My dear children,

As Father’s Day approaches, I find myself reflecting more deeply than usual on the meaning of being a father — not just in the sense of responsibility, but in the sense of legacy, growth, and the quiet work the Lord performs in the hearts of His children across generations. I want to share something with you that has been unfolding in my thoughts during the early hours of the morning, something that feels important for you to know, not only about me, but about the long line of fathers from whom we come.

In recent days, I have been thinking about my own father, and his father before him, and the fathers stretching back into our family history. Some of the stories I learned as a boy were difficult ones — stories of strict discipline, hard tempers, and expectations that were sometimes carried out with more force than understanding. My mother once told me of my great‑grandfather bending barbed wire into a switch to discipline his sons. She told me of my grandfather striking my father in anger, even after my father was grown and married. These stories shaped my early understanding of what fathers were like.

But those stories were not the whole truth.

As I grew older, I began to see another side — a softening that came with age, experience, and the quiet influence of the Spirit. My mother told me that the same great‑grandfather who once disciplined with barbed wire became, in his later years, one of the gentlest and kindest souls she had ever known. I remember my own grandfather, a tall and imposing man, bending down to lift me into his arms after I ran into him — a moment when I expected punishment but received tenderness instead. And I remember my father, who disciplined me strictly when I was young, becoming a gentler man once the farm years began.

Looking back, I can see that the Lord was working on each of these men — slowly, patiently, lovingly — softening their hearts and teaching them compassion. And now, with the clarity that comes only through time, I can see that He has been doing the same work in me.

When I was a young father, I tried to do what I believed was right. I wanted to teach reverence, especially in the Lord’s house. I remember taking my oldest son out of sacrament meeting when he was restless, believing I was helping him learn respect. I remember moments when I was too strict, moments when I acted out of inherited patterns rather than wisdom. At the time, I thought I was teaching discipline. Now, with the tenderness that comes from years of experience, I see those moments differently.

I want you to know that I have felt sorrow for those times. Not because I acted out of anger — I didn’t — but because I now understand more fully the softness of a child’s heart. I see how it must have looked to your mother. I see how it might have felt to you. And I want you to know that I am sorry for any moment when my actions caused fear or confusion rather than love.

But more important than my regret is this truth:
I love you. I have always loved you. And I am grateful for the ways you have helped me grow into a gentler man.

Each of you has taught me something sacred. You have shown me patience, forgiveness, humor, resilience, and the kind of love that changes a man from the inside out. You have been part of the Lord’s work in my life — His way of softening me, shaping me, and helping me become more like the Savior.

As I look back on the generations before me, I see a pattern: fathers who were shaped by their times, who did the best they knew, who softened as they aged, and who were changed by the quiet workings of the Spirit. I see that same pattern in myself. And I see something else — something hopeful and beautiful:

Our family is being healed across generations.

The Lord has been working on us — turning sternness into gentleness, turning fear into trust, turning discipline into compassion. And I believe that work continues in you. You are part of the healing. You are part of the softening. You are part of the legacy of love that the Lord is building in our family.

This Father’s Day, I want to thank you — not for gifts or cards, but for the privilege of being your father. Thank you for your patience with me. Thank you for your forgiveness. Thank you for the joy you have brought into my life. Thank you for letting me grow.

I love each of you more deeply than I can express.
And I am grateful — profoundly grateful — to be your father.

With all my love,
Dad

Thank you for reading this first letter. I hope it opens a space where we can understand each other more deeply. There is more to come — more stories, more reflections, and more of my heart.