Mormon Faith

Lia, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, shares how she gained a personal witness of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and the Church.

A few more thoughts on the man my father was. At his funeral earlier this year, each of his kids got to make a few remarks. Only a few, since there are 12 of us.

He was a spiritual man in a down-to-earth way. Everyone at the funeral knew he had faith, prayed, didn’t drink, smoke, or cuss. His lessons shaped my life. So I tried, in my 120 seconds, to give a glimpse of what this good Mormon was really like. Here’s what I said:

Lessons I learned from my Dad:

• Respect your mom and other women
• A sufficiently clever person can fix or build almost anything
• Especially if you have some baling wire or duct tape.
• Humans can take vehicles almost anywhere.
• And even if you don’t succeed, there’s adventure in trying.
• A good explosion can be really funny.
• You have to sneak up on stream fish, but not lake fish.
• Always have a project. Like building a house or cabin.
• You can make electricity from running water.
• If someone else can learn to do something, so can you.
• Hard work is fun.
• Spend time in the wilderness.
• Be a good scout.
• Do what you say.
• Love your country.
• Yes, humans can fly.
• There’s humor in almost every situation, and a good joke makes everyone happy.

As a kid, I had to get up at 5 am to milk cows. When a well-meaning neighbor questioned the economics of our small farming operation, Dad responded that he was trying to raise boys, not cows.

Dad can’t be here in person any more. But he has achieved a measure of immortality as these life lessons live on in his children, grandchildren, and great grandkids.

My dad died in February. He was 88.

It was a short illness, just long enough for me and his other 11 kids to make it back to Logan, Utah, to say goodbye. We were surprised that he died so young – his mom made it to 105.

Dad never finished college. He never made a lot of money. He wasn’t a professional person. Few outside of Cache Valley, Utah, knew who he was. So why did almost a thousand people come to his funeral? What made him a great man?

This is a man who grew up on a small farm in Hyrum, Utah. He started college, but his schooling was interrupted by World War II. He joined the Navy to help his country. Soon he was flying PBYs – large amphibious airplanes. Then there was the plane crash. He was found 500 feet from the rest of the scattered wreckage, on a pine-covered mountain, soaked in aviation gas that miraculously didn’t explode. The base commander called my mom in the middle of the night to tell her to come quickly – he wasn’t expected to last the night. But he did. He was still in the hospital 5 months later when mom delivered twins.

After a 2 year convalescence, he left the Navy. Then there were mouths to feed, bills to pay. Life took over; dreams could wait. He worked as a technician doing artificial insemination of dairy cattle. A rancher. An entrepreneur, selling specialty lubricants to farmers and businesses across Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming. His customers were also his friends. Commendable, yes. But not an unusual or particularly noteworthy career. His greatness was not defined by his professional accomplishments. So what was it that filled the large chapel and adjoining cultural hall with friends and well-wishers?

My father was a Mormon. A good Mormon. No, he wasn’t preachy. I can’t recall any powerful sermons or deep doctrinal discussions. But his faith came through in the way he lived his life. That was his greatest legacy. And his most powerful sermon.

He loved my mom. Worshipped her, actually. And patiently supported her through a never-ending parade of construction projects, crafts, gardening tasks, and artistic endeavors. With a smile. Every morning since I can remember he got up first and made breakfast for his bride. They were still in love after 65 years of marriage.

He was a husband. Father. Grandpa. Role model. Friend. Patriot. He was reliable. Always willing to help a neighbor or relative. He loved kids. Was always ready with a joke. He could build anything. Fix anything. Break wild horses. Construct houses. Tame the wilderness.

As the family gathered round his hospital-style bed in the living room of the house he built 60 years before, dad entertained us with stories and jokes. He knew he was dying, but he was OK with that. He also knew this wasn’t the end, and that we could all be together as a family after this life. Mom was giving him instructions on the mansion he should prepare for her in the next life, and he promised to be waiting for her when she came.

The contrast between a Mormon funeral and some others I have attended is dramatic. We were sad to see him go, but none of us were distraught. Sure, we choked up a bit. But we knew it wasn’t the end. Not the end of dad. Not the end of his love for mom. Not the end of our family association. We were able to celebrate the great man that he was. And is. And look forward, with faith, to a joyful reunion with him on the other side.