A Place of Peace

On March 21, 2012, almost seven months to the day since her passing, Lindsey’s headstone was delivered and set at the graveside. I got to spend time with Josh there and it was so good to see him. We cleaned off the headstone, added fresh flowers to the vase, and gazed at her beautiful picture set in pink granite. It seemed like old times when we would work together taking care of Lindsey. With tears in our eyes, I thanked him for handling all the hard and painful things he did in Lindsey’s behalf. He truly was amazing with her through their married life and all of her illness. He was an amazing caretaker and he loved her so much.

Two weeks after she passed in August, he moved back to their town home in Saratoga Springs. And from that point forward it has been really different.

After Lindsey passed away I could go in and out of the room where they had lived. What was interesting was when Josh was still living there I didn’t have any problems going in and out of the room. Having him there made it seem like Lindsey was still here. The day he moved out I could not go back into the room where Lindsey died. I couldn’t bear seeing the emptiness and the barrenness. I avoided that space completely. Emotionally, I couldn’t bear the thought of Lindsey being gone, let alone realize we had lost Josh as well. It was interesting to watch myself and see how different things affected me in my grieving process.

Because of this, as well as many other triggers for me and the kids, Todd and I realized we couldn’t really stay in that home; so we moved Jan. 2, 2012. On the day we moved I went in and said goodbye to that empty room and sacred space where Lindsey had struggled to live and where she had peacefully passed on. I said goodbye to the space where Josh had so tenderly and lovingly cared for his sweetheart.

Grieving, to me, is letting go and facing every day without your loved one. It feels weird that they are not present, celebrating all the new things that are happening, and being a part of your life like they were before. Today is April 9^th, 2012. It's Josh’s birthday - he is 28 years old. I think about his life and what he has already gone through during his short years. He stepped into our family and made such a huge difference in Lindsey’s life - and in ours.

I know that last year for Josh’s birthday, while Lindsey lay in bed, I helped her create and gather together fun ideas to use in celebrating. We had a lot of fun together thinking of different ways to honor him on his day.

I know that this year if she were here, she would sing a crazy Happy Birthday song to him and leave it on his voice mail. She would plan a special dinner and write him a tender note inside a sweet birthday card. She would express her love with her funny, sloppy handwriting that came about because of all the brain surgeries. She would find a funny t-shirt and make him wear it, like a superman shirt or something, and most of all she would hold his hand and gaze into his eyes and thank him for loving her even in this condition. She would thank him for feeding her and helping her with personal care She would thank him for talking to her in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep and for rubbing her feet when she was uncomfortable or in pain.

And on the nights when she could sleep she would thank him for waking up over and over again to see if she was still breathing. She would thank him for standing by her to the end and listening as she took her last breath.

She would say "I love you Joshua Adam Karr. I shall never forget you and I will be by your side, even from the other side of the veil." She would say "we had our time together and its okay to move on, be happy, and when it comes time for you to have children I will be sending them from my tender arms to yours. I will be forever your friend, and your wife." For this year’s birthday present she would set Josh free of the pain of grief and loss so that he could move forward in this life the way he needs to.

Today we are also celebrating Josh’s engagement to his girl friend who is becoming his future wife. We know that he will always carry a tender place in his heart for Lindsey and our family. But we also know that he deserves to be with someone who is here and present and who can love him and take care of him. He deserves to have a family and have joy in his life again.

Healing the grief feels like we can celebrate life itself and the beautiful moments that come for loved ones in this world. I am starting to come out of some very painful learning. I feel at peace with Josh and our relationship and I am coming to a place of acceptance about Lindsey while understanding on a deep level that she is happy and free and living in a place of peace.

Reclaiming Fifteen Minutes

Hospice sent a little information packet reminding our family that we might be experiencing the second phase of grieving. They explained that this second phase of grief can happen about six months from the date of your loved one’s passing. I would say that many in our family are experiencing this just lately. Some of our family members are experiencing anger. Jamie has been really sad. I think that the experience at the temple really fits my entrance into the second phase of grieving.
I have had dear friends working with me and helping me through lots of different modalities for example: massage, cranial, homeopathy, flower essences, oils, supplements, and ESC plus, my own self processing. However, these modalities cannot take the pain away. I still have moments of deep sadness.
I did have an amazing “ah ah” the other day that I wanted to share. I was telling my friend that I feel like everything for me was moving in slow motion. I have been experiencing lapses of time where fifteen minutes are all of sudden gone. I was with Penny in Arizona in January and she experienced it with me several times. Anyway it has been annoying. Most of you know I have issues with being late most generally. However, over the years I have done a lot of processing about time, and my tardiness had greatly improved until the last several months. I was talking about this to my friend.
I said “I am always fifteen minutes behind.” As we worked on clearing it I could see myself connected to a strand of time that linked me to the day that Lindsey passed. I could see that part of me was clinging to her. It was like having the gas on and the breaks on at the same time. I knew I had to move forward without her and yet I couldn’t leave her behind. I felt like a rubber band being stretched from that day forward all the way to present time. The resistance had been getting harder and harder to balance.
I immediately saw me sitting by her bedside. My hand was touching her heart right by her breast. I could still feel the warmth of her body even though she had stopped breathing. The people in the room had filed out and the mortuary was there to take her body. I was asked to leave the room so that Josh could have a few minutes alone with her. I indicated that I wanted to go back in and be with her to say good bye. So I stepped out of the room. Josh must have finished saying goodbye to her and then the mortuary had gone into the room. I must not have been paying attention.
They proceeded to carry out her out on the stretcher. I was upset and at the time did not know what I needed therefore I could not language it. I have thought about this off and on since that day. But, I tried to tell myself that it was good enough and that I should just let all this go. As I started to process this I realized that I hadn’t taken my last few moments with her.
So six months later this realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I had only wanted a few more minutes with her, I wanted just fifteen more minutes with her so I could say good bye with just Todd and I and Lindsey. Somehow everything happened so fast and I never got that time.
I have continued to lose fifteen minutes over and over again. It has been a little bizarre. Thank goodness for the process because I knew immediately that I could reclaim those fifteen minutes by playing out in my mind what I had wanted to do on that day for exactly fifteen minutes. I knew that it could be just as real now, even if I hadn’t been connected or present enough to create that moment for myself on that day.
So I imagined my last fifteen minutes with Lindsey. I saw myself at the foot of her hospital bed. I imagined her feet which, I could see so clearly in my mind, it was if I were right there. The memory of that day has been etched in my mind forever. I saw how dry they were. I remembered how many times I had rubbed her feet with oils and lotion and given her a foot massage. I remembered how much she loved having her feet rubbed, especially when she was suffering or couldn’t sleep. I looked directly at her toes, in my mind, and I remembered how much she enjoyed having her toe nails painted. I imagined touching her feet for the last time and saying goodbye to her feet and toes.
In my mind I looked directly at her ankles and I could see the shape of her calves. She had grandma Mardee’s ankles and legs and they were beautiful. I remembered her knees and her thin thighs. I remembered that for a few weeks up to the day she passed, that she hadn’t been able to walk and she hadn’t gotten out of bed. I said goodbye to her legs that weren’t able to work anymore.
I remembered her tummy and how distended it was from the drugs and how sad it was to see it so misshapen from her beautiful figure. We had worked so hard to keep her colon clean and working over the years. And then to see all the effects of the drugs and what they were doing to her body, yet feeling torn because we knew we were using the drugs to keep her from suffering. She had been so thin after radiation and now her tummy wasn’t even her own. I thought of the times she had changed sizes because of drugs and treatments over the past 11 years.
I still recognized her tummy. I said goodbye.
I remembered her hands and her wedding ring. In spite of the steroids, her fingers remained slim. Lindsey had beautiful hands that I held so many times. In remembered her hands playing the piano, and the guitar. But I especially remembered her playing the violin. She played so beautifully. In my mind I said good bye to her hands.
I looked in my mind’s eye at the necklace she had been wearing now for several years. I remembered how many times I had helped her take that necklace off and put it back on again when she had MRI’s or other treatments plus, all the times I had helped her shower or bathe. I thought about all the times I had helped her dress and how much care we had taken for her body. I said good bye to the necklace.
I remembered her face swollen from steroids and her thinning hair and the few wisps she still had on top of her head. I could see the scar where she had had surgery three times and the dent it had left in her head. I said goodbye to the surgeries she had had over the last eleven years, the radiation treatments at age eighteen that had caused such severe burns. And then I remembered the day when I heard her scream as she stood in front of the mirror as long strands of hair fell out into the sink, I remembered us both crying and me helplessly trying to offer comfort. I said good bye to that place on top of her head where the hair never grew back.
And then I focused on her eyes, knowing that I would need to say goodbye. Even though they were closed that day and it seemed as if she were sleeping, I could remember her eyes. I remembered her long lashes and the shape of her eyes. I remembered how they would twinkle when she would laugh. I remembered their specific color and the blue green light that flickered inside letting us know she was in there. This memory wouldn’t be so important unless you had seen the last few weeks of her life where the light was dimmed and she didn’t seem to be present.
And then allowing the tears to flow in this visualization and having to accept one more time that she would never wake up and I would never see them open again. I said goodbye to her eyes.
I guess as a mother it was some need of mine to say goodbye to every part of her body so that I could understand that she wasn’t in her body and that she was leaving us. In my mind everything had happened so fast towards the end and as she passed I facilitated everyone else being able to say good-bye and I just wasn’t present enough on that day to facilitate my own closure.
And so in my visualization, just before I would let them come in to take my baby, I would see me laying down next to her and holding her one more time. And stroking her hair and her face and touching her hands. I had just needed a couple more minutes with Lindsey. . . fifteen more precious minutes. . . and yet I know in my heart that if they hadn’t come in and taken her I wouldn’t have been able to let her leave the house.
I know it happened exactly the way it needed to. After having gone through this fifteen minute visualization I felt so much better. I had gone back in time and reclaimed my fifteen minutes. Those minutes are mine now and I don’t have to experience them being taken from me ever again. Saying goodbye helps us come to closure. Time issues have to do with in completions.
So, here I am saying goodbye in the best way I know how. I think grieving is the process of saying goodbye over and over again. I think it takes us a long time to let go, I have only been able to let go fifteen minutes at a time.

The Power to Comfort Part II: Messages of Love

I appreciate everyone’s response to the last blog post "The Power to Comfort". It has been exciting to hear from all of you. It is really hard to share some of my personal experiences, but I know writing about them is helping me. So thank you for reading and listening to me as I share about my experience with Lindsey. Some days are just harder than others and I do have happy days, they are not all so sad.

However, like the last blog post, there are some experiences that are profound. I try to reach beyond my own need for privacy and pride and share what I have experienced, only to honor the presence of God in my life. It is when I see His hand, even His tender mercies, that I can move into greater acceptance that Lindsey has been called home.

It is in these tender moments that I can begin to make sense of all that has happened. When I see that He is aware of my grief, and He is offering comfort in the many ways that He has, I feel remembered, buoyed up, and I can feel His arms around me. I can hear Him whisper, reassuring me that she is okay and that there was some purpose in all the suffering that we witnessed. In some of my deepest grief, I have felt Lindsey’s presence with me.

I think the hardest thing is that she and I can’t talk, giggle or laugh together like we used to. My heart aches and I just want to hear her, touch her hand or be close to her and it is so hard to try to hear her voice through the silence of separation. I can only hear it every once in awhile now.

I have to reach beyond my capabilities to connect to her soul. Sometimes in my reaching and in my straining I connect to nothingness. Oh, cherish the times you have with your loved ones. Make your time with them count. Make sure you create meaningful memories, because when they are gone, all that you have left is the strain of your heart reaching out to hear their voice through the silence of the grave.

Lindsey left me many messages of love. As I am sorting through her things, I am finding old birthday cards from her to me and her handwriting brings tears to my eyes. We have pictures and photographs, certificates, and her diploma from BYU. There is her blanket, her clothes, her make-up, the dried flowers from her funeral, and her wedding dress. All these things remind me of her and send messages of love to me as I remember the essence of who she was here.

But, believe me, all these things are not my Lindsey. I do try to be at peace with her story and God’s plan that I know we all agreed to, but my heart just wants to hold my daughter again. I think in my mind just holding her one more time would help, and then I would be okay. And then I remember back to her sick body and how miserable she was and I think to myself "How can I be so selfish?" Surely she needed to be released. And then I move to some place inside me that is trying to accept that she couldn’t stay here anymore, which is in direct conflict with the emptiness in my heart that can never be filled. . .

When I am gone I want to leave something behind so that those who love me will not have to strain to remember my voice or feel my love for them. I want to leave as many messages of love as I can. One way I want to do this is by compiling stories of the "Power to Comfort". It will bring many voices together; we will all leave a strong message of love that stands as a witness of God and His power to comfort in small and simple things, even through the faith of mothers and daughters.

We can unite in telling our stories that God lives. In spite of our burdens, or sacrifices and hardships, we can bear witness that He is among us, that He has not forgotten or forsaken us, and that He has the power to comfort, even beyond the separation caused by death, through the power of sisterhood.

I am reaching out and encouraging you to record or write down an experience you have had either offering comfort to someone or having someone else offer comfort to you. If you are thinking about submitting a story please do it! I really believe it could bless the lives of many women. As you are considering what you might contribute, please know that the process of writing it down gives you an opportunity to heal and be reminded of the feelings of love and comfort you had during that experience. These books will then serve as an invitation to the rising generation to become a source of inspiration and comfort.

I plan to eventually compile three books. The first will include contemporary stories from mothers and grandmothers presently living. The second book will be our mothers’ and grandmothers’ stories that have been passed down to us. These stories will be what we remember as well as what we can gather from our family about their lives. And the third book will include the stories of our daughters and what life is like for them. I would like each book to have 30 – 50 stories.

Suggestions for stories:

The stories could be a short essay or vignette between 500 – 1500 words or a whole chapter. My blog length is 600 to approximately 1000 words. You can submit more than one story. You can decide if you would like to use your name, or another name.

June 1 will be the deadline to submit your stories for the first book. These are the stories from your own lives. This will be a project we can all be proud of. A portion of the proceeds will be used to reimburse the publishing costs and a portion donated towards scholarships - offering processes and emotional health education for women and children.

Retelling our stories gives us an opportunity to glean even greater treasures from our experiences and share those treasures with other sisters. Maybe in sharing our stories we can illuminate the future for the young girls coming after us. Maybe we will remind them about the value and virtue of womanhood and the importance of listening to intuition and the guidance we receive from God. This collection of women’s stories will be in celebration of the partnership between women and God and what can be created when we come together through "The Power to Comfort."

Power To Comfort

We are passing the six month marker of Lindsey’s passing. The grief of losing a daughter, a sister, a wife, and a friend is affecting each of us in different ways. It has truly been a blessing to have friends and family offer their thoughts and share their feelings about Lindsey through tender phone calls, texts, notes and gifts. It makes me happy that people make the effort to communicate these messages to me and that they remember Lindsey and are aware of her and our family.

I know Jessica found it especially painful this past weekend and so did Savanah. We talk about our sadness and we cry with each other. We try to soothe each other’s pain in our little family. I know that each of us have felt buoyed up and supported by all of our friends in amazing ways. We truly can feel of your love and empathy.

Todd and I went to the temple in honor of this six month marker, celebrating Lindsey’s passing from this world and recognizing that she is not suffering anymore. Of course, I went thinking that I would be fine. I had been feeling okay for most of the week. But, getting to the temple and sitting in such a beautiful safe, quiet setting, I immediately started to cry at the beginning of the session and I could not stop.

I quietly cried through the whole session. As we neared the end of the session, the sister on my left, sitting two chairs over, leaned towards me and whispered “I love you”. I am sure she could hear me sniffling, and could hear my efforts in trying to muffle my tears. Then the sister next to me, on my left, reached over and put her arm around me. At this point I was really embarrassed as I realized that everyone around me knew that I was crying.

And then the sister on my right leaned over and handed me a crumpled up, already used handkerchief. I needed it terribly by then. I had not brought any tissues with me. It felt like I was going to start sobbing out loud, even though I was trying to manage some kind of dignity during a complete melt down.

I whispered to the sister on my right, who was humbly offering all that she had in the form of a used handkerchief, as I told her that my daughter had recently passed away from a brain tumor.

Our eyes met and she reached out and took my hand in hers. She turned her head back to the front of the room and I saw that she was crying. I knew that she was a mother and that she could feel my pain. I could not keep the pain to myself, it was so overwhelming. This kind of grief makes you feel like you are going crazy and you feel like you going to lose all control.

This woman, who was sitting to my right, started crying with me. I could feel that she was offering up a desire to help bear my burden through her tears. She truly was an angel as she sat next to me holding my hand. I started to finally get a handle on my “out of control” state. I just kept clinging to her hand in my lap. She didn’t pull away and it didn’t feel uncomfortable.

She let me hold her hand until the session came to an end. I literally felt so loved and comforted. It reminded me of how I would hold Lindsey’s hand by the side of her bed. It seemed to help us feel close and connected. I loved holding Lindsey’s hand. During all the surgeries, radiation treatments, fatigue and during severe pain and times of sickness she would always reach for my hand, and I for hers.

Lindsey had so many MRI’s I lost count after the third surgery. I don’t even know how many she had during the last 14 months that she was extremely ill. However during every MRI, she would always ask for me to come in and hold her hand when they had to give her the contrast in the form of a shot in her arm. She hated shots. She had such small veins and sometimes it would take several pokes to get it right. Lindsey was so tender and soft-hearted -- it was so hard to see such suffering and such harshness being inflicted on her thin, frail body. To tell you the truth it was more than any mother could bare.

So sitting there in the temple it felt like I got to hold Lindsey’s hand, even if it was for a short time. It seemed like Lindsey was offering her hand to comfort me this time through this beautiful sister sitting next to me.

I know that women have such capacity to feel each other’s burdens, and I have truly seen my dearest friends and family members, mothers themselves, offer such heartfelt compassion -- not only to me, but also to others in so many amazing ways. I have witnessed women gathering around me during Lindsey’s illness and in her passing and offering comfort in ways that I did not know was possible. I know that I have not been alone to bear my grieving.

What I experienced that day and at other sacred times during this experience with Lindsey is that there is a certain “power to comfort” given to women and mothers that resembles the same power offered by angels themselves. This “power to comfort” is not from this world, but is heaven sent and divine. It is this “power to comfort” that women possess, which makes it possible for any one of us, as mothers, to not die when we bury a child. It is the women who have gathered around me and given me the courage to continue to move forward. They have literally lifted my hands that hang low and encouraged me to keep going. I have had angels, in the form of sisters, gather around me in the very moments that I thought I could not go on and literally carry me to the other side of the abyss of death.

May we as women understand this power and not be so hesitant to share it with each other, but have courage to offer what we have to offer, even if it is a used handkerchief. It may be someone else’s saving grace. May we offer, without hesitation, this “power to comfort” and may we also offer this same gift of angelic love to our husbands and our children. Let us not be tempted to misdirect, or squander this power by focusing on the things of this world.

Thank you, sisters, for bearing my burdens and making them lighter and mourning with me as I mourn. Thank you for responding, and thoughtfully holding the space for my personal grief. I thank God that he sent his love not only through his son, but also in the form of women acting as angels on this earth. I pray that I might develop this art, even the ability to love to this degree, that I might someday offer comfort to a mother who has lost a child or is struggling in other ways.

Ministering to each other in such profound ways is an honor. May we truly embrace our gifts as women in nurturing and offering emotional support to each other. May we have a desire to be instruments in God’s hands. May we teach our daughters and our granddaughters that they too have “power to comfort”. It is an innate part of being a woman. It is a gift. It is a sacred responsibility. The “power to comfort” has the ability to heal the giver and the receiver at the same time.

A Special Request to My Readers:

So, at the end of this entry, I would like to extend an invitation to any of you that have experienced something like what I have described here about the “power to comfort”. I am interested in true stories of women serving each other. I would love to hear from you so write about your experience either giving or receiving this kind of comfort and send it to my email pam@ihaofutah.com. I want to compile stories of women comforting other women. I think it would bring strength to me and offer strength to many others. I would love to hear from you. . . love always pam.

Witnessing a great power in Arizona

I just returned from visiting our satellite school in Phoenix, Arizona. What a wonderful experience. The students and graduates had arranged for two previews and a children’s clinic at a beautiful healing center. They made it possible for me to reach approximately 75- 80 people during my time there. I was able to process an amazing five year old girl for the demo at the Thursday night preview. Kayla was the daughter of one of the students in the school. She was absolutely darling.

Our children’s clinic had fourteen children participate. We learned about heavy feelings and light feelings and what to do when our anger alarm goes off. We did the hokey pokey and made pet rocks. We had good support from students and graduates as they coached the children during the class.

It was approximately four years ago that one woman living in Gilbert, Arizona approached me about coming to Arizona to do a training there. Penny Hansen shared with me over the telephone that she was committed to do whatever it took to bring the Institute of Healing Arts and the year long program to Arizona. She even volunteered her home for one year so the class would have somewhere to meet.

Right around that time one of our graduates moved from Utah to Arizona and was willing to participate as a trainer. Her name was Diana Hainsworth. Diana, along with Penny Hansen, sent out fliers and talked to everyone they knew. They coordinated the previews and we eventually had our first training in Arizona. Today we are experiencing the fruits of their vision to bring the process to this area.

We now have our current trainer Barbara Porter, who graduated from that original class. She is doing an amazing work in teaching and supporting our current students. The class started last October, and the transformation that we witnessed this past weekend was so powerful. These students gather every Tuesday night to address issues and learn the technique of processing. They are a wonderful support to each other. Some of the original graduates, including Penny Hansen, are attending as well for round two as they strengthen their skills and offer support as coaches to this new class.

Everyone welcomed me with such open arms; I felt so loved by the group. My heart was touched as I became aware of some of the sacrifices that students and families are making for the school to even be in Arizona. I honor those students and graduates in Arizona who are making this all possible. We truly witnessed the power of the process in Arizona this past weekend.

I love Arizona.

Time To Rest

So I am finally writing again and a few weeks have passed since I wrote about being on the beach in San Diego. As we have turned the corner and moved into 2012, I have had a few thoughts I would like to share. We have the opportunity at the beginning of each New Year to do self-reflection and identify places where there can be improvement in our lives.

For me personally, I know that there are some changes that are needed in my life. Many of you know I love processing and the work that I am involved with at the Institute of Healing Arts. After Lindsey passed I poured my heart and soul into my work to help me cope with the grief that I was experiencing. It seemed to help time pass more quickly and work helped distance me from the pain of her death. Because of the overwhelming grief it seemed like I only had two options. One was to work, and work hard or go to bed and die. I chose to work.

I do believe that hard work can be a solution for many things. My mother taught me to work hard and helped me to see that it could help my feelings of sadness and depression. She taught me that serving others was the very medicine that would pull me out of feeling sorry for myself and help me move towards productivity and being able to find meaning in my life. After Lindsey passed I needed to work and I needed to work hard. I am grateful for the blessing of work for the last few months.

Now, I feel that I can start to slow down and catch my breath. Maybe because time has passed I am ready to move on into some different phase of my personal grieving. Now, I get to include some other ways of coping and since some time has passed it doesn’t seem to hurt so bad as it did at first. So for me working hard was the solution and now having it balance out and slow down will be my focus for 2012.

I have had to get used to a lot of changes. Things are different, very different without Lindsey and Josh and the way we once knew them. Josh is busy working and going to school and our family functions are often missing these two precious children. I am not only grieving the loss of Lindsey but, also the loss of Josh in the role that he had when she was alive. At family dinners and other events, I have to keep counting my children to see if we are all there. Mothers who have lost children have expressed that they have felt this same way. The dynamics have changed so much.

Sometimes I want go back and remember the way it was and yet a larger part of me wants to move forward. Because I know that Lindsey is not in the past but, will be reunited with our family in the future. So it is forward that we are moving, all of us, as time takes us where it will. And in the year 2012, the year predicted for great change, I will continue to work, but at a more balanced pace. I am settling into the changes that have already presented themselves in our family, and I will continue to find moments of joy and celebrate living and life itself with a deep sense of reverence.

The other thing I wanted to share is that after the whole experience with Lindsey I thought there would never be another hard thing. It felt like the whole experience with Lindsey’s illness and her death totally topped everything I have ever been through. But I still face challenges and I have to make hard decisions and there is adversity and struggle even in everyday living. As I face these difficulties I can be reassured that whatever I face in 2012 it will never be another brain tumor. That after four brain tumors it is done and nothing compares to those experiences. And when I see the current adversity and say to myself, “this is nothing compared to a brain tumor” it minimizes the difficulty that I am experiencing and makes it feel miniscule or small. And I remember that I can handle hard things, because, if I can do what I did with Lindsey over the past eleven years, and then in the end . . . letting her go . . . I can do anything.

So I am facing 2012 with a desire to work hard but, also realizing that life doesn’t have to be so hard. I can live from joy and peace knowing that Lindsey isn’t suffering anymore and is finally resting. It is my time to rest too.

The Beach

On Christmas day our little family gathered on a stretch of beach across the bay from San Diego on Coronado Island. We played and splashed and gathered shells and watched a crab move in and out of his shell. We laughed and drew pictures in the sand and watched the most beautiful sunset. The light reflected pinks, oranges and yellows off the turquoise blue water. We gazed at the brilliant colors as they filled the sky over head.

As the sun began to set we huddled together to observe this sacred event that happens every night no matter where you are on the planet. It represents the close of the day and creates space for the creation of a new day. There was a chill in the breeze and our feet were cold from playing in the water and yet we felt a feeling of reverence. The beach can be a sacred place of beauty.

As we stood by each other gazing out across the ocean I had memories of being on this same beach just before Lindsey got sick in 2010. We had played and danced with no worries or cares as we watched gold flecks of sand sparkle from under the water. Silver strand beach is named for these gold flecks that gleam in the dark wet sand. As I reflected back to that time we had no idea what lay ahead of us. Sometimes it is good to not know what lies ahead. The beach holds the place for past, present, and future.

I remember that it was on a beach further up the coastline when I first met Todd. We were on our missions and at a winter zone activity at Zuma beach. Of course, we were there serving and committed to our missions but later we shared our feelings about meeting each other that day on the beach. When we met we knew that we had known each other from a space and time before we came here. On the beach it felt like I was saying “hello” to a long lost friend. The beach can bring people into your life.

On Christmas day I reflected about the power of the ocean. It’s power to heal, its power to hold all my sadness when I can’t carry it anymore and even its power to give life. The ocean is one of the most peaceful, beautiful places on the planet. It is a place for meditative reflection. The beach brings feelings of wonder and awe.

I also remembered being on a small beach at Utah Lake the night of Lindsey’s funeral. People gathered in jackets and blankets as we lit lanterns and released them in honor of Lindsey. As we lit the lanterns and let them go, we watched the lights float higher and higher in the sky. Again, it was a sunset and there was a little chill in the breeze. You could feel in the air that summer had come to an end. People were gathered on a beach to say “good-bye” to Lindsey.

Standing on Silver Strand beach in California, four months after Lindsey’s passing, I reflected about the cycles and patterns of mother earth, and Lindsey’s birth, her life and her death. Being there in that one moment in time my breathing changed and I began breathing deeply, I could taste the salt in the air. With a few tears in my eyes, I felt my body relax and begin to trust the rhythm of mother earth. I started to settle into a deeper space of acceptance.

I know in my mind that life here is temporary and this is not our final destination. But, emotionally and physically I was allowing myself to embrace this truth on a deeper level. As I have been going through the grieving process I am experiencing over and over again an acceptance about Lindsey’s passing and I continue to do this in many different ways. I was being gently reminded again that we are all visiting here and mother earth takes care of us while we are here and then we move on. Lindsey’s visit is over and she has gone home.

In Todd’s talk at Lindsey’s funeral he shared a poem about death being like a boat sailing off in the distance and those of us on this side saying good bye to loved ones while watching them sail away saying ‘there she goes”. . .and those gathered on the distant shore watching the boat as it gets closer and saying “Here she comes.”

I love being close to the water and the ocean, seeing the boats sailing on the waves. As I watched the boats from the shore I felt supported and was reminded that I am not drowning and that I am being supported while I am healing from the loss of my daughter, my child, my baby. Being renewed on the beach I felt the power of the ocean and I know I will survive.

I had made a pilgrimage to the beach to release Lindsey. Emotionally I needed to come to peace with what happened to her, to Josh, to me and my family. On Silver Strand beach I watched the golden flecks of sand reflecting time in the water. The beach is a place where time transcends this world. My time with Lindsey is not over we are not separated. She lives…I feel supported while I am healing from the loss of my child. The love between a mother and a child is fluid like the ocean, we may be bound by our mortal bodies, but love cannot be contained. Love knows no bounds, it has no limitations. As I am reminded of these true principles my heart is set free.

At some time in the future I will make the journey from this realm into the next and there will be Lindsey standing on the far distant shore and as she sees me coming she will say “here she comes.” In my heart the beach is a place for play, for letting go, settling into acceptance and also holds the hope for sweet reunion.