Thank You For Your Support

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." - Inigo Montoya

OK, part of it is the problem of the English language itself, with its ridiculous rules and exceptions to rules. I'll grant you that.

Still. Let's talk about support. The actual word - "support."

We so often use it to mean "agree with." People will insist that "the way to support" someone is to tell them that you think that they're correct, or that they should be doing whatever they're doing. They will tell you that to "support" your family or friends, you need, in essence, to say to them, "You are right. You are absolutely right."

It makes me crazy.

Most of the times that I felt most supported by my parents were the times when we disagreed.

Look on dictionary.com. They supply 19 definitions for "support," and not one contains the words "agree" or "agreement." Number 3, though, says, "to undergo or endure, especially with patience or submission; tolerate." My parents did a lot of that.

I've shared before the fact that I started attending a church at age seven. I went with the neighbors. My parents did not belong to any religion. Both of them, especially my dad, distrusted organized religions as a whole. Plus, this was one outside the mainstream, deemed kind of loopy. Still, when I announced at age eight that I intended to attend every week, that I wanted to be baptized a member, my parents eventually gave permission.

Were they thrilled? No. Not even close. Did they try to talk me out of it? Sure. I rarely share those details, since I consider them irrelevant to the outcome, but it wasn't all sunshine and roses. My family had reservations. My mom worried that being religious would equate to being judgmental. My dad said things like, "They talk about the importance of the family, but I think that this could tear the family apart." When I wanted to attend Sunday services as well as weekday activities, they worried that two meetings a week was too much. My dad also stressed out because Sunday had traditionally been our "pack a picnic and head into the hills" days, and we'd frequently be gone all day long. He was unamused when I countered this worry by asking, "Couldn't we do that on Saturdays?" To me, his answer of, "But we've always done it on Sunday" sounded like a non sequitur. I got to hear everyone's stories about how they "knew this one Mormon man/woman" and how they did something wrong or hurtful or stupid. My dad's family had some long standing beef with the church that went back to his childhood.

How did they handle all this? They let me join, without undue complaining. I could attend meetings weekly, but I had to wait until I was 12 to be baptized; that was OK with me. By that time, they were pretty comfortable that things would go on as usual at home; nobody had grand worries any more. By the time I was a teen, and my mom had to drive me to and from meetings and activities, it was just a normal part of our lives. They attended activities with me when invited. When my teacher suggested a 40 day sugar fast so that we could better understand Jesus' 40 day fast, my mother obsessively read labels and bought special groceries. When I had early morning religion classes in high school, my mother got up with me to make sure I had breakfast. They didn't worry about sending me on youth group trips or sleepovers, even co-ed ones.

Did they still think that my church was odd, my choices were odd, and sometimes hope that I'd decide that I didn't want to attend any more? Sure. Did they say nasty, snarky, passive-aggressive things? Never. Did they gripe to everyone else, outside of my earshot? No. They told people how nice members of my congregation were.

On the other hand, did I secretly throw out their coffee and wine, sigh and look mournful when they drank those things, when they swore, when they stayed home while I went to church? Never. Did I, or anyone else, pressure them to join, remark on how sad it was that I attended alone, tell them that their salvation was at stake? Nope. Not even once. It's called "being mature."

That's certainly not the only time we seriously disagreed. My dad was deeply upset that I had no interest in being an athlete. They were both deeply disappointed when I decided not to go to college after high school. They didn't always like my friends, and were not happy when I chose one of those friends as my roommate when I moved out. (Truth be told, they weren't happy about me moving out, period, and they disliked the girl in question.) (Also, they turned out to be right that living with her was a bad idea.) When I started dating my husband, my mother told me that she never wanted to meet my new boyfriend, and my dad referred to him as "that wild. bearded thing." They were not happy when I got married at 20, when I had a baby that year and another at 21, when we moved hundreds of miles away, when we bought a home in our new town, when I chose to be a stay at home mom... I mean, there are literally dozens of instances in which they would have made very different choices for me if they could.

(Despite the fact that they thought that I was too young, and the fact that my mother hated playing hostess, we held our wedding in my parents' back yard. I felt very supported.)

It should be noted that my extended family and my friends were often equally horrified, or even more distressed than my parents, by any or all of these events. Quite often the collective opinion was that I'd lost my mind, or that I had tragically low self esteem, or that I didn't know that I had alternatives. Also, my inlaws were not fond of me in the slightest. When we were engaged, if I walked into a room, my mother in law walked out.

The fact that my family soon learned to adore my husband (and kids), and that the years bore out the fact that I had not, in fact, ruined my life, is an aside here, instead of the point. The point is that my loved ones continued to love me and continued to treat me and my family the same way they would have if I had done things differently. This does not mean that everyone lived in a state of denial or that nobody voiced concerns, complaints or (my least favorite) advice. It means that the fact that we disagreed was totally secondary to the fact that we loved each other.

That, folks, is what "support" looks like.

I cannot stand it when I read some account or other of someone doing something that could be controversial - leaving medical school to become a jazz musician, or coming out as gay - their loved ones think that they're doing the right thing, and say, "I agree with you 100%! Live your truth! Follow your path! God wants you to do this!" and other people respond, "Now that's the way to support someone!" and "Anyone who tells you that you're wrong is not supporting you!" Listen up, everybody. That's not support. It's agreement. It's expected. It is the very definition, the epitome, of expected. Can you think of any instance in which someone will agree with you, will think that you're doing the right thing, and will say something derogatory or rude? Will they question you and offer alternatives if they think that you're already taking the best course of action? Good gravy, folks, it is the closest thing to a guarantee that if someone agrees with you, they'll say something positive. I repeat, that is agreement, not support.

Displaying expected behavior is not amazing or worthy of praise. It's a given, like the sun rising.

Actual support should be expected behavior, but alas, it is not.

A friend posted a question on their Facebook page about whether or not it was possible to civil and supportive if your family members disagreed on religion. This was my response.

"When I joined my church at almost age 13, my parents and siblings were supportive (if baffled). I do not belong to the same religion as my parents, siblings, parents-in-law, siblings-in-law, or any of my 11 nieces and nephews (or my grandnieces and -nephews, either). (I also do not belong to the same political party as my husband.)

Having grown up in an environment where I was taught that all people have intrinsic value, unrelated to their beliefs or actions, and in which I was both encouraged to be respectful to everyone and to think for myself, I will never be able to understand people who think that everyone has to agree, or they can't truly be close, or love each other. I don't understand people who see differences of opinion as betrayal and rejection.

We recently returned from a naming ceremony for my grandniece, daughter of lesbian, Jewish parents. Someone actually said to my husband, "You would go when you don't agree with them?" Of course! They flew here and celebrated with us, with genuine happiness, when our daughter was married in an LDS temple. They don't agree with us or our religious practices, but it made no difference. That's just what reasonable people do for each other.

Most of my friends are pretty great about differences, too. When I invited a (very non-religious) family to my son's baptism, they didn't say, "We don't believe in that, and we think you're a little weird. It would make us too uncomfortable." They said, "What time do we need to be there, and what is the dress code?" When they invited us to their son's gay pagan handfasting (wedding) ceremony, we said about the same - "When should we get there, and what's the dress code?"

I know people who say they'd love people, regardless, but they'd be very upset if, say, their daughter announced a desire to be a nun. Unless someone is sacrificing children or planning other acts of violence, allowing them to freely practice their beliefs, or unbelief, benefits everyone."

I mean, how is this even a question? How are we not all clear on this?

When you look at my close friends, my lifelong friends, my relatives, people that I truly and sincerely adore, you'll find members of my religion. You'll also find drug addicts, drug traffickers, alcoholics, promiscuous people, transgender people, homosexual people, three pack a day smokers, cross dressers, unwed parents, people with multiple sexual partners/spouses, pagans, Jews, Evangelicals, atheists, Wiccans, people who fit more than one of those categories... all kinds of people whose lives do not mirror my standards. Why is this not a problem for me? Because they are my standards, that I have committed to live. They are not their standards.

And let it also be noted here, because this often gets overlooked, that these people love me, despite the fact that I live a vastly different life than they do.

Three of my children are adults, and the youngest is in high school, so now they sometimes hear details that I may not have shared when they were younger. They know now that one of their deeply loved bonus uncles spent years as a drug addicted, alcoholic, promiscuous manager of strippers. When they were children, I didn't let them in on those details, because they didn't need to know. They arguably don't need to know now, but we never ignored those things, or pretended that they didn't exist. We went the route of, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Sometimes, we said a lot of nothing.

We've always answered questions truthfully, though. When one of my daughters was working on a play that I was in, she asked one night, "Did (our makeup artist) used to be a woman?"

"Yes, he did. His name was (different) then. I knew him as (that person) when we did university theater together years ago."

"I though so. Don't tell him that I could tell."

"He's not touchy about it. He doesn't broadcast it, but he doesn't mind if you ask. Most of us knew him back then. It's not a secret." I don't know if she ever asked him anything - probably not - but it was just another piece of info, like what any of our actors did for a living.

I have never told my children to love someone despite our differences - I simply love that person. There's no need to qualify the feeling or the relationship.

I've never told them to choose only LDS friends, or to avoid certain people, or not to listen to a friend or relative if they have questions or want to explain their own beliefs or practices. When we've been invited to other churches, if our schedule allows we've said "yes." My kids have gone to Vacation Bible School with their friends. I have never displayed dismissive or superior attitudes because someone is different from me. I don't allow my kids to behave that way, either.

Someone once accused me of being "hateful" and "homophobic" because my religion teaches that homosexuality is aberrant behavior and because I believe that same sex unions (and perhaps even opposite gender civil unions) should be "partnerships" instead of "marriages." I felt compelled to point out that my toddlers were sitting on the lap of my gay, HIV+ best friend back in the 1980s, when people were terrified that the virus could be airborne - and, I might add, before my accuser was even born. I have little patience with anyone trying to give me a sensitivity lecture without knowing about my life. Don't assume that because you have one piece of information that you know me.

Do my kids always agree with me? No. As in so many other areas, I follow my mother's lead.

Two of my children have decided to leave my church. Keep in mind, according to my beliefs, this means that they have effectively opted out of the family unit. They may be in heaven, but they won't be my children in eternity. (This is, arguably, harder than my parents had it, since they had no beliefs about an afterlife or the state of one's eternal soul.) Is this painful? Deeply. Does it feel like rejection? Sure. Do I hope that one day, they change their minds? Absolutely. Do I love them less, criticize them more, insist that they move away, withdraw any financial help, tell their siblings to ignore them or plead with them, lie to our family and friends (or ask the children to do so), refuse to spend time with them or to take them on family trips, or engage in any other ridiculous, alienating behavior? No. Do I forbid discussion of religion? No. Do I continue to have weekly family night lessons that are religious in nature? Yes. I do things exactly the same way I always did. My choices are mine. Theirs are their own.

A friend asked not too long ago how I felt about something in my child's life. I replied with a wide smile, "I adore my child."

"Well, that's a very political answer," they said. Yes, it is. It's also the only thing that really matters. How I feel about my kids and their lives is 1. no one else's business, and 2. not going to change anything.

Thank you for your support.