I Miss

I miss him.

Yesterday marked the four month anniversary of his death. In some ways it seems like yesterday and in some ways it feels like forever.


I've been sick now for an entire week. In all my life I don't remember being this sick. And something about feeling so yucky makes me emotional and sad. I miss my dad.


When I was put down on bedrest with my last baby, my dad sent me a dozen roses. He called me everyday just to check in. I've been thinking about all of the little things he did like that to make me feel loved. I miss him.


It isn't that I'm not in good hands. I have the best husband and mother. My in-laws have been amazing, my friends incredible. But something is missing.

Someone is missing.

And I'm really feeling it this week.

I Love

I love him. Deeply, Madly and truly More than I ever thought possible.



I've spent the last sixteen of my years with him, but something is noticeably different the past four months. I think it's called surrender.


I've always been an independent soul. Probably too independent for my own good. And while I have enjoyed and relied upon the partnership that I share with him, I think I have always relied on myself first and foremost. Honestly, I think he would be the first to tell you that one of the things he loves most about me is my independent spirit, my determination to be my own self.


Certainly he is my partner in every sense of the word. I couldn't ask for a better father for my children, a better friend or soul mate. I can't imagine my world without him, nor would I want to. He is the first person I choose to be with, the first person I seek out when I have something to say or when something is troubling me. His is the opinion I value the most. He makes me a better person.


A few weeks before my dad died, I sat at the kitchen counter with him, trying to find words, but barely being able to choke out the sobs. I heard him quietly get up, grab the phone and cancel a much anticipated bike trip for the upcoming weekend. "I've never seen her like this. I need to be here."

And honestly, I haven't felt him leave my side ever since. Physically or figuratively. His is a constant presence that I have come to rely upon, to need, much like I need air to breathe. He comforts me and calms me in a way that no one else can. It's not even something that I can do for myself.

A parent has a remarkable unconditional love for their child. I was my dad's only daughter. I know he loved me without question. I remember sitting on his bed during one of his last days and tenderly shaving his white whiskers. "Thank you for taking care of me", he whispered. It was then that it hit me that my dad had taken care of me my entire life, that no other man would love me in quite the same unconditional way that my dad did.

And yet, I have felt the same safety, the same security with Tony, in his love for me. I have felt it in ways I never imagined possible. I am humbled in his unselfish, constant care of me. Of how he has quietly and consistently served me and put my needs ahead of his own for several months. Perhaps it has always been there, this unconditional love. Maybe for the first time I have allowed myself to let go and experience it, to surrender myself completely to the care of someone else.

In losing my dad, I have discovered what an incredible life partner I have. He has always been here, of this I am sure. But now I see him with new eyes. And the more I feel his unconditional love for me, the deeper I fall in love with him.

Still Can't Get Enough

Five days later and the excitement still hasn't worn off.

For a good read click here.


GO UTES!

PS. What do BYU and Marijuana have in common?

They both get smoked in Bowls. ha ha ha

Thanks Coley for the funny.

2009

This Year We Will

Mend a Quarrel

Seek out a Forgotten Friend

Dismiss Suspicion and replace it with Trust

Write a letter

Give a soft answer

Encourage youth

Manifest our loyalty in word and deed

Keep a promise

Forgo a grudge

Forgive an Enemy

Apologize

Try to Understand

Examine our demands on Others

Think First of Someone Else

Be Kind

Be Gentle

Laugh a little More

Express our Gratitude

Welcome a Stranger

Gladden the heart of a Child

Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the Earth

Speak our Love

And then Speak it Again

Howard W. Hunter

Christmas Peace

Sunday morning as I readied my children for church, I found myself blinking away almost constant tears. I don't know why Sunday's are the hardest. I imagine it is the closeness I feel to the Spirit while attending my meetings. Even my sweet Rachel has the hardest time on Sunday, often crying her way through Primary songs with her Primary teacher daddy holding her hand.

The closing song of our Sacrament Christmas program was Silent Night. I have never heard it sung so beautifully and found peace in each melodic verse of our ward choir. But I could not contain the tears and felt a bit embarassed at this raw, personal show of emotion in so public a setting.

Later I stopped in at my mom's to help her with a quick task. I sought comfort in her arms and sobbed as she held me. Sometimes I can't even articulate what I am feeling, I just know that I feel so weighed down, so profoundly sad. The beautiful thing about my mother's love is that there is no need for explanation. She just knows. She understands and accepts.

Imagine my surprise then, when I read this today at Segullah. Of course I cried my way through it, espescially when the author writes "The loss of my father penetrates in the cavern of my chest and I carry it daily, and with even more heaviness just before Christmas."

But the article also gave me peace. Peace in knowing that my feelings are normal and understood by those who have suffered the same loss. Peace in the blessing of a firm testimony that my dad is well and close by. And espescially, peace and gratitude for the blessing of a kind and loving mother who is still here to offer her mother arms in comfort when I need it most.

My Saving Grace

Tuesday night I set out into the cold dark night to make the thirty minute drive to Orem to pick up Rachel from dance. Sara Mclachlan's Christmas CD was playing on my car stereo. As she sang "Wintersong", I found myself silently sobbing at sixty miles an hour. While the song is about missing a lover, the lyrics spoke to my heart.

The Lake is frozen over,

The trees are white with snow,

And all around reminders of you are everywhere I go.

When silence gets too hard to handle,

And the night too long,

This is how I see you

In the snow on Christmas Morning

Love and Happiness surround you.

Oh I miss you now.

Rachel opened the door with her usual post-dance exuberance and immediately noticed my tear stained face. "Oh mom! I miss him too." As she quickly climbed into my lap and wrapped her arms around me. More tears of gratitude for a nine year old spirit wise beyond her years. I am constantly amazed at her perception and tender compassion for me, her mother. The one who is supposed to be guiding her.

Wednesday morning I set out to make Coconut bread for Christmas morning. Miles found his usual spot on the counter sitting next to the Bosch. I let him crack his first egg and he happily helped me count out cups of flour. He delighted in the sweetened coconut which he called "cheese" and was soon helping himself to copious handfuls from the bag. Each time I removed the lid he squealed his pleasure and sank his pudgy fingers into the sticky batter. In the end, we were both a floured-coconut mess, but I don't remember feeling that happy in a very long time. It is hard to feel sad in the midst and wide eyed wonder of a two year olds' joy. Oh, how Miles' bright spirit blesses me.

Later as I was driving Cole home from school, he told me how his teacher was trying to teach his class about the moon and it's effect on seasons; except she kept saying semen instead of season. Cole and I laughed and laughed and laughed. Each time he told the story, it became funnier as only a few of the kids in his sixth grade class understood the faux pas. It felt so good to laugh. I have come to rely on Cole's humor, his silly antics, his impressions and crazy accents to lighten my heart. He is like a breath of fresh air walking through the door each day at three o clock.

And late at night, when the quiet house brings a profound sense of loneliness as I sort through thirty eight years of memories with my dad, it is this sweet babe inside of me, rolling and kicking, stretching and turning that gives me reason to pause. Pause and relish the present day blessings and abundant joy filling my life. When sleep fails me, it is often this tiny spirit which offers peace.

These children are my saving grace. I have never felt more grateful for the blessing of being a mother. Tony has been holding me up for over three months, his efforts worthy of an entire post dedicated solely to him. But it is these four children who lift me, laugh with me, comfort me and calm me day in and day out. They give my life purpose in a time when I have felt unanchored.

Six Weeks

Tuesday afternoon I received a beautiful bouquet of flowers arranged in the glory of fall colors, perfect to dress my Thanksgiving table. I set them on the kitchen counter and immediately felt the prick of tears at my eyes. The card read exactly what I knew it would: "Happy Thanksgiving! Love, Dad"

My dad loved to send flowers. An evergreen wreath on December 1st, tulips to mark the Easter season, pink roses for the birth of each of my babies, glorious red ones for Valentines day, fragrant lilies when my heart was breaking. Always thoughtful, always present. I'm sure I came to expect it, maybe even take it for granted.

So constant was he in his practice, that his flower shop of choice sent him a large arrangement upon his death. He was probably one of their best customers.

The Thanksgiving flowers, a sweet gesture from my eldest brother, in memory of our dad, left me shaken for the rest of the evening. Some days seem almost normal as I occupy myself with the busyness of my life. And then there are small and simple things, like fall hued flowers crowding an amber colored vase, that crush me with the weight of missing him. It is a heaviness that I was not prepared for, even though I thought I was ready.

It has been six weeks since I held dad's hand and whispered my good-byes in his ear, resting my cheek against his own. Six weeks since I heard his voice or felt his arms around me. Six weeks since I've been warmed by his smile and enveloped in his spirit.

In six weeks, I've grown into maternity clothes. We've celebrated three birthdays, Halloween and Thanksgiving. Cole's football team made the playoffs, Rachel mastered her power round off back tuck, we had two straight A report cards, and Miles gave up his bottle. The Utes are BCS bowl bound (I know dad is smiling from ear to ear at their game against the Cougs), we've elected a new president, and had the first snow of the season. Life is in constant forward motion, as are we.

I know dad would expect us to move forward, would want us to get on with the show, continue to progress, succeed, press on. But did he know how hard it would be without him here? Did he realize how many things, big and small, remind us of him? Perhaps it was me that didn't realize the magnitude of this loss until I experienced it, didn't realize what an integral part of my life he was, until he was gone.

"Grief is a most peculiar thing, we're so helpless in the face of it. It's like a window that will simply open of its' own accord. The room grows cold and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time and a little less and one day we wonder what has become of it, only then are we left with our happy memories in place of the sorrow."

I look forward to the next six weeks, to learning the sex of our baby, to serving the homeless vets in honor of my dad, celebrating the Christmas season with my family, to entering my third trimester and taking a holiday vacation. I know there will continue to be moments of heartache and the heavy toll of missing him. But I also know that it will all be okay....eventually.

In Loving Memory

My sweet father passed peacefully away last night, October 15, 2008. I find great comfort in knowing he is free from his suffering. I know he is happy and well. I just don't know exactly how to live without him. I'm sure it is a process and an adjustment that I will probably struggle with for the rest of my life.

"When you come to the edge of all that you've known and are about to step into darkness, one of two things will happen. Either there will be something solid for you to stand on, or you will be taught to fly."

While I cannot begin to fathom how to live with the void of my father's absence. I am comforted in the knowledge that he gave me both wings to fly and a solid foundation to stand on. Two very valueable gifts that will see me through.

But oh, how I will miss him.

Beauty For Ashes

"To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." Isaiah 61:3



When you struggle with infertility for five years, give birth to what you consider a miracle baby, and then use birth control deemed as 98.9% effective, the last words you expect to hear from your doctor are "Congratulations! You are pregnant." But this is exactly where I found myself in August.



Our shock soon turned to gratitude and humility, even awe as I pondered the path my life has taken, which is so very different from the map I created for my own life.



Quietly, I have found peace in this precious gift inside of me. For with it comes pure knowledge that life goes on, that my Heavenly Father loves me and knows exactly what I need to take the sting out of my father's death.



So many nights as I lay in bed absorbed in my grief, this baby is the oil of joy for my mourning, the beauty for ashes. I know my dad is ready to go. His suffering is really too great to ask him to stay. I have great peace in knowing that he will soon be free from his pain, able to live and laugh and once again be the strong, charasmatic, happy man I know him to be.



And yet, and yet....I cannot fully comprehend my life without him. I don't know how to begin to fill the void I will feel in his absence. But I do know, this angel baby will come in April, fresh from my father's arms. I know the crater slowly forming in my heart will hurt a bit less as I am enveloped in the sweet spirit of a newborn babe.



I am profoundly grateful for this gift which I didn't even know I needed.

Broken Hearted

Dad, Tony and I at the Hope Gala

When I was a junior in high school, my grandmother, my dad's mother, was suffering from bone cancer. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter studying my biology book trying desperately to memorize all of the bones in the human body. My dad glanced over my shoulder and asked if he could borrow my book. The next day my dad carried my large text book into his mother's oncologists' office and in exasperation asked the doctor to explain exactly which bones were affected by the cancer. The doctor quietly took a highlighter and methodically colored nearly every bone of the pictured skeleton. I think my dad needed a visual to adequately understand his mother's diagnosis.

I find myself in what I imagine to be that same place of shock and disbelief. I thought I was ready. I have known this day was coming for a year and a half, and yet learning that we are at the end of the road treatment-wise has brought a new sense of grief. My dad's cancer is now in his bone marrow, so effectually, the picture of his skeleton can also be colored from head to toe. The beast he has been fighting so diligently, for so long, has at last overcome, despite his best efforts.

The week has been long and there are more emotions than words. So many moments this week and the witnessing of my dad's suffering in his final days, have brought me to my knees.

It was on Tuesday when we met as a family to try to figure out the best care for dad. He, who so rarely shows emotion, choked up on several occassions. Witnessing such vulnerability and humility is heart wrenching. I cried, which upset him. Then I felt guilty for crying. It should be me lifting him up rather than the other way around.

It was on Thursday at the American Cancer Society's Hope Gala where my dad was honored with the Sword of Hope Award. Seeing my dad in a wheelchair for the first time, smiling despite the pain. Watching him insist on walking un-assisted to the podium to accept his award and deliver a charming, witty speech more true to his larger than life character than his frail body portrayed.

It was Sunday witnessing my sweet husband and kind brother administer to him. Jon's tender words of peace and comfort which bore witness to my heart of truths I hold dear. It is watching those promised blessings and tender mercies come to fruition one by one and knowing my Heavenly Father is mindful of him, of me and my entire family.

It is the voicemail message Monday night, left from his hospital bed for Cole, wanting to dissect the Chargers game and celebrate Weddle's interception.

It was on Tuesday watching Miles snuggle with him at the hospital; Miles content to lay with him, Dad stroking his cheeks repeatedly as if to memorize his face.

It was Wednesday, watching the hospital bed be delivered to his home and then helping to bring him home from the hospital. His struggle to walk and to get into his new bed. He wore his sunglasses and neatly pressed golf shirt and shorts. He cracked a joke once he caught his breath, turning our tears to laughter. He is still the same man, but oh how his body betrays him.

It was on Thursday as I held his hand and told him a secret. His blue eyes sparkled and joyful tears leaked onto his cheeks as he winked at me.

It was last night holding the small sobbing shoulders of my twelve year old son as he grieved his beloved grandfather.

Each day brings a new moment of heart break, of remembering, of gratitude. Each day in my grief I feel angel arms around me bolstering me. It is in the meals which magically appear on my kitchen counter, the tender emails, kind phone calls and flowers. It is in the daily phone calls with my mother and each of my brothers and sweet sisters in law. It is in Tony's constant support and care of me. I feel loved. I feel lifted.

"It is imperative to remember He is right there with us as He has always been. When we weep, He and the angels of Heaven weep with us...When suffering, we may in fact be nearer to God than we have been in our entire lives...Bad days come to an end. Faith always triumphs. Heavenly promises are always kept." Jeffrey R. Holland

Even in my heartbreak, I know it is true.