A Letter to Dad

Dear Dad,

As a parent myself, I have honestly said that some of my favorite gifts to receive are the one-of-a-kind, homemade, glue, love, and macaroni encrusted works of art.

I don’t think macaroni emails very well and I’m pretty sure this doesn’t qualify as art, but here is my homemade gift just for you—and everyone else who has nothing better to do on Christmas Eve.

Ethan turned 12 on October 19, and was ordained a deacon. For his first official priesthood duty a couple of weeks later, he went door to door to collect fast offerings. On that Sunday, I pulled the car up to our home just as Ethan and his companion were headed out to their assigned street. I called Ethan back for a coat because it was cold and a little drizzly. Since I knew he was anxious not look like a mama’s boy and make his older companion wait, I gave Ethan the first coat I could place my hands on: Eric’s big blue coat. It was zipped up above his chin and his hands didn’t show, but at least he’d be warm and somewhat water-proof.

It seemed like Ethan had just barely left when the slight drizzle turned to buckets, cats, dogs, and pennies from heaven. Well, he had a jacket. My worries were interrupted when two other deacons rang my doorbell to collect our fast offering. I ordered them into the house out of the cold. I noticed that one of the boys, who is autistic, was wearing what I thought was his Dad’s suit coat, swimming in it just as Ethan had been in Eric’s. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t his dad’s coat, it really belonged to his bigger companion who was braving the cold and wet in just his white shirt so his younger companion would be sheltered and warm. They seemed more than just a couple of boys at that point. I thanked them for their service and loaned them an umbrella.

A little while later I saw Ethan trudging through sheets of rain up the hill to our house. On the best of days that hill is a killer. It is steep and long. Even more, I knew Ethan was fasting, cold and very wet. I was struck with the thought that this must be a little like how sending my son on a mission will be. I’ll send him out to serve the Lord and he’ll trudge through rain and snow, and I’ll be grateful if he has a coat. I went out on the deck and shouted encouragement: “Go, Ethan, go!” Like the Tour de France or the end of a marathon, I know it is easier to get up the hills with some screaming fans.

When Ethan reached home he was soaked. Even his usually unyielding cowlick was plastered down, but all he said was, “Good call on the coat Mom.” I willingly agreed to drive him the rest of the way back to church to deliver his collected fast offerings.

Thinking of the two boys who’d been to our house earlier, I suggested we drive around to see if we could give anyone else a ride. We found another pair of boys hiding from the downpour in an open garage. We picked them up and headed to the church. Again I was impressed by how seriously these boys took their duty. One quizzed, “Do you still have it?” The other showed the donation envelopes deep in his coat—the only dry place he had—tucked next to his chest.

Sometimes, because I know Ethan, I can’t help but wonder , How can this little boy hold the authority to act in God’s name? After that November Fast Sunday I was reassured that the Church is in good hands, the hands of tie askew, dirty under the fingernails, men — future missionaries — priesthood men.

Thank you for being a good priesthood man, dad.

Love,
Shannon