There are moments as a father that no one prepares you for. We imagine scraped knees, school troubles, even heartbreaks, but few of us are ready for the day when our children, the very ones we raised in faith, begin to choose another path. The pain is unlike any other—sharp, lingering, and quiet. It is not the wound of betrayal, but the ache of love unreceived, of truth unrecognized. I have stood in that space, watching the faces I love more than my own life slowly turn from the Christ who carried me through my own storms.
I find myself drawn often to the story of Alma the Younger. His father prayed with tears for his son, and it seemed those prayers went unanswered for years. Alma records later that he was “racked with torment” until he remembered his father’s teachings about Jesus Christ, and then “was harrowed up by the memory of [his] sins no more” (Alma 36:17–19). A father’s words, planted deep, became the seed of his son’s redemption. I cling to that truth: no testimony is wasted, no lesson forgotten, no prayer unheard.
When I look at my children walking paths that feel distant from Christ, I sometimes wonder if my words ever sank in. Did they hear me when I testified that “there is none other name given under heaven save it be this Jesus Christ … whereby man can be saved”? (2 Nephi 25:20). Did they see in my life the evidence that He lives, that He changes hearts, that He forgives even the worst of us?
There are nights when I kneel, and my prayers echo the lament of Enos. He cried for his own soul, then for his brethren, then for his children and future generations, pleading that God would somehow preserve a record that would bring them back (Enos 1:4–17). I feel that same fire in my soul—that even if my words seem ignored now, God might use them later, when their hearts are softer, when the world’s noise fades.
The pain of watching a child wander is amplified by the love of God within me. It’s almost unbearable to know, as Lehi did, the sweetness of the fruit of the tree of life, and then to see those you love refuse to come and partake (1 Nephi 8:12, 18). Lehi described stretching out his hand, beckoning, pleading, but some would not. What greater sorrow can a parent carry than this?
And yet, I remember that the Savior Himself experienced this. He wept over Jerusalem, saying, “How often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!” (Matthew 23:37). If the Son of God—perfect, patient, full of grace—could love and yet be rejected, why should I be surprised when my imperfect attempts at fatherhood yield the same? He shows me that love is not measured by response but by constancy.
So I hold on. I bear testimony still. I remind myself of the covenant that God made when He said, “I will contend with him that contendeth with thee, and I will save thy children” (Isaiah 49:25). I do not know how or when, but I believe Him. He is a God of promises kept. My tears are not wasted; my children are not lost beyond His reach.
Sometimes the adversary whispers that I failed—that if I had taught better, lived better, loved better, they would still walk in faith. But then I remember that even the first Father, perfect and eternal, saw a third of His children rebel. Agency is real. And with that agency comes the risk of rejection. Still, I cannot forget the other truth: with agency comes the power to return. The prodigal son, in a far country, came to himself and turned homeward (Luke 15:17–20).
In my own weakness, I draw strength from the words of the Doctrine and Covenants: “Therefore, let your hearts be comforted … for all flesh is in mine hands; be still and know that I am God” (D&C 101:16). That verse is my anchor when fear rises in me. My children are in His hands. They are loved more perfectly than I can love them. He will not abandon them, even if they abandon Him for a time.
I also think of the vision of Joseph, when he saw the great and last day, and how even those who once rejected light may yet inherit a kingdom of glory (D&C 76). God’s mercy is wider than my imagination. His plan is more complete than my fears. Even if my children’s journey is longer, more painful, more winding than I wish, His arms remain stretched out still.
The hardest part is the waiting. Waiting as Alma’s father waited, as Enos prayed, as Lehi pled. Waiting is where the heart breaks. But even here, patience is part of discipleship. I remember Paul’s words: “Be not weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not” (Galatians 6:9). My sowing may feel fruitless now, but God sees the soil of their souls differently than I do.
And so, though I grieve, I will not despair. Though I mourn, I will not cease to hope. I will continue to testify in word and deed. I will love them as Christ loves me—without condition, without end. Perhaps one day they will recall their father’s voice, trembling with conviction, and turn their hearts again toward Him.
Until that day, I walk by faith, not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7). I entrust my children to the same Savior who rescued me. I know His power, His patience, His promises. And if I have to carry this pain for a season, I will, because I believe that the joy of seeing them come home to Him will outweigh every tear shed along the way.
This is the ache of a father, and the hope of a disciple: that Christ is mighty to save, and that no child is ever too far gone for the reach of His redeeming love.
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