December 12, 2017

I was just sad today.  Plain old sad.  After I got all the kids out the door for school, I fell on my bed on my face and sobbed and sobbed.  I felt the crushing heartbreak of losing my dad.  The sadness came in unstoppable waves.  I missed him so much.  Then, in the midst of my tears, I tried to imagine him coming over to my bed.  I imagined the way the bed would shift if he sat on the edge.  I imagined him placing his large hand on my back.  I finally lifted my head.  The morning sun was shining happily through my bedroom shutters.  I wiped my face on the inside of my t-shirt.  Then I slowly got up and got going for the day.  Sometimes a good cry can really help, but it wouldn't do to stay there all day.

So.  I worked on our Christmas Card letter.  And I took the little boys shopping for a few presents.  And I decided that it wouldn't work to take the boys with me shopping for presents ever again!  We picked up Jimmy John sandwiches and headed to Greg's work.  We had a little picnic together.  Greg was so happy to see the little boys.  We laughed and talked and ate.  And Lance cried when Greg got back out of the car.

For the rest of my day, I felt the sadness lurking just beneath the surface.  Sometimes I'd cry a little.  Sometimes I'd hold it in.  But it was there.  We are nearing the three-month mark since Dad passed away.  Three months!  Three months without hearing his voice.  And I'm still quite traumatized that I never saw him well again after his original knee surgery.  I just kept thinking he'd get better.  I'm so sad that he didn't.

In our family name exchange, I drew Austin's name.  Today I worked on his gift.  I found this idea online and I think it is the cutest thing.  I made him a personalized plate, and I'm going to fill it with food.  Every day.  I really love my hungry little boy.

I'm also going to make his a really soft BYU blanket.  He LOVES to wrap up in a blanket while he watched TV.  I hope he likes it.

Start with a clean white plate.

Use Sharpie to decorate.

Place it in the oven.  350 degrees for 30 minutes.

And VOILA!  It says:  This Food Belongs to Austin..Made with LOVE by Mom!
I Love You My Hungry Boy!!

Tonight was a good night for grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and Ramens.  And it was also a good night, according to Greg, to load everyone in the car and go pick up the girls from volleyball and then go get a milkshake.  We drove around, eating our ice cream, and looking at Christmas lights.    The kids were so happy.  Lance eventually fell asleep just as we pulled onto our road.

Greg and I sat on our bed and tried to do some Christmas shopping on the computer.  We got a bit of it done before we grew too tired.

I've decided that some days are just sad.  My sister Joni says that grief is like a big old grand piano dropping into the middle of your room.  It takes up space and demands to be played.  Eventually you learn to live with it sitting there, and sometimes you can even push it aside. But that piano will always be there.  And sometimes, you just have to play it.  I loved that thought.  Mom commented that since her room is so small, her piano is taking up most of the room.  And she has to play it daily. I decided that my room (and my life) is big and busy.  Most days I hardly notice the grand piano plopped in the middle.  But some days, like today, my piano blocks the doorway.  It demands to be noticed and played.  So, those are the days that I grieve.  I decided to take that literally, so I sat at my real grand piano and played some beautiful Christmas music.  The heart must feel what it feels.  The tears dripped down onto my hands.

I'm grateful for my family--sisters, mother, brother--and that we are all in this together.  I'm thankful for the love and closeness I feel to each of them.  And I'm grateful for my own little family.  They make my "room" large and comfortable.  They fill up my life with love and happiness.  And they let me play the "piano" when I need to.  They all feel sad for me.  And they are so good to love me.  Somehow, this will all be okay.  I just know it.  And someday, I will feel that large hand on my back.  I will get to run into my Dad's embrace.

I was so touched by a talk by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland.  I think this is the most beautiful Christmas message. It speaks directly to my heart.  Elder Holland's father died on Christmas Eve.  And as he sat there at the hospital by his dying father's bedside, he was angry at the timing of it all.  Then, after hearing the cry of a new baby from the maternity ward, he felt these inspiring words come into his mind:

“It came to me in a profound way that in this life no one can have real love without eventually dealing with real loss, and we certainly can’t rejoice over one’s birth and the joy of living unless we are prepared to understand and accommodate and accept with some grace the inevitability—including the untimeliness—of difficulty and trouble and death.”

It is because of what was accomplished during Easter that we celebrate what happened at Christmas.  Birth and Death go hand in hand.  I've really felt that strongly.  And like Elder Holland said, we can't rejoice at birth if we aren't prepared to accept death.  We can't have real love without eventually having real loss.  I'm so thankful that I was able to experience the love and joy of having my Dad in my life.  It is because of that love that I feel the grief now.  But I would never trade that love away.  So, hello, grief.  Come on in.  Let me play you for awhile.