Sitting in the Temple with Dad

February 27, 2007 | 14 comments
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I remember sitting on my dad’s lap after I burned my bottom on our ancient heating pipes at Hoosier Courts, Bloomington, Indiana. I was four years old, so it was 1959. I remember talking to him as a teenager about issues I was just approaching, which now consume much of my life. I remember watching in awe as he spoke Cakchiquel to a group of Indians in Guatemala who had never heard a Gringo speak their language. I have seen Dad in Russia, China, Guatemala, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, telling the story of the Prodigal Son or of David and Goliath—in the languages of the people he was addressing. The hardest thing has been watching him get old, identifying the first signs of shaking which is now constant; realizing one day that his hair had gone completely white; seeing him lose energy. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have my dad, but his mortality is more and more apparent. So is his greatness.

Dad received an award from BYU on Saturday, and all of our family got together for it, traveling from New York, Colorado, and New Mexico. There we were—the eight Blair kids, all grown up and with families of our own, paying tribute to our dad, along with Mom and many others he has influenced. Dad, now on dialysis, had to be on oxygen as he greeted the crowds of people who were honoring him. My daughter met me with tearful eyes and said, “He’s on oxygen. I didn’t know he was so sick.”

I found myself fighting tears all day, though they weren’t tears of sorrow but of gratitude. I tried to express what I felt at one point, but my emotions were too high and I mostly blubbered. Here’s what I wanted to say:

A few weeks ago, I went to the temple with Mom and Dad and had a rare moment of seeing Dad with new eyes—as though I were not his daughter, but his mother. He was in his robes, and I was aware that our time together on earth was drawing to a close. In an instant, I had a sense of the whole of his life—the way he had used language to tell people of diverse cultures that God loves them; the quiet lessons he taught me about the value of all kindreds, tongues and peoples; his simple devotion to my mother and to the gospel; his willingness to do whatever God asked, even if it meant leaving his personal projects to preside over a mission. I saw a great and humble man, in the image of Christ. The words in my mind were, “I am so proud of you”—words a mother might say to her son.

Dad, I am so proud of you. Here you are in the temple, while your body is starting to fail you. You have been here many times throughout your life, and these rituals are familiar to you. You have loved God by loving His children. You have used the gifts God gave you to serve and glorify the giver, not to pad your own resume. Somehow, you managed to get through a whole career in academia without succumbing to arrogance. Your whole life has been about communication and understanding, and here in the temple, you stand less steadily than you once did (yet far steadier in other ways), and you know about communication with God, and about the love which energizes all understanding. Every one of your children is in some way involved with the mission you accepted when you devoted yourself to the world’s children and their languages. We even have an idea of how important that mission is.

I can’t ever sing “Be Still My Soul/ The Lord is On Thy Side” without remembering your tearful account of some missionaries (not LDS–but you have valued all faiths and taught us to respect them) who sang that song on the eve of their execution in the jungles of Ecuador. They knew they would die in the morning, and sang themselves this hymn of comfort and courage.

I hope for many more years with you, but that song is in my heart, as I know it is in yours. Its poetry expresses the faith which you have made your life’s center:

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we shall meet at last.

Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
On earth, believing, to Thy Lord on high;
Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
So shall He view thee with a well pleased eye.
Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

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14 Responses to Sitting in the Temple with Dad

  1. Remembrancer on February 27, 2007 at 9:04 pm

    Thank you for such a beautifully expressed thoughts regarding your Dad. I’ve often wondered if our relatives
    who have passed watch us as we age. I like to think they mark our progress through life and toward joining
    them again.

  2. Ardis Parshall on February 27, 2007 at 10:32 pm

    A lovely tribute from a daughter to her father. We’re lucky daughters to feel about our fathers as you and I do. Thanks for this gift.

  3. Lamonte on February 28, 2007 at 8:56 am

    Margaret – thanks for your beautiful thoughts. It appears you and I are about the same age and, I assume our fathers are the same age as well. My father is 87. I have similar fond memories of the times with my own father but for different reasons than yours. My father is a simple man who pays his bills on time and gives feely of his time and wisdom to all who seek it. Thank heaven for good fathers.

  4. Margaret Young on February 28, 2007 at 12:41 pm

    Lamonte–we are likely the same age, but I am the oldest child in my family, so my father is a decade younger than yours. His father died at age 51. His sister died at age 41. His mother died in her mid-seventies. So he has lived longer than any other member of his family. Amen to your words about fathers.

  5. Russell Arben Fox on February 28, 2007 at 12:52 pm

    “…here in the temple, you stand less steadily than you once did (yet far steadier in other ways)…”

    What a profound line. Thank you for writing it, Margaret–and thanks also for this tribute to a loving, good, and great man.

  6. Kim Siever on February 28, 2007 at 1:36 pm

    Wonderfully inspiring.

  7. Lamonte on February 28, 2007 at 1:56 pm

    Margaret – I am the youngest in my family. My father was 34 when I was born – which seemed ancient back then. My father father and all his father’s siblings lived into their 90′s so he has a few years left.

  8. Lawrence on February 28, 2007 at 2:47 pm

    I seldom write, but look forward to your wonderful posts. Anyone who has had even close to what you have experienced with your father is indeed fortunate and blessed. My father, a wonderful dad in so many ways. has been gone for 20 years. He was 85 and his examples are still as vivid to me as when we were together. In so many ways, I can’t wait until our reunion.

  9. Lizzilu on March 1, 2007 at 12:31 am

    Margaret this post is beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes and makes me look forward to the eternities to se my Dad again. Thank you.

  10. RoAnn on March 1, 2007 at 9:17 am

    Thank you so much for this moving and heartfelt tribute; and for reminding me of the beautiful words of this hymn.

  11. manaen on March 1, 2007 at 5:00 pm

    Thanks, Margaret. This is especially dear to me because my mother passed last summer. She also used her abilities to serve others rather than to seek her own.

  12. Matt W. on March 1, 2007 at 5:28 pm

    This was beautiful, (and on a tangent, it really made me miss Bloomington.)

  13. Alan L. on March 2, 2007 at 1:49 am

    Your father is one of the greatest men I have known. I took his language pedagogy course back in the 70\’s, and have had contact with him on and off over the years. It is rare to find such a combination of brilliance and humility. Thank you for reminding me of one who exemplifies what human beings are capable of when led by the spirit of God.

  14. Margaret Young on March 2, 2007 at 3:52 pm

    Thank you, Alan L. I have heard similar sentiments from many, many people. Dad changed lives quietly.

WELCOME

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