Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Home
Latter-day Saint
On a Day When I Miss My Dad

On a Day When I Miss My Dad

Last updated on: April 28, 2016 at 5:39 pm by Margaret Blair Young

On a Day When I Miss My Dad 2016-04-28T17:39:34-07:00 Margaret Blair Young

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

I put a photo of an ultrasound into Dad’s coffin on February 27. The viewing before his funeral hadn’t started yet, and no one was watching. The ultrasound was of the fetus who is still becoming Olive Aisley Wagstaff, my next granddaughter, my father’s fourth great granddaughter. On February 18, the day before Dad died, I told him that Julie, my baby girl, had heard her baby’s heartbeat. Dad said a typically “Dad” thing. “That’s wonderful!” That little conversation happened just before I tucked him into bed. He had had a painful day, part of it spent in the hospital.

When his nurse came in the morning to check his blood sugar, I told her that Dad was sleeping. She went into his room and came out immediately, beckoning to me and saying, “Hurry.” Dad had died.

I wasn’t with him the moment he died, though I had promised I would be. I had told him, “I will be with you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

I don’t think he was alone. I think someone–or someones–came for him, probably his parents and sister. (Carolyn died of a heart attack in 1972.) I think they called him by name and told him that it was time to come home now. I imagine them standing as I stand when I’m working in the temple. For much of my shift, all I do is greet the patrons and show them where the dressing rooms are, or whatever else they might need. I smile. Sometimes I have worked with what we call “living ordinances,” referring to those who are going through the temple for the first time. With them I am particularly assuring. I often squeeze their hand and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right at your side. Look at me if you need help, and I’ll be right there.”

I don’t know what Dad’s familiar angels would have shown him, what new sights. I suspect the first thing was US, his family, mourning for him. I did not feel him gone while we stayed with his body for four hours before calling the funeral workers. My siblings, nieces, nephews, children arrived, and we sang and talked in the bedroom where Dad’s body lay. I kept my hand on his arm, which was still warm.

Dad was “Son” for Marguerite and Wallace Blair, and “brother” for Carolyn Rachel Blair Shumway. There was a time when Marguerite learned she was pregnant. There were no ultrasounds back in 1930, but she surely felt his kicks as he grew in her womb. I wish I knew more about the day he was born. His sister was already a part of the family. One girl and, with Dad, one boy. Did Marguerite’s mother come to stay with her, to help her endure the pain of the first nursing, the exhaustion of managing two babies? I’m guessing she dad.

My grandfather was the branch president of an LDS ward in Santa Barbara then. He sang tenor beautifully, and used this song as a lullaby for Baby Bobby and Carolyn:

Oh don’t you remember, A long time ago
Two poor little babes,Their names I don’t know.
They strayed far away, On a bright summer’s day.
These two little babes Got lost on their way.

And when it was night, So sad was their plight,
The sun it went down,And the moon gave no light!
They sobbed and they sighed And they bitterly cried
And long before morning, They lay down and died.

I found the complete lyrics on a blog titled “Inappropriate songs to teach your two-year-old.” Dad said that he was sure his father sang it to him to keep him from running too far away.

Bobby (my dad) and Carolyn made Wallace and Marguerite into parents.

These parents fought on occasion. My grandfather became an alcoholic (probably self-medicating for rheumatoid arthritis), and yelled abusively at my grandmother once while driving far too fast for safety. When they got home, Grandma, with a hanger in her hand, asked my dad, “Should I hit him, Bobby?” Dad answered, “No, Mom.”

Was my grandfather present with me when I learned that my own son had become an alcoholic? Was it he who whispered to me, “Wait for him. He needs to see you, and you need to be happy. This is his journey, not yours. Don’t go away.” Was my grandfather present for my son when he prayed? Was he there in an AA meeting?

“I’m Wallace and I’m an alcoholic. You don’t need to answer. I know you can’t see me. I’ve been clean and sober since the day I died–April 1, 1949. I don’t think you have any special pins for post-mortal recovery, but you’d be surprised by how little medals mean, by how little anything means except for how much you love the folks around you. And alcohol gets in the way of that, you know. It sloshes around in your heart and kicks your throat until you’re sputtering ugly, nasty things like a stinky car running out of gas. And I want to say that I’m proud of my grandson. By golly, he has red hair, just like I had. And he’s handsome. And he’s good. And I was a good man, you know. A good man with a problem. I’m glad all of you are helping my grandson out. I sit in on the meetings sometimes, just to be sure he gets what he needs and gives what he should. And I give him counsel every now and again. And by the way, several of your grandparents are here with me. A few of them are in post-mortal recovery, too. And they’re doing fine. You remember that final step? ‘Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.’ I want you to know that it’s an honor to keep on doing that, carrying the message to others–especially to those who inherited the alcoholism from us. That’s all I have for now. I’ll thank myself, since you don’t even know what I said, and only a few of you heard anything. ‘Thanks, Wallace!‘”

My dad said that Grandpa had a keen sense of humor.

Dad said many times that he wasn’t afraid of dying, but he didn’t want to until his projects were finished. He was working on making language learning possible for everyone. Unfortunately, as I found out soon after Dad’s death, he had already done his language teaching, and others had taken his methods to a new, interactive level, complete with everything he would have wanted–music, animation, games. Dad’s final projects had nothing to do with language. They had to do with his wife. He needed to be sure that she was all right. She had had a massive heart attack four months earlier to the day, but was recovered when Dad’s angels came for him.

Dad, watching her, saw her with new eyes–eyes which remembered her history and could even feel what she had felt during disagreements, pregnancies, insecurities, celebrations. She was a little girl who became his wife and then his co-parent. He watched her restrain her tears as she looked at his body. (He had gotten so swollen over the past year!)

I didn’t love you enough.

There is never enough, but there is a feast for all.

I don’t know what to do.

Joy and rejoicing in our posterity. . .

I’m afraid.

Lift up your head. Look. Our posterity. They carry US.

I wish–.

If our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things.

I should have–

All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

What do I do?

We are growing. Another baby comes.

He felt everything she was feeling. It was a part of this new reality, the ability to actually enter another person’s perceptions, to see portions of their life not from your perspective (though it was included when relevant) but from theirs. And he could become one with his mother’s spirit and feel her thoughts and (mostly) her love. No resentments could dwell in this love.

Who was with us as we grieved our father’s passing? Who will attend my daughter–and her daughter–when she gives birth?

I believe in angels. I believe in glory. I believe in eternity.

And finally, it’s a girl–due around my dad’s birthday.

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.

Olive Aisley Wagstaff

Robert Wallace Blair

Previous Post

April 18, 2016

Robert Blair: Mormon Scholars Testify

Next Post

May 2, 2016 Salvador: The Truth Behind the Fiction

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category Ancestors family conflict in the scriptures race and religion Uncategorized

Select a Month August 2026 March 2026 January 2026 December 2025 November 2025 October 2025 September 2025 July 2025 April 2025 March 2025 January 2025 November 2024 May 2024 April 2024 November 2023 October 2023 September 2023 June 2023 September 2022 August 2022 July 2022 May 2022 April 2022 March 2022 January 2022 December 2021 October 2021 September 2021 July 2021 June 2021 October 2020 August 2020 July 2020 June 2020 March 2020 January 2020 December 2019 November 2019 October 2019 June 2019 January 2019 December 2018 November 2018 September 2018 August 2018 May 2018 March 2018 January 2018 November 2017 October 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 March 2017 February 2017 November 2016 October 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016 February 2016 January 2016 November 2015 August 2015 July 2015 May 2015 April 2015 March 2015 February 2015 January 2015 December 2014 November 2014 October 2014 August 2014 July 2014 June 2014 May 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 January 2014 December 2013 November 2013 October 2013 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

Who was the first high priest of Israel?

Select your answer to see how you score.

Joshua Aaron Caleb Moses