Blog Postings

Legacy of Learning

The start of a new year offers opportunity for reflection and goal setting. This week in class, my friend Madison presented on The Value of Vulnerability” paraphrasing France’s suggestion that we want teachers to feel empowered to embrace uncertainty in order to continue to learn. Although the text was specific to education, it resonated with my goals for 2023.

2022 challenged me emotionally, socially, and physically. I ran a marathon, Court was injured, I started grad school, and it was a year of first withouts. In some ways, for me, the first year of grief is about making it through the moments without feeling broken. Our first year after Josh died each holiday and special moment was another emotional reminder of our loss. On special days, birthdays, and holidays, Courtney and I were gentle with ourselves and allowed ourselves grace to take the days and our grief as it came. Our community was supportive and even when left unspoken, empathetic. My mom understood and remind me to focus on the good memories even when my heart was breaking.

I am well aware it makes no sense to compare grief or to try to prepare for hard days, just as it is unreasonable to expect others to know how I am feeling. Yet, for some reason, I fooled myself into thinking this year would somehow be easier than that year. Since I had survived that loss, I could make it through this loss not untouched, but that I would be better able to manage it.

This year of firsts without Mom I wavered between sad, spacey, and preoccupied. I struggled to stay focused and often found myself forgetful mid-task. When sadness felt overwhelming, I thought of Mom’s smile, her laugh, or a specific memory – focusing on her life instead of that it was now missing. Mom was a teacher to her core and was a constant source of guidance and positivity. Parkinson’s took pieces of her from us, but when I remember Mom, healthy and happy is how I remember her. To me, she was never broken. She worked harder than most, but never drew attention to herself or asked for others to help when she could do something herself. Some would call this stubborn, but she was strong willed and determined. Who knows maybe those are the same thing.

Mom loved holidays and strived to make them special. She would sew homemade gifts, cook a homemade meal, but most of all, she made it – home. Everyone was invited and we could always add another plate to the table. This Thanksgiving, I hosted. My in-laws smoked the turkey, Courtney made two apple pies, Papa drove down, and I attempted to make all the usual sides. Yet, it just didn’t feel right. All day, I refused help from others – insisting to do things myself to prove that I could do it. My friend, Sandi, who recently lost her father, and I exchanged texts over the course of the day. She too hosted dinner and was doing all the things her father had done. She said her father must be laughing in Heaven because she started the marshmallows on top of the potato casserole on fire. I told her I was proud of her for both saving the potatoes and starting a fire.

Too often I forget that even if I can “do it” it doesn’t mean it is easier or I should do it alone. My mom lived her life for others and I am selfish for not being better able to be more fully with her. There has not been a day that I don’t think of her and smile when I see clouds, a sunset, hear a song, see Emma being silly, play in the water, or have a gardening question. She filled her life with the things she loved and didn’t focus on the negative or the challenges. She saw them as obstacles to overcome that would make her stronger.

As we start 2023, I do so with the hope to be able to not only accept challenges, but also learn and grow from them. I am easily caught up in the illusion of busy, the what next”, and the “what should I”s. Courtney is my rock. He holds me in the present and reminds me to embrace each day. The other day he pointed out I keep using the phrase “next year,” but somehow that year never seems to arrive. We talked about how when Josh was diagnosed, we focused everything into the days we were given with him. He shared his concern that I am so focused on the what’s next and may be missing the now of Emma’s life, our life. It was hard to hear, but I love that he is courageous and graceful when he sees me misstepping. I have no regrets for the days we had with Josh. Yet, there are days I wish I could redo for Emma. Days I worry she went to bed not knowing how much she means to me or how proud I am of her.

As I think about my mom, I have never questioned that she loved or was proud of me. True, I disappointed her from time to time, but her love was unwavering. I turn forty this month and I hope when Emma is forty, whether I am here to celebrate with her or not, that she knows how much I love her.

One of my professors, Dr. Jeril Hehn, shared in her message to our cohort the hope for the legacy of leadership to be that those who follow are better versions of themselves. I am broken, but better because of those who have gone before me. Josh taught me to appreciate simple moments – leaves falling from trees, sunshine, hugs, puppy kisses, rocking chairs, and the joy of hearing “Mom.” My mom taught me to see the best in others and to never stop believing in the ability and capacity for change.

My goal for 2023 is to be the better version of myself that Emma deserves, Josh helped shape, and my mom continues to influence.

Taking Time to Pause

Ten years. It has been ten years since we held Josh in our arms. Time feels abstract when I measure how much life has passed between his death and today. Our twenty-one months together were brief in time, yet, his life continues to play, the background music to the choices I make each day.

Over the years, there have been moments I press fast forward. It gives me the excuse of double time; I can’t feel the pain, if I am unable to take time to acknowledge it. Other moments, all I want to do is press rewind. This rewind is not to undue moments, but more so playback or repeat from another viewpoint. It is not the moment that I want to rewind to relive, but instead, the moments after it from which I learned to be stronger.

Each moment, I am aware of Emma’s eyes on me, witnessing my reaction to my choices and their consequences. Daily on our drive to school, Emma and I set goals. The other day I shared my goal “to not be so short tempered.”

“Mom, what does short tempered mean?”

“You know, how sometimes, when I respond to you, I am…well, I, …instead of being kind, I am sort of…”


“Yes. Grumpy.”


“Well, that is short tempered. Today, my goal is to not respond grumpy and instead to respond…”


“Yes. Kind. I need to respond instead with kindness.”

These are the moments I need to pause. Rewind. Replay. Then, repeat. Too often, my first reaction is not my best reaction. However, these are the moments I can model for her the strength it takes to pause. The strength in reflection. How to find the strength to keep moving forward.

Like other years, today, Courtney and I gave each other grace. Grace to take the day and our memory of it as we needed to. I read through my previous posts (Rose Colored Lenses and Learning to Play, Light in the Darkness, Angels We Have Heard, Doing What I Love) lost again in the number of years we have marked his Angel day.

Josh was special. His laugh, his smile, and the moments we shared made me who I am today. Our love for him cemented Courtney and my vows to care for one another. The brevity of his life, a harsh reminder that our time together is a gift.

This blog is my commitment to being honest about the journey I am on through each peak and valley. Don’t get me wrong, I love social media and can smile and nod with the best of them, but my goal for myself in continuing to write this for a public audience is to do so with no regrets and no excuses. In saying that, I monitor my voice the same way I do in a public setting, knowing what I say may be misinterpreted from my intended purpose.

I am currently in a year-long intensive graduate school program pursuing my Master of Educational Leadership. Our cohort dedicates time to discuss communication and the vital role it plays in successful leadership. Tonight, I think about all of the messages I send over the course of a school year as well as all the messages I have sent and received over the past ten years since our handsome man left our arms.

My hope is my messages are those of

humility and strength

kindness and grace

grief and hope

I do not get a redo button. Instead, I must make the most of each moment moving forward. Some days I am more successful than others. Every day is worth the effort.

The Quiet In-between

Today was Mom’s birthday. She never liked attention, but her birthday was the one day she would let us spoil her. I am aware each day with her was a gift. Tonight, I am overly aware it was the first birthday I haven’t been able to sing to her. The chorus of The Walin’ Jennys “Heaven When We’re Home” has been in my head most of the day “it’s a long and rugged road…it’s going to feel like heaven when we’re home.” Mom’s influence continues to impact me.

Mom loved music and I remember my childhood home being filled with music of all sorts. Now, as an adult, very rarely am I in silence. This year, Emma started kindergarten! Our drive to school is not measured in minutes or by the street blocks, but instead by songs. (It takes us exactly one round of Alicia Key’s “Girl on Fire” to go from our driveway to school.) I wish I could share these silly “mom moments” with Mom. There is not a day I do not think of her or wish I could call to share something with her.

I fill days with

to do lists and not to do lists.

Yet, it is in the quiet

in-between moments:

the two seconds of radio dead air following Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now,”

the pause between my bedside lamp being switched off and my mind going to sleep,

the pitch black stillness of a Montana November sky as snow falls on frozen ground.

These are moments I am both

comforted and heartbroken

by her life and now it’s absence.

A coworker commented “it seems like you were close with your mom.” To which I replied, “I was fortunate. Not everyone is as good of a friend with their mom as Emily and I were. She was an amazing person.” I am always unsure of how to truly express the impact Mom had on my life.

To me – she was grace.

When Josh passed, I filled the void with work and running. Running gave me something to talk about when that awkward moment came up and I could tell my loss made people uncomfortable after asking “how are you?” Running gave me something to “do” when I felt so hopeless and guilty for still being alive. With Mom’s passing, it has felt different. Although I know I am avoiding my emotions, I am more aware I am doing so. I have been attempting to fill the void with friendships, work, eating, grad school, alcohol, running, sleeping, lots and lots of sleeping. When I sit down to write I find myself too exhausted to express emotion and instead give up and sleep more.

In mid September, Courtney was in an ATV accident at work. He had two angels on his shoulders that day to be able to crawl away broken, but alive. The frantic drive to the ER, the sound of him walking on crutches down the hospital hallway, surgery prep, and the slowed sense of time during his surgery brought back so many memories. It reminded me of Josh’s surgery at six months and how scared we were for the unknown of what life would look like. I often feel it is these moments of uncertainty that solidify my faith in the goodness of people. Similar to Josh’s diagnosis and when Mom was placed on hospice, our community has supported us in ways we didn’t even realize we would need help. It is in these moments of crisis that I remember the ability people have to care for each other.

Courtney is strong and resilient. Watching his recovery process and his sheer determination to get better and stronger every day reminds me of Mom. Resiliency and stubbornness are closely related, but so too are determination and courage. Like Mom, Courtney commits himself to do what it takes to be successful and works harder than others are willing to do to achieve results. Courtney and Mom are the kind of people the rest of us lean on for strength and as a result, it is strange to be reminded they too are breakable.

I treasure so many moments I have been able to share with Mom. Although it is strange to not have her here, she continues to shape who I am today.

I miss her.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Continuing Grace

Last week, we gathered in the church my father grew up playing the organ for, my parents were married in, and where they contributed their voices to the choir for decades. It is the same church where 30 years later Courtney and I were married and Josh was baptized. We mourned the passing of both sets of grandparents from its pews.

Now, although five months after her passing and a full week after the service, it still seems surreal that we filled the pews (and two extra rows of chairs from the fireside room) to celebrate and say goodbye to my mother. She was larger than life; yet, did so in a way that so many did not notice her impact until it was gone. So many people commented that she was their first friend in Red Lodge or the one who “believed in them” when others turned away. I had the privilege of sharing the following at the service:

As Emily said, Mom loved life and each of us who were a part of hers. Thank you for being here today and for the role you played in Mom’s life.

Mom was humble and kind. She had the ability to make each of us feel like we were the only person in the world. No matter the situation, no matter what was happening in her life, she always took the time to visit and to truly listen. If asked how she was, she would redirect the conversation back to the person she was talking with by saying, “I am doing well, but, how are you?” So many of us here today consider Mom to be one of our closest friends. Part of this comes from her ability to make us each feel worthy and respected. She had faith that there is goodness in all things and always looked for the best in everyone.

The following quote reminds me of the way Mom chose to face each day:

Live by Faith

Grow in Grace

Walk in Love

Mom worked hard and taught us how to do the same. She never complained about the work – it simply was what it was – and it needed to be done. Many of my favorite childhood memories are from working alongside Mom: picking green beans at the farm or transplanting pansies in the greenhouse. I remember her waking us up extra early when spring snow fell to carry plants in before they froze or walking with her through the raspberries to shake off the heavy snow so the canes wouldn’t break.

Mom carried this same strong work ethic into all elements of her life. She never gave excuses or focused on her own challenges. She was private about her life and didn’t want her life to be dictated by a disease.

Mom showed me how to live an unselfish life by always putting others ahead of herself. Her grace and strength will forever shape the person I am. When Josh was diagnosed with Menkes Disease, I remember the doctor trying to prepare us for the road ahead by saying that “this will be hard. You will need to put your mommy and daddy armor on.” Mom guided me during the next year how to armor myself with faith, grace, and love to fully embrace every day we had with Josh. She understood on another level what the path would bring and helped me learn to be a resilient mother.

Mom loved being a grandma. Emma had fun climbing into her chair to read Blueberries for Sal or to sing her favorite campfire songs. It is strange for me to think Emma will not know her Grandma the same way I knew her, yet, Mom passed on to Emma her love of learning, gardening, and music. They are the same things she passed onto Emily and I years ago. As Maren Morris sings in the song we listened to during the slideshow:

“When there ain’t a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we’re facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don’t fall when the bones are good”

Mom built a rock solid foundation. She was the strongest woman I know, but when I told her that during her final month, she rolled her eyes at me. She gave us the gift of her friendship and modeled grace. We are better people because of her.

Mom asked for three pieces of music to be shared at her service: “Battle Hymn of the Republic” sung by a mens choir, Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” shared by her sisters, and “Colonel Bogey” performed by the Alte Kameraden brass band. This diversity of music and the fact that those who loved her fulfilled her wishes is a testimony to the love and life she shared with us.

One of my favorite poems is Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese.” For the past week her line “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” has been playing over and over in my thoughts. So many of us experience grief and loss. Too many experience them too early in life. Mom never shared her despair, although she had many moments of hardship. Instead, she let us share ours. As always, she was focused on our lives instead of hers.

As my cousin Eric shared “We’re all doing the best we can in a world where the lines are painted in shades of grey.” I have so much still to learn from my mom. I am broken as I think I will have to learn them with out her, but know she will continue to guide me as I search for grace.

The Helpers

Earlier this month I had the opportunity to participate in a professional development workshop offered by Jessica Minihan. The training was excellent from an educational standpoint as well from the viewpoint of a parent learning how to parent a spirited daughter. One of the takeaways that hit home for me was a reference she made to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood to making an intentional decision to “look for the helpers” in all things. Too often I am caught in the devastation and tragedy when I scroll through my news feeds. I need to remember in these tragic moments there are also people showing the best side of our human nature through their kindness and grace. I look at my tattoo daily and challenge myself to hold true to being “strong and courageous.”

A few weeks ago the clear mountain creek in my hometown rose to a flash-flooding muddy river that surged through town. Some homes and businesses were devastated as the water turned and flowed down the main and residential streets. The Red Cross, first responders, and neighboring communities all pitched in to sandbag, evacuate, feed, house, and begin removing the mud and rock left in the wake of the water.

The Carbon County Disaster Relief Fund shared the following video thanking “Drew McManus of Satsang for sharing his beautiful song ‘Think of You”, Videographer Schyler Allyn for producing this video, and many community members who shared images to help make this video possible.” Watching footage of the destruction of my hometown still seems unreal, but the strength and support of our community is evident.

My Aunt Lee, when interviewed for the local KTVQ news station, shared “We feel like we’re in a really good place in this country, and the world, to be in this small town where people care about each other.” She has shared numerous stories of the goodness of people who have shown up and helped out in whatever way they are able to do so. In these kinds of moments, even the somewhat smallest or simplistic acts of kindness are received as giant gestures.

I think back to our help flight to Denver and the months surrounding the day when Josh was diagnosed with Menkes Disease. Our community surrounded us and supported us emotionally, medically, and financially. We were walking through fog; yet, on the path, helpers met us where we were to help us continue moving forward. Years after his passing, we still have helpers. People still remember and understand even the simple act of saying Josh’s name or acknowledging his life is meaningful. These moments are like blue sky during a storm.

This summer I have the priviledge of being able to spend most of my time with Emma. Her five year old perspective is simple and pure. One moment she is happy and the next, one would assume the world, as she knows it, has ended. Although, I am thankful I have learned other coping skills than crying and stomping my feet, I have a lot to learn from her about focusing on the moments. In so many of the moments I share with Emma, I am reminded of memories with my mom. She loved summertime: gardening, camping, swimming, fishing, and spending time together. Her presence in my life has been so influential, there are moments I forget she is gone.

Helen Keller in Bereaved (1929), wrote “What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” Traveling down the now mud and rock stained streets of my hometown, reflecting on memories of Josh and Mom, Keller’s words bring me comfort. I am the person I am today as a result of each of the people who have helped me along the way.

Logging the Miles

2018 to 2022; yet, so much is still true

Josh would have turned eleven this March. Each year on Josh’s birthday, Courtney and I celebrate by remaining committed to spending the day together. Although I would have preferred a bit more sunshine, the rays we received as we floated the Yellowstone made me pause and give thanks for each shared moment.

Later that same week we celebrated Emma’s birthday. It was full of energy, family, and hot springs. It also brought the first family photo without Mom. Looking at my smile it reminds me of the first few photos after losing Josh and not feeling like smiling, yet knowing it was what others were expecting of me. To me grief feels like I am treading water, but the whole time being aware the current is moving me downstream.

To say the least, the last few months have been a bit jumbly. I only realized May was quickly approaching when I received a retail store email giving me the option to opt out of their Mother’s Day notifications. Out of habit, I swiped delete. As I sat with my choice, I realized, like all firsts for the next year, this will be a different Mother’s Day. She was an amazingly graceful mother. Every moment, truly, she was present and loving. When we transitioned Mom to hospice, I was able to be home almost the entire month of January thanks to FMLA leave and loving support from Courtney who picked up all parenting duties including explaining loss to Emma. He not only understood my need to be with Mom, but encouraged me to be in each moment.

I can count on a single hand the number of times I witnessed Mom being angry. I remember her always finding ways and words to carry her point without having to yell or shout. As a child (and as an adult), I knew when I had disappointed Mom, but she never made me feel like less of a person for the choices I made. She carried this same ability when teaching me about politics, education, and religion. I am trying to model this same tolerance when I am with Emma. Too often, I get upset with her for something trivial. Emma sees everything and soaks in the good with the bad not fully understanding one from the other. I am trying to be a better parent, but have a lot left to learn. It is in this learning that I find myself deeply grieving for the teacher we lost when Mom died.

During the final month we spent together, our days ran together. Our agenda revolving solely on Mom’s needs and being aware as we lost more of her each day. In December, Courtney and I registered for the Queen Bee Montana Marathon. My training calendar had me starting training in January, but I pushed it back because I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house fearful Mom would pass while I was running. It was the same anxiousness I had when I was home with Josh and I would run in circles around our neighborhood afraid I would be unable to get home in time. I remember a run when the CNA called to say I should come back. My friend Amy and I sprinted frantically through the alleyways in attempts to shorten the distance. I distinctly remember feeling selfish for leaving him and being angry at my inability to run faster.

The similarities between grief and running makes it an obvious analogy. There are some weeks I can manage the miles and others that the path seems too daunting. I shared with someone that my multitask ability is broken. Things that used to be manageable now seem too hard. Instead of dealing with it or working through my to do list, I go to sleep to avoid having to think. Reading back through my post about the day Josh died, Support for the Journey, I remember feeling detached from the moment. That it couldn’t be real. Somehow I would shake from my slumber to arrive in reality – he would still be sick, but I would be able to hold him. Now, almost three months after Mom passed, I replay our final hours with her and find myself shaking, but unable to wake. I miss her voice, her hugs, her.

A few weeks ago I simply gave up attempting to log my weekly training miles. I convinced myself that a break was what my body needed. Although taking a pause was not the best training option, it helped me realize the role running plays in my healing. I was asked recently “what do you do to relieve stress?” I responded that I run and I write about grief. For both of these to work I need to keep logging my miles.

I am thankful for my running friends who have become some of my closest friends. They have helped me process my grief and have pushed me to keep moving. On May 7th, the Northwest Parkinson’s Foundation hosts a “Move for Parkinson’s Run.” This weekend, we laced up and logged our miles wearing purple in tribute to Mom and the foundation that gave her hope and support for her journey.

Our lives are full of paths and trails. There are some we can train for and others we learn to navigate once we are placed upon them.

I never would have imagined my life path would include losing Josh before his second birthday.

I never would have been able to imagine the joy Courtney and I share walking the road as Emma’s parents.

I never would have imagined I would be left navigating the trails of motherhood without my mother.

For now, I will keep logging the miles: some solo, some with loved ones. I will keep listening to my body when it calls for rest. I will keep writing for Josh, for Mom, for me.

Thank you for logging these miles with me.

Here is to another day together.

Keep moving.

Learning to Float

It is a hard thing to watch a person you love slowly slip away. Mom gave us the gift of a final month to hold her hand, read to her, and share our appreciation for all she shared and sacrificed for us. Each day, we witnessed as Mom struggled and fought her failing body to remain with us. She passed away peacefully in her sleep early Wednesday morning. As the sun rose, it highlighted the crisp blue sky and our snow angles in her garden.

The same is true in dying as in grieving – there is no how to manual. The hospice chaplain, Jim, reminded us that death is different for each of us. No two people come in or go out of this world alike. There is no typical or right way to die and even though we know others who have passed before us, Mom’s path was her own. Emily referenced Heraclitus commenting “it is so true, you can ‘never step in the same river twice.’” It made me think of Mom’s lifelong love of water.

Water was always Mom’s playing field. She grew up in Michigan and swam in it’s mighty waters from a young age. She even raced for the swim team at the city pool. In the water, Mom was able to move freely in a weightless way that her hips didn’t permit when she was on ground. She moved through the water, whether it be in a lake, pool, or river, strong and confident in each stroke.

I don’t remember learning how to swim. It has always seemed like something I have know how to do. Mom and Dad instilled in Emily and I both a respect for and an ability to find joy in water. I remember summer swims at the city pool and having to wear life jackets when we played in the river at the farm. Mom could swim for hours and taught us how to float so if we were ever too tired to swim, we could rest while still staying in water. If there was water, most likely we were in it.

The hospice nurses showed us how to adjust mom’s pillows so her body had the fewest points of contact with the bed. They call this technique floating. Emily, Papa, and I worked together to comfort Mom and adjust her float every three hours to try to alleviate her pain. Her skin fragile and raw. Eventually, this changing of position was the only time we saw Mom’s eyes open. Although open, it seemed she was looking past us. When we needed pillows for this floating we used those Courtney and I had received when Josh was at Denver Children’s and Mom’s teddy bear, Emmawen, to float her arms. It gave us, and I think her, comfort to have these special items with her.

Twice a week Davida came to care for Mom’s hygiene needs. It is during these bed baths that I saw Mom look the most comfortable. The combination of warm water and massage allowing her body to once again float without ever leaving her hospital bed. Watching as her exhausted muscles relaxed reminded me of when we took Josh to swim therapy. He flexed his feet back and forth in the warm water without restriction. I remember feeling both joy and sorrow during these therapy sessions. Joy for the hope that he was also experiencing the joy of water. Sorrow realizing how many moments he was trapped by the limitations of his body. Water provided this same medium for Mom. I remember walking with Mom to see the ocean on our last trip to California. She worked so hard to be able to walk from the parking lot to the beach. Her smile shows pure joy.

This past summer Courtney, Emma and I took a camping trip to Canyon Ferry. As we got ready to leave the house, I helped Emma get dressed into her swimming suit for the trip. Court looked at me like I was crazy. I explained that this is what I thought all families did on road trips when the end destination involved water as it was always what my mom did with us. He understood when we pulled into the campground and within fifteen minutes, Emma and I were in the water.

In the quiet moments with Mom, we played audio recordings of my aunts singing including “Peace like a River in my Soul.” Emily read Mary Oliver’s Upstream and Ivan Doig’s English Creek. When we need something to keep our minds busy to distract our hearts, we turned to the jigsaw puzzles Lee and Bill provided. In one box we opened, we found small sandwich bags with the start of sorting from the last time Mom worked it. It made us smile to know she was helping. Fittingly each puzzle we completed had a water theme. We didn’t finish the ocean section of the last puzzle before she passed. We managed only to complete the beach and a few steps into the waves. This too seems fitting.

Emma asked Courtney the other morning on their drive to school how Grandma was going to get to heaven. He explained how her body would stay here, but her spirit would go. He said Emma thought about it a moment and then replied in all certainty, “so she will fly there.” Clearly, I am no expert on how our souls find their way, but a part of me hopes Mom swam away from this life strong, confident and knowing we would be ok for all the love, wisdom, and strength she shared with us.


The past three weeks we have visited with family and friends both in person and through calls, texts and FaceTime. We have read English Creek, scripture, poetry, Blueberries for Sal, and a Christmas Memory. These days have been, as my sister says, “gravy.”

Living in a small town provides a network unlike others I have known elsewhere. The love my mom has for others is evident in the support and care I have seen shared with her in the past month.

The EMTs and hospital staff didn’t need to ask our story, they knew it and us by name when we came in the door. The night shift nurses understanding as we slept on couches and in recliners offering us warmed blankets and their special stash of herbal tea. When we brought Mom home, the caravan of caregivers all hugged us tight. As we drove home, I wanted to ask to detour through downtown and up the pass so Mom could see her mountains realizing, but not wanting to accept this would be her last car ride through town.

We arrived home to a freshly plowed parking spot curtesy of our neighbor. Uncle Jim hauled wood so Dad could have a fire in the cookstove to make Mom’s bed cozy in the living room. The plug for the hospice bed intentionally placed in their living room floor years before for just this homecoming and the picture windows allowing Mom to look out at her garden.

Our hospice careteam has provided support and tools to keep Mom comfortable. Becky, Mom’s nurse, a lifetime friend. Her professional strength and personal touch providing comfort in this challenging time to navigate.

We have savored each moment we have had with Mom. Last Sunday, she sat in her wheelchair at the kitchen table and snuggled with Emma. Her smile and love sustaining us all. It was a day filled with the sounds of laughter and joy.

There are also the silent moments I know her mind is somewhere else. I have struggled not being able to fix what is going on. I want to rock her in my arms or crawl in bed next to her like I would do as a child. Her pain and dementia have restricted us to hand holding. The process of her body shutting down is natural, yet, I want to fight against it to keep her with me a little longer. I realize this is selfish love. She has taken such good care of us. I keep telling Mom we will take care of each other and she doesn’t have to be afraid. It is our turn to selflessly care for her.

Grief brings out the best and most tragic emotions in me. This time is personal, yet the nature of our community makes it public. I have caught myself being angry at those who are doing what they can to support us when they are not grieving the same way I am. I snap at folks instead of drawing them in closer as I feel more in control if I don’t let them see my weakness and hurting. For some reason feeling as I don’t let them in, none of this is real. I need to remember they too are losing my mom.

Sleeping on the hospital couch listening to monitors brought back memories from Denver Childrens. Not leaving in the night for fear of what would happen while I was out of the room. Thankful for daylight and a new day each morning. This stage of my life and my grief different than that time, yet, so much of the then impacts my ability to process the now.

Each morning, we open the curtains and watch the sunrise over the garden covered with snow. This summer it will be filled with iris, lilies, garlic, and daffodils. After a family friend read “As I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” Mom commented, “that is sort of like life.” Even in these final moments, Mom is still guiding us “continuous as the stars that shine.”

Strength and Fragility

Our lives are so fragile. Yet, through life we find strength and beauty in those who we love.

My mom is the strongest woman I know. She is stubborn and sassy and above all else lovingly selfless. When she and Emma are together, they are like two peas in a pod. Their smiles and giggles always make me smile.

The past few days, she has been in and out of consciousness. On Saturday, we didn’t think she would wake up. As my father, sister and I sit with her in the hospital, Mom continues to amaze me with her resiliency.

From an early age, Mom has endured significant pain. She didn’t learn to walk until 18 months and when she did she fussed so much that my Grandparents took her to the doctor. It was then that they learned she had hip dysplasia. Mom spent the next year and a half in a frog-leg cast and sling. When she needed to be more mobile, they used a baby buggy. Mom once told me she thinks her love of clouds came from this time in her life that she spent laying on her back staring at the sky. Anytime I hear Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides, Now I think of Mom. Now, as I watch her laying in a hospital bed, I am fighting the urge to tape clouds to the ceiling.

Mom has always prided herself on not letting a disease define her life. If someone tells her she can’t do something, she works even harder to accomplish it. When she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2005, she was told that movement would be her friend. She committed herself to building strength and when it was too cold to walk outside, she would walk loops around the main level of their home. We walked the Women’s Run together in 2015. I remember her smile as she beamed with pride as she crossed the finish line.

We do not know how many days we are given with those we love. Yesterday, Mom opened her eyes and smiled at us. Today, we have had moments with Mom. When I told her she is the strongest woman I know, she rolled her eyes at me. We have been talking about how quickly life can go. Emily shared the mantra of “live like today is your last day and treat people like you will live forever.”

Mom’s constant modeling of kindness has made so many of us better people. I am the mother, daughter, sister and woman I am today because of her guidance. I am thankful for every moment and smile she shares with us.

Rose Colored Lenses & Learning to Play

The other morning as Emma and I were driving to Red Lodge the sky was impressive: a deep, hazy pink layered with bursts of magenta clouds. I was so struck by its beauty, I sent a Marco Polo to Emily to try to capture and share the moment. This has been a hard year for so many and these moments of beauty feel few and far between. I have been recording these moments of goodness in my gratitude journal with Emily as my accountability partner. As siblings, we roll through most of our ups and downs together. I remember the day Josh was born. Emily made it from Portland to Seattle to Billings and to the hospital by midnight.

A few miles after my video message, it dawned on me that I was wearing Emma’s rose colored glasses. The day was actually quite gray. It made me wonder how many other moments I could have seen pink, but instead saw only gray. I am not ignorant to think when things get hard all I need to do is to borrow Emma’s glasses. However, there are times that seeing through her eyes brightens even the bleakest of skies. She starts each day with a courageous thirst for adventure.

Friday was Josh’s Angel day. Even though years have passed, it is a day filled with emotional flurries and a need for moments of stillness.

I remember

his laugh, his life, his light

His path, His pain, His peace

our love, our laughter, our loss

Man, I miss his smile.

On Friday morning, a group of friends met me to run on the icy roads of Laurel for a brisk 3 miler to the cemetery. The day reminded me of December 2012. As I drove I-90 from Billings to Laurel, my mind swiped through memories: testing, planning, announcing, a crash c-section, a hernia surgery, six months of innocence or ignorance, Court’s 30th, tests, more tests, an amazing pediatrician, a life flight, a diagnosis, Dad’s 60th, family adventures, a community of support, too little time, a snowstorm, a church filled with family and friends, standing together in the cemetery in below zero weather, but not wanting to go inside.

As we made our way through the familiar streets and up the hills, I didn’t have to explain myself or my emotions. The memories of training runs through those neighborhoods flooding my thoughts & causing my eyes to water. The wind chill then promptly freezing my tears to my face. Sarah had left evergreen boughs earlier that morning to place on his stone. It was a gray day, but there was beauty in the stillness of the snow, the company of friends, the vibrant red and orange plastic flowers on his grave sight and a ninja turtle – a testimony to the strength and endurance of the love of family.

Each year I set my only goal for this day to be gentle with myself and patient with those around me. It is for this reason that I take the day off of work. I shared with a coworker that it is simply a day I don’t want to have to be an adult. As I reflect on my rationalization, I realize processing grief is part of being an adult. Children understand loss on a different level.

Emma is in the stage where she understands everything in its literal interpretation. I am trying to be aware of how I phrase things. Often, I don’t notice I have used figurative language until I am trying to explain an idiom in four year old terms. During the Christmas stroll, Emma spotted a nativity scene in a shop window. We have been talking about Jesus and the meaning of Christmas so I asked her “who is that?” She looked at me as if I was asking a silly question and said, “Baby Josh. He is in heaven.” Later, sharing this story with a friend I said I didn’t want to correct Emma, but I knew one day I would need to. She suggested that often children learn without needing to be corrected. Too often, I express that Emma’s response is wrong as opposed to embracing her curiosity for learning.

Daily, Emma asks me “Will you play with me?”. She is fascinated by dolls, her toy kitchen, and all forms of water. When she watches shows, she watches videos of other kids playing. She is learning to play. I too need to learn to play. Too often my response is “in just a minute” or “as soon as I finish” instead of “sure.” Recently, she has been asking if she can have a sister. When I ask why, she says she wants someone to play with. I forget her understanding of siblings is not the same as what her father and I know of siblings. She will proudly share with anyone who asks that she has two brothers. I worry that at some point, an adult in all of their aged wisdom will correct her.

On Friday, I soaked in the sunshine and the stillness. Matthew West’s song “What if” running through my head:

“I wanna know I got no what ifs
I’m running till the road runs out
I’m lighting it up right here right now
No regrets, in the end
I wanna know I got no what ifs”

I have lots to learn when it comes to adulting. I need to stop trying to be right and instead learn to listen, play, and follow Emma’s courageous lead.