Dear MMB,

Can you write about blogging etiquette, too? Like is it okay to leave a link to my blog in someones comment section if I want them to see something I did? Or is that like hijacking their readers?

Shelley

After fighting the craving for a week or two, she finally broke down and called her dad to ask if he could loan us a few dollars for Subway. A few days later the mail brought a check for $300.00. An attached note said “Meredith’s Subway cushion.”

That’s what fathers do.

Years ago our toddler caught a ghastly stomach virus. He literally could not keep anything down. We were up around the clock taking care of him and doing laundry and cleaning up body fluids. It is not hyperbole to say that we did laundry 24 hours a day. After a few days of this, we were completely exhausted. We called to see if my mom could help us. She was reluctant because after many years at his company, my dad was retiring and his firm was giving a formal farewell dinner. Obviously, this was not something that could be rescheduled or lightly missed. Although we would have loved the help, we understood the significance of the event.

Mom called back shortly after, and said Dad had insisted that she miss the dinner and come help us. That’s what fathers do.

One of my favorite scriptures is an obscure verse from the story of Helaman’s young warriors. Helaman’s account contains this almost incidental verse: “And now it came to pass in the second month of this year, there was brought unto us many provisions from the fathers of those my two thousand sons” (Alma 56:27).

Every time I read this I get a lump in my throat and my eyes get a little teary.

We hear most frequently about the mothers of these outstanding young men and rightly so. But, on Father’s Day, I like to reflect on this verse and think about the fathers of these warriors.

I can see these worn and weary men. Time and suffering have etched lines in their faces and refining fires have burned their hair to gray. But their eyes glow with the light of faith and they are moist as they see their sons. Their bodies are thin from the hard labor required to raise this food, the rigors of the journey, and the knowledge that whatever they eat leaves less for their sons. They may limp and stagger a bit. They’ve been pushing themselves to cover as much ground as possible so they haven’t had much sleep. Undoubtedly some of them have holes in their sandals so their sons could have a new pair.

They clutch sticks and staves tightly. They are carrying precious food through a war-torn land. But they don’t have swords or knives. They made a covenant that they will keep to the death.

That covenant meant that they were willing to be slaughtered before lifting up their swords again. When war broke out, their sons, who had not made this covenant, went to war so that they could keep their promises to God.

These men had to choose between their covenants with God and letting their sons go to war for them. In their place. Knowing how likely it was that their boys would ever come back.

This would be terrible for any father. A few lines in the scriptures cannot capture what must have been the gut-wrenching, Abrahamic test of a lifetime for them.

They couldn’t change the situation so they did what they could do, what all good fathers do. They provided for their boys. That’s what fathers do.

I wish I could describe the reunion when the fathers came into camp and found their sons. But an artist, not a writer, needs to paint this picture because very little was said and everything is so subtle that it defies description.

These fathers provided critical sustenance to their sons and gave them the physical strength to fight their battles, just as their mothers provided the spiritual strength they needed. It was a less obvious, less visible contribution perhaps. And in a strictly eternal sense, one could even argue that it was minimal. But in that moment, in time, not eternity, when an army was preparing to go to war, they needed that food. The contributions of father and mother compliment and cooperate, they don’t compete.

When we needed her, my mom was an angel to come and help us and I don’t know what we would have done without her. Her sacrifice was large and obvious. But it took me years to realize that there was another angel in the story. Dad also made a profound sacrifice, one that enabled Mom’s. A man wants his wife to be with him when he’s being honored for his life’s work. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing my Dad gave up. That’s what fathers do.

A mother’s sacrifices are often obvious and apparent. Her work is difficult but, with all the frustrations inherent in her work, she enjoys a preeminent place in her children’s hearts. Mothers are vital and their love warms our hearts and save our souls. We rightly honor them.

But in the background is the dad. Quietly making his own sacrifices to ensure that everything works out. Dad is the great facilitator, the provider and protector who does whatever it takes to get whatever his family needs. For his daughter to go to college. For his son to go on a mission. He provides the means for them in the here-and-now, sending money for Subway or provisions for young warriors. His solid, stable presence solves problems and fills gaps.

That’s what fathers do.

Braden Bell grew up in Farmington, Utah. He earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in theater from Brigham Young University and a Ph.D. in educational theater from New York University. He and his wife, Meredith live with their five children on a quiet, wooded lot outside of Nashville, Tennessee, where he teaches theater and music at a private school. His first novel, The Roadshow, is in stores now.

Well I say that whoever said that is wrong. Not just anyone can be a father. You have to be of the male persuasion. That is true regardless of the operation that my mother’s stepsister “Ruby” had in the 1970’s that turned her into her stepbrother “Rudy”. So roughly 50% of the world’s population can be a father and the other 50% have the potential to be mothers. These are good odds if you actually want to be a father or a mother. In addition, when I say being a father or a mother I really mean having someone to tag team with for the rest of your life as you raise your pride and joy(s), because parenting is similar to a cage match in pro-wrestling.

A little bit of background, I didn’t know my father was alive until I was twelve, spent two weeks with him after high school graduation in 1976, and then two more times before he died in 1996. He was more of a sperm donor with visitation rights that he never exercised. My stepdad was better but only because he lived in our house. The examples of fatherhood that I experienced before 18 were less than stellar.

Okay, put the hankies down and quit feeling sorry for me.

At age 18 everything in my life changed and it wasn’t just my underwear. My conversion to the LDS faith changed my perspective when it came to fathers and that in turn changed my life. I have been surrounded by examples of fatherhood in the LDS Church, good and bad.

Grant Tracy was one of these good. Grant taught me to trust your children unless you had a reason not to. He showed me that by example when he didn’t kill me and then hide my body when I kept his 17-year-old daughter out until 5:30am just before Stake Conference (pre-baptism) in May of 1977. Besides, he’d been down to my apartment and felt that the hood of her car was still warm. Many people thank their mothers for giving them life; I thank Grant for sparing mine. Thanks Grant, and I’m not saying it was her fault, I’m just blaming her.

Patience I learned from Bob Forrest. A teddy bear of a man with four daughters and one son. Sons are easy. One pre-teen and three teenage girls in one house, all with raging hormones, would be enough to make any grown man turn into a drooling idiot. Bob was a loving husband but he was also a great father who had earned the love and respect of his children with his example.

Bishop Kent Heaps and his family took me in for a year so that I could save money to go on a mission. Even though I’m still a work in progress at 50 years old he might have taught me the most. Late night discussions, powerful prayers, and his testimony, influenced a then 19-year-old boy and showed me how to be a husband and father. He was a living example to me every day. I may be one of the few people ever to get a Bishop’s interview at 2am with the Bishop dressed in his pajamas.

I’m not sure what kind of father I’ve become; it really depends on the day or moment that you ask my kids. I was blessed with four children, one girl, and three boys. The first two came by way of a sperm donor, my wife brought them into the marriage, and together we had two boys. Whatever the mix, we are one family in this journey called life.

My kids love me but they don’t necessarily like me all the time. I believe that’s a fair assessment and I’ve learned to expect that as a father. To paraphrase Mr. Dickens “It’s been the best of times, It’s been the worst of times.” I like to think it has mostly been the best of times. For without me there would never have been a King of Nintendo, no grape spitting contests for Family Home Evening, and I’ve definitely been around to say, “pull my finger”. There would have been no frightened boyfriends, no one to flirt with their girlfriends, and no one to carry them from the car after a long trip while they fake that they’re asleep. I’ve stayed up until one in the morning on a Sunday night to help complete the class project that they had two weeks to complete and procrastinated.

I was there when my little leaguer made a triple play (caught the popup, out, touched first base, base runner off bag out, throw to home, runner stealing home out), I cried like a baby in the MTC when my oldest boy went on his mission and I helped them buy their cars. I took my two oldest kids to their first rock concerts, agonized over the losses of friends and girlfriends, and I have fumed over new boyfriends. I have changed diapers over the years that bring a new meaning to the words “dirty bomb”.

Fathers, as part of the parenting team, are one part of a human shield of protection around children. Slowly, as they grow older, we drop our shields a little and let them raise theirs to protect the new generation. Being a father is a bit like being Superman. Not that you’re expected to leap tall buildings or stop speeding bullets, but they want you to. It’s tiring, but we put on the cape everyday.

And yes, sometimes we’re grumpy, short with you, heartless, cold, unfeeling, and it seems like we just don’t care. However, we think of our kids during every step of their journey, even as we slowly melt into the background as they live their own life...

And wait for them to have our grandchildren so we can get revenge.

Daniel “Haynsy” Haynes is a 50 year old father of 4 and “Rock ‘n’ Roll Papa” to 8 more. He finds something funny in almost every aspect of life and some of those finds end up in his blog “The Gospel According To Daniel”. When not blogging Haynsy can be found working on his house, reading, listening to music, or working on one of his British MG sportscars in his “Man Cave”. Kicked out of BYU-Provo for bad grades related to excessive dating, he spends his working hours as a Real Estate Manager for Comcast Cable in Seattle. He served in the England Birmingham Mission from 1978 to 1980. Haynsy and his wife Kim “Hottie” Haynes will celebrate 25 years of marriage next Valentines Day.

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Dear Keen Minds at Mormon Mommy Blogs,

Probably one of my most popular posts on my blog was not my idea. I read a similar post on another blog and thought, "What a cool idea! I'm totally going to do that!" So I wrote a post that had the same general idea but in my own words.

My question is this: Is this still considered plagiarism?

Thanks,

~Tobi

• a piece of writing that has been copied from someone else and is presented as being your own work
• the act of plagiarizing; taking someone's words or ideas as if they were your own

I’m black, my husband is white. In this day and age I like to think that won't be as big of an issue as it was in years past but every now and then I wonder.

I grew up in the South. I never thought I was very pretty, but I thought my personality outshined my looks. When I turned 16 I was so excited for the doors of dating to open. I imagine every girl can’t wait until she goes on her first date after turning 16, but for me that didn’t come for quite some time.

In my ward none of the young men asked me out. Older women told me it was because they were intimidated. "You're so beautiful," they'd tell me. But deep down I felt I knew the real reason why.

It didn’t stop at non-existent dates either. At stake dances I usually did all of the asking. I never thought much of it since I was the one with the outgoing personality, but looking back something was... Off.

I remember one guy who was blatantly racist. I’m not sure why, but one of my best friends dated him on and off for a few months. He wore a confederate flag ring on one of his fingers. He also frequently wore T-shirts with confederate flags printed on them... As if he wanted to scream to the world he was a bigot.

He liked me... As in, I was his girlfriend's best friend so he would put up with me, talk to me and occasionally dance with me probably just to make her happy. "Black people are 'this or that,'" he'd say. "But you're different."

What do you mean I'm different? I don't use “urban slang” or wear saggy jeans? Hello, that's called a stereotype, not a formula for defining an entire race.

I had a crush on one guy in my high school for years. We were very close friends. I set him up with numerous dates with my other friends and we could tell each other anything. He wanted a girlfriend--I wanted to be his girlfriend. But one day after school he told me why that wasn't possible. "Because you're black," he told me point blank. It was like a punch to my stomach, and I felt it.

I don’t look back at these circumstances and think "Oooh poor me," because as I grew up through the years I interacted with and dated all types of men, and all of the things that pushed me down eventually brought me back up more confidant and stronger than ever. Eventually, I found "the one" for me, and he happens to be white.

My husband and I share the exact same beliefs as far as today’s apparent racial issues are concerned. He doesn't pretend to understand what I've gone through, but he knows it's out there. Neither of us can stand racism and we've learned to stand together as a team and defend our relationship when necessary. We share the same religious beliefs, cultural beliefs and most importantly... Music taste.

Sadly, in our four years of marriage we have witnessed racial divisions first-hand. We hardly notice the stares now… We’re used to it.

The LDS church does have a dirty history when it comes to Blacks. I don't understand all of it; I don’t think anyone on this earth does. People can say what they want about us as a couple but we know if we were able to get married in an LDS temple and receive those blessings, then our relationship, our marriage IS ok.

At BYU, in my LDS Marriage and Family class, the book stated that they “recommend” you date and marry inside your race.—Oops, it was too late for us. But I feel sorry for people who let that stop them from being open minded. Obviously my husband and I didn't care about that lesson because we're married today. However, I do worry for my children. We won't teach our children that "recommendation". Not only would that be hypocritical, but wrong in my opinion. Besides, if that’s how it was supposed to be who is an interracial child to date? Only interracial people?

I worry especially that my daughters will face the same challenges I faced growing up, but won't deal with it as I did. I was able to brush it off my shoulder while some other black women hold a grudge, or get very upset. I can't completely put myself in their boat because I did meet my husband while attending a "Mormon college", and married him six months later. I didn't know it then, but I was an extreme minority.

I worry my sons will have a hard time finding women to date because their parents don't want their daughter "dating a black boy."

I know many LDS parents who have adopted children outside of their race. I sometimes worry not everyone knows some of the challenges they’re getting into. I have experienced racism first hand, and I expect my children will experience it, in different ways yes, but I’ll be able to empathize with them.

People say things have changed—Things will change. I pray that’s the case, and by the time I have children, and they grow old enough to date, I’ll be singing a different tune.

I hope as our children grow up they meet other children who are taught to have friends of all races, and date people of all nationalities.

Religion, career, personality... Those are all things you can choose. You're born your race.

I don't want my children to grow up wishing they looked "more like daddy" or like their white friends. I worry society will make them want that. I want them to be proud of who they are, and proud to be brown—Proud to look like both parents. Most of all, I hope others around us are accepting and open minded enough to see people for more than just the color of their skin.