Fathers and Daughters

7:22 pm. Angry tears seep through my clenched eyelids, emerging despite my best efforts. I can’t make eye-contact with him, knowing that if I do, I will lose every last ounce of self-control. I hate crying; I can’t stand the vulnerability, the feeling of complete emotional nakedness. He speaks; I ignore him. He doesn’t understand. Yes, I’m only 15, but what’s the big deal? We aren’t going to do anything wrong. Why can’t time just hurry up so I can date whoever I want? Forgetting myself, I look up at Dad, preparing one of my most penetrating glares, planning to frighten him into silence and acquiescence. But as soon as I look up, my eyelids fail me, and tears cascade down my cheeks. Dad looks frustrated, disappointed … then laughs awkwardly. My tears are startled into a momentary halt by his sudden, but brief, outburst; but after a moment, they return, more abundant than ever. How could he laugh at my situation? My legs, until recently petrified in pain, are moving, running. I run, run away from my situation, from my tears, from my father.
* * *
In the second chapter of Luke, the young Jesus Christ goes missing as his family is traveling home from Jerusalem. After three days of frantic searching, Mary and Joseph find him in the temple. In response to their worries, Jesus says, “How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” In Greek, the word “wist” means “to know, or see,” and the word for “about” is usually translated as “near”. There is no word for “business”; that was added by translators when the Bible was compiled. Thus, the true meaning of the sentence is, “Know ye not that I must be near my Father?”

* * *
8:33 pm. The sweat stings as it rolls down my sunburned face. It tastes of dirt and defeat. I sit on that cold, heartless bench. Cold for making me be there. Cold, because I know I should be on the field. My heart seems to beat in time with the clock: two minutes, one minute fifty-nine, one minute fifty-eight… How could he take me out now? Five minutes of playing time? Granted, fifty minutes could have passed with me on the field, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But five? The night closes in, and the flood lights click on with their monotone, insensitive humming. One minute seven seconds, six, five… The clock continues on, mocking me with the bright, red seconds flashing past. Thirty-three, thirty-two… This whole season now seems like a waste. I can’t bear to look as the clock clicks down to zero. The whistle sounds. Cheers issue from the stands, but in my ears everything is strangely silent, like someone hit mute on the television remote. My teammates grin and hug each other; parents who probably don’t know who I am congratulate me on my solid offense (I play left defender). One to zero. After years of frustration, we have finally conquered our longstanding rivals, but all I can feel is my own defeat. I feel a hand on my shoulder; I recognize the grip. “Well played.” I know Dad means it. He gets into his car and drives off to yet another late night at work; his sacrifice is lost on me as I dwell on his encouragement and nurse my injured pride.
* * *
Matthew 14 opens with the beheading of John the Baptist, the beloved cousin of the Savior. In verse 13 and 14, Christ hears the news and, surely with a heavy heart, “departs by ship into a desert place” to be alone. But when the people hear of his departure, they follow him, despite his obvious and acute sorrow, bringing their sick and afflicted. When he sees the vast multitude, instead of feeling anger at the disturbance, he is “moved with compassion toward them”. Although he would rather be mourning his cousin’s death, he forgets his suffering and heals their injuries.
* * *
2:06 pm. I get up, brush loose rocks off my knee, and remount my two-wheeled steed as Dad patiently launches into another lecture on 90-degree angles, gravitational force, and other terms that are meaningless to the average four-year-old. But he soon stops, grips my shoulder firmly with his strong, worn hand, preventing all but the strongest wobbles as I pedal slowly down the street. As I get more confident, my feet pump harder, and my dad breaks into a jog, all the while supporting my 35 pounds with seemingly no effort. We are halfway down the street and I know I’m ready. “Let go!” I cry, and he does, yelling some last-minute advice which gets lost in between my nervousness and ecstasy as I fly towards the cul-de-sac. I swerve back and forth madly, trying my best to crush every dry, brittle leaf under my front tire. The autumn wind braces my face, drying my wide-open eyes. Suddenly the cul-de-sac looms ahead. I know I should probably stop; I’ve only ever gone straight. But I keep going, trying to remember how Dad told me to turn… something about leaning. But which way do I lean? My bike is tipping slowly to the left. I drive through some loose gravel and that slow tipping becomes a rapid plunge as the tires slip out from under me. I land in a heap, my dignity lying crushed next to me. The wind, which just a moment ago was electrifying and exhilarating, stings my newly acquired scrapes. My dad finally catches up, extends his hands, lifts me up, and gently places me back on my feet. “Let’s try again,” he says, stepping over my crumpled pride and ignoring my tears of humiliation.
* * *
“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee… For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” Isaiah 41:10, 13
* * *
10:07 am. We are running late, as normal. But punctuality isn’t important right now. We stand there, next to the car, our mutual awkwardness multiplied a thousand times, making the short, sweet seconds left together seem longer than the upcoming, long-anticipated, five-hour plane ride. “Do your best,” he says. “Be good.” And with that, he pulls me into one last embrace, as we both stifle tears. We separate all too soon. I walk to the car, leaving the past 18 years of my life behind. We had always clashed. The regulated gears in his mind fit together perfectly, and were oiled and monitored daily. He sees everything in numbers, equations, calculations. He knows how a space shuttle functions, but he knows little of the workings of his teenage girl. But right now that doesn’t matter. I look out the window as my mom drives us away, watching the space separating us grow and grow and grow.
* * *
“For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.” Romans 8:38-39
* * *
11:24 am. I’ve been sitting here for what seems like hours, staring at this jumble of numbers and signs, just trying to understand why I need to do this. It’s summer, the time when every normal 5th grader gets a break from school. It’s summer, the time for Slip-n-Slide burns on thighs and everlasting Freeze Pops and sunlight, the most easily transmitted contagion for 11-year-olds. And here I sit, staring out the kitchen window, itching from my summer infection. I really don’t care how Sally and Bill divide their apples, or what Tom’s average grade will be if he flunks his next test. I sneak another glimpse at the clock and groan. 11:28 already. Daylight is sneaking away from me. Hateful thoughts flit through my head: how could my dad be so cruel? Why does he put me through this daily torture? I don’t understand these math problems, and I don’t want to. I know I should press on; if I don’t finish them, another evening argument will surely follow. “Dad doesn’t understand me!” I mutter angrily to myself. “Well you know what? Just because he’s an engineer doesn’t mean I have to know this stuff!” With a decided slam, I shut that workbook, shout, “I’m going outside!” and barrel out the door before my mom can stop me. Escape. My summer infection flare-up is assuaged as I breathe in the pollen, smile, and run with bare feet through Dad’s well-tended flowerbed to the neighbor’s, leaving small, but well-defined, footprints on his pride.
* * *
“My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord; for whom the Lord loveth he correcteth; even as a father the son in whom he delighteth. Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding.” Proverbs 3:11-13
* * *
8:57 am. I join my fellow seniors as we search the throng of faces, looking for parents in the graduation audience. Mrs. Abel stands up to speak, and everyone falls silent. I turn around, trying to pay attention while still sneaking glances to my left and right. I feel like there is a family of mice nestling in my lower abdomen. My eyes are drawn to the staircase; I turn and see my dad standing at the railing with video camera to his eye. I am but one figure in a sea of orange and black, but he knows exactly where I am. I give him a half-wave and smile. Suddenly I can breathe without making that nervous, shuddering noise.
* * *
In the 18th chapter of Luke, Jesus travels through the city of Jericho. As usual, he is thronged by people longing to see him and be healed. Zacchaeus, a rather short publican, and a sinner in the eyes of the Pharisees, struggles to see through the crowd, so he runs ahead to climb up a tree that he knows the Savior is going to pass. Not only does he have a perfect view, he also receives a manifestation of Christ’s love for him individually. Out of that mass of people, Jesus notices Zacchaeus, calls him by name, telling him, “Make haste, and come down; for today I will abide in thy house.”
* * *
10:59 am. After a four hour climb, we reach the summit, the peak of Y Mountain. Our calves are searing with pain and our lungs are lined with dust, but the view of Provo Valley is worth much more than the pain and the time sacrificed. Everyone gathers to the edge and strains their eyes to locate various landmarks. I join for a moment, but soon wander off, reflecting on the past few weeks. Saying goodbye and diving headfirst into the unknown has caused me to appreciate the comfort of home. I won’t deny it: despite the new friends and fun activities, I miss my family. Now that I am away, I can see how special my family is to me, especially Dad. I think of all our arguments; peering past the tactlessness and awkwardness, I can now see his good intentions, and how he was driven to act by his love for me. Although he is thousands of miles away, I feel nearer to him than I ever have before.
* * *
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, ye are little children, and ye have not as yet understood how great blessings the Father hath in his own hands and prepared for you; and ye cannot bear all things now; nevertheless, be of good cheer, for I will lead you along. The kingdom is yours, and the blessings thereof are yours, and the riches of eternity are yours.” Doctrine and Covenants 78:17-18
* * *
11:01 pm. As I close my Book of Mormon, a picture and a small blue envelope slip out from the index onto the floor. I pick them up off the floor, place the photo aside, and open the letter, which I now recognize as a note my parents sent me while I was at Girls’ Camp. A particular passage from my dad’s letter resonates in my mind: “You have grown up so much and seem in such a hurry to be an independent adult. Treasure these last few years spent as a child at home. They will pass very quickly. Spend time with your mother and me. Talk to us. Learn from us. When you finally leave home, leave home prepared.” I wish now that I had fully understood the wisdom in this advice. Did I value that time enough? Did I learn all that I need to know from my parents? I glance at the picture and take in the scene: my beautiful family looks back at me, the Washington D.C. Temple looming behind— a constant reminder of eternity. I realize that, no, I did not learn all that I need to from my parents, but that’s okay. That is what eternity is for.