Broken Hearts

I was going to post about the fair. About the triumphs shared by BigGirl, LargeBoy and LargeCousin. About my exhaustion. About BigGirl and LargeCousin's projects which involved repainting and redecorating a bedroom and a bathroom. About how proud I am of LargeBoy passing his Board of Review to become a Life Scout (the rank just below Eagle Scout), and being selected for the Order of the Arrow (kind of like the Boy Scout version of Honor Society). But all of those things were trumped by the news of the death of LargeBoy's scout leader.

Sometimes death comes as a sweet release at the end of pain and suffering, or the chance to be with all of the friends and loved ones who have gone on before. Of course we miss those people, but our pain is tempered and evened by peace. When needless tragedy strikes, it is much harder to assimilate--let alone to bear.

Aaron was 26, preparing to leave for his third tour of duty (twice to Iraq, this time to Afghanistan) next week. He left behind his sweet young wife and their son who turned one a week ago, and the baby girl who is due at Christmas. He also left a gaping hole in the hearts of the Boy Scouts who hero worshiped him.

What young man would not be in awe of a guy who could mountain climb AND skydive, who was an EMT as well as an Eagle Scout with 3 palms, who also played Saxophone, Volleyball and Basketball AND dated tons of girls (before he met and married a fabulous lady). He truly was an awesome roll model, because not only did he have "mad skills"--he was also a kind, good man. I hope my son can be a man like Aaron.

Goodbye, Cookie Grandma

It seems very strange to think of the world without my Grammy in it. I have had plenty of losses in my life--people I love, people who have been tremendously important in my life, but thinking of the world without Grandma Nelson is more like trying to think of the world without oceans, or without the color red. Much too big to comprehend.


Joyce Nelson Furniss, Oct 18th 1920--Dec 31st 2009.
Such a lot of lives are contained within that sentence. Joyce was the exact middle child--three older brothers, three younger brothers. She became the mother of 10 children, 9 of whom lived to maturity. All of them married nice people, and had some lovely children--a total of 45. FORTY-FIVE grandchildren.

Yes, she knew all their names. And middle names. And birthdays, and favorite stuff, and secrets, and how to kiss their owies better, and much, much more!


I am one of the older grandchildren. Actually, I am more of the "second wave". I wasn't old enough to be one of the "big cousins" for a very long time! My oldest cousin, Mike, is six months older than my youngest Aunt, Shanan (this happens surprisingly often in big families). They are about 8 years older than I am, which is a pretty hefty lead in the "being a big kid" stakes--although nothing like the lead I have on the youngest cousin Issac, who was born when I was 27.


The big cousins were remarkably slow on the "settling down and getting married" front, which means that my oldest child (BigGirl) is one of the oldest of the great-grandkids. In fact, they were so slow, that the last of them got married (for the first time) in 2009--and had his 40th birthday on his honeymoon.



However, Grammy FINALLY got some great-grandchildren. And, like compound interest, a little trickle at the beginning has turned into quite the tidal wave. 65 great grandchildren (more or less, I could have missed a couple!) With at least 3 more on the way, due this year.


Grammy spent her last week the way she preferred to spend all of her time--surrounded by family and lots of babies and toddlers. I am sure she sang them the "Grey Kitty Song" and I am jealous of that. Maybe they even got "Keemo-Keimo-Daimey-Wah"--lucky little skunks!




Grammy was one of the most truly selfless people in the world. We all learned great lessons about true love and service from her example. Even when we were terrible-two-year-olds or truly aweful fourteen year olds, we knew we were loved, completely and utterly by our Grammy--no conditions, no questions asked.






A great example of how to be a strong, loving, competent woman!

Grief

I found out today that one of my dear friends has died. She left this mortal world suddenly, leaving behind a huge wake of pain, grief and unanswered questions. Patrice was my first mission companion. As an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I chose to serve an 18 month mission, far from my home and family, speaking a foreign language (it was a humility thing--I asked God to send me somewhere foreign that didn't speak Spanish, having just scraped painfully through a year of Spanish 1 in college--and He sent me to Los Angeles, Spanish speaking. It ended up great, and I loved it, but I would never have chosen it for myself). I paid for the chance to give up college and dating for a year and a half, and in return I got the most amazing life lessons possible.




A mission is a microcosm of life. You are with a companion (of the same gender) 24/7. You study together, teach together, do service together, do laundry together. Sometimes your companions become lifelong friends. Sometimes they are just endured. Hopefully, you learn important lessons about communication, about humility and life skills. The most important lessons you learn are about obedience to God, and becoming a Selfless Service to others as you try to become a true disciple of the Savior.

My mission prepared me for life, for marriage and for future service. I gained MANY wonderful things from it, but the sweetest blessings of all were the friendships I gained. Patrice and I were friends from the start--from day 1. We had so much in common, so much to talk about. We ended up serving together 3 times during our missions, and were room-mates, too.




While I was serving, my family moved across the country, so I ended up going "home" to a new state, new town, new friends. The miles and the years came between us, but we were still friends, even though we didn't talk much.

I was shocked to hear of her passing. I know that this mortal life is not the end of our existence. I know that we have so much to do after we leave this short session on earth--work and friendships and much, much more. However, I grieve for myself, for the talks we won't get to have, for the phone calls and the letters and the inspiration that I am going to miss.




I grieve for her family, left without her smile, trying to make sense of their new reality, left with ripples of pain, frustration and grief. I hope they know that even when they feel mad at God, that He keeps loving them, just the way I loved my small angry toddler when they furiously yelled that they hated me. I knew that they were hungry, tired, and having a meltdown, and that as soon as their little bodies had what they needed, they would be able to feel love again. God is big enough to take it. When we are sad, angry, hostile, horrible--He still loves us, and He loves us even through our pain.

There are no words that I can say that will take their hurt away. I have gone through the lonely and painful path of grief. I can't even fix the stupid, painful things people will say as they try to help ("Everything happens for a reason", "She's in a better place now" "Jesus needed her more than you did") the things that make you want to scream and throw things. The only thing I can say is "I hurt with you, and I am praying for you--and I won't stop".




Au Revoir, Patrice. I love you, I will miss you. Till we meet again.