When disappointment, grief and fear are gone

Today I heard from a good friend friend of mine that she miscarried her baby this morning. She was safely in her second trimester, out of the "danger zone" so to speak.  I was at school when I heard the news- the last bell of the day had just rung at school, I was busy trying to fill out a reimbursement form for a set of Catcher in the Rye books, and bam, there was the text.  Tears sprung to my eyes instantly as I imagined her pain, heartbreak and disappointment on an afternoon like this one. 

I have been reflecting a lot lately on God and death and the purpose of trials and disappointments and why it is that this life can seem so damn hard sometimes.  And it seems like no one is spared. Last week Greg and I heard the devastating news that a friend's brother had committed suicide.  At Christmas an old roommate of mine lost her little sister.  A former student tragically fell to her death in a rappelling accident this fall.

One thing I learned when my dad died is that there are two categories of things you can say to someone who is suffering loss.  1.Things that help a little bit and 2. Things that don't help at all.  There is no category of things that help a lot.  Only time brings that, I suppose.  At the end of the day it is still suffering, it is still grief, it is heartache.  No words take the grief away.  Grief is interesting in the way that it refuses to be seen out the door.  It is one emotion that absolutely will not leave until it feels like it has good and had its turn, no matter how many times you think you have successfully shooed it away.  Grief is an insistent guest that leaves only on His time, and never at your invitation.

But still.  There ARE things to say that help a little.

These are the things that people said to me that helped me most:
- I love you.
- God loves you.
- I am praying for you.
- I am thinking about you.
- You are an incredible person.
- I am here for you.
- You can call any day, any time.

Interestingly enough, I hated being told I was "strong" because I didn't want to be strong.  I wanted to be weak and I wanted to cry.  The worst was "I can't even imagine how hard this must be for you."  That only made it harder.

I don't understand a lot about God.  I don't even understand a little about God, if I'm being truthful- I've pretty much got a notebook full of questions for the man when I meet him again.  There is so much about this life that is unfair and unkind.  I don't know why he doesn't give a loving, secure couple a baby when they want it more than anything.  I don't know why he takes away someone's dad right before he was about to serve a three year mission for God.  I don't know why he makes some people gay and some people straight; I don't know why some of my 16 year old students have known divorce and broken families and terrible abuse; I don't know why I have a warm home and a great job but the 27 year old in Goya, Argentina has four children and doesn't know how to read.  I don't know.

One of my favorite scriptures in the Book of Mormon says this: "I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things."  (1 Nephi 11:17)   Sometimes this scripture is the only thing that offers me comfort when I'm frustrated with these big questions.  There is so much I don't understand or don't know the meaning of, but the one thing I do know without a doubt is that God loves His children.

Another favorite Book of Mormon scripture of mine is found in Mosiah 18:8-9.  The prophet says that those who follow Christ are "willing to bear one another's burdens, that they may be light; yea and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort."  It's interesting that he doesn't mention anything about being there for each other in good times, being willing to celebrate, being willing to party.  A true disciple is willing to "mourn with those that mourn."  I know that I will always remember the sacrifices that friends and family made the weeks and months surrounding my dad's death to be there for me and to mourn with me.  I can't forget the efforts to be at the funeral, the long late night talks in my apartment, the lunches loved ones spent with me while I was a muddle of tears.  Those were people who were willing to mourn with me, and I have a special place in my heart filled with gratitude and love for them.

I'll just leave with this before I sign off for the night.  One of my favorite hymns is "Be Still my Soul."  The year that my dad died I repeated the last verse to myself over and over and over and found great comfort in those healing words.  I pasted the lyrics below and bolded the phrases that mean the most to me.  My very favorite is the line in the last verse- "When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone."  What an absolutely beautiful promise.  If nothing else, I guess I will hold strong to that.

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we shall meet at last.

I would love to know the scriptures, quotes, and songs that help you the most when you are struggling with "disappointment, grief and fear."  Please, use the comment section today to "mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort."

Love.

One dad, four years, and a few silver linings

Tonight marks four years that our dad left us for a more perfect world.  I like to think that for him it is a world of Minnesota Twins, fresh corn on the cob, cabins, and bicycle rides. A world of gardens without weeds, autumns without winters, life without death.

And certainly a world without car repairs.

It is much easier for me to write about my dad's death than it was in the beginning.  I will always miss my dad, but time, if nothing else, has the gracious power of healing wounds.  Of taking away the sting.  Of showing us the beauty that was there, even in the midst of the suffering.

I couldn't see the silver linings then, not when it happened.  I could only focus on the sorrow, the injustice, the pain.  Now, four years later I look back on the days surrounding his death and funeral and can finally see some of that beauty.

Beauty:  My dad died the night of November 18.  His obituary and his death certificate say November 19 because that is when his body was found.  He went on a bike ride the evening of the 18th, like he frequently did.  My mom went to a young women's activity.  When she came home she noticed my dad wasn't home, but figured he had stopped to say hi to a neighbor, give a jug of apple juice, or do any of the countless things that would distract him from being home on a Wednesday night.  She fell asleep on the rocking chair waiting for him, and when she woke up at 11 with my dad still not home, the panic set in.  She called my brother who lived in Price and called a few neighbors.  They went out searching for him.  It was cold and it was dark.  They searched and searched and searched.  Besides my brother in Price, none of the other kids knew any of this was going on.  My dad's body was found in a little ditch in the early hours of the morning of the 19th.  His hands were still on the handlebars.  He had a gash in his forehead, but there was not bleeding which would indicate that his blood had stopped circulating and he had died before the bike ever hit the ground.  Cardiac arrest is the doctor's best explanation.  He most likely died at the very beginning of his bike ride as he was only quarter of a mile or so from our home, probably around 5 or 6 in the evening.  We know he didn't suffer through the cold night and that he was dead before anyone ever thought to wonder where he was.

That night I was playing poker.  A friend at BYU had invited me over for a Texas Hold Em tournament with just the guys.  It was me and five boys.  The buy in was $3.  I'm not terrible at poker, but I certainly don't ever play the game planning on making money.  That night I won.  Easily, too.  I got good hands, I bluffed like a pro, I fooled all those BYU frat boys.  Five dudes and me and I took their money and beat them to pieces at their own game.

My dad would sometimes tell us kids about his poker playing days.  He'd tell us with a sly, mischievous grin, how he'd sit in the back of the bus and clean out all of his buddies.  He was a good poker player in his day, one of the best, but shhhh don't tell mom.  Mom would smile, she knew the man she had married, but feigned disapproval.  Now that the pain has dulled I can think back to that night playing poker and feel my dad there with me.  Helping me win those silly hands, perhaps?  He had already passed on by the time I was enjoying a my poker night, and I like to think he lingered that night to watch, and maybe even help, his Bopper play a few hands.

Beauty #2:  I received the phone call around 7:30 am the morning of the 19th.  I was already at school, doing my student teaching.  When I heard the news I went in to tell my cooperating teacher that I would be going home, that I wouldn't be teaching that day- I had to leave right away.  My cooperating teacher had lost his own dad at a young age and I will never forget that look of complete understanding and empathy he gave me when I told him.  He knew the pain exactly, and he was so tender and sweet with me that morning and throughout the entirety of my student teaching.

Another one:  My home in Price was an hour and a half away from where I was going to school in Provo.  I didn't have to make that drive alone.  Two of my sisters and one brother lived in Provo.  We made the drive down together.  I sat in the backseat in the middle on the hump.  The only time in my life where that crowded, squishy spot was the most wanted seat in the car, and I got it.

Beauty #4:  I remember so vividly approaching the front door to our house and seeing the sign "Give Thanks" on the door.  It was a week before Thanksgiving, after all, and my mom had decorated the house with Thanksgiving gear.  I remember feeling like that sign was mocking my pain, telling me to give thanks for the single most difficult experience of my life.  Now I can look back tenderly at that sign.  Thanksgiving had always been my dad's favorite holiday, and he had long taught his children about the holiday.  I know all about how Lincoln first declared it a national holiday and how FDR later changed it from the last Thursday of the month to the fourth Thursday.  I know all the history of that day because my dad absolutely loved the idea of a day to surround yourself with people and food and just be grateful. The sign wasn't mocking me, it was a sweet reminder of everything that my dad encompassed.  A tender mercy, in fact.

Beauty #5:  The first person I saw when I entered the house was Chris Heiner, our neighbor down the street.  She was sweeping the front entrance.  She gave me a big hug and I don't remember if any words were spoken, but somehow I needed her to be there.  She had long been friends with our family, both of my parents loved and respected her immensely.  She was calm and collected, the perfect woman to be in my home.

Beauty #6:  Most of that day is a complete blur to me.  I remember my mom huddled up in the rocking chair with a blanket over her.  I remember so many people coming and going.  I remember endless amounts of food that nobody wanted to eat.  I remember a flower truck making constant deliveries.  One of my favorite things I remember, though is my my mom's best friend's son.  He had to be in his late 20s or 30s at the time.  He was a grown man presumably with a grown job and grown responsibilities.  I don't know that I had ever said two words to him in my whole life.  Yet he was there all day long.  Through the tearful morning, through the long afternoon hours.  He was always nearby, but never saying anything at all.  I remember sitting at the table and watching him play cards with my nephew.  For hours, just he and my nephew playing with a deck of cards.  What a weird thing to bring comfort to someone, I think, but it unmistakably helped me in those most difficult hours.  Life is busy, people had excuses to not be there, but not this man.  He was there all day long.  A beautiful silver lining on that day.

One last one:  There are eight kids in my family.  Six were living in Utah at the time.  My sister flew in the next day from Virginia.  My brother and his family, however, were living in India, and I remember how anxious I felt for him to get there, to make our family complete- or at least as complete as it could be now.  It wasn't until more than 48 hours later that he walked in the door with his pregnant wife and two boys, weary and travel ridden.  I remember how we all cried when we saw my brother, the new oldest male in our family.  I will never forget his lanky body walking through that front door and how my mom hugged him and the rest of the family crowded him, united in our pain.  With him there it finally felt like we had permission to mourn.

I have said that I can see my dad in the shadows in my life.  That I hear him in the quiet evenings when I'm writing, or when I see the red fall leaves in all their splendor.  I feel him when I'm at his cabin, early in the morning making french toast or late at night looking at the stars. Sometimes I hear his quiet laugh when I'm teaching. I can almost always hear him expressing appreciation for good food and good people when I'm seated at the table with my mom and siblings.

What I didn't realize until recently was that my dad didn't wait to come to me, to be a part of my life after his death.  I had thought I needed to wait to have him close to me again, that I couldn't feel his presence with me until months after his passing, but that wasn't true at all.  He was in the shadows of my life immediately after he died- instantaneously, in fact.  He was there that actual night helping me play poker, that next morning through a sign on our door and a neighbor sweeping our floor, two days later when my last family member made it home safely to be with us and we embraced in the hallway.  As soon as my dad left this earth he was with me.

I guess the most beautiful beauty of them all, then, is that he never left at all.

Hurt less, love more

^^My dad with his grandchild, Emily.

^^ One of my favorite pictures ever- my dad and three of my brothers looking on.

November will mark four years since my dad's death.  Each year, around the end of October, I take a deep breath, clench my fists and do my best to charge through November- as if my own determindedness and impious stubbornness could make the month speed by faster and therefore not allow me any time to feel the pain associated with the anniversary of my dad's death.

It never works.  But I still try nonetheless.

The weird thing about losing someone is that it really never stops hurting.

It stops bleeding profusely, yes. It stops throbbing, perhaps.  But it doesn't stop hurting.  It doesn't hurt every second of every day.  No, not at all.  Some days go by virtually pain free.  Days are busy and full and you don't remember that you lost your dad or that if he were still alive he would have called you to see how your new job is going or that this is his favorite time of year. Some days you don't think about it.

And so a day will go by without hurting.  A week.  Two weeks, even.  But the hurt is still there, hidden in the recesses of my heart and cruelly, it sits, always ready to pounce.  And then one day it returns- the unannounced and unwanted remembrance that gosh, I miss my dad.

A sudden longing for my dad came unannounced a few days ago.  It was triggered by a dream I had had about him.  (FYI... in Spanish they change the preposition that goes along with dream.  Instead of dreaming "of" or "about" someone you dream "with" them.  In my head now I always think of dreaming this way.  Such a prettier way to put it... I dreamed with my dad.  As if I weren't alone in my dreaming... as if he were dreaming too, actively involved in the dreaming, doing something with me.)

In the dream my dad was here with my family.  I don't know if he was back from the dead or if he had never died or what he was doing living on this earth, quite frankly.  He was just here. He gave of each of his eight children a letter that contained his last words to us.  Everything important that he wanted us to know was in that letter.  They were individualized and full of inside jokes and tender sentiments and all the reasons he loved us.  In his letter he called me his favorite nickname, "Bopper" and "child I love so much."

When I woke up I felt almost paralyzed with grief and anger.  I was mad that I didn't have a letter, a goodbye, a "I'm leaving you now."  What in the world is fair about not saying goodbye to your dad?  I sat up in bed, took a deep breath and wondered while I choked back the tears, "Gosh. Will this ever stop hurting?"

I don't know the answer to that question, but after 1400+ dad-less days I suspect that the answer is no, it doesn't ever stop hurting.  The hardest part, I decided, about losing my dad at 23 is knowing that my children will live their entire mortal life without knowing him.  It is this thought, more than any other, that lingers so painfully.  I am wildly jealous of my four oldest siblings who had children before my dad died.  Why couldn't I have been older too?  Why couldn't I have just one child who will have memories of his "baba"?  I try to chase the thought out of my mind, instead imagining my dad and my unborn children hanging out together now, even as I write this.  If nothing else, it helps calm my troubled heart.

And so I try to focus on the positive and remember happy memories and thank God for the time I did have and not be a total drag on Greg or my family by holding onto pain that needs to be released.  But the fact is I like remembering my dad and I like missing him, however painful it may be.  It makes me feel close to him. At this point I suppose it's hard to tell if the pain won't let go of me or if I won't let go of the pain.

These posts I write about my dad are always the toughest ones for me to write.  I know they are tough for my family, especially my mom, to read.  But I write them for a few reasons.  One is purely selfish- it helps me to understand and sort through my feelings of sorrow and mourning.  It helps me through the grieving process. Sheesh- the grieving process- who would have thought it would last for four years? (Will it extend four more? And four more after that?  Does the grieving process ever end?)

The second reason I write these posts is because I have received a handful of emails from readers who have lost someone close to them and who thank me for posting what I do about my dad.  They relate and they thank me for writing something that conveys what they are feeling.  I have heard losing a family member compared to joining an exclusive "club" of people who have lost loved ones.  Given, it's a terrible club that no one wants to be in. Most people don't even know it exists until they are in it and then they immediately want out.  Once you are in, though, the other "I have lost someone I loved very very much" club members are some of the sweetest, most sensitive and caring people out there.  They listen to your grief.  They cry with you.  They never tell you they are running short on time.  They share their own grief in hopes that you will feel you're not alone.  It's the worst club you could ever recruited into comprised of the best club members imaginable.  How's that for paradox?

So I suppose the second reason I write is for those guys.  My fellow club members and future club members...  with a hope that somehow we all heal together and hurt less and love more and miss less.

Hoping that we let go of the pain.

A heart that hurts

There's a lot of little things.

We're moving this weekend.

A girl backed right into my car despite the fact that I was honking like crazy, and now I have to replace my fender.

School is stressing me out big time as I try to align my lessons to a brand new core.  Always something brand new we gotta do in education.

People keep trying to scam me on the phone that I'm trying to sell online.  Crooks and liars, all of them.

I have no idea hot to teach AP; every day I finish the class it's a small miracle.

Students at my new school haven't gotten used to me yet.  I'm not best buds with the faculty.

Those are the little things.  But somehow I give them a big place in my life.  They are inconveniences is all, certainly nothing to distract from the joy and beauty of life.

I was reminded of all of this yesterday when my brother sent me a message notifying me of the tragic death of a favorite student of mine.  She died when she fell 120 feet in a rappelling accident.  I had heard the story on the radio a few days ago, but hadn't heard the name.  Knowing it was someone I had taught and loved was shocking and heartbreaking.  She was smart and funny- full of energy and life.  I have hanging on my bulletin a note she wrote me when I got engaged, congratulating me and telling me that if I weren't her teacher, "we would totally be BFFs."  (Here's the news story if you want to see the details.)

My heart hurts.  That's the only way I can think of to accurately describe it.  Just a terrible ache in my heart for her family and her future and those poor poor people who watched the accident happen.  I feel like when you've lost someone close to you, you are more sensitive to the heartache of those around you.  I can't hear news like this and shake it off.  The day comes to a screeching halt.  The noise fades out, the stresses are unimportant, everything I had to do that day suddenly moot.  I can't help but sit down at my desk and cry silent tears for a beautiful life that was suddenly cut short.

In a strange way I feel like when stuff like this happens I mourn my dad's death anew.  I mourn for my dad and the wedding he didn't see and my children he won't meet. And then when I'm done mourning him again, I mourn the mother who died in childbirth and left behind a husband and six kids.  I mourn the two brothers that drown at the same time.  It's almost a universal mourning-  a mourning for everyone who has ever lost and ever wanted so desperately to turn back time.

Last night I kept staring at Greg.  We were on a wild goose chase of sorts, trying to do a million and one errands before we move this weekend.  As we drove around and around I kept just looking at him and thanking God for the love and the time that we have together.  What an absolute gift this life is.

Keeping Shelbey and her family in my prayers today.



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Diabetes and chocolate: Separating the Facts from the Myths

With over 350 million people worldwide suffering from diabetes, one of the most frequently asked questions among sufferers of the condition is whether they must give up chocolate outright.

As health scaremongering is prominent in the media, the idea that there is an underlying connection between obesity and diabetes has frightened many into believing that diabetics cannot eat any sugary products at all. The notion that diabetics cannot eat sweets or chocolate is perhaps one of the most unhelpful myths for those diagnosed with the condition. Whilst lifestyle factors certainly play a part in the development of Type 2 diabetes, there are many other facts that must be taken into account before underscoring this causation.

A common concern for those recently diagnosed with diabetes is that they will have to give up desserts, sugars and sweets altogether. Another in a long line of myths connected to the condition, whilst it is true that chocolate causes blood sugar levels to rise, with portion control and careful management of your food intake, there is no reason to cut it out of your diet altogether. With diabetes no food is completely off-limits as the key is moderation. Since diabetic dieting is based around tracking the amount of carbohydrate you eat daily, it is important to plan a diet that allows for the enjoyment of sugary treats. Dependent on your activity levels there should be room for simple sugars like chocolate in your meal plan.

Chocolate has gained a negative reputation in the media because its highly calorific content has been linked to weight gain and cardiovascular problems.

Whilst it is far from ideal for diabetics or non-diabetics to be consuming huge amounts of chocolate, some kinds of chocolate do contain a number of beneficial nutrients – particularly flavoids – which if consumed in small quantities can actually help to protect your heart.

One of the most ridiculous myths about diabetics and chocolate is that diabetic chocolate is preferable in a diabetic meal plan. In fact, not only are ‘special’ diabetic foods more expensive, they rarely make much difference compared to the effect of regular chocolate on your blood glucose levels. As a result, it is much better for diabetics to treat themselves to a little of the real thing now and again.

In fact, if you choose the kind of chocolate you include in your diet carefully, it can actually improve your health. Whilst milk chocolate includes harmful refined white sugars (the kind found in white bread, pasta and potatoes), and white chocolate is significantly higher in saturated fat, dark chocolate is far better from a health perspective.

Dark chocolate with a higher cocoa content is high in polyphenols (antioxidants) and scientific tests have shown that just 45g of dark chocolate a day actually increases the presence of the HDLs (high density lipoprotein) in the body - the proteins which help to prevent heart disease. Similarly, dark chocolate restricts the uptake of glucose into cells – the process that causes blood sugar to rise. Therefore, raw dark chocolate helps to stabilise blood sugars. Look for dark chocolate with at least 70% cocoa.

Jessica Rawlings from JDRF supporting research into a type 1 diabetes cure.

Give and Take

This week as I was taking down my classroom, I saw this picture- hanging on the wall by my computer.

It is one of my favorite pictures of me and my dad- it was taken the day I started my mission.  I was saying goodbye to my family for a year and a half.  Of course we were sad because we knew we would miss each other like crazy, but more than anything it was a happy day.  I remember hearing my parents promise to write faithfully, feeling so excited for my new journey, and more than anything knowing how terribly proud my parents were of me for making this decision.  And after all, is there anything as great as making your parents proud?

When I look at that picture, I see that day and I feel those emotions- that happiness, that excitement, that complete love.  For the longest time after my dad died, though, I couldn't look at pictures of him and feel happiness.  I felt sorrow, anger, and injustice.  It took me so long to accept that he had to have been taken so early and so unexpectedly from this life.

I remembered how robbed I felt when my dad was taken.  Weeks after my dad's death, an old boyfriend told me that I was seeing myself as a victim.  I remember thinking, "Well no duh!  I am!"  I felt myself a complete and utter victim, someone who had wrong done to them, who had no way of helping themselves.  I felt so powerless and even mad at God for taking my dad.  I remember in those months after my dad's death thinking that the Lord had taken away from me one of the absolute greatest parts of my life and nothing would even be able to make that up.

It was interesting to look at this picture and be reminded of all of those complex emotions as I sat in my classroom.  I had just said goodbye to my students whom I had grown to love tremendously. They had hugged me and taken pictures with me and even given me packs of diet coke. I had surprised even myself as I wept with them when I read them this goodbye letter. In these last days at Copper Hills I have felt so much love and purpose.  I have been overwhelming grateful for my time there- for the love I have felt from the student, for my first "big girl" job, for the total trust those teenagers have in me.

My dad never met in this life "Teacher Bonnie".  When he died I was just finishing my undergraduate courses.  He passed away in November of 2009.  I started my student teaching that January, and became a full time teacher at Copper Hills that next September.  All of my teaching experiences, memories, and treasures have come to me after my dad's death.  The laughs I've had with my students, the pranks we've  played on each other, the cramming for exams... all of this wonderful purpose in my life has emerged since my dad left.

I guess I just couldn't help but think how good God is.  I felt so robbed when my dad died, but it only took one minute of me sitting there surrounded by my books and desks and notes from students to realize that God repays.  I felt like he had taken one of the greatest things from me that November, but it is interesting that since then he has given me another "greatest thing"- which is teaching.  All these experiences and love and terrific students He gave me after He took my dad.

I can't help but be overwhelmed when I think of it all.  He takes, but He gives.  I think about the giant hole my dad left in my heart.  It will never be filled completely, but it's almost like God filled a different part of my heart- a part I didn't know even needed filling.  He filled it with a job that gives my fulfillment and happiness and purpose.  He filled it with a husband who puts glowsticks around the bed so it looks like we are sleeping in the future.  He filled it with a mom and siblings that make great efforts to spend time as a family.  I wonder if when my dad died three years ago, if I could have been able to see all the wonderful things down the road, if I would have mourned so deeply.  God had so much greatness in store for me, but I could only focus on what was being taken from me.

So I guess this would be a thank you to my students and Copper Hills for being the next "great thing" that came in to my life, and in its own weird way, for helping me to heal after losing my dad.  It's true that when one door closes, another opens, but when the door that closes is as big as losing your dad, it takes awhile to understand the enormity and greatness of the door that is opening.  That would be you, my students.  I love you and thank you a million times for letting me be your teacher.

Blessings



On Wednesday, an old high school classmate lost her father in a plane crash.

I haven't spoken to this classmate in years, and have only known anything about her life from occasional status updates on facebook.  I never met her dad, and I never had a close relationship with her. 

But I felt crushed by the news all the same.

Ever since my own dad's death, I find myself so much more affected by loss.  (Don't tell anyone, but I sometimes cry when reading the newspaper.  Embarrassing, I know!)   

I sat down at the computer to send my classmate a little facebook message- to tell her I understood sudden and unexpected death.  To tell her I was sorry.  To tell her that she'd be okay.  That she should look for the blessings that come from this. 

Somehow I couldn't say any of that.  Because I remember all of those things being said to me, and I remember none of it helped.  I was sad, and I felt cheated and neglected, and nothing that anyone else said would help these feelings go away.  Looking back now on the tragedy of my dad's death, it doesn't seem so much a "tragedy", but rather an opportunity for growth and learning.  I thought of telling this girl of all the blessings I have seen since my dad's death.  I thought of telling her of the closer relationship with my mom, as we have had to cling to each other in my dad's absence.  Or of my greater understanding of the purpose and the power of prayer.  Or of my hope for the resurrection.  I thought of mentioning to her that I have greater compassion and sympathy for others who struggle and are in pain, and that that has served me in all aspects of my life. 

I even considered mentioning to her that I have a greater appreciation for men and the roles they play in our lives.  Interestingly enough, I don't know if I would have married Hubs without the sorrow, the vulnerability, the emptiness that my dad's death left with me.  I think I would have kept playing around, acting irresponsibly, dating losers, and trying to never grow up.  But when my dad left, my whole perspective changed.  I wanted stability, I wanted love, I wanted strength-  not fun, adventure, and freedom. 

But, of course, I couldn't say any of that to my classmate.  She is hurting too much to understand these blessings that will come. 

But they will come.

Exciting News!

Listen up, peeps! I've got something exciting to say, so you better pay attention! 

Starting right this very second, I am going to be writing weekly articles for weightlosswars.com.  Pretty legit, right?!?  The concept of the site is brilliant- people compete with others to see who can lose the most amount of weight.  According to the creators, "Weightlosswars pits its members against each other in fun, exciting, encouraging, supporting, and down right dirty weight loss competitions. "  It's like The Biggest Loser for everybody and anybody. 

Toldya it was genius.

I know what you're thinking.  What in the world makes me think I qualified to write weight loss articles?  Um.... because I like to write?  Really, I have no idea.  Someone asked me to and I said yes.  That's good enough, right? 

My first article was today.  So go ahead and read it and let me know what you think... AKA say really nice things about it.

And now, without furthur ado, I present to you, Bonbon, the weightloss writer!

When I was twenty years old, my then-boyfriend, Shane, asked me “What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever gone through ?”

Shane was a recovering drug addict and was going through one of the most difficult stages in his life. I wanted so badly to relate to him. To show him that I understood what he was going through. To show him that I could be strong, just like him.

I racked my brain. Nothing was coming.

(Read the rest of the story here.)

What NOT to say when someone has died.

Yesterday I attended my Uncle Berg's funeral.

The day was one filled with reflection and gratitude for life.

As I stood in the viewing line yesterday morning, I thought about what I would say to my aunt, the widow.  Because of my own dad's death two years ago, I had some clue as to what things would bring her comfort, and what things would just make it worse. 

I do know, however, that for many the "what do I say when someone has died?" does not come easy at all.  In fact, I know that for many it is something extremely difficult and uncomfortable and even awkward.  Many just don't know what is appropriate to say or what the griever will want to hear, and therefore, don't say anything or say the wrong thing.

Last night when I got home from the funeral, I pulled out my journal and looked at the entries surrounding my dad's death.  They are days that live in my memory as dark and painful and without understanding.  The words on the journal pages clearly reflect that.
And, yet, somehow, admidst all that heartache, there was a stroke of brilliance.
I had written a list.

The following is written on the day that my dad passed away.  I have copied it down verbatim because although I certainly never thought these would be shared with anyone but myself, I think the world could benefit from a little more understanding of what to say during times like these.

November 19, 2009
THINGS NOT TO SAY WHEN SOMEONE HAS DIED

• "Calm down" (What my manager at Sizz said when I couldn't stop crying.)
• "Be strong." (An impossible demand at such a difficult time.)
• A bunch of stories about someone else that someone, sometime, somewhere, don't try to lessen my sorrow by talking of the sorrows of others.  It doesn't help right now.
• "WHAT?!?!?!" (What one of my dad's old friend's said when Mary told him)
• "Just go take a shower and give a pissed off cry" ("pissed off" doesn't begin to cover the emotions that I am feeling right now.)
• "Don't cry, because if you cry then I'll cry, too" (Oh, okay, well I wouldn't want to make you cry would I?  And since I have a lot of control over my tears right now, anyway...)
• "That is so sad that he died alone."
• "Wow, I can't even imagine how hard this must be.  I've never been through anything so painful, it must be so so hard."  (Um... yah... but you're not helping anything)
• "You have the worst luck!"
• Saying nothing.

THINGS TO SAY WHEN SOMEONE HAS DIED

• I'm so sorry.
• I love you so much.
• Your dad was a great man.
• Your dad will be missed.
• He loved you so much.
• My heart aches for you.
• No words can express what I feel for you.
• I'm praying for you.
• Just want you to know that I'm thinking of you.
• I'll be here for you.
• You're my best friend and I love you and I will drop everything to be down to Price as fast as I can.

From the day of my dad's funeral.

I'm sorry if you feel that the blog has been kind of "heavy" lately. I guess somewhere deep down behind the jokes and sass and facade is a sensitive little girl who still misses her daddy.  And that's okay.