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Read the English translation here Listen to this piece on our podcast De ovejas y pastores by R. de la Lanza El buen pastor conoce a sus ovejas, y ellas conocen Su voz y la siguen. Pero hay rebaños en que las ovejas, adormecidas sos conciencias, ebrias de libertad, se asumen todas pastores. Estas ninguna voz oyen y aun menos la siguen. This piece was published in 2026 as part of the 15th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future upda

Read the original Spanish version here Listen to this piece on our podcast Of Sheep and Shepherds by R. de la Lanza translated by James Goldberg The good shepherd knows his sheep, and they know his voice and follow it. But there are flocks in which the sheep, their consciences dormant, inebriated by liberty, take themselves as shepherds. There is no voice that these can hear, and how much less could they follow. This piece was published in 2026 as part of the 15th Annual M

Listen to this piece on our podcast 1. I get to play with toys. No matter how old I am, it is always satisfying to yell "Boom" as a tower of blocks falls over. 2. There are snacks. Yes, the snacks are officially for the kids. But the servant is worthy of her hire, and sometimes, a couple goldfish hit the spot. 3. There are few people to talk to. It's an introvert's dream! There's only a few names and faces I need to remember. I have an excuse to beeline out of sacrament mee

Listen to this piece on our podcast Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place wheron thou standest is holy ground. – Exodus 3: 5 1. Remove the tied, zipped, heeled, strapped monstrosities. Leave them on the curb next to the fire hydrant, above the rain-worn gutter and the woman yelling from her window. Let the crush of pavement settle against the soft insides of memory cushioned feet. Feel the burden of gravity balancing on the bone sack of being. Feel cement’s proge

Listen to this piece on our podcast It belongs to a different era— the tiered spire with fluted edges that could be a sculpted water feature, the golden windows tucked behind an architectural cake’s ladyfinger wrap, the Angel Moroni (so last decade), a pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire both by day and by night (a logistical necessity), the work horse of the Church that’s always a bridesmaid, never a bride (the pictures!). If it had been built in the 1870s instead of the 19

Listen to this piece on our podcast “Let me know when you need to haul loads to the dump,” The Elders Quorum President says as he hands me the keys to my late grandmother’s home. “I’ll send some ward members over with a truck.” “Thank you,” I say. “But it might take a while. I want to settle into the place first.” The Elder’s Quorum President gives me a look that says if it were up to him, we’d be emptying the house with a backhoe. “I’m never setting foot in that house agai

Listen to this piece on our podcast I’m in love with a married man. That's not entirely accurate—his wife died fifteen months ago—but he is sealed to her, which means the marriage persists beyond death. So technically, eternally, he belongs to someone else. I have been turning this over in my mind for three blocks now, and my stomach has begun to register its objection. I think about my great-great-great-grandmother Hazel. Wife number two. I don't know much about her. She’s a

Listen to this piece on our podcast Spidering from rock to mossy rock, I brace for the floor to meet my face. Blessedly, it never comes. I remember our first few hikes, how you walked almost backward, turning at every step ready to catch me. I called you Orpheus, told you to look away from my slippery descent across the stone. You loved me then with your hand outstretched, love me now with your body turned, knowing I follow. And who knows what wet hell we have yet to pass thr

Listen to this piece on our podcast The tunnel from Zarahemla to the enemy camp narrowed. Nomi crouched until her shoulder blades scraped the earth above, sending a rain of dirt down her neck. The army used skinny girls as scouts because the tunnels were so small. But, had she grown since her last patrol? “Sh!” her sister Mara hissed behind her. Nomi nodded, though Mara wouldn’t be able to see her in the utter darkness, and crouched lower. Her knees were aching when they reac

Listen to this piece on our podcast His record is quite good, I think, and I am proud of him. He buried the plates almost as tenderly as he buried me. Moroni wept bitterly over both our graves, mine and the stone box at Cumorah that he buried our civilization in. O ye fair ones! How is it that ye could have fallen? How indeed! We blend together, our civilization and I, and I feel myself slipping into metaphor, as angel wives tend to do. We are many. Our names are lost in ever