A Broken Heart

The following essay sounds a little eulogistic (is that a word?). Please be assured my dad is alive and almost well. He is recovering from heart surgery at home (well, at his apartment in Beirut).

My dad was in the hospital when I was born. He wasn’t there to see me (though he was present at my birth), but rather he was there as a patient. He was involved in a ski accident several weeks earlier, and was still undergoing treatment on his leg. This was only one of several sports related injuries he would sustain in his lifetime. You see, my father is active, somewhat impetuous, and often quite fearless. He is also pragmatic, devoted, loving, and a bit irreverent.

I love the story of when the apostle Peter tried to walk through the stormy sea to Christ. Only after he jumped out of the boat did he start to fear. I love that Peter was the only one who jumped out of the boat, and he did it because of his love for the Lord. Peter reminds me of my dad. My dad would have jumped out of the boat, too.

My dad is currently serving his fourth mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He served in France when he was young, and in Belgium, Hong Kong, and Lebanon as a “senior” missionary.

In France, my dad braved anti-American sentiment to profess his faith. In Belgium he held together, through sheer diligence and devotion, a small, eclectic congregation of worshipers whose only commonality was their love of God. In Hong Kong he acted as a surrogate father to hundreds of Filipina women who were so far away from home. And in Lebanon, he is using his charm, wit, and intuition to choose lucky recipients of substantial charitable donations. (My mom has been his strong and inspiring partner in Belgium, Hong Kong, and Lebanon.)

In the Book of Mormon, 3 Nephi 9:20, it says “And ye shall offer for a sacrifice unto me a broken heart and a contrite spirit.”

My dad has sacrificed for the Lord. He has given his time, talents, money, and energy. He has already offered a symbolic sacrifice of a broken heart to God. But, as my dad would say, “Don’t give me any of that symbolic crap. Give it to me straight.”

So, when the Lord asked for a broken heart, my dad literally gave Him a broken heart.