The length was never the measure

I had only been serving as a bishop for a few months when the email arrived.

My son was serving a mission in Ghana. His message read:

“Bishop, we need to talk.”

Never a good email to receive. Especially from your own son.

He had some things he needed to work through. He was coming home early.

To say I was upset would be a massive understatement.

I was angry. Not just disappointed. Angry in a way I had not expected.

Embarrassed. Defensive. Worried about what people would think.

My first reaction was not Christlike. I cared more about how it looked than about what my son actually needed.

And if I am being completely honest, I was mad at God.

Think about that for a second. A bishop, angry with God.

For the previous five years I had served on the high council with responsibility for the youth programs in our stake. I poured everything I had into that calling. I loved those youth. I did everything I could to help them feel the Savior’s love.

And now my own son was coming home early from his mission.

My thinking, twisted as it was, went something like this. Really, God? I spent five years doing everything you asked. I gave everything I had to those youth, and THIS is what I get?

I was in a great place spiritually.

Three questions from my father-in-law

While my son was on the plane heading home, my father-in-law came over. He sat down across from me.

“I want you to be completely honest with me. Who does your son need right now?”

I assumed he was looking for the right answer, so I gave it to him. “He needs his dad.”

“Okay. Now, be really honest. As his dad, what do you want to do when he walks through that door?”

I paused.

If I were being completely honest, I wanted to take him behind the woodshed and make it very clear how much he had embarrassed our family.

How messed up is that?

My father-in-law thanked me for being honest. Then he asked one more question.

“If this were any other youth in your ward coming home early, what would you do as their bishop?”

The answer came instantly. I knew exactly what I would do.

I would put my arm around them. I would tell them I loved them. I would remind them that their worth was not tied to how long they served, or whether they “completed” a mission.

Then he looked me straight in the eyes and said something I will never forget.

“Your son needs his bishop.”

What would the Savior do

That moment changed me. Not just as a father. Not just as a bishop. In how I have tried to serve ever since.

I had completely lost sight of what Jesus would do. I was so wrapped up in my own embarrassment, my pride, my hurt, that I forgot the most important question.

The woman at the well was an outcast. He saw her. He loved her. He changed her life.

Zacchaeus was a traitor in everyone’s eyes. Jesus stopped, called him by name, and invited Himself to dinner.

My son was coming home early. Embarrassed. Afraid.

What would Jesus do?

He would not lecture. He would not shame. He would not focus on how it looked to other people.

He would simply love.

“Never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved.” (President Thomas S. Monson, “Finding Joy in the Journey,” October 2008)

I had turned my son into a problem to solve instead of a person to love.

Whether you serve two years, eighteen months, or come home earlier than anyone expected, your mission still matters. The length was never the measure of it.

Keep your eyes on Him.

Always.

Let’s Keep Learning to Walk with Him!

Ken

Ponder this

Think of someone you have quietly turned into a problem to be solved.

A missionary who came home. A child who is not where you hoped. Someone in your ward you have started managing instead of loving.

Ask my father-in-law’s second question about them, the honest one. What do you actually want to do when they walk through the door?

Then ask what you would do if they were anyone else’s.

The gap between those two answers is the work.