The face I have in mind is not the face of the young man (from the Two Faces post), who was to be ordained a teacher today and was instead initially pronounced a deacon instead. ‘Teacher!’ someone whispered, his face remained calm (I peeked), and it all got fixed.
-not the patient face of the gentile father who’s daughter gives a talk on eternal marriage
-not the vacant face of one of my Cub Scout’s, sitting with his grandparents, his parents divorced and absent
-not the bright face of the girl wearing the reverence sash before sacrament meeting, whose gentile father is here today and has been for several weeks in a row
-not my delighted face when one flustered speaker closes in ‘the name of Our Son, Jesus Christ.’
-not the sullen face of another of my Cub Scout’s, whose absent father is here for just today
My little daughter’s face, Margaret Rose. I’m holding her. The opening hymn starts. She starts to cry. I look down in her face, I see her roundness, her impossibly long eyelashes, her beauty. I smile at her. I sing the words to her. She quiets and is intent. Smile after smile passes over her face. My mind turns. I think that some good things will only come if I pray for them. I remember praying for her life. I think that this girl depends on my fathering. I think that I have made her smile and could have made her cry. I am frightened and in awe.
Afterwards, she sleeps in my arms. “Mine has been the good life,” the speaker says. Sweet and terrible, this Mormon life.