Achy Heart

Ralph died last week and was buried next to his bride.

Every day, I look at his house across the street.

It is the same, and it will never be the same.

(Ralph reading Stegner to me, in the car)

Ralph's son, Ron, read a little verse by Edna St. Vincent Millay, one of Ralph's favorite poets, at the service. 

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you."

Grieving and Gratitude

Sometimes you want to write about something for a long time, but every time you try words fail you. 

Such has been the case for me over the last while when I've tried to come up with the right words to talk about my friendship with my neighbor, Ralph.

We’re 50 years apart, he and I, and the dearest of friends.

He is dying of bone cancer, and I’ve been swimming in tears this last week.

Tears of sorrow, yes, but also tears of gratitude, for they reflect the richness of the friendship that exists between us.

As I said to him earlier this week: 

How does one adequately express appreciation for a friendship that has meant so much? 

You can’t; all you can do is take a stab at it.

This man has been a beloved grandpa to my kids and like another father to me. We have laughed hard together, cried together, sworn together, shared calories together, gone to church together, talked about life and death and love and gardening and faith and poetry and books and ideas and our families. We've had a lot of good times.

He has taught me so much by his example.

He has encouraged, listened, blessed, understood, taught, cared, taken the time for, loved, and served me and my kids again and again and again in the most kind and thoughtful ways. 

I appreciate him more than I can say and I will dearly miss him.

How do you tell somebody what a difference they’ve made in your life?

Once in a while God blesses you with a friendship that forever changes you. 

Dear Ralph, I love you so.

Living With Hope

A year ago, I said goodbye to my Dad.

I said goodbye to being able to physically interact with him.

I said goodbye to conversations and laughs, 

traditions, working together, late night phone calls just because.

When I look at these photos, I remember climbing into bed beside him.

And I remember always being able to go to him as a little girl when I was afraid in the night.  He would let me snuggle up next to him for as long as I needed.

Or take me downstairs to get a snack of bread and butter with honey 

in the middle of the night.

He was there, always.  

Tender, quiet, gentle, concerned.  

He gave the gifts of strength and confidence and love.  

Always love.

These are really the last photos I have where I can see my father there -- a trace of his smile, his knowing, quiet eyes, the concern and love that he always had for others.  

Time was short.

He died just four days later, on a Friday afternoon.

Looking at these today, I am reminded of something 

Elder Wirthlin said in General Conference 8 years ago.

He referenced Good Friday, that Friday of Fridays, long ago, 

when the Savior was crucified.

He says "it was a Friday filled with devastating, consuming sorrow that gnawed at the souls of those who loved and honored the Son of God." 

And then he continues with this:

"But the doom of that day did not endure.

The despair did not linger because on Sunday, 

the resurrected Lord burst the bonds of death. ...

And in an instant the eyes that had been filled with ever-flowing tears dried.  

The lips that had whispered prayers of distress and grief 

now filled the air with wondrous praise."

Then, after pointing us to thinking about the resurrection, 

he makes greater application for every aspect of life, 

not just when we are facing death.  

"Each of us will have our own Fridays---those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces.  We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again.  

We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death---Sunday will come.  

In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. 

...I testify to you that the Resurrection is not a fable."

I love this so much.

Whether you have kissed someone goodbye, watching life slip from their body, 

or just have encountered, 

as we all do, 

crushing disappointment and sorrow and hardship, 

there is hope.

And we all have times where we have to believe that.

My life, over the past year, has been full of many difficult surprises and turns.  

There have been so many emotions.

I have had to say goodbye more than once,

and in more than one way or circumstance.

I have felt broken.

I have felt beside myself, not knowing what to do.

I have felt angry and hurt.

I have struggled to feel at peace with myself, 

to forgive myself, to move forward.

My heart has ached with sadness.

But.

Even in those Fridays, I have noticed Sunday all throughout.

That is what I am thinking about today.

God doesn't leave us alone.

He sends angels -- in the form of people, and blessings, and comfort, and peace.

He gives you so many reasons to laugh.

In quiet moments, He reassures and steadies.

He blesses you in ways that you feel you don't deserve.

He cleanses and calms your heart by letting you know that Sunday is real.

His great gift is that we can trust Him; we can have hope.

And what I love about it is that hope propels us forward. 

It doesn't allow me to sit still and stagnant, 

stranded, without a way home.

No.

Hope whispers that all will be well,

that we are in God's tender care,

that we are experiencing exactly those things that we need to.

And, the secret I have found?

That in the moments that you feel you are broken, those cracks become filled with joy and peace and knowledge that doesn't come any other way.

It is there that God offers you "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." (Isaiah 61:3)

God lives.

I know this.

His matchless gifts of peace and love fill me with joy.

Death in October

It was just a short week ago that we buried our father. 

I can't believe it's true.

The sadness is unrelenting, and my heart feels heavy.   

I think about how, after he passed away, I kept looking at his body and watching his chest.  

I kept expecting it to rise and fall.  

And then, I'd double take, because I knew it would stay still and quiet.  

I knew he had gone, leaving his mortal shell behind.

I knew he had shaken free, and that he had been made whole.

But looking at his body reflected how I felt inside: hollow, empty, left behind.

The days leading up to his passing were fairly gloomy and cold.

And then, last week, the beautiful sun and blue skies showed their brilliant faces again.

I went out for a walk with the children.

The streets are strewn with leaves these days -- a rustling, moving, wind-blown maze of color and form.  I wanted to drink in that gorgeous afternoon, pull the sweater tighter around me.  Fall is my favorite time of year, and I feel as tho I have just emerged for the end of it.  

It never ceases to captivate me, tho; to hold me in its calm, in its passing, in such radiant glory as the year begins to die.

At what point did Dad know he was going?

Life's experiences had made him beautiful, cracked with wisdom from both cold and joy, like the papery thin life above me.  And tho the wind was blowing, and I could see the inevitability of what was coming, I wanted to cling on.  Goodbye would always come too soon. Initially it was an unwelcome guest, but as we continued on, I turned to face it with open arms.  I had watched him fight, valiantly -- a fast magnificent autumn, headed straight into the snow.  I realized that the quiet, peaceful winter storms to come -- those late night blizzards burying the world in white -- would also be beautiful.  

I could still remember him as a little boy, in photographs, in memories he shared with me.

I would still be able to smell warm, fresh cut grass, and see my young 8 or 9 year old body out mowing with him on a Saturday morning.

I could remember the way he always calmed me and let me know, when life was hard, that it would be okay. I knew that when life was shaky, I could remember his counsel as tho it were freshly spoken -- because I know him well enough to know what he would say.

I can see him in the Spring tulips, and be hugged by their message that life comes back, that it returns when it looks like it never could again -- when you can't imagine a spear of green to emerge from dreary, bleak, cold ground.

When I hear magnificent music from Bach or smell garden tomatoes, I will turn around in my mind's eye to see us planting.

As I roll out pie crust, he will be there, and I will remember being small, sitting next to him on the counter -- watching him slice the shortening in with the flour, and remember my small hands eating the leftovers.

As I work, I will remember what he taught me about service, about living a life of meaning, about spending my time on stuff that matters.

When I pull a blanket around me by the fire and sit looking at its flames in the quiet at night, I will think of all the times we talked in those rooms, all that I came to treasure because of what was shared in quiet conversations.

Looking at this photo, I am struck by the leaves, both waving and clinging.  

One by one, they will drop, swooping in glorious arcs.

Is life like that?  Beginning, growth, blooming, metamorphosis, stretching, aging, old, dying, and new once more? 

In his final act of submission, was Dad shaken like those little leaves, gently letting go, ready to come again when life will begin anew and death can hold us no longer -- and we are fully whole?

Lately

Things I'm loving lately, in no particular order:

 Peach pie

 Late summer blooms

 Drying peaches and the way the kitchen smells glorious when it's happening

 Orange Halloween lights (even tho they look red in this pic)

 Twinkly lights on the mantle again

Canning

Fall is generally my favorite time of the year.  

But this year, there is a weight of sadness that never seems to lift.  It seems almost overwhelming sometimes.

I am trying to find joy, even in the ache.