Genetics

Genetics. We love them or hate them.

As I scroll through photos of news articles with titles like " The most beautiful children of the most beautiful parents" it becomes abundantly clear.... you are either born with it, or you're not.

It's been 4 1/2 years now since my dad decided to take his own life. I've been stuck in cycles of mourning, cycles of despair, cycles of anger, cycles of questioning, and cycles of fear.

I watched my dad plummet toward certain death and nothing and no one could stop him. His mental status deteriorated before our very eyes. He was mad at the world. A victim of everyone everyone and everything around him. There was no encouraging word to speak that would lighten the burden that he carried on his weary shoulders.

The day he ended his life he ended his pain.

I've often struggled with my own dark pit- although incredibly now I find myself no longer in those long seasons. Sadness still brushes my face (and my heart) but I'm currently living in the glorious rays of sunshine... and I like it here.

I'm also deeply aware of how it felt when the sun no longer shone in my life. When the rays disappeared behind thick, dark clouds.

And I wonder- is this genetic? Was I born into this struggle? Is there something raging inside my body, so minuscule that it wanders silently until it grows so out of control that I can't stop it?

Today, my heart is left wondering if that same tiny shred built into who I am by the Maker who makes all things, also passed onto that child who grew watermelon sized inside my womb. The pit he's been falling into was deep and dark. We desperately tried to hold on as we flung rope ladders into the hole- yelling desperately at him to grab a hold and allow us to pull him out- but he couldn't do it. Lack of strength in those arms? Perhaps. Or perhaps he no longer really thought that there was light up here in the land of the alive.

The nagging lump in my throat tells the real story. Will this story end far too soon as it did with my dad? Will the help arrive to his little man heart too late? Is there still hope past the genes I sit tearful and cursing tonight?

It seems almost as if the fear has me frozen. Afraid to think anything but the best outcome.... but still that nagging question floats aimlessly around in my head. Bouncing off the right, then the left, and back again.  Will this end like my dad? Will this be the last time I hear his voice, or see his dimpled smile? Did we catch this twisted illness in time?

Just as I am nearly lost in the what if's, a song plays on my heart, right up through my ears:

"You stay the same through the ages
Your love never changes
There may be pain in the night
But joy comes in the morning
And when the oceans rage
I don't have to be afraid
Because I know that You love me
Your love never fails"- Newsboys

And folks, I gotta tell you, I am clinging to these words with all that I am. JOY comes in the morning. JOY comes in the pain. Don't be afraid, for I am with you to the end. And I remember and choose to stand on God's promises today. "Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you." Deuteronomy 31:6

I stood by helpless as my father succumbed to depression and I never thought it would end in suicide- but I will not lose hope for my child.

Tonight as I sit in a dark room. As I rubbed the backs of sobbing children whose minds can't comprehend what's happening, I wipe tears and whisper truth hidden in my heart from long ago: “But you, Israel, my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, you descendants of Abraham my friend,
9 I took you from the ends of the earth,from its farthest corners I called you.
I said, ‘You are my servant’; I have chosen you and have not rejected you.
10 So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." Isaiah 41:8-10

Funny men and tears

It's all over the news and my Facebook feed.  The genius of comedy, the man who brought SO MUCH laughter, has ended his own life.

A friend told me the news tonight  and it seemed  unreal. Another life gone. Another family mourning. Another daughter being left- torn apart on the inside- scars that seem like they may never heal.

My heart breaks and I mourn. I mourn for the loss of a great American icon. I mourn the loss of my own daddy. I mourn the friends who have been lost. Suicide is SO Positively hurtful, harmful and hard, yet it affects so many. Everyday.

Every time I hear another high profile suicide death, my heart feels shattered again. The feeling of worthlessness, of hopelessness, anger, and confusion creep back from those dark, dusty shadows that they've been hiding in. The grief overwhelms once more, and my heart hurts. Just aches .

I've been in that pit of no light- the darkness is deafening there. The blackness consumes. The silence is wicked. The  isolation is  too much to bear.

When. When will we (as a society) begin to see that mental illness is real? It's victims are our friends, neighbors and children. The it causes pain is real. When will their heart hurts become our heart hurts?  When we decide that we will no longer silently judge those who struggle. When we decide to love people enough to be real with them and allow realness in return from them.  When it is no longer seen as crazy when someone makes a cry for help.  When we can talk about the darkness freely and ask someone for a hand  without shame. When we no longer  feel like we need to walk around with a smiling mask to hide  the tears streaming down in our souls.

People, I am begging you. Every single suicide is  preventable.  That dark place- you're alone there. But none of us have to be alone. So please, love someone today. Take the time to talk to  that person who needs to talk. Or sit by the one who weeps. No judgement. Just love. See sadness in the eyes of another? Don't pretend it's not your business. Point them to hope. Show them the light. Give them your hand so they can follow you out of the darkness.

I've had the pleasure of studying through the book of  Job this summer. It's been eye opening and thought provoking, and heart wrenching and  I never thought  I'd get  so much from it. God was there in the midst of  all of Job's loss. And so were his friends... and we don't want to be friends like that. Nagging, judging, hurting.  The man that lost it all lost his last shred of dignity when his friends  began  the shame game.

We are called to be so much more. Healers. Peacemakers. Love.
If we work on this together we will change  the  stigma  of depression- it claims waaaay to many lives.

That 3 letter word

It's such a small word. A small word with immense consequences.

I've been playing an illusive game of hide and seek with it my whole life.
I've fought for it in the darkest of places,the night that has swallowed some of my days.

If I could describe my last few years it would look something like this:
melancholy.
sorrow.
mourning.
sadness.

Guilt that comes then flees.

All that changed a few months ago.I think I've found it. I think I've found it and the key that unlocks it.


It's JOY.
It's the bliss found in the painted sky of sunsets.
The wonder as I watch the waves pound across white sand.
The delight as I stop and listen for little giggles that echo through my home.
The amusement of bare piggies running through green grass on a warm November day.

It also comes in the form of refreshment from tiny, frothy bubbles of milk sitting atop my cup of caffeine.
 Rich food that sits in my belly.
The comfort of a warm hand and attentive hug when I need it most.

Yes, joy. I write it with a gleam that illuminates my entire being. My body. My soul. I can't help but grin!

It's been hidden, buried so deep at times it seemed unreachable.
Unattainable, as I dug through memories, disappointments, and fears. As if I were burrowing my hands into the soft, brown soil, hunting some something unseen to the eyes. Digging deep, seeing a shining glimpse of what I was searching for, only to have the soil collapse like sand  around my weary hands. My soul no better now than when I began my pursuit.

My joy hunt came to me in the form of paper. A hard bound book with a photo of a twigged nest. Blue eggs.
Could this really help me find my joy?

As I began to read it, the author tells her story. Her joy dig. Her treasure hunt. Her secret to how she found it.
And I thought to myself, "why not?"

So began my hunt. It didn't require a metal detector nor any special tools.
It required not much more than my own eyes.
A heart that was willing to look beyond the hurt, the tears, and the pain.

Wouldn't you know it? After a few days of being intentional, in seeking those things that could make me smile, I encountered joy. Pure joy. It gets bigger and better the more I seek it.

Last weekend, joy found itself in a dance party in my living room. In shoes too tall to walk in. Us girls kicked off our tattered flip-flops and pranced and danced around in heels till our feet ached and our heart beat and our wind was gone from our lungs.

Today, joy comes in the form of my daddy's cup. Gold rubbed thin from years of his hand cupping it as he sipped. Today, I sip. I drink. And I find joy. And tomorrow? Who knows what tomorrow will bring, but I dare you to find the joy in it.

Let them give thanks to the Lord, for His unfailing love, and His wonderful deeds for men. For He satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things. 
Psalm 107:8-9

RIP Daddy

I just returned from a long, long trip. It's the kind of trip you welcome, where smiles, hugs and familiar faces greet you at the end.
It makes the road to get there worth it- no matter how much sleep you lack, how sore your old bones get cooped up in a car, or how many times you have to hear "Are we there YET??"

It's the road that starts to blur as you forge on ahead. Where you travel at speeds so fast, sometimes you aren't even sure where you are.

It's the road that has small white lines, meant to keep you on your path. Your right path.

This trip was all that and yet so much more. As we packed and I spoke the words that raised the eyebrows of the one I love,  he questioned me, "Are you sure?". My reply was solid. I'm ready. At least I think I am.

So, we packed up the heavy plastic box, with the hinge on one side and the white label on top. And it traveled with us. One last family trip.

After many days and thousands of miles we came to place where our car stopped. This was it.
The place my dad had fondly talked of, and brought me to often.. just to see the view.

He had worked this route on the railroad, and it was one of his favorite spots. It bridged a gap between where he lived, and where I lived, and it brought us together as father and daughter more than one time. But this would be the last time.

The car stopped and I looked ahead. The question swirled in my mind... was I really ready? Could I let go of him? A gentle squeeze on the hand by my husband told me the answer.

Slowly, we filed out of the car, and began a short hike to the special place. We were thankful the skies had cleared, as earlier they were sad, grey and wet.

I walked ahead, one foot in front of the other, memories clouded my mind, as did this verse. " The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; don't be discouraged." Deut.31:8

This kids babbled questions, but I couldn't really answer, for fear that opening my mouth would bring on the sobbing I fought so hard to control.

When I got to the spot, I slowly opened the plastic box, and with shaking hands I gently began to scatter my daddy's ashes, all over the ground. Tears rolled. I heard sniffling behind me only to turn and be greeted by my kids whose eyes were also filled with water. None of us spoke, we just poured and poured. We took in our breath and let it back out. We looked up at the tracks my dad had so frequently rode. He had been there, enjoying the view, so many times before. My heart longed to have him back with us.

A soft breeze carried some of the ash away. "Dad, we miss you." I heard myself whisper. How my heart ached for a new ending to this story. "Why couldn't you have been here with us today in person? Why did you give up hope? Why did you chose to die?"

I knew there would be no answers. And the ending doesn't change. But WE change. we choose life when we are tired and worn and want to give up. We choose to look up at the sky and see the blue, and the beauty in the clouds. We choose to believe God has the best in mind for us no matter how many tears fall to the ground. We choose to believe tomorrow is going to better even if today the valley seems so deep. And dark.

The kids pick a few yellow flowers and walk over to the spot. They lovingly plant them in the ground, covering them with soil. They pick up small rocks and begin to build a planter.

And I take a step back, and draw a big breath. Yes, Rest in Peace Daddy. The view is marvelous.... and so is the road ahead.

To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory. Isaiah 61:3

The Card of guilt

Today is my dad's 3rd birthday since he left. I'm only counting because this day had monumental meaning on the day when I walked into his office after his death.
I woke up this morning choking back tears. It seems the heavens are weeping with me today as the sky is shrouded in dark, grey clouds. The heavy, wet drops continue never ending- just like they won't stop coming from my eyes. Yes, I think perhaps God weeps with me today.

My dad had carefully arranged things on his messy computer desk. Intentionally making sure all would see that letter scribbled in such anger and hopelessness. The will. The glasses. All taking up residence next to his mousepad and moniter... sitting silently until someone made the discovery of what he had done. Right on top of that stack of paper and clutter, lay the card.

 The smiling, happy birthday card written with love yet some reservation, by us, just the month before his angry last grip on that gun. My dad had been changed for months before his death. He had given up on life. He had pushed me away. I didn't understand it then, but now I do. People who take their own life sometimes unconsciously push their loved ones away in an effort to shield them from the pain of what lays ahead.
I had indeed pulled away from our relationship as a result. After trying to reason with him about his enraged look on life, I too had given up. He wasn't going to change. All I could do was slowly pull back and love him the best I knew how.

The birthday card was my last correspondence to him. It represented the last thing I got to say, and he had put it out for me to see. The kids and I had wrote blessing to him. Reminded him of our love, and how much we missed him. But that's all I did. I didn't call, a statement that my dad had made to his brother. I didn't ever call.

3 years later, the card.... no, the birthday,  has left me with my head hung low in guilt. Tears welling in my eyes, my heart aching. Why didn't I just make the stupid call?  Every year I'm left pondering over and over in my mind the would- have's and could- have's if I had just lowered my pride and called. Maybe if I had made more of an effort he would have understood that he was loved, cherished and needed. Maybe he would have thought twice before allowing that darkness to close in on his mind.

I'll never know. But today, I weep. God weeps. And I try to break free from the guilt card that still has it's hold on me.

No, dear brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it, but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us. Philippians 3:13-14

Happy Birthday Dad

                                               (Me and my Dad, many moons ago!)

Today marks your 60th birthday. I wish you were here to celebrate it. To be honest, when I first blinked my eyes open this morning, I had thoughts of buying a party hat. Putting it on your ashes (that still sit in my home-UGH!) and singing to you. Morbid and wrong I know- but don't judge! I just felt like I needed to somehow give you the honor I didn't give when you were alive.

Yesterday was a bad day. I was overcome by tears on more than one occasion brought on by the looming date of today.

I'm sure had you died any other way, this day would still be filled with sorrow and mourning. But today, for me, I also battle the gut wrenching guilt. It's something I believe.. no, I know, that every person ever touched by suicide in anyway, deals with. It's part of the nature of healing, of losing, and of loving.

Most of the last 2 years I have sought to be free from the guilt (and the shame) of being a child of a dad who didn't want to live. Today, as I've been bogged down, deeply pondering, it occurred to me that yes- guilt is bad. It's a stronghold of unforgiveness and unforgiveness toward anyone, even ourselves, turns to bitterness and anger in our hearts. It tears us apart. Makes us feel unworthy.

However, another thought I've been contemplating is that some feelings of "guilt" can lead us to change- and are therefor, good. "Church folk" like myself call this conviction. The guilt I've worked hard to shake these past two years has indeed been unrelenting. One day I think I've mastered it. I've repented to God for my rash and wrong behavior, and the next day- SWOOSH! I'm swept away once again in heartache, wishing I could turn back the time on this clock of life. the conviction comes from reading God's words to me. Recently, God has been using 1 Peter to talk to me. In it, Peter talks a lot about what is expected of one who follows Jesus, and if I am to take an honest assessment of my life before my father's suicide, I see that I fell short in loving him as I should have.

While I'm determined to live in self-forgiveness (as I know God already worked a miracle for me on that cross so I don't have to pay a debt for my behavior and sin), I'm equally as determined to live in a new light of love.
I can't turn back the clock on what happened to my dad the day he decided to take his life. I can't be responsible for his decision, but I can move forward in my own life paying much more attention to the wounded and hurting people I meet on a daily basis. I can make enough leeway in my life to help those people who are desperate and troubled. I can bring relief and hope to someone who may really need it today. I can refuse to turn away from the suffering and I can bring encouragement instead.

So... what will I do today? Smile at the grouchy lady or man at the store? Say a kind word to the cashier who is slow and seems angry? Take a meal to someone who is sick? Get involved in an outreach to the homeless? Volunteer to watch the kids for a mommy stuck at home? Take food to people who are stuck at home and need a friend like Meals on Wheels? Choose to keep my mouth closed when I am angry or have been wronged?

Whatever it is, I just pray that everyday, I'll live it to make an impact, to love, and perhaps save a life.

Happy 60th Birthday Dad. 

 ^"Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing." 1 Peter 3:8-9

God heals using time

 (My dad, a cousin, me, my grandma, my dad's bother, my dad's dad, and my dad's sister and her husband enjoying my grandfather's home in the mountains of Utah 1970's )

It's been a while since I last posted on this blog. My dad has now been gone for 1 1/2 yrs. Sometimes, it seems like a lifetime ago, and other days the grief creeps up on me as if it were yesterday.

Memories aren't fading, and we are working to keep a legacy alive of grandpa in our home. I desire my kids to have reflection on their grandpa for more than how he died... but unfortunately, that is legacy he left on our family... and was has been burned into our hearts and our minds.

It's impossible for anyone to talk or reminisce about him without having his suicide come into the mind and the conversation- got to love kid's unedited words!

There's a new movie out, and I'm not going to lie, it's a little bit of a B film but the message it proclaims loud and clear is that we DO leave a legacy on our children and our children's children- for generations, be it good or bad.
Recently, because of the film and study, I've had to reflect on the legacy that was left to me. It's something that I can't ignore, or pretend it hasn't impacted us. Clearly, it has.

My dad left a legacy much like that of his father before him. My grandpa was grumpy. He had a hard time showing his love. He often allowed his mouth to say thins that would cut to the heart.

My dad never liked those attributes in his own father, and he worked as hard as he could to be a better dad to me than what his dad was to him. However, much of that unflattering legacy was still imparted in his parenting. My grandpa and father also left some positive legacy's. My dad was passionate. Whatever he did he did with gusto. He was stubborn. Coming out in me that can be both good and bad :)  He was a hard worker. And he loved what he did.

I'm thankful that God has started anew with me, and although I am not a perfect parent by any means, I know God has broken several unhealthy cycles in my family. (And I'm a work still in progress- He's busily wiping away, gently polishing me like a piece of old brass.)

His suicide left a dent. That's true. In all of us. My kids know the pain it has caused, and like to use that to hurt. The phrase "Maybe I'll just kill myself" slips from tiny tongues in an effort to cut to the bone... and it works. I'd lie if I said I wasn't afraid of my dad's life (and therein his death) to influence our lives without allowing it to dictate.

I know that if I allow God to, He will leave a legacy bigger and better than anything I can imagine on my children, and my grandchildren.


 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.  For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers,  nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:37-39

The hug

(My paternal grandmother, me, my uncle, and my father at Disneyland- my dad used to live right next door!)

I've been pretty exhausted lately. I don't know why but my energy seems sapped! As I nestled down into my soft pillow last night I was asleep almost before my head hit my bed.

What happened next I will never forget. I dreamed I was running with my family through an airport. (Something we have seen a lot of lately due to a mission trip we took to the islands of Trinidad and Tobago.) We were bogged down with what seemed to be hundred of suitcases- and we were about to miss our flight.

As we struggled to pull, lift, and carry all of our bags, I felt the rush of urgency that we needed to go- NOW! Right before we came to the security area, there was a door to walk through. We thought it strange, but bolted through it anyway... and then stopped dead in our tracks. I slowly looked around. We were standing in a small room painted with a light blue color. Big black overstuffed couches filled the room. It was my dad's house! We were all very confused, but decided we still had a lot to do to clean up his home and move him out so we all began going through his things.
A heavy, husky voice startled us-"What are doing with my stuff?" I turned to see my dad. I stood in shock and tears began streaming down my face as he came over and gave me a big hug. The hug I've been desiring since the minute I realized he was dead. This hug felt so real! His arms, all covered in tattoos where strong and warm. As he embraced me I asked how this could be, since he had killed himself. He said he was sorry and must have been high.
(That didn't answer my question since I wanted to know how he was alive!)
Before I knew it the loving moment was over and I had to say goodbye as we were going to miss our flight.
For me, saying that goodbye was as painful as it had been 1 year and 2 months ago. My kids and hubby also gave kisses as the urgency of missing our plane ensued.... and off we went hustling again.

In that moment I was roused from my dream, out of breath, and my face, cheeks and pillow soaked by my tears. I had not had a dream about my dad in at least 8 months, and all of them that preceded this one were more like nightmares about his death or last minutes of life.

As a Bible believing Christian I don't believe in ghosts, but I do believe God works in mysterious ways and I can't help but wonder if God allowed me this dream, last glimpse of my father as flesh and bone, in order to give me the desire of my heart. The one last hug, and glimpse of his arms that I have longed for since his death. This dream was so real it literally took my breath away!

One final note. As a Christian who puts my life solely in the Bible, I believe it from cover to cover- without error, written by the authors who were flesh and bone yet directed by the Holy Spirit. Since I believe every word in the book is true I believe that unless you are born again, you will not enter into heaven.
John 3:3 "No one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again."-Jesus Romans 10:9 If you declare with your mouth Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
I have struggled since my dad's death not knowing if he had claimed the saving grace of Jesus since his life showed no sign of a man free from his bondage of sin. He read his bible a lot, and loved to argue about Jesus... but had he given his life, all that he was, to Christ? I have only hoped that before he made the choice to end his own life, he made peace with his maker, since he had the luxury that many of us don't have: he knew in moments he would be standing before the throne of our Creator.

For me this dream gave me hope. Hope that my dad is perhaps enjoying eternity in the presence of God and Jesus, dancing in a new body. It gave me contentment, since I have now once again seen my father's arms and had them hold me in a big warm hug. And it gave me thankfulness, that I have a God who cares enough about me to give me the desires of my heart- even if it is just a hug in an abstract dream!

Father's Day minus you

Today is the first Father's Day without you. It's weird not having you to E-mail, to talk to, or to send a card to.

When I woke up this morning, one thing was stuck in my head: That first moment I walked into your home after your death. You had purposely left several things on your desk before you walked out onto the porch to end your life... only 3 days after Father's Day. One of the things that I found (and the police left) was our Father's Day card to you. I've agonized over your last moves for nearly a year now, and this card has remained a mystery that is seeded in the depths of my heart... I wish I knew what your purpose was for leaving it.

Your grandkids had written endearing notes and drawn amazing pictures (I'm a bit partial of course), and I had poured out my heart and my profound love for you in it. I hope that you read it and allowed it to sink into your heart. I can only wonder if you had it out there as a reminder of how much you were leaving behind?

Since it has been nearly a year since that dreadful day, I decided that I've dawdled long enough and it was time to go through your things. Your life (or what's left of it) has been encased in cardboard sitting on the shelves of my basement. I really had to push myself to pull the first box down and set it on the floor. Everything in me wanted to push pause, to rewind, to put the cardboard back on the shelf and leave it for another day. My heart wanted to put it back, but my mind knew I needed to push on.

As I peeled back the first 2 pieces of the box, I got a whiff of a familiar smell that literally knocked me to my knees and left me sobbing. The smell was you. One of a kind, and followed you everywhere. A mixture of pungent leather, sweat, tobacco and grease from your motorcycles. This box was filled with it, with you. Nearly 1/2 hr of deep weeping passed before I decided I could go on, and slowly I began lifting my memories out one by one. The old metal cigarette sign you hung in your living room and called "art". The sleeveless jean vest that you had worn since before I was born and never washed.... so fragile now. The bag of leathers from your long explorations across the country on your 2 wheeled friend, Harley.

It didn't take me long to realize once again that this stuff is all I have left of you, and I simply can't let it go yet, as I feel like to do so would be to let go of you.

One at a time the kids heard the deep breaths and "silent" sobs and came to join me by the box. I enjoyed the comforting hugs they gave and assured them I was Ok despite the running nose and tears that stained my face. The kids mentioned how it smelled just like you and we went through your things together for a while. They each picked out a few things they would like to use. Sabian grabbed out your favorite ball cap. So sweat stained and gross, yet dare we wash it?

They found a cool temporary tattoo (and we all had a good laugh as we presented our theory for why you had the need for one of these in the first place?!) One was already used from the pack, so we decided it made sense that you probably stuck it to your forehead as a joke to your friends.

At the end of the day, I piled most your things back into the box, slowly took one more deep breath as I inhaled the smells and memory of you, closed the lid and carefully placed this box back onto the shelf.

Dad, I wish that you were here today to share our lives with us. I wish I didn't have to obsess over your things, and read your letters to me looking for answers. I wish last Father's Day you had allowed our love to penetrate your heart. I wish that you hadn't pulled that trigger. But you did, so we are learning to live with joy again, to smile at our memories instead of cry, and to appreciate those who are in our lives today since we never know if there will be a tomorrow.

My day today was made fantastic through a phone call to my other dad. Never have I appreciated being able to call and talk to him more!

Let love be genuine. Abor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Romans 12:9-10

Happy Birthday dad

Today is my dad's birthday. It's the first one I've had to deal with. The anticipation of facing it has driven me crazy with raw emotion this month- robbing me of all kinds of joy and making me have conversations with him in my head.

Specialists recommend writing a letter directly to that person. I've always thought that sort of silly since I don't think my dad reads my journal, or my blog whereever he is :) But I've decided it may be healing, so here it goes....

Dear Dad,

Today is your birthday. You remember that your first grandson was actually due on this day! I prayed hard that I would have him either before or after- anything but on this day.
It's weird how this has never been my favorite day of the year. You and mom made it so hard. It was the one day a year I had to call both of you, one after the other. Two peas in a pod- too perfect for each other, stubborn as all get out. Crazy as bats. Weird ailments. You even shared your birthdays! Talking to you the last year of your life would drain me of all energy - you were so very sad. So very mad. We had to walk on eggshells.

Last year, on your birthday, we had just gotten the new job offer and were house hunting in Michigan . We sent a card but after much thought and wrestling, I decided not to make that dreaded phone call to you.
I knew I would have to explain that we were moving further away. I knew that you would be upset at not only that fact, but also the fact that I was moving somewhere further from you and with winters that were long and cold- thus dashing any hope of having you come to live close so we could help you more.

I know that not getting that birthday call probably broke your heart in two. Was it the last straw that made you start planning your own death? The police told me that they could tell you put much thought and preparation into your suicide. You had studied up on where exactly the bullet needed to go so that there was no chance you'd live. You carefully planned the spot so that the mess would be less for us to clean up. You planned it in a spot you would be found quickly. You planned and planned, and planned. I can't help but wonder all these months since your death, if my phone call would have given you a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of love. A glimmer of the life and the people that you'd be leaving. A glimmer, just a speck even, of Jesus.

Alas. We both know I talked myself out of the phone call by telling myself I really had no time. (I did, after all, only have 3 days to find my family a home to move into!)
I talked myself out of it by telling myself that you really didn't want to hear from me anyway. I know you loved hearing the stories from your grandchildren, but they were scattered around at friend's houses while we house hunted. And I talked myself out of it by telling myself that you were so mean, so angry at the world... and I just didn't have the energy to deal with it.

I've spent the last year thinking often of decision I made. You made it clear in your note that I had indeed hurt you. You made it clear that your decision to die was a decision you hoped would hurt me. Dad, my decision NOT to be self-less, but instead to be self-ish is a choice I'll regret for the rest of my life.

I'm so very sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I never made that call. I'm sorry I didn't humble myself but instead became more stubborn. From the perspective that I have now, my choice to not call is like a knife slicing through my heart. I'm sorry I didn't offer you a light- a hope when you needed it the most. I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted or unloved. You, even in your hard hearted ways... were dearly loved. Terribly wanted.

We loved your smile dad. I miss seeing your tattoos. We hated when you popped in for overnight visits unannouced, but we loved your company and your attempts to (sometimes) clean up your dirty lanuage in front of your sweet grandchildren. They miss hearing you fart at the dinner table, and I miss you being so thankful for all of my cooking. We miss your conversations of "bait" to try to get into an argument about the Bible. We miss you. The good parts, the annoying parts, the silly parts, and the weird parts.


Happy Birthday dad. We love you.

All my love,
Your daughter

Working to NOT regret, and holding onto this word from God: "The Lord says forget about what happened before. Do not think about the past. Instead look at the new thing I am going to do. Isaiah 43:18-19

Nearly 9 months

I'm not going to lie. The last 9 months have been some of the hardest I've ever had to face. (And if you know my life, that's saying a lot!)
First off, my dad is sitting in my closet. Seriously. I just don't know what to do with his remains, and I can't quite let go of him. The closet has always been the place I go in troubled times, to seek peace, tranquility, and catch my thoughts when they are zooming past faster than on a Nascar track. Now my dad sits there. In a black square case. I go in often, crying, yelling, hoping he can hear me, perhaps see my broken heart?
I used to think it was my precious time with God. Now it's my time with God..... and my dad. which is weird. Can he see me? Does he know or even care about the pain he has caused?

The last 9 months have been, of course, littered with thoughts of my dad. I wish I could talk to him about such and such. Why did he have to be so mean about that? How proud he would be about his grandchildren just now.

The regrets threaten to swallow the peace I have. The ashes threaten to ruin my alone time with God. I can only hope that one day soon, I'll feel like I can indeed let my dad go. Until then I hold on to the ashes that are so very dear. He never chose to say goodbye.........

7 months have passed

Today marks 7 months since my dad decided to leave this life. My posts have become more infrequent, and there are several reasons for that.

First an update on how I've been feeling: These past few months have had some really great patches along with some rough spots.

I'll be walking along, thinking that things are getting better, that I'm fine, and wham! Out of the blue this deep, deep sadness and mourning hits me. The tears come and they don't stop. The worst part of this is that my mind starts racing at the same time. All the "what if's" and "why didn't I.." come back to haunt me. Then I get blind-sided by the "why weren't we good enough", and "why didn't he see that he would be missing all of this?"

The last 2 months many of our birthday's have passed. Their is a void there left by my dad that just won't be filled by anyone but God himself.The kids have felt a bit of sadness not getting the phone call, the card from their grandpa Dale. I mourn for them and their loss. I mourn for my dad who didn't see them as important enough to live. I mourn for the lies he believed from the evil one that he wasn't needed. I mourn for all that he is missing seeing them grow up. I mourn for all the opportunities missed. As kids, they don't even really know how to articulate their grief, their feelings, they can only sense the hole that has been left behind.

I can say that the days between breakdowns are getting farther apart and my cry sessions themselves are getting shorter. I can feel God slowly stitching up my heart. Poking the needle under my skin hurts! But then the Great Physician pulls the thread through and before long I can see a neat row of threads weaved over and under... pulling my brokenness together again. Making me new, renewed!

I'm ever thankful for my Abba Father. The richness of relying on Him in all new ways, pouring out my sorrowful heart to him when I am weak, and the joy of being filled right in the midst of my distress is something I cannot describe with words.

I cannot tell you how many times I have thanked God for Himself, and for giving me a hope and a future, and I can honestly say that having to walk through this unplanned circumstance has been made good only in God. Only in His goodness.

God is all mercy and grace- not quick to anger, is rich in love.

God is good to one and all. Everything he does is suffused with grace.

Creation and creatures applaud you God, your holy people bless you.

They talk about the glories of your rule, they exclaim over your splendor,

letting your world know of your power for good, the lavish splendor of your kingdom.

Your kingdom is a kingdom eternal, you never get voted out of office.

God always does what he says, and is gracious in everything he does.

God gives a hand to those down on their luck, gives a fresh start to those ready to quit.

Psalm 145:8-14 The Message

First holiday's

Well, I haven't written anything lately, and I'm not sure I have too much to say tonight. It is nearly Christmas, and as anyone who has lost someone close them can tell you, this time of year is just tough.
Thanksgiving came and went. My dad always loved this holiday in particular. A home cooked meal and good conversation were his two favorite things and Thanksgiving has both. I couldn't help but think of how he couldn't enjoy it this year.

My birthday came and went. That was a tough day. Dad had been on an Internet card kick and usually sent me a dumb one (that made me roll my eyes) along with another card in the mail. This year I obviously got neither- and you know? I really wished I had a silly card that made me roll my eyes.This was the only birthday my entire life that I didn't hear from him. My loss was greatly felt on this day, but my husband did an excellent job at keeping me sidetracked. I'm pretty sure that is my way of dealing with this death... staying busy. Not that I can help but be busy with 4 children.

Now Christmas is almost here. My dad was never for Christmas. As a young girl, my mom used to drive me to his house and I would pull out a small tree from his basement, place it in his living room, and decorate it for him. I always tried to convince him to put up lights outside, but he would have no part of that. I've been recalling Christmas's spent with him, which weren't many until I became an adult and he had grandchildren. If the roads were clear enough, he liked to make the trek down from Idaho to spend it with us. He really fancied my Martha Stewart homemade eggnog. Last year, he gave us a bunch of family games. One is called "Would you rather.?" and is filled with stupid scenarios. For example: Would you rather eat toe jam or your neighbors ear wax? Would you rather let a spider crawl over your face or eat a whole banana peel? Needless to say, it is good old roll your eyes fun!

I haven't allowed my kids to get it out since he died, and I'm not sure the reason. I guess the same reason I am holding onto everything so tight- it's the last I have of him, forever. I can't bear to allow anything to happen to the things I am holding on so tight to! They are the last strand, the last morsel of closeness to my dad that I have. Something tangible. If they are ruined, misplaced or lost, I will never have a chance to get them back, just like I'll never have a chance to get my dad back.

This holiday season, we are working not to ask the "whys", but instead, "Would you rather make a difference in the world around you? Or sit and constantly allow your own sorrow to drown any potential for making someone else's life better.

I failed my dad by not seeing his pain for what it was. This Christmas, I'm taking the eyes off me and looking at those less likely to be seen around me.

Yes indeed, it is good when you truly obey the Lord's command; you must love and care for your neighbor just as much as you love and take care of yourself. James 2:8

Band Aids

With a 4 yr old in the house, band-aids are very important and are everywhere. Every bump bruise, cut and scrape is magically healed once a band-aid is applied. Ice doesn't matter, kisses from mommy don't matter, healing balm doesn't matter, the shrieking wail of an ouchie can be healed instantly only with band-aids.

After 4 kids I have learned the utter importance of these tiny, sticky things. Sure, these things become slightly annoying when they are peeled off 5 minutes after the injury and stuck to the floor... or the wall..... or the chair. But they served their purpose and they served it well- to end the tears and sadness.

Once when my son was little, getting ready to turn 4, my dad called to ask some ideas for a birthday present. I rattled off the standard things my boy liked: cars, dinosaurs, Buzz Lightyear, and ended the list with Band-aids.

The birthday party came and when my son opened his gift from his grandpa- guess what was inside? Yup, several boxes of band-aids! My little guy was thrilled, and had their been a prize for strangest gift ever, my dad would have won that prize.

This memory gets brought up quiet a bit in our home, since band-aids are a normal part of our daily routine still. We all laugh, and it's a good memory.

I also can't help but to relate this to my daily walk now. As an adult, I'm not as daring as a child. I'm not out getting scrapes, bumps or bruises physically (If I can help it!) My soul and spirit however get wounded everyday. A harsh word. Something doesn't happen as I wish it had. Mommy guilt. One of my children making bad choices and disappointing me. An unexpected tragedy. Yes, bumps and bruises, cuts and scrapes happen every single day. Some are much worse than others. Some feel like they slice right through to the heart. Others hurt for a moment, but will be forgotten as quickly as they came.

All of them need something more than a little band-aid. I don't know about you, but I have lots of places to draw out my band-aids for my wounded heart. Starbucks, shopping, a little glass of wine, a hot bath, friends, to name a few. None of these things are bad in themselves. The danger lies in my relying on them to heal my wound. I need to look beyond what makes me feel better in the moment, and trust God and His word to seep in and heal. God's healing is powerful and forever. He's calling out to me, reaching out to me, desiring to do more than place a sticky thing to cover my wound. The first step in the healing power of God? Rejoicing in all circumstances.

1 Peter 4:12-13 says "Don't be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering.. but rejoice."

If we are able to rejoice in all our wounds, we are fully trusting God to heal them. Philippians 4:7 promises " a peace that passes all understanding."

God calls us to his healing power. The Bible is full of God's amazing healing. As I sit hurting today, sad over a death that I had no power over, I am leaning on the healing power of my God- not a silly band-aid.

Lord my God I called to you for help and you healed me. Psalm 30:2

Heal me O Lord and I will be healed, save me and I will be saved, for You are the One I praise- Jeremiah 17:14

New addition

It's now been 4 months since my father's suicide. I wish I could say that life has returned to normal, but instead, his choice of death has marred our daily lives.

We had hoped to cushion our children from the blow, with daily prayer, speaking to them about grandpa Dale, sharing memories, we really thought that they could go on not being scarred. Boy were we wrong! Weekly calls from the principal, dealing with late, and unfinished work everyday, and acting out in ways we didn't think were possible, has littered our lives since school began. Granted, this is all coming from our 12 yr old, and that's a tough age as is, but he was the closest to grandpa Dale- and he is struggling to make sense of it all just like the rest of us left behind.

As a mom, it breaks my heart to see my children hurting, and I toss back and forth between being angry and frustrated that my father didn't think about the damage he left behind for his grandchildren to deal with. Despite our best parenting efforts, there will be scars left behind that will help shape their future lives ahead.

Last week, we decided that perhaps we needed an addition to our family, and I thought it would be great if we could save a life at the same time. We headed out to the local animal control where we picked our new found friend.

We needed to return home and wait for a few more days since she wasn't quite old enough to come home. The days seemed like years as we all anticipated bringing her home!

Finally the day came for us to pick her up. Armed with a bubblegum pink carrier, a purple fuzzy blanket and feathery toy propped inside, we walked through the doors to bring our baby kitty home.

She went nameless for a few days, and after much discussion, we came to an agreement- Simkah a Hebrew word meaning "God's gladness or God's joy". Already she has helped restore some joy into my heart which has been far too often filled with tears and sorrow, she has helped restore laughter and playing to our home ... as one friend called her, "our healing kitty".

The day that I was behind the wheel bring her home I was overcome with a clash of emotion: I had just saved this tiny little thing from certain death, I saved a life! That was the joy part. The other side of that was extreme sadness and guilt that I could save this life but I couldn't save my father. I realized in that moment with tears streaming down my face that I need to live everyday as if it is my last. I've been set back the last few months, having a hard time coping or dealing with everything around me, but God promises restoration to me and to my children. He is big enough to do it in one breath, yet he loves to use people and things around us to help touch our lives. Our new little addition is a gentle reminder that God wants to restore and loves to rebuild.... and that He is indeed, still in control.

Jeremiah 33:6 "Nevertheless, I will bring health and healing to it; I will heal my people and let them enjoy abundant peace and security. I will bring Judah and Israel back from captivity, and will rebuild them as they were before. I will cleanse them from all the sin they have committed against me and will cleanse them of all their sins of rebellion against me. Then this city will bring me renown, joy, praise and honor before all nations on Earth that hear of all the good things I do for it; and they will be in awe and tremble at the abundant prosperity and peace I provide for it."

Meat Box

We have had lots of distractions lately. Lots of visitors, and after school activities. I relish in the business, without I think I would go crazy! It's been so healing and great to see friends from long ago, to have family here to visit, and to see my kids enjoying life in the new normal.

I have one child not doing so well these days. I guess we were fools to think that our kids would get through this grief without setbacks. We're praying like mad, and hoping God opens the floodgates and showers goodness down on this blessed kid!

I try to talk to my kids about good memories of grandpa. One such memory came up- I call it the meat box. I'll give a little background: You see, I was living on my own, at age 17, with my boyfriend. I was a strict vegetarian, and by that, I mean that I was the person shouting "Meat is Murder!!" in the hallway at school, the one boycotting Proctor and Gamble for their horrible practice of testing on animals. Passing out fliers to educate anyone who would listen, and working at Pizza Hut, gagging anytime a person ordered pepperoni or sausage.

It was winter, Christmas to be exact, and I was thrilled when the UPS man knocked on my door to deliver a giant brown box. I was baffled as to who would have sent me such an enormous and heavy box. The return label had only a company name I didn't recognize. Of course, I tore into the mystery package as quickly as I could! Cutting through the tape, pulling out the packing paper. The box was very cold, but I didn't think anything of it as it was just as frigid in Northern Utah in the winter. What I saw next mortified me- a headless, featherless turkey peeked out. 2 packages of bacon (which translated into dead pigs for me). A huge sausage roll. Various forms of meat, meat and more meat! I was flabbergasted. Who would have sent such an awful thing to me? I hunted until I found a form. Typed at the bottom of the order, it said "Merry Christmas! I love you-Dad".

I was so speechless and so angry. I wanted to take and throw it all away- dump it in the road and run it over (instead I think we gave it all away to various friends to consume.) When I spoke to him later to thank him, I asked why he sent something that I saw as so offensive, his response? I needed to eat more (and better) and he loved smoked turkey so he thought I would too. (See picture above as evidence for his case against my poor lifestyle- this was taken shortly after my meat box arrived.)

Many times in life we just want people to get us. Misunderstandings cause monumental damage in the relationships of our lives. We want to be known, and to know. We want others to care about us and what we care about. It's the way we were created- for relationship. I regret allowing too many misunderstanding hurt me and in turn hurt my relationship with my dad.

"If God is in the throne of our hearts and in control of our lives, then all our human relationships will be positively affected.... instead of looking at our relationships for what we can take from others, we will begin to see relationships in light of what we can give. Finding our own deepest need met in our relationship with God, we will be free to be used by Him to meet the needs in others." -Eddie Rasnake, Author of the following God series

3 Month mark

It has now been 3 months since my father died. It doesn't seem like a big number, but the reality is that it seems like a lifetime ago. Our family was struck with a 2nd tragedy with the death of my husband's aunt a couple of weeks ago. Talk about a rough summer. She passed away after a year long battle with pancreatic cancer. She left behind a family who loves her, people who's lives she invested heavily in, and some very young grand children. Her funeral was awesome, she loved Jesus and spent her life giving Him glory, and her memorial was no different.
I know God didn't allow both of these deaths by chance, both so different yet the grief has so many similarities.... and both deaths have something to teach my kids. It doesn't make either one of these losses hurt less. I couldn't help by wonder why God has now allowed my husband, to grieve a loss at the same time that I am hurting.

I have noticed that every month, right around the 23rd, I become very emotional. Most times I haven't even mentally known the date, but my heart must know, and with each passing month my loss becomes more and more real. We had family visiting us at the 3 month mark, and boy did it make a difference! It was great for me to be surrounded by people when this hard day came and went. I had other things to laugh and smile about, and was again reminded that God has placed people in our lives who do love us.

A cousin, mourning his dear mama, made the statement "Everything around reminds me of her. I think of her every second of everyday." It's strange how the loss of someone you love brings so many parts of your life that they touched, to the surface. Like abrasive sandpaper, the memories come out and start sanding down, leaving only the dust of dried tears behind. It's also amazing to me how much my mind has attempted to lesson the blow. Just the other day the movie Cannonball Run was on Tv, everyone was enjoying it, I remembered how much my dad liked it (and movies with similar humor), and for a split second, the thought came that I needed to call and talk to him about it. It would be a pleasant conversation! Reality quickly smacked my in the forehead: there would be no phone call, no discussion on the humor of this show, my dad is gone.

My grief is lessened a bit when I can hold on to this truth: If we allow, God can "cut and dress" us, allowing nothing to be wasted that happens in our lives, but using everything for the glory of the God who loves us beyond our comprehension. Do I trust Him?

1Peter 1:6-7 "In this you greatly rejoice, even though now for a little while, you have been distressed by various trials, so that the proof of your faith being more precious than gold which is perishable, even though tested by fire, may be found to result in praise and glory and honor, at the revelation of Jesus Christ."

National Suicide Prevention Day- Sept. 10th

Yesterday was National Suicide Prevention Day. It's a day created to help save lives. The more we dialog about this, the more we expose the "elephant in the room", the less frightening it becomes. As we become less frightened,(no- studies show that talking about it does not increase the risk, or put thoughts of doing it into peoples minds!)the more people who feel like suiciding will be able to seek help before their families and loved ones are left behind to pick up the pieces. The above picture was self taken by my dad on his camera. We found it the other day. Another reminded that he is gone, and that this charming, cheesy grin is something I'll only see in photos.

This day got me thinking: suicide isn't new, it has been happening since the fall of Adam and Eve. Their are 7 people recorded in the Bible as having taken their own lives.

Abimelech- Judges 9:50-54 was a ruler over Israel for 3 yrs. He ordered his armor-bearer to kill him by sword, after he was hit on the head with a milestone by a woman.

Samson- Judges 16:23-31- Samson was given super-human strength by God, but ended up being deceived by a woman who found out his "secret" to his power, and then handed him over to the enemy, the Philistines. They gouged out his eyes and kept him as a prisoner. One day, they brought Samson out for entertainment during a party, and he pushed over the pillars killing many, including himself.

Ahithophel-2 Samuel 17:23- was David's council who turned against him and joined with Absalom to try to kill David. When Absalom decided not to follow Ahithophel's plan, he "put his house in order and hanged himself."

Zimri-1 Kings 16:15-20- was a ruler only 7 days. He set fire to his home (the palace) and himself once he realized he was to be overpowered.

King Saul-1 Sam.31:2-5- was in battle with the Philistines when he realized that he wasn't going to win this war. He asked his armor-bearer to kill him before the Philistines could capture him, but his side-kick couldn't do it, so Saul fell onto his own sword.

King Saul's Armor-bearer- after he saw his King suicide in front of him, he followed suit and fell onto his own sword, killing himself right next to his master.

Judas Iscariot-Matt.27:3-5- After selling Jesus for 30 pieces of silver, Judas could not live with himself and was filled with remorse. Her returned the money paid to him, then hanged himself.

7 deaths in the Bible caused by one's own hand. I have to wonder why God allowed these parts of the story into His book. Could it be that we have lessons to learn from these men's lives... and deaths?

These stories tell us that several of these men felt backed into a wall. They were afraid of being over-powered by the enemy. Afraid of what would happen once their lives were in the hands of those they most hated. Samson killed himself perhaps because he wanted to also kill his captors, the people who had taken his life and his sight... or perhaps he didn't think he could take anymore prison, anymore torture. Judas sinned, big time... I mean, big time. He sold the Savior! He was partly to blame for the brutal death of his mentor and friend! Saul's armor-bearer had witnessed his master, his King, and no doubt his friend, kill himself right before his eyes. Seeing Saul's last breath and lifeless body, he knew he could not go on either. I wonder if Saul's fear had gripped this boy as well. All too often, fear can be contagious, so much so, that one sees no other option but death.

I have found myself in the place of all of these people at one time or another in my lifetime. I've been paralyzed with fear, I've been afraid of being overtaken by the evil one. I've been placed into the hands of my enemy, and I have sinned... big time. Now I also have seen my father take his own life and leave behind only shattered pieces. I have been broken. I have been hopeless. I have been lost. I have felt like I could not go on. Moses, Elijah, Job, and Jonah all had the desire to take their own lives at one point. As a human, I'm not immune, and as a Christ-follower, lover of God, I'm not immune.

When life seems like too much to bear. When the pain is so great, I cling to one thing, I have hope. I can rest assure that no matter what lays in my path, God has a reason. He has my best interest in mind, even if I can not see it in my circumstances. I know without a shadow of a doubt that God is faithful in all circumstances. I know that He shows himself and His power in my weakness, and I know that He is love.

My point is this: through speaking the truth of suicide, by no longer making it the "unmentionable" death, we let others know that they are not alone. They are loved, and regardless of their pain, they have someone, somewhere, who loves them. The more we speak about the pain left behind by a suicide death, the more we let others know that their life is indeed worth it. Now that's something to talk about!

This is the kind of life you've been invited into, the kind of life Christ lived. He suffered everything that came his way so that you would know that it could be done, and also know how to do it, step-by-step.He never did one thing wrong, not once said anything amiss. They called him every name in the book and he never said anything back. He suffered in silence content to let God set things right. He used his servant body to carry our sins so that we could be rid of sins, free to live the right way. His wounds became your healing. You were lost sheep with no idea of who you were or where you were going. Now you are named and kept for good, by the Shepard of your souls. 1 Peter 2:18-25

Grief goes in stages, and as it ebbs and flows like an ocean wave, there are many emotions that surface. Anger is one of those. Grief over a suicide is unique as the family left behind grieves a murder, but the murderer is the very person that you loved and lost.

It is interesting to be in a place of such deep sorrow, along with strong anger. Often suicide is thought of as being selfish, and indeed it is. However, we as a society also need to see that suicide is done because the person feels like they are back against a wall with no way out. I am often very upset that my dad left, that he didn't want to see his grandchildren grow up. By leaving, he left the impression that it wasn't worth it to hang around. I get angry that he didn't want to be a part of my life, or at least not enough to want to stay on Earth.

Lately, I've also had something that takes me by surprise, compassion toward him. People who choose to end their lives so violently can not be in a good place. Depression strikes and in the case of a suicide, something happens called "tunnel vision"- the suicidal person literally can not see anything else but their own sorrow, their own overwhelming problems and pain. My dad lived in a different state, so our contact was limited to phone conversations and e-mail, yet looking back, I can now see how he was totally disabled by his tunnel vision. Truthfully, it became exhausting trying to encourage him to see life from a different perspective, to focus on the many things he did have instead of what he could no longer do. My attempts only made him angry and he pushed himself further away from me.

If only I had seen the depths of his sorrow, if only I had taken more drastic measures, if only he had made that mental health appointment for 1 week earlier, he may still be alive. The truth of this seems a fine line to me. He was selfish and not thinking about what he would put his family through if he left. However, I think because of tunnel vision, he was convinced that no one would care, that no one loved him, and that he would not be missed. He simply could not see living with his emotional and physical pain one more day. He simply could not see anyone but himself.

None of us are islands, although I am convinced that at the end of my father's life, he sincerely believed he was. He was however a part of a community. His life touched others, and his death will affect many. I recently read a quote by Henri Nouwen that spoke volumes, "We are not alone; beyond the differences that separate us, we share one common humanity and thus belong to each other."

What my dad suffered from was treatable. His life had been rocked by disabling MS, but his soul and spirit were wounded from deep depression. If nothing else good comes from his death, I will be forever cautious of living my life looking outside myself, caring about others beyond myself, and making sure that I remember that I am not an island whose life doesn't matter to others. Every life God has created here has a purpose, and thus every single loss is felt.

Experience is not what happens to you, it is what you do with what happens to you. Don't waste your pain. Use it to help others- Author Rick Warren