A lot of people think that they have the best father in the world. I really did...at least for me. I can't think of a single instance in my life where he treated me unfairly or harshly. I think that he only lost his temper with me once but in his defense, at the time, I was eating the very first brand new car he ever owned...(that will have to be a separate story).
Teenage boys growing up and becoming disillusioned when they find out what a hypocrite their father's been is a cliche I was spared. My father never professed to be anything other than what he was and while he constantly demanded perfection in himself, he was always forgiving of faults and weaknesses in others.
I was told once that, as children, we often model our concept of Heavenly Father after our earthly fathers. If you have an angry and vengeful father here on earth, your concept of Heavenly Father is that he is an angry and vengeful God. It has always been easy for me to envision my Father in Heaven as kind, loving, and forgiving...someone whose first and foremost passion was my own well-being and progress.
When I was twelve, Kevin McCreary stole a pack of his mom's cigarettes and we took up smoking. I got to be quite good at it and could smoke an entire cigarette and only cough up one lung. One day, Kevin left an unextiguished cigarette in his garage and it nearly burned down his house.
Like the very best friend that he was, Kevin immediately fingered me as an accomplice. My father called me into his room and asked me point blank if I had been smoking. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "no sir!". My father looked at me for a second and then just nodded his head and told me I could go. As I turned to leave, he reached out and took my hand. He held it for a moment and then brought it to his nose and inhaled. Then he looked at me again with sadness in his eyes and said I could go.
Somewhat puzzled by my father's actions, I held my hand to my own nose and inhaled. The smell of cigarettes was unmistakable. I looked at him and he looked at me. I immediately became aware of two facts. First, that both my father and I knew what the truth was and second, that my father as a man of honor expected his son to act honorably as well. I knew that he would never call me a liar and that I would not be punished as long as I held on to my story.
But the look in his eyes broke my heart and I burst into tears begging my father to forgive my lie. I was punished for the cigarettes, the lie was forgiven. I never lied to my father again.
He valued my privacy and guarded it more jealously than I did myself. My sister told me of a tithing settlement where everyone in the family was present except me. The Bishop was chatting with my parents and he began to relate to my folks something I had said. My father interrupted the bishop and asked him if I had given my permission for the information to be passed along. The bishop said that it was not something said in confidence but just in conversation. My father told the bishop that, nevertheless, if I had not given my permission, my father did not want to know. He asked the bishop to treat everything I had said to him as if it were said in confidence.
He was the most diligent home teacher I ever knew. A favorite story of our family is one where he was assigned for years to teach a family that never let him in the door. They had one of those screen doors where they could see you but you couldn't see them. Every month my father would come up and knock on their door only to be denied entrance. Every month, before he left, he stood there on their porch with the cigarette smoke wafting through the slats in the door and he would bear his testimony to people he never got to see. When he turned and left, he would often hear them giggling at him.
We moved away for a few years but we came back. On our first Sunday back, my mom and dad were walking down the hall when the door to the bishop's office opened and the bishop came out with a woman who had been weeping. When she saw my father, the woman screamed and threw her arms around him. My mother, wondered who this strange woman was who was crying and hugging my dad.
It was the wife of the couple he had home taught all those years. After our family moved away, their home teaching visits ceased. The woman began to go though some very trying times and one day she was at the kitchen sink and could see my father in her mind's eye standing there and giving his testimony every month. She determined that she would go back to church and get her life in order. In fact, she was in the bishop's office that very day to begin the process. The last thing she said to the bishop before they walked out was that she wished should could meet whoever that home teacher was so that she could thank him. Then she walked out the door and turned to see my father.
Twice in my father's life, he sold everything he owned to serve The Lord. Once when they didn't have very much so that he could take his wife and children to Salt Lake to be sealed in the temple and once when he had quite a bit more so that he could serve a mission in The Philippines.
He wasn't much on sports. He didn't hunt or fish and so I learned these skills elsewhere. What he did teach me was a love of great music and art. We would sit for hours and listen to symphonies and opera and pour over pictures of great works of art. When I visited The Sistine Chapel on my mission my joy was short-lived. It was beautiful and majestic and lovely and yet the experience was empty because I longed to have my father by my side to thrill in the moment with me.
He was always learning. It was rare that I did not see him with either a book of scripture or science in his hand. He loved to share with me the mysteries that were revealed to him as he studied these. Later on, when Alzheimer's began to rip away the knowledge that he had fought so hard to gain, I began to quit coming around as often. It was too painful for me to witness. I think that I shall regret my cowardice for as long as I live.
My father was in bishoprics but he was never bishop. He was in stake presidencies but he was never stake president. He never held public office or invented anything to ease man's burden here on earth. He didn't write any great books or symphonies. He never sang at The Met.
In fact, I can't think of anything my father ever did that would cause one to consider him great. But you know what? That's alright...a lot of men aspire to greatness. Many times, in aspiring to greatness, these men forgot to be good.
The world has a lot of really great men but what we need are a lot of really good men.
My father was a really really good man.
When my eldest son was quite young, there was a physical trait he had that he lamented. As it happened, my father shared that same physical trait...and he also lamented it. I was of a different mind, I was happy to have something that, when my father passed from this earth, would serve as a continual reminder of him. And so, I wrote this poem for my son.
Grandpa's Ears
Aaron got his sense of honor; Jenni, his quiet strength.
Lee got his sense of humor, and Ken knows how to paint
Amy and Valerie have iron wills; Jeremy, a tender heart
Joel and Sarah share a joy for life, and each of you is smart.
Laura and Brian are every one's friend. Gretchen loves to read
Rebekah had his infectious smile, and Rachel's as quiet as he.
Nathan loves worlds of fancy. Melissa is as loyal as they come.
Michael sings like a mockingbird. John Douglas is a dutiful son.
Daniel once proved stalwart, before the earth was new
so in The Savior's plan, our Dan is one of the chosen few
You each got something from Grandpa to see you through the years
but I think yours is the greatest gift, 'cause you got Grandpa's ears.
Now you might think that they're too big, or they stick out too far
but glance in any mirror, you'll see just whose grandson you are
Then maybe you'll try harder, each day you face life's tests
to live your life just like the man who gave you his silhouette.
Aaron might someday sit on a bench. Ken might paint a mural
Your grandpa gave to each grandchild, the keys to conquer worlds
But they say time will tell all things, and I think it will be said
that the greatest gifts he ever gave, sit right there on your head
For when life's trials bow that head, and sorrows bear you down
you'll look and see your grandpa's shadow there upon the ground.
You'll remember him...and who you are...and then you'll dry your tears
and thank your Father in Heaven above, He gave you grandpa's ears.
No comments:
Post a Comment