March 4, 2010: KIA

It was a Thursday, and I was at work when I got the news. My sister Rachel and I were chatting online and all of a sudden, she found out my cousin Nigel had been killed in Afghanistan. I thought there was probably a mistake--maybe he had just been wounded or was missing. Another marine from Nigel's company had been killed just a few days before, so surely, there was just some confusion about who it was. We both started calling family members, trying to confirm what we dreaded was true. I called Tim, who was at home, and asked him to go upstairs and talk to my grandparents, see what they knew. I remember Tim was supposed to work that night, but he called in and let them know what had happened. I was in shock and didn't feel sad yet, just numb. When Tim said he was going to stay home, I tried to insist that I was fine, that he could go in. I'm so glad he didn't.

I took a picture of the sunset when I got home from work, about an hour or so after I heard the news. It was beautiful, but soft. Gentle.


We gathered as a family that night in Salem at my aunt and uncle's house. We cried together, held each other, discussed details of what we knew, talked about the last time Nigel had called home, and remembered Nigel. I remember that before we all left, we gathered in a big group hug. It felt like we didn't do much, but just being together, mourning together--that was the only comfort we could give. I've never felt closer to my family.

The next morning it had snowed. Some six inches of heavy white blanketed everything, and I was so grateful. Grateful for the muting of sounds and sights, grateful to have an excuse to burrow into blankets at home.


The funeral was held on the following Saturday, more than a week after we got the news. It took some time for Nigel's body to return home because of the damage done by the IED, but I was there at the Provo airport when he came home.

I remember being overwhelmed every day by the love so many people were showing to my aunt and uncle. The entire ward and community in Salem came out to support them. They were all there when they got home at 1 o'clock in the morning after going to Delaware to see Nigel's body return to the United States. They put up flags in front of my aunt and uncle's home, and the day of the funeral, they lined the church, the streets to the church, the streets from the church to the cemetery, and the entire cemetery with flags. There were literally hundreds, even thousands of flags.



I remember the Freedom Riders who guarded the church building during the viewing and the funeral from any protesters or media. They also gave special teddy bears to Nigel's nieces and nephews so they would have something to hold when they missed Nigel.

I remember singing at Nigel's funeral with a voice that was far more beautiful than my own.

I remember my aunt hugging the folded flag that had been laid over Nigel's casket after the Marines presented it to her.

I remember the way the snow started to fall when the graveside services were over, once again blanketing our grief with something beautiful.

I remember saying goodbye with my cousins at the graveside, all of us taking one last minute to gather around Nigel's casket, each putting a hand on the smooth wood. I realized that our group of eight cousins was only seven. We had grown up together, playing games, making up stories, running wild in the mountains of Wyoming, sledding every winter, sharing holidays, attending each other's baptisms and birthday parties. We were something between friends and siblings--we were cousins. And I knew that we would always miss Nigel.

There are so many more memories from that time. Nigel's family has stayed close the to the Marines from his company, and they've been able to learn from those young men who Nigel had become and what he was like as a Marine. I'm so proud of him for the way he lived with integrity and honor, no matter where he was. There have been so many honors and awards and ceremonies in the last year, but we would all give it all back in a heartbeat if we could. I can't believe it's been a year. We still miss him. We always will.

Love you, Nige.