Excerpt from my personal memoir, chapter 22—Marcella: The One Who Observed, Felt, and Wove
Long before I knew God, I knew the feeling of being held—
because my father’s hands taught me that.
The Hand That Led Me
I can still feel them wrapped around mine, warm and steady, guiding my small fingers beneath the running water. His hands were strong—strong enough to lift me effortlessly, strong enough to steady me without strain—yet they held me with a gentleness that made me feel weightless, safe, wanted. It was a strength that felt familiar even then, the same kind of strength I imagine my Papou carried in his own hands when he lifted the pillar to Ayios Nikolaos by himself. I didn’t know that then, of course; I only knew the warmth and the safety. But now I can see the lineage of it, the inheritance of strength passed from him to my father and then to me. The firmness of my father’s grip, the quiet power in the way he supported me, the soft pressure of his skin against mine as he taught my hands how to move—all of it lives in me as clearly now as it did then. In those simple moments at the sink, I learned what tenderness felt like, what protection felt like, what it meant to be guided by love. I didn’t have words for it then, but that memory became the first language my heart ever learned for God. Before I knew His name, I knew His touch—because I had already felt it in my father’s hands.
Even though I lost him at such a young age, I still feel the part of him that stayed. Not as a presence in the room, not as something mystical or imagined, but as something woven into me. His steadiness settled into my bones before I even understood what loss was. His tenderness shaped the way I learned to love. His strength—that quiet, effortless strength—became the strength I reach for now when life asks more of me than I think I can give. I didn’t know, at sixteen, how much of him I would carry forward. I only knew the ache of losing him. But now, all these years later, I can feel the imprint he left inside me, the way his hands taught my heart what safety felt like. That part of him never left. It became part of who I am.
My father taught me about family long before he ever used words. He carried a quiet authority that shaped the rhythm of our home, a steadiness that made everything feel safe. And it’s not to say he never raised his voice—he did, and when he did, it came with a force that could stop a room. But even then, there was something soft beneath it, a kind of strength wrapped in gentleness, like thunder cushioned in velvet. He wasn’t a man without worries; providing for us weighed on him, and I could feel that even as a child. But through all of it—the thunder, the worry, the responsibility—the love was always present. It was the undercurrent of everything he did. Obedience wasn’t something he demanded; it was something he inspired. Following him wasn’t about fear—it was about belonging, about respect, about honoring the man who held our family together with both power and tenderness.
What my father taught me about family and obedience became the foundation for how I later understood God Himself. I never feared God in the way some people speak of “fear and trembling.” That was never my experience. Just as I didn’t obey my father out of fear, I don’t obey God out of fear either. I obey Him because I respect Him, because I trust Him, because I want my life to show Him how deeply I love Him. My covenants matter to me because He matters to me. The steadiness I saw in my father—the strength wrapped in tenderness, the authority rooted in love—became the first language my heart understood for God. Not a God to hide from, but a God to honor. Not a God to appease, but a God to love. Not a God who demands obedience, but a God who inspires it.
But the truth is, not every man who preached of God reflected the God I had come to know through my father. The Greek priest in my youth did the opposite. His arrogance, his lack of compassion, the way he carried himself with pomposity and sharpness—none of it felt like the love or steadiness I had known at home. His demeanor didn’t resemble my father’s, and I couldn’t believe it resembled my Heavenly Father’s either. Instead of drawing me closer, it pushed me away. It made me question the faith I had been handed. But it also awakened something deeper in me—a determination to search for the God I understood Him to be through the example of my father. A God whose strength was never cruel. A God whose authority was never demeaning. A God whose love was always present through it all.
I was sixteen, and my Babas was gone. The faith I had been loosely raised in—we were never devout—fell away in the grief and confusion that followed his death. I couldn’t stay in a church where the man who preached of God bore no resemblance to the God I had come to know through my father. So I walked away. And for sixteen years, I searched—not for a new religion, but for the God I already knew was real. A God who was living, present, and above all, loving. A God whose character matched the tenderness and strength I had learned from my father’s hands. It took me sixteen years to find a place where that God was reflected back to me without distortion.
It wasn’t until I found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, that I finally understood the Godhead clearly. For the first time in my life, there was no confusion about who was who. Three distinct personages—separate, real, and united in purpose. That clarity changed everything for me. It was here that I truly came to know Jesus, not as an idea or a distant figure, but as someone with identity, purpose, and a love that reached directly into my life. Growing up, we often said we wished we had a brother. I didn’t realize until then that I did. In learning who Jesus was—His role, His mission, His sacrifice—I came to understand that His love wasn’t abstract or symbolic. It was personal. It was directed toward me. And for the first time, I felt the God I had been searching for: living, distinct, and above all, loving.
And with that clarity came something even more profound: an understanding of the Father, His Son, and the Comforter that finally made sense to my heart. Three distinct personages, united in purpose, each with a role that touched my life in a different way. What a powerful threesome of love and dedication. A Father who guides and protects. A Son who walks beside me as Brother, Savior, and Friend. And the Holy Ghost—the Comforter—who brings peace, truth, and quiet reassurance when I need it most. For the first time, I could see how They worked together, how Their love was not abstract but intentional, directed, and deeply personal. This wasn’t confusion or mystery anymore. It was relationship. It was belonging. It was the God I had always known in my heart, finally coming into focus.
My father often spoke of the need for order. It was one of the steady truths of our home, even though we weren’t raised reading the scriptures. I don’t think we even owned a Bible—a Greek liturgy book, yes, but not the scriptures themselves. So when I began to study the scriptures later in life, I was stunned by what I found. Page after page revealed the very principles my father had tried to teach us long before I ever knew they were written in holy words. “Mine is a house of order,” saith the Lord. And suddenly I understood: the order my father lived, the structure he created, the steadiness he insisted on—it wasn’t just his personality. It was a reflection of divine truth. He had been teaching us principles he didn’t even have the language for, truths he carried in his bones. And as I learned the scriptures, I realized that what my father had modeled in our home was the very order God desired for His children.
And woven through all of that order was the very love my father desired most. He just wanted us to be present when he was home. He loved us, missed us, and wanted to be with us every chance he had. There was nothing complicated about it. His longing for us wasn’t about control or duty—it was about love. And as I studied the scriptures, I began to see that same longing in the words of God. A Father who desires His children near Him. A Father who invites, who calls, who gathers. A Father whose house is a house of order, not for the sake of rules, but for the sake of relationship. The more I learned, the more I realized that the love my father carried—the desire to have his children close—was a reflection of the divine love written in those pages. My father had been teaching me God’s heart long before I ever opened the scriptures.
As I continued to study and learn, I began to see the blessings that flow from the order God asks of us. Everything He commands, every covenant He offers, is designed to open the door to blessings. I came to understand that through obedience, He is bound—not because He is limited, but because He is loving. A Father who keeps His promises. A Father who honors His word. A Father who desires to bless His children far more than they even know to ask. The covenants and promises He extends are not burdens; they are pathways. They lead to “great and marvelous things,” to a life shaped by His presence, His protection, and His love. And the more I walked in obedience, the more I saw that every step toward Him was met with a blessing already prepared, already waiting, already promised.
And when I think about blessings, I can’t help but return to that night so many years ago. I was lying in bed, the boys asleep, Paul still in California trying to sell the business, when a voice or impression came over me with a power that startled me awake: “Many great and marvelous blessings…” I don’t remember the rest, only the strength of those words and the certainty that they were meant for me. In the years that followed, that promise became buried under hardship and heartache, almost forgotten beneath the weight of everything we endured. But as I came to understand God—His order, His covenants, His love, His Son, and the Comforter—I began to see that those words had never left me. They were waiting. They were tied to obedience, to covenant, to the very blessings He is bound to give. And now, looking back, I can see that the “great and marvelous blessings” He whispered to me in the dark were not a dream. They were a promise. A promise He fully intended to keep.
And of course, all of this—my father’s love, the love I learned through motherhood, the blessings that came through obedience—all of it leads to the greatest love of all. “Greater love hath no man than this.” The ultimate love. The ultimate sacrifice. The love that defines every other kind of love and gives it meaning. It is through Him—through His willingness to lay down His life, through His perfect obedience to the Father, through His infinite compassion—that I came to understand who my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ truly is. Every lesson I learned as a daughter, every lesson I learned as a mother, every blessing I received through covenant and obedience, all of it pointed me toward Him. And in Him, I finally understood the depth of divine love: a love that saves, a love that sanctifies, a love that reaches into the smallest corners of my life and says, “You are Mine.”
And I cannot speak of love without speaking of what I learned as a wife. Marriage taught me a different kind of devotion—one shaped by loyalty, forgiveness, and the quiet strength required to walk beside someone through seasons of uncertainty and change. It refined me in ways motherhood could not, stretching my capacity to love with steadiness and grace. And in those moments when I chose patience, when I stayed present, when I carried more than I thought I could, I began to sense another dimension of the Savior’s love for me. Not in comparison, but in reflection. The constancy I offered became a small glimpse of His constancy. The grace I extended became a window into His grace. Marriage became its own sacred classroom, teaching me not only how to love, but how deeply I am loved—with a devotion that is steady, loyal, and unwavering.
Looking back over my life—as a daughter, a mother, a wife, and a disciple—I can see how every experience, every sorrow, every joy, and every blessing was leading me toward a clearer understanding of God’s love. The promise whispered to me so many years ago, the “great and marvelous blessings,” was never about ease or perfection. It was about becoming. It was about learning to recognize His hand in the ordinary and the extraordinary, in the refining and the restoring. And now, standing at this point in my life, I can see that He has been with me in every chapter—patiently shaping me, healing me, teaching me, and loving me with a devotion far greater than I ever understood. This is the God I searched for. This is the God I found. And this is the God who has carried me all the way home.
I know that God lives. I know that Jesus is the Living Christ, my Savior and Redeemer. And I know that we are blessed with the Holy Ghost—the Comforter—to guide, protect, and teach us throughout our lives. This knowledge has shaped every chapter of my journey, and it is the truth I leave with you, in the sacred name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
