Since we’re all here at Sunstone, and specifically in this session, I’m going to make an assumption that you have all, at some point, felt that you were not Mormon enough — whatever that means. Today I’m going to share a story about a time when I was sure I was not Mormon enough.

On my daughter’s 8th birthday, almost two years ago, she waited impatiently for the family to come together to celebrate. You can tell from the picture how excited she was, but what you can’t see is the dread I was feeling on the other side of the camera.

When I took this picture, I had just ignored a call from an unfamiliar number in the Dominican Republic, where my parents were serving their fourth mission for the Church.

It was late, and my parents never called. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew it couldn’t be good news. But I also knew my daughter deserved my full attention for at least the next few minutes, so I put the phone back in my pocket and kept taking pictures.

Five minutes later, with the kids enjoying cake in the next room, I found out my dad had suffered a major stroke and was in surgery. As is her way, my mom was mellow. She didn’t feel alone — she was surrounded by other missionaries. She had received a blessing from a General Authority, she said, the area president whose office was adjacent to the temple, and he hadn’t seemed concerned. So why should she be? There was no reason for anyone to fly down.

As it happened, the area president hadn’t seemed concerned because he had spent his career in hospitals and was used to seeing people die. The next morning, when he explained more clearly, my mom sent a more urgent message. He might not survive the day. She did feel alone. How quickly could someone be there?

I am the youngest of seven kids (one of two apostates) and I had the flexibility to leave on short notice. So did two of my sisters (both delightful, neither apostate) and so the three of us were on airplanes a few hours later.

There was no consultation room in the hospital’s intensive care unit, so they led us to a small office, with too many chairs and not enough tissues, where a doctor explained that the stroke had been too severe to survive. There was no reflex response, no respiration impulse, no brain activity. The only words I understood without translation were, “I’m so sorry.”

We went in to say goodbye. There were tubes and bandages. His chest moved to an unnatural rhythm set by the machine that was filling his lungs with air. His body was there, but my father was not.

Saying goodbye after 53 years.

Always prepared, my dad had a living will. When we told the doctor he would want us to remove life support, she looked surprised. “Oh no,” she said. “In the Dominican Republic, only God decides when to end a life.” His kidneys seemed to be failing, she told us, so it wouldn’t be long.

I wish I could explain what it was like to be in that room with a dead man breathing artificial breaths, but none of us was eager to return for a visit the next day. Instead, we waited in their apartment for the inevitable call from the hospital.