By Brianne Ogden
For as long as I can remember, Church has been a fashion show of sorts. Whether it was trying to dazzle the Priests or outshine the other Laurels, when Sunday morning rolled around, clothes went flying.

Also, for as long as I can remember, Sunday mornings have been a frantic, frenzied, chaotic couple of hours. It was thirty minutes in the shower, shaving my legs to perfection. An hour in my closet, inevitably resulting in half of the contents on the floor in a colorful mound. Forty-five minutes spent on my hair, straightening it or pinning it until my forearms ached. Matching eye shadows, the perfect belt, a few rings, a brooch, and on those particularly rushed mornings, closed toed shoes to cover up chipped toenails. And that was just High School.

When I entered college, I found myself in a completely different playing field. Living in Huntington Beach, California for my first year, I found myself encompassed in a virtual Vogue fashion spread. My first week at church, girls were walking into the stake center like models off the catwalk.

Pencil pinstriped skirts with silk designer blouses. Authentic vintage dresses from the 50’s. Four inch heels, patent leather, bright red. Gucci, Fendi, Prada. Perfect nails to match the headband, perfect headband to match the shoes, perfect shoes to match the skirt. Every young college girl with stunningly coifed, beach bunny blond curls.

And there I was, in my pleated forty-dollar skirt from Nordstrom, the one that always got me a compliment or two back at home. Only here—it was my Schwinn ten-speed compared to their luxury private jet.

From then on, it was an hour in the shower. An hour and a half on my hair, plus the two hundred dollar dye job. It was two hours every Saturday night painting my nails, carefully inserting fake eyelashes, and ironing that Armani blouse, that had me in debt for a month, to perfection. It was fret and time spent on color coordinating every last detail.

This process was enormously draining. By the time I settled in my seat at church, I was so uncomfortable. Nothing felt natural. It was a constant battle. I had to sit in a way that my dress wouldn’t wrinkle, but in a way that showed my most flattering angle. I couldn’t move my head too much, it wasn’t worth it to risk messing up my painstakingly pinned up hair. Taking all that into consideration, bending over to pick up the hymnbook or my scriptures off of the ground was out of the question.

What was I getting out of church? Sadly, this was a question that never made it past all of the superficial, shallow worries in my mind.

I am older now. Sometimes I won’t shave my legs for a week. If my nails are chipped, I’ll deal. But there will be a Sunday here and there that if I can’t find a flawless article to wear, I feel like crawling back into bed and sleeping until my wardrobe transforms into something more satisfactory.

A couple of weeks ago while in England with some friends, I was getting ready for church when I realized that I packed absolutely nothing suitable for church. When really I had a few options, only none of them were appealing to me at the moment. It wasn’t until my friend said something to me, that my whole entire perspective on the situation did a one-eighty. She said, “Heavenly Father does not care how stylish you are.” Such a simple notion. Why had it taken twenty-four years for me to realize it?

As young single adults, living in a fashion-soaked generation, it often feels like looking cutting edge is the only thing that matters. Sometimes we give up what we want most, for what seems important to us at the time. I gave up years of my life to that superficial little devil on my shoulder.

I went to church that beautiful day in England. My dress was a little less than stylish, a little less than cute. But for the first time in my life, I cared about how my Heavenly Father saw me, and not how all of my peers saw me. I felt utterly content.

Brianne Ogden attends Southern Virginia University, where she is currently studying philosophy and serving as the Editor in Chief of the school’s newsmagazine.