Chapter 4 - Without Love

A Personal Story of Living with an Alcoholic Parent

Hold On To Hope: Help for LDS Addicts and Their Families, By Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone and Dr. Rick H. (1996)

      I'd like to share some very personal experiences that convey a message of hope to those of you who may be experiencing the trauma of alcohol or drug abuse in your homes. I know from first-hand experience what a life of misery alcohol can cause.
        I believe that my dad was probably an alcoholic before he and my mother were married. At that time, my mother was partial to the Cathsolic Church, though not a member. Dad was a member of the Mormon Church, but he wasn't active. The children just came along one right after another, and soon there were eight of us in the family. As we grew up, we moved into the Salt Lake City area and started going to the Mormon Church just because it was handy, and we had asked if we could go.
        My dad was a steam shovel operator. In those days, during the Depression, when $15 to $20 a week was a good wage, my dad was making $100 a week. But we didn't see it. He would get drunk every payday, and we wouldn't see him again until all his money was gone.
        I remember one particular Wednesday night when my mother waited at the mantel, as she did every payday. She looked up the street where the bus would go by. I know that in her heart was a prayer that dad would get off the bus. But he never did. That night, there was no food in the house, and we went to bed hungry. About 10:30 that night, when I went to bed, my mother was still looking out the window over the mantel, and when I got up the next morning, she was still standing there looking out the window. I don't know if she stood there all night. I just kind of think maybe she did. I think her heart was too heavy for her to rest.
        As I went into the living room she came up to me, handed me a list and asked, "Would you take this up to Mr. Parson's store and ask him if we can charge these groceries?" I remember saying to her, "Why do I always have to do it? Can't you get one of the other kids to do it? I hate to beg for groceries!" Then, I saw a terrible hurt look on her face and I told her, "I'll go." I remember going out and getting our old red wagon with the rims worn flat. I dragged it as slowly as a human being can walk, up the street to Mr. Parson's store. I got to the store, went in and walked around the aisles trying to avoid Mr. Parsons, who by the way was a high priest in our ward, though I didn't know that at the time. Finally I walked up to him and handed him the note. He read it: "Dear Mr. Parsons, We don't have any food in the house and my children are hungry. Would you mind charging fifty pounds of flour, a bucket of lard, some side pork, and a few other things? We promise to pay back every penny when we get some money. Thanks, Mrs. Featherstone."
        I saw that great high priest and store owner look at the letter, then down at me, and tears came to his eyes. He got a big grocery cart, and then he pushed it around the store and filled it up with all those things. He made out a charge slip and put it in the wagon, and I dragged it home. I did that more times than I can tell you. I was embarrassed, bitterly embarrassed, every single time. I give the credit to my mother and older brothers that we paid back every single penny that we ever borrowed from Mr. Parsons and from another grocer who gave us a charge account.
        At about the same time in my life, we couldn't afford much clothing either. I had a pair of shoes that I'd wear to church. They weren't the best shoes. They had holes in the soles, so I cut out pieces of cardboard and slid them inside my shoes. When I sat in church, I kept both feet flat on the floor. I didn't want anyone to see some kind of advertisement, like Quaker Oats, across the bottom. Another Sunday, I noticed the tops of my shoes were also gone. So, I went to a box of shoes our neighbors had given us and only one pair fit me. They were a pair of women's white nursing shoes with high heels. I remember being in my Sunday School class downstairs, and the teacher had us sit in a big half-circle so we were all on the front row. I will never forget how I felt. Each one of my shoes felt two feet in diameter. I just sat there the whole time watching everyone in class to see if they would look at my shoes. I knew if anyone laughed at me, I could never go back to church again. It would be too much for a nine-year-old to handle. I remember sitting and watching everybody's eyes.
        My family once was down on Second South between West Temple and Main Street. In those days this was not a good part of town. I was just a baby in my mother's arms. Ronald, my older brother, was about one-and-a-half years old and my oldest brother was just under three. My dad was drinking in a bar. We sat and sat in the car waiting, and he wouldn't come out. It was snowing at the time. It had snowed four or five inches. That wonderful mother of mine put me in one arm and my brother in the other arm and we walked home. I saw my mother hurt as much as any mother can hurt and struggle and try to hold things together with seven little children. One died of phenomena because of problems incidental to exposure.
        I saw this great woman put on logger boots and men's clothing and go out to work at Garfield's Smelter. She would pick up the bus at about 10 p.m. and work from 11 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. She would get home by 8 a.m. or so and wake all the kids up and get us off to school. I don't know when she slept or got the washing done. She would fix our meals and come home for lunch. I simply couldn't add one particle of burden to her heart.
        While I was growing up, we didn't have prayer in my home. I would go out alone at night, stand on the front porch, look up and not know what to say. I had never been taught how to pray, so I memorized the Lord's Prayer. I often wondered if my prayer would get through, so I'd pray again. Then I would finally feel like maybe God heard me. Sometimes, I would go out into the backyard, kneel down behind the bushes, and offer a prayer because I felt terribly embarrassed to pray in my home.
        Outside of the home, Dad was terrific to everybody else's kids. He was kind to them and they thought he was great. But when he came home, he would be different. If we let the rabbits go hungry or didn't happen to feed the dog, he would just raise Cain with us. It didn't seem like he even cared if we, his children, had food or not. Those things have really branded themselves on my heart. When he sobered up, he would go back to work. He always seemed to have a job. My father was a great man when he was sober. I remember late one night when he came home from drinking, and my older brother and I heard him beating up our mom. We weren't sure what to do. My brother and I talked about it, and the next morning we went into my father's bedroom. I think I was twelve at the time, my brother was 14. We went into the room where my dad was getting dressed. We stood cowering, in front of this large man and said, "Dad, don't you ever ever hit our mother again. If you do, you will have to fight us." Well, he never hit her again after that, and a year later they were divorced.
        I don't remember my father doing more than one or two kind things for my mother and very few for the rest of the family. However, he is the only man I have ever been able to call "Dad." My father-in-law wanted me to call him "Dad," but something deep down inside of me would not let me do it. I love my father, but I'm not sure if he loved me. I cared a great deal for my dad and wanted to be friends with him, I guess, as much as with anyone in the world. I think while he was still at home we all tried to make it with dad. Still, living without love from my father was very difficult for me to handle as a young man.
        I remember one particular church meeting, when I was about fourteen, a group of us youth were getting out of hand. The bishop stood in front of us and said, "I think you need to settle down. We've got a message for you and we would like you to listen to it." He went on to say, "Some of you in this room will probably be bishops and some stake presidents, and one of you may be a General Authority." The girls in the class really roared to think that any of us boys had that kind of potential. I guess the one who may have laughed the hardest was my future wife. She just couldn't believe it. It's embarrassing to tell you that I came from that kind of a home. If you were to ask the bishop or someone else in the ward which of us would be the bishop or a stake president, my name, I'm sure, wouldn't have even been on the list.
        As a General Authority of the church, I share these stories with you to give you a sense of hope. You may appreciate hearing them if you have lived, or currently live, under similar circumstances to my family's. Some of you may think every General Authority comes from either Joseph Fielding Smith's family or the Young's, that perhaps these slots are reserved for particular people. I think there are some people on whose shoulders the Lord gently places His hand. I guess it doesn't matter where we come from. I had an alcoholic father and came from a divorced home. While growing up, I sometimes wondered if it were possible for me to do anything in the church. I felt inferior. Somehow, though, it doesn't matter where we come from. God will reach out his hand and place it on our shoulders.
         To those of you who have been through such a terrible experience with a parent such as mine, we love you. We pray for you and we understand. We find you pure and guiltless before God. We are confident that the Lord will find you without blemish, and that His love will encircle you and bring peace to your overburdened soul. You can live without love, but you can't live without hope. What I am saying is that if the Lord will take a scroungy little kid like I was, who had to wear nurse's shoes to church, and beg for groceries, and call him to be a high counselor, a stake president, a second counselor in the Presiding Bishopric and a member of he First Quorum of the Seventy, believe that He can do just as much for you.
        Develop a Job-like attitude in all you do. Job was a great soul, who said, "though he [God] slay me, yet will I trust in him" (Job 13:15). If we have that kind of attitude, it doesn't matter what we go through; our reward is certain in the next life. I don't believe God would put us down here and not give us any help. In closing, I call down a blessing from God to bless you with beings on the other side of the veil who will be there to help you and give you strength. My prayers will be with you.