Knowing God

It was a crisp fall day in 1981. I was walking with my father around the southern nine holes at what is now Fox Hollow golf course. Most of the morning is lost in the mist of years, but the memories become clear as we step up on the sixth tee box. I stood on the left of the tee behind my dad, playing with a white broken tee. Dad pulled his drive down the left side of the fairway, behind the large stand of trees that guard the green. There was a small cluster of apple trees some twenty yards from dad's ball and we stopped to gather a few. The worm laden apples were very tart, probably wild apples that around the turn of the century would have been considered only good enough for cider, but to a six year old boy the opportunity to eat apples while following my father play golf was delightful. I had a brief glimpse of how incredibly lucky I was to have a father who would include me in his passion. Instinctively I grabbed his left hand in my right and squeezed firmly. As I gazed up at him and opened my mouth to tell him how much I loved him, he said coyly "I love you too." My mind began to reel. "How in the world could he know what I was going to say" I wondered "and why does he always say 'too' instead of just saying he loves me?" In retrospect I probably didn't have any business thinking about his motivations or why he "always" expressed love as a reaction. I am almost certain that these thoughts were planted in my mind by a higher power because of the conversation that followed.

Dad punched a pitch shot through the tall trees and we wandered up by the green. He could see that I was deep in thought and so he prodded "What?" I blankly responded "Nothing," not wanting to admit that my frustration was with his reactive, yet preemptive earlier comment. "Something" he pressed holding the word out a little too long so that I would know he was serious and there was no escaping this conversation. So I started the only place I knew how: "Well, I love you a lot see, and uuuh..." He immediately cut me off with "That hasn't got anything to do with it, just tell me what you want!" This was the tone I was avoiding. An argument followed. OK more like me asserting that my love really was the motivation for me being frustrated and him trying to get to the real heart of the matter. I just couldn't continue until he accepted that love really was the crux of my premise. At the time I didn't even know what a premise was; but I knew that if he didn't accept that I was "all worked up" about my love for him, then how would he ever understand that I was disappointed because his love for me was an afterthought, a reaction. We quibbled back and forth me becoming more frustrated and Dad becoming frustrated because this forced lapse in concentration made him lose a ball in the pond off to the right of the seventh fairway. Until finally climbing the slope of the cart path near the back of the seventh green, he blurted out in utter desperation "Heavenly Father knows what you are thinking and he will tell me when I see him!" I was completely confused by this turn of the conversation. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and I prodded "Who is Heavenly Father?"

The whole scene changed. Dad was instantly calm and pensive. He stared at me for a few seconds trying to sort out what should happen next. He tapped in a putt; and then began to teach me about the pre-existence, and a Father who knows all things, who even knows the intents of our hearts. I don't remember his exact words, once again the memories have faded with age. Perhaps some day I will again remember and be able to add the dialog. What I do remember was the feeling of that testimony! I remember the vision that still burns in my mind's eye of that loving Father, sitting on his throne, and the happiness in his eyes as I came to know him. How lucky I am to have a father who was willing to let his son tag along that day. How fortunate to have a father who when faced with the hard question that afternoon, made the choice to instruct me instead of dismissing the question. How blessed to have a father that served a mission, who had learned how to bear that testimony with power in such a tender moment.