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.