When your dad dies.

Dying has been part of conversations with my dad ever since I can remember. He'd make comments like, "Dying is easy. It's living that's hard," and "When I get old I'm going to stop going to the Doctor. I don't want to just be hanging around in bed," and "If I can't be in my garden, just let me die," and the most recent, "A friend told me if I get a good chance to die I should take it." I'd heard these comments a thousand times. I also saw him survive serious illness if not a thousand, definitely several times. When I was very young my father had an ostomy to help him overcome IBC. He contracted the mumps when I was about 8 years old.When I was a teenager he suffered from Bells Palsy. Later, my brother, Pete, donated his kidney to my Dad because his kidneys were failing. Dad had surgery on his lungs after several bouts of pneumonia. Each time he was in trouble I would try and picture life without him, and my heart would break.

During his last years, each visit came with the nagging question, will this be our last time together? This question made each minute together a tender gift. I definitely noticed his decline in health, but each time we thought it was the end, he would rally. My sister said that she saw where the doctor had written on his chart, "Does not die easily."

Last summer I was teaching my son, Gabe, how to garden.Watermelons were his most prolific crop. I was thrilled about this because Dad grew hundreds of watermelons and it felt like a family legacy. In the gardening process I remember thinking, "I need to ask Dad how to know when to harvest the melons." A few days later I got a call that Dad was failing and not communicating at all." I thought of my burning gardening question and began sobbing as I realized I might not have access to my father until the next life. As luck would have it, my Dad rallied again. I casually asked him on the phone through my tears when I should harvest my watermelons. (Yes I know about google, but where is the family heritage in that?)

Because of these frequent recoveries the actual end surprised me. On January 12, 2019, Mom called in the morning to ask us to pray for Dad because he wasn't doing very well. Of course I prayed, but I wondered, "Is this like last time when he wasn't doing very well and then he was?" When I got the message that he had passed I couldn't believe it.

As is my way, when I start to plummet emotionally, I jump into action. It's not always the most effective or efficient action, but action feels better than sadness. And action was good, because there was a lot to be done. There are 10 children in our family and it took contributions from everyone to make everything happen. We made arrangements to travel to Richfield, UT. Mary drove down first and took care of all the funeral details. Nieces created slideshows and table centerpieces. There were airport pickups, driving through snow, housing arrangements, musical preparations and lots of love to distribute.

I got to Richfield a couple of days before the funeral. I was able to learn about a day in the life in the nursing home by staying in the room with Mom a couple of nights. I enjoyed meeting the friends and nurses that my parents loved. It was a treat to listen to the Durfee band entertain with a morning concert. I did not enjoy the way that not enough residents sleep in the night. One gentleman called out for help at 4:00 am. I woke up with a start ready to save him.  I learned that he just likes to wake up early, but the nurses told him they won't let him get ready for the day until 6:00 am. The next door neighbor also wakes up in the night, bored, so just starts chatting. Bless everyone's heart.

Mary was working really hard planning the funeral, I worked a little bit trying to arrange Mom's move, but we managed to have a little play time. We hit the Mexican restaurant at least 3 times and I finally got to drive by the Miller home--bucket list win.

Thursday night the family headed over to Manti to gather, practice singing, and prepare for the next day's activities. I stayed with Mom so I could help her load the car and drive away from her life with Dad. As luck would have it, we woke up to snow. Not this Georgia girl's fave. I couldn't find an ice scraper so begged a plastic putty knife from the kind maintenance man. We'll just call that the first miracle of the day. With Mom in her van and me in my rental car we headed towards Manti. Unfortunately, my cell phone doesn't work very well in remote Utah towns so I had no GPS. I wasn't concerned however, because I was following Mom who had made the trip to Manti many times. Well, that was a lot of pressure for an 82 year old woman who had just lost her husband of 60 years. We missed the exit and found ourselves driving up an unfamiliar canyon. Looking for the second miracle of the day we solicited help from kind strangers who happily pointed us in the right direction. We were thankful but stressed, I'm going to say really stressed. We were an hour late to the viewing. I realized I had one job, and I didn't do it as well as I'd hoped. That being said, we made it.

When we walked into the church my heart filled with joy. Over a hundred of my favorite people in life were there to remember my father. I think that's what heaven feels like, siblings, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, old friends from California, children, even a friend from GA all bringing love.

There was a moment at the viewing when Mom and her children gathered around the casket. It's hard to describe the sacredness of that time. Our eternal family, gathered in one place. We missed my brother, Pete,

but it was a privilege to stand with those cherished people and say goodbye to our Dad who loved, taught, protected and provided for us.

Dad had been planning his funeral for years. I think it was one of his favorite activities. It was not  my mom's favorite activity. He had song requests, speaker requests, so many requests we were looking at an all day affair. We decided to have each child take 5 minutes. The daughters and daughter in law sang "I heard Him Come."

Heidi sang, "Consider the Lilies of the Field," and the Grandchildren sang "A Child's Prayer."

We came in under an hour. Mom said she wants the same program but instead of "Lilies of the Field," "Oh Holy Night." Heidi generously volunteered everyone else for that one.

The graveside dedication was picturesque with the Manti temple in the background and family in the foreground.















 The casket was beautifully crafted by the neighbor, wild flowers were placed on top. Wildflowers were a fitting choice. Dad was not a fan of too much order in the landscape. He didn't like it when "The lawn looks like an extension of the carpet." :)

Watching the handsome and beloved sons and grandsons carry the casket was another tender moment in an already tender day.

Upon returning to the church, the Manti ward provided a delicious luncheon.We used this time to finish the rest of Dad's requests. Melinda, Susie and Mary sang, "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" Dad's favorite performance by his daughters. Mary's girls sang, "I Can't Help Falling in Love with You." This was my parents' romance song. My family sang, "Dooley." It's a bootleg song, but Dad loved it because it came from the Andy Griffith Show. Melinda's family sang "120 Acres." Charlie and Meg sang "To Know, Know, Know You." It was the song playing during Mom and Dad's honeymoon. Charlie also walked on his hands as per Dad's request. Trevor and Jack sang "Dear Theodosia." One of our friends observed, "Millers put the fun in funeral." I'm proud of that.

I actually love funerals. I feel exhausted from the sadness and joy and love and sentiment and fear and faith that swirls in my brain and heart. But I'm so thankful that I had that person, and I like that I ache at their absence. Sorrow at parting tells me that I loved deeply and that is sweet knowledge. There have been many words describing what it's like when a loved one goes home. Those words are true, but that's not all, and I didn't know it until I felt it. It's happiness that the person is safe and home and free from mortal trials. It's regret for the missed opportunities for love that pride or anger or an unforgiving heart might have stolen for a while. It's a pain in my chest that lives there now. It's smiling when I think of him complaining about his big house because if he forgot his comb he had to walk too far. It's gratitude for his desire to love God and family and serve those around him, and it's hope that our family can gather again in a circle someday.

Washed white

Because of some recent opportunities in church, I have become a steward of sorts over about 20  white tablecloths. Can you imagine the beauty of brand spankin' new, gleaming white as snow tablecloths? Five of the linens blanca debuted at a luncheon serving some very responsible adults .To our credit, the menu included food that was light in color; poppyseed salad dressing, creamy chicken and wild rice soup, bread, and a lovely lemon curd dessert. There were a few berries in the dessert, but they went straight from the spoon to the mouth in all cases. The diners ate very neatly and left the tablecloths with minimal food damage.  I took the tablecloths home, treated a few low pigment spots and washed them 2 at a time. I loved pulling them out of the dryer restored to their gleaming state and then folding them and returning them to their wool white sisters.

Outing # two for these fair maidens was earlier this week. It was a special occasion and they did their job making everything look beautiful. They held their centerpieces and place settings well as spotless canvas ready to receive fallout from life. The guests at this event were responsible as well. It was a wonderful gathering with all ages of lovely people. As one would expect with younger guests, a few berries and chocolate smear landed on the white. Such is the fate of tablecloths. If they do their job. they receive soil and stain, for life is all about mistakes and imperfection. Once again, I took the tablecloths home. This time I had 11. This time I had reds and browns to scrub and soak. My bathroom was full of  tainted piles of white.Then my washer was full of piles of not as tainted mostly white. But into my dryer I placed clean white cloths. In hopes that I could minimize the wrinkles I draped the cloths on all the banisters of my house. My world was white like winter, white like a new start, white like I imagine perfection to be.

The Prophet and President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints, Russell M. Nelson, has asked us to read The Book of Mormon before the end of the year. I have read this powerful Testament of Jesus Christ many times. I am reading it again before the end of the year as requested. I have marked scriptures that testify and teach of Jesus Christ. I have marked passages that teach me how I can be a better disciple. I have marked old favorite verses that mean more to me every time I read them. I observe that life has taught me and changed me and prepared me to make this reading the best yet.


Today I read Alma 13:11-12 "...They were sanctified, and their garments were washed white through the blood of the Lamb. Now they, after being sanctified by the Holy Ghost, having their garments made white, being pure and spotless before God, could not look upon sin save it were with abhorrence; and there were many exceedingly great many, who were made pure and entered into the rest of the Lord their God."

And do you know what? I knew what white was. As I read about garments being made white I thought of yards of tablecloths draped on my banisters. When I read about being pure and spotless before God I pictured my bathroom as the starting place for removing chocolate and berry trifle. When I read about looking on sin with abhorrence I thought of how glorious clean tablecloths are and what a shame it is when they become stained. And when I read about being washed white through the blood of the Lamb, I felt love and gratitude for my Savior that I can become clean when I make mistakes and be sanctified if I believe on His name and repent and walk the covenant path.

I'm thankful for white tablecloths and new starts.

Daffodils!

I believe in planting daffodils. I remember reading an article in the Readers Digest about a person who created a breathtaking field of daffodils by planting bulbs diligently every fall to bloom in the spring. It was called "The Daffodil Principle" written by Jaroldeen Edwards. The idea of contributing to the beauty of the earth in that way impressed me, and I silently vowed to do my part.  I planted in my flower bed and even in my lawn in NE, KS, and IL. But somehow I lost my momentum: Minnesota was too cold; West Virginia was too shady. My magnificent dream was neglected and then forgotten. Years passed with nary a bulb being placed on Stoker soil. And then... last Saturday, there I was at the hardware store in October. My husband was in the plumbing department. so I was browsing around the pretty things and I came upon them--daffodils. I remembered my past promise to the earth and was encouraged by the little "deer resistant" stamp on the package. I felt so happy as I walked to the car with my bag of replete double pink bulbs.

Today while I joyfully planted, I thought of the hope manifested by my task. Y'all know I love flowers. I'm a fan of purchasing bedding plants that are already blooming, but that only requires a teeny bit of hope--stay beautiful and hope that no hungry animal eats them for breakfast. This year I also planted some zinnia seeds. I hoped for their growth and flowering beauty and was rewarded within a few weeks. But bulbs take a special long term hope, a hope that even though the harvest is waning, the leaves changing and soon all but the evergreens will be asleep, it's the hope that winter is only a season. The earth that looks to be void of life is not dead, only dormant, waiting to be awakened by promised spring. That much hope felt right in my heart.

My hope felt right because we can believe in good things yet to come. Winter isn't meant to last forever. By planting bulbs I'm reminding the cold season of hardship that it cannot stay. Come if you must, but soon earth will thaw, branches will bud, birds will chirp, and brave little daffodil shoots will peak through the ground, thrilling us with their sweet green promise of life. And the world will warm and live.

And that's why I love daffodil bulbs. Because I believe in hope.

Push to the beach.

Let's start this post by giving a shout out to the people with the plan. Not the people like me who say, "Wouldn't it be fun to ...." or "We should...", but the people who say, "We've booked a vrbo at  Folly beach for these days, would you like to join us?" Those are the powerful people who make the world go round. So that happened in our family, my daughter-in-law being the awesome one. Once I knew where I was supposed to be and when, I got myself there.

It was a joyful gathering with 3 sons and 2 daughter-in-laws, 4 grandchildren, 1 brother and his wife and 3 nieces. I was happy as a clam in the house surrounded by merry loved ones full of energy and happiness. I was so happy that the thought occurred to me, "Do we really need to go to the beach to make this day great? I mean, there will be traffic and parking and sand all over the place." That was the known, we also had to deal with the unknown, and we all know how scary that can be. Bravely, I recognized that the beach was the reason we had driven 5 hours and if I wanted to be with the people I loved, I needed to push through inconvenience and possible discomfort to the beach.

Well, guess what? There was a little traffic, a little trouble parking, (Don't make a mistake when parking in a beach town. You will pay. Luckily we learned from the mistakes of others with their expensive reminders posted on their windshields) sand everywhere and the unknown, that should have been known--getting a little bit lost. But guess what else there was? THE BEST DAY EVER!

The water was so big. I always forget until I remember. It was also warm and easily swimmable. The sand was sandy, but as usual, perfect for sand creations. The sun shone, but not glaringly. We had occasional respite from the clouds. We also had a fairly new beach ingredient, the best ingredient of all--grandchildren. I can't describe the delight of watching the little posterity learn about the waves lapping at their toes, covering their ankles and then pulling the sand from under their miniature feet. We definitely had to jump over the waves and sometimes not so happily learn about how salty ocean water is.

Activities included a beach nap for the 1 year-olds, Frisbee with my son and a stranger, and a special surprise. Number 3 son brilliantly brought his inflatable kayak and took me for an adventure. We headed out past the surf in the direction of the pier. He was patient as I tried to contribute my irregular and sometimes confused but always well-intentioned paddling. I was having a lovely time moving through the gently rocking water when my son saw something. He said, "There's a shark." I thought, "That's cool. Just stay in the boat." And then we realized it was not a shark. It was a dolphin swimming not very far from us. Then two more porpoised on the right. There I was in the Atlantic ocean on a kayak with my son and dolphins swimming and jumping all around us--magical.

So, to apply this to mortal and eternal life, I want to remember to be content and thankful for what I have, but recognize that achieving the higher goal is worth the stretching and working and suffering inconvenience and even a little discomfort. It's nice to rest and gather on the couch, but then we must PUSH TO THE BEACH!