A couple things were on my mind yesterday.

The first was from a lesson taught by the sister missionaries about covenants and what it means to be a covenant people. Click here to read the entire lesson: The Lord’s Covenant People. Mormons are often asked why we do not smoke, do not drink, do not shop on Sundays, why we contribute 10% of our income to the church, etc. Most people, Mormon or not, would agree that these are nice things to do. Most people can understand the wisdom and benefit behind whatever commandment with only a brief explanation. What anchors faithful members, however, isn’t the niceness or goodness or even the wisdom of a commandment but the covenant (or promise) that was made to keep those commandments. Our obedience to the commandments and our loyalty to our God brings value to the promises we make. In other words, we keep commandments not only because it is good to do so but because we want our will to be in line with God’s and because we love our God.

The second thing was a message the kids and I watched that night on YouTube about patience. Click here to watch it:  Here are direct quotes…I can’t provide a better summary.

“God’s promises are not always fulfilled as quickly or in the way we might hope. Patience means staying with something until the end.”

“The work of patience comes down to this: keep the commandments. Trust in God our Heavenly Father.”

As I mulled over “covenants” and “patience”, I remembered a late-night conversation Matt and I had when we were becoming friends.

I can’t remember how we got to this point in the conversation but I do remember feeling like I needed to ask a pretty bold question, because something wasn’t computing in my mind. I asked him if he believed in Jesus Christ, if he had a testimony of Him. He hesitated a little. “I don’t know…maybe not.”

Argh. No. My heart sank.

My immediate follow-up question: “Why would anyone spend 3 hours every Sunday going to church, when you can do 500 other more fun things, if you don’t believe in Jesus?”

“Because of my covenants. I made a promise. For someone like me (growing up Mormon), there are two choices: to raise my kids in the church or not to raise my kids in the church. I plan to raise my future kids in the church, whether or not my testimony comes back.”

Obedience. Loyalty. And heaps and heaps of patience.

Over time, his faith increased, his testimony returned.

“Within the gospel, a covenant means a sacred agreement or mutual promise between God and a person or a group of people. In making a covenant, God promises a blessing for obedience to particular commandments.” (From the lesson mentioned earlier).

An obedient young man, engulfed in doubt, honors his covenants by keeping the promises he made. A loving Father in Heaven, from his vantage point, can see that this young man’s decision to obey is steeped in faith, and blesses him and his wife and his children in ways he could not have imagined.

It is true, then, that God keeps his promises. In many cases, it takes patience to see that this will actually happen.

Connor at Ocean Ave beach in Carmel, CA on April 16, 2013, Matt’s 43rd birthday.

A few months ago, before our Christmas trip to the Philippines, my kids were nervous about traveling to a foreign country. Would they like the food? Would they understand anybody? Would anybody even like them? To which I answered all in the negative, just to give them a hard time. I knew they would be fine. A huge clan of extended family, to which I am very close, were counting down the days to finally meet my children.

On the way to school one day, I asked Connor what his biggest fear was about going to the Philippines. He said, “I may not get wi-fi.” Fair enough. Mine also.

Then I asked him what has been his biggest challenge to date.

“Prepping then going on the 30-miler last summer.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“What do you mean, ‘That’s it?’ It was hard!”

On the last evening of the 30-miler, his dad died of a heart attack as he hiked to meet the troop. Connor was roused out of sleeping bag at 1:30 am and driven home, not ever seeing his dad on the mountain and not even knowing that his dad was there. Matt, with containers full of homemade chocolate chip cookies and raspberry bars in his backpack, along with his two counselors, were going to surprise the troop. Anyway, I totally disagreed that the prep and the hike were THE hardest thing he’s done. And I said so.

“Umm…I disagree. You are totally wrong.”

“What?! You are always telling me to tell you what I’m thinking and not what I think you want me to say!”

“Yeah, I know. But you are still totally wrong.”

Silence in the car. Then he started laughing. We have these strange conversations that teeter between incredulity and hilarity, especially when we can keep a straight face. I started laughing, too, but became serious.

I explained to him that, yes, the 30-miler was hard. But getting up every morning after his dad died was even harder, perhaps harder than anything he will ever have to face for the rest of his life. There is a big difference, I went on, between enduring a trial and enduring a trial well. There is also the unfortunate option, of course, of getting crushed by your trial, but let’s get back to endure vs. endure well. From what I can see, he is doing this well. 

“Right after Dad died, you got up every morning and checked in on me and monitored my food intake. School started and you pulled straight A’s…like over 100% kindof A’s, not the lame 90-something percent kind. (Arrogant laughter). You were a good, generous friend. You had tons of fun even though we were all pretty sad. You babysat the kids (his siblings) without complaining. And you continued to get out of bed every morning, 9 times out of 10 with a smile on your face.

“You will face lots of hard things ahead. The thing is, young as you are, you already know what you are made of. You already know that you have what it takes to respond well and endure well and to get through whatever challenge you face. With every test, every hike, every date, every investigator, every job interview…you already know what you are made of. And you are only 13! If you live to be 90…that’s a lot of years of using that knowledge. Some people find this out way later or sometimes not ever. Look…this most definitely is not the way you would’ve wanted to know that about yourself, but you do, and that’s pretty cool, eh?”

(Sincere smile) “Yeah, that is pretty cool. Thanks, Mom.”

Then, of course, I cried all the way home. Because that, too, is what we are made of.

Every year at Walnut Creek Presbyterian Church Preschool, they celebrate Dad’s Day. It’s held on a Saturday morning, to make sure every dad can come. The kids put in a lot of crafty prep for the event: watercolored neckties, dad profiles, drawings of favorite outings. Prior to this year’s Dad’s Day, which happened today, our family has participated in 6 Dad’s Days: 2 for Connor, 1 for Jordan (he went to only one year of preschool), 2 for Max, and 1 for Sierra. Matt made it to all but one because he was traveling. Uncle Nick happily filled in as proxy.

We needed another proxy today. Sierra picked Jon Isom. Although quadruple-booked, the Isom family made it work, farming out their own kids to other families.

As I was braiding Sierra’s hair before the big event, I asked her how she felt about Dad not being able to make it to Dad’s Day.

“Are you sad that Daddy can’t come or are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Then she squirmed in her seat from excitement, looking forward to all the treats and crafts a preschool could offer.

We met Jon at the preschool and I gave as much enthusiasm in my send-off as I could muster. Then I sat in my van wondering how today could possibly be called Dad’s Day when Daddy was not here.

When I got home, Beau Oyler (my Bishop) sent me a text offering to be on dugout duty at Max’s game so that I could watch Jordan’s game, which were overlapping. I must have told him the games were about the same time. He remembered and I was impressed. He also came to pick up Max for warm-ups so that I didn’t have to be there so early.

At around noon, Mike Crepeau (Jordan’s coach), offered to take Jordan early to the game for extra batting practice. Jordan has been struggling with hits and I prayed that morning that I could figure out how to address this. They arrived at the field a full hour before the team warm-ups.

After Max’s game, Bob Lindfors, an assistant coach, gave me a hug and asked how I was doing. He also wanted me to point out my other baseball kid, who was playing in the next field. At every game, he asks me how I’m doing and does so very sincerely.

At Jordan’s game, Kevin Tye, Max’s former soccer coach, wanted to make sure we signed up Max for the next season. Then he assured me that he and Max’s baseball coach would do everything they could to make sure Max was on their soccer team in the fall.

To my morning’s question as to how today could possibly be called Dad’s Day, I answer with a question: “How could today NOT be called Dad’s Day?” Five dads had my family, specifically my children, in their thoughts then responded to those thoughts perfectly.

We are in good hands. Hurray for Dad’s Day.

In my bedroom, I’ve been careful not to move anything that belonged to Matt. The clothes he wore the day before he died still sit in a pile on the floor in front of his nightstand. His suitcase from his last business trip to North Carolina is zipped up at the foot of my bed. I keep tripping over his shoes, though, so I move these.

Before I put them away, I slip each shoe on, wondering what it is like to be a dad. These are really big shoes to fill. I sit on my bed and cry. There is much to learn. The influence of a mother and the influence of a father together weave a tapestry of learning, laughter, and love. Over time, his threads will fade and fray. Somehow, I will need to replace these and keep weaving more of my thread with only his memories to use as his thread. It is a daunting task, to be sure.

My hope is that I can be made equal to this task. I hope that every moment of every day, my heart and mind will be open to the grace that will make me equal.