[facing the crazy]

Some days (weeks, months, years??) I find myself in a whirlpool of crazy that doesn't seem to have an exit.  A whirlpool of sad, and scared, and angry, and alone.  When I hit the center of that whirlpool, spinning in dizzying circles of grief and anger and loneliness, I'm not myself.  I'm just an awfully confused person trying to figure out whether it's safer to ride out the whirlpool or shut this crazy down as quickly as possible.

Yesterday, particularly, was one of those days.

I felt the whirlpool begin last Sunday morning, and throughout the week, the tug and pull and dark just kept getting stronger, darker, scarier.  

After Jason's funeral yesterday, I just had nothing left with which to fight.  I was done.  Ready to come home, succumb to the crazy and just ride it out at home in my pajamas with a healthy dose of Diet Coke and chocolate, knowing that today I wouldn't feel much better, but not knowing what else to do.

And then Luke said that Taylor's game had been moved from 11 to 2.  It was 1:30...and we needed to eat lunch.  After a few texts from Cia, and a very kind offering from President, and a delicious lunch at Juniper Take Out, we found ourselves on the benches at Logan High watching Taylor play.  And just like that, I realized, again, that it takes friends to hold me up when I face the crazy.

It was a good game.  The sun was shining.  McKayslin loved being there with Dani and Cameron and President and Cia and watching her biggest brother play ball.  I loved being there with friends that just stand with us as the crazy rolls on through - no judgment, no backing down, no expectations.  (And now, dang it, my good make-up day was just ruined as the tears course down my cheeks yet again!).

Did I mention that the sun was shining?  It was a very warm day.  I loved it.  Everyone else said it was so very hot.  Nothing quite like baking your brains out on metal bleachers watching baseball.  :)

After the game, we headed home.  Our plans for home were interrupted by another text (and then a phone call, ha, ha!) insisting that we come boating...

I hate water.  Let me clarify... I HATE WATER! I'm terrified of being in large open bodies of water.  McKayslin, not so much.  Luke, maybe a little bit.  But our Acevedo family was pretty insistent, and within the hour we were on the lake.  

McKayslin loved being on the water.  In the water.  She jumped in and swam around and loved being loved by her other family.  Her safe place.

I loved watching the tenderness and care that those big boys use with her.  They tease her like crazy, but every once in a while, when they think no one is watching, there's a hand on a shoulder, a gentle smile, and sometimes even a hug.  

I'm sure it's frustrating altering plans and the normal way of doing things to accommodate other people.  I know it is.  But not once in the whole day with our Acevedo family, did we feel that we were frustrating to them.

Bubs would have loved yesterday.  He would have loved being there to show love and support for our dear Wiberg friends as they said good-bye to Jason, because Kenton KNEW and understood the Plan of Salvation.  

He would have loved cheering for Tay. Because watching baseball is almost as good as playing baseball!

And he absolutely would have LOVED being on the water!!  Some of my favorite pictures of Kenton are from his one and only scout camp (circa 2011) down at Peterson Beach.  He spent nearly the whole camp in the water...

But most of all, just like the rest of us, he would have loved being with his Acevedo family.  His safe place.  

Oh how we miss our boy!

We came home, just a little more pink than we started the day, but in a whole lot better place.  The night came, and we slept.  Soundly.  Well.  Not haunted by the whirlpool that only 12 hours earlier had threatened to shatter me.

This morning, I woke up, laced up my shoes, and headed up to see my boy.  I love Sunday morning sunrises with Kenton.  I love spending time up there, feeling him close.  Talking to him.  There are always tears.  But sometimes there are smiles, too.

This morning the tears were sad tears, missing Kenton tears, but they were also tears of gratitude.  

Gratitude for friends that step into the crazy and face it with me.  
I have many that do.  
I am so blessed.

the power of one

It's midnight.  I've been debating whether or not to sit and write all afternoon.  I guess the answer is that I need to just get my thoughts out - coherent or not.

I've been thinking a lot this week about the power of one.  Sitting in our living room right now are four large boxes full of toys, games, play-doh, coloring books, and craft kits.  All of those items given to us by friends, family, and followers of Team Kenton in honor of Kenton's birthday.  Soon those boxes of gifts will be delivered to PCMC - specifically the ICS floor.  We couldn't have done that on our own.  We couldn't have even come close to doing that on our own.  But when so many people pitched in just a little, amazing things happened.

11 days from now, we will participate in Allisa's Run For Wishes in memory of sweet Allisa Berry on what would be her 21st birthday.  Proceeds from this race go directly to Make-A-Wish Utah.  Kenton's wish is one of our favorite ways to remember him.  Make-A-Wish does great things.

18 days from now, we will participate in the F2TF 5K . This is our 2nd year for this race.  Last year was incredible.  Beautiful.  Powerful.  Proceeds from this race go to the Giving Tree project.  We were humbled, grateful, and so blessed to receive one of these trees shortly after Kenton died.

I know both Allisa's mom and Tyler's mom personally.  Beautiful strong women.  Full of faith and strength.  Both fighting to make a difference in honor of their brave and precious warriors who, like Kenton, won their fight against cancer on the eternal playing field.

The power of one.  Alone it's not much.  But my one and your one and someone else's one, that is something.  Something big.  Something brave.  

I've felt almost like an outsider in my own life this month.  Sometimes I think we're blessed to feel numb.  Heavenly Father knows our triggers.  Those memories and traditions that will stop us in our tracks, heart beating too fast, unable to breathe moments.  And He gives us the ability to feel without really feeling, to watch without really seeing.  Numb.

As I've watched this month unfold, I've seen texts and treats and phone calls and visits and emails and Facebook posts and cards and gifts show up - our friends, each of them doing what they can to help us through.  All of those little moments of one build into something strong.  Something healing.

We are so blessed.

I know this little blog is sorely neglected.  It's hard for me to write.  Sometimes I feel like I should write about our day to day life.  

I should write about how proud I am of McKayslin.  About how she gets up each day determined to make the world just a little happier.  About how, even in her own sadness and grief, reaches out to those around her, lifting them, cheering them.  About how she bravely faces each new same thing. I should write about how she giggles as she remembers summers with Kenton, and about how she encourages us to just be strong.

I should write about the things we do.  And how, in our attempt to choose happiness, we really are able to feel moments of genuine happy.

And then I feel guilty that our day to day life is, in fact, moving forward.  Without Kenton.  His memories are safely tucked in our hearts.  We speak of him often.  Remember him with so much love.  Miss him with so much sorrow.  But the truth is that life.just.moves.forward.  

It's not a new normal.  
It's different.
It will never be normal. 
It hurts.  
And it's hard.  
And none of it makes much sense.

This weekend our little neighborhood and ward family will say good-bye to one of our own.  Jason may not have battled cancer, that battle might have been easier.  His battles were hard.  Heartbreaking.  Yet his insight into the love of our Heavenly Father and his testimony of The Atonement would often catch me off guard during a Sunday School lesson as he quietly shared moments when he acquired that knowledge.

That kind of deep, abiding faith often comes as a result of trudging through darkness, one foot in front of the other, praying desperately for a glimpse of eternity, longing for peace.  The faith that you simply must cling to because it's the only thing that makes any sense.  When faced with sorrow that threatens to consume you, you have to live in that place in which you only once believed.

Today I sat at the piano as I often do when seeking peace, playing through the hymns.  I usually play whatever hymn opens as I turn the pages of the book.  Today (yesterday now, I suppose), 4 different times in the course of 15 minutes or so, I turned to "Abide With Me, 'Tis Eventide."  I seem to understand the messages being sent better through music than any other way...

...O Savior, stay this night with me;
Behold, 'tis eventide.
O Savior, stay this night with me...
Behold, 'tis eventide.

Our eventide is our life now, learning, still, always learning, to live as a lopsided earthly family.

The power of one.  
The power of the One.
One so holy, so perfect, so willing.
One in whom I find peace.
Strength.
And even joy.

Tonight, I am grateful.
Grateful to know that Kenton's earthly mission was completed faithfully and that he's serving well on the other side.  We feel glimpses of that eternal mission and know that he's okay.
Grateful in the promise of eternal life and forever families.
Grateful for a loving Heavenly Father and elder brother Jesus Christ.
Grateful that through that One, I feel peace.

There really is power in one.

What my little Fierce Tigers taught me about showing up

I was McKayslin's softball coach this summer (along with Callie and Maria). Our little team of 11 girls had 3 players that had played before.  8 that were new to the sport, and of those 8, 2 who were very young compared to the rest of the team.

Learning something new takes time.  

A lot of time.  

And a lot of practice.  

Each of my little fierce tigers had to learn how to catch, how to throw, how to run the bases, how to field, how to pitch, how to play catcher, and how to hit the ball.  

How to play as a team.

We practiced twice a week and played twice a week for most of the month of June.  Those little tigers worked so hard.  They rarely complained.  And we worked them hard.

They practiced the same drills over and over and over until fielding a grounder was second nature.  

Until swinging a bat felt natural.  

Until throwing a ball became automatic.

Each inning they were expected to participate as a team in cheering each other on (this rarely required any reminders from their coaches - they were such an awesome little team!) when it was our turn to bat, and to be supportive in the field, while playing whichever position I put them in without complaint.

And honestly, in all of our four days of softball a week, the complaints I heard could be counted on one hand (and most of those came from the coach!).  Those 11 little tigers just did.not.give.up.

Our "win/loss" record wasn't great.

By score, we won two games.

But you know what was so awesome about these little tigers?  Even when the final score didn't show a win, they won because they showed up, they had fun, they worked together, they smiled, they encouraged each other, and they just.did.not.give.up.

July is a hard month.

It's always been Kenton's favorite month.

The 4th of July.

His birthday and birthday trip.

The 24th of July.

Fireworks.

Camping.

Swimming.

Backyard fires.

But now, our Julys are tempered with the lonely ache of missing our Kenton.

Sadness locked in to each promised continued tradition.

Hurt in each adapted tradition.

Instead of watching the Hyrum 4th of July parade, last year and this year, we participated, promoting Kenton's Cup (August 28-30, 2014).

We went to Richmond for ice cream.  

Just like every year.

I had Funky Fudge (Kenton's favorite).

Instead of ordering pizza and parking near a field to play frisbee or catch until fireworks, we picked up take out and had a picnic and watched fireworks at the cemetery.

Our McDonald Family joined us and brought along a Cream Soda party and glow sticks just about dark.  

We haven't had a backyard fire yet.

But we will.

And I'll eat a S'Mintz for Kenton.

Saturday is Kenton's birthday.

His 14th.

His 2nd in Heaven.

We'll start the morning with a session at the Brigham City temple with our Acevedo Family.

We'll share some laughs with Grammy and our McDonald Family at Who Shot Juanito Bandito in the afternoon.  And we'll end the day with dinner at Texas Roadhouse and then a visit with Kenton.  We'll take balloons and treats and a little Schleich Clyde that McKayslin picked out.

Next week, we'll make a trip to Salt Lake to deliver games and toys and coloring books and play-doh to PCMC in honor of Kenton.  

We get to do that because we have awesome friends.

Who knows...maybe we'll even go camping before July is over.

Even almost 18 months later, living with grief, without Kenton, is still so new to us.

Learning something new takes time.  

A lot of time.  

And a lot of practice.

We roll through the same emotions over and over and over until breathing through a panic attack becomes second nature.  

Until wading through waves of grief feels almost natural.  

Until smiling once again becomes automatic.

But to do that, we have to just.show.up.

Day after day, hour after hour, minute by minute, we have to just.show.up.

We're doing a little better with that.

Our friends are so much like my little fierce tigers. 

They're our team. 

They just show up.

They show up with love.

With understanding.

With encouragement.

And they never complain that during that inning we're a little less ourselves than what they'd hoped to receive.

That we're different than how we used to be.

They just don't.give.up on us, regardless of how many times we give up on ourselves.

And maybe, although the scoreboard of smiles vs. tears doesn't show it, July will be a win, because we'll show up, we'll have fun, we'll work together, we'll smile, we'll encourage each other, and we just.will.not.give.up.

That's what Kenton taught me too.

Show up.

Don't give up.

You are enough.

May 25

May 25, 2010.
Kenton absolutely loved playing goalie for the Destroyers. He wasn't the tallest, or the fastest, but he always stood strong in that goal box, knocking down goals, and not giving up.

That's the same philosophy he used as catcher/3rd baseman for the Hyrum Cardinals in 2011, and the Hyrum Yankees in 2012. Standing strong, giving his all.

It wasn't just in the sports arena that Kenton exhibited this quality. This was how he lived.

Kenton knew that his best was enough.
Win or lose, he was enough.

Wouldn't it be great if we could all live that way?
Always give our very best and know that win or lose, we are enough?!

Grieving families have a different level of "best" each day. Some days we can almost be normal. Other days, it's all we can do to get out of bed, get dressed, go to work, and then come back home. And some days, even that is too much. In fact, I think this is true for most everyone, grieving or not.

Our best is all we can give.
And it IS enough.

Let us be gentle with each other. And with ourselves.

I hope there's soccer in heaven!

And baseball, and karate, and wrestling, and guitars, and pianos, and singing, and endless sketch pads and art supplies!!

Missing you always, loving you forever, handsome boy!

[perspective]

I've had some sort of weird stomach bug (thanks Katy and Madi!  ;) ) since Saturday evening.  I've whined a lot.  A LOT!  A whole lot of whining about a silly little stomach ache.  A whole lot more whining about how hungry I have been.  Apparently (this is not new information) I'm a big crybaby.

As I sat here today, drinking coke and watching Criminal Minds, mentally whining yet again, I received a gentle reminder to just stop.

It's a stomach bug.  A stomach ache.  And I'm on the mend.

A reminder to be grateful.  Grateful for the many, many things that I take for granted.

To remember.  Remember with fondness the good times, the laughter, the memories.

To cherish.  Cherish my forever family, my knowledge of the gospel, and my testimony of The Atonement and love of our Heavenly Father.

And to fight.  To fight for the kids who live daily, minute by minute, with a stomach ache from chemo.  To fight for the kids who lose their hair, their childhood, their freedom as they fight to be healed.  To fight for the kids who won their battle on a much higher playing field and were called home.

This afternoon, each time I've been tempted to whine (again!), I've instead turned to a prayer of gratitude, a prayer for strength, a prayer for peace.

And I'm reminded how blessed I am to be Kenton's mom, McKayslin's mom.  They're pretty great kids.  And because of them, I learn a little more every single day.

[missing you]

Hey, sweet boy.

I sure am missing you.  So very much.  McKayslin and Daddy are too.  It's strange to think that just two years ago life was normal.  We were all together here at home.  And one year ago, you'd been gone for two months.  And three of us were left here trying to figure out how to go on without you.  And now, here we are, still trying to figure that out.

You made us promise to keep doing fun things as a family.  To take care of McKayslin.  To do our family traditions.  We have changed a few things.  But mostly, we're doing what you asked.  

It's hard.  It's not the same.  I often wonder if you look down from Heaven and miss us as much as we miss you.  If you're sad that you're not here doing things with us.  If you're proud of us.  

Love you, my boy.

[when things don't make sense]

Lately, we've been going on bike rides.  Between 3 and 5 rides a week.  Family bike rides became a family favorite a few summers ago when we would go nearly every afternoon.  The night before Kenton was diagnosed, we were on a bike ride and Kenton couldn't keep up.  What we learned later is that the leukemia cells were so prevalent in his blood that there was no room for the red blood cells.  Red blood cells are what give your body energy.  I've told the story of that last bike ride before.  It's a painful story to remember, yet each time I do, instead of beating myself up, I try to use it as a reminder to be a little more patient, a little more understanding, a little more loving.

Tonight I'm sitting here at home, McKayslin is in bed, Luke is at a coach's meeting (McKayslin is going to play soccer again - Kenton is surely cheering loudly from Heaven for her!  But even more so, he's likely cheering loudly that his little sister is going to play softball this summer also!).  Throughout the day, the past few days, in fact, I've been kind of lost in a fog.  Lost in a place that doesn't make sense.

Spring is (nearly) here in the valley.  And with spring comes kids on bikes and in backyards and running in and out of houses.  We're in a place where that doesn't come easy any more.  McKayslin doesn't have her big brother to entertain her, tease her, help her, protect her.  We don't hear the slamming of the door a thousand times a day as they run in and out of the house.  We don't hear them giggling at their newest made up game.  We don't hear the squealing as they jump on the trampoline together.  Or see the sidewalks covered in chalk art.

This place doesn't make sense.  This place hurts.  And it's lonely.  And it's hard.

We're in a place where silence is frequent.  Where time is filled with movies instead of games and laughter.  We're in a place that we have yet to begin to understand.  A place where as hard as we try, it just doesn't make sense.