Hands

Today while driving Claire to dance class, I found myself unexpectedly choked up in tears.

She was holding my hand, and then started to feel my bones and look at my fingernails. She was pushing the skin together (“I’m making your skin have wrinkles, Mom.”). 

I found myself thinking—and I told her about—how I used to play with my dad’s hands when I was a little girl. The veins in his hands would sometimes get big—like mine sometimes do—and I loved to sit by him and push them around, play with them. 

At the same time, Claire and I were listening to a song in the car by Lori McKenna that I love titled “You Won’t Even Know I’m Gone,” and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. It’s a song about a mother who’s preparing so that when she’s away, her children won’t notice her absence.

“I pray that every prayer I pray will reach you, every wish I make will keep you safe and warm.

And may God forgive the things I do that put one mile between me and you—

To thine own self be true, to thine own self be true.”

That is a prayer I hold for my children, and it’s probably dad’s prayer as he cheers us on from where he is.

And it is in these little things that I find him—the smell of pie baking in my kitchen, the feel of dirt on my fingers as I plant geraniums, a particular hymn, the way I rock a baby, a favorite carol, a late night grocery store run. He is with me when I rake leaves and make apple butter in the fall, as I listen to conference, when I carefully place years of tradition on my Christmas tree. I could go on and on.

Dad, I do feel your absence.

But you are also here every day and I love your hands and the ways they were used—your talents, your hugs, your time, your service—to bring so much love and goodness to my life and the lives of others.

You are in us and through us and a part of us.

October 4th

Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but cancer doesn’t ask your permission. 

Today marks 5 years since my sweet dad passed away. I miss him; I’ll always miss him. So many of the things I love were instilled in me by this man. Thank you, Dad, for pointing me toward good things, blessing me with your love and gifts, and making my life so much more beautiful, so much the fuller and richer. 

After dropping my kids off at school this morning, I drove to the cemetery by myself and sat in front of the dark granite stone that marks your grave on this overcast, cool, rainy day. I listened to your arrangement of “Abide with Me” on the way. That hymn is inseparably connected to you in my mind, and its message comforted me again: “Change and decay in all around I see; O, Thou who changest not, abide with me.” 

The knowledge of loving heavenly Parents, an atonement, and a greater plan sustained me through losing you, and the difficult, unexpected turnings of events in my personal life in the months that followed. 

I love you, Dad, and I’m thinking about you today. 

Dreaming

On Saturday morning, I woke from a dream.

I had been working as a field hand picking cherries.

From inside a building there, I heard someone playing my dad's arrangement of

"God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again," and went inside to hear

it. It's one of his arrangements that isn't recorded.

I think it was my mother playing and she was piecing some things

together, kind of a variation of the hymn and then playing a verse of dad's that we had.

My sister Susan was standing there, too.

As Mom started to play it again, I was washed in emotion as I thought about my dad

and felt that deep pang of missing.

Susan came and stood by me, we hugged each other,

and in a moment, we were both sobbing.

And I woke up.

Kind of funny, because I spent Friday night cleaning my house.

It was driving me crazy.

Folded all the laundry.

Vacuumed the entire house.

Scrubbed bathrooms.

Dusted.

Mopped all the floors.

Soaped out my kitchen sink.

And as I stood there at the sink in the late-night quiet, I was thinking about him.

Sometimes I think about my grandparents, and how it wasn't that long ago that they were in the busy stage of life that I'm in.

They were raising kids and pursuing careers.

They were chatting with neighbors and laughing in kitchens.

They were involved and vibrant in their communities.

And now?

All but one of them has gone on--in almost just a moment, really.

Reminds me of another dream I had years ago that left an impression on me. I had just died, and my spirit literally went up through the ceiling of the room where my body was laying. And as I went through the ceiling, I went into a room of people and immediately found my father and aunt. They were laughing and happy and talking.

It was just as real there as life here and I was struck by how familiar it felt, as though nothing had changed.

But I remember feeling distressed because I was thinking of my little sister, still here. I knew she was crying because I'd died and I wanted to comfort her.

The older I get, the more I realize that our time here is short,

what we do here matters, and we will go on sooner than we think.

And I realize that the things my ancestors gave me--

their strength, their convictions, their examples, and their love--

are just as active through the veil that separates us as they were when they were here in the flesh.

I can feel those things, even though I can't see them, 

and it's strong--

especially from my father.

Someday I will see him again, and I'll run.

And when I get to him, I'll hug him and hold on.

And I'll thank him for hovering over my life.

Pinecone Hearts

This morning was...

Braiding one daughter's hair into a crown braid

Throwing the other daughter's hair up in a top-knot bun

Making muffins because Claire wanted some

Watering the garden

Switching the laundry

Pulling out chicken for the crock pot

Running kids to play with cousins

Grabbing a few things at Costco

And now I'm finally plugging in to work for the afternoon.

Will stop at some point and throw chicken in the crockpot and wrap potatoes to throw in the oven. 

Gonna make gravy later, shred the chicken, make salad.

(Doing the home thing is my very favorite. It really is. I mourn the time when I was able to just be a mom full-time without having to work, too.

These simple tasks of tending, reading, talking, feeding, cleaning, and caring for my people are my very favorite things to do.

That being said, I feel so fortunate to work from home with a good job. 

And to work for good folks.

So lucky, and so grateful.)

On Sunday evening, we went to a couple of cemeteries, 

taking red geraniums to a few of our people.

We stopped at dad's grave first, and then at Huldah's, 

an ancestor of ours that crossed the plains.

As we made our way back across the cemetery, Isaiah wanted to make a pinecone heart like we'd seen by someone else's grave. 

So, as the sun's rays were stretching across the valley, we gathered pinecones and went back to dad's grave.

We arranged the pinecones into place there, and then gathered another bagful to take with us to my grandparents' grave at another cemetery up on the east side of Provo.

Isaiah arranged pinecones while Benji was shooting a gun (his hand). 

We sat in the grass at their grave and I told them about Vera's laugh and the way she shushes with her mouth at the end of it, and how I can still hear, right now, my grandfather chewing his tuna sandwich.

Random, right?

But I love these snippets of life we shared.

And as I look at us, it's beautiful and humbling to realize that we are the harvest of what came before -- and we wouldn't be without them.

Today, we hold them in---and love them with---

all of our pinecone hearts.

Sharing a Joke

See this son of mine?

He and I shared a moment recently that I just love.

Rewind to a week and a half ago when I went to my friend's farm to shovel chicken manure into buckets. 

The flies were plentiful. 

The smell was pungent.

The horses and goats gathered round.

Alisa was kind enough to load those 4 buckets of manure into the farm truck and bring them back to my house.

So, there I was, and Isaiah came home right about this point.

He walked out to the garden with me where I grabbed a garden rake and shed my shoes.

Then I proceeded to dump the buckets across the garden. Most of it was either dry or like a dry mud consistency, but there was one wet bucket. Isaiah stood there watching me, and when I dumped that one, a big wet clump came out at the end. Splat.

It stunk.

So there we were, and I'm raking, trying to spread a few places out. I'm also noticing the flies that showed up immediately once the poop was on the dirt. 

And as I'm standing there with Isaiah watching me (and he was kind of grossed out at the smell), for some reason my dad came to mind. He was a farm boy and spent much of his childhood gathering eggs from the chickens (trying to avoid the bull snakes -- my dad hates! snakes), milking cows, tending gardens, hauling hay. All that stuff.

 (My boys planting tomatoes with my dad in his garden 8 years ago.)

Standing there, I could just imagine my dad walking in the back gate at that moment and coming over to see what was going on. I could see him standing there at the edge of the garden, taking in my bare feet, the manure, Isaiah's somewhat grossed out expression. And then I could see amusement on his face and I heard these words in my mind, in a voice that he used to use when he was being goofy:

"There's nothing quite like fresh chicken shit, Liz!"

I thought it so much that I looked over at Isaiah, referenced my dad, and then said it, exactly in that voice, commenting on how amused my dad would be.

And WE LAUGHED out loud.

I can still see Isaiah's face as it dropped in laughter.

He agreed that it was something Poppi would totally say.

(Isaiah and Poppi planting geraniums.)

Dad may as well have been standing there sharing the joke.
He is still with us, and that moment warmed my heart.

(P.S. I've gone by Elizabeth for years, and it's what I prefer. But my dad called me Liz, and this is EXACTLY how my dad would have said this and it's endearing. And makes me laugh.)

I love him so

 After two truly craptastic mothering days (they should fire me!) and some other current stress, I was grateful for the gift of today.

I awoke and texted my sisters, wishing our dad a happy 70th birthday.

I mixed yogurt with chopped fruit and berries and raw oats and nuts as light came in the kitchen windows. That was happy. (And yummy.)

And you know what?

Today, the sun shone. 

Even though it was cold, the sky was blue! (Blessing!)

I took valentine decorations off my mantle and put spring up in its place while listening to the Weepies and Claire requested a Tim McGraw song she loves.

(And yeah, if you're in Utah, I know what you're thinking: there's snow outside. But maybe forsythia and boxwood will encourage the outside world to follow suit.)

Late in the afternoon, the girls and I drove to dad's grave to put some flowers there.

When we got back, they headed out with their dad for a while and I went out on a run as light was slipping from the valley. It was dark by the time I got home.

I mixed cake, lit candles on the mantle, and sat down to do some work.

The kids came home, and while we waited for the cake to come out and then cool off, Claire and I sat on the couch singing "The Wheels on the Bus," and then I whistled various tunes and she'd guess the songs.

We put 4 candles in dad's cake (cuz...70!), sang Happy Birthday, dished it up with ice cream, and read together.

And as I go to sleep tonight, I'll talk with God about how grateful I am for a gentler day: for those bright yellow rays that brought hope and joy, for my children, for the opportunity to learn and try again and apologize, the chance to be humbled and see my faults, and for being able to run and move my body. I'll express gratitude for a warm house and food to eat.

But also, I'll thank God for the blessing of a kind and wise father and friend. 

I love him so.

Happy 69, Dad

I've been at my dad's grave a lot this past week. 

We gathered as a family on Saturday, stood around his grave, held hands, and talked about things we loved about him.

I went back on Sunday with the kids before dinner and we just walked.

Then, I went back on Tuesday, the first of March, because it was his birthday.

I took fresh flowers and put them in a mason jar and tied some twine around it.

This little verse was given to me after my dad died.  I was moved by it, mostly because of how it beautifully articulates the influence of one person.  Their death affects you in deep and lovely ways because of the richness of what was shared in life, all the love that was there, and their footprint remains in everything you do.

It simply says this:

"Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color."

(W. S. Merwin)

And you know what?

I've put spring on my mantle.  

And I had to put the little organ up there, because it makes me think of him 

(March being his birthday month and all).

xoxo

Thresholds

 (my grandparents, when they came to the hospital and met the boys for the first time)

It's funny...I wrote that post about my grandpa last night.

Today, I got a text from my aunt saying that he's unresponsive.

It appears his time to go is just around the corner.

This afternoon, the girls and I were driving home from my gal's dance class.

I had a quiet song of Shawn Colvin's playing on repeat in the car.

The sky was overcast, the windows were down, and I found myself feeling rather wistful, maybe even a little sad.

My grandpa's 91st birthday is next week, and the date of my father's death, his son, is this weekend.

Seems kind of funny that all of this is brushing so close to each other.

Two years ago tonight, I was sitting in the front room in the dark, talking on the phone with a dear friend of mine---incidentally, a cancer surgeon.  

I was updating him on my dad's condition and, as I recall, shed some tears as I talked with him about my tender feelings for my dad.

While I was talking, my son came up and sat down in the chair with me and fell asleep.

When I look at these photographs of that night, two years ago today, I remember the emotion that was wrapped up in that whole experience.

It was exhausting.

As you approach the inevitable threshold, everything inside of you wants to hold on to every available second.

But, at the same time, when you watch somebody that you love suffer like that, you also find yourself praying for their release.

You want their pain to be over. 

You want them to be able to fly.

You want them to be strong and capable.

You want them to laugh again.

Sometimes I can't figure out how it happened that I got to be in my thirties.

And somewhere along the way, I had four children.

I know I was here for all of it, but this ride keeps getting faster and faster.

(Our family, 12 days before my dad's death, just following his last recital)

I suppose as you approach goodbyes with people that you love, one of the beautiful things you also feel is a huge weighing of all the ways they influenced you---the gifts they gave you, what they taught you, how they loved you, and how their love has become a literal force in your life.  Years later, you still turn around and see them in how you do things, how you think about things, traditions you continue, jokes you shared, expressions native to them, things that you appreciate.  Their fingerprints are still everywhere.  You still hear their voice in your mind and heart.

And another thing?  It's a beautiful process because it has opened my eyes to appreciating time in a new way---all the small moments, people to share them with, the simple patterns and traditions that shape my family and my life, because there's an awareness that these things won't always be.  

What is left in my heart will stay, but the incidental experiences are enjoyed, and then gone.

When I think about these things, it's really hard for me to not get an overwhelming sense of how precious the experience is, how quickly it all goes, and gratitude.

Lots of gratitude.

In My Dreams

 (Dad with Mia---two weeks, to the day, before he passed away)

Life is a fragile, tender thing---

life coming into the world, 

life going out of the world,

and trying to navigate the time in between.

Tonight, for whatever reason, as I was standing at the kitchen counter making dinner, I found myself thinking of a tender scene in the movie Stepmom.  

The mother, who has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, is snuggling with her son on Christmas morning, having just given him a cape with so many memories sewn on it---pictures and experiences that they've shared together.  This is all the more tender because you know it is their last Christmas before she'll be gone.

At one point, I think they start to talk about how they are going to miss each other.

And it gets really tugging when he asks something to the effect of, "But Mom, what will I do when you're not here and I need to talk to you?"

And, as you know from earlier in the movie, they share a little phrase with each other where they talk about meeting in their dreams.

And so, she responds by saying something like, "Well, we always have our dreams.  We can always meet each other there."

He says, "But that isn't good enough."

They agree on this.

And then, if I remember right, she tells him (or maybe it's in the later tender discussion she has with her daughter) that she'll always be in his heart.

I stood there at the counter, making dinner, thinking about that phrase---"in my dreams."

After my father died, and for several months, I had some very personal, more-than-dream exchanges in my dreams with my dad.

I knew he was being allowed to communicate with me in very direct and meaningful ways.

I will treasure those experiences always.

Lately, he has been frequenting my dreams a lot---but in a normal, comforting way, not with any message to convey or something of a serious nature, but almost like how we interacted when he was here, in the flesh.

I awoke from a dream a few weeks back that made me feel warm inside because it was so familiar.  In the dream, I had a zucchini and collard greens and I was so excited about hanging out with him to do something with them.  I remember telling him, excitedly, that we should slice the zucchini up and fry it, and that we needed to come up with something to do with those collards. 

(Insert: thumbs up emoji)

Why was it so warm?  

Because that's precisely the kind of conversation he and I would have.  We both loved food.  We would look at beautiful pictures of food, we would exchange recipes, we would call each other when something was amazingly delicious.  Sometimes we'd make a run to the other's house, just to taste what was going down in the kitchen.  That exchange while I was sleeping could just as easily have happened yesterday.

And yeah, I wish I could have that conversation, for real.

But having it in my dreams is pretty great in the meantime.

A week or so ago, I woke up and remembered that I'd been talking to him about something that has made me really sad lately, a friendship of mine.  

And that seemed natural, too, because if he were here, he would have heard all about it.

I was telling him the details and talking it through.  

He didn't say anything; he was just listening, the way that he always did.

I ended up telling my kids about it at the dinner table, and couldn't help myself---I cried as I talked about these things.

Life is a precious thing, and tender.

As time goes on, I feel more and more aware of the strength of the footings I was given.

I feel more and more grateful for what I believe, for what I know, for what the Holy Ghost whispers in my heart (and for how I know that the things that really matter, all the precious things that are engraved there, never leave you).

(Dad with Claire, 12 days before he was gone)

I know this:

Love is real.

Relationships are lasting.

God gives us gifts, and lately I've been really grateful for the gifts that have come...in my dreams.

I love you, Dad.

Late Night Note

I'm making my way through the last season of Parenthood.

Man...I love that show. I've laughed and I've cried throughout the whole series.

Love it enough that I bought the whole entire thing.

I watched a couple episodes last night, one of them being the episode where Zeek has open heart surgery.  Something about it triggered a memory about my dad when he was sick, one I hadn't thought about for a while.  

After midnight, I decided I was going to hit the hay.

I came upstairs to do a few things I always do before turning in.  

I walked through my house in the quiet and then went downstairs, pulled out the leather bound book by my bed, and wrote a few lines to my dad:

Was watching something tonight that took me back to the night you came home from Cape Cod and a friend brought you home and I was waiting at the house for you.  I came out to the car and you were waiting for me, leaning on the passenger door.  I put your arm around my shoulder and we slowly made our way up the back walk, the backyard lit from the little yellow light on the west side of the garage. It's crazy, Dad...it all happened so fast and I couldn't believe we were on that speeding train.  Made me remember how tender and difficult and unbelievable all of that was.  

I went outside tonight to turn out deck lights and twinkle lights in the yard on the garden shed.  When I came in and walked through the house, making sure doors and windows were locked, I looked around at the things in my entryway and front room -- the pictures on the walls, the china hutch, the things -- and so much of it -- almost all of it has sentimental value, ties me to my parents and grandparents.  You are all here, in my front room, in my heart, in my life.  I feel so aware that so much of me is you, that the love you all gave to me is my strength today.  I carry all of you with me.  I've got pictures of both sets of grandparents and the print Ellen did of the house, stuff you brought back from various travels, a brass pitcher of Grandma Vera's, a gift from Sarah, the china hutch, filled with Grandma's china and candles, the clock that was in the living room all growing up, the painting I chose from Dan Moss, years ago, the picture of my hands clasped with Mom and Grandma Vera's that symbolizes my motherhood to me.  It's all very humbling and beautiful to realize how many lives make up your life.  I remember that our family home was full of photographs of family long gone, but not gone.  I feel so aware of that now.  They're not gone.  They're still as much a part of you as they were when they were physically here.  I'm so grateful for that.  So very grateful.  

I love you, Dad. 

xoxo

Berries and Cream

 As a little girl, I would sit on the counter and watch my dad when he made pies.

I remember the swishing of the knives (back in the day before the pastry cutter), blending the shortening into the flour 'til it was just right.

I remember stealing the scraps and tasting the just-barely-salty lardy flavor in my mouth.

And man...that crust is to die for.

I had friends over for dinner recently and knew, a couple weeks before, that I was going to make berry pie.

And it was one of those things that I thought about
for all those two weeks leading up to it.

Mmmm.

They came on a Saturday evening, and the night before, in the quiet, I mixed sugar and tapioca and berries.

I made pie crust, all the while listening to an interview that my father did in 2010.

I heard him laughing, talking, telling stories.

The kitchen was quiet, just me and him and this familiar thing since childhood.

It was perfect.

And really, all I have to say today is that there are few things as delish or as comforting to body and soul as a slice of berry pie with cream.

Amen.

And amen.

Crackly China

Yesterday I went to go and pick up this old beauty.  

It has been in storage for several months because I didn't have a place to put it.  

It's an iconic piece from my childhood home.

I love everything about it.  

The rich dark color.

The small little windows on the front.

The drawers that always had candles and salt and pepper shakers and coasters from Switzerland tucked inside.  The warm, distinct smell it has.

The way it was filled with crystal and china that we pulled out for fancy dinners.

Last night, about midnight, this is what my kitchen looked like.

I was awake, unwrapping piece after piece of my grandmother's china (and some other iconic crystal pieces from my childhood).  

My favorite pieces are the ones that are like this, where the china appears crackly.

I lit candles on my mantle and had Christmas carols on as I worked.

It felt almost like a Christmas morning.

The hutch and the china take me to happy places in my memory: that china on top of a blood red tablecloth, and laden with all kinds of yummy.  

Holiday dinners and Christmas Eve morning breakfasts as we listened to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, live from Cambridge, England.

Dad used his mother's set every time he prepared a fancy feast, and I can look at it and remember how he always talked with great affection when he spoke about his mom.

I look at it and I can hear beautiful music in the background, and smell any number of delicious things cooking: turkey, Dad's pork tenderloin with mushroom sauce, pies, bread, mashed potatoes, bread puddings.  You name it.

It reminds me of the holidays -- candles burning, Christmas trees lit up, a warm fire bringing cheer and warmth on a snowy night.

I see the little cut glass crystal bowls (pictured above) and immediately think of tapioca pudding.

I remember pulling out the dining room table and adding extra leaves to make room for guests, how we had to stand at opposite ends of the table and pull.

I think of us around that table -- plates laden with mouth-watering food, and all the hours of talk.

My family loves to get together and talk.

I hear us laughing or getting a scientific explanation from Martin or playing cards.

It makes me sad, but in a happy sort of way I guess.

I came upstairs and opened the curtains this morning and looked at the china through the glass, tucked away.

I looked around at my newly arranged front room (since the table was moved out).

I see fall on my mantle, but I've been planning all week for Monday---when Christmas will replace it.

I've got a wreath to make and decorations to haul down from the attic.

We'll go and buy our Christmas tree.

I'll have carols on again, long into the quiet hours at night, warm lights twinkling in the background.

I'll pull out more of my family's history with decorations that are as much a part of my childhood as that hutch.

But.

Last night?

Those cream pieces took me to people I love, to a warmth that will never leave this heart,

to love and happiness and joy that will sustain me all my days.

(Next week I'll be blogging about a fall activity to do with your kids and holiday recipes. 

And, of course, about Christmas decorating -- which should actually be expressed like this: !!!! 

my heart.)