A white bucket, filled with baseballs. A crack of the bat, rounding of the bases. All of this happening with a bright blue Colorado sky in the background.

It was years ago, yet it seems like yesterday.

Memories came rushing back to my mind yesterday when my friend, Melissa, sent a short film called, “The Bucket,” to me via text. Just five minutes long, it captured a season of my life long since gone, but worth remembering.

When my children were young, they were homeschooled. We spent hours and hours at our local park, honing their hitting, bunting, grounding and base-running skills. My two sons and daughter cherished these outings.

“Just one more bucket,” they would say to their dad, over and over. Until one bucket became two, then three. Even if one more bucket meant practicing bunting, they were all in.

They loathed bunting.

My sons learned how to switch-hit with those buckets of balls. They learned how to pitch. Even my daughter full-on participated, relishing her tough girl exterior. Even I, though never one to be mistaken for an athlete, hit a ball or two and did my best at fielding groundballs and flies. Though I looked a spectacle, deep down I loved it, even the relentless teasing I endured.

As I watched the five-minute film, I wept. I could relate. And it took me back there, when things were simpler, when life still had forever written all over it.

The memories are so thick with potential and joy and hope.

When you are living them, the days seem endlessly long. As my supervisor likes to say, “The days are long, but the years are short.”

So very true.

I was knee-deep in teaching my kids, doing laundry, cleaning the house, cooking meals. I spent some days waiting for them to end, watching the clock until their bedtime which turned into me time. I would curl up with my Bible and my journal, outside on the patio, or in the bathtub with music and a glass of wine.

And I would give myself a pat on the back for making it through another day. Life was so hard.

Or was it?

Little did I know, those were the easy days, days when my three kids could be somewhat controlled and still adored their parents.

Eventually, days at the park ended. Even when the rest of the family would go, I had grown weary of things that were taking place away from the park. My marriage was crumbling and I was exhausted from the fight.

If I go back there, I can cling to regret like my kids clung to a fly ball. It has been a painstaking process to let go of it all and my lack of letting go is costly. It cost Jesus everything to release me from it. And it cost me everything to hold onto it.

“I will restore the years the locusts have eaten” is one of my favorite verses, one that I pray over myself often.

The wasted time, the regret, the sorrow, the grief. I know He can — and is — redeeming and restoring it all, in His time and for His purpose.

I am thankful for “The Bucket” and that I am able, but for a few moments, to bask in the glory that was. Days filled with splashes of sunshine, baseballs and bats, and one wonderful hit after another.

Days I would now give anything to go back and visit just one more time.

Can you grieve something you never had? Absolutely.

While grieving usually involves a loss, like a death or a relationship, it can also include sadness over something not attained.

One of my friends refers to this as mourning.

A while back, my husband, Ric, found out he didn’t get a job he had spent six grueling weeks preparing for. Five interviews, six long weeks, time he will never get back.

During this time, he applied for other jobs and had interviews with other companies. But when he was told by his would-be boss’s boss that Ric had his “endorsement,” we reasoned, falsely, that his last interview was just a formality — an in-person meeting to make sure Ric didn’t have an extra head or no teeth, one that would end with the shaking of hands and a signature on a dotted line.

Well, not so fast.

The last interview was much more than the shaking of hands, and it was beginning to look like a no such done deal.

We prayed for this job, even thanking God in advance for what He had already done. Being a prayer warrior, I solicited other like-minded friends to pray along with me, and we were off to the races. Why not this job? Why not His will? Why indeed.

What happens when you feel like something is a sure thing, but it doesn’t materialize? After all, by faith you quoted scripture, reminding God of who He is and what He said. Are those promises for everyone else but you?

You plead; you beg.

But the rejection email still lands in your inbox at 8 on a Tuesday night, right around the time your wife is at a prayer and healing night at church.

Me being me, I wanted to talk about it. Can you relate ladies?

The best way out is through, my mantra, echoed in my ears.

The next day I suggested this very thing, and I was met with familiar words: “I want to move on.”

“But I’m affected by this loss as well,” I say, “and want to grieve it as such.”

That’s when I am met with soul-crushing words: “It’s not a loss if you never had it.”

Really?

Then why do I feel a loss? Why do I feel sadness, the loss of hope?

Jesus knows why because He did, too. He felt loss when His friends fell asleep, when Lazarus died, when all but John deserted Him as He died on the cross.

And He knew the ending, He knew all of this would happen. Yet in his humanness, He still had strong emotions regarding these events.

If it’s not a loss, was the sadness I felt a lie? No. We can grieve something we hope for, something we truly believed would happen.

And it’s okay.

Years ago, when we first moved to our neighborhood, Stapleton Airport existed. We had lived in Boulder previously and when I told people we were moving to Denver, close to the airport, they scoffed, saying I would regret it due to all that airplane noise.

There has never been any of that. And if there has been, I haven’t noticed because I love seeing the planes come and go. In fact, just today my husband said they must be flying a different route because they were louder than normal. I smiled, knowing I was in the process of finishing this essay.

One early evening, when I still worked in Boulder, but we had moved to Denver, I was making my way home on I-70 and felt a little lost, like I was caught in-between two worlds. Then I looked up and saw airplanes, making their way to Stapleton. Something came over me and I felt peace and contentment. These feelings have remained with me ever since, when I see airplanes in the sky.

We didn’t live in Denver long before Denver International Airport was built. If Stapleton had been busy, DIA was an entirely different ballgame and would put Denver on the map, from a travel standpoint. According to Google, it’s the fourth busiest airport in the United States and the tenth busiest in the world. And growing.

Recently we moved a few miles from where we had lived. Our new home is even closer to DIA, a delight to me because I fly at least twice a month. From our front porch, we watch the planes make their way over the Rockies and, from our back, we see our babies returning home.

To me, the airplanes are like birds that leave the nest, then come back, then fly off again. A beautiful, constant revolving door of colors and sounds, artfully decorating the sky.

Not only do I have an attachment to airplanes, but I also have a love for aviation in general, as I worked for, and retired from, Frontier Airlines. My last role at Frontier included training ticket counter and gate agents and my favorite day of the two-week new employee training was on the job at DIA. It was a blast spending the day there, watching the new hires learn the ropes from seasoned peers. Just being there was a rush like nothing else.

Since 1991, the two Denver airports and the airplanes have been a staple in my daily life.

Until September 11, 2001, the day the planes stopped flying.

I remember the day vividly, as almost everyone does. I had three young kids and was a stay-at-home homeschooling mom. For whatever reason, I turned the tv on that morning before we started the day and was shocked to see what was evolving. None of us had any idea what was happening at the time, but after a few hours we had a good idea.

For me, watching two airplanes fly into buildings was traumatizing on a totally different level. Though I hadn’t started my career at Frontier Airlines yet, I took this personally. I think all Americans did.

At the time, I was part of a homeschool group at my church and we went on a field trip to a farm the day after 9/11. I remember gazing at the sky and realizing there were no planes up there. That’s when the impact of the tragedy finally hit me. I mentioned something about this to our group, and we all just stood at the farm, silently looking up. Most of us lived close to DIA so we had all grown accustomed to the busy activity in the sky.

It was devastating and eerie and profoundly sad.

Fast forward a few years…When I began my career at Frontier, I started out as a reservations agent. During our four-week training, Crystal, our trainer, told us a story to calm our fragile nerves when the tests we had to take became too much or we had to get on the phones for the first time and take a test call.

When we started to become unglued, she said, “Look up at sky. Are the planes still flying? Then all is good.”

In other words, we may not ace every test or perfect every phone call, but when mistakes happened, they would not affect the ability of the planes to stay in the sky. Thank goodness! This helped all of us keep perspective and I never forgot what she said.

In fact, when I became a trainer at Frontier, I said the same thing to my students, one in particular. Annie was the sweetest, most caring person and I knew she would make an excellent ticket counter/gate agent. But she struggled on the final test, failing it. I went to bat for her, talked to my manager, and she was allowed to graduate with everyone else.

I had learned that sometimes the people who struggle the most are the ones who care the most. In over fourteen years of training in three different industries, this theory still rings true.

On graduation day, after all the pomp and circumstance, I was sitting at my desk, finishing up on post-graduation tasks. Annie came in and said goodbye to me, then she headed out the door. Before she left, she stood in the doorway, tears in her eyes, and said, “I will look up. I will see the planes are still in the sky. Everything will be okay.”

I lost it. Even now, years later, I remember the look on her face, the resolve, the tears, and I remember exactly how it made me feel.

Back to 9/11. I was scheduled to take a trip of a lifetime to Greece a little over a week afterwards. Part of me was praying it would be canceled, but when it wasn’t, I struggled with whether I should go or not. I decided to go, as did my friend who was traveling with me.

We had a layover in New York for one night before traveling on to Athens. We got as close as we could to ground zero and then we were turned away. The smoke was thick and evil filled the air. Memorials were everywhere, with pictures of those who had died or who were missing. Hundreds of pictures.

It was the most somber of somber scenes. I will never forget it. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the grief, the oppression, I felt. I carried it with me to Greece and back, on flights that were as empty as I have ever seen them.

I will also never, ever forget the day the planes stopped flying.

These verses are some of the most well-known in the Bible, loved by many, loved by me. They demonstrate that the storm the apostles were in, the storms I am in, are louder than His voice, what He has already said will come to pass.

Jesus told them, “Let’s go over to the other side,” so they should have known everything was going to be alright. In the midst of the fear, they forgot what He had just said. They forgot His voice.

It's so easy for me to look at them and feel superior. Like, hello, guys, don't you realize who He is already?

But, there’s been times in my life when I have forgotten the sound of His voice, more often than I would like to admit. He has told me that He is going to do something for me, but when I become anxious, I forget. Like, for instance, when I am on an airplane and horrible turbulence happens, I don’t remember that He said He still has much for me to do in this life and that the plane is not going down today. Just like the apostles, I forget his voice when my terror takes over.

I hate to confess that the first thing I often do is panic, just like they did that day in the boat. But I don’t want to; my desire is to listen to Him. Does that count? I think so.

Honestly, I can relate to the apostles in this passage in every way. I have also said, “God, are you there? Do you care about the lost job or the lost relationship or my wayward children or my marriage woes or, (fill in the blank). Sometimes it seems like He doesn’t, like He is asleep in the boat and asleep at the wheel. He doesn’t care that I am going to drown, I lament.

Notice that Jesus didn’t speak to them. He spoke to the storm. Wow! I have a God who speaks to storms. Jesus knew who to go to, who to rebuke, so he tells the storm to stop, then he addresses his boys, asking them two questions he knows the answers to.

I cannot tell you how many times I have prayed, reminding God, “Even the wind and the waves obey You.” Countless times. Especially when I am on an airplane, or on a mountain road, or while driving in blinding rain or snow. Or when I've suffered loss or am walking alongside someone else who has.

After I've prayed, do I believe it? Do I gain peace? Do I really believe we are going to make it to the other side? Not always.

Just like Peter, when I take my eyes off of Jesus, I sink. I lose my footing. I panic.

I don’t want to respond like this anymore. I would like to be a little less human. Can you relate?

The Master of the waves, the Captain of the seas, is the One who knows my every thought before I think it. He knows the number of hairs on my head. The innermost cares of my heart. The same wind-ending, wave-calming God is still working and moving and willing to take me to the other side if I would allow.

Two days ago, I took a walk for the first time in what felt like ages (it’s probably only been a few days). Walking is my main form of exercise, and I’ve been relatively consistent with it this summer—really, all year because we didn’t get a winter in Denver.

​As I walked, the absence of something was clear: my beloved bright yellow Western Kingbirds. They show up in late spring, peppering the trees and the sky in our neighborhood with their beautiful song. I’ve lived in Colorado my entire life (practically) and never saw these birds until last summer, our first in our new home. Both sexes of the bird are bright yellow, and they have a very unique beak. They are incredible creatures.

​I fell in deep like with them last summer but fell in love with them this year. The feeling was not mutual. My walk took me past at least two nests where, daily, I was dive-bombed by protective parents. I would cower from the attacks, ducking as I went, yet loving the experience all the same. I admired their determination to protect their young, even though little old me posed no threat.

​Even birds that were not guarding their nests were everywhere, it seemed, chirping merrily and keeping me company on my way. I grew to adore this part of my day, as God speaks powerfully to me through His creation.

​One day, weeks ago, I walked by one of the nests where I had been dive-bombed and there were three perfect babies sitting on a branch just outside the nest, the same three who days before eagerly opened their tiny beaks for mom and dad to fill. Now here they were, getting ready to leave the nest, making me feel pride and happiness like I had been part of their story.

​Because I had.

​I prayed for them when the rain and hail and wind came, when the Fourth of July brought a barrage of noise and fire in the sky. I had willed them to survive. This is just what I do—I get very personally involved in His creation as I am one of its stewards. As such, I take my job seriously.

​When I walked by a second time that day, my three babies were gone, in the blink of an eye. And I was sad. Where before there had been much life, now was only an empty nest.

​I wanted to cry.

​I thought of my own three babies. The time had gone by just as fast.

A few work trips and a few short vacations ​took me away from Colorado for three weeks or so. And as I was taken away, so were the birds.

​They head south for the winter, like everything else, leaving their adoptive human parents bereft and devastated.

​​I hadn't had a chance to say good-bye; to tell them how much they'd brightened my days. There was no closure. ​They simply left, without allowing me the chance to bid them farewell.

​The metaphor of my life... so many had left without allowing ​farewells. My brother, my parents, my ex-husband, a best friend.

​I felt cheated, again.

​Until yesterday.

​During my walk two days ago, I had talked to God, asking Him to send me a kingbird, just one more time.

​Yesterday I woke up after a worse than normal night of sleep. ​After making a cup of coffee, I pulled up a barstool, talking to my husband about the day ahead.

​He pointed outside and said, “Isn’t that a kingbird on the hummingbird feeder?”

​I ran over and looked.

​It was. This time there was no holding back the tears.

Thank you, God, I whispered silently. Thank you.

Most, if not all, of us have something positive to say or to share about her: a favorite song, an endearing story, a quote she lived by. For me, it was her love of Jesus and the song she wrote that another iconic singer, Whitney Houston, made off-the-charts famous. 

It's funny how a nation and a world can mourn someone that most of us never met. How we can be brought together, no matter how different, and share songs, stories and tears. What an amazing gift grief can be.

A gift? Really?

As we grieve collectively for a legend, in the still of our hearts, many of us are grieving alone: for a mom, a daughter, an unborn baby, the loss of a marriage or a dream. Whatever the "it" is, we don't have the luxury of millions grieving alongside us. If blessed, we have a choice few. 

Even then, we bear our grief alone, in a very individual, sacred way. We alone had the relationship or the place or the thing. 

And now it's gone. It is love with nowhere to go. It is holy, this shattered thing we feel. It is ours and ours alone.

I was texting with a friend today who lost her beloved mom a few days ago. Separated by thousands of miles, her family grieves without her, leaving her to watch it all on a tiny screen. They are together, she is alone. It breaks her heart, it breaks mine.

Another friend is going through deep grief over multiple losses. She is way too young to have suffered so much. She feels others are able to articulate so well what they have gone through, are going through. But she can't. Not yet. Why are the words and the vulnerability not coming?

Why indeed?

Isn't this the ultimate grief question? Why? The unanswered questions, the what ifs?

For those that hope in the Lord the questions still arise, try as we might to stuff them down, down, down. If God works everything for good on my behalf, why is my daughter, my only child, dead? Why did both of my parents die within a year of each other? Why is Dolly, a beloved everything, gone at 80 years old?

If He loves me and desires my good, why did He allow this in my life, we ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

If God cannot fail, why do I feel as if He has failed me?

All valid questions. No easy answers.

As I have walked my journey of grief as well as walked alongside others during theirs, I have asked these questions more than once and I have felt great doubt. The soul-crushing, heartbreaking, body-aching doubt. And it's okay.

We may not hear this in our super-spiritual Christian circles. But that doesn't mean it's not true. What good does pretending do for anyone going through the dark night of the soul? We do ourselves a great disservice when we fail to be honest and authentic with each other.

I think the Creator and Redeemer of the universe is fine with our doubt. The Gospels are full of stories of 12 who walked side-by-side with Jesus yet were full of fear and doubt. And questions. Lots of them. They brought all of themselves to Him, all the brokenness and real-ness, and He made them whole. He can do the same with us.

What a beautiful thing!

Loss is a part of life. Indeed, it is all around us. In our world, in our hearts. 

All of us have lost something that has left us shattered. So, we grieve. In whatever way we can. There are no rules. There are no timetables. 

One of my favorite verses is "Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy" (Psalm 126:5 NIV). What a promise for all who have shed many tears. Joy will come. Maybe not today, or tomorrow or even next year, but eventually it will.

It may take time to find God again, or discover Him for the first time, in the midst of our pain. But He is always there, sitting with us in our sadness, waiting to be invited in.

​I thought I knew a lot about Douglas Alan Skelton, but it turns out I am wrong. His family and close friends, of course, had more up-front, close and personal experiences with him. But at Frontier Airlines, at least we were blessed to spend our entire work week with him. Indeed, it was not enough.

​Doug's three grown children eulogized him and did a fantastic job painting a picture, stroke by stroke, of just how great a father he was. As they spoke, I felt envious of what it was like growing up with a father like this, but ​also thinking I missed out, over the past 15 years or so, of not having more opportunities to see Doug in action on a personal level.

​His adult kids spoke about Doug telling them each day to go out "and love on somebody." My dad never told me anything like this.

​But it sounds just like my adoptive Daddy who said, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I've heard it said that, as believers, when we arrive in Heaven we will be asked two questions by God: 1) Did you love me? and 2) Did you love them?
​Doug did both, so very well.

At moments today, the grief was palpable, as it should be.

​But there were funny stories, too, about his ​love of disco music and one son "just wanting to go home" when Doug struck up long conversations with a grocery or gas station clerk. And his clear instruction to "get into a bit of trouble" to his kids when they were young. I would – and am – way too terrified to say something like this to my grown kids and granddaughters, but maybe fear didn’t lead in Doug’s life. And maybe he was on to something.

​On a more serious note, one of his best friends told a story about Doug's non-judgment of him when he confessed something very burdensome to Doug -- something he'd never told another soul. And Doug stayed (which sounds just like him).

​Though I had nothing on that grand a scale that I confessed to Doug (though I very well could have and perhaps he may have read between the lines), I confessed to him difficult things, epic ​Erin failures, running back to Customer Relations, tail between legs, feeling like a complete loser. But no one would ever know it by the way he treated me, and no one would ever hear it from his lips, not at work, anyway.

​It surprised me to hear today that Doug questioned if he had been the man he should have been, although it shouldn't have. He was humble and, like I said in my previous tribute to him, he would not want his life played back on the big screen for all to see.

​I have heard grief defined as "love with nowhere to go." Wow. This is so profound, honest and true. ​The love we all have for Doug is unique to only him. And he was, as I said on my way out of the funeral door today, "the real deal." Correction, he IS the real deal, for his life has really just begun.

​I was grateful to see many people from Frontier at Doug's Celebration of Life, all of whom I haven't seen in 10 to 15 years. ​Working at Frontier brought (mostly) good memories and (mostly) good people who I cared for and respected. Because of Doug, Customer Relations was a great place to work, even while doing the most difficult of all jobs. We rarely dealt with happy passengers, but once in a while we were empowered to move on behalf of desperate customers in desperate situations. I am forever grateful for that.

​While we are left with a void today, the love we had for Doug, the love with nowhere to go, will surely not be in vain. May it never be so!

​I, for one, want to adopt the Doug-ism of "go and love on somebody" as soon as possible. Not only that, but I also want to live out his example of actually doing it. I want the love that so worked in him, from God to others, to be the love that defines my life.

​May we all take a little extra time to ask questions and be present with complete strangers, to find out if our trash men like Gatorade and, if so, what their favorite flavor is, then stocking our fridges full of it for when they complete the thankless job of picking up our trash. 

​Doug left a legacy to all of us, even those who never knew him, for they can know him through those of us who did. It's up to us how that plays out and if we allow his love to truly have a home.

I hadn’t seen Doug in a very long time, but he was one of those people that leaves an indelible mark in a positive way. So many of the things I think about and how I view the world originated with Doug.

​What's uncanny is that just yesterday my husband, Ric, and I were talking about being a politician and having all our dirty laundry exposed. We wondered why anyone would ever choose that life. ​Without quoting my source, I said that none of us would want our life story to be on the big screen for the entire world to see. Especially me.

This is something that ​Doug said to me years ago. I don't remember what the context was, but it stuck, like so many other things he said. More than likely, I was sharing with him my enormous amount of regret about something in my life and he shared this nugget to mitigate my shame. I think I remember saying something like, “Yeah, right, Doug, your life is perfect, and nothing that you have done would cause you any shame.” Of course, he scoffed at that, and our conversation continued.

But his words comforted me to my core. I felt like if even he wouldn’t want his life re-played on a giant screen, perhaps there was hope for me.

​More than anything, it was not what Doug said, but his constant presence and steadiness as the Director of Customer Relations at Frontier Airlines. We all loved him. He was gentle, kind, used his words well and was very approachable.

​Shortly after I retired from the best employer I ever had, Doug retired as well and, a few months ago, I found pictures of the ​event on Facebook. I thought about him so much that day – I wish I had acted on that prompting because I believe it was from God. He was trying to tell me to reach out, knowing Doug’s time was short. I ignored the prompting.

​I worked for Frontier for over six years and both my happiest and most challenging work experiences were the three years I spent in Customer Relations. We had a great team, with many great bosses, and I loved them all. It was a fantastic job, but the most difficult, too. Dealing with angry passengers, day in and day out, took its toll.

​I left Customer Relations to go to the training department. Although I loved the training piece of the job, I was not accepted there. My introvert personality was not understood. Suffice it to say, my training department days became numbered, and I was given two weeks’ notice. At the time, I was a few months away from being able to retire with full flight benefits, something I had been eagerly anticipating and working toward.

I was desperate so I went to talk to Doug.

We went on a walk, and I filled him in regarding my not-so-ideal experience on the training team. He listened, then said, "When the train goes off the track, it’s nearly impossible for it to get back on it." It was obvious from what I told him that the training team track had most definitely derailed, with no hope of improving.

​He was wise and able to articulate a situation in just a few words, doing so in a way as to avoid heaping shame on a head that was already drowning in it.

He did all he could to help, hiring me back in the Customer Relations Department so I could do my time, then retire. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life because I knew that everyone realized that I had not been a “success” while on the training team, even though my lack of training ability was not the reason why. Doug allowed me to hold my head as high as I possibly could, never saying a word about how I managed to burn my bridges in both departments.

It wasn’t a mercenary mission on his part. I remember him looking me in the eye and saying, "Quite frankly, we need you."

​He redeemed a bad situation, in more than one way. And even had a small party for me, a few months later, when I retired, tearily leaving to go work for Oracle. I was a jumbled-up mess that day, but Doug understood and never told me to stop crying. He got people.

​Doug endured a lot with me, but he never said, "I've never managed anyone like you." Instead, he simply managed me – and a variety of other personalities – as all great managers do.

​Frontier was in its glory days when Doug was at the helm and, as such, was one of the main sponsors of my beloved Colorado Rockies. From time to time, Customer Relations and the EarlyReturns Departments were able to occupy the suite boxes at the ballpark, and it was never enough for me. I always wanted more. I was relentless in my pursuit of free opening day tickets and throwing out the first pitch at a Rockies game, after my co-worker, Scott, was selected. I never stopped asking Doug when it would be my turn.

​When I say relentless, I mean relentless. I begged and pleaded and pleaded and begged. He encouraged me to never stop asking, that maybe one day it would happen.
​One day never did.

​Though Doug could be serious when times required it, he was ever the prankster and loved to pull my leg because it was so easy to get me riled up. I love baseball. He knew it. And he would use the Colorado Rockies as a ploy more times than not in his merciless teasing of me.

And he also used Jack, my favorite Frontier tail animal, telling me that Jack had been their family pet and had died while in their care. I fell for it, hook line and sinker, and was in tears when Doug fessed up. Never mind that Jack was a snowshoe hare and would not have been anyone’s pet! Logic went out the door when it came to my precious Jack.

Seeking to get even with him, on April Fool's Day I pranked him back. After conspiring with my co-workers, who waited just outside his office door, I went in and told him I had some bad news: I was leaving Frontier and going to work for Southwest Airlines, our nemesis. Fighting words. I vividly remember the look on his face. He told me we needed to "talk about this," but I couldn't stand it one second more, bursting out in laughter, joined by three or four co-workers who giddily made their way into his office to join us. He laughed, knowing I had gotten him just as good, if not better, than he had gotten me.

I could go on and on about Doug. About his love of Chick-fil-A and how he taught all of us that saying, “my pleasure” was much more significant than saying a mere “you're welcome.” I have been saying it ever since. Or him being concerned about a co-worker and me during a bad snowstorm and going out to the parking lot to clean off blowing, icy snow from our cars.

Tears are flowing off and on today because his loss is huge. He loved Jesus more than anything and this was evident in all he did. More than physical loss, my tears are a result of just how good he was and how I desire to be even a fraction of that for the people in my life. To show up, to listen, and to say as few words as possible while still honoring them above all else. He exemplified this with grace, mercy and humor.

​Often when people die, we tend to sugar-coat how truly inspiring and amazing they were. We say how great they were when they really weren’t. ​There is no sugar-coating with Douglas Skelton. He was the real deal. No, really, he was.

Today I honor him with a hearty “My pleasure” and a trip to Chick-fil-A. Without a doubt, I will one day see him again. Until then, I will try to make him proud in the way I live my life, as I shepherd words the way he did.

For those who do not know, my brother, Scott, died 15 years ago. He was only 49 years old.  He was the middle child, two years older than me and three years younger than my oldest brother, Eric.

And he was larger than life.  At least in his growing up years.

I have written a great deal about him, our family and my mom and dad, especially since all three of them have now departed their Earthly home.  

I like to remember how Scott was in the early years, full of life and athletic prowess:  a phenomenal pitcher, a great dancer, a talented guitarist. He had a zest for life, but like all of us, he had his issues.  

My mom and dad spent a lifetime trying to get him healed. I'm unsure at how effective they were.  How effective is any parent when a child has his own will and is determined to exercise it?  I can only speak to my own ability to "control" my three adult children.  It isn't happening.  But even when they were younger, it was an uphill battle.

My parents fought that battle, one foot forward and two steps back, for decades. They would have fought it forever, had Scott lived.  I hated to watch it while he was alive but would give anything now to have a bird's eye view.  Why?  I think my parents would still be alive if Scott were.

That's because, before Scott died, they lived full, vibrant lives.  This is not to say those lives were drama-free.  Quite the contrary.  They fought about many things, namely my father's drinking and his inability to live up to my mom's standards.  But they were happy to the degree that any mismatched married couple could be.  And they made it work, somehow.

Dad was an avid race walker up to the time Scott died.  He was not happy if he didn't walk 8 to 10 miles a day.  And he didn't just walk:  he walked FAST.  He would never miss a walk, even when the weather was horrific.  On inclement days, he would walk inside, at the mall or the YMCA.  Sometimes mom would join him.

They continued to host many events at their home, including dinner parties, and had a large circle of friends.  Some they had met decades before when dad worked in Longmont, CO at the FAA center.  They made a point to get together with these couples on a monthly basis or so, even after dad retired, meeting somewhere halfway, like Northglenn.  Mom lived for anything social and would often give me a run down on each week, before it started.

"On Monday, we are going to dinner with Helen and Richard, we are going out dancing with Lola and Lee on Wednesday," she'd say.  Then she'd go through the rest of the week, telling me her vast plans.  She did more in one day than I usually did in a week.

They traveled, went out to eat often, spent time with their grandchildren, hosted dinner parties, lived life.  They were in their late seventies when Scott died; they still had so much life to live and were relatively healthy.

But the years before his death were not easy and the writing was on the wall, early on.  In fact, Scott always said he never expected to make it to fifty.  Prophetic words or self-fulfilling prophecy?  We will never know.  Mom and dad spent much time, energy and money trying to help Scott, paying for a condo for he and his third wife, sending him to bartending school (not the best choice for an addict) and allowing him to live with them.

At one point, Scott and mom actually moved in together, when mom had grown tired of her fights with my dad.  Crazy.  I had forgotten all about this until recently.  Funny how you remember things in pieces, when your psyche can process it.

I remember going to visit her at the apartment they shared, even after Scott had moved out.  I can't remember where he went or what happened to him.  Only that she was on her own for a while, then decided to go back to my father. The situation wasn't exactly picture-perfect right up to the minute he died.  There was much drama prior.

For a very long time I was angry with Scott and felt manipulated by him. It got to the point where there could no longer be a relationship, because it was one-sided. Whenever I got a phone call from him, I knew he wanted money or some other favor. Tough love eventually won the day, and social distancing became a thing before it became a thing.

I regret that.

When I found out Scott had died, I was devastated. Beyond words. I was in Philadelphia at the time and remember acting like a zombie for the rest of the day. I had to fly back to Colorado the following day, in deep grief, which is not a ton of fun on a packed flight when you cannot stop crying. The flight attendants were so kind and gracious. I will never forget how well they treated me and I learned empathy for others who had to travel under such circumstances.

Scott died in Nebraska and had been living with friends. I worked for Frontier Airlines, and they offered to ship his body back to Colorado for free. Again, I will never forget that act of mercy and I remember how much it meant to my mom.

My dad was in alcohol rehab when Scott died so we were unable to tell him about Scott's death until he was strong enough to bear it. As if that would ever be the case. It seemed like weeks but was more than likely just a few days. I won't forget his wailing anytime soon. No parent should ever have to mourn their own child. Most parents can think of nothing worse.

There was much blaming of each other in the days and weeks following Scott's death, on the part of my parents. There was no closure, no drawing closer. They say the death of a child either brings you closer together or further apart. My parents did the latter which was not surprising because they already stood on shaky ground. Years of trying to fix Scott had taken its toll. Their relationship had played second fiddle to trying to fix Scott. All relationships had. We were all in the same sinking ship. 

I had a lot of anger back then. Of course, it is one of the stages of grief, one of which I am intimately acquainted. I would like to say it was just the run-of-the mill anger everyone goes through, but it was more than that. It was also secondary anger due to the loss of my parents, the loss of my family, the dream of having the situation turn for the best. All of us wanted that, not just my parents. We all wanted the happily-ever-after, all's well that ends well celebration.

In the end, Eric and I simply could not be guests at that dinner party anymore. The food was spoiled and tainted, and we could no longer digest it. 

The Day conjures up many an emotion for so many of us.

When I had a mom, I often lamented the fact that we weren't the picture of closeness, that I often felt guilted into spending time with her, even after I became a mom. I remember cheerfully telling her, "Happy Mother's Day," and her saying thank you, rarely remembering to return the favor to me.

And it hurt. It made me angry.

How do I feel about it now? I have empathy for her, for she was a woman that could not tell her very own daughter Happy Mother's Day. In hindsight, I would understand and grant her grace and I would gladly spend just one more day with her. I would now know that her title alone, even with her flaws and imperfections, garnered respect. 

Yes, I would be different because I am different. I have the benefit of being on the other side of the situation. Hindsight.

Maybe, just maybe, I would understand, too, that I was not -- am not -- the easiest person to deal with. As a daughter, I was sometimes a pain in the butt. As a wife, mom, friend, I am flawed and am a work in progress, thanks to God.

Later on, after I became a mom, I felt blessed to have my own three, but the day was often a let-down for a variety of reasons, none of which I choose to identify at the moment. Or ever. Only my journal knows. Some of it had to do with how my husband felt about the whole mom thing, but some of it was because my expectations were too high. And perhaps still are.

I come by it all naturally, as my mother's own expectations were off the chart. My hapless dad, imperfect as he was, did his best to shower her with flowers and a lunch or dinner out, all the while thinking, and even saying, "You are not my mom."

Ouch.

We have heard all the opinions on having expectations and I will not belabor them here. Needless to say, I have not listened to said opinions that say it is best to not have expectations; therefore, you will never be disappointed. But I have many -- for others and for myself -- and this will more than likely never change. I desire growth for myself, as well as others, and I think this is healthy and normal and good.

My three adult children have their own lives, as it should be, and I am happy for them. One son has his own wife, our Lauren, who he loves and who I love. And she is an amazing mom now, too, to my precious Charlotte and amazing Amelia. She is worthy of honor and respect because HE is worthy and HE created her, uniquely and wonderfully. I am so blessed to have her in my life!

When I think of being a mom, I think of God's mercy and grace, lavished upon me, and I know I don't deserve it. Not in the true sense of the word for I am not a big fan of that word. There is no way that I deserve anything that I have, but that is the whole point of grace: unmerited favor.

Another thing that crosses my mind when I think of being a mother is that one day I will have to say goodbye to my beloved three, plus my granddaughters, and it is heartbreaking to me. I haven't talked much about this to anyone, only a select few. But I would bet that many a mom feels the same way as me.

There are a lot of different types of grief. One such type, for me, is the thought that death will come, and with it, a temporary separation from those who are my flesh and blood, the ones that came from my own body. My prayer, of course, is that I die before my kids so, of course, I will leave them.

I will be in the presence of my King, Jesus, and that will be glorious. At that moment, I will feel no loss and no pain, as that is what the Bible promises. For me, it's the time before that, when I know I am going to die, that causes me much angst. How sad will I be, seeing them for the last time, until we meet again? I have no idea, but it is something that I have thought about for years. 

The greatest of all sadness to me is that their lives will go on, and I will not be here to witness it. All the things I will miss. Selfishly, I want to be here for everything!

I realize that everyone who has ever lived has been in this situation. No one gets out of here alive, unless the rapture happens soon and I pray it does! Maybe I have a unique take on all of this. But maybe not. 

Maybe other parents feel the same way, but they are afraid to verbalize it. It doesn't feel good. At all. 

My hope and my prayer are either I die suddenly and have absolutely no time to think about any of this or I get complete and total peace when the time comes. I know that once I am in Heaven, all will be well because I will be in the presence of my Creator Redeemer, worshipping at His feet, and He has promised no more tears or pain.

What is the moral of this story, what is a mom to do that feels any of the feelings described? Try to be in the moment and enjoy the here and now. Love your kids, your grandkids, your spouse, your friends, your life. Love whoever God puts in your path.

Try your best to live a life with no regrets.

Happy Mother's Day!

 I have been thinking about the disco dance group that was known as “The Silver Steps” a lot lately. Who knows why? Maybe it’s because I finished writing a story about Sid, a member of the group, a week or so ago, after starting it three years prior.

Maybe it’s because I am writing a book about grief, about all different kinds, and even though Sid’s murder was a long time ago, the details are still fresh in my mind.

Or maybe it’s because, for a fleeting few months, my life felt like a scene out of Saturday Night Fever (I have been known to say that I lived out Saturday Night Fever). Not only did I love disco music when so many loathed it, I had all the clothing to go along with it. It was a crazy, dizzying, unique, fun time of my life.

Probably all three are factors in my renewed fascination with the dance group that played such a huge role in my early teenage years. Of course, Scott died nearly 15 years ago, and I found out recently that Greg Winchester passed away many years ago. Now all that is left is Sam Wells, Sid’s brother, and many memories.

I don’t remember who thought up the idea of having the group, but more than likely it was my brother, Scott. He had always loved music and dancing. My other brother, Eric, was the marketing genius around the group, that much I do remember.

The Silver Steps had a ton of fans, mostly swooning junior high and high school girls, but my dad was not one of them. Looking back, he was probably wise in his advice to tell Scott to not quit baseball his senior year of high school in order to pursue his dancing career. My brother was an incredibly talented pitcher who could throw extremely fast at an early age. As teenagers will do, he ignored said advice and pursued dancing. Why he couldn’t do both is beyond me, but maybe he was burned out after playing baseball since he was six. We will never know.

When I met Sid, Sam and Greg, the other members of the group, I was in ninth grade. The three guys, along with Scott, would use our spacious basement to practice and sometimes I would watch, sometimes participate. I was head-over-heels gaga for Sid and loved Sam and Greg, too. Talk about a teenage girl’s dream. I was fortunate to have many bonus brothers.

As I mentioned, Saturday Night Fever was all the rage, and The Silver Steps knew all of the dances in the movie. One particular night, More Than a Woman blasted from our basement speakers as Sid took me by the hand and led me, doing his best to replicate John Travolta and Karen Lynn Gorney’s dance from the movie. I was no Stephanie Mangano nor was he Tony Manero, but we did our best. I kept yelling at him, telling him that he needed to lead, but it never seemed to happen, as I ended up being jerked abruptly, here and there. Looking back maybe it was my issue, for even then I had a hard head and a strong personality. Maybe I refused to be led?

I was frustrated and showed it, until Greg took over, taking my hand as the two of us glided across the dance floor. It was a significant moment for me, as I found out that it wasn’t me because Greg led me just fine. Maybe my feelings for Sid got in the way of all sound judgment? Who knows. I was only 14. Knowing what I know now, that moments with Sid would be fleeting, perhaps I would have treated him kinder, gentler. These feelings always accompany grief and regret, don’t they?

Even with the faux pas dancing, I adored Sid and he knew it. He told Scott that the next year, once I got to high school, he wanted to date me. I have no idea why he would do such a stupid thing because Scott had rules about his friends and his sister. They were broken more than once, I am afraid.

I waited with giddy expectation for the start of tenth grade! But when I arrived in high school, Sid had moved on with someone else. It broke my heart. But I remained faithful to the group, being its number one fan.

The Silver Steps performed at school, at the Dicken’s Opera House and discos across Denver. They won prizes, just like in the movie, and it was the coolest thing to be able to attend competitions at places I would never have been allowed to go without being twenty-one or having a fake ID! It really was like being in Saturday Night Fever, without the curse words and sleezy sex scenes.

After I posted the story about Sid’s murder, I felt compelled to follow up with something positive, to describe a magical time in my life. I am afraid my words don’t do any of it justice. It had always been a mixed bag being Scott’s little sister because of his immense popularity and natural talent in so many areas. There were envy and jealousy, all the normal teenage angst stuff.

But it was sheer poetry to watch The Silver Steps and be allowed to swoon like the other girls, pointing at Scott and declaring, “That’s my brother!” I may be a bit biased, but he really was the best dancer in the group, followed by Greg. Scott defined the Silver Steps.

I have great memories of all the guys as Scott remained close to them throughout the years. He lost track of Sid more than anyone and sometimes I think that’s because Sid lost track of Sid, becoming a bit different when he started hanging with important people at The University of Colorado. Just my opinion, of course. I only know bits and pieces of the story.

But I knew him when. And those are the memories I hold in my heart. The songs, the dancing, the times spent in our basement with laughter and frustration and stepping on toes, both literally and figuratively.

And though I was far off from God when Sid died, struggling to cope, God was not far off from me. He carried me and sustained me, to this very day. The desperate sadness gave way to a gentle, nagging grief that comes and goes, as grief tends to do.

From the comments shared with me, I was definitely not alone in my grief over Sid. Judging from my memories, many of you had the sheer joy of relishing the rise of The Silver Steps as well.

For all of these things, I’m grateful. And I would do it all over again.

The ways in which we lose people are as varied as the things we lose. Car accidents, cancer, plane crashes, natural causes, COVID. The list is seemingly endless. I would venture a guess that almost none of you, however, have lost someone you care about because they were murdered.

I have, and can sum it up in one word: horrific.

I recently wrote about my brother, Scott, and his Disco dance group, The Silver Steps. Sid Wells, one of its four members, was murdered in Boulder, Colorado on August 1, 1983. He was 22 years old; I was almost 20. Like Sid, I was a journalism major, though we studied at different schools. I grew up with Sid. I loved him. He was like a brother to me; actually, he was much, much more. I loved him like THAT.

I don't remember how I heard he had been murdered, but I remember how it felt: like someone punched me in the gut. My mom and dad were out of town, even out of the country at the time, on one of their many vacations. It was just my two brothers and me alone at home. I remember phone calls; they seemed endless. Reporters calling, wanting to speak to Scott. I recall someone sitting in their car, for what seemed like an eternity, outside our house. I was grieving but felt prohibited to fully grieve. There were too many distractions; the hows, the whys, the whos.

If you Google Sid Wells right now, you will see story after story about him. Why? First, Boulder, Colorado wasn't exactly a crime mecca. I don't know how many homicides they have had, but not many, at least not up until that point. Second, Sid was dating Robert Redford's daughter, Shauna, at the time. Because of this, the case garnered widespread media attention.

Sid's roommate, Thayne Smika, was accused of the murder, but he fled and has never been found. Authorities believe he is somewhere outside of the United States. If you look at Smika's picture, you wonder, how in the world were these two friends? And what did they have in common? And why did he murder Sid, execution-style, in the condo they shared? There are a lot of rumors and speculation about that and I have my own opinion, but that is not the focus of this story.

This story is about the deep grief felt when one loses a loved one in a violent way like murder. Sid's brother, Sam, who was also like a brother to me, was the one that found his body. The Wells family had known tragedy before as Dick Wells, their father, was killed by a drunk driver in a car accident in 1981. We knew their entire family; they were OUR family.

I remember writing in my journal about the events; I felt overwhelmed and numb. I remember going to the funeral with my parents. Scott was an honorary pallbearer; he and Sid were not as close as they had been in high school. I remember the paparazzi who had no regard for the people there that were grief-stricken. I remember Robert Redford walking down the aisle to take his seat, just feet away from me. I remember so many things, yet much is a blur.

Besides writing in my journal, I have never written about Sid. I wish I still had my journals so I could dive in deeper regarding my emotions at the time. I know, even though many around me were grieving, I was alone in my grief. You see, my relationship with Sid was his and mine. No one else's. That being the case, no one knows what WE shared, how we felt. His death caused a depression I had never known up to that point or have known since then.

That is the way it always is with grief. It is a very personal, individual journey where only the person grieving can decide what is acceptable, what is okay. I know that it took me a very, very long time to get past the shock, terror, anger, and fear that I felt after Sid was killed. I was so young; only 20. I don't remember anyone telling me it was okay to feel what I felt or that everything, someday, would be okay; I don't remember even being free to speak about it.

Maybe that is why, at 62, I try to allow people to talk and grieve and just let it be what it is. It is through experience that we all, hopefully, learn. We oftentimes must go through something before we can meet people where they are.

I really wish this was not so.

Well, yes and no.

There are so many good things about Christmas time. It is a time to remember just exactly what the holiday is about, whether you choose to celebrate it or not. It is a time of giving, of coming together, of being with family and friends.  It is about Jesus coming close to humanity, God with us.

It's also a time of great sorrow for many, maybe because they do not realize the hope that Jesus brings. Or they are estranged from their family. Maybe they had a loved one die close to or on the holiday and all it does is bring back painful memories.

Recently I was thinking about how much my mom loved Christmas. I mean, she lived for it. She embraced the holiday for its true meaning but celebrated it as much more as well.

At some point in her later years, she decided she was going to learn to make chocolate and dove in like everything else she did in life: full steam ahead. I think she started with one or two varieties, then expanded into over a dozen, I believe. I am not sure if she took a class or was self-taught, but she was a master. When my brother and I cleaned out our parents' house after they had moved to assisted living, I found pounds and pounds of the chocolate discs required to make Christmas chocolate. It broke my heart.  So much potential, so much thrown away.  And I am not talking about the chocolate.

Mom also made other tempting treats, including pounds and pounds of Chex party mix (I still cannot duplicate it), gingerbread cookies and cut-out sugar cookies. Let's not forget her Nut cake that must have weighed in at two or three pounds, but a crowd pleaser all the same.

My mom knew how to make memories. I was telling my husband just the other day that she nearly perfected it. She would plan some special event during Christmas, and it usually involved going to downtown Denver to see the Nutcracker or the Rockettes or some other kind of wonderful adventure, complete with dinner before or after. It was her way of "treating the girls" and she included not only her daughter, but her daughters-in-law.

I try to be like her, in a small way, during the holidays. A few years ago, I took my daughter-in-love, Lauren, to a special Cirque de Soleil show at the Gaylord, and we had so much fun! I want to honor my mom by honoring the "girls" in my life as well.

Another tradition my mom had was setting up a plastic gumdrop tree with leaves made of red and green gumdrops. A few years ago, I bought the same tree as a way to honor her and it is a big hit with my son, James. I enjoy plucking a few leaves off the tree each day myself!

I was thinking today of how selfish I had been with my time where my mom was concerned. How I wish I had just one more day with her to go Christmas shopping or out to lunch or just whatever. There were so many times she asked me to visit, and I was too busy. Or I was angry and didn't want to deal with her. She was good at the guilt game, but I realize now she wanted to spend time with me, but didn't have the capacity to say, "I miss you.  Can we spend time together?"

Regardless, I miss her. I let anger rule my heart in too many ways for too long.

For me, while this IS the most wonderful time of the year, I also have moments of melancholy, not just because of mom, but other reasons as well. So, if you are struggling, I get it. I understand.

But there is hope, if you would but simply look to the manger.

Merry Christ-mas!

Annie, my mother-in-love, died four and a half months ago, on July 7, 7-7, which happened to be her favorite drink.  A few days ago, I asked Ric, her son and my husband, if he thought that was a sign from God, that she died on that date?  He said he didn't know.  And the truth is, we don't.

But I digress.

Annie was diagnosed in 2024 with triple negative breast cancer and said cancer metastasized to her lung (a fancy way of saying it spread).  A month or so after finding this out, she died.  I do not like to say passed away because there is nothing glorious or sacred about death and since I was the only one with her when she died, I know it was not a "passing" but a death.  Three long breaths in, then out, and Annie was no more.

But yet she is.  She lives on, in the memories of so many, in the songs she sang to us, in the giving that she gave.

Ric and I agonized on when we should go to Arizona and be with her.  At first she said, don't come yet, then she changed her mind.  So he flew down early on a Friday morning in June and I followed later that night.  We are blessed with the gift of inexpensive flights due to my years in the airline industry (sometimes it's a curse, but mostly a great thing).  

When Ric arrived, he felt Annie looked great, all things considered.  Her best friend had said the same.  I had to see it for myself, my doubting Thomasina rearing her ugly head.  In this moment, I related to Thomas the disciple more than I wanted to admit...

When I arrived, I had to concur.  Yes, she was hospital bed-bound and had lost weight, but I had seen people dying of cancer before and she did not resemble those people.  She looked, well, like Annie.  And she acted like Annie.

Before we all shuffled off to bed, I asked her to sing "Dream a Little Dream of Me" which was her signature song.  If she were a baseball player, it may have been her walk-up music, although I think I asked this question once on Facebook and she gave a different answer.  I did learn, interestingly enough, during my time at her bedside over the next week, that she loved softball and she gifted me her mitt, along with a ball as well.  This blew my mind.  All this to say, the thought of Annie and walk-up music was not that far-fetched.

Anyway, that night, with oxygen flowing through her nose to her body, she sang the main chorus of the song:

"Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.  And in your dreams, whatever they be.  Dream a little dream of me."

It was so meaningful and touching, and for once, I actually had the foresight to get it on video, knowing it may be the last time she sang to us.  It was.

Over the next several days, I had the opportunity to hang out with Annie and to take care of her, things I hadn't done much of during the 16 plus years I had known her.  She was always the one taking care of us, taking care of others, never letting us serve her.

At times, it was easy.  At times it was a battle.  Pushing and pulling, like trying to break a horse. She was 81 years old and had learned, I think, after a difficult upbringing, that she had to be this way:  strong, independent, fierce, stubborn.  I get it.  I resemble a lot of it.

I hope that, in my final days, I won't need help.  But I also pray that I will be humble and gracious and allow those who I took care of take care of me.  

Those last days with Annie were a gift.  They were not perfect or easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.  As Garrett's Popcorn has on its napkins, "Love is Messy." No truer words ever were spoken.  

I had the chance to serve her, like she had served us.  I doted on her, much to her chagrin.  She didn't like it much and let me know, at times.  One such instance caused me to run to our bedroom crying, which she never knew.  When I returned, she apologized for snapping at me.  It was a sacred moment.  

I sat at the kitchen table for days, on my work laptop, trying to get things done.  But a steady barrage of friends and neighbors stopped by, wanting to say good-bye.  Dutifully, I would retreat to our bedroom downstairs to give them time alone because I knew that was fitting and appropriate and I had my fair share of alone time with her that week.

I had the opportunity to thank her for all she did for us, told her we had great memories.  And she said that she never did that much and that "all of it wasn't that pretty."  And I agreed, telling her none of that mattered anymore.  Love is messy, remember?  Our relationship wasn't perfect.  She loved her son fiercely and I am the love of his life.  One friend told me, something like, "Her son is her number one and you are married to him.  There will always be issues."  Said friend also told me that caretakers always take the brunt of the abuse.  Both of these statements were spot-on and very appreciated.

Were the last days hard?  Yes.  Were they truly a blessing?  Yes.  We had a lot of talks and laughs and I made her a lot of 7 and 7s, all that went nearly untouched.  There truly is a first time for everything.

I miss Annie.  October 15 would have been her 82nd birthday.  Of course, we remembered her on this day.  We toasted her, just like we toasted her on that Monday afternoon when she slipped into eternity.  Just her and me, alone in a room, where I heard her breathe her last, along with the droning of the oxygen machine, no longer needed.

This week I find myself thinking that it is fine and dandy for me to grieve because I am not a Spring chicken anymore and I am able to handle it.  At least that is what I tell myself.  But what about me having to watch my kids grieve?  Well, this is an entirely different story.

A week ago today my son, his wife, and many friends had to face the unimaginable:  the sudden death of a friend they had known for years.  One day he was here, the next he was gone.  Of course, this is true of everyone who dies.  We just don't expect a vibrant 33 year old in the prime of life to collapse...and never wake up.  It's heartbreaking for everyone involved.  Especially parents.  His parents, his wife's parents.  All parents.

We do not want to see our kids experience pain.  But we also know that, there but for the grace of God go I.  We begin to wonder about mortality in general and the mortality of our kids specifically. That could have been MY son, MY daughter.  Then we thank God that it wasn't and feel just a tinge of guilt.

Death is never fun because death is our enemy.  We were never, ever supposed to experience it so all death is unwelcome.  It feels so foreign to us.  It is not our friend.  People who say that death is just a part of life are wrong.   It is completely contrary to the way things were supposed to be.

Sudden, unexplained, youthful death is even that much harder to bear.  Watching your kids, even though they are actually adults, walk through it is nearly unbearable.  You wish you could take it all on yourself and bear the full burden of it.

That's not reality, I know.  I only wish it were.

If it were not, my kids' father would not have died.  Neither would their uncle or their grandparents.  Or anyone else who is close to them or who will ever be close to them.

It's just not fair.  

I'm not the only one who thinks this.  I was chatting with another mom who feels the exact same way about this situation.  It totally stinks.

I have a deep faith in God and I know He has a purpose for everything.  Even so, I am asking why a lot.  That's okay.  I think God wants us to ask questions and I know he can handle anything that comes His way.

So what can any of us do when unexpected grief hits?  We can support those who are heartbroken:  show up for them and love them.  We can contemplate our own mortality.  

More than anything, we can get right with God and right with others.  And we can live every day like it's our last because it very well could be.

A little over a week ago I said goodbye to the home I grew up in.  

I became an adult there.  I raised three kids there.  I lived there longer than any other place I'd ever lived. Thirty-three years.  Over half of my life.  That is a really long time to stay in one place.

My husband, Ric and I, talked about moving so many times.  Seven years ago we actually sold the house, but the deal fell through on the buyer's end so we stayed.  But the desire to move never went away.  But it wasn't feasible to move, really, because I was never home long enough to get it on the market and begin the daunting task of clearing out a lifetime of memories and other stuff.

As if the memories could ever be cleared out completely.

In August I finally started a fully remote training job after praying for it for years.  That is when we began to get serious, once again, about selling our home.  We put it on the market and it was under contract in four days, at a time when most houses in our area were taking much longer to sell, if they sold at all.

We cleared hurdle after hurdle, against remarkable odds, and we closed on both our old home and our new one within a day of each other.  The entire process from start to finish took about five weeks.  I am still in awe of how quickly we got everything finished. 

Only God.

Selling and buying a house are the most stressful things I have ever done in my life.  I never want to do it again.  It's so expensive and time consuming and it's the worst kind of rollercoaster ride.  And that doesn't include the emotional part.  I never knew I could wake up in the middle of the night thinking about so many different things.  Even that was a first for me, a habitual middle-of-the-night waking overthinker.

Some people may not even consider the emotional factor.  Maybe they move like I overthink:  habitually.  But we are talking about me here. Emotions always can and will come into play. I am learning that that is okay.  More than okay, really.  It is good and healthy and appropriate. 

I wanted to have one last dinner in our home with my kids, but it never materialized.  Truthfully, I wanted it to be a mourning party for all of us.  I would have loved it if everyone felt the same way about it as me.  The truth is, rarely does anyone feel the same way as me on any given topic. My therapist is helping me to see that this is okay, too.

When my ex-husband and I moved to 4375 Ireland Street those 33 years ago, it felt like we were moving into a palace.  It was so big and fairly new and had so much potential.  We had dreams, like everyone does, of what we wanted it to become, who we wanted to become, while living there.  Dreams of a perfect yard filled with roses and several healthy children.  An enduring marriage. An Akita named Nero.  Hosting friends and making memories.

Some of our dreams were realized while so many others weren't.  And all of this was rolled up into one not so perfect round ball of emotion as I said my final goodbye, more than once, a little over a week ago.

I began to grieve in early October while Ric was on a business trip.  This was right after we put the house on the market, thinking it might stay there for weeks or maybe not sell at all. I would make my coffee and go sit in the room that served as a nursery for all three kids, watching the rising sun.  Later this room would be exclusively my daughter's while her two brothers slept in bunkbeds next door.  

Time gives so much perspective.

On those October mornings I thought of the countless hours I spent in that room, still painted pink, rocking three babies on so many sleepless nights.  I thought about how I couldn't wait for those early weeks to pass.  Now I wished just as hard that the weeks would slow down, come to a standstill.  I told God, "If I could hold each of them as babies just one more time."  I closed my eyes, willing it to happen, trying to remember the smell of them and how they felt in my arms.

I looked at the window and imagined the rocking chair where I would hold each baby, singing Jesus Loves Me and Rock A Bye Baby nearly every night.  Allie would get the bonus Alley Cat instrumental sang to her most nights (for obvious reasons). I remembered the crib against the wall that I reached down into hundreds of times to pick up crying babies in the middle of the night and smiling ones in the morning.  So many days and nights were spent in that room.  So many memories that I found myself fighting to hold onto.

For some reason, that was the room I lamented in the most in the past weeks.  Would've, could've, should've.  Sometimes it gets so old, the reruns that play over and over in my head.  The overthinking is over exhausting.  

During the last few days spent in our home most of the rooms were empty.  I visited each one as well as the backyard.  Thirty-three years holds so many memories.  Some great ones.  Some painful ones.  But all of which made me into the person I am today, for good or for worse.  Everywhere I looked, they came flooding back.

I thought about so many things, as I walked from one room to the next, taking pictures in case someday I forget what it looked like. I had a few meltdowns, the last one in Ric's arms on Sunday afternoon.  I grieved the loss like a trooper.  I held nothing back.  I gotta be me.

Many well-meaning people told me along this journey, when I would say I was sad, that I had much to look forward to.  A new home, a new chapter, new memories.  That, of course, is true.  But in order to move forward, one must look back.  At least this one.

It really is okay, I would think and sometimes say to said people, that I feel this way.  It really is okay to feel it all.  No, really, it is.  Embracing it all is fine.

And that's what I did.  That's what I will continue to do.  When I think about the house that built me.

There are many stages of grief.  Most of us are well aware of them, if we have been alive for a certain amount of time or if we have ever taken a Psychology 101 class.  Most of us, too, have probably lost someone meaningful along the way, if we have lived a certain number of years, and have naturally experienced the stages.

Many view grief in terms of someone dying which is probably the most common kind.  But there are so many others, some of which you may not have thought of.  All of them have one thing in common:  something has died and we will never get that something back.

Almost all of us have experienced loss of a romantic relationship.  I certainly have.  This is one of the main reasons I enjoy Taylor Swift's music so much:  I can relate to the heartbreak.  And there is none that stings in quite the same way as having loved and lost. Imagining life without that perfect person is unbearable and we feel we cannot get past it.  Until the next perfect person comes along, if we are blessed enough to find love again.

I have also lost many close family members and friends to death over the years, some in tragic ways, and it is just as agonizing, but in a different way.  The loss of someone, whether physically or emotionally, takes a toll.  Quite simply, the person is not in your life anymore, but a huge hole is.

The longer I live, the more types of grief I have heard about, if not experienced first-hand.

Just the other day I was texting with a friend when she shared about the profound loss she feels regarding her children.  All she ever wanted, she said, was to be a mother; it was her sense of purpose.  When her kids grew up and left, she lost her purpose.  Now she is grieving deeply.  If her purpose is gone, now what?  Her sense of purpose is lost, along with her children.  That's a double loss.  

Another friend's son had battled illness for years, then was healed, only to get cancer, and get healed again, only for the cancer to return.  Her faith was so strong, she just knew he would be healed, only to see him healed in Heaven instead of on Earth.  Her loss is made that much harder because her son and yours were once friends and are the same age.  Your son is still alive, but hers is gone.  She doesn't verbalize this, but it is there, below the surface, ready to bubble up at a moment's notice.  There's no words in situations like this; only a lot of hugs, prayers and shedding of tears.  I once heard a pastor who lost a son say that the greater the loss, the less words should be spoken.  So true.

What about the grief one feels when their son or daughter has been with his or her significant other for years, then they break up?  Another friend experienced this loss.  And kept experiencing it on a consistent basis when her Facebook memories popped up day after day.  We get attached to people, for better or worse, and then they're gone.

Then there's the grieving of a person or a relationship long before it actually ends.  A parent that dies of dementia or a marriage that is over long before the divorce papers are signed.  Been there, done that.  There is nothing worse than being divorced and grieving your ex-spouse.  It's the loneliest of lonely places to be, as my mother-in-law told me at the time.  No truer statement was ever spoken.

The list goes on and on:  the best friend that chooses sides after the divorce, the unexpected loss of a seemingly healthy spouse you intended to grow old with, the treasured pet that leaves the house and never returns.  The loss of the baby you wanted so desperately and the loss of the baby you didn't want.

All of the events you will never experience with parents who passed away at a young age:  the weddings, the birth of children, the phone calls you can never make or take again.  Lunch dates and shopping trips you'd give anything to experience just one more time.

Sometimes grief can be about things that are not relationship related:  the loss of a home, a car, a geographical region, a dream, growing old together until death do us part.  The loss of self, loss of freedom, loss of innocence.

Grief is indeed universal.  No one will escape it as long as there is an attachment of some sort, even though many try.

You can push it aside with alcohol or drugs, gambling or shopping.  Social media.  Other relationships.  But sooner or later, grief will get the upper hand.  It will demand your attention.

The key, I think, is to embrace it.  Either deal with it now or it comes back and bites you in the ass later, with more vengeance than it would have had if it just been dealt with to begin with.  This is my opinion, of course, but one that is shared by most therapists.  And Brene Brown.

I look at the ability to deal with grief as a gift.  Honestly, I do.  But my temperament is the rarest:  one percent of the population shares my personality.  This explains so much.  It's hard to feel things on such an extreme level, day in and day out, but I am learning to embrace it and understand it's how I was created.  Leaning in and sitting with my feelings is the best way I know how to get past things.  

A few years ago I attended a GriefShare group at my church.  I went mostly because I wanted to learn more from others about the grief process.  In the end, I found I needed it just as much as everyone else.  And I discovered, again, that no one does it quite the same.  

Some throw themselves into work or some other form of activity.  I did this while grieving the loss of both parents who died within a year of each other.  I was on an airplane, traveling to Louisville, Kentucky for work, the day my father died and I was back at work the day after my mother died.  I had grieved the loss of them for years, first because the toll my brother's death took on them and then the toll dementia took.  I was nearly cried out by the time they died.  In all honesty, part of me was relieved when death finally came.  I never again had to worry about a phone call regarding some sort of drama happening in their lives.  All the drama was over.

All this to say that, just when I think I know everything about grief, including every possible kind, I learn more.  I'm grateful for the opportunity to learn from others, to hear their stories and experiences.  Even though the practice is less than ideal, I will keep running toward the burning building, hopefully aiding in someone's rescue along the way.

My mom's not here. Yet she is.

This was my thought weeks ago, as I sat in my backyard, doing my Daily Trip with Jeff on the Calm App. It is a thought that comes, now and then. Not unique to me, I am sure. But still uniquely mine.

A lot of people who have been close to me have departed this life: my brother, my dad, my-ex husband, several friends. Yet no loss has been as profound as my mom. And it's so different than I thought it would be. Why?

Because we had the most complicated of relationships. Part of me thought I would be relieved when she died. And part of me was, just not the part I thought.

I thought I would be relieved because our relationship was such a struggle, especially in the years since my brother, Scott, died. Devastated by profound loss and grief, she needed to lash out and I was an easy target. I usually am. If anyone can piss people off, it is me. Just like she wasn't, I am not always easy to handle. She was complicated; the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

For most of my life, I saw my mom's flaws much more than I saw the good. Human nature, I know, but not the best part. The best part is seeing the good, or trying to, amidst the crap.  This is probably obvious to anyone who has had a loved one die:  you realize the crap matters a lot less after they die than when they were alive.  Or at least that's hopefully the case.  There is nothing worse than being angry with someone who is no longer around to yell at.  I have been in that position as well.  More than once.

A few years before she died, I woke up and started seeing her for who she was: perfectly flawed and imperfect, strong, a warrior of sorts. She did the best she could with what she was given. And most days, it truly was enough. I expected way more of her than I should have; she did the same with me. She was giving, she had a great laugh, she was fun to be with. She was the most hospitable person I have ever known.  I mean, when she threw a party, no one walked away disappointed.  

She would have done anything for me.

Not demonstrative usually, but sometimes she surprised me. When she had breast cancer, she needed six chemo treatments. I was there with her for four of them while my father made a beeline for the exit as soon as I arrived. I had to be the strong one. Did I want to be? Of course not. No daughter wants to sit by while her mom's body is pumped with chemicals that may or may not save her life. But what choice did I have? It was the right thing to do; she would have done the same for me, I have no doubt. Even though I was angry with my dad for acting cowardly, I should have thanked him because being there with her was a gift he gave us.  I would not have missed it for the world.

When mom beat the c word, I took her on a cruise to celebrate. We had a great time and because of her outgoingness, we made friends, some that I still have to this day.  I know she appreciated the trip, just like many others I took her on. But more than that, I know she appreciated me just being there with her during that trial in her life. I know this because she gave me a card, telling me so. That blew my mind because it was just so NOT her. But maybe it WAS her and I just couldn't see it, didn't want to.  I was so focused on all the struggles we had, it was hard for me to see any light, blinded by the perceived ever-present darkness.

I still have the card.

The strength I had to sit there, to be there, was strength I inherited from her, the woman who I spent so much of my life being angry with, wasting precious time and energy. So many of her great qualities, I inherited. And many of the not-so-great ones.

But she had many gifts I would never, ever come close to having. So many.

In the end, I appreciated those gifts, more and more. I told her as much. Every time I did, she would get this far off look in her eyes, like she didn't believe my words. She wore regret like a regal robe; not many wore it better.  Except for maybe me.  Sometimes she would shake her head, sometimes she would say no, that she wasn't a good mother. She never, ever smiled and accepted the compliment.  I know she never felt good enough, yet she would never admit that. Vulnerability wasn't her strong suit. The fact that she thought not much of herself explains why she acted the way she did. Often people with the biggest insecurities act like they have none.  I finally understand this.

My mom loved me. She gave me life. She was always there when it counted. And I know it wasn't always easy. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you don't have issues with them. That is the big lie we are told. Do you love them, no matter what? Yes. But you don't always like them. In fact, she used to always say to me, "Erin, I will always love you, but right now I don't like you so much."  The words stung when she said them, but I get it now.  I have probably even said the same words to my three kids at least once.

It didn't once enter my mind that maybe I was just a huge pain in the ass a lot of the time and could have made things easier for her, for us. But I didn't.  I dug my heels in, telling myself it was my right to be angry, mad, vindictive, a rotten teenager.  It wasn't.

Time is the great teacher, of course, and when we are nearly out of it, things start to make sense.  

So my mom isn't here, it's true. I wish it weren't. But what's also true is that every time I see a dove, like I did while I was meditating that day, she is here. Not in a physical, cosmic kind of a way. I don't buy into that. More in a spiritual, emotional sense. I know she's with God, finally at peace. She did her time here on earth, taking care of me and everyone else.  Now she gets to just be her, in the presence of God, finally good enough. 

She's here in a physical sense because she lives on in me, in her grandkids, in her soon-to-be great-grandchild.   All the kindness, love and hospitality she showed to so many. Lives were impacted because she lived.

None more so than mine.

Photo by Tanja Tepavac on Unsplash

And it feels not so great.

My mom passed away on a Sunday, in the early evening, on April 18, after a long illness. Correction:  she died.  I have always disliked the term "passed away."  I know why it's used; it's less offensive somehow.  But there is no way to sugar-coat death. It stinks.  Even though her death was expected, her final hours came suddenly, without warning.  I wasn't there to say good-bye, though I made every attempt to fly back from California.  Not being with her when she passed from this life to the next breaks my heart.  I also know I am not the only person this has ever happened to, especially in a COVID world. Thousands are alone with me in this circumstance.

I am still grieving her loss and am wise enough to know, to some degree, I always will.  But there is now more time between my tears falling or the occasional meltdown that comes out of the blue.  This very morning, a sun-filled Colorado Thursday, as I sat at a stoplight after making a Starbucks run, the finality hit me square in the face:  I will never see her again in this life.  I will never have to worry about visiting the despised nursing home, with its horrible sights and smells.  I don’t have to worry about leaving there, depressed, after seeing the shell that once was my mom.  I should feel relieved, I thought.  

At moments, I am.  I never again have to hold my breath, waiting for that phone call.  Yet the grief ebbs and flows, as grief is bound to do.  As one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, said, "But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don't ever get over the biggest losses in your life?"  Her answer is you don't.  She has a very valid, true point.  Time heals all wounds is a bunch of bunk.  Some, yes.  But not all.

Even if I wanted to get over the loss of my mom or try to briefly forget, the deluge of Mother's Day commercials on TV would not allow it.  Funny how I have never honed into them nearly as much as I do now.  Is it just me or are there about a zillion more this year?  Watching them is brutal, painful reality.

I complete a lot of online surveys in my spare time, to make a little extra cash or earn gift cards.  Lately there have been a few on the topic of Mother's Day, specifically asking what plans the survey taker has for the holiday this year.  Spending time, giving a gift, and sending flowers are some of the choices one can select.  Funny how some of them don't allow the option to choose "My mom is no longer alive" and I am in deep mourning because of it. Note to future survey writers:  include this as a potential choice from now on. Many of us are not blessed enough to have any kind of choice about how we want to spend the day, other than visit mom at the cemetery.  Or sit next to her urn of ashes.

I remember dreading many Mother's Days over the years, for different reasons. Sometimes it was because my first husband felt no obligation to ever acknowledge the day, stating in a matter-of-fact way that I was not his mother. Well, no duh. But I am the mother of your three children, I would say, exasperated. And for many years my children were too darn young to buy me a gift or take me to dinner. I recall my mom saying my father had similar attitudes, but you would have never known it. He made sure my mom received some sort of trinket, meal or both to commemorate the day. Back then, I sometimes allowed myself to spiral into the abyss more than once as the day drew near and I tried not to psyche myself up, thinking it could be better than it was the year before.  It seldom was.  Never because of my three children, mind you. They were usually the only (and the best) reason for me to look forward to the day.  If only they could have been my sole focus.

My relationship with my own mom also colored the way I viewed the day. As stated in other writings, we had a complicated relationship. My mom, in general, expected a lot and it was hard to measure up to her expectations. But I tried, I really did, oftentimes failing miserably. My kids probably feel the same way about me, at least now and then. But I am nothing if not acutely self-aware.  My mom?  Not so much.

She enjoyed being spoiled; she loved jewelry, flowers and going out to eat. Most years, I think I did a pretty good job of lavishing things on her, but, once I became a mom, the day belonged partially to me. This was not selfish, but a simple truth, one I am not sure she always understood. So, between the pressure to do the right thing and the fact that our relationship was not ever going to be featured in Hallmark commercials, the day was a struggle.

Hindsight, as we know, is always 100%. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Those three words ring as loudly in my ears today as anything else ever does. Now that I don't have a mom, I would love to feel guilty about not doing the right thing or feel bad that we didn't have the perfect relationship. I get to do neither. All I get is to feel the void that only a mom, even an imperfect one, can fill.

So this is my first Mother's Day, in 57 years, that I am without a mom. My oldest child is nearly 29 so it is also the first time in nearly three decades that the day will truly be mine, not to be shared with the one who gave me life. Even though it should feel like a victory, it is far from it.  It just feels like a gigantic loss, one of the greatest of my life.

If you still have a mom, try to be grateful, even if your relationship is less than perfect.  Try to treat her as if this is her last Mother’s Day with you.  For it very well could be. 

Just ask me.

I know.

I was going to see her soon.  As soon as I got back from California, it would be my priority, I told my husband, Ric, just a few days ago.

As we all know, sometimes tomorrow never comes, even when we have the best of intentions.

My mom up and died on me, yesterday, before I had a chance to fulfill my commitment.  She had been threatening to leave for years, creating the longest of long good-byes.  There was the time, over four years ago now, that she was given two weeks to live.  Then last November they said the same thing.  It got to the point where, when the experts said she was not long for this world, I didn't believe it.  There were so many false alarms.  

But not this time.  This time they were right when they called yesterday to tell me she had 24 to 48 hours to live. This time, however, they overestimated how long she had left. Less than six hours later, she was gone.  So, the woman who had cheated death multiple times, not only with the false alarms I just mentioned, but also beating cancer twice, had run out of lives.  Death, as it always does, won, at least temporarily.

I've written before about not just my mom's slow decline over the past ten years, but also my dad's.  Both were healthy and lived robust lives, mostly, until my brother, Scott, died.  Then the decline started. Neither of them could get over the tragic death of their beloved middle child, the one they fought so valiantly to save.  In the end, it killed them both, leaving collateral damage scattered along the way.

I don't blame my parents.  They did the best they could with what they had.

My mom lived an amazing life.  She mostly was a stay-at-home mom, but did work part-time, after we kids were self-sufficient, at the Longmont Board of Realtors in Longmont, Colorado.  She loved her job as she was about as social as a person can be.  It was a busy office and she thrived in that kind of environment.  I'm sure having an introvert daughter was perplexing to her and she oftentimes did not know how to handle me.

My parents were both from the south and were the ultimate host and hostess.  You had not lived until you were a guest at one of their shindigs.  Growing up, there were always dinner parties and plain old party parties at our house, whether it be in Oklahoma, New Jersey or Colorado. They had tons of friends and celebrated life in abundant fashion.  I stood in awe at just how good they were in the hospitality realm.  It was inspiring.  No one ever left their house hungry, thirsty or unsatisfied in any other way.  And I loved the leftovers.

At Christmas time, my mom lived in the kitchen.  Decades ago, she learned how to make chocolates and that she did, constantly, during the holidays.  She also made gingerbread men and cutout sugar cookies.  There were pounds and pounds of every kind of chocolate you could want.  "Get your plate and go downstairs and pick out what you want," she would say.  And we did.  There, in the basement, we would find container after container of mouth-watering goodness just waiting to be devoured. Oh, and I can't forget the two tons of party mix she made every holiday season. She was responsible for me gaining the Christmas five every year.

Whatever she wanted to accomplish, she did.  She was in her late 60s or early 70s when she decided she wanted to learn Italian.  Even though she was 100% Italian, she didn't grow up speaking the language, but was determined to do so.  So, she joined an Italian club and learned how to speak Italian.  She loved it and made so many friends, many of whom attended Scott's funeral.  She and dad even took a long-awaited trip to Italy when they were in their 70s.

She loved to travel, cook, eat and shop.  We were clearance rack, all day shoppers for years.  I'd pick her up and we would drive to Boulder or Aurora or Northglenn and spend the entire day shopping.  She taught me how to shop the sale racks, heading to the back of the store every time.  To this day, I only shop clearance racks. I looked forward to our monthly shopping sprees.  Of course, there were the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas sales, too, that we never missed.  We'd stop long enough only to eat lunch, always a treat that mom lavished on me.  I cherish those excursions; they were always so much fun.  I'd give anything to have just one more.

If my mom loved something, she was passionate about it.  There was no half-way with her:  it was either all or nothing.  I got that trait from her.  She was strong-willed, feisty, head-strong and, honestly, quite overbearing and difficult to deal with, at times.  Traits, also, that I inherited.  But she was giving, and she just had a way with people.  Everyone loved my mom.  She had lot of friends and made every celebration with every single one of them something to be celebrated.

She loved her grandchildren with reckless abandon.  In many ways, I think she loved them more than her kids because she was freer to just be herself, without all the baggage.  She relished the role and was just so natural at it.  I absolutely love how much she cherished my three kids.  

Like me, my mom loved to travel.  As an adult, I enjoyed several trips with her, including two cruises, a trip to Phoenix and a Vegas trip where I took her to see Tom Jones.  It seems there was always some kind of drama on these trips, not necessarily in a negative way.  My mom was nothing if not a bit dramatic.  She entertained us for years with her flair for it.

And so, it is apropos, I think, that she died like she lived.  Leaving us all in shock at just how fast she left us.  When we expected her to die, she never did.  Now that we didn't, she surprised us all and went.

When I heard the news, yesterday, that she had only 24 to 48 hours left to live, I didn't really believe it.  I was in California, for work (of course not home) and I went back and forth with myself, wondering if I should fly home or not.  I texted my kids and my brother, giving them the heads up, and they were able to visit her and say good-bye.  It was not in the cards for me, however.

Ric was with me for the weekend and was scheduled to fly home, on stand-by, last night.  I decided to go with him, unless I heard the news that she had passed before getting on the plane.  In dramatic, mom-like fashion, right before the ticket counter opened, she made her way from this world to the next.  I just had to laugh, a few hours later, while thinking about it.

From a spiritual standpoint, I know her days were numbered by God.  Scripture tells me so and I believe it.  She was not on this Earth one second more or less than she was destined to be.  But there sure were many times I felt like she was calling the shots in death as she had in life.  The way everything played out, it just all seemed so much like...her.

Though I didn't get to see her before she died, I was able to say my good-byes last November when death, again, was supposedly imminent.  I prayed she would be coherent, and she was.  It was the best visit I could have hoped for, where I said all I needed to say, and she responded.  Even though she had Alzheimer's, there was never a time I saw her that she didn't know who I was.  I am grateful for that.

I am also thankful that I was given the mom I had.  I couldn't always say this.  Our relationship was complicated, as many mother-daughter relationships are.  But she loved me, of that I am certain.  She did the very best that she could and, most of the time, it was enough.  I never lacked for food or shelter or clothes or attention.  Or love.

I'm broken-hearted at the loss of her, for sure.  But I'm more heartbroken that I lost out on many years with her due to many circumstances, all out of my control. I've been saying good-bye to her for nearly ten years which makes the final one not as difficult as it would be otherwise.

I've had years to grieve, to shed tears, to lament, to regret.

To honor her in the way she deserves, I am going to go forward in life, being the best mom, wife, friend, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, grandmother (some day) and co-worker I can be.  To cherish each moment, as best I can.  To be fully present.

I have huge shoes to fill.  My only hope is I can fill them in a way that is worthy of Mary Rose Kiker.  My mom.