Parable of the 10 virgins, or 10 women I love.
I
"How do you keep believing, as an educated woman in the church?" It was a question asked sincerely as we walked together. She was torn between two older sisters, one who mocked belief, and another who followed blindly. At a crossroad, choosing which path to take, and not sure if she could discern which was right. We talked for hours, walking the meandering path together. She asked me, where do I buy oil, and I told her where I refilled mine.
II
It took a year before she told me she no longer believed. I knew. She was vocal on social media about the 'deconstruction' of her faith, and the ways in which she felt it had failed her. But whenever we met up for lunch, we didn't mention it. When she finally brought it up I said, 'I know', and we moved on. She didn't need my judgement, just my love. I realized some people don't just forget to refill their oil. She poured it out like it went bad and she could no longer stand the smell.
III
Every time I see my grandmother, she says how truly blessed she is. "My three sons, and all their children believe. What more could I ask for?" She doesn't enjoy growing old. Everything aches and she is tired. She misses my grandfather who passed away four years ago. She is terrified of getting dementia. But this is her greatest joy: That she not only has oil in her lamp, but so do her sons, and their daughters and their light is bright.
IV
She was one of my favorite mission companions. A powerhouse that felt like a wrecking ball. She'd turn people upside down to build them back up again. The first thing she would do with all our investigators was commit them to living the word of wisdom, because she figured if we couldn't get past that, we weren’t going anywhere. She was the last one I expected to not keep those commitments herself. I thought her cup was full, and then I turned around and it looked like she'd dropped it somewhere along the way.
V
My mother’s parents didn't believe in God. She did. She told me about locking herself in the bathroom as a child and praying to God, believing he heard her. I remember when I was a child walking into my mother’s room, with some request or other, and seeing her kneeling by her bed, and knowing that she was praying for me. Without saying a word, on her knees she said, here is where we get oil, and added some to my cup.
VI
"I no longer feel guilt or shame as a Black woman." I'm so sorry she ever did. Sorry she had to leave to feel peace. Had to leave to feel she could embrace her whole self. I'm sorry she felt she couldn't do that here with us. That she didn't feel like this was her home, even though she grew up here beside me. She looked at her lamp one day and wondered why she carried this heavy thing when what she saw by its light hurt her eyes and her heart.
VII
She taught me that mentorship isn't just about encouragement and good advice. Its pulling someone up beside you, shouting, 'look at this girl's beautiful wings!'' Giving me all the space I needed to stretch them. Then she whispered, God is your thermal lift, and pushed me into the rising air. Meanwhile her own wings were breaking. In and out of hospital, one treatment after another to live another year. She would never have enough time. She was busy kicking over bushels, ushering lights higher upon the hill.
VIII
Even though we're friends, she always hesitates as though she thinks this will be the line she crosses which makes me turn against her. 'You're a nice one' she says, and it hurts that she approaches us with fear, not faith. I grieve that she expects condemnation, not compassion. A lecture on her flaws, not love for who she is. She's got a big heart, but I watch her make herself smaller to be in our presence. There is a little light still burning, but she's taken it elsewhere, afraid that here we'll smother it out completely.
IX
My niece is three years old. For bedtime she always demands three stories, always one of them a Jesus story. At the moment her favourite is the raising of Jairus' daughter from the dead. She both loves that there is a little girl in the story, and currently has a fascination with the concept of death. She lies on the floor and when my sister asks what she's doing she'll say, 'I'm dead, I'm not in my body anymore!' They'll act out Jesus raising her from the dead. It's a three-year-old's game, but hopefully it’s also a trickle of oil in her own cup.
X
I like to think I live by the scout motto to be prepared. In case the electricity goes out I had a huge flashlight under my bed. It’s been used on several camping trips, a light in the dark. I recently opened it before taking it on a trip, and discovered that the batteries had leaked, and it was a crusty mess on the inside. Despite my attempts with lemon juice, baking soda, and dish soap I couldn't get the last stuck battery out and had to throw it away. I hope I've maintained my oil better than my flashlight batteries. If I haven't, unlike flashlights, crusty, leaking, lacking lamps can be recovered, repaired, re-filled.
This piece was published in 2024 as part of the 13th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.
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