[just sit with me]

I had an interesting realization on Sunday.

I was at a ward conference. 2 of my dear friends were sitting in front of me. Both have experienced a profound loss. One buried her husband. And one buried her son. Another dear friend was sitting behind me. She also has experienced profound loss with the recent burial of her son.

After the closing hymn, I watched as the friends in front of me wrapped their arms around each other in a warm hug with tears streaming down their cheeks. As I touched their shoulders, they both turned and we were able to share that moment - heart to heart - no words spoken.

As I was leaving the chapel, I stopped to visit with my other friend, and as we clasped hands and spoke of eternity, there was a strong spirit of kinship and love.

I thought about the 4 of us. Grief runs deep in our veins and occasionally spills out through our eyes. Anyone who knows us also knows the loss we've experienced. Because they know that, they are more lenient with random tears and the sadness that lingers just under the surface, bubbling up now and again and affecting us in different ways.

It was comforting to know that the 4 of us could just sit together in our grief. No words needed. No discomfort at our tears or our sadness. There is something so incredibly profound about having someone just sit with you in your grief. It's healing. And wonderful.

And then I looked around. And I saw others in the congregation with tears in their eyes. I don't know their stories. I don't know their heartache. I don't know what grief runs deep in their veins. I don't know if anyone just sits with them in their grief, or if, because their grief is less known or visible than ours, that they carry that burden alone.

"In the quiet heart is hidden sorrows that the eye can't see."

The other day, through a comment made on Facebook, I inadvertently hurt one of my friends. A newly grieving momma that I should have been more aware of, more encouraging to. Even after apologizing, my heart still carries that prick of guilt for hurting her. I wish I would have chosen, instead, to just sit with her. To just love her. I think this is something that I need to work on.

"I will learn the healer's art. To the wounded and the weary I will show a gentle heart. I will be my brother's keeper. Lord, I will follow thee."

[Phases]

A couple of mornings ago, I stepped outside at still dark-thirty to take Sparky potty. It was that time of morning that is super black, just before dawn. I looked up at the sky and noticed a tiny sliver of the moon shining brightly in perfect alignment with Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn. Because the night was so dark, the moon and stars seemed extra bright.

I kept thinking how pretty that little crescent moon was. How brightly it shined. I'm not an astronomer, so I don't know the reason, but the moon felt extra close too. I could see the "dark" part of the full moon and I noticed that it also seemed to be shining. Dimly for sure, but there was still light there.

And I got to thinking...no one looks at that pretty little crescent moon and decides that because the full moon isn't shining that the moon has no value. No one tells the moon that because it isn't fully illuminated that it's not worthy or valuable or important. In fact, even when the moon is almost completely dark, no one questions its place or its importance. We all simply know that sooner rather than later, the moon will shine again. We accept that. And we honor all of the phases of the moon.

So...why is it different with people?

Why is it when someone is in a crescent moon phase, we think something is wrong with them? Or that we need to fix them somehow? Why can't we just accept that for a minute they're going to need to shine at crescent moon capacity? Why can't we celebrate that they are still shining? And maybe align ourselves with them like Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn?

Why can't we see that even the parts of our friend that have gone dark for a bit are still shining? And why can't we encourage and defend and honor those moments? Even the parts that, momentarily, may have gone dark?

That same day, when I went out to get the mail, there was a card addressed to me from a friend that I have not seen in person since the fall of 2013. Inside that card was the sweetest note and a gift card to my favorite soda shop. And for a few minutes, I felt like that little crescent moon - being seen, loved, and celebrated, even though for most of January, parts of me had gone dark. I thought about the previous week when my friends aligned themselves with me to hold me in place as my heart broke again and I went dark for a time.

As I move out of my crescent moon phase, I look around and see that my friends didn't leave. They didn't question. They didn't try to fix me. They simply let me be sad, and celebrated the fact that I was still shining. Still standing.

I want to be like my friends. I want to be an aligner. A celebrator. A defender.

Perhaps, maybe, especially when someone enters a crescent moon phase, we could all be a little more gentle with each other.
A little more understanding. A little more willing to honor.

And perhaps, maybe, we can all be a lot more willing to celebrate those who shine even when they seem to have gone dark...

[Placeholders]

1.23.19

Not gonna lie. Yesterday was rough.
6 years without our Kenton hit me like a freight train.

How very grateful I am for those who reached out through text, FB, mail, poem, and prayer.

When I crawled into bed last night, I couldn't help but pause in a prayer of gratitude for the people in my life that are my placeholders. 

Let me explain what I mean by placeholder...
Do you remember when you were in elementary school and waiting in line for say, the drinking fountain or your turn while playing HORSE at recess? And all of a sudden you really REALLY had to go to the bathroom? So your friend in front of you and your friend behind you became your placeholder as you left the line - holding your place until you returned.

As an adult, that same thing happens. At least for me. I hope you have placeholders too. Friends in front and friends in back who hold your place when you need a breather. Friends we see and friends we don't.

"In the gospel of Jesus Christ, you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike - and they will - you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened, we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. They will always be there." [Jeffrey R. Holland]

Yesterday I was reminded so clearly that I have many, many placeholders. Some are constant there in line with me. I see them frequently. We interact frequently. Others are what I call my "fringe placeholders." They're the ones that, although we don't interact frequently, and we rarely see each other, are there by my side when I fall out of line for a bit. The card sent in the mail every.single.year to arrive exactly on Kenton's angel day. The text the day before angel day every.single.year that just says, "I'm praying for you guys!" The bouquet of roses that arrive in the arms of one of my dear sweet other daughters. 

I think that placeholders are more crucial to our well-being than we realize. 

They're the ones who catch us when we fall. The ones who carry us when we're weak. The ones who hold a place for us when we just need a minute to breathe. They're the ones who bring us back to ourselves.

Elder Neil L. Andersen, in his talk, Wounded, from October 2018 General Conference said, "We search for happiness. We long for peace. We hope for love. And the Lord showers us with an amazing abundance of blessings. But intermingled with the joy and happiness, one thing is certain: there will be moments, hours, days, sometimes years when your soul will be wounded. Wounds of the soul are not unique to the rich or the poor, to one culture, one nation, or one generation. They come to all and are part of the learning we receive from this mortal experience. Even with your own painful wounds, you will instinctively reach out to others, trusting in the Savior's promise: 'Whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.' The wounded who nurse the wounds of others are God's angels on earth."

"The Lord will surround and protect [us] with chariots of fire, as He did for Elisha, in the form of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, neighbors, leaders, and friends who will vigorously love them. "They that be with us are more than they that be with them." [Sharon G. Larson, October 2001 General Conference: "Fear Not: For They That Be With Us Are More."]

Today, I return to my position as placeholder. Grateful to those angels who held my place as my wounded soul took a day to grieve. Today, I am determined to stand, to ride in those chariots of fire, and to love vigorously. 

[recognizing the hand of God]

[a bit of back story into today's writing...]

I've been a little weepy this week.

Our first graduation announcement arrived the other day. I knew it was coming because Tiff, with her wonderfully sensitive and caring heart, had asked if Max could send one or if it would be too painful. How grateful I am for friends who continue to carry our hearts in such personal and thoughtful ways.

Even with the advance notice, I have to admit, opening that announcement was bittersweet. It opened a whole new level of grief to be dealt with. And that's okay. It needed to happen. And now it's open and we can begin to heal that level.

Yesterday, selfishly, I ran away for a while. 

I went to the craft expo in Sandy. 

All alone. A long time in the quiet car. 

Processing. 

Thinking. 

Crying.

Feeling defeated and sad.

On the way home, I needed to stop at WinCo to grab a couple of things. I missed the exit and had to take the next exit, backtracking several miles. I was frustrated because I was ready to be home.

Little did I know then that I was being placed exactly in a position to recognize Heavenly Father's hand in my life as He gave me an opportunity to serve.

I wandered the store, grabbing what we needed. And a few extras of course. 

As I approached the checkout, I chose a line that had one gentleman in line with just a few groceries. Some bananas, some bread, and a few other things. Necessity things. The cashier scanned the gentleman's items and told him the total [$21.28] as I unloaded my very full cart onto the belt.

The gentleman swiped his card. It was declined. 

Embarrassed, he swiped another. It was also declined.

He opened his wallet and several cards fell to the floor.

He asked the cashier to take the bananas and bread off his total.

He tried another card. And another. Both declined.

His hands shook as he tried to put the cards back into his wallet. 

He was ashamed. Hurt. 

Ready to give up and walk away without his groceries.

Suddenly, I felt myself being pushed forward [pretty sure Kenton had been standing there all along just waiting for me to step up on my own, and when I didn't, he gave me a little push!], opening my wallet, and hearing myself say, "Please add the bananas and bread back to his order. Sir, please may I pay for your groceries today?" 

With tears streaming down his weathered cheeks, he humbly nodded and stepped aside so I could swipe my card. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized then that I had been given that moment to minister to someone. To step outside myself and share the love of our Savior with someone in need.

As this kind gentleman bagged his groceries, he did so with a smile on his face and tears still in his eyes. He thanked me profusely, again, took his bags, and left. I paid for my groceries and began to bag them. The lady behind me put her hand on my arm and said, "Thank you for reminding me how important it is to be kind. You have inspired me to do something for someone today. That was very touching."

I don't share this story as a "look at me" moment. I would rather not share. But I also do not want to forget.

Today during ward conference, and again at standards night, President Acevedo gave us some direction to help us get closer to our Savior. 

He said, "Each morning ask God to put you in someone's path to minister to them."

And each night we should write down the moment we recognized Heavenly Father directing our service. 

I am looking forward to following President's counsel. I know that in doing so I will be able to work through this new level of grief without getting lost in my own sadness. 

A few weeks ago at another ward conference, President said, "We are given many promises, but the storms don't always stop. The enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ is to give us the ability to go on through our trials, to make us like Him by giving us the strength to overcome."

I'm grateful for the opportunity I had to serve yesterday. President Acevedo said, "It is a privilege and duty to lift and to serve others. When we're serving someone else, it's REALLY hard to think about ourselves."

That service I was called to give was simple. It was profound. It reminded me that Heavenly Father is acutely aware of each of us. And he often uses us to answer prayers, spoken and unspoken, of those around us.

"What we think is what we become. What we do is who we are. Choose to be armed with power."

[Faith to Conquer Fear]

Sunday at church, the primary kids sang the song "To Be a Pioneer." It had been a rough couple of weeks, and, honestly, I really wasn't paying attention. I was just kind of there. But as they finished the first verse and chorus, and then started the second verse, my heart opened as I heard these words...

"You do need to have great courage, faith to conquer fear..."

Faith to conquer fear. I love that. 

The next verse is exactly what this life is...

"We are marching, ever marching,
We are marching, ever marching,
Marching onward, ever onward..."

That's what life is. Marching onward. With faith enough to conquer fear.

This morning I was reading in 2nd Nephi 31. I challenged my cute Mia Maids on Sunday to read from the Book of Mormon daily like President Acevedo asked us to at Stake Conference in January. His challenge was also to find those verses that had special meaning to us and to write why.

2 Nephi 31 is heavily marked in my scriptures. Nearly every verse is highlighted, and I have added notes from each time I've read or highlighted over the years. This morning there were a few things that I absolutely really loved. 

Verse 3...for my soul delighteth in plainness...for the Lord God giveth light unto the understanding; for he speaketh unto men according to their language, unto their understanding.

Living the gospel is simple. Understanding the gospel is simple. Read the Book of Mormon. It's true. The gospel is true. Heavenly Father loves us. The Atonement is a real and a wonderful gift that allows us access to the faith we need to conquer the fears of living in a time where everything we believe is under attack.

And verse 20...wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, FEASTING upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life.

On Sunday I talked with my cute Mia Maids about why they thought President Acevedo asked us to read daily and find why certain scriptures reached out to us during our reading. The answer is right there. FEAST upon the word of Christ. Not nibble. Not snack. Not graze. FEAST. Daily reading helps develop our "scripture voice." That ability to "hear" what messages our Heavenly Father is sending us that day. I know that as we read more consistently, the messages come through so much more clearly.

The reminders throughout chapter 21 to endure to the end and the simpleness that is the Gospel of Jesus Christ always help me realign my will with Heavenly Father's will. They truly give me faith to conquer fear. 

I don't need to know everything right now. Someday I will understand it all. Until then, I will rely on my Savior's perfect love and Atonement to get through the days when I'm ready to quit.

Guys, the church is true and we are so loved.

[you can say yes today...]

3 weeks ago this evening, Luke handed me the phone and shrugged. Anyone who knows me doesn't call. They text. I was confused.

I answered and heard, "Sister Reynolds, this is President Keller..." and then I think I stopped listening for a minute because I couldn't hear over the rapid fire pounding of my heart.

Eventually I heard, "...tomorrow, 8:00? Will that work?" 

Um....sure?

Fast forward to the next night at 8. I'm sitting at the stake center facing President Keller and he is telling me that they're calling me to be [you can laugh here, I did - because this is not a calling I have ever heard of!] the stake girl's camp food coordinator.

We chatted for a minute and then he said something that I keep thinking back to.

"You can accept this calling and say yes right now. Or you can say you'll think about it and come back tomorrow to talk to me and say yes then. You are the only one for this calling."

The funny thing is, I didn't feel pressured to accept that calling. Just reassurance that it was, indeed, my calling.

Now, this post really has nothing to do with [ahem] being the stake girl's camp food coordinator, and everything about those 5 words - YOU CAN SAY YES TODAY.

This grief road is a tricky one to navigate. 

There are pitfalls and hidden traps that suck you in without warning and take away your ability to think, to breathe, to move forward for a while.

There are moments of brilliant, heart soothing comfort that give you respite and help rebuild the foundation of your faith.

And there are moments in between. I sometimes wonder if those in between moments are the hardest. They're the ones where you aren't sure what to feel. Are you sad? Angry? Happy? Confused? Unsettled? Anxious? Okay? Worried? More than likely it's all of those all at once.

You start to doubt just about everything about yourself.
And you can feel yourself pulling away from the people who love you and want to help you.
You feel yourself pulling away from the things you love to do.
Why? Because in those in between moments, you can't make things matter.

But here's the deal.
Those things do matter.
Those people matter.
You matter.

What is it that you need on one of those in between days? Is it a nap? Is it a chocolate bar? Is it a milkshake or a big cheeseburger or a little retail therapy? Possibly, yes. And if that's the case, I highly recommend getting that. Within reason of course.

Here's where, at least for me, those five words - YOU CAN SAY YES TODAY - come in to play. 

I can say yes to prayer.
I can say yes to scripture study.
I can say yes to a friend asking if they can help [oh is this ever a hard one for me!!!].
I can say yes to a hug.
I can say yes to Luke bringing dinner home instead of me feeling beaten down because I couldn't manage to get dinner on the table that night. Again.

But here's the biggest one...
I can say yes to service.
I can say yes to helping someone else.
I can say yes to sending a text or a card or a pizza to someone that is struggling.

Because in doing that, I'm saying yes, I see you. 
I understand you.
I'm not judging you.
I love you.

We all need someone to see us.
To love us.

Once in a while, those around us ask for help.
Most of the time they don't.
We have to be listening. 
That's my calling.

So when I'm listening and I get that prompting to just be nice...
I CAN SAY YES TODAY!
And so can you...

[In the arena]

Wow, guys! I didn't realize that so many of you were still here. My heart smiled with each comment you left, whether here, on Facebook, or in a text. Thank you for loving us still.

My heart has been pretty tender this week.

Mother's Day does that more than most other days.

I see post after post of Skype calls home from missionaries.
That still really rocks me to the core.
I try so hard not to be jealous.
Or angry.
Sometimes I'm successful.
Usually I retreat for a while instead.
Allow myself to just feel.
Eventually, I can be happy for those moms that get the phone call home.
It just takes some time.

On each of the past two Mother's Days, I have one friend who, in the midst of her excitement to talk to her own missionary, has taken a moment to text me - a simple text - "I wish they had Skype in Heaven so you could get a call today too." The text that always brings me to tears. Tears of gratitude for her concern, her friendship, her love, her unselfish heart.

Other texts come - they range from long thoughts to simply "Love you - thinking of you - praying for you" kinds of texts. Texts from friends who have lived our story with us.

And this year, two new friends touched my heart so profoundly. One simply wrapped her arms around me and said, "I just love you." The other pulled me into a hug and said, "You're so brave." And while I certainly didn't feel completely brave - I felt exposed and scared and angry and sad - I showed up at church anyway.

Because that's what we do.
We show up.
We show up when we feel brave.
We show up when we feel scared.
We show up when we feel angry.
We show up when we feel sad.

Some people see only our brave, but seem to instinctively know that there is fear under that bravery. Fear and anger and hurt and grief. And sadness. They encourage our brave by allowing those other feelings a place as well. By not walking away when those other things show up so much more glaringly.

Others choose to only see our sad.

I know that's the easiest to see.
It's so much more visual than brave.

You know what I've learned though?
It takes bravery to be sad.
No, that's not quite right.
It takes bravery to show sad.

"I've learned that the people who love me, the people I really depend on, were never the critics who were pointing at me while I stumbled. They weren't in the bleachers at all. They were with me in the arena. Fighting for me and with me.

"Nothing has transformed my life more than realizing that it's a waste of time to evaluate my worthiness by weighing the reaction of the people in the stands. The people who love me and will be there regardless of the outcome are within arm's reach. This realization changed everything." - Brene' Brown

So why do we do it?
Why do we allow you to see these parts of us?
The parts that are terrifying and uncomfortable for both us and you.
Why don't we choose to show only the brave?

"We simply can't learn to be more vulnerable and courageous on our own. Sometimes, our first and greatest dare is asking for support." - Brene' Brown

I have a friend who is going through a very deep and personal trial right now.
It would be so much easier for me to stay on the sidelines and allow someone else to fight with her in the arena.
But she needs me.
She needs what I've learned.
What I've experienced.
And so, I'm stepping into the arena.
I'll stand with her.
I'll fight with her.
And for her.
Because she shouldn't have to do this alone.
None of us should have to do this alone.

Are you willing to step into the arena with someone?
To stand with them instead of walking away?
It doesn't have to be a grand show.
Choose to engage instead of disengage.
To love instead of judge.
It's hard.
Sometimes it's dang hard.
Chances are you'll probably cry.
I can almost guarantee you'll be uncomfortable.
No one ever grew without a little bit of discomfort.

Please pray for us.
For me.
For my family.
And for my friend.
The story is hers to share when and if she chooses.
But I'm pretty sure that Heavenly Father will know who you're talking about when you ask for strength, guidance, courage, peace, and comfort for "Deb's friend."
He's pretty great that way.

Guys, we need each other.
We all need each other.
You can give someone courage by standing with them and fighting for them.
And in the end, you'll be surprised by how much that act of standing changes you too.

[Daring Greatly]

For a few months, close to a year now, ever since I decided to take a leave of absence from teaching, Heather has been hinting flat out telling me that I need to read a few books - Daring Greatly, Rising Strong, and Big Magic.

I don't like to be told what to do. ;)
So I resisted.

Until now.

Yesterday afternoon, knowing that I couldn't do much of anything since my back is still being super awesome, I went to the library and picked up Daring Greatly. I thought for sure it would be good and would give me something to do while I sit around recuperating, but questioned whether it would be that good. Like, do I really need to fork out ten bucks for a book on being brave?!



Came home, had dinner, and posted on Instagram and Facebook about my library choices. Immediately, friends started posting how much they adore Brene' Brown - how she just "gets it" - how "life changing" her books are. 

I was still skeptical.

Bedtime - Luke heated up the big heat pack for my back and I crawled into bed with this book (and a super awesome headlamp, but hey, ya gotta do what ya gotta do!) thinking I'd read a few pages before falling asleep...

56 pages in and I could have kept reading. The problem was - this was not my book. I couldn't write in it. I couldn't highlight things. I couldn't tag pages. 

I ordered my own copy this morning. :)

What's so great about this book? It's hard to pinpoint for me right now. There are phrases that jumped out so strongly. Paragraphs that spoke to my heart. 

Phrases like this one...

Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage.

Heather warned me to be prepared to feel all the feelings. She wasn't wrong.

I had tears. I smiled. I cringed. I was encouraged. I was scared. 

For a long time, I have felt that I needed to return to this blog - Kerry encouraged my return several months ago, but at that point, I was not ready. 

Now, I am. I'm ready to share more of our story. More of our healing process. 

To say that this isn't scary to me would be less than true. But I'm ready.

We get from a lot of people that we should be past this. That we should be happy all the time (which, really?! - is anyone ever happy all the time?!). That our grief timeline has closed.

Truth? You never get past something like this. 
Anyone who says they have is lying.

But how can you know that about us if we don't let you see it? How can you relate to us or to anyone who has had to bury a child if we don't share those parts of us that make us who we are now. We're different than we were before Kenton died. And yet, in some ways, we're the same.

Kenton is such a part of who we are as a family. He is our boy. Forever our boy. And missing him is something we will always feel. 

Some days that grief is like a sliver that only hurts when you pick at it. Some days, that grief is like a stubbed toe that is a dull ache. And some days, that grief is still blinding - hurting so badly that you can't catch your breath.

It's normal. 
We're not crazy. 
We're not focused on our grief. 

We are still living. We work, we play, we serve, we love. But that sadness is part of who we are.

And so, I'm back. You're welcome to stay. Pull up a chair and stay. Or, you're welcome to go. I won't be offended. Sometimes, the story being shared isn't a good fit for where we are in our lives. I get that. 

If you stay, please talk to me. Or don't. Maybe you're not in a place where you're ready to engage in conversation about any of this. Maybe you just need to see my openness for a while. And that's okay.

If you're ready to engage, please leave a comment, a question - let me know that you're here. What of our story touches you? What scares you? What makes you want to be better or stronger or more gentle?

This is our story. This is our life. 

730 days

2 years ago, we were sitting in Kenton's hospital room.  
The 4 of us.  
Our forever family.

Blinds pulled.  
Silent except for the sound of sniffles and tissues wiping tears.

We held on to each other, prayerful, hurting, as we faced a decision that had blind-sided us.  Knocked our feet out from under us.

The facts were sprawled out in front of us, like barbs on a wire fence.  
Each fact tearing at us, leaving us wounded. 
Bleeding.

Just a few hours later, our Bishopric would arrive.  
We would talk.  
We would cry.  
We would continue to hold on to each other.  

And then we would know.

After individual priesthood blessings.  
After the hours of prayer and tears.  

We would know.

And just like that.  Decision made.  Not lightly.  Not in a moment of panic or despair.  

But in a moment in that hospital room that was full of angels. We felt them there. Holding us in our moments of heartache and despair.  Sadness and heartbreak. We felt familiar angels. Loved ones gone before sent to comfort. And to grieve with us.

In a moment that was filled with both peace and anguish, we would know.  

We would nod as Kenton looked at each of us, tears spilling out onto his cheeks, telling us, "We stop treatment."

It was a moment pressed into our hearts by a loving Father in Heaven letting us know that Kenton's earthly mission was nearing completion.  That he had served well. Faithfully. Bravely.

There were so many more tears.  
We knew what that decision meant.  

It meant signing DNR papers.  
It meant talking about things like hospice. 

And funerals.

And it meant talking about things like eternal families. 
Heavenly Father. 
The Plan of Salvation. 

How I wish our family been granted an old-man life span for our Kenton. 

Some day this will all make sense.  
Today is not that day.

2 years ago.  
730 days.
It feels like only yesterday.  

And yet, it feels like forever.

[insert kicking, screaming, weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth]

We're so not ready for the break to be over.

And January is such a hard month anyway....

That's all.

[tick, tock, tick, tock...]

...that's the sound in my head.  Tick.Tock.Tick.Tock.

Counting down the minutes until we go back to reality again.  
School. Work. Piano. Violin. Alarms. Homework. Schedules.

I've so enjoyed being home. 
Cooking. Cleaning. Crafting. Resting. Reading. Baking. Playing.

We really haven't done anything the whole break.
And it's been so nice.

Today we went to the grocery store.
Yay, us.  ;)

On a side note, other than 1 lunch from McD's for Grammy, Goose, and I, and 1 lunch from McD's for Grammy and Goose while Luke and I had El Toro, we have eaten at home every single meal.  That has to be a new record.  
It's been so nice.
Today we did buy fried chicken for Grammy and Goose.  Luke and I had a sandwich at home while putting away the groceries.
I've done another 3 in 30 - working in the craft room today.

My desk is actually almost functional.
My newest stamps are waiting in a basket to be used.
I should do that tonight.

I'm going to go shape the bread for dinner.
And maybe craft.

Grammy and Goose have made about a hundred twenty one little perler bead projects this week.  They're having lots of fun.

Something about going back to a schedule pulls at me.
Equal  parts relief and anxiety.

Today has been hard.
Again.
2 years ago today, Kenton came home.  HOME.

2 days later he was headed back to PCMC.
19 days later, he was gone.

The month of January is bleak.
Sad.
Hard.

We'll survive.

[day 2 of 2015]

The New Year's Eve celebrations and traditions just about did me in.  I think I spent as much time hiding in the bathroom as I did actually celebrating.  I just kept thinking, "Stupid holidays.  Stupid traditions."  As much as I wanted to be cheerful and happy and positive, I just couldn't beat down the anxiety and heartache for very long at any given time.  

In fact, I would have just as soon climbed into bed around 9 and skipped the whole ringing in the new year altogether.

Does that make me a bad mom? Perhaps.  
Whatever.

We started with fireworks at the cemetery to celebrate with Kenton.  
It was cold.  
I know he appreciated the effort and the fireworks.

Then we watched a movie and made bags.  Luke didn't want to make shirts again this year.  That was our Kenton thing.  I think he was hurting too much this year too.  

At 9 we played Operation and the new game McKayslin got for her birthday from Christiansens.  

At 10:30 we watched a movie.  

At midnight we lit fireworks here at home and sprayed silly string and had sprinkle pancakes.  
And went to bed.

I'm sure the whole evening was equal parts successful and crappy for McKayslin.  
I wish I could do better.

In trying to figure out just why this holiday was so much harder than Christmas even, the only thing I could come up with is that when 2015 started, that would be our 2nd full year starting without our boy.  I don't think that makes sense to anyone else.  Most of the time nothing I think even makes sense to me.

Whatever.

2015 came.  
We started another whole year without our Kenton.

And in 20 days we will recognize Kenton's angel day.  
Yet another painful day of reminders of all of the things we won't get to do with our Kenton.  A reminder that we won't get to make any new memories.  Or take any new pictures.  Or hear that laugh.  See that smile.  Get those hugs.  

We always miss him.  
Some days we just miss him harder than others.

Yesterday was an interesting day.  We're all a bit on edge.  
Tired. Worn down.
Ready to return to a routine.

Our house feels claustrophobic. 
I decided to take the ©CleanMama #clutterfree30 challenge.  

I didn't tell Luke.  I just started cleaning out a cupboard (yesterday's challenge was 3 bags of clutter gathered in 30 minutes).  

In that one cupboard I found a full garbage can full of expired hot chocolate (like 2009 expired), medicine, and cans of food.  Luke jumped right in to help, and together we cleared 7 of the 8 cupboards on the east side of the kitchen.  3 garbage cans full and a big box to donate.  

We kept going.  
By the end of the day (today's challenge is actually the pantry clean sweep, but we did it together yesterday), we had cleaned the kitchen, done some organization, and cleaned out the whole downstairs pantry.

It was fun working together and the results were awesome.
What wasn't awesome was the amount of food that had to be thrown away.
Lessons are sometimes pretty expensive.

With each bag out of the house, I felt a little lighter, a little better.  
Last night I was that good kind of exhausted that comes from working really hard and getting something finished.

Today I start on my craft room.
It's kind of the crap room right now.  
The holding pen for the wayward stuff that doesn't have a home.
One day it will be a dedicated craft room.  
Cute.
Functional.
That day won't be tomorrow.
Or even the next day.
It might not even be next week.
But it will happen.

First, the Sparky dog needs a bath and a haircut.

We'll see how the day goes from there.

Praying that day 2 of 2015 leaves me feeling that same good kind of exhausted as day 1 did.  

Because day 365 of 2014 just really hurt...

[it's almost 2015]

The morning was spent budgeting (double ick), organizing the pantry (ick), menu planning (a little less ick), and baking a delicious Texas Sheet Cake with the Goose (not at all ick!).

Since Saturday evening, Grammy has been feeling progressively more yucky, so when she asked to go to the dr. today, Luke jumped on the chance.  They're there now.  Haven't heard what it is that's ailing her.  My guess is it's the same gomboo that plagued McKayslin and I for the past week.  Luke seems to have held out on the sickness.  Hopefully he won't get hit right before he has to go back to work...

The house is very quiet right now.  Almost too quiet.

The morning was filled with lots of discussion, a little wondering, and a whole lot of thinking.  That, combined with the now quiet, has my brain kicked into overdrive and my freak out mode in full force.  

This afternoon, Luke and the girls will do a drive by to see Kenton (with a wind chill of well below zero, a drive by will have to do - sorry little buddy!).  I will do a drive by when I head down to school to pick up a few things to work on.  Need to get my phonics lessons planned and prepped and caught up before Monday hits.  And homework for the next couple of weeks.  And perhaps a couple of sets of emergency sub plans depending on what our friend Shauna might need.

The tree will come down this afternoon.  Or tomorrow depending on how things go at the dr. with Grammy.  And with that, we've survived our 2nd Christmas without Kenton.

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve.  Our traditional three gifts should bring laughs and fun and memories (which will bring some sadness, some tears, and a whole lot of missing our boy).  We'll light fireworks at the cemetery at midnight, and come home for sprinkle filled pancakes with whipped cream.  

And just like that, 2015 will be here.  The 2nd year to start without our boy.  On the 22nd, we'll mark 2 years that Kenton has been gone.

I think of that, and I wonder - are you proud of us, Bubs?  Do you miss us as much as we miss you?  Do you think of us as often as we think of you?  

And I wonder how we've made it almost two full years without that smile, those hugs, that laugh, and all that love.  Or how we'll make it another year...

[a mess]

Christmas is over.

McKayslin's birthday is over.

New Year's Eve is in 2 days.

All of this wraps up into one big huge emotional mess of a time of year.  

Try as I may, I can not, just can't, make it work.  

I can't juggle the emotions of everyone in this house while I attempt to juggle my own.

I can't put on a smile and go out in public and pretend that my broken heart isn't.

I can't spend too much time with the people I love because their sadness echoes my own so deeply that soon we're all just lost in the sad.

So our days consist of reading.  TV.  Computer time.  Tablet time.  Cooking.  Eating.  And lots of time in separate rooms away from each other.

It certainly doesn't help that McKayslin and I both caught some awesome bug last weekend.  And that she missed the last 2 days of school.  Or that I still am not feeling well.  And Grammy is now sick. 

It doesn't help that today for dinner I made ham and beans - the one meal Kenton requested I make for him when he was finally better and didn't get to make for him at all.

It most definitely doesn't help that our house still looks like Christmas threw up all over because no one has the emotional energy to take it all down and put it all away.

Today, Luke and I went on a date.  
Lunch.
Shopping.
Mostly to get the things on our list, plus the traditional 3 gifts of New Year's Eve.
It's hard.
The memories.
The emotions.
The knowing Kenton doesn't get to do any of this with us anymore.

Taking pictures, knowing that I won't ever have any new ones of him.
Looking at old pictures, wishing I'd taken more.
Wishing I'd written the memories of the pictures.
Catching up on some scrapbooking.
Heart ripped out of my chest and lying in shards on the floor with each page.

Wondering if the new year will bring an added measure of peace that we so desperately seek.  Knowing that the peace will come, but praying that it stays.  That it heals.

And just so many other things that are so illogical and unreasonable that I can't even make myself say them out loud...

Feeling like my best will never ever be good enough again.

[zion]

On Sunday, our Sunday School lesson was The Gathering of Israel.  Our lesson started late.  We had exactly 29 minutes.  The lesson started out on track as we discussed the physical and spiritual gathering of Israel.  And then I shared something I had learned in my lesson study.  A quote from Elder Bruce R. McConkie.  (I actually used a lot of a talk he'd given in preparing to teach the lesson (Come: Let Israel Build Zion)).

The message which has come to us is that the Lord will “have mercy upon Zion: for the time to favour her, yea, the set time, is come.

I shall speak of the manner in which the Lord will build up Zion, the manner in which the Lord is having mercy upon Zion, and the part we are expected to play in the building of Zion.

...as of now, the Lord has laid upon us the responsibility to lay the foundation for that which is to be. We have been commissioned to prepare a people for the second coming of the Son of Man. We have been called to preach the gospel to every nation and kindred and tongue and people. We have been commanded to lay the foundations of Zion and to get all things ready for the return of Him who shall again crown the Holy City with his presence and glory.

Zion is people; Zion is the saints of God; Zion is those who have been baptized; Zion is those who have received the Holy Ghost; Zion is those who keep the commandments; Zion is the righteous...

After sharing this quote, I asked first, "Where is Zion?" and second, "How is Heavenly Father showing mercy upon us?"

The remainder of our lesson was spent discussing Zion.  And our Heavenly Father's love of us that is shown so clearly within our Zion.  That is one of his greatest mercies.  That we are surrounded by those who love, serve, support, guide, and help us along our path.

Zion is right here.  It is my own little family.  My own little circle of friends.  My own extended family.  My own little ward.  My own stake.  Right here.  Right now.  

What is my responsibility within Zion?  We have been commissioned to prepare a people for the second coming of the Son of Man. We have been called to preach the gospel to every nation and kindred and tongue and people. We have been commanded to lay the foundations of Zion and to get all things ready for the return of Him who shall again crown the Holy City with his presence and glory.  Pretty clear.

As the discussion continued on preparing a people for the second coming of our Savior, we talked a lot about example and service.  Like it or not, regardless of our circumstances, and sometimes because of our circumstances, people watch us.  They watch what we say.  They watch what we do.  They watch how we treat those around us.  They watch how we respond to challenges and to the task of daily life.  I've heard it said many times, "You are always an example - you can be a good one or a bad one, but you're always an example."  This is something on which I need to work.

I really love our ward.  I really love our stake.  I really love our little town.  There are so many great people here.  So many people that love our Savior and constantly find ways to lift and serve others, not to say hey look at me, I'm so awesome!, but in a manner that that exemplifies the love of our Savior.

This discussion brought me up sharply in remembrance of all of the loving acts of service we have received.  Meals, money, fundraisers, cards, letters, texts, visits, treats... we live in our own little Zion and it's a pretty great place to live. 

However, that being said, I'll admit that it's been a rough few days.  

The days after a really awesome spiritual experience usually are.
  
I need to do better at remembering that.

Remembering that my emotions will be higher.  Tighter.
That my patience will be shorter.  
And that my tolerance level will be non-existent.

Satan is real.
  
And I let him in this week by allowing simple things to breed anger and impatience.
By responding with annoyance instead of understanding.

I simply must do better.

I took an interesting quiz yesterday at www.16personalities.com .
My results: Your personality type: INFP (turbulent variant)
Strength of individual traits: Introverted: 83%, Intuitive: 40%, Feeling: 81%, Prospecting: 56%, Turbulent: 93%. 

INFPs are driven by a strong sense of right and wrong and a desire to exercise their creativity, even if only behind the scenes. Their weaknesses include sensitivity to criticism, poor organization, and low assertiveness. Keirsey referred to the INFPs as Healers, one of the four types belonging to the temperament he called the Idealists.^[2] INFPs are one of the rarer types, accounting for about 4-5% of the population.^[3]

The turbulent variant part made me a little sad.  The best I can figure is that my emotions are still all over the place.  I suppose that just gives me an awareness.  I can't hide behind my grief.  Or use it as an excuse.  I can't live there.  I DON'T HAVE TO LIVE THERE!  I can miss Kenton, as I do with every piece of my heart, but I can miss him while still showing an outpouring of love and patience to those around me.

Going forward, my goal is to be less sharp, less critical, more supportive, more forgiving, more understanding.  I respond too quickly.  Expect too much.  Allow hurt to enter too easily.  We have been commanded to preach the gospel... and in my experience that mostly comes down to living the gospel.  Responding with kindness, patience, love.  Doing my part to build up my own little Zion instead of tearing it down. 

Today I am grateful for forgiveness.

** And, yes, I realize that this post is all over the place and probably makes zero sense to anyone reading it.  Not that anyone really does read it, but whatevs.  Today I needed to dump my thoughts.  That's how I attempt to organize and work through them.  I don't know if it worked or not.  

[gethsemane]

Jesus climbed the hill
To the garden still
His steps were heavy and slow
Love and a prayer
Took Him there
To the place only He could go

Gethsemane
Jesus loves me
So He went willingly
To Gethsemane

He felt all that was sad, wicked or bad
All the pain we would ever know
While His friends were asleep
He fought to keep
His promise made long ago

Gethsemane
Jesus loves me
So He went willingly
To Gethsemane

The hardest thing That ever was done
The greatest pain that ever was known
The biggest battle that ever was won
This was done by Jesus.
The fight was won by Jesus.

Gethsemane
Jesus loves me
So he gave His gift to me
In Gethsemane

Gethsemane
Jesus loves me
So he gives His gift to me
From Gethsemane


Saturday night I went to bed and found myself praying.  That's not an unusual occurrence, but this night there were many dear friends on my heart...

In my little circle there are many that are struggling.
Aching.
Hurting.
Feeling lost.
Alone.
Afraid.
And just so sad.
Facing trials that could break them.

As I prayed, I kept repeating the phrase ...and please, Father, let them feel thy peace, the peace that only comes through the Atonement.  Please...

With tears on my cheeks and a continued prayer in my heart, I closed my prayer and drifted off to sleep.  As I was slipping into sleep, I heard this song.  It's one of my favorites.  But I've never heard it sung quite like I did that night. A chorus of angels were singing me to sleep, reminding me of the greatest gift I've been given.  Helping me recognize and remember the love of our Father and our Savior.

This morning on Facebook, I read the update on our little friend Ethan that his mom posted last night...
For those who haven't heard, Ethan has gone steadily downhill on a slippery slope today. He has basically lost one function after another. We were told by the doctors that he will most likely not make it through this. The kids are on their way, and they will make sure to keep him alive until the kids can get here to say their goodbyes. There is a very small chance that things could turn around, but right now, it isn't looking good. I am so grateful for the plan of happiness, and the peace of the gospel. I don't know how we would do this without it.

He felt all that was SAD.  
All of it.
Even this.

We're not alone.
We never have been.
We never will be.

I am so grateful.