It’s been exactly one month since I was released as bishop of our ward. Tonight, as I prepare my singing time lesson about Joseph Smith’s First Vision (trying to figure out how to keep a dozen 3-11 year-olds engaged with a song with complicated words), I find myself reflecting on these past five years with a mixture of exhaustion, gratitude, and if I’m being honest, relief.
When our stake president called me into his office that fateful Sunday in 2019, I thought he was going to ask me to be a self-reliance coordinator or something. Instead, he asked how I felt about being the next bishop. I laughed. Then I realized he wasn’t joking, and I nearly passed out. My wife likes to remind me that I turned whiter than the chapel walls.
The weight of those keys was heavy from day one. Within my first week, I had three meetings about pornography addiction (one at 10 PM on a Tuesday), a domestic violence situation that required police involvement, and a heated debate about whether we should replace the ancient gym floor that was basically held together with prayer and duct tape. The gym floor situation, surprisingly, proved more contentious than expected. Who knew people could get so passionate about recreational basketball?
But here’s what they don’t tell you about being a bishop: you’ll cry more than you ever have in your life. You’ll cry with the single mother who can’t afford Christmas presents for her kids (and then you’ll cry again when ward members anonymously fill her entire living room with gifts). You’ll cry with the returned missionary who doesn’t believe anymore but desperately wants to. You’ll cry with the couple whose marriage is falling apart, and then cry tears of joy six months later when they walk into your office holding hands again.
The miracles, though. Like the time a brother lost his job, and I felt prompted during a blessing to tell him to apply at a company I’d just heard of. Turns out they had a position that perfectly matched his unique skill set, and he’s now their senior manager. Or when a sister, after years of addiction, reached one year of sobriety. The entire Relief Society presidency showed up at her house with a cake, and we all celebrated like it was New Year’s Eve.
Some experiences still haunt me. The night I got a call about domestic violence in what seemed like the “perfect” family. The weeks of working with police, social services, and church headquarters. The sleepless nights wondering if I could have seen the signs earlier. But then watching that sister rise from the ashes, find her strength, and eventually become our Young Women’s president – that’s something I’ll never forget.
The confessions were… interesting. I’ve learned that people will confess anything if you sit quietly long enough. One brother confessed to stealing his neighbor’s newspaper every Sunday for three years. Another admitted to replacing all the Postum in my first counselor’s home cupboards with regular coffee just to “see if anyone would notice” (apparently, his wife noticed immediately and never told him). But there were also the heart-wrenching confessions, the ones that reminded me how much pain people carry, how desperately they want to change, and how beautiful repentance can be.
My own life transformed too, though not always in the ways I expected. When I was first called, my wife and I hoped that maybe this would be the time – that serving faithfully in this calling might finally bring the blessing of children we’d been praying for. Five years later, our home is still quieter than we’d hoped. But somehow, between all the meetings and crises, I got promoted at work. My wife found her dream job teaching at the high school. And while our arms remain empty, our hearts have grown fuller than we could have imagined. The Lord hasn’t given us the miracle we wanted, but He’s given us miracles we never knew to ask for.
Now I sit, preparing to teach about a young boy who walked into a grove of trees with questions. As I think about how to help these children understand the magnitude of that moment, I find myself drawing parallels to all the sacred moments I witnessed as bishop – moments when heaven felt very close to earth, when ordinary people received extraordinary answers to their prayers, even if they weren’t always the answers they expected. I understand more deeply how God works through imperfect people (exhibit A: myself). I appreciate more than ever the quiet service that happens behind the scenes – the Relief Society sisters who show up without being asked, the elders who move families in and out at all hours, the primary teachers who somehow teach doctrine to sugar-rushed seven-year-olds.
To my successor: good luck with the gym floor debate. It’s still not resolved.
To my ward family: thank you for teaching me more about Christ’s love than any manual ever could.
To those still carrying heavy burdens: keep coming. Keep trying. The miracle might not be what you expect (it rarely is), but it will come.
And to my wife: thank you for being my constant support, for understanding all those late-night phone calls and missed dinners, for finding joy in our journey even when it’s different from what we planned. Our Wednesday nights might be quieter than we once dreamed, but they’re ours, and they’re precious.
P.S. To whoever keeps putting googly eyes on the pictures of the First Presidency in the foyer – I know who you are. I’ve always known. And secretly, it made me laugh every time.
Keywords: LDS Bishop, Church leadership, Mormon faith, spiritual growth, community service, pastoral care
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