It was a brisk morning when I climbed into the saddle, squished between the saddle horn and my dad. We didn’t have enough horses for everyone to ride their own. I was the youngest and smallest and so I rode double with my dad. My brothers took off in other directions to look for cattle. My dad and I rode up the draw between the mountain and the fence line, keeping our eyes peeled for any sign of cows and their calves. Occasionally my dad spurred the horse into a trot and maintained an energetic pace.

I loved horses when I was young and couldn’t get enough of riding them—that is until I got bucked off one day when my horse inadvertently stepped in a gopher hole as I raced my cousin across the red sand of northern Arizona. The gopher hole spooked my horse so that he reared up and threw me off. I landed on my back, somehow underneath the horse, looking up at his powerful underside with his hooves dancing around me in what I only remember as a blur. I was unhurt, but shaken and only got back in the saddle at my dad’s insistence; my tears and strong protest couldn’t persuade him otherwise. In theory, riding again so quickly after getting bucked off was supposed to calm my fears and keep me riding. It didn’t work. I was skittish around horses for years after that and no longer volunteered to ride. Riding became more of a chore for me, laced with uncertainty and fear, than something I wanted to do for enjoyment. It was also a source of tension between me and my dad. I lost esteem in his eyes that day; I felt it. I wasn’t tough like he expected and I wasn’t the cowboy he wanted me to be. His frustration was occasionally strong enough to get me back on a horse, but it was never pleasant. I couldn’t shake the fear of those blurry horse hooves dancing around me and I couldn’t shake his disappointment either.

But on this cool and pleasant morning at least there was no pressure to ride on my own because we only had three horses that day. So I rode with my dad. I felt somewhat a sense of relief because I did not have to prove anything; I was just along for the ride. His frustration at my lack of resolve, however, was sometimes kept only slightly hidden beneath the surface—and sometimes it burst through. As we rode along on this particular morning, he kicked the horse into a trot again and then slowed into a rapid walk. I can only think that it was the combination of the bracing air and the jolting stride that caused my nose to start to run. I didn’t have a tissue or a hankie handy, so in proper boy fashion, I started to sniff.

I never did ask my dad what set him off that day. We didn’t talk much and he wasn’t particularly strong at introspection. Somehow he came to believe that I was crying. Maybe he thought that I was afraid because we had just trotted, or maybe he thought I was afraid because I was just me. I suppose his evidence was my sniffles, but he didn’t bother to ask.

“Stop your crying” he yelled, as his gloved fist slammed into my face with no warning and with no escape. I don’t recall how many hits he got in that day, but the first one was solid and it hurt. I was trapped on the saddle in front of him with no place to run. I knew better than to protest or to try to explain: “I wasn’t crying dad, my nose was just running.” His mind was made up and no amount of explanation could change things now. So I sat in frozen silence.

Now, when I had good reason to cry, I refused. I did not move; I did not talk; I did not cry. I was afraid of provoking another reaction, of fueling his anger all over again. My nose began to bleed. I saw the drops of blood hit the saddle horn while others landed on my shirt. I felt the warm blood run over my mouth and face. I made no effort to stop it, to sniff it, or even control it at all. I was paralyzed in dread and I did not want him to think I was crying again. At some point he noticed the blood and used his gloved hand to pinch my nose and get the bleeding to stop. I must have looked quite the mess when we arrived back at the corral.

“What happened to Walt?” my brother asked.

“He gets bloody noses easily,” my dad replied.

I really didn’t care at that point. I was just happy to get off the horse and get away from him.

* * *

I sat in stunned silence as my dad and his younger brother swapped stories at my uncle’s house one day. These were stories from their childhood, but not pleasant ones. They seemed to have forgotten I was there. I was home from BYU for a visit and my dad liked to go see his brother on those occasions. They got to talking and soon the stories of the abuse that they both suffered at the hands of their dad just spilled out. My grandpa was a man I only vaguely knew before he passed away but now my impressions of him were rapidly changing. On one occasion my dad was beaten with a stick to the point that he could hardly walk. Another time he tried to save his younger brother from a beating, but by the time he got up the nerve to intervene, the abuse was over. He lived with regret that he did not protect his siblings from the type of beating that he knew all too well.

I received plenty of spankings from my dad, but he beat me up only twice. Learning of my dad’s upbringing provided needed context and new understanding. It did not justify his behavior but at least I had the beginnings of an explanation.

* * *

On another visit home, I told my parents that I would teach the Family Home Evening lesson. I used it as a forum to open up to them about some of my struggles, my insecurities, self-doubts, and lingering resentments. I recounted for my dad some of my more hurtful interactions with him and the type of repercussions that it had created. I had no idea how he would respond. I wasn’t very hopeful, but I wanted him to know. He listened patiently, did not interrupt, and seemed genuinely affected. He only spoke after I had finished:

“I’m sorry for how I disciplined you,” he said, “I learned it from my dad.”

I’ll carry those words with me for the rest of my life. I did not expect them. I did not demand them. I did not think I’d ever hear them. They were God’s gift to me and a tiny bit of grace from a man I associated so strongly with justice, not mercy. They floated from his heart to mine with healing in their wings. They lifted burdens and healed old wounds. It was the best thing my dad ever said to me. Ever. And he meant it. And I felt it.

I suspect saying “sorry” was also healing and helpful for my dad. He was not a man of many words and not prone to introspection. He recognized his failings, recognized their connection to his own upbringing, and expressed regret. I’m not sure what prompted him to say that he was sorry, but it just seemed to flow from the conversation and from his heart.

Apparently the word “apology” is not in the scriptures. But a word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures to be scriptural. A word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures for it to be powerful and right and gospel centered and Jesus inspired and filled with the power of repentance. A word doesn’t have to be in the scriptures to carry healing in its wings.

As a father myself I’m filled with imperfections and make a plethora of mistakes. But I know the power of saying sorry; I learned it from my dad. That is the gift that he gave to me and to my posterity. When I escalate an argument, mete out unwarranted consequences, yell, say something dumb, hurtful, insensitive, or mean, I try to model the power of a simple apology. I’ve never hit any of my kids, or even spanked them, but I have apologized. I suspect, because I struggle so frequently with the “natural man,” that I have future apologies yet to give. In my estimation, saying sorry is not a sign of weakness, but a signal of strength. I felt the power of my dad’s physical strength on several occasions in my youth, but he was never as strong to me as the day that he said he was sorry.