It was a brisk morning when I climbed into the saddle, squished between the saddle horn and my dad. We didn’t have enough horses for everyone to ride their own. I was the youngest and smallest and so I rode double with my dad. My brothers took off in other directions to look for cattle. My dad and I rode up the draw between the mountain and the fence line, keeping our eyes peeled for any sign of cows and their calves. Occasionally my dad spurred the horse into a trot and maintained an energetic pace.
I loved horses when I was young and couldn’t get enough of riding them—that is until I got bucked off one day when my horse inadvertently stepped in a gopher hole as I raced my cousin across the red sand of northern Arizona. The gopher hole spooked my horse so that he reared up and threw me off. I landed on my back, somehow underneath the horse, looking up at his powerful underside with his hooves dancing around me in what I only remember as a blur. I was unhurt, but shaken and only got back in the saddle at my dad’s insistence; my tears and strong protest couldn’t persuade him otherwise. In theory, riding again so quickly after getting bucked off was supposed to calm my fears and keep me riding. It didn’t work. I was skittish around horses for years after that and no longer volunteered to ride. Riding became more of a chore for me, laced with uncertainty and fear, than something I wanted to do for enjoyment. It was also a source of tension between me and my dad. I lost esteem in his eyes that day; I felt it. I wasn’t tough like he expected and I wasn’t the cowboy he wanted me to be. His frustration was occasionally strong enough to get me back on a horse, but it was never pleasant. I couldn’t shake the fear of those blurry horse hooves dancing around me and I couldn’t shake his disappointment either.
But on this cool and pleasant morning at least there was no pressure to ride on my own because we only had three horses that day. So I rode with my dad. I felt somewhat a sense of relief because I did not have to prove anything; I was just along for the ride. His frustration at my lack of resolve, however, was sometimes kept only slightly hidden beneath the surface—and sometimes it burst through. As we rode along on this particular morning, he kicked the horse into a trot again and then slowed into a rapid walk. I can only think that it was the combination of the bracing air and the jolting stride that caused my nose to start to run. I didn’t have a tissue or a hankie handy, so in proper boy fashion, I started to sniff.
I never did ask my dad what set him off that day. We didn’t talk much and he wasn’t particularly strong at introspection. Somehow he came to believe that I was crying. Maybe he thought that I was afraid because we had just trotted, or maybe he thought I was afraid because I was just me. I suppose his evidence was my sniffles, but he didn’t bother to ask.
“Stop your crying” he yelled, as his gloved fist slammed into my face with no warning and with no escape. I don’t recall how many hits he got in that day, but the first one was solid and it hurt. I was trapped on the saddle in front of him with no place to run. I knew better than to protest or to try to explain: “I wasn’t crying dad, my nose was just running.” His mind was made up and no amount of explanation could change things now. So I sat in frozen silence.
Now, when I had good reason to cry, I refused. I did not move; I did not talk; I did not cry. I was afraid of provoking another reaction, of fueling his anger all over again. My nose began to bleed. I saw the drops of blood hit the saddle horn while others landed on my shirt. I felt the warm blood run over my mouth and face. I made no effort to stop it, to sniff it, or even control it at all. I was paralyzed in dread and I did not want him to think I was crying again. At some point he noticed the blood and used his gloved hand to pinch my nose and get the bleeding to stop. I must have looked quite the mess when we arrived back at the corral.
“What happened to Walt?” my brother asked.
“He gets bloody noses easily,” my dad replied.
I really didn’t care at that point. I was just happy to get off the horse and get away from him.
* * *
I sat in stunned silence as my dad and his younger brother swapped stories at my uncle’s house one day. These were stories from their childhood, but not pleasant ones. They seemed to have forgotten I was there. I was home from BYU for a visit and my dad liked to go see his brother on those occasions. They got to talking and soon the stories of the abuse that they both suffered at the hands of their dad just spilled out. My grandpa was a man I only vaguely knew before he passed away but now my impressions of him were rapidly changing. On one occasion my dad was beaten with a stick to the point that he could hardly walk. Another time he tried to save his younger brother from a beating, but by the time he got up the nerve to intervene, the abuse was over. He lived with regret that he did not protect his siblings from the type of beating that he knew all too well.
I received plenty of spankings from my dad, but he beat me up only twice. Learning of my dad’s upbringing provided needed context and new understanding. It did not justify his behavior but at least I had the beginnings of an explanation.
* * *
On another visit home, I told my parents that I would teach the Family Home Evening lesson. I used it as a forum to open up to them about some of my struggles, my insecurities, self-doubts, and lingering resentments. I recounted for my dad some of my more hurtful interactions with him and the type of repercussions that it had created. I had no idea how he would respond. I wasn’t very hopeful, but I wanted him to know. He listened patiently, did not interrupt, and seemed genuinely affected. He only spoke after I had finished:
“I’m sorry for how I disciplined you,” he said, “I learned it from my dad.”
I’ll carry those words with me for the rest of my life. I did not expect them. I did not demand them. I did not think I’d ever hear them. They were God’s gift to me and a tiny bit of grace from a man I associated so strongly with justice, not mercy. They floated from his heart to mine with healing in their wings. They lifted burdens and healed old wounds. It was the best thing my dad ever said to me. Ever. And he meant it. And I felt it.
I suspect saying “sorry” was also healing and helpful for my dad. He was not a man of many words and not prone to introspection. He recognized his failings, recognized their connection to his own upbringing, and expressed regret. I’m not sure what prompted him to say that he was sorry, but it just seemed to flow from the conversation and from his heart.
Apparently the word “apology” is not in the scriptures. But a word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures to be scriptural. A word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures for it to be powerful and right and gospel centered and Jesus inspired and filled with the power of repentance. A word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures to carry healing in its wings.
As a father myself I’m filled with imperfections and make a plethora of mistakes. But I know the power of saying sorry; I learned it from my dad. That is the gift that he gave to me and to my posterity. When I escalate an argument, mete out unwarranted consequences, yell, say something dumb, hurtful, insensitive, or mean, I try to model the power of a simple apology. I’ve never hit any of my kids, or even spanked them, but I have apologized. I suspect, because I struggle so frequently with the “natural man,” that I have future apologies yet to give. In my estimation, saying sorry is not a sign of weakness, but a signal of strength. I felt the power of my dad’s physical strength on several occasions in my youth, but he was never as strong to me as the day that he said he was sorry.
Wow. Thank you Paul Reeve. Thank you a thousand times. Thank you Ardis for providing a forum for this healing story to be shared.
What a great, sad, brave, and healing story! Yes, ditto Dovie’s comments. Thank you, Paul; and thank you, Ardis.
I realize that powerful posts like this are sometimes the most difficult to comment on — but even if you only say Amen to Dovie and Gary, please do.
Powerful. Thank you.
A tremendously moving story, Paul. I am sure it will change other people’s lives as this event changed yours and your family’s.
Thank you so very much. That helped me to understand my own father more. And he has said he is sorry, too. There’s a lot of healing made possible with that admission.
This is hopeful and beautiful. Thanks.
As others have said, this is deeply moving. Powerful. Thank you.
It is moments like this, when I read your essay, that I believe so deeply in the JS’s revelation of the temple. They can’t be made perfect without us and we without them. It seems to me that beyond a particular authoritative pronouncement defining a particular relationship, such moments of reconciliation are necessary.
Powerful stuff. Thank you for your honesty and generosity, Paul.
This made me cry. I have a similar story of being bucked off and losing years of good riding because of fear.
This message that mixes of the importance of apology with the trying to soften from the previous generations is so lovely.
Finally, you need to watch Nebraska.
Discipline and abuse are tricky things because many people are convinced that they dish out discipline, while the way other people treat them is abuse. That can be a hard time to see more clearly.
But in the end of this story, we see two brave men stepping past their fears and admitting their weaknesses, which was a great strength to both of them.
Amen, amen and amen.
Thank you Paul and Ardis.
“saying sorry is not a sign of weakness, but a signal of strength”
This is Truth.
“But I know the power of saying sorry; I learned it from my dad.”
This is what I want to teach my kids. Thank you for sharing your powerful story.
“Apparently the word “apology” is not in the scriptures. But a word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures to be scriptural. A word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures for it to be powerful and right and gospel centered and Jesus inspired and filled with the power of repentance. A word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures to carry healing in its wings.”
That’s been on my mind, too. Thanks, Paul.
This was a really beautiful post, and important message. I feel like by the time we’re far enough in life to figure out that trying not to hurt other people is important, we’ve already hurt so many people un-knowingly. And then we keep struggling with it for the rest of our lives. Thank you for not only talking about receiving an apology, but how it affected you.
Thanks, Paul.
Absolutely amen. Thank you, Paul. Sometimes it takes so much work for us to throw off the traditions of our forefathers.
One of President Hinckley’s memorable talks (when he was an Apostle) focused on the blatant child abuse that counted as “discipline” during what many others believe was our supposed Golden Age of American civilization:
Still thinking about this almost 20 years later and after becoming President of the Church, President Hinckley rebuked such abusive fathers:
Elder Oaks wasn’t saying that apologies are bad. He was making the point that the Church as an institution does not give them, and should not be expected to do so. Seeing as we live in a time where people carry grudges and blame the Church for things that happened before any of us were alive, none of us had any role in, and/or no apology can correct, i think their policy makes a lot of sense. It many situations, those who call for apologies are not the injured parties, and the leaders serving today are not the perpetrators. How then could the Church ever give a sincere apology? It could not. The best it can do is teach correct principles (which Elder Oaks said no less than 4 times), and let people make changes on their own.
I especially found his statement refreshing and clarifying to my own situation.
As someone who was also abused as a child, who was given hollow apologies hundreds of times by my father, I honestly think apologies are for people who are easily placated, or even easily deceived. Much more essential than words are actions corrected, a future in which the hurtful behavior does not continue. Apologies from someone who had no involvement in a situation, or is given long after something has ended and corrections have been made, are empty words that signify nothing.
Expecting someone to apologize after something has been corrected is not an apology, it is expecting someone to grovel. And that is not Christ-like.
Thanks for that moving story.
Reading stories like this gives me so many emotions. I get flashbacks, the adrenaline starts flowing, then I snap out of it and feel ashamed that I relate my experiences with mostly emotional abuse to this kind of physical aggression. I was lucky. He never hit me. He manipulated me, destroyed my property, would rage occasionally. Just a month or two before the final blowup, he shook my 2-year-old daughter out of anger. He tried to physically throw my 3-month-pregnant-and-nauseated self out of the house. But he never hit me.
In many ways, an apology from him now would be pointless to me. I don’t need his apologies. I have forgiven, moved on, made my own decisions. My happiness does not rely on his repentance. If anything, being expected to deal with his apologies right now would renew a burden I no longer carry. The apology is for the perpetrator, not the victim.
But it is healing to hear of someone who truly apologized and repented, and of a victim who accepted that apology. Even abusers are children of God. The Atonement can heal even that rift.
Can’t thank you enough for this, Paul. Beautiful story, and it means a lot to hear it.
thank you for this. This is reconciliation, which to me, is one of the greatest examples Christ gave us to follow.
Thank you! That was moving and timely.
I also found this very touching. It reminded me of Elder Maxwell’s adage about drinking from a bitter cup, but choosing not to become bitter ourselves.
I have come to believe the one of the most Christlike actions we can take in this life – one of the highest ways in which we walk as saviors on Mt. Zion – is to take the wrongful actions and teachings given to us by our parents and choose not to pass them on to our children. For example, the fact that I and my siblings have never expressed racist sentiments is not because we are morally superior to our parents and grandparents, but rather, because we are standing on the shoulders of those parents and grandparents, who received racism and chose not to pass it along to us. May we all act in the same manner to give a more Christlike example to the next generation that was given to us.
I’m so grateful you were able to express yourself to your father and he was able to apologize. I so wish for that. I have tried to express myself to my dad many times. so far it’s still my fault for feeling that way.
I have wondered if some day the Savior will ride out like Abigail did to king David and apologize to me. Not for my dad, not justifying him or defending him…just because he’s the Savior and apologies matter. I try to visualize it now.
This really hit me. Thanks, Paul.
Thank you Paul for this touching story. There are several reasons I believe we need to make apology part of our lives. To me, apology is part of repentance, trying to make amends for our behavior with the person we have wronged. Making an apology is an act of humility which I believe all members of the LDS Church, including myself need. An apology is an expression of love and caring for another person. I have been in a situation where, in the Temple, I was able to extend love and apology to a relative of my husband’s who may have wronged my husband and others in his family. But bad feelings existed between our families, and I needed to do all I could to bring love back in the relationship. It was only through a tender mercy of the Lord that I was given that opportunity to apologize. Also I do think apology has been given by Church leadership for the acts committed by members of our church at the Mountain Meadows Massacre.
Hmm. That gives me a lot to think about. Some of it very painful. And it brings me to the ageless question of how much more difficult it is to forgive those closest to us, especially when they never ask for forgiveness or admit there is anything wrong. Sure, I can do it for 7×70 generations in my family history, starting with just the 2nd generation back. But those I know so well and want to love. That’s pretty tough. And heart-wrenching. And humbling. . . . I’m almost there.
I sit here damaged almost to the point of paralysis, by things that went wrong in my family culture and church culture. I can’t find my way out of it, but this really helps me to see the start of a pathway, and gives me nutritious food for thought. Thank you, Paul and Ardis. It’s a comfort to read this.
I had a simple rule when disciplining my daughters. If they needed a swat on the bum, the first one was for them to get them to stop some activity. Any after that were because I needed to hit something. I never felt the need for a second swat.
Thank you, Brother Reeve. Amen to Dovie.
This is beautiful. Thank you.
I only peripherally knew some of this back when we were kiddos at BYU. I feel honored and privileged to know the rest of the story, as difficult as it is, and I thank you for sharing something so sacred. It benefits us all. And yes, I am trying to say “I’m sorry” to my own children. It heals them, and it heals me.
Amen
This is beautiful and true. A lot resonated with my own experiences and I was reminded of the power of reconciliation and redemption in its many guises. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you all. You are very kind. And I think the varied responses indicate how difficult and messy family relationships can be. No two stories are the same; my outcome is not universal. But that is partly the point, that universal statements rarely account for the complexity of the human experience.
Thank you, Paul, for this powerful post. Thank you, Ardis, for hosting it. And thanks to many of the commenters, too. Particularly britt:
“I have wondered if some day the Savior will ride out like Abigail did to king David and apologize to me. Not for my dad, not justifying him or defending him…just because he’s the Savior and apologies matter. I try to visualize it now.”
Thanks for sharing this. Wonderful insights.
Thank you for this.
I thank Paul for sharing his experience with us, and thank you for all who have commented and for Ardis for posting this.
Thank you for sharing this, Paul.
What a valuable gift to have a few places where we can read thoughts such as these, straightforward, and not edited into meaninglessness. Thanks for Keepa, Ardis.
Thank you Paul.
This is outstanding. Thanks for sharing it, Paul!
Paul,
I so much needed to read your personal history account; a wonderful therapeutic read! Thank you for your careful well written prose as well.
Our fathers must have been cut from the same rough cloth. The abuse I endured at my father’s hand was only a portion compared to what he endured. Like you this kind of parental conduct stoped with me; still I made a boat load of my own parental errors. And as I look back as a near 60 year old, I am in awe of how generously and with much love my two boys forgave when I apologized.
Tears. Let us not encourage other saints as they demonize those we do not know. The greatest peace I have found since the deep troubles, have come in asking for favorite memories, or valuable traits.
I am grateful for the atonement that heals the wounds intentionally inflicted with the same tenderness as those thoughtlessly caused. I don’t think there is a part of my body that has not needed the Savior’s touch. In all things, He has brought me the sorrow that He feels, and the apology that it comes from Him and not those who caused the pain. The only thing that we should not apologize for is allowing agency to all.
If it is in our power to apologize and heal the wounds cause by the misuse of agency, why would we not follow in the footsteps of our Elder Brother, both to apologize and to forgive?