by Annette Lyon

I imagine most children of stay-at-home mothers spend far more time with Mom than they do with Dad. It’s a matter of math and logistics. While I’ve been impacted in enormous ways by my mother, Dad has left a definite mark in spite of the smaller number of hours I spent with him. The older I get—and the older my children get—the more I see his imprint.

Although Dad was busy—constantly in motion—the times we did spend together are emblazoned on my mind, like the fun we had at a BYU basketball game, just the two of us. I learned the rules of basketball and got to watch the legendary Danny Ainge play in the height of Y basketball glory.

And there was the time he took my little sister and me on a hiking trip. It rained almost the entire time, so we spent hours on end playing Rook. I’ll never forget the delightful shock it was to hear Dad—the serious professor and Church leader—cracking silly school-boy jokes then giggling madly. It may have been a result of carbon dioxide building up in the tent, but I like to think it was one of the times I got to see his inner workings, what his personality was really like.

At one point, Dad had a particularly challenging calling: mission president. I was about eleven when I asked him what the job meant and what he did. He chuckled, wondering where to start. He could have just said, “Well, sweetie, it’s what’s turning my hair gray.”

In spite of the stresses of his job, I don’t recall a time where he raised his voice or took out the stress on the family. More than once, in blissful ignorance of how much strain he was under, I hopped over to him as he walked in from the mission office and begged him to play a game of chess with me. Chess was my new passion, and few people in the family would play me. Dad sighed, but then smiled and said, “Sure.”

We set up the game board in the living room, and in short order, I beat him. In hindsight, I don’t think he let me win; he was too exhausted to think clearly to avoid checkmate. And while at the time I didn’t fully appreciate the effort he’d made to spend time with his daughter, more than two decades later, I can. Now I’m a parent, and my time is torn between so many places. When I’m tired, it’s tempting to brush aside a request to read a picture book . . . again . . . or yes, play a game of chess. But then I remember Dad sitting down with me, still in his suit and tie, his shoulders drooping just a bit as he moved a pawn, and I find myself saying yes.

I keep finding new places where his influence crops up. Just the other day as I worked in the yard with my little family, I was reminded of a powerful moment from when I was maybe nine. We were picking fruit at the Welfare Farm. The sun had set, and the light—and heat—were fading fast. Standing high atop a ladder, I shivered while picking the fruit—apples or cherries, perhaps. My fingers tensed and prickled with the cold.

“We’ll be going home in a few minutes,” Dad called out. “Finish up the branch you’re on.”
Then he turned to me and gave me the highest compliment I could have received: “Wow.
Look at how hard you’re working. And it’s so cold right now. You know, I think you could handle a Uintah hike.”

No way! I thought with glee. I probably wore a silly grin. Dad went on long hikes through the High Uintah Mountains every summer, often with the scouts, but also with just my brother or maybe taking my uncle and cousin along. Even my mother and older sister got to go on some of those trips with the ward youth. Every time I watched them load their packs on the back porch, I looked forward to the day when I would be big enough and strong enough to endure such a grueling trip.

Now Dad said I had proved myself strong enough. I could have floated home.

The memory returned as I worked in the yard with my family the other day. My youngest gave up the labor after giving it a good try. Then another child wandered off, and another, until only my son was left, still working at my side. It was hot out, and miserable work, with prickly bushes that left scratches all over his arms. Still he kept working. And suddenly, I remembered the night I’d stood on the Welfare Farm ladder and gotten the greatest compliment of my life.

So I stood up. At my pause, my son stopped and waited expectantly for instructions. Instead, I said, “I’m so proud of how hard you’re working. No one else managed to go this long. You’re so strong. Thanks for helping.”

It could have been my imagination, but I think he worked a bit quicker after that, his shoulders back, his spine straight, and a silly grin on his face.

I have no idea if my son will remember that day, but I know I will. It’s just one of many moments when I’ve looked back on my childhood and realized that back then, I wasn’t just being parented. Whether Dad was spending one-on-one time with me or offering powerful words of encouragement, I was being tutored on how to be a better parent.

I hope I can measure up.