Glimpse into Heaven

Today I got a glimpse of heaven. Through another’s eyes.

It was our ward’s Primary Program and my three oldest were to showcase the beautiful songs and speaking parts they had memorized. This is a Sunday each year where the chapel overflows with supportive grandparents and family members. My children have never had more than their Dad and I to smile at them, mouth helpful words to them, and be overcome with joy and love because of them. That is, until today.

And I didn’t even know it.

I arrived late to the meeting and entered the chapel just after the opening prayer with Grady’s infant seat in my arms and leading Haven by the hand. The others had arrived early to save a seat. I found their row, placed Grady’s carseat in the aisle outside our bench, told everyone to “scoot over” and sat down. As I was dealing with getting Haven situated and consoling a crying Taryn, who was upset that I wouldn’t let her sit on my lap, I glanced down at Graydon – 5 weeks old and has never cracked a smile except in his sleep – and he had the Hugest most beautiful grin on his face. My attention was turned back to the sobs of my 4-year-old until I could look at him a few moments later, and the smile was still plastered from ear to ear. This was definitely more than a “gassy” reaction and his eyes were wide and bright, no where near a sleepy slumber as he stared off into the void. There was no one in neighboring rows making faces at him. And yet the smile persisted. For at least five minutes, every time I looked at him, he wore the look of a splendored stupor. His happy attitude lasted through half of the meeting until he got fussy from a dirty diaper.

We enjoyed the program immensely. Apparently, our primary chorister is incredibly ambitious and every song they sang from the outline was coupled or tripled into a medley of other primary songs. These kids learned a lot of lyrics this year! Taryn became the one for the congregation to watch. You know the one. She sang the greatest (meaning loudest), and held out those loud, semi-pitchless notes just a second longer than everyone else. She presented her speaking part into the microphone with equal fervor, even adding a few words that she said she felt “inspired” to say. Evan sang the songs with precision and beamed with each doting smile from his parents. His perfectionism showed through during his speaking part, which was delivered with amazing accuracy and clarity – and seriousness, with nary a smile. Zion was a tough one to spot. Her height hid her behind the taller children. But she would peak her head around from time to time so we could see her glowing eyes and send her encouraging smiles. The movements of her mouth were much less exaggerated than that of her sister’s, but I knew how much she loves and knows those songs and did not doubt her contribution to the cause. She spoke her line about Adam and Eve effortlessly and it appears her speech impediments have all but disappeared.

It was an amazing program – bringing me to tears on a number of occasions. It was a meeting truly fit for the angels. I could not have been more proud and honored to be the parents of those three incredible children. I only wished other family were there to witness their achievements.

When I got home, I realized they were.

I laid down, exhausted – as church always makes me. My mind reflected on Grady, and his continuous and knowing smiles during the meeting. I kept replaying them over and over, baffled. Why was he smiling so much? Then, in the peaceful quiet, it hit me. Not as a thought, but as a fact. She was there. She was there!

Grady was smiling at his Grammy!

My mom had come. She traveled further than anyone to see her grandchildren present their special messages and say hello to the grandbaby to whom she recently bid a heavenly farewell. I could suddenly picture her doing “piggies” to his toes and “weeing” all the way home as only she can. No wonder he was smiling so big. His newborn eyes, still tuned to the things of heaven, were the only ones focused enough to see the angel in our midst. In the same moment that my heart filled with joy knowing that she had come, it filled with equal sorrow. I wish I had known. I wish I had felt her enveloping arms. I wish I had taken a breath and savored a sense of her presence.

I didn’t know it, but I glimpsed into the heavens today, through the eyes and smiles of my newborn babe. I have no doubt of it now.

And if the contents of heaven can send an impossible smile so easily to a baby unable to wear one, then that is the heaven waiting for me.

Sometimes the veil between this life and the life beyond becomes very thin. Our loved ones who have passed on are not far from us. -President Ezra Taft Benson

Mother’s Day Trophy

She’s told me the story a few times already in just the last six months. Granted, she’s getting old. And she repeats her stories often. But I knew this one must have been important to her to be repeated so readily.

“I never won a trophy when I was a little girl. Have you ever won a trophy? The only trophy I ever received was at a Cinderella Pageant when I helped your sister. Your mom couldn’t go to it, and she asked me to take your sister and help her back stage. At the end they gave all of the mother’s a little hand-sized trophy for helping. I still have it. It’s up on the shelf. That’s the only trophy I’ve ever gotten.”

Now, if anyone deserves a trophy – it’s my grandma: For putting up with my Gramps, for raising three rambunctious boys, for having the awesomest laugh, for teaching school for twenty-or-thirty-some-odd years, for being one of the most thoughtful women on earth (second only to my mom who no-doubtedly inherited that trait from her mother).

So as I thought about Mother’s Day, and having no mother on whom to focus my attentions, I decided to focus on my Mother’s Mother. It’s been so wonderful to be back in Arizona and have her close by. She is always willing to babysit for me (one at a time of course. I wouldn’t dare throw all my kids at her at once. I’m not willing to put her in her grave), she drops by my house every Friday after her hair appointments and brings a goody for my kids, she opens her wallet whenever there’s a need, she has a keen eye for decorating and offers items readily, and she is always good for a wonderful story and chortling laugh.

She needed a trophy.

My sister and I went to the trophy store and presented her with this little ditty.

She was thrilled.

“This is the most wonderful gift!”

You deserve it Grandma.

For being the Grandest Grandma ever!

Exhaustion

Dear Mom

I totally get it!

4 Years

4 years. Wow. It’s been four year.

Somehow this anniversary doesn’t mean as much as it used to. I suppose that is bound to happen with every passing year.

Instead, it’s all the days in between. 

All the days when randomly a song, or a comment, or a picture will provoke a thought.

A thought that leaves me empty. Reminds me that it’s real.

That she’s really gone.

And I am left.

A mother without a mother.

And without a clue as to how to mother.

But then…

That’s not really fair. She didn’t leave me totally helpless and alone.

She taught me. She taught me every day she was here, how to be a mother. Just by being my mother.

But did I pay attention?

Probably not like I should have.

But she also taught my sisters. I still have my sisters.

My blessed sisters who are each amazing mothers.

And suddenly I am one of the luckiest heart-broken girls in the world.

Treasure

We’re living in Mesa. This is home to me, though it still feels like we’re just visiting.

These are my old stomping grounds. My kids are playing in the same parks that I did. I shop at the same stores that my mom did. We are even in the same ward that I was as a child. There are lots of familiar faces. Lots of people I know. And even more that my Mom knew.

She is everywhere here. I see her in the faces of old friends. In the grocery stores she shopped. In the boutiques she frequented. I see her in the restaurants she loved. In the parking lot she taught me drive in. The school ball fields she watched me play in. I see her in the people she admired. The people she loved and respected. The people that loved her.

It’s nice to be around her again.

I miss her.

I miss her hugs.

I miss her notes.

She wrote me notes all the time. Uplifting, positive, encouraging notes.

When she died, I searched and searched for one of these notes.

And cried and cried when I couldn’t find any. She wrote them so often, I must have one day decided to toss them, knowing that I would receive a new one in a short amount of time. Until suddenly, that time did not exist any more. And I ached to see my Mom’s handwriting and read those words meant just for me.

Today I unpacked an old box. One that had never been unpacked in the 5 years that we lived in Utah.

What a beautiful treasure I found. Not one, not two, but multiple letters from my Mom! From when I lived in the dorms at BYU. They are old. They will only get older. But as I read them, I like to think they still apply. Written in her beautiful cursive and signed with a heart. It is like art to look at and poetry to read.

Dear Tasha -

I just want you to know how much I love you. You have given me so much joy all your life. I love how you hug me so much. I love your noisy, smoochy kisses. I love the fact that you can’t help but smile when I’m egging you on. I love your sunny disposition and your tender, tender heart. I really do know that I can trust you, Tash – I would trust you with my life. I’m really looking forward to seeing you with your own children because I know you will be a fantastic mother.

You are a wonderful daughter, Tasha – one of the six best in the world! You would probably be embarrassed if you knew how much I brag about you to others. If it ever seems like I’m being hard on you, it’s only because I know your potential.

To me you have it all, Tasha – beauty, brains, personality, talent, and above all, a sweet spirituality that makes you glow. You have a special ability in writing and I anticipate reading many interesting stories and thoughtful poems as your life expands. You have established some wonderful habits of scripture reading and prayer that I hope you will always continue. These habits will help you to “fill your well” so you will be ready when others come to you for help and encouragement. I know many people will be blessed by their association with you. You make people happy. You make me happy. I am happy when I hear you sing or play the piano. I’m happy when I watch you in sports. But mostly I am happy when I see you put the gospel into action by giving of yourself to others. I dreamt of having seven children, but I never dared dream to have a child as special as you.

Thank you for being so loveable.

d Love, Mom

Thank you Mom. Thank you for building me up when I’ve needed it. I needed it today. I needed you today.

And you were here.

Put in a Pot

I wasn’t even that attached to it. In fact, I probably would have considered selling it at our next yard sale.  But for some reason, when Greg brought the shattered pieces in to show me, I broke down.

It was a simple, blue, ceramic, flower pot. A pot I had hung onto for years and put to different uses. Mostly to store baby diapering products on our changing table shelf. A pot I’ve had since my first baby was born. A pot brought to me in the hospital with beautiful blue flowers. A pot given me by my mother.

My mother.

It’s a stupid little pot.

But suddenly it meant so much more.

And it got me thinking, and depressing, and sulking. What if everything my Mom has ever given me becomes lost or broken? What if, one by one, ever so slowly, every material possession I have from my Mom disappears?

But more than that – what if, just as slowly, but just as suddenly, one by one, every memory, every thought, every impression, every smell, every touch, every embrace, every stroke, every recollection, every story, every feeling I have, or have had about my Mom vanishes? Vanishes!?

It’s happening already. I can feel it happening.

26 years of memories. 26 years of memories are disintegrating. 26 years. Only 26 years. That’s all I have. All I had.

But those possessions? I have possessions. I have items from her. I have items of hers. And with each one of those items, I have a memory. Concrete memories. Memories that are real. Memories that can be felt and seen and touched. Memories that don’t seem so distant. Don’t seem so surreal.

Is it real?

Is this really real?

Is she really gone?

I still can’t grasp that sometimes.

I can’t comprehend it.

I just can’t.

Sometimes.

Mother’s Day Aftermath

It’s official. I don’t like Mother’s Day. All it does is set husbands up for failure, and wives up for disappointment. Remember last year? And as much as I tried to not care; to not have any expectations; to not think for more than a brief moment of my own mother - I think that I will always care; always have some expectations; and always think of my mother.

I remembered my lesson from last year. And decided to focus my Mother’s Day energies on someone else again. I love my ward, but when it comes to Mother’s Day, it has failed to deliver these last 4 years. I’m sure there is some sort of good reasoning behind their non-celebration, but I’m just not seeing it. I’m used to wards that turn the day into a Celebration of Women, where the youth and men take over all of the Primary duties and all women are invited into Relief Society for a special, feel-good lesson and brunch. Now, that is Mother’s Day.

So, instead of being disappointed in our ward for yet another year, I decided to take matters into my own hands. The two gals I visit-teach just so happen to both teach my daughter’s nursery class together. Early in the week I gave them a call and told them each to plan on taking Mother’s Day off. I would like to teach their class.

I was excited all week to put myself aside and focus on serving them instead. I only hinted, briefly to Greg on my way to the grocery store Friday and asked if there was anything he was wanting me to get at the store for Sunday dinner. He acted clueless. But he is a big teaser and I figured he was just messing with me.

Sunday came. No breakfast in bed. But that’s okay. I’m not caring  this year.

The kids brought me the gifts they made in school. Huge Highlight! They were so proud of them. Zion’s was a beautifully decorated poem with her two little handprints and name that she wrote all by herself. Evan’s was a picture of me, with short brown hair (we’re still working on drawing long hair), five fingers on each stick arm, and green eyes. Nailed it! But the best is what was written:

Evan says:

I don’t know how old my mom is, my dad is like 17 but my mom is way bigger than that. (After asking his mom) Write down my mom is 29, Miss Eileen.

My mom is prettiest when she sprays water in her hair.

My mom likes to make a cake.

My mom always says it’s time for bed.

My mom is funny when she says Stay on the sunny side, banananana, then at the ending she says knock knock, who's there, orange, orange you glad I didn’t say banananana again?

Classic!

Nursery was great. My partner and I did Mother’s Day handprint poems with the little ones, we gabbed up a storm, wiped noses when needed, and put out flames when required. It was all worth it to see our two sisters’ rested eyes afterwards. They both totally deserve the day off!

The rest of the day? Well the rest of the day probably isn’t worth mentioning. Let’s just say I tried my darndest to not care, to not be disappointed. But I guess I’m just a Mother’s Day Snob.

I ended up making German Pancakes for dinner – the go-to, feel-better meal. I served it up on my Mom’s “You are Special Today” plate - because I felt I deserved it.

 

post script: Redemption

This evening, Greg gave me a note he had written last night after the storm. I’m definitely a note kind of girl. Redemption indeed. I wanted to preserve it. A blog is good preservation.

Tasha,

I’ve been thinking a lot about the things you do as a mother for our family.

Most notably you are a very loving and thoughtful mother to our children. You are constantly teaching them new and wonderful things and I am absolutely amazed every day at the things they learn from you. I know that you love our children with all your heart. I see it in the way you look at them and smile at them and talk to them. And they know how much you love them and they reciprocate that love and hold you dear to their hearts.

You are always so thoughtful in the things you do for all of us. Your heart is pure and you do everything to let us know how much you think about and love every one of us.

I hope you feel appreciated. I know I don’t always show it and the kids don’t show it all the time either. We love you. I love you and I hope I can make you feel as important as you really are.

Love,

Greg

Every Day May

There was once a point in this blog journey where I wrote every day. I enjoyed that. I was less scatter-brained and it gave me some time to unwind at the end of the day. I think about this blog as my journal and something that my children can turn to if need be, in the event of my untimely passing. Morbid maybe. But true. My Mom had a gratitude journal that we found after her death. Each date that she wrote an entry, my sister would email us her thoughts from that day. It was a precious insight into her mind. I treasured those entries, and missed them on the days she did not write. They have made her a person to me, instead of just a mother.

 

And that is how I often feel about myself. That I am just a mother. Not really a person. A person with thoughts and feelings worth sharing. This blog makes me feel human. And sane. And heard. Even if it is only heard by myself and my grown-up children in the future.  That is what is important to me.

 

So every day in May is my goal.

 

May will bring some interesting entries no doubt. Mother’s Day, T-ball, piano recitals, end of school year. Should be good.

The De"Saint"ification of the Deceased

3 years today.

And I'm mad at my mom.

I know we usually glorify the deceased, put them high on a pedastool, remember the pretty good times as wonderfully perfect, the awful times as pretty good, and never speak ill of them. But this is my grief, and so I'll do with it what I want. And lately I've been angry. I'm angry that the majority of the memories I have of my Mom are not pleasant. Actually, when I look back on my childhood, I have very few memories of my Mom at all - good or bad. Not because my mind has failed me, but because she did. Simply put - she wasn't around.

And I'm mad that I wasn't important enough to her. That she would rather stay in bed all day than be actively involved in my life, or even her own. That her bed, books, soap operas, talk shows, computer games, chat rooms, even solitaire were more valuable to her than me. Sure, I have lots of fond memories of snuggling under the covers with her in the mornings before school, or knowing she would be awake from insomnia in the middle of the night when I was sick with fever and could curl up on the recliner with her. She was there when I needed her, but what about when I wanted her?

I'm mad that I had to make excuses for her. That when our church block was early in the morning, we were left orphans on the bench with my dad watching us from the stand. That if people asked where my mom was, we were instructed to tell them that she wasn't feeling well. Is that really what it was? Or was she simply too lazy? Too lazy to just get up? To just be present? That's what it felt like. What it feels like. Was there really a legitemate, underlying excuse? I hope there was. I hope there was a darn good reason. But I am the baby. And baby's aren't told much of adult problems. As it should be I suppose. But I'm not going to make excuses for her any more.

I'm mad that she left me. That she didn't take care of herself. That she didn't care. That she slowly, carefully, put herself on a suicidal mission. That she admitted to us that she was waiting to die. That not even watching my babies, present and future, was enough to break her. To pull her out. To make life worth living.

Why? Why? Why?! What made life so miserable that she wanted so desperately to escape it? What!?

I'm mad that I am mad at her.

I'm mad that she was never truly happy.

And most especially -

I'm mad that now I feel that I am not allowed to be truly happy,

because my mom never was.

That I have to feel and act miserable like my mom,

because it's what I know.

It's what I know.

Because we are supposed to be like our moms.

To want to be like our moms,

right?

I'm mad that I am caught in a cycle. One that I know I don't want to be in. But it's sucking, and pulling, and yanking, and churning. Down...

down....

down...

Stop.

No. I'll not have it. I'll not have that for my kids. Not my kids.

I know what I want to be.
What I want to always remember to be...

Cycle breaker

Home Sweet Home

Then------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Now

This week marks Four Years since we first moved into our house. A lot has changed in those four years:

• the color of our front door
• the number of bikes and strollers in the garage
• the lack of space in the garage
• the function of our then-unfinished basement
• the minivan parked out front
• the size of our bushes
• the number of bedrooms being used
• the color of paint on the walls
• the garden plot in the back
• the weeds covering the side driveway

And while it is by no means my dream home, I love this house. Probably one of my favorite features of the floor plan is the kitchen. I think I love it so much because it reminds me of my mom's kitchen in the home I grew up (sans the carpet). In fact, sometimes for a split second I often confuse her kitchen for mine - and I will think the cereal is in the cupboard to the right of the island, or the spice cabinet is to the right of the sink. But that was my childhood and not my present. That house was actually sold the same summer we bought ours. And craziest are those moments when I think the master bedroom is just off the kitchen and suddenly I'm in my laundry room. So trippy.

My Kitchen -----------------------------------------------------My Mom's Kitchen

It's been a good four years. I don't really know how many more there may or may not be, but I look forward to them. Home still feels far far away to me in beautiful Arizona.

But when I walk into this house I love being home.

In the Heat of the Moment

I had hoped this day would never come. Or that it would at least be quite a few years off still.


I have never spanked or hit my children and hoped that I never would. Believe me, I have wanted to - oh have I wanted to - many times. And I knew this day would eventually come because it's hard to shake the examples of your youth. But I didn't want that to be my excuse. And it isn't, and shouldn't be.


But I betrayed myself today when my open palm slapped the soft, precious, and innocent cheek of my two-year-old. Ugh... I don't really want to think about it. That look of horror and complete betrayal etched in every line of her beautiful eyes still flashes through my mind. And it breaks my heart.


Did my mom feel this wretched each time she layed a hand on me? Did she replay that look of "Monster" coming from my big bluish-green eyes, over and over just as I have been doing? Did she hold me and hold me and hold me and never want to let go once her tempest had calmed and period of remorse had set in?


Children are so forgiving. It is absolutely amazing the unconditional love they bestow. It is undeserved. And has made me feel all the more guilty. But in many ways I am glad to be learning this lesson now. I never want to feel this unworthy again. And I hope to impart that same unconditional love showed to me, no matter what the circumstance. Even if she scatters the hundreds of little hair rubber bands all over the floor for the dozenth time again. Love is what she deserves, and patience is what I will demonstrate.

What a learning process motherhood is. There is nothing that reveals your weaknesses as quickly or strengthens your resolve so sincerely. And I am glad for that.

Still Making Me Laugh

If you know my Mom, then you know that she had a Sweet Tooth.

If you lived with my Mom, then you know that she was famous for hiding candy (mostly chocolate, and mostly Dove chocolates) in different places throughout the kitchen. If we ever wanted to sneak a treat, then we knew we could probably strike gold if we looked in the drawer behind the bread pans, or in the pantry behind the spaghetti noodles, or even wedged between cannisters in the spice cabinet.

She probably started hiding candy from us.

But even as an empty-nester she still kept her chocolate reserves stashed in various spaces. Perhaps she was hiding them from the grandkids, or her husband, or even herself - out of sight, out of mind. Who doesn't like coming across a stash of chocolate they had forgotten about? Almost as fun as finding a $5 bill in your winter coat you had forgotten about all summer. And it was a great memory for us as we cleaned out Mom's house after her passing to discover her little treasure troves - it was like finding little pieces of Mom all around the house.

Well what a super fun surprise I got from her yesterday!

I finally decided to get out Mom's old bread machine I had taken from the house two years ago after she died. Inside the lid were the instruction manual and recipe book she had saved. I thankfully removed those, so very glad that she had kept them in place like that - because making bread is not my thing, and operating foreign machinery is even less so. As I took a look back into the bread pan I discover half a bag full of Christmas-wrapped Dove chocolates! I couldn't help the huge smile that filled my face and the laughter that escaped my lips. Evan asked what I was laughing at, and I said, " My Mom just did something really funny." I don't blame him for being confused as he responded, "But she died."

I suppose the best part of having someone gone, are those moments when they still make you laugh.

A Conscious Lesson

In the back of my mind, I knew it would be a lousy day. So somehow, subconsciously, I made it that way.

And I feel like a wretch.

Mother's Day just isn't the same. And it's not as if I ever did anything lavish for my Mom. But it was still a day that I could spend thinking about her and showing her, in some small way, how much I appreciated her. This year I didn't want to think about her. It's just too hard sometimes and I knew it would make me depressed and I didn't want my Mother's Day to be ruined. So I put those feelings aside and decided instead to think about me.

That was a bad idea and an easy way to ruin what could have been a perfectly good Mother's Day.

I guess I just wanted a day off. Maybe something like sitting on the couch all day while my kids fanned me with palm frawns and my husband fed me luscious, purple grapes and showered me with praises. That's not too much to ask, right?

And so, instead of appreciating all the things (and there were many) Greg and the kids did do for me, I honed in on the few (very few and very minor) things they failed to do for me. And that pessimistic attitude o' mine made Greg miserable - not to mention, myself and the kids miserable.

I was an idiot. And even with all my complaining and b****ing (believe me, I do not use that word, but it is completely appropriate here) I still felt that Greg was the one that owed ME an apology. After all, I am the mother of his three children. Aren't I entitled to one day out of the year where I feel completely, and ultra-over-the-top appreciated and valued? Well... of course I am entitled to that. Everyone is. But it isn't going to come with the attitude and expectations that I had.

I was sabotaging my own Mother's Day. But I didn't realize it until I decided to put my focus on someone else.

After church, Greg took a nap on the couch while I fumingly made dinner for myself. What else was he supposed to do but give up? Everything he did do for me was thrown in his face as not good enough. I can't blame him for trying to dodge those hurling canons. I would have hidden myself in a nap too. But I couldn't nap. I was working on reloading.

Then I decided a cake would make me feel better. And as my sweet little boy happily helped me pour and mix the ingredients, I got to thinking that even though my Mother's Day had been lousy, maybe I could help make someone else's nicer. So we turned that chocolate/banana cake into cupcakes, garnished with confectioner's sugar and sliced strawberries. They were beautiful. Perfect for another mother. A deserving one. Not one loaded with ammunition and ready for the kill.

I slowly disarmed myself and wrote in a Mother's Day card - something I haven't been privileged to do for a couple years now. I sang someone else's praises instead of anticipating my own to be sung. And relished in the beaming smile of an appreciative and deserving mother.

It is better to give than to receive.

So very true.

And when my father called that night and told me Mom would be proud of the mother I am becoming, my arsenal of weaponry was instantly buried in a mound of humility.

I spent the evening reflecting, graveling, and repenting - shameful, remorseful, and guilty. But the apologies escaping both mine and Greg's lips, and the understanding we gained of eachother, was perhaps the best gift I could have received.

It was a mother's day I will never forget. And a lesson I hope to always remember.

Relief Society

[I was asked to share my feelings on "How the Relief Society Has Blessed My Life" tonight at Enrichment (excuse me... at our Relief Society Activity). I am a terrible terrible terrible public speaker. I would much rather sing than speak. But if I have to speak, then I have to write it all down. So, since it was already written down, I thought I'd share.]

When I think about how the Relief Society program has blessed my life, I immediately think about my first real exposure to it. My freshman year at BYU I lived in the dorms and was in a student ward consisting completely of other College Freshmen. For most of us, we had never been to a Relief Society meeting or activity, and suddenly we were asked to organize, conduct, teach, prepare, fellowship, and promote this society we knew very little about. It was an organization meant for our mothers, not us. But, as most girls like to do, we had fun putting on our mother’s shoes and role-playing. Our visiting teaching statistics were close to 100% every month! At first, I felt like I was just “pretending” to be a member of the Relief Society. But as my attendance and experiences with the program increased, so did my testimony of its divinely inspired organization. It was then I knew that I did not just attend Relief Society, but that I actually belonged to the Relief Society. That is what makes the Relief Society so special. It is something we all belong to - without having to pay dues, or subscribe to literature, or hold a card membership. As LDS women, we all belong to this wonderful society and it belongs to us.

The Relief Society is always there. No matter where we go. When my husband and I moved EIGHT times in the first five years of our marriage, I found comfort knowing that with each move, I would be able to latch onto a community of sisters who would encourage and sustain me when I needed it.

I feel extremely blessed to currently hold the calling of Compassionate Service Leader. It has been inspiring and humbling to watch so many of you drop what you are doing to come to the aid of a sister in need. Every call that I make, I do with apprehension - always worried that I will be told “no way” or “take a hike”. But I have been in awe of the willingness to sacrifice that every woman has that I have called. Whether it’s taking in meals, providing a phone call or a thoughtful note, or planning a wedding, the sisters in our ward have really stepped up. And it has been a wonderful blessing to witness.

But probably the way that the Relief Society has most blessed my life has been the role it has played in sustaining me since my mother unexpectedly passed away two years ago. I was left with so many questions, so many why’s, what now’s, how’s, and who do I’s. I was Lost. But in the Relief Society General Meeting that was broadcast soon after my mother’s passing, President Julie B. Beck told a story that Found me. She tells of a time in her young-adulthood when her parents, who had been her neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. Since this was before the time of modern communication, she felt she would be especially deserted and alone. She says, “One day before my mother left, I sat weeping with her and asked, ‘Who will be my mother?’ Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, ‘If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.’”

And that is what the Relief Society has become to me. It is as dependable, loving, forgiving, comforting, inspiring, constant, knowledgeable, compassionate, understanding, and beautiful as my mother. I have truly been blessed to have the Relief Society in my life.

Results of a Mother's Passing

This is something I wrote for my friend's blog. She is amazingly brave and broaches very sensitive topics with tact and finesse. A week ago, she dedicated each day to a series on How to Support the Bereaved. She asked for my thoughts and feelings on losing my Mom and also how others have supported me with my grief.

After days of staring at a blank screen, here's what I came up with:

I didn't realize it until I tried, but it is impossible to put into words what it is like to lose a mother. I appreciate what the author of Life of Pi wrote after his main character experienced the loss of his entire family: "To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing - I'm sorry, I would rather not go on."

One thing I have learned from this trial is that everyone has a story. And those who have experienced a loss - while understanding in their sympathy - still understand that their loss is greater or more significant than another's. Because, of course, to them it is. And so it goes with me. Grievers are left to judge and compare - it is only natural, albeit, unproductive. But I will share with you my story and leave it to you to judge.

My mom died on a Wednesday. She went to the ER around 10 in the morning. Was told she would be fine at 4 in the afternoon. Had a pulmonary embolism at 6 in the evening. And that was it. No phone calls. No visits. No goodbyes. No "I love you's". She was gone.

I've heard it many times from others who have watched their loved ones die slowly from debilitating illnesses that "at least she didn't suffer." I nod and agree that, yes that would have been awful to witness. But at the same time I want to shout that "at least you were prepared. At least you got to say goodbye. At least you got to share an 'I love you'!" I felt no peace from her passing. It was not a welcomed release from years of painful misery. It was shock. It was tragedy. It was mind-numbing and clock-stopping. I was 26 years old. Just entering the throes of motherhood. Too young to no longer have a mother's care.

I think when a mom dies it makes you question your very existence: for you could not have existed without her, you have never existed without her, and yet somehow you are being forced to exist without her. The thought of having children without her guidance is still unbearable, let alone the thought of raising them.

One of the things that makes me so heartbroken over losing my Mom is that she had just begun to be my best friend. I would have never considered her my friend growing up, and especially not in high school. But becoming a wife and a mother gave me new eyes and I could see just how much I had to learn from Mom and what a great friend she was to me. I would call her twice a day, about this or that, or usually about nothing at all. And so it has been so hard to lose my mom, but even harder to lose my best friend and the potential and momentum that relationship was just gaining.

The moments I have found the most peace during my grieving process are the times that I have been able to share memories or stories with someone willing to listen - someone who does not make me feel uncomfortable talking about the deceased. I think that it is old-fashioned folklore to not mention the dead. My mom was so fantastic and amazing. Why wouldn't I want to talk about her? That is how memories are preserved. I want to share with others how silly my Mom was, how crafty and creative, how knowledgable and wise, how proper and polite, how loving and generous, and even how she had some qualities that I was embarrased by - how she was demanding and boisterous, judgmental and hypocritcal, prudish and lazy - and how I am more like my Mom than I ever would have imagined I could be, and proud of it.

And the thing I crave - the thing I hunger and thirst after without even realizing I am starving until it's served to me - are memories that others have of my Mom that they share. The time I had with her was only a small snippet of the rich life she led. She touched so many lives and served so many people. I long for stories from others. They make her more real to me. That she was not just a mom. She was a sister, a wife, a friend, a roommate, a neighbor, a daughter, a leader, a child, a student, an aunt, a cousin, an artist, a musician, a counselor, a teammate, a teacher. I love finding out about those areas of her life. I want to be so much like her.

I ache for my children to know their Grammy. For them to cuddle on her lap or receive one of her amazing hugs. I know they will not remember her. But they can still know her. They will know her through me. And I am finding that the greatest compliment someone can give me is, "You remind me of your Mother."

-------- A few helpful suggestions

Flowers are thoughtful, but when they die, it is simply another reminder of the death that is being experienced.

A book that was given as a gift to my family that we have all benefited from is Tear Soup by Pat Schweibert. It is what I now pass on to anyone I know that experiences a loss.

Be cautious in your comments. Don't say, "She is in a happier place." As much as I know that is true, I still want the time she spent here with me and her family to be where she was the happiest.

Don't be afraid to ask questions. And don't feel uncomfortable if mention of the deceased is made. Memories are a completely normal thing to share. It doesn't matter if it is a memory of someone alive or dead. The majority of my life's experiences involve my mom in one way or another. I don't want to have to lock those up simply because it makes someone else feel uncomfortable if I mention them.

A Little Bleak

It's hard to smile today.

And I'm afraid I haven't made very good company.

Today is one of those days you just wish would be over. One that you've known for years, months, and days would be coming, but don't grasp the full impact of the day until it hits you full force.

It's been two years now.

And I don't think it's getting any easier.

I miss my Mom.

Past entries about my Mom have been a little more uplifting. Sorry, I'm just not feelin' it today. But you can reflect with me here and here.

Where Were You?

I remember in Elementary school being given the assignment of asking my mom where she was when JFK was assassinated. She was in class at BYU when the news was announced. And though she didn't have an elaborate story to share about the experience, I thought it was intriguing that she actually remembered where she was. I wondered if anything so significant as that would happen in my lifetime.

My third year in high school I was on my first date with a boy I was actually interested in. We were walking in to the movie theater to see "Excess Baggage" (dumb show by the way) when a guy in the group got an alert on his cell phone that Princess Diana had died in a car crash. Wow, that seemed significant. And though it didn't have a direct impact on me, I made note of where I was so I would be able to tell my children when, and if, they were ever given the same assignment that I had.

Then my third year of college rolled around. I was sleeping in one morning, missing another session of my laborious, early-morning music theory class. Suddenly I awoke to my roommate bursting into the room yelling that the Twin Towers in New York had been bombed. Actually, I don't remember what she was yelling. I was trying to sleep. But she seemed frantic enough, that I decided to indulge her and got out of bed and walked into the front room where the tv was on. I sat down in shock and watched as two icons of America burned. Then my shock turned to horror as they crumbled to the ground. It still seems like a dream, especially since I was awakened in such a panic and honestly thought I was dreaming. I think I remember going to my afternoon classes, though most of them were canceled and students walked around campus in a daze. Did something so tragic as that really happen? Here in America? We knew nothing of such attacks. It was unfathomable. And now, eight years later, it still seems so surreal. The hundreds of lives that were lost, the terror that struck the nation. I still can't comprehend it all. And though it was tragic and uncomprehendable, and I cried during the news stories and memorial services, it didn't directly affect me. But I definitely remember where I was.

And then my third year of motherhood came around. While exchanging some Christmas gifts at Macey's I got a call on my husband's cell phone, which I had with me. It was my sister. Mom had a seizure and was in critical condition. Details unknown. Pray for her. I went into a dressing room stall and knelt down, unsure what to say. I wanted so badly to pray that Mom would be okay. That everything would be fine. But as the tears streamed down my cheek the only thing I could find myself saying was to bless the doctors to know how to help her and most especially to bless my dad. I spent what seemed like an eternity on that dressing room floor trying to understand what it meant. Why couldn't I pray for her? But I knew why. And as I got that second phone call while walking out of the store entrance red-faced and puffy-eyed, and I heard the words "she is gone," it was simply a confirmation of what I already knew had happened. I couldn't pray for her to live because she had already passed to the other side. And though I was in hysterics, crying uncontrollably on that drive home from the mall, I was so grateful to have had that prayerful realization. It made that awful and life-altering loss mildly bearable. And I will ALWAYS remember where I was that day.

A Motherless Motherful Day

It's Easy to feel sorry for myself on this day.

Especially when I look out my back window at my neighbor's family barbecue and see this....
And it makes me REALLY miss this.....


And then this is when I get spotted from behind my bedroom window and Sis. Jacobsen probably starts wondering what type of peeping neighbors she has. woops...






At least I got yummy German pancakes for breakfast made by both my boys, my husband subbed for me in nursery, Evan said "I love you Mommy", and Zion gave me zerberts.

Right of Passage

This is a story about my Mom that I had been meaning to write up for some time. Today at enrichment we were given a few minutes to put together a story for our personal history, so I took that opportunity to put this one on paper.

_______________

As a pubescent teenager, there are two things that can cause you to hide in shame before your peers: shopping with your mom and picking out bras. Imagine the horror when those two are combined. All I could do was pray that the mall would be void of faces I recognized and that my mom would behave herself.

I walked casually through the aisles of unmentionables and avoided physical contact with anything lacy until my mom finally had an armful of hangers, with thin straps attached, for me to try on. I'll admit that the day could have been worse - at least my mom gave me privacy in my stall.

When my fingers became badly crippled from the endless torment of bra clasps, I emerged from the dressing room. I looked for my mother and found her sorting through a display of colorful panties. I hid my head while walking toward her.

With a bubbly voice, she asked if I liked the bra she hung over my door for me to try on. My eyebrow raised as I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. Realizing her mistake she turned to the woman walking past us and said, "Oh my! Did I put a bra in Your dressing room?!"

An Anniversary

It's been a busy day, and I'm glad. Today is the one year anniversary of the sudden passing of my dear and lovely mother. And so if today were not a busy day then I would be emotionally exhausted with bright red, puffy eyes and an empty box of kleenex. I've had too many of those days this week in preparation for this one. So instead, it was a busy day to keep my mind entertained. A relaxing trip to the temple, visiting a friend in the hospital who just had a beautiful baby boy after finding out only 3 weeks ago that she was pregnant (yup! 9 mos along and didn't know it - wouldn't that be somethin'!), tidying up and napping, then a trip with the kids to the Treehouse Museum where they could run around to their hearts content (just preferably in the same direction since I can't split in half - we're still working on that), and now the house is full of grown men acting like teenagers at a Nintendo party hosted by my very own teenager with grey hair named Greg. I'm sure I will have time tonight to fully inhale and comprehend what my life has been like this past year without my mother as my best friend. But for now, I'm glad for the distractions. Sometimes it is just easier that way.

Thoughts on Losing my Mom

written January 08

My mom is gone

I feel so lost

and just so very alone.

Too much of life

now I must live

motherless, on my own.

My mom is gone,

so strange to say,

she's always been there before;

a telephone call,

a problem to solve,

her helping hand there no more.

"It isn't fair!"

I want to scream,

"I need my mom back Now!"

Why did she leave

without saying goodbye?

I need to hear that somehow.

I am too young

to not have my mom

to help me down life's dark roads.

How do I raise

my innocent kids

without Mom to lighten the load?

How do I teach them

to love my mom,

their Grammy they will never know?

The laughs and smiles,

the cuddly hugs,

the joy shared watching them grow?

I have still so much

I need to learn

from my life's greatest teacher.

Who will I turn to

now in my need?

Oh, I wish that I could reach her.

Why weren't "I love you"

the last words I said?

Did she know it to last forever?

Did she know of my love

and gratitude for

all the time we spent together?

Why don't I only

feel darkness and gloom?

Someone must be saying a prayer.

Surprisingly now,

I feel strong somehow

from those prayers being said somewhere.

I know the ending

so beautiful there,

when reunited we all will be.

But that glorious day

seems so very far;

Yet mere minutes in eternity.

Again we'll embrace

in that long hug I've missed,

with smiles across our faces.

Until then find joy

in the memories;

feel her spirit in so many places.