Tag: father

The Children Are Watching

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20251 Comment

Dear Will:

For as long as I can remember, my dad was a member of the Rotary Club. He went to meetings and on the occasional trip, but mostly I had no idea what it meant to be a Rotarian except for a sign that hung on the wall of his office listing the organization’s Four-Way Test. To this day every Rotary Club around the world recites it like a catechism:

Of the things we think, say or do

  • Is it the TRUTH?
  • Is it FAIR to all concerned?
  • Will it build GOODWILL and BETTER FRIENDSHIPS?
  • Will it be BENEFICIAL to all concerned?

You didn’t have to see that sign on his wall to know my dad was an honorable man. It showed up in everything he did and was reflected in the respect he commanded both in business and in his private life. He didn’t talk much about his affiliation with the Rotary Club, but if you knew him and later learned he was a Rotarian, you would not have been surprised.

My dad’s sense of honor showed up all the time. I remember once all nine of us had piled back into the family station wagon following dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Somehow my dad realized that he had not been charged the full amount for our meal or he had received too much change or something like that. Well, he left us all in the car and marched back into the restaurant to settle his account properly. I was amazed. We had already left. No one would ever know. But for my dad, these things mattered. 

Tad R. Callister has said: “Integrity is a purity of mind and heart that knows no deception, no excuses, no rationalization, nor any coloring of the facts. It is an absolute honesty with one’s self, with God, and with our fellowman. Even if God blinked or looked the other way for a moment, it would be choosing the right—not merely because God desires it but because our character demands it.”

Throughout the ages, our most admired leaders have been men and women similarly committed to a life of virtue. George Washington famously walked away from the presidency when fawning admirers were anxious to install him as king. He chose instead (and once again) to put the interests of his country ahead of his own. (No wonder we all found it so easy to believe the apocryphal story of young George and the cherry tree.) Of Washington, Thomas Jefferson once wrote: “His integrity was pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known. . . . He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man.”

Nor should we forget that our greatest president of all, Abraham Lincoln, has always been known as Honest Abe—a remarkable honorific, especially considering how little evidence of honesty remains in political circles today. The Lincoln Heritage Museum has called Lincoln “an exemplar and a model of virtue perhaps more than any person in world history other than religious figures.”

It is in no small part due to the character of such men and women that the United States has risen to greatness from its humble beginnings. Like any nation ours has an imperfect past, of course, but if we have ever been great and ever hope to be so again, it has been and will be due to those moments when we have stood tall and done the right thing, even in difficult circumstances. When we have put the broad interests of the many ahead of the selfish interests of the few. When we have made sacrifices for humanity and given of our riches and resources to lift those less fortunate.

This is who we are—or who we were, in any case. And who we should be. So let us not be too casual nor too forgiving as we watch those now in power openly violate their solemn oaths of office; as they act to do away with those appointed to enforce ethical standards and flag conflicts of interest within the government; as they instruct others to ignore laws against bribery. As they disregard commitments, betray friendships and alliances, cozy up to the sorts of strongmen and dictators that for years we have fought to constrain and overcome. Nor should we make excuses for behavior and policies that our forebears found abhorrent and worked so hard to eliminate in the United States of America.

I’m not saying we should elect only Rotarians; but it seems obvious to me that we should not lend our support to those whose lives make it clear that they could never get in the club. In any case, before we drive away, we must all remember that there are children in the backseat watching what we do next.

PW

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Careful and Troubled

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20092 Comments

Dear Will:

When I was growing up, I learned not to complain to my father that I didn’t have enough time to get things done. “We’re all given the same 24 hours,” he would say, “it’s just a question of how you choose to use them.”

I hated it when he said that.

Lately, my dad’s voice has been in my head as I have struggled (unsuccessfully) to stay on top of my various obligations. Due to layoffs, we are shorthanded at work and my responsibilities have expanded; I have continued teaching my early morning Seminary class each day; plus I do some editing work which continues to take up much of my so-called “spare time.” Add to that that I am ostensibly a father and husband, and it doesn’t leave a lot of discretionary hours or even minutes in the day. It tends to get a little overwhelming, frankly.

In the last couple of weeks the pressure of overdoing has really gotten to me. I won’t drag you through the specifics, but suffice it to say that I have been feeling like a juggler with too many balls and not enough hands (and I have the bruises to prove it). I can’t help wondering—every hour or so—if it’s really worth it.

The truth is, it probably isn’t. My father’s aphorism is an apt reminder that when we choose to do anything in life we are also choosing not to do a million other things at that same moment. String those moments together and for sure you will have forgone a number of worthwhile things that perhaps, in retrospect, you might rather have done.

The whole thing brings to mind the story of Mary and Martha. You may recall that Jesus was a good friend of theirs and apparently was a guest in their home from time to time. On one particular occasion, Mary sat at Jesus’ feet listening to him teach while Martha bustled about fixing the food, setting the table, tending to the chores that come with hosting a meal. (The scripture says that she was “cumbered about much serving.”) Needless to say, Martha was more than a little annoyed with her sister for just sitting around while she did all the work. Finally, Martha complained to Jesus about it. Big mistake.

In response to her whining, Jesus gave a gentle, loving rebuke: “Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her” (Luke 10:41-42). It was the Savior’s way of reminding Martha not to let what she felt she had to do get in the way of that which she ought to do. And I might reasonably conclude that he would say something similar to me.

So the questions I suppose we all need to be able to answer are these: What things are truly needful? And how can we be sure to choose “that good part”? I’m not sure I know the answers to those questions (else I might not be feeling so overwhelmed), but I do know this: I have been careful and troubled about many things lately. And if I don’t find a different approach, the juggling balls are going to continue to crash down on my head.

After all, we’re all given the same 24 hours. . . .

PW

I Wish You Could Have Known Him

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20091 Comment

Dear Will:

It is with a combination of sadness and joy that I write to tell you that on April 17 my father passed away. He was 86.

We were fortunate to have him at home and alert for several days prior to his death. On Easter Sunday (just five days before he died, as it turns out), the family gathered at his home, where he was under hospice care. There were nearly 20 of us there, and in spite of his condition it was fun to be together. We took turns sitting around his bed and keeping him posted on the Masters golf tournament.

Earlier that day he had asked me to give him a Priesthood blessing, “releasing him,” as it were, to let go of mortality. So when the meal was over (he ate nothing) he said to me, “Let’s get on with it.” After a family prayer, I placed my hands on his head and pronounced some simple words, blessing him with comfort and peace and the assurance that he was “free to go” whenever he felt ready to do so.

It was one of the hardest things that I have ever had to do. Afterwards, the grief I felt was overwhelming—a physically crushing sensation that all but consumed me. After pronouncing the blessing, each one there took a moment to express their love to him, one at a time. When each person had had a turn, he gathered us around his bed for some final words of counsel: He asked us to take care of my mother, to love one another, and expressed his confidence that God would watch over us after he was gone.

We cried a lot that day. But as I look back on it—now two weeks later—I recall the day with a great sense of joy and gratitude. What a wonderful blessing it was for us all to be together when he was still lucid, for us each to have some time with him to express our love, for the Spirit of God to be there in our midst and bless us in our moment of grief. I realize that often death comes so quickly and unexpectedly that we don’t get the chance to say our most tender goodbyes. Because we had that chance with my father, that Easter Sunday will remain a favorite memory of his dying days.

His funeral was last week. It became a great celebration of the man as we reminisced together about my father’s life: his charm, his idiosyncrasies, his talents, and his many accomplish­ments. Friends and family gathered from across the map, including some elderly lifelong friends of his. I was comforted by their presence there, for I saw it as an affirmation of a life well-lived.

I had the chance to speak at his funeral service, and although it wasn’t easy, I was honored to do so. I told some favorite stories, including this conversation:

Me: “Dad, if you really loved me you’d buy me a car.”

Dad: “Well, now you know.”

I expressed my thanks for all he taught me and all of the ways in which he blessed my life. In conclusion, I echoed the testimony of Job: “For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God” (Job 19:25-26). I know I will see my father again, and when we see each other, we shall embrace and enjoy the richness of eternity together. And until then, he’s in a better place, freed at last from his crumbling mortal body.

I’m sorry you never got the chance to know Jay Watkins. He was a good man. You would have liked him.

PW