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.

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.

Things I Know

One of my friends just met death in a close and personal way yesterday.

He had to say goodbye to his father.

For whatever reason, he has shared some of his feelings with me, let me in on his processing.

I've been grateful for that sharing, and for what it has prompted me to ponder again.

Over the last five days, as I anticipated, with him, the passing of his father, it brought to mind the entire experience of losing mine.

Of what I've come to know.

What I depend on.

What I trust in.

What I hold to.

And I guess that it's this:

Going through hard things intensifies your focus on what really matters.

The people you love the most.

The things that need to be said.

The memories you will cherish.

The moments that have defined you, made you who you are.

One of the things that really surprised me was the realization, once my dad was gone, that our relationship was absolutely intact.

An invisible barrier between worlds might be between us, but there was no barrier to the love that we share, to the strength of the relationship.

This brought incredible comfort.  
It was something that could never be taken away or changed.

And I realized that, because of Christ -- because of what He offers me -- I never had to ultimately say goodbye anyway.  

On Easter morning last week, I sat with my kids and read my favorite account of that long ago morning.

John chapter 20.

I read it every Easter Sunday, as morning light spills in.

But this time, as I read of Mary's encounter with the Savior, it felt really personal, as if I were Mary and He was talking to me.
Just as He did with her, I believe He would ask me similar questions: 
Why my weeping? 
What do I ultimately want?

I love how the simple declaration of her name brought recognition, and I imagine that astonishment, disbelief, and joy came flooding all at once.

But here's the thing:

I believe that He comes to my life, right now, with that same light, healing, and hope.

His gifts fill me with gratitude and praise and peace.

I stagger with astonishment and awe.

But, ultimately, my goodness.

I feel joy.

Joy because He is there to stop my weeping, and yours.

Joy because He knows us personally.

Joy because He lives, and that makes all the difference.
Death in all of its forms -- along with crushing disappointments, heartache, pain, sorrow and brokenness --- these things won't last.  

Despair will give way to light and life and possibility and joy.  
I know this.

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?

Saying Goodbye

24 hours ago I was rushing to the hospital to kiss my grandma goodbye.

Sweet Grams.

One thought keeps coming back to mind every time it is quiet. Standing at her bedside, I watched her take her last breath. We gathered around her and a priesthood blessing was given. And when the blessing was done, she was gone. Her heart rate had gone from around 50 to 0 in a matter of about two minutes. It was so peaceful, so serene. And it happened effortlessly and quickly.

She was gone.

And I knew again how close that world to where she has gone is. I felt an awareness that none of us are alone. A gentle prompting that life is fragile -- we come beautifully and simply into the world -- and can, just as easily -- go back. A reminder to not take the individuals in my life for granted -- and particularly to hold family close. It has been very comforting to me. In a way, I feel surrounded by all of these people, knowing it is just a threshold she has crossed and that is all.

I sat in the dark in Mia's room last night, nursing her. I returned again to those quiet moments in the hospital. And I thought about trees. Tall, beautiful, mature, majestic trees. I imagined the trees lining my life's path. Full of strength, wisdom, beauty. Deep roots. Trees where I have rested in their shade, marveled at their beauty, received some of their wisdom's sap.

Grandma was one of my trees, a pillar on my personal path.

I wondered if she really knew how much her personality, her spirit meant to me -- how much she touched me. I found myself questioning if she knew how important she was to me, even though I've told her. But still I wondered. And then I felt another sweet prompting, and it was this: Of course she knows. She has parents and grandparents of her own, and other people who were her pillars. She knows about sweet ties -- deeper and stronger even than the blood that binds us together. It is a connecting of spirit and heart.

She knows.

I love her so.

To Zannie, this beautiful spring day

I thought about you all day today. I can't shake it. Can't stop thinking about it. I really thought you were going to make it through this one, the way you've made it through everything else in the past.

I awoke this morning to see the sleep-hazy form of my father standing over the bed. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought you should know that Rozann passed away in the night, about 1:00 this morning."

"What?"

I was stunned. How come I didn't come and see you more? I would have told you in so-many-words how much I love you, what an impact you have made on my life, how much you taught me about mothering and love and commitment to your spouse -- even through great trial, how much lighter my life was at the heavier points because of you. Do you know how much I love you, how grateful I am that we were part of each other's lives?

I couldn't see past it. After getting out of bed and donning a robe, I made a few phone calls. Seeing her husband outside next door sent me yelling to him and running down the driveway in my bathrobe and bare feet with red-painted-toenails. I can't tell you how classic it was for him to yell, "Where are your shoes?!" I wanted to yell back, "Do you think that's important right now? Do you think I care about shoes? I love you, I feel hurt for you, somehow it might feel better to give you a hug, to tell you how much I care."

I heard about her passing, the sweet moments they shared beforehand. It almost takes my breath away to contemplate such a mercy given -- such beautiful moments shared, not knowing that when the lights turned out, she would slip away and be gone. What a lovely memory to cherish now until he is with her again.

How will he possibly go to sleep tonight without you? It makes me cry to think of the loneliness that is ahead of him. You were what made him so strong. You were, as Marcie said, the rock of the whole family. I have watched your boys, grown men, break down sobbing today. It is pure testimony to me of how much they love you, what an incredible mother you are and were. I am amazed at your legacy of love. Did I ever tell you that? I admire what you built, what you sacrificed for. Marcie said today that everyone loved you. It was true.

I thought of our conversation, just last week, with you clasping my hands and, through tears, making me promise you that you were going to make it through this. I promised you, because I thought you would.

I guess it's something about youth where it seems that those that you love and your health and strength and active mind will always be there. Admit it or not, I think we enjoy some sense of invincibility because it doesn't seem real that one day it will really happen to us. It is always in the future. The truth is, of course, that we are living, each moment simultaneously the present and entering the future in a passing second. Wrinkles and memory and loss and joy and pain and growth occur so slowly at times that we hardly even notice them until we look back. When did they happen? It becomes a marvel, even to yourself. The road you travel becomes something you never realized would be so incredible, so changing, so beautiful. There seems to be nothing quite like death or birth to remind you in quite the same way about the sacredness of life, the beauty of what it is we are doing here. And now. And in the future. All at once.

Do you know I have been groping with this issue for a while now? I have been wondering about loss and death and immortality and not knowing how I can possibly deal with the losses of those closest to me when they come. I went to Alma today to read, once again, about where you are until we will meet again. I know these things are true. Hallelujah, are they true! I want to proclaim the greatness of God. How just! How merciful! How loving! I know you are released from pain and from those things that have been troubling you. Do you want to hear my favorite passages from reading today? I can pretend, just now, that we are reading them together:

"...there is a space between the time of death and the resurrection.

...And when the time cometh when all shall rise, then shall they know that God knoweth all the times which are appointed unto man.

Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection---Behold, it has been made known unto me by an angel, that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, yea, the spirits of all men, whether they be good or evil, are taken home to that God who gave them life.

And then it shall come to pass, that the spirits of those who are righteous are received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow.

...the plan of restoration is requisite with the justice of God; for it is requisite that all things should be restored to their proper order. Behold, it is requisite and just, according to the power and resurrection of Christ, that the soul of man should be restored to its body, and that every part of the body should be restored to itself.

And it is requisite with the justice of God that men should be judged according to their works; and if their works were good in this life, and the desires of their hearts were good, that they should also, at the last day, be restored unto that which is good.

And if their works are evil they shall be restored unto them for evil. Therefore, all things shall be restored to their proper order, every thing to its natural frame---mortality raised to immortality, corruption to incorruption---raised to endless happiness to inherit the kingdom of God, or to endless misery to inherit the kingdom of the devil, the one on one hand, the other on the other---

The one raised to happiness according to his desires of happiness, or good according to his desires of good; and the other to evil according to his desires of evil; for as he has desired to do evil all the day long even so shall he have his reward of evil when the night cometh.

...the meaning of the word restoration is to bring back again evil for evil, or carnal for carnal, or devilish for devilish---good for that which is good; righteous for that which is righteous; just for that which is just; merciful for that which is merciful.

Therefore...see that you are merciful unto your brethren; deal justly, judge righteously, and do good continually; and if ye do all these things then shall ye receive your reward; yea, ye shall have mercy restored unto you again; ye shall have justice restored unto you again; ye shall have a righteous judgment restored unto you again; and ye shall have good rewarded unto you again.

For that which ye do send out shall return unto you again, and be restored"

(Alma 40:9-12, 41:2-5, 13-15, emphasis added)

I have thought about these words this afternoon. You don't need reminding of them, but it helps me. And the last thought I wanted to share with you that I found significant as I thought about it again this afternoon was this thought given by President Kimball at a funeral:

"We are limited in our visions. With our eyes we can see but a few miles. With our ears we can hear but a few years. we are encased, enclosed, as it were, in a room, but when our light goes out of this life, then we see beyond mortal limitations....

The walls go down, time ends and distance fades and vanishes as we go into eternity...and we immediately emerge into a great world in which there are no earthly limitations."

Isn't that beautiful? What would it be like to have no earthly limitations, no blinders, no hindrances?

This afternoon, while noting the patches of blue sky and the brisk spring wind, I thought about how you chose to leave on a beautiful spring day. The flowers are blooming, the sun was shining. The whole past week has been gloomy and cold. Seems rather symbolic of your own past couple of months with how hard it has been, and to now be emancipated on such a beautiful day, with witnesses of renewed life, of everlasting spring that always comes back year after year. You gave me your own testimony of the resurrection.

My mind was so caught up in Rozann all day, I could hardly think of anything else. I noticed the beautiful day, the flowers, my boys. But everything was quiet and subdued inside. I felt sadness and peace. I sat on the back lawn with the bubbles the boys got from my mom at the Easter egg hunt, blowing bubbles for the boys, watching them lift on the wind. They glistened in the light, shining, vanishing in air.

Somehow, this also reminded me of you. In the breath, in the wind, in the lightness of the bubbles, in the beauty of life going on, moving on, seeing but not seeing. We live in two different spheres now, you and I, but belonging to the same one at the same time. I may be encased in that bubble with just an idea, just enough of a glimmer of everything that exists beyond, and now you are outside of that bubble, understanding me and where I am -- and now, understanding what is beyond in a way that I won't until I also come there too.

Thank you for loving me. You have been such an inspiration to me in so many ways. At times you have lifted my heavy heart. You have made me laugh in stitches. At the end of the day, I feel blessed for the reminder of the sacredness of life and the most wonderful blessing of loving and being loved.

I'm not worried. I know where you are. I know you are safe and happy, a thought that makes me happy too.

I love you.