The Last Gift

I hadn't planned on sharing any thoughts during the holidays, but I think someone else has other plans...

My heart is both heavy and full of joy at this time of year--always my favorite time. My children and wife and I are full of anticipation and excitement over the wonderful things occurring as the year winds to a close: spending time with family and friends, enjoying the Christmas lights and decorations, delicious treats and food, and much more. When I mention that my heart is heavy, I think that's a fair description. I'm not melancholy or depressed, but Stacy and I both certainly notice the missing member of our family as we proceed with our annual celebrations--each one a new "first" for us as we navigate life without Jack among us.

There's a fair amount of guilt a parent feels when losing a child. Stacy and I both have felt, and continue to feel these things on occasion. They aren't constant thoughts, but they do haunt us every now and then. We know the source of such things and don't allow ourselves to give in to them, but part of the reality of our human nature is the constant struggle of dealing with "What If?"

For Stacy, it's "What if I had kept him better hydrated?" (Jack had been sick with a cold at the start of the new year and hadn't been eating or drinking much. His doctor said that one of the reasons the clot in his brain occurred was due to the thickness of his blood due to lack of hydration.) or "What if I had taken him to the doctor?" There are no answers to these questions, and even when we try to come up with some, the result is simply: additional questions. (In all fairness to the doctor, who we thought was very good, he told us that there was nothing we could have done to prevent this from happening, and we take comfort in that.)

For me, it's "What if I had been more tender and loving and compassionate during the time he was feeling so lousy?" (Not that I wasn't compassionate, but we are our own worst enemies, right? There's always room for more love and compassion, isn't there?) or, for me the worst guilt comes from the fact that I wasn't home when it all happened (I was in New York City at an annual conference.) Not being there in my son and my wife's time of terrible need has been a difficult pill for me to swallow.

I remember sitting down to watch a show in New York two nights before Jack left us. My spirit was not at ease. I felt restless. Stacy called me just before showtime and told me Jack still wasn't feeling well. I was worried but not overly concerned (we had spent so much time at the doctor's office and hospital with our twins since their birth that nothing really caused us alarm; getting sick was par for the course.) I couldn't be there in person to bring comfort, but I felt that a priesthood blessing could be of benefit to Jack. My friend and neighbor responded to my text message and graciously headed over to my house with a companion to administer to my family.

I firmly believe that blessing gave my son two more days of life. It perked him up, enough so that Stacy felt like he was improving. This allowed Jack to be with Stacy and his siblings for a couple more days before he had to leave us. This brings me great joy and strengthened my testimony of the power of the priesthood. This was a great gift to us, one that we will cherish always.

That wasn't the last gift, however. There was one more.

Jack departed this world on a Monday morning. On the Sunday evening prior, a series of small events fell into place (surely orchestrated by the Lord) to allow me the greatest gift I could receive from heaven and my youngest child (not knowing, of course, what was about to transpire). This gift was the last conversation I was ever to have with my son before he left us. Here's how it came about:

Sunday evening in New York City in January: the weather was chilly and the sky was dark. I was restless. I needed something to do. But I was uncharacteristically indecisive about how to occupy my time that evening. I wish I could say it was some epic choice between two noble deeds I was forced to choose, but alas, it was which show I should go see. There aren't too many shows playing on a Sunday evening in New York, but there were two I was interested in. I was trying to make a choice between them. One of them started at 7:30 p.m. and was a fairly new musical I had not yet seen. The other started at 7:00 p.m. and was five blocks closer to my hotel than the other show was. But I had seen this second show about seven times already (I know, I'm ridiculous).

I went to the box office of the theatre for the first show fully intending to purchase a ticket to see it at 7:30 p.m. When I got there, however, I couldn't do it. For some reason unknown to me, I felt like I should not go see that show and that I should go to the other show instead. I didn't know why I was having a hard time making such a simple decision, but I followed my heart and headed uptown to the other theatre. When I got there, I went to the box office and found that they did have a ticket to the show. I requested a seat on the aisle (again, not sure why). Shortly thereafter I made my way to the upper balcony and settled in for the performance.

It turns out that there were quite a few empty seats in that balcony for the performance I attended that night, including many seats ahead of me with a better view of the stage. I specifically remember thinking that it would be fun to move up closer so I could see better. However, there were no aisle seats, and for some reason I kept thinking in my mind that I was going to need to leave the theatre quickly when the show was over. So, because I would have been trapped in the middle of the row with no quick way to exit the theatre, I did not move forward to a better seat. Instead, I kept my seat farther back on the aisle near the exit.

As soon as the applause started for the curtain call at the end of the show, I jumped up from my chair and headed out the door. I didn't know why I was in a hurry, but I felt like I needed to get back to my hotel as soon as possible. I was able to get out of the building very easily without any trouble or delay.

Whenever I travel, I always make my best effort to call my children to say hello and find out how their day has gone. It's not always easy, however, because my schedule and their schedule, plus the difference in time zones, often means we aren't always able to talk at the same time. Because of this, I had missed a couple of times talking to my kids on this particular trip. But I really felt like I needed to talk to them on that cold Sunday evening before they went to bed back home.

I made my way back to the hotel. I entered the lobby. I felt a very strong urge that I needed to talk to my children right away. It was getting late. But my phone was almost completely drained of its battery. I knew I wouldn't be able to even make it through one short phone call. Another strange and unexpected thing had happened before I had ventured out into the city that day: I had, for some reason, thought to put my cell phone charger in my pocket. I had carried it around with me all day long, something I never usually do. Because I had the charger with me, I searched the lobby for an electrical outlet. Fortunately, I found one with relative ease. It was in an open, noisy area, but for some reason I didn't care. It was important to make this call. (I was staying at a big hotel and sometimes it can take ten minutes to get an elevator, which is why I didn't try to head up to my room.)

I plugged in and dialed. I talked with Stacy and with each of my children, individually. I listened to them tell me about their day. I told them I loved them. I told Jack I loved him. I have no idea what I said aside from that or what we talked about (probably not much; Jack wasn't much a phone talker). But we talked. Little did I know that that conversation with my baby boy, my sweet five year old angel, would be the last one we would ever have on this earth. I never spoke to him again after that, other than when I whispered and cried into his ear in the hospital after he'd already passed on from this world.

That conversation was the last gift. It was the greatest gift. It was the only one of any importance that could be given to me. I'm sure the Lord granted me this tender mercy. He knew what was coming. He knew it was something I would need to help me through the days and weeks of pain that were about to unfold upon me and my family. He knew it would bring moments of peace and comfort in a world suddenly turned upside down. He knew all of that. Oh, how glad I am that I listened!

You see, if I had gone to the 7:30 p.m. show, the performance several blocks farther away from my hotel than the show that started at 7:00 p.m., I would have missed the opportunity to talk with my son. I spoke with him at about 9:45 or 9:50 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. It was 7:45-7:50 p.m. in Utah. Our twins go to bed at 8:00 p.m. If I had not gone to the earlier show, the later time and the extra walking involved to get back to my hotel from the other show would have put me there after 8:00 p.m., Utah time. I would have missed the chance to speak to my Jack before he had gone to bed forever. What a miracle this was! I still can hardly believe it even now as I write this. What an amazing last gift this was to be able to speak with him one last time, even though I had no idea that's what I was doing. How much more pain and regret would I feel if that had not happened? God is so good to us if we listen to what He is telling us. If you ever have a prompting in your heart, you simply MUST follow it. It could end up meaning so much more to you than you'll ever know!

Now it's been almost one year since the last gift of that phone call took place. I treasure that moment so much. When I return to New York in a few weeks' time for my annual conference, I will be staying at that very same hotel. I am sure I will pass by the spot many times where I last spoke to Jack on the phone as people chatted and rushed past me. That will be a special place for me now, a sacred space.

One last thing I leave here now: during his final Christmas with us, for some reason Jack became familiar with the carol "What Shall We Give?" sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I think we had been watching the video online and maybe he had heard it and/or sung it at church, too. Jack had really taken to this song and had, for some reason, started to sing it at home. He never really sang much in his day-to-day activities, but he loved the chorus of this song, with it's fun, rhythmic chanting "Tan ta tan tan ta ta tan ta ta tan ta."

It's meaningful words ring out:
"What shall we give to the babe in the manger,

What shall we offer the child in the stall?

Incense and spices and gold we've a-plenty-

Are these the gifts for the king of us all?"

I can still hear Jack singing the words of the chorus as he walks around our home wearing a Santa hat, not a care in the world. Stacy and our other children remember this, too. This thought brings us joy. What would I give to have him back to sing that song to us again? Everything. Unfortunately, that's not how things work. All we can do is give to others. Give something that uplifts someone else. Our reward will come later.

In my case, it will be a sweet reunion with an angel child in heaven.

Merry Christmas and God bless you all.

The Birthday

Sometimes I have the strangest thoughts. Sometimes I forget the terrible trauma that has visited our family. Sometimes I allow myself to get comfortable in our new normal before something jolts me back to reality. Sometimes there's sadness (often, actually). Never hopelessness or despair though.

Last Sunday I was sitting in Sacrament Meeting enjoying the messages being shared with us. I looked around. I saw friends and families with children doing the same things we were doing. I know these people. They are wonderful people. I considered, briefly, what it would be like if one of them suddenly was no longer here with us. What pain this thought brought to me. I couldn't bear for any parent to experience that. Then I remembered it has happened to me. To Stacy and I. To our family. And then I realized that must be how others must feel for us. They feel the pain of Jack's absence, too. I know they do because of the things they say and do. It really is a terrible thing, loss. We all feel it together. (Is it just me, or were a lot of the talks in LDS Conference a few weeks ago about death and loss. Many of the speakers seemed to address this topic in more plain and honest terms than I'd ever noticed before. It's all about the lenses through which we view life, isn't it.)

My twin boys turned six years old yesterday. It was, of course, a roller coaster day, with emotions running the gamut from joy and happiness to sorrow and grief. Not wanting to focus only on the loss of the son who is no longer physically present, and also wanting to give Tate a full and normal birthday of his own, we decided we would make it a day of celebration. This special day turned out to be wonderful in many ways and very hard, too. But we knew it would be.

I've thought over the last many months about what it means to give something to someone who is no longer here to receive things. The stuff we often give people as tokens of our love, appreciation, and affection are most often purchased at a store. But what can you give someone who is not here to receive such things? You can only offer your heart and good works. Thus, one of our extended family members had the idea back in February that we should all read The Book of Mormon as a family by Jack's birthday as our spiritual gift to him (and, of course, to ourselves). It was hard work. We weren't always perfect at keeping up, but with a few timely marathon reading sessions behind us, we completed our task. My wife, our kids, and I finished reading it yesterday morning. It felt great to do that together. It wasn't easy, but few things worth doing are.

Some of our family and friends also sent us cards and notes with special thoughts of Jack. They came to us marked "Do Not Open Until Oct. 16!" We obeyed.

As a family we all went over to visit Jack's grave and sat down together and read the kind words so many people had taken the time to share with us. It was exactly the right thing we needed. It brought back a lot of joyful memories and tears and helped us to honor him in the right way.

The rest of the day was dedicated to celebrating Tate at the park and pumpkin patch. Kids are such a gift. Truly a gift beyond measure.

I don't really have anything brilliant to say today. This seems more like a journal entry than an insightful blog post. In fact, part of me thinks this may be my last post on this topic for a while. But as I was thinking of one last nice way to honor the memory of my son, I thought I would share with you the life sketch I wrote about him for his funeral. I think it captures the spirit of our great little man. How I love and miss him and look forward to our sweet reunion one day.

God bless you all for your love and concern. It means so very much to us.
_____

Jack Jeffrey Martin: A Life Sketch by His Father

Jack Martin was born October 16, 2009, at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center in Provo, Utah. The youngest in his family of four children, he came into this world just two minutes following his fraternal twin brother, Tate. From the very beginning of his life he was always surrounded by those who loved him; Dad’s niece, Nicki, was one of the delivery nurses at the hospital when the twins arrived on earth, and that has always meant a great deal to Jack’s parents.

Having arrived four weeks early, the twins couldn’t come home right away. They spent two weeks together in the NICU at the hospital getting their physical bodies in prime condition for life at home. At that time there was a flu outbreak in the area and the twins’ older brother and sister were not able to visit the hospital to meet them, so Mom and Dad shuttled back and forth between home and work and the NICU until the boys were ready to go home with them for good.

Twins grow and develop in tandem, and since there were two of them progressing in the same direction, their parents compared them to one another constantly. Jack was always going through new developmental stages a few months later than Tate. This was nice because it meant that Mom and Dad could always know what would be happening in the coming months with Jack based on how Tate had acted previously and, if it was a particularly difficult phase, that it wouldn’t last too long.

One phase that did last a long time, however—his whole life, really—was Jack’s sweet personality, active physical nature, and enthusiasm for living. He brought tremendous joy to his parents, siblings, grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts, friends, and neighbors. He loved his primary teachers and learning about the gospel at church and home. He also enjoyed his preschool teachers and riding the bus to school three times a week because it made him feel like a big kid.

Jack was naturally curious about everything, and he was a very hands-on learner. Of all the Martin children, Jack had the greatest sense of restlessness and adventure. Dad often joked that he wanted to take only Jack to Disneyland because he figured Jack would be his only child who would dare go on all of the rides with him.

Jack could never sit still for any long duration of time because he always wanted to be doing something different, even if the thing he was doing at the moment was already fun. Some of his greatest memories probably include: hiking and bowling with his family; bringing clean clothes to his Mom’s bedside in the morning when he wanted her to get up to make him sausage biscuits from the freezer for breakfast; visiting Dad’s office at BYU and getting taffy out of his candy jar and playing with the WALL-E toy kept in his drawer there; going ANYWHERE at all in Dad’s purple car because it was so much more fun than the boring old van; going to the library and the park or playing the Wii with his brothers and sister; swimming in Grandma Lyn and Grandpa Keith’s hot tub; looking out the window of Grandma and Grandpa Madsen’s house with their binoculars; riding the big red tricycles at Grandma and Grandpa Martin’s house; playing in the sandbox at home; going for walks and bike rides in the “jungle,” which is what his family calls the nearby pathway along the creek near their home; riding on Uncle Wallace’s lap in his wheelchair; watching The Pioneer Woman on TV with his family and then cooking gourmet meals on the toy kitchen in his bedroom; visits from his cousins Tyler and Chloe and all the other ones he didn’t get to see very often; fighting over who got to sit by Grandpa Hodgkinson when he came over for dinner; and most of all just spending time together with his family no matter what they may have been doing.

Even though Jack didn’t like to sit still for very long, he’d often make an exception to watch movies with his family, his most favorite being WALL-E. Like all kids, Jack loved these animated adventures, probably because they took him to places he, too, hoped to go someday. He eagerly looked forward to Friday nights when his family would gather—often with fresh-popped popcorn—to watch a show together.

In fact, to best describe Jack’s personality you might consider some of the movies he loved so much. He shared common personality traits with many of their leading characters: Lighting McQueen’s need for speed; WALL-E’s quiet love for his friend; Buzz Lightyear’s sense of adventure; Woody’s loyalty; Elsa’s desire to chart her own course.

Some of these traits sometimes made Jack a handful to manage for Mom and Dad, but they were a distinct part of what made him so special, and his family loved every bit of him.

Recently, Jack had really started to look up to his brother, Avery. He liked to torment Avery (and vice versa) but it was part of Jack’s way of showing his love for his older brother (and vice versa). Jack liked the idea of growing up, and Avery was the best person to follow. Jack had a lot of his own toys, but he always wanted to play in his brother’s room (something Avery didn’t always appreciate) and always wanted to sit by his brother at the dinner table.

Outside Primary Children's Hospital
following a visit to his specialist.

In May 2012 Jack was diagnosed with a rare kidney disorder called Nephrotic Syndrome. Fortunately, he received the very best care from the staff at Primary Children’s Hospital, where he often went for checkups. Mom always made sure he took his medicine and never once failed to care for his needs. Through it all, Jack was very brave. He often had to go get his blood drawn at the Provo hospital early in the morning before he could eat breakfast. He never complained about doing this and always put on a brave face when they poked his arm with the needle. He really liked the cool stickers the doctors gave him when it was over.

Jack had lots of friends, and he loved to spend time with them. Sometimes he would take off from home without telling Mom and Dad where he was going. This, of course, caused a fair amount of worry, but he always turned up at Quincy’s house. Or Brock and Chris’s house. Or Cohen’s house. Or Lincoln, Lilly, or Jack Taggart’s house. Mom and Dad are very grateful for caring neighbors who never turned him away and texted to let them know where he was or watched over him until he was located.

Jack was not inhibited by social norms. Once he got to know people, he felt very comfortable around them. Whenever he’d go with Mom or his siblings to Ian or Peter’s house (and probably others) he’d often walk through the front door, go straight to the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and declare he was hungry.

Most kids have a long list of favorite things, but Jack loved everything equally, except for his comfort object: shirts from his drawer. He always carried a clean shirt with him through the house and wouldn’t go to bed without a clean one to snuggle with. Mom and Dad sometimes tried to get him to use the same shirt two nights in a row or pass one off from the clothes hamper, but he would have none of that. He made sure they gave him a clean comfort shirt every single night, and eventually Mom had a big stack of them she washed and folded and put away in his drawers along with all the rest of his clothing each week.

Jack loved Mom and Dad very much. In fact, he loved his Mom so much that his very last thoughts on this earth were of her. Before he went to sleep for the last time, he said to the doctors working on him, “Where’s my mom?” He wasn’t nervous or scared or sad; he just wanted the assurance of knowing the most important person in his life was close at hand as he made the transition from this world to the next. “I’m right here,” she said, moving into his line of sight. She remained by his side every step of the way before gently sending him off to be received by his loving Heavenly Father and Savior, both of whom were surely very happy to be able to see him again so soon.

Breakdown at the McDonald's Drive-Thru

I'm not going to lie: things have been difficult lately. Very difficult. I realize I probably seem to have everything put back together in my life and that everything's just fine. And in all reality, it is, I guess. For the most part. We've just had such a wonderful summer of family activities, and I've had numerous very special personal experiences that have buoyed my spirits (including the first completely work-free vacation my wife and I have taken together since we had our first child eleven years ago--and to Hawaii, no less!).

July in Hawaii was a dream come true.

Even so, things have been hard. There have been a great many leadership and organizational changes at my work in the last couple of months. I always thought I was a forward-thinking-lover-of-change kind of person, but I'll admit that these changes have really thrown me for a loop, more so than I initially thought they would. The result? At some point in the last few weeks I stopped being my usual, chipper self (at least on the inside). Only today, however, did I really come to understand that these issues at work are only a small part of what's going on.

It took an Egg McMuffin to help me understand that.

I feel like I've been making less progress on some of my personal goals lately, and that's sort of brought my spirits down (I'm a very goal-oriented person with a lot of ambition). To hide my misery, I decided to stop at McDonald's on the way to work this morning for a sandwich accompanied by an obscenely large Dr. Pepper (not even diet--yes, this was serious!). I never stop at McDonald's for breakfast, even though it's conveniently located on my direct driving path to work. But for some reason, today was the day; I just had to stop. And so I did. As I was pulling up, I was pondering all the stuff that was going on and why I felt so low. That's when the dam burst. The tears just started to come. (Ever since Jack died, I've been very glad I don't have to travel to work on public transport; it's often my ugliest time of day, and I'm grateful I don't have to share it with anyone.)

As I waited there in the long line at the drive-in at McDonald's, I came to realize that I'm not done grieving yet. I'm not done. This sounds really crazy, I know. "Of course you're not done," you say to me as you read this, but I think a part of me actually believed that I was done. Finished. I had closed the chapter on that part of my life (not the loss, just the grief over the loss). But just the opposite is true. I'm not done. Not done at all. I'm still in my grieving-life infancy. I may never be done. Who knows? I'm making this up as I go. I've never experienced this before. Other people have gone through this process, but nobody is the same. My wife and I do not grieve the same way. The first few months I allowed the grief to flow freely. I made no attempt to stop it (the grief, the tears, the sadness, the melancholy, I mean). But somehow, somewhere over the course of my summertime adventures when I started allowing myself to have all of these wonderfully joyous experiences, I think I made the subconscious decision to be done with the difficulty of losing my child. Even as I write this I know how ridiculous it must sound, but I've felt so good so often over the last few months that I felt like a new page had turned.

The truth is, however, that it's only been eight months and three days, so I'm a long way off from healing.

This realization came full circle just a week or so ago. I was hosting a guest at work. She was such a genuine, lovely person, who, in my private conversations with her on the way to campus or lunch spoke so lovingly of her children back home. I enjoyed hearing her talk about them. As she spoke, though, I started to feel guilty of something I had done. When we first met, I had told her I only had three children.

Backstory: both my wife and I have really struggled with how to handle the most dreaded question we now face: "How many children do you have?" Not because we don't love our children or because we don't want to talk about Jack or our other children. Just the opposite is true. We LOVE to talk about Jack. We both love it when people ask us about him, even when they ask how he passed away. Anything that starts a discussion about his short life is welcome to us, no matter how it begins.

But we also loathe the idea of ever making anyone uncomfortable. As you can imagine, telling someone you've recently lost a child is a potential conversation killer. My wife and I are similar in that we never want anyone to feel bad, sad, or uncomfortable due to something we do or say, and so we haven't known how to handle the question of how to talk about how many kids we have with people we don't yet know. Another reason it's hard to answer this question is because whenever you tell someone you have twins, it elicits such a wonderful, joyous response. I always appreciated that response--reveled in it, even--until we lost Jack. Now it serves as a reminder of the things we won't experience with him here as our other children grow up.

As a result, we started telling some people (strangers) if they asked how many children we have, that we have three of them. This sounds like the lowest of low things to do, I know, but it's been so extremely difficult to know how to handle this. I feel awful just writing it here. I love all of my kids so much. I would never want to communicate anything other than that to someone, but seriously, when you're chatting it up with the Walmart cashier, you really don't want to get into a full-on discussion about the recent loss of a child.

That happened, by the way, the discussion of our children with a Walmart cashier. To my wife. And this is what led me to my change of heart about telling people how many kids I have. Stacy told me about her experience on the night when I came home from hosting my guest and told her I felt guilty for not telling my guest that I really had four children rather than three.

You see, my wife was at Walmart recently, our little Tate (Jack's twin) in tow. They were at the check stand paying for their purchases. The cashier was chatty. She kept drilling down every time Stacy answered a question about the weather, the summer, the kids, you name it. When the inevitable question came up ("How many kids do you have?") my wife said, "Three." The cashier smiled and continued with her chatter and scanning of items. Tate looked up, confused, at his mom and to the cashier and softly said, "But actually it's four."

"But actually it's four." He said it so innocently and purely. It cut to the heart. Yes. Yes, of course it's four. This tore my wife up. And when she told me this story, mimicking Tate's sweet, innocent voice, it tore me up, too. You're right, my son, we have four children. Always.

We enjoyed a family vacation in Southern Alberta, Canada, where my wife grew up.

And that's when Stacy and I both decided that we will no longer wimp out at the question of how many children we have, regardless of who asks it. (We may sidestep the question if necessary, but we'll always be honest.)

You may be interested to know that I have since communicated with my guest and told her about what I'd done. She was incredibly kind and understanding and everything I would have expected her to be.

That's just how life goes, I guess. We get to learn all the time as we chart this path of imperfection. Sometimes it's a lot of fun. Sometimes it's really hard and miserable. Sometimes it's all of those at the same time.

The good news is that we get to keep trying to figure it out.

Six Months Later: Ascending the Mountain

Pondering life at the top of the "Y"

I "hiked the Y" yesterday in Provo with Katey and Avery. It was very hard, but completely worth it once we reached the top. We've sort of taken up hiking the last couple of years as a family activity. In hindsight we know the Lord prompted us to do this as a way to spend valuable time together. Jack, in particular, loved to climb around on the rocks and explore the world around him, and I'm glad we had the experience to do that together.

Yesterday, as we were climbing higher and higher, I found it interesting how my perspective of the world changed each time we ascended and paused to rest at the end of one of the steeply inclining switchbacks. When you're down in the world, it's easy to become consumed, and even overwhelmed, by the things surrounding you. But with each bit of increased elevation, I found that the cares of the world seemed less acute when I had the opportunity to view them from higher ground. This really helped to battle some of the discouragement and pain brought into my life by Jack's death and the loss of innocence this has brought to me. Yes, at almost 40 years old I have found that some lessons can still shatter my world view, yet these same experiences teach me a lot and also create much deeper meaning in places where I had not taken time to fully appreciate what I had. This is, I guess, the essence of why trials exist and why the Lord allows them to occur in our lives.

The view from up above is quite spectacular and definitely worth experiencing. LDS temple attendance offers a similar and even greater view of the perspective we should try to maintain in our lives. Too bad we don't take advantage of these things as often as we should.

So, it's been six months. Life is falling into a routine again. We do a lot together as a family. We love each other, and we also drive each other crazy sometimes (a sure sign of normalcy). We miss Jack and think of him often. We pray for him always. (Before he died, I had never even considered the idea of praying for a deceased person, but he's such an integral part of our family--even after his death--that it just feels completely normal to pray for him even though he's not with us. In reality, I know he's just fine; it's us--the people left behind--who need the prayers.) We feel Jack strengthening us, and we cherish the memories we have of him. I know we'll be together again someday. We use these bright spots of memory, faith, and hope, to climb out of the deep valley of sorrow we unexpectedly found ourselves in on January 12, 2015. We use them to help us climb back up the mountain to find joy in the promise of forever tomorrows. We have happiness. We have hope. We're going to make it.


I wrote the rest of this post on Father's Day a few weeks ago (June 21, 2015) but decided not to post it at that time. However, after literally hiking a mountain yesterday to help find some peace, my thoughts have been focusing on Jack and our family and this journey called life, so I've decided to share it now. It's no great epistle, just my personal reflections.

June 21, 2015 - Some Thoughts on Fatherhood

I have no idea what I am doing. The longer I live, the more I realize what I don't know. I'm talking about Fatherhood. It's on my mind today because it's Father's Day.

My annual Father's Day photo with my children,
June 21, 2015

I've been thinking about my son, Jack, a lot. Truthfully, he's on my mind every single day, but I can say that over the course of the last 24 hours or so, he's been especially present. I don't live in a state of melancholy--that's just not the right course for me--but I do experience deep, scorching sadness sometimes. It's a sadness that's hard to describe. I'd never have been able to know this kind of pain had I not become a father.

Fatherhood is a gift and a privilege, but I've always been somewhat insecure about my daddy skills. I often feel like I'm not very good at it. ("It" being raising children.) But I keep going. I keep trying my best. (That's all we can really do, right?) My hope is that somehow, despite me, my children will turn out just fine, and that they will look back on childhood with fond memories. This is very important to me and has become even more so in the last few months. I think back to my own childhood growing up in the Rexburg countryside with much fondness. I want that for my children, too. And since losing my son, I have consciously worked much harder to ensure this happens. I want them to feel safe and secure and happy and loved. When they are all grown up I want them to be able to look back on their time at home with great affection.

So, I get to be a dad. I've been a dad for 11 years now, and everyday seems new and reminds me how little I know but also how much I love my kids.

From the moment my wife noticed Jack whimpering from a seizure in his bed at home to the moment she kissed him his final goodbye and the doctors turned off the machines trying to keep him alive in the hospital, approximately nine hours passed. Nine hours! He was awake for maybe four or five of those. This has caused me to reflect numerous times on what I would have done if I had known we only had nine hours left together.

The good thing is that I have few, if any, regrets, when it comes to raising my children. (Probably because my wife, Stacy, is such an amazing mother and does so much of the heavy lifting.) And now, looking back, I see how we were guided by God in Jack's final weeks to make lasting, meaningful memories as a family. These memories will be cherished by us forever.

So, if you only had nine hours left with someone you love, how would you use that time together? Perhaps I'd take my children on my knee and say something like this:

You are good enough just the way you are. But I push you forward so that you can become what you are destined to be.

Savor each moment in life; precious moments can never be repeated.

Follow your dreams. It doesn't matter if no one believes in you. I do.

Failure and pain are part of life. If you make an effort to live, they cannot be avoided. It's what you do with them that helps determine who you really are.

Don't believe the hype of the media which declares each day that humanity has broken down and the world is coming to an end. It's not true. There is so much goodness in this world. So much more good than bad. You don't hear about that on the news and you can't let the news be the only source for shaping your view of the world.

Avery, Katey, and Jack at Antelope Island, Labor Day 2014

To wrap up: there is great hope, joy, and peace to be had in this world. This comes from faith in God and solid family relationships. With those two things, nothing will overcome us. This doesn't mean it won't be hard, but it most definitely will be worth it.

A Broken Heart

It's been a while since I've written any thoughts down about the loss of our little Jack. But this doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about him. On the contrary, he is almost constantly on my mind from my first waking moment in the day until the very last one at night. I miss him so much. Stacy misses him so much. We miss him so much together.

Memorial Day looked like it was going to be just any other day, in terms of how we are coping with things now, which is to say, not so bad. But when we stopped by the cemetery this afternoon, the flood gates opened and all the heartbreak felt new again. There were a lot of people there, milling about, which is unusual. Often our family is the only one there, at least at the times when we have visited. Many of the graves had new flowers placed on them today. It looked really nice. But I couldn't help but think that I did not belong there. This is not how my story was supposed to go. "What are we doing here?" I asked Stacy as we, arm in arm, cried over our son's grave. "I still can't believe this has happened." Even though it's been a little more than four months, it seems as unreal to me today as it did on January 12.

I had never in my life truly experienced heartbreak before Jack died. Not like this. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I now have more empathy for others when I hear they've lost a loved one, and most especially a child. It is like having a broken heart, or as my wonderful boss put it when we were talking a few weeks ago, it feels like I've been wounded. Wounded. Stacy and I have giant, gaping, emotional wounds and there are no band-aids big enough to cover them up. (Though there certainly are many fine ointments to help manage the pain.) Wounded is exactly the right way to describe how I have felt these last four months. The good thing is that all wounds heal, right? But they always leave a scar. Certainly the big ones do. This one will, and that's actually okay with me, because then I won't ever forget what caused it.

The reality is that I know I need no visual or physical reminder to keep Jack in my thoughts, but I can say quite honestly that one of my new greatest fears in life is that he will be forgotten. Not forgotten by me, but by the world. Life has continued to go on for everyone except for him. (Life on this earth, at least.) I can't stand the thought of the people around us not knowing him or, worse yet, forgetting him. This thought drives me to the edge of insanity and it's good I don't dwell there very often and not for very long. Jack is truly unforgettable to me, and the more I think about him and appreciate him and love him, the more I want people to know him and remember him and love him, too. The thought of him being forgotten causes a new wound, a new heartbreak, to open up whenever it crosses my mind.

I now know why people start foundations or establish scholarships or raise monuments on behalf of their deceased loved ones. We search for ways to keep their memory alive on earth so that they will not be forgotten as life continues to move forward.

I had to move forward with my work last week. I traveled to New York City for some business projects and to see a lot of shows. New York City is the place I was at when Jack passed away, so for me, I knew going back there would not be easy. I'm glad I went, though. I didn't for one moment believe something bad would happen to my family while I was away (even though I had every reason to do so). Perhaps I'm naive or an eternal optimist, but I knew I had to get back on the horse and continue to do my work and dream my dreams. The pursuit of great things in life (family and/or work) follows a path of great challenge and great reward. The journey is most definitely worth taking, even though some of the setbacks truly create horrible heartbreak along the way.

Every night after family prayer we all put our hands together and say "Sure do love ya!" Now we say "Sure do love Jack!" Jack is pictured on the left in the red pajamas. 

To Mourn with Those That Mourn

Last Saturday, March 28, I had a Hallmark moment. (As in, a moment so cliche it could have been stolen directly from a cheesy yet unable-to-stop-watching Hallmark movie.) I had finally mustered up the energy to get outside to do some work on getting my yard back into shape for spring. I spent a good, long while pulling weeds in the flower bed where the hyacinths were fading and the bright red tulips were about to burst open. I actually enjoy gardening and yard work, although I complain about it while doing it, at least to myself. (I'd never complain about it to my kids. To them it needs to be a fun Saturday activity otherwise they'd never learn to appreciate it.)

While I had my hands in the dirt amidst the flowers and weeds I began to think about the Easter holiday and the meaning thereof. I like to take time in my life to ponder about things. It's very important to me, although it's rarely a formal affair (and never scheduled or planned in advance). I find that many of my greatest creative ideas and spiritual insights come to me in these moments. Lately, these sessions of meditation (not my favorite word) also allow me to think about Jack in a personal way. I feel close to him when I do this. This is helpful because one of my greatest fears is that I'm going to lose him twice. What I mean by that is that I know I've lost his physical presence, but I also worry that I will lose him in my heart and mind, that the memory of him won't be close to me--thus losing him again. I don't want to forget how it felt to have him here in our home or to snuggle with him while watching a movie or holding his hand when he tagged along with me to Home Depot or Walmart.

Back to the bulbs. I was sitting there weeding the tulips while thinking about Easter. Easter, this annual holiday which I have observed all throughout my lifetime with candy and eggs and thoughts of Jesus. (Easter has the very best candy of all holidays, by the way. Seriously good. But I digress...) This year I knew it was going to be different. Quite a bit different. And it is. This year I am counting on the meaning of Easter (the atonement and resurrection of Christ) to actually be true. I am depending and relying on the promise of the future resurrection of the dead to actually come to pass and to be fulfilled for me and my family in a very real and personal way. Now, I have pretty much always held a belief in this. But there have only been a few serious times in my life when I have had to rely on this truth so deeply and personally. This year, this Easter, is one of those times. For me, this Easter bears the promise of a future reunion with my son, Jack. A reunion which Stacy and I look forward to very much.

So I'm sitting there in my yard thinking about Easter and what it meant to me Before and what it now means to me After. I begin to think about the idea of mourning and sharing the burden of mourning with others. Our ward, neighbors, and family have been such a blessing to us during this period of suffering. They have truly lightened our load. That's a large part of what it means to be a Christian. The words of Alma from the Book of Mormon came to me:

Mosiah 18: 9--Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first resurrection, that ye may have eternal life—

[Later that day, at the General Women's Session of LDS General Conference, Pres. Henry B. Eyring would talk about that very subject. (Coincidence? I don't think so. Especially because he even related a story about a family struggling with the unexpected loss of their five year old son.) My wife told me about it, so I watched it online. You can watch it here.]

Back to the bulbs again. So I'm thinking about what it means to mourn. I look up and my neighbor is crossing the street, heading in my direction. He has something in his hand. He comes over to talk to me and offers me the gift he has prepared for us: a painting he created of the Saviour's hand lifting a child's hand into heaven. It's a very powerful image and a beautiful work of art. He created it for a family member a while ago and made me a copy. The accompanying letter was very heartfelt and meaningful.

Mourning with those that mourn--in action.

This experience, along with the inspired talk by President Eyring, gave me exactly what I needed that day in order to bring the true spirit of Easter and belief in the promise it holds into my heart. We look forward to these moments and cherish them dearly.

All of this came just a few days after Stacy and I had completed the task we had been dreading for the last two months: we placed the order for Jack's headstone for his grave.

Jack's grave waits for a headstone.

We hadn't necessarily been putting this off, but we hadn't exactly been hurrying to get it done either. Honestly, I felt conflicted about the whole thing. Part of me felt like Jack's transition from this world wouldn't be fully complete until he had a headstone to mark the location of his body's resting place. This thought crosses my mind every time we visit the cemetery; it just feels incomplete without one. But at the same time, the idea of installing a headstone feels so completely final that I don't want to do it yet. Once that rock is in place, it seems as though one chapter officially ends and a new one has to begin. I'm not ready for that.

Buying a headstone is one of the only things relating to the sudden loss of our son that didn't happen quickly, so I think I appreciate the delay for that reason. I'm not exaggerating: from his last breath on earth to his burial, only five days passed. Five days! For someone we'd had with us for five years. His departure was so sudden, and everything subsequent to that monumental event happened so quickly. The dramatic succession of necessary events flew into motion, and I felt like I could hardly keep up with everything that was going on (making impressions of his hands, hiring a funeral home, picking a casket, planning a service, etc.) Because of the rapid motion surrounding me in those early days of his loss, I have been unwilling to speed up the process of buying a headstone. It's the only thing out of this entire ordeal I can control.

But we've done it. We went headstone shopping (never thought I'd say that!). Part of this process includes browsing catalogs, websites, and all of the other headstones at the cemetery--including Jack's new neighbors--to get an idea of what we wanted to do in order to honor and represent him best. After a fair amount of browsing, pondering, and discussion, we settled upon a design. And the headstone has now been paid for. So we wait.

Wait for what? The monument to be installed? Yes (four to six weeks). Then what? We mourn. We wait. Repeat. We move on. We move back. Repeat. We do things in life that have to be done because they have to be done. We wish we didn't have to move on. Repeat. We find that everything we watch on TV means something different to us than it did before.

I conclude with a story from our time in the hospital, or rather Stacy's time in the hospital.

It turns out that life in the hospital can really be a lot more like Grey's Anatomy and ER than I had ever imagined. I always thought those shows were so over-written and overly dramatic, but it turns out that aside from being rather addictive soap operas, they have a fair amount of truth to them. (I hope you never have to find this out for yourself.) I know this now because when I showed up at the hospital (about two and half hours after Jack had passed away), I felt like I had entered one of those hospitals on TV. Things had certainly calmed down by the time I arrived, but Stacy told me that in Jack's final moments all of the frantic nurses and doctors had poured every bit of energy and skill into urgently turning his diminishing prospect of survival around. They desperately wanted to save him, but it just wasn't meant to be.

My wife had been waiting for news about Jack in a public room down the hall from where they had conducted emergency brain surgery on him. (A blood cot had enlarged and burst in his brain in the ambulance on the way from Provo to the hospital in Salt Lake City; it had been too foggy a night for Life Flight.) She hadn't heard from anyone for a little while. Then a nurse unexpectedly ushered her into a private waiting room nearby. The door was open. Suddenly the doctor was there, standing before her. He was panting and out of breath. He apologized and said he had run down the hall from the pediatric OR to find her. He still had his little surgery goggles and disposable gown on. He said, "He's not going to make it." Jack wasn't going to live any longer. The medical team was performing CPR but it wasn't going to bring him back. He was not going to wake up. His brain was not going to work any longer, and they couldn't keep him alive. The doctor asked Stacy if she wanted to come say goodbye to her son before they stopped the compressions on his chest. Of course she said yes, so the doctor took her by the arm and led her down the hall and into a room filled with busy nurses and doctors and monitors and cables and beeping machines and the still, silent body of our sweet, precious boy.

She looked at him. She said goodbye. We started to mourn. And others mourned with us.

Counting Again

I don't exactly know why, but some days I feel great and some days I just feel lousy. It ebbs and flows. I try not to show, outwardly, how this impacts me, though, because I feel bad if people feel awkward around me. I know some people do. I think people aren't quite sure what to say or how to react. I'll just say here that it's ok to bring "it" up. Or not. Don't feel obligated to say anything about it, but don't feel like you have to avoid it either. It's the reality of my life now. Stacy and I do not burst into tears if someone says Jack's name to us. Additionally, I'm pretty sure there is a statute of limitations or grace period on the amount of time when a grown man is allowed to cry in public in front of colleagues, friends, and/or total strangers without seeming completely off his rocker.

Stacy took these pictures Sept. 2013.

This one has all sorts of symbolism for us now.

This week we hit the two month mark. Two months. That's a long time to be without your child with whom you'd spent every single day of his five years (between my wife and I). It's amazing how quickly time passes. This is both a blessing and a curse. It feels like such a long time since we lost our son (even though it was only January 12). Oh how we miss him! So it's sort of a blessing we're not stuck for too long in those first few early days of raw pain and grief. Yet every day that passes puts us farther away from the moments when he was here, alive with us, running around our home playing with things, and breaking things, and cuddling with us on the couch.

I go to work and put on a happy face and attend my meetings and try to slog through my work, all the while wishing I could just be at home and not have to worry about the stuff I have to worry about there: the upset customer who hated one of the concerts I brought in last month; reviewing the technical needs of the shows I'm working on for next year; making sure things are coming together for the giant anniversary celebration of the building in which I work on April 3 and which I am in charge of. Sometimes I just want to sit on my couch at home and gaze out the window while listening to my children play in the other room. That's happiness now. I used to be discontent when I had free time at home. Now I can't get enough of it.


The loss of my son is always on my mind, regardless of where I am or what I am doing. Stacy and I continue to worry about him, even though he is no longer in our daily care. And everyday I find myself counting again.

It feels like I'm counting backwards, but that's not an entirley accurate description of what I'm doing. Technically speaking it is counting forward, I guess, but emotionally it's counting backwards. As in, I've taken a step back in my life. So that's what I call it because it feels like the best fit. Here's what I mean:

When parents have a baby, every moment of the young child's life is measured in specific amounts of time, starting from the moment they are born: days, weeks, months, years. How precious those early moments of their lives are. Any mother of a baby or toddler can immediately tell you exactly how old her child is, measured in days, weeks or months.

This is how I now reckon the time since Jack's passing. I count the time since he left us. Not intentionally. It happens automatically. We are into weeks and months now. Every Monday adds one more week, while every "12th" adds one more month. We were done having kids at numbers three and four, yet here I am counting again. This time, however, I'm counting for a child of mine who had already outgrown those stages of his life. It's been thrust upon me again, in a weird sort of backward way. I wonder if other parents who've lost children also count this way, too. They probably do.

In our extended family we were blessed with new life just as we were dealing with the loss thereof. Stacy's brother's wife brought a beautiful baby girl into the world just the day after Jack died. She is a sweet, precious little thing. She was late, too (not for her due date, but for when she was expected to arrive). Her mom's doctor had told our sister-in-law that the baby would be coming early. She didn't, though (even though that's exactly what her mom had wanted to happen and felt would happen). That baby just didn't want to come yet, and now we know why. She needed to stay in heaven just a little longer so she could greet her cousin, Jack, as they passed each other on their way to and from earth. Jack left us on Monday; baby girl was born on Tuesday.

Holding my new niece, just days after losing my son.

So it ended up working just perfectly because they surely got to say hello to each other as they crossed paths on their separate journeys to and from heaven.


Having twins was never boring or dull. They add such a wonderful dynamic to home life.

The twins liked to have the same things. But, as they were our third and fourth children and also not our eldest boys, we always had at least one hand-me-down of everything to give them. From underwear to toys to car seats, one of the twins always got the item previously used by our oldest son while the other would get a new one. We would try to convince them that they could take turns with the new thing (whatever it was) but they could see through our money-saving ploy. They each wanted to have the new item rather than the old one. But there's always a budget to contend with, so very rarely would Stacy or I ever buy two new things if we had at least one of them in stock at home already.

We finally made an exception, however, for Christmas 2014, when we decided to splurge (just a bit). The items? New bicycles. Two of them. Brand new.

We knew the spring and summer months would soon be upon us and would find our little boys outside playing and having fun and making the most of life. Previously they had fought over the little new bike vs. the little old bike they'd had when they were three. So just this once Stacy and I decided to get two new bikes so they could (and would) ride outside together instead of one of them choosing to do something else, which had usually been the case with the old bike they'd outgrown.

New bikes on Christmas morning 2014.

On Christmas morning the twins were very excited about their new bikes. They really lit up when they saw them next to the tree. Jack, in particular, wanted to put it to immediate use and even tried to ride it around the living room. (He never got too far because of all the holiday clutter blocking his path.) I, the proud father, was really looking forward to both boys riding around the block together on their new wheels in the spring.

We took a photo of them both sitting on their bikes on Christmas morning to capture that fun moment. I'm glad we did.

In the hours after Christmas morning we cleaned up the clutter and moved the bikes to the garage, waiting for better weather to arrive.

Fast forward to spring, which is now upon us. The air outside is warm and filled with sunshine. It's calling our children to come out to play. They go. They have fun.

But the bikes remain untouched. They sit abandoned in the corner of our garage in the same spot we had put them on Christmas day when we cleaned our house. They are brand new, hardly even a spot of dirt on the tires. They are shiny and fun and full of joyful experiences yet to come. But they also serve as a cruel reminder of our harsh new reality: one bike without a boy to ride it.

That's a sad thought. I don't mean it to be. Nor do I always focus on those sorts of things. There are countless wonderful memories of our time with Jack. Everything in our world, however, now also serves as a reminder of what was and also what will not be.

One bike without a rider. The other has a rider, yet not his brother to ride it with.

A pleasant memory came to me the other night when I was putting Jack's twin to bed. We sang "I Am a Child of God" together. I used to do this with Jack, too. Not one to keep it traditional, I used to entertain Jack with my "spiced up" version of this beloved song. Sometimes I would sing "cha, cha, cha" after the key phrases of the song. Jack really got a kick out that. It went like this. "I am a child of God, and he has sent me here, cha, cha, cha. Has given me..."

I had forgotten about that until just a few days ago when I was singing with Tate at bedtime. Muscle memory kicked in and the "cha, cha, chas" just came out without me even thinking about it. That made us both laugh aloud. It was funny and wonderful, a happy little thought. We shared it together and thought of Jack in a very happy way.

Then I started counting again.

I'd Give it All For You

I'm a very blessed and fortunate man, in too many ways to recount here. As I think about the activities of this past week, this is reaffirmed to me anew. Last night I was hosting The King's Singers, a six-member male a cappella ensemble from London, for their second sold-out performance at BYU. I brought them to Provo to perform on the performing arts series I produce for the university. Prior to the show, I had the unique and wonderful opportunity to visit with President and Sister Uchtdorf backstage while we were waiting for the singers to emerge from their dressing room. They had come to attend the performance and wanted to say hello to the singers before the performance began. As I was waiting backstage with the Uchtdorfs, we didn't talk about anything serious, just sort of "shot the breeze." I literally had several minutes of private one-on-one time with these two good people, which was really neat. President Uchtdorf is just as wonderful in person as you'd imagine him to be from watching him on TV. I had never met or seen his wife before, and she is really wonderful, too.

Later, I thought to myself: I'm a pretty lucky guy to be able to do the things I get to do. I am grateful for it every day.

So, I'm chatting with the Uchtdorfs, hosting The King's Singers, relaxing at the beach in Southern California, and living it up at Disneyland with my wife and kids--all within the last ten days. Sounds pretty great, right? It is, no doubt, great. But this morning as I reflected upon these things during a wonderful church service, I realized that I'd give it all up in a heartbeat to have my son, Jack, back in my arms. Not that those two things are directly linked, that giving up my worldly successes and joys will bring about Jack's return, but sometimes this is just the way you think when you're dealing with a major loss in your life. At least for me.

My thoughts have turned to one of my favorite songs by the composer Jason Robert Brown. It's called "I'd Give it All for You." It's about a man and a woman in a relationship who took time apart from each other only to realize how much the things they subsequently pursued in their lives couldn't compensate for the loss they felt from the absence of the person they loved. They end up giving all those new things up so that they can be together again. This rings true to me, too, now. My wife and I would really do anything to hear our sweet son running through our quiet house again. But we also trust in the Lord's plan for our family.

Willingness to give it all up is a new thing for me. Could I have said that Before? I'm not certain. But I have no doubt about it now, especially as I force myself to deal again with the trivial and mundane tasks that come with living everyday life. A lot of things just don't seem very important to me anymore. This is a lesson I've learned as I've dealt with Jack's passing. One of many such lessons.

Something else I've learned is that the waves of grief keep coming, and they are just as powerful now as they were seven weeks ago when this all began. They can be nearly overwhelming at times, in fact. To combat this, there are a lot of things we (my wife and I) do to create distractions from grief (such as going to Disneyland), but they really just allow us to pause from our heartbreak. They don't erase it. In fact, I can most certainly tell you that Stacy and I have quite literally shed tears all over the Disneyland Resort. (The nice thing is that it seems to hit Stacy and I at different moments, which is probably good for our kids and most definitely for the strangers around us.)

We decided last month, just after we lost Jack, to make a trip to Southern California a top priority. We had hoped to make such a trip early next year, after we'd finished paying off some bills. The twins would be at an age when they would have absolutely loved to go, especially Jack. But we hadn't yet made any concrete plans. So with Jack's passing, it became quite important to us. I'm not going to let opportunities pass me by to spend quality time with my family. You really never know when any given moment may be your last with someone you love.

So we went to Southern California. We did so for two reasons. First, and most obvious, was to have some family healing time. We all really needed it. And it was great for that purpose. Really wonderful. I had such a great time. We all did. My son, Tate, and I (Jack's twin) in particular formed a stronger bond during our trip. I really love him so much, and I feel like I know him even better now. But it was fun to get to know all my kids in a more personal way, to become friends and a dad both.

Balloons at Jack's funeral

The second reason we went to Disneyland was to honor Jack's memory, and to give him the experience of going there, too. Even though he wasn't with us, physically, he was with us in our hearts. Stacy took a small Elmo doll with her everywhere she went on our trip. This was a toy Jack sometimes used to sleep with. So it sort of felt like we were carrying him with us wherever we went. We also wanted to release a balloon at Disneyland in Jack's honor, something we had done at the graveside service following the funeral. Everyone in attendance wrote a message on a balloon for Jack and then we all released them into the sky. 75 balloons with special messages for Jack filled the air above us. It was really special.

I wanted to do that for Jack at Disneyland since he wasn't able to go with us in person. And so on our final day in the park I bought a balloon from a street vendor near It's a Small World, barely flinching at the price ($8!, which really says something about how I'm doing right now). We carried that balloon with us everywhere we went that day. It was a nice reminder of our son.

When the park closed at 8:00 p.m. we slowly made our way down Main Street to the large staircase at the bottom of the train station near the front entrance of the park. We stood there for a moment and said a few words to Jack, snapped a photo, and then my oldest son, Avery, released the balloon into the nighttime sky. We watched it rise up into the heavens for as long as we could see it. And then we left the park behind and walked back to our hotel. That was a difficult walk, but it felt good to have remembered him and honored him throughout our joyful moments during those three days.

Releasing that balloon was a tough moment, but it wasn't the hardest. The moment that really hit me the most had come the day before. We had just exited the Space Mountain ride and came upon several Disney characters greeting children just outside the Star Tours gift shop. Chip and Dale and Pluto were there, as were Mickey and Minnie Mouse. We hadn't taken time to stop to meet any of the characters on our trip, but we decided to do so on that occasion because the lines were, surprisingly, rather short (all of the lines at Disneyland had been much longer than we'd anticipated for a weekday in late February. "Why aren't you people at work! And your kids at school!" I'd think to myself, my truant kids in tow).

I took pictures with our camera of our three kids with Chip and Dale as well as with Pluto. But when it came to Mickey and Minnie we opted for a full family photo. We all crowded together and smiled for the camera. It was a really nice, yet bittersweet, moment. I was fully aware of the absence of one of us all the while. But I'm glad we did it.

I fell apart just after the photo was finished, however, when something really touched me quite deeply. We had all stepped away from Mickey and Minnie and began to collect our belongings so the next people in line could get their photos taken, too. I casually turned back to see if Tate was behind me. When I did so, I saw Minnie embracing my little boy in a big hug, her oversize hands secured around his back. He was hugging her, too, which I found unusual for him, as he's always been a bit shy. Nevertheless, he had wrapped his little five-year-old arms around Minnie's waist and legs. Tate then turned around and found Mickey there to greet him, too. They hugged tightly and shared a sweet moment together. I still see it very clearly in my mind, although I don't have it recorded by a camera. Mr. and Mrs. Mouse didn't know the story of our family trauma, yet it seemed like they knew somehow that we all needed that extra bit of love for Tate at that moment to get us all through the day. Even now as I type this, I have a hard time keeping back the tears. The two actors didn't know they were helping mom and dad by giving that extra bit of love to this boy who had just lost his twin brother. But when I saw them each hugging him, it really meant a lot to me. People really are watching out for us, even when they don't know it.

And this is just one more reason I feel so full of gratitude as we continue charting this journey through grief and hope and life.

One Month Later

My five year old son, Jack, died one month ago today.

My son died.

I hate saying that. I've only used that word a few times since January 12. But I do say it aloud to myself on occasion because the word's meaning and abruptness bring me back to reality. That's kind of weird isn't it? To force myself into being shocked out of normalcy and into grief. But every time I feel myself gravitating toward normal life I feel a twinge of guilt. That's probably not normal. Who knows what normal is anymore? Not me.

I never in my wildest dreams imagined I would belong to this unlucky club, the club of people who mourn a lost child. But as I've progressed through these last several weeks I've certainly come to learn that I'm not alone. There are a great many parents who have also lost children. They suffer. Now I suffer with them. How eagerly and willingly we would renounce our membership in this unwelcome fraternity if only we could.

Jack at Primary Children's Hospital May 2012

I can't really think of many times in my entire life when I have felt truly dumbfounded with no idea of what to do about a certain situation. But I most definitely felt that way on the afternoon of Monday, January 12, 2015, in the pediatric unit of Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City when my loving wife, so worried about me and how I would handle the situation after rushing home from New York, carefully guided me into the room where my son's lifeless body rested. I stood there in that silent room and watched him. It was so quiet there. Stacy stood opposite me. Our son lay still and silent on the hospital bed between us--this son whom we had brought into the world together, nurtured and cared for together. It was strange to see our once very active boy lie so perfectly still. We had given him everything we could give him, but ultimately it was out of our hands. Now that he was suddenly gone, the silence was deafening. It truly felt as though time had stopped.

I specifically remember looking at Jack and then to Stacy and then around the room as if searching for something. I had no idea what to do. What a terrible feeling that was. I started to collapse onto the bed. I looked around for guidance. I said to her: "What do we do now?" I needed to know, hoping she would have the answer. Of course, she did not. "Where is the parent's manual that tells you what to do when your child dies?" I asked her (although I probably didn't use that word, not yet). "What do we do now?" We both just stood there and cried.

Earlier, my wonderful sister had picked me up at the Salt Lake airport. We had dashed out of the terminal, leaving my baggage and car behind, so that I could get to the hospital--and to my wife's side--as quickly as possible. I had asked her during that eternal car ride across the valley, "How am I supposed to tell my children their brother just died?" She didn't know. I didn't expect her to have the answer. Neither of us knew what to do. Silence and tears.

Later, when I was standing in Jack's room, begging the heavens to tell me what to do, I just felt overwhelmed by the shock of it all. I had no answers. I didn't really have any questions either, except for what should we do next.

All we could do was trust. Trust in the Lord that He would guide us through it. Trust in the family, bishop, and friends He had sent to us to hold our hands and guide us along the way. Trust in anyone who could help us forge a path. Trust in the foundation on which we had built our lives over the years. Trust, and leap into the unknown, was the only thing we could do.

I've never been very good at asking for help. But you know what? I didn't ask for any help that day or that week. The help just came. It poured down upon us. And we submitted. There was nothing else we could do but trust and submit.

That entire week is now a blur of hazy memories. I don't really know how we got from one place to the next or how we made the decisions we ended up making. I am so grateful for my brothers and sister. What pillars of strength they were for us in our time of terrible need. They were truly the Master's disciples. I feel bad they had to go through all of that, but I'm so grateful they were there. I think about my parents and Stacy's parents and how it has pained them to watch their own children, Stacy and me, go through this. It's been hard on everyone. This kind of loss sends ripples throughout the universe. Our ward and neighborhood has been profoundly impacted. We are all going through it together. As a symbol of our united pain, our neighbors tied red ribbons on all the trees in our neighborhood. That really meant a lot to us.


Just before the airplane door closed on the tarmac in New York, I had followed a prompting to send a text message to all of my siblings back home. I knew it would wake them (it was almost 5am Utah time) but felt like I should do it anyway. I didn't know the situation was about to become serious, but I felt like I should contact family closer to home so they could help if necessary while I was up in the air. I wrote, "Jack's in trouble," and told them what was happening. When they got the news, everyone dropped whatever they were doing and came to our rescue--parents, siblings, grandparents, nieces and nephews, friends and neighbors. It was truly remarkable. There really is nothing in this world as important as family. The fact that all of these siblings, parents, and friends were able to literally drop everything they were doing and rush to be with us from down the street and from seven different states (and Canada, too) in such a short amount of time was a true gift to us and a powerful affirmation of the things that really matter in life.

Meanwhile, our kids are doing extremely well, but things are quieter at our house now. Our kids are a bit more subdued than Before. We love them. We appreciate them more than we used to. For the first few days after Jack passed, we kept them so close to us they probably thought they would be smothered. Now, they get along better with each other than Before. There are times when I'm about to fall into my old ways and scold them for something and then I realize that whatever tiny thing they've done doesn't really matter and I stop and realize how much I love them. This tragedy has united our family and made us stronger. It's focused my perspective. I've come to understand why life-changing experiences are called that; they really do change your life.

Jack never missed an opportunity to have fun

Sadness is our companion, but despair and misery are not. We  love life and have great hope in the future. We take comfort in God's plan as well as in the many great memories we have of the five wonderful years we shared with Jack while he was here with us on earth.

It's going to be ok. We are going to make it.