I had a positive experience in the temple that has stayed with me over
the years and even if I never return to the temple again I imagine I will never
forget it.
In 2009, my husband and I made an earnest effort to attend the temple
on a regular basis. We went at least once a month, if not more, for the entire
year. This was substantial for us considering we had a young child and the closest
temple was an hour away.
I don’t know why this particular session seemed different than all the
others, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman I was standing proxy for.
I imagined what her life was like being a woman in England the late 1800’s. Did
she have a happy life? Did she ever feel oppressed? What kind of trials did she
face? During the session I looked down at the small pink card in my hand unable
to focus on anything but her.
Her name was fixed in my mind. Was her last name her father’s or her
husband’s? Did she marry a kind man like
my husband? Did they love her and treat her well? What last name did her
children bear, because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t hers? Our names and
identification are dictated by the men in our lives. Did she have anything in her
life that was actually hers? Did she have an identity beyond the men and
children in her life?
I felt connected to this woman. I sympathized with her, or perhaps that
day sitting in the temple she was the one sympathizing with me. Her first name
was the only thing I knew about her that was actually hers, and it saddened me
to think that it died with her. She deserved more than that.
She had such a lovely name, Elizabeth.
She had such a lovely name, Elizabeth.
