That one time when I cried in our Primary class

Today is one year since we held the funeral for my dad. I wasn't going to take note of today, since we set aside last Monday to be sad (the anniversary of my dad's death), but while teaching our Primary class about the resurrection, I became unexpectedly emotional. My initial instinct was to cover up, hold it together, and push forward. But I decided instead to be honest and vulnerable with my little six-year-olds and hope that they responded well. They did, bless their hearts, and as a bonus, I only had one of them consequently share a "My grandma died" story.

I started crying while telling the class about Jesus' friends who took his body and prepared it for burial. It was as I explained to the kids that I was crying because this story is special to me and close to my heart that I realized what today was: A year since we buried my dad. A year since I helped dress his body in preparation. A year since I had reason to know, really and truly know, that death is not the end and I will see my dad again. All because of Christ's resurrection, the very story I was trying to tell them. 

When I made that split-second decision to be vulnerable with my CTR 5 class, I hadn't really understood why my emotions were suddenly at the surface but as I shared with them, it came clear to me. I'm not great at choosing vulnerability over staying at a comfortable distance, but I am so grateful I took that chance today and learned more about myself as a result. And I'm so grateful for the beautiful little souls sitting around me who listened and got very serious when I was crying (instead of joking, getting loud, or trying to distract). As hard as it is to keep them corralled for any amount of time, they really are such great kids. 

I wanted to do something to mark what this time of year means to me and my family, but I don't have any new words to describe it. So instead, I'm posting my talk that I gave at the funeral. It was such a small tribute to a person who influenced me and loved me so much, but I was and am very glad that I can share it.

One of the things I think of first when I think of my dad is his playfulness, especially while growing up. He knew how to play, how to be silly, how to gently tease. Whether it was calling each other silly names like “cheese head” and “green dirt nose” (I was six), chasing him down as he tried to leave for work shouting “Wait, you forgot something – me!”, or having an indoor water fight that my dad initiated, I always knew that I could be playful with him. My cousin Anna remembers a time he was watching all the cousins while the rest of the aunts and uncles were out; when they started to return, he had all the kids lie down and pretend to be asleep and “trick” the rest of the parents. His sense of humor was sometimes subtle, but it was there, and it carried him and us through many times, both good and bad.

Another thing I learned from my dad was the joy of giving and receiving meaningful gifts. He loved to make his kids happy through giving small, thoughtful gifts. Sometimes they came in the form of grocery money (or groceries themselves); sometimes it was a memento of a special time together; often it was unexpected, making the gift even sweeter. A few days before I got married, my dad took me on a daddy-daughter date to get me away from all the stress and planning. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been his first choice to listen to the Young Ambassadors perform at an outdoor concert, but he knew I’d enjoy it and so that’s what we did. It was the perfect escape from that crazy week and an incredible gift to his busy daughter. When my cousin Chrissy got married last year, my mom and Rachel and I bought something off of her registry for the bridal shower (I think we got towels or bath mats?). My dad, however, sent us to the shower with two original works of art that had hung in our home for many years and that were created by Chrissy’s mom, my Aunt Robin. He was always thoughtful, always mindful, always generous in his giving.

One of the most lasting lessons from my dad that I carry with me, often unconsciously, is to be open to what might seem unusual, offbeat, or out of the ordinary. We grew up eating hot dogs and hamburgers, but we also ate tofu and couscous. I learned to play Mozart, Beethoven, and Chopin on the piano, but I also learned to play Three Gymnopedies by French composer Erik Satie. My parents went to Europe and visited the famous Christmas shops. They bought home a beautiful glass ornament, not in the shape of a star or angel or tin soldier, but an operatically large mermaid. More than that, my dad encouraged us to seek out and recognize all that is good in other cultures, beliefs, and traditions. Two small examples: for several years we went to the Cathedral of the Madeline in Salt Lake for their annual Christmas concert; my dad studied both the King James Version of the Bible as well as the New International Version. And it wasn’t just being open to these different things and ideas; it was finding beauty and humor, and truly valuing what they had to offer. I love this lesson, and I love that it has (hopefully) made me a more open, understanding person.

I have learned so much from my dad about appreciating art, listening to all kinds of music, and loving the craft of words, but the last thing I want to share is that I have learned from my father’s example that it is okay to struggle, to question, to not have all the answers. There was a time when my dad really fought to understand the whys and why nots of his diagnosis. He did not accept pre-packaged answers and he searched deeply for understanding and peace. Knowing that he was in that place was a little scary and unsettling to me especially while I was not ready to face my own fears and doubts. I struggled with the fact that I was struggling. It scared me, so I tried to ignore it. I had never before questioned God’s plan for me or my family, never before doubted that He heard and answered our prayers, until cancer was introduced into our story and wouldn’t go away in spite of blessings and prayers and fasting. When I was ready to face my struggles, it helped me to know that my dad was ahead of me on that journey and that he had found a path to peace. I have since made progress on my own path to finding peace and love and understanding. Over the last seven years, I have learned that doubt is not our enemy when it pushes faith to be stronger, and I honor the periods of doubting, faltering, and questioning that brought my dad peace and that have brought me peace.

I sang in choirs for many years and I have found so many songs in the last week that have brought me comfort. This is one of those songs:

And let this feeble body fail and let it faint or die,

My soul shall quit this mournful vale and soar to worlds on high.

O what are all my sufferings here if Lord, thou count me meet

With that enraptured host to appear and worship at thy feet?

Give joy or grief, give ease or pain, take life or friends away

But let me find them all again in that eternal day.

And I’ll sing hallelujah and you’ll sing hallelujah

And we’ll all sing hallelujah when we arrive at home.

There is no doubt in my mind that I will sing Hallelujah with my dad and that we will all sing it together one day. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Missing my dad

I have tennis elbow in my right arm. After six weeks of fairly consistent hurting, I finally went to a doctor to see what he thought and yup, tennis elbow. It doesn't hurt all the time, but the ache is always there. It gets painful when I fully extend or twist my arm and when I pick things up with that hand using mostly my forearm. It often catches me off-guard when I grasp a pillow and try to lift it, and find myself struggling to complete the task. It's frustrating, but there's not a whole lot to do about it except let it heal.

Next week marks ten months since my dad passed away, and tennis elbow feels like just the right metaphor for what my grief is like right now. It doesn't hurt all the time, but the ache is always there. It gets painful when I let my emotions fully extend or twist my memories and when something reminds me of my dad. The pain often catches me off-guard when I suddenly, achingly remember with my whole heart that he's gone, and then I find myself struggling to stop the tears all over again. Sometimes it's random; other times, predictable. And there's not a whole lot to do about it except be sad and let it heal a little at a time.

It's easy to bury the sad under layers of practicality - nap schedules, feeding times, packing a diaper bag, making a shopping list, budgeting money, finding time to work, sleepless nights, exhausted days, and doing it all over again, and again, and again. But under it all, I miss my dad pretty terribly.

This weekend we celebrated (commemorated? marked? recognized?) what would have been my parents' 29th anniversary and my dad's 55th birthday. I felt the weight of these dates all week long, on top of all the regular stress of everything. It's been a rough week, to say the least, and frankly, I am not ready to start another week yet. Grief is exhausting, even in a months-later, diluted-over-time form. As I think about the next few months, I anticipate more of these heavy weeks as we approach some weighty milestones and hard holidays. I keep thinking back to where we were a year ago, so blissfully unaware of what was just about to come. I am so very aware of life's fragility right now, which I believe can be a good thing if it prods us to be more open to the present, but currently I'm just terrified of all the "what ifs" of the future based on the heartache of the past. 

I'm starting to ramble, but I needed to say that losing someone hurts, even ten months later. Because it's not just ten months of moving forward; it's also ten months of moments that you would have spent together, the conversations over dinner, the laughter, the tears, the reassurance, the encouragement, the love. And this weekend, it was the anniversary and the birthday celebrated without my dad. It's hard and exhausting, and sometimes overwhelmingly sad. And then it all becomes part of the normal again, and you keep going, until something reminds you that you are aching inside.

I miss you, Dad. So much. 

This is where we are

I made only one real "resolution" for the new year (I use the term loosely) and that was to write more, so catching up on the blog seems like a good place to start. I feel like my life has been all chaos for weeks now (and while it may all have been internal chaos, it's hard not to let that spill out sometimes) so let's get our bearings, shall we? Hint: Skim to the bolded parts and down to the photos, which are mostly of Georgie, if you're in a hurry.

In case you missed it, we moved from my parents' house in Draper to a lovely little apartment in south Provo at the beginning of November. While moving was a pain and the process of finding/applying/planning to move was a hassle, we had a ton of help and we love our little place. It's just right for us - 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and just five minutes from Novell so Tim doesn't have a long commute (booyah!). (Oh yeah, and Tim is still working for Novell's eLearning training department.) We really like our ward and we just starting teaching one of the classes of 5-year-olds in Primary. There's a lot of grass and a little playground at our complex so once winter's gone, we will be outside a lot. I keep waiting for the whole apartment to be clean enough to post pictures, but that may never happen. So pictures to come. Promise.

I didn't do a good job of announcing this but we are having another girl, due March 14th, which is in 8 weeks if anyone's counting (!!!). We are not really ready for another baby emotionally or mentally, but my nesting instinct kicked in high gear last weekend so I at least have a list of what needs to be done around the house to get ready. I feel like this little girl's got a strong personality already and we're 99.9% sure her name is going to be Rosalind - we already call her Rosie, so hopefully that sticks once she's here! Still thinking about middle names if you have any suggestions. We're really hoping she comes a little early so that the midwife who delivered Georgie can be there before going out of town for 3 weeks, and so that it will coincide with UVU's spring break and Tim can miss a minimal number of classes this semester. 

Speaking of school, Tim's still plugging along at UVU with one or two classes per semester. He totally rocked his advanced writing class and computer-something class last semester with two A's! And all on his own - I proofread his papers and offered moral support but he made it through that English class like a pro. We dream of the day when he will be done but that's still quite a ways off.

I'm still working for Northridge Publishing but I'm down to just 15 hours per week, mostly so we can qualify for Medicaid and partially because I just can't find more time in the week with Georgie being so, you know, energetic and active. Work is work; some days I love it, other days I wonder if I'm crazy to keep at it. I've been trying to get caught up and ahead so I can actually take a little time off once I have this baby. I'm planning on continuing to work after baby girl #2 comes along, so let's all start hoping now that I find a way to make that happen!

Speaking of Georgie, she could be her own post, so just the highlights: she's 15 months old, 30 inches tall, and almost up to 20 lbs. The last two months have brought tons of language development and it's SO FUN to actually communicate with her! She has about a dozen words she says and her own version of five signs. She's silly and crazy and loves to climb on and into everything. Her favorite toys are her books, bubbles, and anything she can dump out. She won't let me put anything on her head or in her hair (unless she doesn't notice when I clip a bow in) but she will wear all of her headbands as necklaces at the same time. She has super erratic eating preferences so some days, all she does is ask for food and on others, I am lucky to sneak in a few bites here and there. All her good sleeping habits went away when we moved and with the holidays and bouts of illnesses in the last few weeks, haven't returned, but she sometimes sleeps through the night and she generally takes at least one nap a day. I really really really miss that second nap. She basically adorable and hilarious and absolutely maddening about once a week.

Other than that, we're...well, we're okay. Some days are fine, some days are rough. It's been two months since my dad passed away and while "normal" has gotten more normal, we still have a lot of grieving and processing to do. Having a 15-month-old who needs to be fed, put to sleep, played with, and generally paid attention to all the time makes it hard to find time or space for mourning; getting ready for another baby makes it even harder. We'll get through it eventually but it's just going to take a lot of time.

And that's where we are right now. 

 

"Yet in the dark streets shineth the everlasting light"

Christmas has been a bit subdued for us this year, as you can imagine. I started out strong, wanting to celebrate fully in spite of everything, but it got to be too much - too much work, too much emotional energy, too much brain power (I am seriously limited lately). We did finally get a tree and we did finally put up a few decorations and I've about worn out Pandora's Christmas station, but overall, very subdued. I will post some happy pictures and stuff later, but right now I need to write out some things. 

I've been thinking a lot about the meaning behind Christmas; not in a "the true meaning of Christmas" cliched way, but in the sometimes hard meaning behind Christmas. 

It's very hard to think about celebrating Christmas without my dad. He and my mom were partners in everything that Christmas morning is/was. Traditionally, once we were all awake, the kids would gather at the bottom of the stairs and sing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" at the top of our lungs until Mom came to bring us upstairs. Then we'd be forced to wait while Dad stalled. Sometimes he'd take a shower but usually he made us drink a cup of juice each; one year he used the juicer to make fresh orange juice while we impatiently howled from my parents' room. He was the one with the camera, the one to turn on the Christmas tree lights and the Peggy Lee Christmas CD so that when we marched out to the front room (youngest to oldest), the magical moment was there. It really really hurts to picture all of that without him.

But Christmas is about Christ's birth, and because of his birth, he was able to fulfill his mission, conquer death, and promise hope and life forever. Because he was born, I will see my dad again. Because he came to earth, my family can be together forever, and that is worth celebrating - that is the hope that we hold dear, at this time especially. When I was in England on my Study Abroad, I remember Karla (our program director's wife) describing it as a "terrible hope" as she told us about losing a child. At the time, I turned that phrase over and over to try to understand it. Now I do. Now I see how it is at times a desperate hope; a hope that on bad days, you cling to reflexively; a hope that only becomes so strong and powerful when you have a terrible reason to need it. 

The phrase from Luke 2:10 has rung in my head over and over as I've thought about the hope that Christmas represents: "good tidings of great joy." But oddly, I've also thought a lot about and taken comfort from the not so joyful aspects of Christ's life.

We don't focus on it much, but within two years of that miraculous birth in a stable in Bethlehem, other babies were killed senselessly at the hands of Herod's soldiers. Maybe it was only a dozen or two; maybe it was a hundred or more. No matter how many or few, because of that birth, Bethlehem's mothers lost their baby and toddler boys and had their hearts broken suddenly and without mercy. In a way, they were the first to suffer because of their association with Christ during his lifetime. But even still, "good tidings of great joy" - because of Christ's birth in that tiny town, those mothers could have their hearts healed and be with their sons again.

Though Christ taught and exemplified peace and love and forgiveness, his life was anything but. Once he began his ministry especially, he was often the subject of contention. He was misunderstood, condemned, reviled, hunted, and in the end, killed in violence. And yet, "good tidings of great joy," for that end brought an end to all ends.

My scripture reading coincidentally has placed me at the beginning of 3 Nephi in the last week, so as we've built up to Christmas, I've been getting closer to the coming of Christ to the Nephites. I've been very aware of the timeline during this reading - each year brings the people a little closer to the destruction, the darkness. Even the righteous who do not lose their lives will know the terror of destruction, will lose friends and family, and will not be able to create any light for three days. They will suffer, too, but "good tidings of great joy" await them. Their Savior will visit them personally, will heal every kind of affliction, will pray for them and bless them.

In her talk at my dad's funeral, my mom shared that my dad's view of suffering was that we are mortal, so we suffer. We live in a fallen world, so we suffer. We are friends of Christ, so we suffer. This phrase stayed with me and strangely, perhaps, brings me comfort. Sometimes it feels like it should be the opposite, that as friends of Christ we should be blessed with an easy path, but no. Even Christ's disciples will have to know pain and walk in darkness. And yet - "Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people."

Being pregnant this year, I expected to feel a connection to Mary but it is Christ to whom I have turned again and again. We are friends of Christ, so we suffer, but because of Christ, we hope. That is the meaning of Christmas to me this year. That is what I am celebrating. 

Yet in the dark streets shineth the everlasting light.
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Life, death, grief, gratitude, thanks

I had two written blog posts waiting to be finalized - one about how we're having another girl (!!!) and the other about how crazy life has been and all the ups and downs and how we finally moved back down to Provo and how nice it is to have life settled again. 

Then life - and death - really happened.

A week ago Friday, we found out my dad's cancer had spread to his liver and lungs. On Saturday we made plans for his care for the next few weeks/months and talked about Christmas. On Sunday morning, my mom called to say we needed to come say goodbye. Tim and I waited for Georgie to wake up and gathered what we'd need to stay the night. We made it to the house by 9:30 am; my dad was gone before 1:30 pm that same day.

I am still reeling from the shock of it all, still discovering what I am feeling. The sadness comes in waves, and the sting of reality hits me at odd times. Still processing. And will be for a while, I'd guess.

For most of last week, while we planned and wrote and cried, I felt so much gratitude. Gratitude for my family, for all the support and love we were receiving, for my dad, for almost seven years beyond his diagnosis, for the gospel, for temples. Gratitude that my dad didn't suffer for long, that he didn't struggle at the end, that we got to be with him, that Tim was prompted to come into the room at just the right moment to be there with me and the rest of the family for those final moments, that my dad is free of pain and impediment and frustration and disease. I was given so much peace, and still am, but the grief is finding a stronger place with me now, too. I expect this week will be harder than the last one, in some ways.

So thank you for your continued thoughts and prayers and kind words. Thank you for your love, for me and my family. Thank you for your support. I can feel it, and I have felt it over the last week. It means so much to me.