“Not a Perfect Man”

Going through some stuff in a folder the other day, I found an old photo of my dad and me. It was a photograph from the summer of 1992, up at scout camp. The photo is simple enough; a photo of Dad with his arm around me, us both smiling for the camera. Dad is wearing his Assistant Scoutmaster shirt proudly, while I, at the somewhat awkward age of 13, am wearing my totally favorite long-sleeve t-shirt I got from our last trip toZionNational Parkand a glow-in-the-dark necklace fashioned from beads and boondoggle acquired from the trading post. Scout camp fashion at its finest. To the layman, this photo may look simple enough, one might browse over quickly in an old photo album, but to me it speaks volumes.

Dad was not a man to dilly-dally when he had spare time, if he had any spare time at all. He worked hard and was highly dedicated to his time consuming job, he usually was in the bishopric or the high council and he was always gone most of the day on Sunday. In fact, he was a bishop when I was born, at the dawn of our father/son relationship, which had a rocky start some might say.

Being the bishop of a student ward at theUniversityofUtah, my dad thought it would be a good idea to bless me in front of the congregation, probably to show the hopefuls out there the fruits of a happy marriage. So as it’s been told to me, I was brought to the front and handed off to Dad for the ordinance to be performed. Dad was looking dapper in his light blue, almost pastel colored suit. So the elders and high priests form a circle around cute, little, eight-pound me and cradled my wee body in their basinet of hands. Whether they bobbed me or not and furthermore, its effectiveness is to be debated at a later time. All was well for the first minute or two, until I, perhaps to foretell of things to come later in life, let one rip, which was of pretty remarkable size for a body so small, I’m told. Various snickering and laughs were stifled in the circle but Dad continued, unfazed. After another minute or two, I let another one loose and this one was as ripe as rotten eggs. Those who weren’t still trying to stifle were turning their heads as if they were drowning, trying to get a gulp of fresh air. Then worse came to worse, as my dad felt a warm ooze slowly trickling down his hand that was supporting my rump and up his arm. That’s right folks, my Huggies had leaked. With the steadfastness of a soldier, he still persevered and focused on the task at hand despite the horrific smell and the pea-green stain growing ever larger on his light blue suit. Once the blessing was concluded, I’m not sure whether Dad held me up or not as it probably would’ve just made matters worse. I was told that he went to the bathroom, cleaned himself up as best he could and returned to preside on the stand bearing his green badge of courage on his suit for all to see.

To this I say, what a man! To be totally unshaken by the obvious folly and stick it out until the end of Sacrament meeting? I know that I’m impressed. This is the kind of man my father was, putting family and duty to God and His church above all else, even in the face of opposition or in my case, absurdity.

When I look at the photo of Dad and me up at Camp Maple Dell, it shows me so much about him that’s not easily seen by the casual observer. I was a pretty stable kid; I daresay that I wasn’t a mama’s boy. When I went to scout camp, I was OK; I didn’t cry or get homesick like some of the young scouts did. I had my core group of friends and we rolled together and had the time of our lives. Dad knew this, in fact, even if I didn’t want to go to camp he probably would’ve put me on the bus and told me as he had many times before, “You can do hard things.” I think of how he came up and I was like, “Hi Dad, yeah whatever. I’m going to the lake with my friends,” and went about my business. Dad knew I was self-reliant and had a strong peer-group up there. Instead of doting on me, Dad spent time with the younger scouts who were having a rough time being away from home. He talked and laughed with the kids who maybe didn’t have many friends in the troop. He hung out and helped where it was needed and seemed to brighten the spirits of all those around him in the process. He respected my space and I hardly noticed that he was there most of the time, but I did notice. I remember someone got smeared while playing football and had to go down the canyon to the hospital to get stitched up, and Dad took him and stayed with him till they returned many hours after sundown.

This is what I see in this photo. I see a very busy man making time in his schedule to fulfill his duties as a father and his calling as an assistant scoutmaster in the ward. It shows me that he cared. It shows me that he went out of his way to take a personal interest in me and where I was in life. But what I really see in this photo is the amazing outpouring of Christ-like love Dad always demonstrated for others. Dad always had a big grin on his face and was eager to make others feel respected and important. Hardly anyone outside our home could picture Dad angry or losing his temper (what that was like is a story for another time, perhaps best related in the tale of Dad trying to back the boat down the steep driveway into the garage at Lake Tahoe). Although he was primarily at camp for me, he focused on those that needed the most love and support, and I will never forget that. To us kids at that awkward age where it was so easy to be dubbed as an outcast from the group, Dad showed no prejudice. When I look back on many other instances of my childhood, I recognize this theme recurring more and more. My dad was a good man.

One of the toughest conversations I had with Dad was when I phoned him fromBrazilwhile I was on my mission. I was calling to see what diagnosis was of a tumor they found in his head only a week or two before. When he told me it was terminal, my entire world was turned upside-down. My mind raced to the thought of him not being a part of my life in the present, near and distant future. I couldn’t grasp the concept. It was a paradox at the time for I knew no other such life. Some may say that it would be terrible to be so far from home at such a trying time but I took some amount of comfort in it. I was able to throw myself into the work and really teach from the heart about the plan of salvation for I was now faced with it like never before. In the least, I could sort of live in denial and bury the thought because I didn’t have to face it on a daily basis.

A month or two went by and I went about my daily work as best I could. ElderHollandof the Twelve came to town and the mission was assembled to hear him speak in the ward building by theSão PauloTemple. As a special presentation for our beloved apostle, we prepared a musical number that all the missionaries would sing. We sang a choral arrangement of “I Know That My Redeemer Lives”. When we reached the third verse of the hymn, the choir and I sang in Portuguese, “A morte eu conquistarei” which translates into English “He lives, and I shall conquer death.” I could hardly finish singing this line as I looked up toward heaven, tears filling my eyes yet again. The words penetrated my soul as if they’d been written for me specifically to hear at that moment. The comfort of the spirit enveloped me like a warm blanket and told me it would be OK.

As weeks passed in my mission and I came closer to a time when I might be able to be at Dad’s side, I though of him often. What kept popping up in my mind was his voice during his talk at his father’s funeral (my grandfather) sent to me on tape about a year earlier (yes, my grandfather died in the early part of my mission. Indeed it was a very eventful two years). He talked of his admiration for his father and his commitment to duty and I found it mirrored much of my own. I found it hard to think that I could be speaking at my Dad’s funeral only a few months after he spoke at his father’s. There was one thing Dad said in his concluding remarks that really hit me hard, and I still think of it to this day. On Grandpa’s funeral tape I listened as Dad said with his voice wavering,

“When all is said and done, Dad was good man; not a perfect man, but a good man. And we all know that we need more of those in the world.”

How Dad put it so eloquently yet so simply still amazes me.

Dad eventually succumbed to his illness and I shed many tears then and at the times that remind me of him. I think of Dad on this month of Fathers Day and I am reminded of my precious time here on Earth with him. In my photo I see me in the embrace of my earthly father, a good man; not a perfect man, but a good man, and yes, we do need those in the world today more than ever. I hope I can remember to be like him everyday and be a better man than I was yesterday. Happy Fathers Day.

-Briton