What do we do now?

I was reminded while getting a bottle ready for my baby. But I didn't mention it. Instead I said, "It's Trevor's birthday!" My nephew is turning one today! Such a great reason to rejoice this day. It's my cousin, Marcus's birthday, too. Yea for birthdays! That's what I focused on. But I still remembered. I couldn't help it. Four years ago today Jeff died.

I don't like remembering that day at all. Waking up to the phone call from my Dad. Feeling numb. I think my first words after Zack told me were, "What do we do now?" That whole day was a nightmare. Going up to Jeff and Kim's house, walking into the girl's bedroom to see my mom folding clothes. Hugging her and just crying. What do we do now? Sitting and crying on the bed with Kim. What do we do now? Touching his arm, feeling his soft soft hair that had just started to grow in after the last chemo treatments. Seeing his body and knowing he just wasn't there anymore. What do we do now?

Lost. It was just a lost feeling. It was an empty, lost feeling. An every-fiber-of-my-being-is-resisting-this-new-reality-and-I-don't-want-to-live-it-anymore feeling.

What do we do now?

The answers came. They came slowly but surely, as I was ready to hear them. They were answers I already knew. I just didn't really know them until now.

They came in church the next day, Easter Sunday, as we listened to messages about our Savior's resurrection. Assurances that this life is not all. This is just the beginning. This is just a part of our Heavenly Father's marvelous plan for His children.

They came as I watched and was a recipient of the kindness of friends and neighbors. Friends who made us lasagna and pie for the luncheon after the funeral. Lasagna and pie! Two of the hardest, most time consuming dishes to make, in my opinion. And they made them for me. And for my family because those were some of Jeff's favorite foods. I will never forget that. Neighbors who mowed Kim's lawn and pulled her weeds. Who shoveled her driveway in the wintertime (and who still do!).

The answers came as I read the scriptures. When I poured over the verses that told me where Jeff was and what he was doing and who he was with.

They came in songs on the radio, kind words from friends, and quiet moments late at night.

What do we do now?

We live. We live because He lives. And because He lives, Jeff lives. I know it.

We share this good news with everyone. We share it by bearing testimony, by loving those who surround us, by keeping the commandments. We love our families.

I know that my Savior lives. I know that because of Him, my brother lives.

Yes, today is a hard day. I'll remember and I'll cry. And then I'll go hug my boys and tell them about their Uncle Jeff and how completely wonderful he was and still is and how great it will be when they finally get to meet him. And we'll go put pinwheels on his grave and tell him we love him. And then we'll have lasagna and pie for dinner tonight.

Joy

This time of year, 6 years ago, life seemed to end for me. Zack and I lost our baby boy.

This time of year, 3 years ago, life ended again. I lost my brother.

For a long time I forgot what it felt like to truly feel joy. I was happy. I looked forward to the day when pain and hurt were gone and that brought some happiness. But there always seemed to be a dark cloud hovering around. Things were good, but they were also tinted with sadness all the time. It seemed we were doomed to just be cheerful through tribulation because the tribulation seemed to never end.

A few months ago Zack and I were talking about all the changes going on in our family. After waiting and praying for 7 years we had finally been blessed with a son and were "expecting" some time this year with another one. And if that weren't good enough, our kids would actually have 3 cousins their age because my three brothers were all expecting in the spring. To top it off, my cousin, plus two of our good friends were also expecting this summer. Life was good.

As we talked about all of this, I suddenly realized I was feeling good. Really good. A good that I hadn't felt in a long time. Excited, happy, put a huge grin on your face good. I hadn't realized how absent that feeling was until just then. I think for a while there I was afraid to feel that kind of joy because it might be taken away at any moment. It had happened too many times before.

Joy like that feels really good.

Things still don't feel complete. There's always the feeling that someone is missing and that won't change until we're all together again.

But until then, right now, it's so good to feel joy again.

I'll leave you with this picture because it makes me happy. And when I want to start crying today because I miss Jeff, I'll remember days like this one and I'll remind myself that while it's okay to be sad, it's okay to be happy, too, because I have an awesome family. Aaaand then I'll start crying because I'm so happy I have such an awesome family. Oh well. I guess I just can't avoid the tears today.

Jeff

Two years ago today you left us and moved on.

You didn't really leave us. We know you're still around. But that chapter of your life was over and with it, that chapter of my life with you was over.

And I miss it.

In all truth, the chapter of our life was over the day you left on your mission. To me that marked the end of our childhood. When you got back things were different and they would never be the same again. It's those days I miss sometimes.

To have someone I admired so much treat me the way you did. To have someone like you ask me for advice. To have someone like you tell me how your day was. To have someone like you tell me about things that bothered you or scared you. To have someone like you think someone like me was something special. That meant a lot. Thanks for making me your friend and for loving me like you did. Sometimes I can still feel that love. It's a different kind of love. Different from a mom or a dad's love. Different from a spouse's love. It's a special "I'm your brother and you're my sister kind of love" that is impossible for me to describe. But I can describe how it makes me feel. It makes me feel loved and good and funny and admired and accepted and okay to be me even when I'm goofy. It feels good.

It's funny. I've now been alive 29 days longer than you. It feels like borrowed time. It feels like it will take me a lifetime to become like you. Thanks for being THAT kind of big brother.

I miss you.

They Say It's Your Birthday!! It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah!!

Today is your birthday. We didn't get to tell you Happy Birthday, but we did the next best thing and tried to be as close to you as we could. Were you waving at us? Please, don't ever get tired of waving at us.

I think about you a lot. Lately I've been trying to remember stories, things we used to do, things we used to say. I'm glad I wrote a lot of them down, otherwise I'm sure I wouldn't have remembered them.

Still, I don't remember a lot.

I've been wondering why I can't remember all the things we used to say and do. I've come up with a reason, at least something that eases my mind on the matter. The fact is, we used to spend a lot of time together just doing day-to-day stuff. And no one remembers all the day-to-day stuff they used to do. We usually remember the big things, the exciting things, the things that didn't happen all the time things. And you and I, we just did...things....all the time. But that's not bad. It just means my memories will come as I live life.

They'll come when I'm up at the cabin with our families and I'll remember we used to make scavenger hunts for the younger cousins and siblings.

They'll come when I see a no-bake cheesecake and I'll remember when we made one when we were left alone by ourselves because our parents went to Disneyland with our younger brothers and didn't take us. But we didn't care. And I got kind of sick from eating so much of that cake.

They'll come when I see a pair of ripped jeans I'll remember what you did when your jeans got too old...

They'll come when I sit at a cubicle with a computer and I'll remember when I was your "trainer" when we all worked at the hotel reservations place. And you told me you were scared. Because you knew you were in love. And that meant you had to get married. And that meant you were going to be a dad. And I was happy and excited for you, but also a little sad because I knew things were going to change forever.

They came last night when I was cleaning the kitchen floor and I put on Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and listened to the entire CD as loud as I could. (Thanks for not minding, Zack :) ) And I remembered when you got that CD and we sat in your room and listened to every song. We read the words, we sang along and we looked at the cover and read all the names of the people there. We didn't recognize most of them. And we laughed at how weird the Beatles looked in those outfits. And why did John Lennon have his hands in his pants on every page? We learned all the lyrics to every song. We really liked all the music. (Well, almost all the music. "Within You Without You" was a little too weird for our taste, but we still enjoyed listening to it and making fun of it.) Every song makes me think of what we said and how we felt about the music. We used to laugh at the line "And of course, Henry the horse dances the waltz". Oh, of COURSE he does. And we'd always try and catch the extra "RITA!" and "Hoo!" that Paul sings in "Lovely Rita" and "When I'm 64". I tried to write the clarinet part for that song and play it, because you said I should. You said it would be cool. And it was. Everything you said would be cool WAS cool. To me. :) We brought in Tippy, our dog, for the last song to see if he could really hear that 15 seconds of kilocycle at the very end. We weren't impressed with his reaction.
I know all the songs on that album still. I listend to that album a lot. Funny though, I don't remember ever listening to it in my room or by myself. Thanks for letting me hang out in your room. Thanks for being a great big brother.

Happy Birthday. Say hi to the fam. :) ("It's....the fam!") I hope they sang "Happy Birthday" to you in the traditional family way: as loud and as off key and you can possibly get.