What I Wish I Knew Before Marrying A Mormon
Neal Cruz | Canva Tucking my wedding gift under my arm, I pushed open the gate to my neighbor’s backyard. Immediately, I felt I’d dropped onto another planet…or perhaps onto the set of Little House on the Prairie.
The first obvious fact: Kids and babies were everywhere. Zipping across the lawn. Squealing and bouncing on a trampoline. Snoozing in the arms of young mothers, all dressed alike (in spaghetti-strap dresses with white t-shirts underneath).
Older women scurried from the house to the buffet table in an effort to keep it stocked with snacks and sodas. Wearing white button-down shirts with skinny black ties, the men and older boys gathered around, chatting and helping themselves to generous handfuls of cookies.
I should have recognized this as a typical Mormon wedding reception. But I was new here.
It was only a month ago that my family and I packed up and moved across the country to Utah.
I had been dragging moving boxes to the curb when a smiling woman introduced herself as my neighbor and handed me an invitation to her daughter’s reception. Noticing the date, I realized I’d have to attend alone, since my husband George would be out of town on business (per usual).
Still, this was a party! Something to look forward to.
But as I arrived, I felt awkward in my strapless sundress and experienced a sudden urge for an apparently unavailable glass of wine. I placed my wedding present on the gift table, alongside a cheery, embroidered sign which read, “Families Are Forever!”
Is that so? I mused darkly. Good for them.
Not so ‘Happy Valley’
I had reason to be cynical: My own family was still adjusting to our cross-country move. This was the second such time we’d pulled up roots so that George could take what he called a “once in a lifetime” job opportunity. Never mind that we both held responsible mid-level positions, and that I loved my work. George’s job always came first.
Each time we moved, it was left to me to feather our new nest — finding a new house, moving our 7-year-old daughter to a new school, arranging for new daycare, saying goodbye to friends and neighbors, and trying to reassemble the pieces of my own shattered career.
Although we had relocated before, this one presented unique challenges.
While Utah is considered so wholesome and friendly that it’s dubbed “Happy Valley,” I discovered that outsiders aren’t always so welcome.
Some of my daughter’s classmates excluded her from parties. On a Sunday, which Mormons consider a day of rest, a neighbor scolded me for mowing my lawn. My new insurance agent offered me a copy of The Book of Mormon, urging me to “save my soul.”
The last straw came when I couldn’t even find a bottle of wine at my local grocery store. After asking a clerk, he squinted at me and said, “Wine? You’re not from around here, are you?”
The big crash
Timur Weber / Pexels
Despite the initial challenges, eventually our little family fell into a rhythm. During the workweeks, George traveled on business. On the weekends, he played golf with his buddies.
For our part, my daughter and I picked up the slack at home. While we set up our new house and learned to navigate the streets, we clung to each other for love and support.
But soon came the affair. And the arguments. And the tears. And the divorce papers.
Rock bottom
For a long time, I was numb. Each morning, I drove my daughter to school and dragged myself to work. Each night, I’d pick her up from after-care, throw some Hamburger Helper on the stove, and try to convince her (and myself) that everything was OK.
That was all I could handle. I had zero energy for dating. And even if I did, the local candidates were underwhelming. I was definitely not going to fall for some chipper, middle-aged dude whose idea of a good time was watching BYU play football while knocking back Dr Peppers.
And then there were the “garments” — the “holy underwear” I’d heard Mormons wear. I’d never actually seen them. And I certainly wasn’t curious enough to risk encountering them on some creepy Mormon date.
A light appears…briefly
Still. Even in backwater Utah, time has a way of healing. After a few years, a man named Brad appeared and asked me to dinner. (OK, full disclosure: I peeked at Match.com, and was mesmerized by his sparkling blue eyes.)
I’d heard the horror stories of online dating. But as it turned out, Brad was kind and gentlemanly, pulling my chair out for me at our quaint sushi restaurant. He seemed genuinely curious about my life, and (true to his Match.com profile), his eyes sparkled when he laughed. Beneath his polo shirt, I could detect no telltale signs of garments. He even ordered a bottle of sake with dinner (all good signs!)
But as dessert arrived, so did the red flags.
Brad said he “used to be a Mormon” but had left the church years ago. I was skeptical. The saying whispered among non-Mormons is, “Once a Mormon, always a Mormon.”
“What about children?” I asked, noting that I had a daughter. There are a few, Brad conceded. Actually, five. Plus a couple of grandkids.
I took a deep breath. Five, plus two. I tried hard not to fixate on the fact that Brad’s brood could nearly field a full baseball team.
A softening perspective
But those eyes. And that kindness, which lasted long past dinner.
When my garage door jammed, Brad showed up with a toolbox. When the toilet clogged, he plunged it all clean. (Definitely double points.)
And after discovering that my pantry was stuffed with Hamburger Helper and boxed mac and cheese, Brad tossed it all and whipped up a homemade dinner of spicy penne pasta, accompanied by a nice bottle of Chianti.
Exploring the family tree
Askar Abayev / Pexels
I was eager to meet Brad’s children, who turned out to be as polite and charming as their Dad. So far, so good. But would these same results play out among Brad’s extended clan? I got the chance to test that question on a family reunion/camping trip to southern Utah, which would be my best opportunity to size up Brad’s 60-plus relatives.
But I had badly overestimated my abilities. Soon, I was overwhelmed. There was just too much — too many vehicles, too many tents, too much food, too much soda, and way too many names to possibly remember.
I considered taking refuge in one of the RVs when a young mother stepped up and asked me to hold her baby. I demurred, explaining I wasn’t good at that kind of thing.
“No problem,” she replied. “I hope to see you around the campfire tonight!”
Ironically, her cheery response made me feel even worse. As the sun disappeared behind the surrounding cliffs, I became the one feeling like a baby who needed a hug.
Rocky Mountain high
Later that night, a group of us sat around the campfire, singing cheesy John Denver songs. As the family stories unfolded, I learned that Brad’s family was far from homogenous. In fact, it was a kind of “mini United Nations” — encompassing not only Mormons, but also Evangelicals, Episcopalians, Buddhists, agnostics, and atheists.
There was a no-nonsense CEO. A naturopathic energy healer. Native Americans. Descendants of Utah pioneers. There were Democrats, Republicans, Independents, and even a Libertarian or two. And somehow, everyone got along.
Someone slipped a mini-bottle of Cabernet into my jacket pocket. I smiled and took a drink as the stars lit up the night sky.
Our cobbled-together clan launched into a raucous rendition of “Rocky Mountain High.” I sang harmony while cradling a baby in my arms.
50–50 partners
A year later, Brad and I exchanged wedding vows, cheered on by friends, family, and lots of kids. Unlike my first, ultra-traditional nuptials, Brad and I shared equally in the planning of the event (which featured copious amounts of both soda and adult beverages).
Fast forward 20 years, and we’re still 50–50 partners, sharing in work and play. I’m no one’s little lady, and Brad doesn’t pretend to be some testosterone-jacked Alpha male. My writing ambitions are a key part of who I am, and Brad supports me wholeheartedly. Not to mention, he helps clean the house. Talks about his feelings. Adores my daughter. And still makes the best penne pasta.
Through it all, I learned that by looking past my fears and preconceived notions, new pathways opened.
As Brad and his family taught me, happiness doesn’t depend on following a strict set of rules or religious doctrines. But it does ask for kindness and an open heart.
With those qualities, I now know love can indeed be better the second time around.
Kathleen Murphy is a longtime writer and frequent contributor to Medium.com, where she specializes in physical health, emotional wellness, and successful aging.
