Broken

It's been awhile. I haven't wanted to write. It's hard to explain.

A part of me feels so guilty for not moving on or letting go or getting over the grief. I still feel so stuck in denial and in a playback of emotions and feelings. I feel bad for not being a happy person at times that I probably should.

I can be so productive in a day and by that afternoon I'd rather hide away and sleep to push away emotion. Some days I just feel sad and I don't want to change it. Some days I feel guilt. Other days I feel angry. Either way, I feel like I'm trying to run from the feelings but they just keep catching up to me.

Driving down the road, on a Sunday about a week ago while listening to Sounds of Sunday I heard the song I used for part of the words at my dad's funeral. It's all about being broken and the growth that can come from that as a result of the Atonement of Christ.

But see, I've been angry a lot. I've literally pounded on walls, slammed doors, screamed into a pillow, and used MMA workouts to try and dispel that feeling. It still comes back, though not as consistently as it did before. I haven't connected much hope or healing to my dad's death yet.

When I heard that song over the radio, I listened again to those words and thought of Father's Day with my family. I was taken back remembering my family shedding tears over that broken earth used for the burial services. I thought of the sod pieced together but broken and struggling to connect all those pieces.

This is my heart and I know the hearts of my family; broken and struggling to put the pieces back together. Our tears that fell over my dad's grave that day and so many more that have fallen and are to fall, may over time contribute to the healing and connecting of that broken sod. So, while I don't feel the connection yet and I know that it won't ever be as it was before, hopefully there will be healing in time. Hopefully the broken hearts will find a new "normal" and mend the tattered pieces.

Hopefully I can learn to better take part in the healing and enabling powers of the Atonement and Resurrection, remembering they are there.

Denial and Grief

It's been over three weeks since the accident. My dad died in an accident while driving. We don't know why it happened. We are only sure that through the path his truck traveled that he more than likely wasn't conscious through the worst part of it.

A couple days after it happened, three weeks ago, I stopped at the scene on my way home from the accident. That was one of the hardest things I've ever done but I needed to be in the place he was last. Nathan and I sat down on the side of the road and cried together, we picked up some of his coins that were left there, sat in silence, and tried to wrap our minds around what happened.

I haven't driven by that exit since then. I have traveled through Downey where his truck was towed after the accident. I have traveled back and forth through there about six times and his truck was there every time. Most of the time I would stop for a few minutes and just think about my dad, how much he loved his truck, and how the tangled up metal couldn't possibly be his.

Today I drove to Blackfoot after about a week and a half. His truck was gone. It may have been harder to drive past and not see it there. Those things pull me out of denial for awhile, knowing that things will continue to change and life will still move on without him here. A part of me has been stuck back on Sunday, the night before the accident when we were all together as a family, and Monday afternoon when Nathan came home from work to tell me what happened. I haven't moved too far past that week of being together and ending with his funeral.

I know the answers that he is in a better place, he's no longer limited by pain, and he's looking down on us but the pain will still come. It will still sting when I think about life without him still physically here, not able to hear his voice, or hold his hand before I walk out the door, saying goodbye. There will still be nights that the tears fall heavily from my eyes, and days where I watch my mom hurt for her husband to be back holding her again.

Life together on this Earth is a blessed thing. It is a miracle to know all that was created and organized for us to be here together. But, it hurts to know we leave it not together the majority of the time. It is said we are apart only for a short time...yet for us left here it seems to feel much longer.

"Grief, I've learned is really just love. It's all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go."   -Jamie Anderson

Dad

My dad is gone from this Earth. I no longer have his tangible presence. The rest of his presence is hard to feel right now through the pain, the hurt, the anger, the sadness.

Writing is one of the only ways I feel like I can adequately express feelings so they are no longer stuck in my head. I still don't feel like I know how to write about my dad being gone. I still want him to come back.

My mom asked the kids to share some memories for the funeral. These are the ones I felt I could fit into five minutes. There are so many more and so many I wish we could still make. Until more can be made I will strive to remember all I can.

Memories

I put off compiling this until last night. I didn't know how or what to share. On Tuesday driving back here from Logan I prayed silently for a long time that my Heavenly Father would help me remember and recall the memories.

I just remember him being my dad. I remember hearing the story of him sitting watch outside my hospital door to ensure my mother and I were able to rest when finally getting to sleep after surgery to remove a tumor in my spinal column. He would NOT let the nurses come through that door when his girls were trying to rest. They had to go through him first!

I remember him reminding me constantly, "Daddy loves you." His long distance hugs over the phone which I got plenty of being the long distance kid for the last 10 years. Our phone conversations ended with these so very often that he would tell me to take my left hand and put it on my right shoulder, my right hand and put it on my left shoulder and squeeze. "That's daddy giving you a hug."

I remember every time I walked out the door of the house, his chair sits right by that front door, and he would almost always no matter if we hugged already, stick his hand out and grab mine to squeeze before leaving. I remember sitting on his lap, even with his 30 year old daughter, he'd pull me in tight with my head on his shoulder and tell me that he was proud of me, Nathan, and all three of our little ones.

My dad would give anything to anybody but some things were harder for him to part with, like his hat. He didn't let many people handle certain hats but once he had grandkids all his hats became fair game. I know Nathan and Kamden have a number of hats given to them from dad, including a nice brown cowboy hat to Kamden like the one sitting with my dad here today. My mouth hung open a little bit the day my dad handed that hat over to his grandson without hesitation.

I remember him telling me countless times as a teenager in his serious voice, "Don't you roll your eyes at me!" I remember watching the 5-8 minute train video called "Give it Your Best" that I have no idea where he found, every morning before school for months. We sighed every morning he'd pull us into his room, sit us on his bed and push play to that VHS. I think we all expected it to last for a week or so but instead it last for at least a month if not longer! Every morning! We sang "Love is Spoken Here" often in our house, but very begrudgingly, when my dad caught us fighting.

I remember strict curfews, guns being talked about when we went out on dates, and strict questions of approval to an incoming son-in-law. I remember seeing my sleeping babies on his lap, huge bear hugs, and kisses to those babies, and his face light up when they walked in the door. I remember him being scared to hold his brand new grandbabies, worrying about being so very gentle with those hands of his.

I remember his hands. In 2012 on my family blog I wrote about these hands.

"My dad is not a small man, and neither are his hands. Although, he does not have lengthy fingers or hands, they are solid and if you've ever met the man, you have probably met his strong handshake as well. He's not afraid to use those hands for all jobs, rough and tough. However, I know of many times he has used those hands to smooth back some hair from his daughters face or to cradle his grandchildren.

These hands, of my father's have not seen the likes of lotion too many times but we couldn't count how many times they have been covered in grease or dirt. The roughness in his hands tell of many trials, small and great that have been fought head on, while those small smooth spots tell of humility in times that he pulled himself up, always working harder and harder."

My dad taught me to Never give up. When I was thinking of what I felt portrayed the life of my dad, and what he would want me to remember, I thought of one of my favorite songs called, "Broken" by Kenneth Cope.

The song reads:

Broken clouds give rain
Broken soil grows grain
Broken bread feeds man for one more day

Broken storms yield light
The break of day heads night
Broken pride turns blindness into sight

Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts an offering
Could it be that God loves broken things..?

Broken chains set free
Broken swords bring peace
Broken walls make friends of you and me

To break the ranks of sin
To break the news of Him
To put on Christ til His name feels broken in

Broken souls in need of mending
Broken hearts an offering
I believe that God loves broken things

But, oh, our broken faith
Our broken promises
Sent love to the cross...

But still that broken flesh
That broken heart of His
Offers us such grace and mercy
Covers us with love undeserving

My broken soul that cries for mending
My broken heart an offering
I'm convinced that God loves broken me...

Praise His name, our God loves broken things.


My dad had plenty of "broken" moments in life. He was broken down and built back up a number of times but he never gave up. He learned to partake of a perfect Atonement from his Savior every day of his life and he used the brokenness to improve. No matter the challenges he didn't give in. He learned to hold strong and keep going.

This is my dad and so much more. He was mine and that is a tender mercy I was blessed with greatly. Thanks daddy. I look forward to the day I will sit on your lap again and feel you squeeze me tight. You always told me, "Daddy loves you."

I love you too.