ in such a semi-hip outfit. It was as though the clouds had parted and the sun shone through. “There is room in this church for me and my knee-high boots!” I warmly proclaimed in my head.

I’d like to think that there is also room in this church for pencil skirts and converted kimono dresses matched with high heels. Ultra-feminine. I mean, if you’re going to be a woman, why not go all-out? As someone who was raised in the heart of Mormondom, I have seen enough women hiding underneath floral tents, once claimed as dresses from the Dress Barn. When did modesty mean clothing lines of subtle deviations from men’s clothing wear? Where in the handbook does it recommend jumpers?

How far do we go with modesty? Can we go too far? I mean, some of us are one step away from wearing hijab. And part of me would like to teach the youth of the ward that the feminine doesn’t need to be hiding all the time. Like my mother always said, “A little cleavage never hurt anybody.” (Please don’t tell my mother I just quoted her; she’ll kill me.)

Furthermore, don’t we believe that a woman’s body, though absolutely sacred, is also virtuous and of good report? Where is the marriage between celebrating a figure and using it for disadvantageous plots?

And most importantly, does “one pair of modest earrings” dangle?

How far?

Two years ago when Segullah made its debut I fielded lots of questions. The most frequent was this: Why a new journal?

My answer: Because Mormon women need an independent forum that maintains a faithful perspective.

“Independent forum” rarely caused any hang-ups. “Faithful perspective” was a speed bump for some (and that’s a topic for another post). But others moved right along to the “women” part. Aren’t male perspectives just as valuable? some of them asked.

Of course, of course. I had radical feminist leanings in college, but I’ve far outgrown the deluded belief that men are, basically, chumps. I believe that the greatest heights of humanity come from the union of male and female, in intimate pairs and in larger communities. And I’d love to see a faith-promoting journal of personal writings by LDS men and women. For that matter, I’d love to see one for men only. But those are someone else’s projects. Mine, as editor of Segullah, is fostering the female voice. (read the rest).

2008 has been an exciting year on Mount Segullah. We recently published our summer issue, which features prose and poetry contest honorees. In December we’ll publish our tenth issue since our 2005 debut. Our subscriber base is steadily growing, and we’re hearing from some great new voices. You can subscribe here, view the archive here, and find our submission guidelines here. The deadline for our 2008 literary contests is December 31, so get writing!

We’re also excited about the recent release of our staff anthology, The Mother in Me: Real-world Reflections on Growing Into Motherhood , published by Deseret Book. (To my knowledge, this release marked the first appearance of the word “nipple” in mainstream LDS literature.) We blushed over Margaret Young’s glowing endorsement], and we’re looking forward to reviews around the bloggernacle. And hey–we want you to come to our book release party!

Saturday October 18, 2-4 p.m

Deseret Book at the University Mall in Orem, UT

You can hear more about the book in my interview with Doug Wright, which will be broadcast on KSL radio (SLC, 1160 AM), Sunday October 12 from 9-9:30 a.m.

I suppose that’s enough shameless self-promotion for now, but we’ll soon be back with more.  My thanks to Stephen for creating this round table (vanity mirror?)–Segullah is pleased to be part of it.