Walter David Kenison - a 100th birthday remembrance

My father, Walter David Kenison, was born 100 years ago today—July 15, 1919.  Not many people live to see their 100th birthday; but my Dad didn't even make it halfway.  He died in an accident at age 45, when I was 7 years old.

We gathered his descendants for a family reunion last week.  Counting spouses, there are now 83 of us.  My four sisters and I wanted to share the story of our Dad's life with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, to give them some sense of the heritage that is theirs.  I spent many hours in preparation, studying all the records we have of his youth and his upbringing, the areas he lived and his predecessors.  It was a fascinating time for me, and I appreciated the chance to strengthen my love and appreciation for this man who is only a vague and distant memory for me.

The Kenison Family cabin in Talmage

In so many ways, my Dad's early life is almost incomprehensible to me—so different from my own life.  When Walter was born, his parents were homesteading in very primitive conditions in the Uinta Basin of eastern Utah.  The small log cabin that his family built and occupied in the area that would become the city Talmage had a front room, a kitchen, and four bedrooms; and an outdoor latrine the family referred to as "The Washington Monument."  There was a stove for heating and a well for water.  Plumbing and electricity were far in the future; my Dad had graduated from high school before he and his brother Albert built a new house for their (by then) widowed mother, and took advantage of the electric power lines that were finally run to the community.

Kenison Family in the 1920s;
Walter is the small boy front left

All the work of "breaking" the land, to prepare it for agriculture, was done by hard manual labor, with horse-drawn implements and the muscles and sweat of my grandfather Thomas Kenison and his 5 sons.  Summers were hot and dry (requiring difficult irrigation of crops), and winters were very cold and harsh.  As other families moved into the area, they eventually established a school for elementary education, supplementing teachings at home.  Later, Walter would ride his horse Banjo 3 miles to a road and then catch a school bus to attend high school in nearby Altamont.  He graduated as valedictorian of his small class in 1937.

As his 4 brothers and 2 sisters married and moved out (including a younger brother and sister), Walter remained to work the farm and care for his ailing mother.  They eventually sold the farm and moved to Salt Lake City in search of better opportunities.  There, he met our mother, a German immigrant, and they were married in 1952 when Walter was 33 years old.

Five children came relatively quickly: Angie (1953), Doris (1954), David (1957), Christine (1958), and Judy (1960).  We've been told that when I was born, the neighbors knew Walter had a son just by the way he walked.  He had been very close to his own father, who died when he was 14; and must have been especially eager to begin to raise his own son.  I loved to "walk in his footsteps" as I started to grow up, and have some sweet memories of those few years we shared.

Walter and Doris, and their
five children, summer 1964

Walter realized his dream in 1959 and was able to escape "big city life," purchasing a farm and moving his family to West Mountain (near Payson).  The years that followed were not easy; there were many challenges on the farm, but our Daddy knew how to work hard and we had a pretty happy family life.  The photo at left shows our family in the summer of 1964—we think the last photo taken of our Dad.

The accident that shattered our little world happened on October 5, 1964.  Our Daddy was crushed beneath the bed of a farm truck, where he had been working to repair the hydraulic lift of the dump mechanism.  Our courageous mother was left to raise five children, between the ages of 4 and 11, on her own.

I have pondered deeply about what my life would likely have been had this accident not occurred.  I know I would have grown up loving my Dad, wanting to be like him, trying to help bear the burden of the farmwork.  I know I would have wanted to continue to follow in his footsteps.  He probably would have encouraged me to go to college, but I doubt I would have studied computer science.  I'm sure I would have found a different kind of happiness than what I have now.

Instead, I've spent my life with a heart that ached to spend time with that tall, quiet man who left far too soon.

But it's not just for my sake that I've felt a great sadness for the tragedy of my Dad's early death.  Yes, he was blessed and privileged to marry and bring five children to the earth.  He baptized his two older daughters.  But he didn't get to baptize his son and younger daughters.  He didn't get to ordain his son to the Priesthood.  He didn't get to witness his children's developing personalities, their academic progress and success, their college achievements, their marriages to wonderful spouses.  He didn't get to rejoice in his 19 grandchildren, and the 41 great-grandchildren so far.  All of that happened after he left.

I remember noting when I reached the age when my Dad died, a little over 45 years.  At the time, I had two children who were already older than my oldest sister when the accident happened.  And I had already begun to experience things that he was denied.  That has continued for an additional 17 years now, and I've considered each day a gift.

We don't know for sure how much those who have passed on are aware of those of us who linger here.  We hope they are permitted to see or comprehend us in some way, particularly on special occasions; and there have been a few sacred times when I was sure my Dad was close by.  But it seems to me that instead, if we can be aware of them, and strive to preserve their legacy and honor their memory, to symbolically follow in their footsteps, we honor them in the best way possible and will find greater peace and joy.

My sisters and I at our parents' grave in Payson this week

Descendants of Walter and Doris Kenison, July 12, 2019.
There are 80 of the 83 descendants included in this photo.

"We Ever Pray for Thee, Our Prophet Dear"

Last Sunday in our ward sacrament meeting, we sang a hymn that always gives me flashbacks.

"We Ever Pray for Thee," Hymns no. 23
Text: Evan Stephens, 1854-1930

1. We ever pray for thee, our prophet dear,
That God will give to thee comfort and cheer;
As the advancing years furrow thy brow,
Still may the light within shine bright as now.

2. We ever pray for thee with all our hearts,
That strength be given thee to do thy part,
To guide and counsel us from day to day,
To shed a holy light around our way.

3. We ever pray for thee with fervent love;
And as the children's prayer is heard above,
Thou shalt be ever blest, and God will give
All that is meet and best while thou shalt live.

The hymn was written as a tribute to Wilford Woodruff on his 90th birthday in 1897, and conveys the love and reverence that latter-day saints feel for those who dedicate their lives in service to God and His church on earth.

Assembly room in the Salt Lake Temple

While I sang that venerable hymn with my ward on Sunday, I reminisced to a time over two decades ago. I enjoyed the rare and sacred privilege of participating in a meeting in the upper assembly room of the Salt Lake temple for those serving as bishops and stake presidents. Sitting in the front were the members of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles and the First Presidency. President Gordon B. Hinckley presided, sitting with his counselors above the Twelve on the podium.

At some point in the program, we were invited to stand and sing Evan Stephen's song expressing love and support for the leader of the church. As can be imagined, to sing about "our prophet dear" while in his presence is particularly moving; and to ponder the words of that hymn in such a setting is a special gift.

As we sang, I noticed something that I will never forget. I was seated fairly close to the front and had a great view of all the brethren. They were in varying degrees of "advancing years" as well, with their own furrowed brows. My heart reached out to these good men. Many who were there are now gone: Elders Monson, Packer, Perry, Haight, Faust, Maxwell, Wirthlin, Scott, and Hales.

It was interesting to watch the brethren singing; like all of us, they have varying degrees of musical ability and appreciation, and participate in different ways—some with more "enthusiasm" than others. In the middle of the group, seniority-wise, was Elder Russell M. Nelson. He loves to sing and play the piano (it's said that he has "perfect pitch"), and it was evident he was singing with gusto and feeling. However, I quickly noticed something about him that is deeply impressed upon my memory.

As we were singing those words of appreciation to "our prophet dear," Elder Nelson several times turned and looked over his shoulder, upwards at President Hinckley. It was very evident from Elder Nelson's expression and demeanor that he was truly feeling the words he was singing. His song was in fact a prayer, "with fervent love" and "with all our hearts." It was not hard to tell that he loved the Prophet and truly sustained him in all the best ways. That act alone endeared him to me in a way that I will never forget.

The years have passed; President Nelson is now the one well past his 90th birthday. He is now the one who bears the burden of presiding, and for whom we pray with love and concern. But there is a light within that shines from him, and I join those who fervently pray that the light will continue for as long as possible in God's wise plan. President Nelson, like his associates who work at his side, is not perfect; he is not infallible. But he is a good, sincere, devoted, faithful man fulfilling a divine call from God.

I will never forget seeing Elder Nelson physically turn to face the prophet as he sang his prayer of love and hope. Now, my invitation is to face the right direction and offer the same devotion. May God truly bless "our prophet dear"!