Lessons My Inactive Father Taught Me
By Joshua Leavitt; edited by Brandon Boey

Editor’s note: Today’s missionary story was written by Joshua Leavitt of the BYU 18th Stake, 59th ward in Provo, Utah.

How many of us really take the time to look at the relationships we have with people and see the differences we make? Even our leaders, our heroes, the people we look up to are sometimes profoundly affected by our choices and examples. My own father is like that. In his way, he’s more like the Savior than I could ever hope to be, but I have many of the same characteristics that he does. Growing up, I learned everything from him. Growing old, he learned a little bit from me.

That is the way family life goes. At least, that is how it was in mine. You see, my father had not been active in the Church for quite a long time, at least ten or fifteen years. Considering he had been smoking for twenty-eight years, it’s not terribly surprising. 

What can a man shackled by that kind of addiction teach his son?

Everything.  He can teach him everything about being honest and true to his word, about working hard, and never settling for his “second best” work. He can show him by example that a testimony is a hard thing to kill. That is what my father showed me. Perseverance and humility are qualities that everyone needs to have. He taught them to me through his actions.

For most of my teenage years, I attended church meetings, at least sacrament meeting, alone. The rest of my family, except for my father, would be there for the rest of the meeting block. But that first hour was usually a solitary one. When I was a deacon, my ward needed me there to help pass the sacrament to the congregation.  As time passed, my responsibilities changed, as with everyone.  The teachers were assigned to prepare the sacrament before the meeting started. I was one of the few who helped with that consistently.  After I became a priest, there was usually a vacant seat behind the sacrament table, urging me to fulfill that responsibility.  Even though Dad was not in those meetings, his influence was.  How could I sit down on the job? How could I not fulfill my duties?

Again, the example of my father stood out to me. When there was a need he was called to fill, he was there. When the Lord needed something done and asked my help, I tried to be there, too. When the time came to serve a mission, I straightened up my life, dragged the skeletons out of my closet and hung my tracting pants there instead.  Would I have had the courage to confess and forsake my own sins without the strength my father showed me in everyday life, that “get up” attitude? I don’t know. During that year at BYU when my life changed so much, I was not alone. My bishop, my Sharing the Gospel teacher, and my close friends pushed me, without pushing at all, to do what was necessary to be happy.

The day my mission call came was a sweet surprise. I wonder what my dad was thinking that day. I had no thought other than “Hartford, Connecticut” then, but now, knowing that only a month later my father would give up his cigarette habit for good, I wish I had known what was on his mind. Following three more months of preparation and buying suits and slacks, the day came for my arrival at the MTC. Before we left for Provo, my dad, the Superman from my childhood, asked me for a priesthood blessing. Can you imagine the shock that is to a nineteen-year-old missionary, to give his own father a blessing of comfort? My dad taught me about humility.

Over the next two years, I saw just how deeply that trait ran in him and in the rest of my family. Letters came detailing the transformation taking place. My dad was going back to church. He had stopped smoking. He and my mom were getting ready to go to the temple.  After a few months, they sent me the ward newsletter, showing a picture of my father as a member of the Sunday School presidency there. 

Then, during one of the regular interviews with my mission president, he asked how my family was doing. After my response, he mentioned that they had asked for permission to fly out to Hartford and to take me to Boston so that our family might be sealed in the temple there. “Can you wait until you get home, Elder?” That is not a question that a missionary in my position wants to hear.  The disappointment was tempered by the fact that I would be home in six months anyway. Unfinished business could be taken care of then.

My family sent me a picture of the day they were sealed in the Manti, Utah temple. I still carry it in my wallet, nearly two years after the fact. My only wish is that I had some photos of September 14, 2005, when I was sealed to my parents in the Mt. Timpanogos, Utah Temple — only a few hours after my arrival in the Salt Lake City Airport.

Upon returning to my home ward, I saw that my family had stayed strong, for the most part. There were even some of my dad’s old friends, recently brought back to church also, attending there. Again, the influence of one man can change the lives of those around them.

Later, my parents were able to attend another special sealing ordinance with me when my dear wife and I were married, again in the Manti Temple. 

My father is currently the Young Men president of our ward and is doing everything he can to teach those adolescent boys the meaning of perseverance and humility. He gives me the credit for what happened in our family, telling me that my choice to serve a mission gave each of them the jumpstart they needed. But, I realize that without the lessons he showed me, I wouldn’t have made the choice that taught him.