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.