I’m writing this today because last week, we blocked the Chava scene in Fiddler on the Roof. That’s the one where Tevye learns that his daughter has run away and married a Christian, abandoning her Jewish faith in the process. By tradition, he’s supposed to treat her as if she were dead. While he’s processing his grief, Chava arrives and begs her father for acceptance. He anguishes, trying to choose between his faith and his daughter, finally declaring, “If I try to bend that far, I will break… No! Chava. No – No – No –”
He turns his back on her and lumbers away as his daughter collapses in a heap, calling his name.
It was our first rehearsal of that scene. We were only blocking it. And, thanks to some extraordinary actors, it was already devastating. I coped by remembering that it doesn’t have to end this way. Tevye’s story improves by the end of the play. And so has mine and my Chava’s.
I am a devout Christian and a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So are my parents, and grandparents and great grandparents, all the way back to the early 1800s, when my church was founded. Not only did I anticipate that my children would carry on that legacy, I carefully taught them so that they would.
In my uncritical embrace of the traditions of my people, there were other things I also taught them, unintentionally. I was an obedient wife to first one, and then another, husband who had difficulty weighing my needs or my children’s on equal footing with their own. My children grew up with dysfunctional power dynamics. I taught them to be self-sacrificing and submissive to self-interested authority.
It has taken me many years and ample tears to detach my faith from the harmful traditions that were entangled with it. I had barely begun when my eldest daughter, now an adult, rejected both the traditions and the faith. Instead of finding her home in another Christian denomination, which I could have supported with barely a stretch, she felt drawn to paganism and eventually told me she identified as a witch.
This was very distressing to me. Before I became a full-time homemaker, I used to write for a conservative newsmagazine. I did a series of articles about witchcraft, including a couple of interviews with women who had been witches and then converted to Christianity. The stories they told had given me a strong and lasting distrust of all things related to the occult, so strong that I wouldn’t even let face cards in my home because I thought they could desensitize my children to the dangers of tarot cards. So, when my grown daughter told me she was using tarot for divination, I felt threatened and defensive. Fortunately, my faith places a high value on religious liberty. There was no expectation that I would shun her for her paganism. But her beliefs were not welcome in my home.
Her political and social views had also changed. Family gatherings became disastrous. Whenever anybody said something that was based on values we used to, but no longer, shared in common, my eldest would challenge them. It seemed she was constantly trying to pick a fight. But we weren’t the ones who’d changed. She was. So why couldn’t she accept us the way we were?
This continued until a fateful rehearsal of a community Christmas musical. I live in Cardston, Alberta, where most of the townsfolk are also Latter-day Saints. But not all. In a cast of about 20, there were at least two who attended the United Church. I was sitting by one of them when our director introduced an inspirational thought with the words, “We’re all Latter-Day Saints.”
Beside me, my friend of another faith muttered, “No, we’re not.”
Something about the situation struck me hard. The director had, unintentionally, just drawn a line that shut my friend out, and at a community theatre. He had communicated to her that she did not fully belong.
I suddenly realized that I was doing the same thing with my daughter. I had defined my family as a faithful, Latter-day Saint family. And I was clinging to that definition, hoping that it would once again be accurate in the not-too-distant future. But my definition of our family meant my daughter no longer belonged. Yes, she was the one that changed, but because she was part of our “we,” her redefinition of herself required a redefinition of “us.” Either that, or she was no longer a part of the family, and that was the message I was sending.
I had been insisting that our traditions go unchanged and that expectations of behavior should remain as they always were. For example, I insisted that she use the kind of language I raised her to use when she was in my presence, although I would not be so stringent in my expectations of any other adult. Not even of my siblings. No wonder she was defensive and in-your-face at our gatherings! No wonder she seemed to be demanding approval.
We talked about it over the phone and I heard the tension disappear from her voice. From that point on, we have consciously worked to make space for each other to show up as our full selves and our family gatherings feel like family again. Sometimes, we have to hold searching conversations about how to do that in a way that feels safe and real for both of us. But our determination to belong together ensures that those conversations happen, and we find our way forward, holding on to both each other and our individual faiths.
Two years ago this Christmas, my daughter had her first baby, and I wrote a fairy-tale that I hoped to make into a picture book for him. I needed it to honor both my daughter's journey and my own. My first draft didn't succeed. Neither did my second. But here's what I've finally arrived at:
The Princess and the Witch
Princess Sara grew up in a palace with
a swarm of siblings who adored her,
a mother, who trusted her,
and a hard-working king,
who wanted her to be useful.
She loved the out-of-doors, telling stories and being a big sister.
But she was dangerous when dancing,
She failed at flirting,
and needlework was her nemesis.
The king didn’t think she was very useful.
“She’ll never measure up,” he grumbled.
Sara wilted.
He was right.
She would run away to the forest.
“But the forest is full of witches,” Mother said.
“They’ll twist your thinking all around
And make us into enemies.”
Witchcraft was forbidden in the kingdom.
“I’m nobody’s princess,” she moaned.
“You are, Sara.” Mother said, pulling her into a hug.
“You are my princess.”
Sara found a formula for flirting
And she practiced all 51 steps.
She danced and stumbled and danced
until she could feel the beat in her bones.
She even managed to
embroider an emu.
Or was that an ostrich?
The king smiled down at her,
and she realized she was on track
for a life like Mother’s.
She didn't want to marry a prince
who’d expect her to be useful.
“Mother,” she said,
“I need to go away
and figure out for myself
who I am and what I want to be.”
“Go,” Mother said,
pulling her into a hug.
“You are Sara
And you are my princess.”
The neighboring kingdom was ancient and proud.
It wasn’t welcoming.
Sara started taking solitary walks
and wound up wandering into the forest
That bordered both kingdoms.
She made friends with the foxes and squirrels.
Then she met a ranger.
He didn’t expect her to be useful;
He just liked to have her close.
When he invited her to be his bride
She realized that would mean living in the forest,
which was full of witches.
What if they twisted her thinking all around
and made her into an enemy?
Mother would be so disappointed!
“I am Sara,” she said, giving herself a hug,
“and I am my princess.”
It was months later when she cast her first spell.
It just burst out of her
And she felt like she was born for this.
She loved her ranger,
And her growing collection of witchy friends.
At last, she felt like she belonged.
But she missed her family
And determined to pay them a visit.
“You won’t be welcome,”
warned her worried friends.
“Don’t tell your mother
you’ve become one of us.”
“She’s my mother,” Sara said.
“I’ve always told her
Everything.”
Her family came pouring out the palace
to greet them.
All but the king,
Who was no longer there.
“I stopped being what he expected;
He’s gone questing,”
Mother explained. Then she smiled.
“I’m becoming the queen
I’ve always wanted to be.
And you are free to be the princess
you always were.”
“But I don’t want to be a princess.”
Sara took her mothers hands in hers
and said it gently.
“Mother, I’m a witch.”
Mother gulped.
Sara waited.
“No,” Mother said,
“You are Sara.”
Then she pulled Sara into a hug.
“And you are my witch.”
Now, some exciting news: Last week, I found an illustrator: Sage Booher, who created the concept art at the top of this newsletter. We’re going to self-publish. If there is someone in your life who could use a message of unconditional love and belonging, click here to sign up for the waitlist. We will let you know when the book is ready to order.
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