Let’s Talk Football


So. Football. After growing up in a home saturated with baseball, where Opening Day was a school holiday, where I knew how to read a box score before I lost my front teeth, and where the summer soundtrack of hickory on leather and background play-calling underpin every last one of my childhood memories; my son now plays football.

Since he was a nearly 9-pound newborn, people have been asking when he was going to play football. I would smile and nod and change the subject. I wanted my son to be whatever he wanted to be— funny thing about those liberal-arts ideals—kids tend to believe you, and then you have to mean it. Turns out he wants to play football. When is he going to play football? The answer is now.

I suppose it was inevitable. He turned 14 at the end of August, when he reported for practice. The youngest freshman at the high school, he’s also the biggest kid to make the team. He didn’t know anything about football when he showed up, but the coach took one look at him and told Jon he could teach him football; he can’t teach a 14 year-old to be that tall or that big.


Dropping him off at his first practice, I worried and fussed and double checked and made sure he had enough water and he rolled his eyes and said he’d see me later. Three and a half hours later, I picked up a drenched, muddy, hot, sweaty, exhausted kid who fell into the car, suddenly glad for mom and her air conditioned car. He had never worked so hard in his life. He also said he was going back tomorrow.

Frankly, I was surprised. Jeff is a kind kid. He reads a lot. He’s imaginative and likes Legos still. He likes to cook and hang with his family. He’s thoughtful and empathetic. He’s spent his whole life being aware of Bean, disability, autism, and he remembers hard things in our lives. He remembers David more than Bean or Abby, and he was less shielded by age from the struggle and pain. I wasn’t sure how he’d like the physicality of football. I honestly thought he might decide it wasn’t for him. I was wrong.

Turns out, he’s really good at it.

The physicality, the channeled discipline, the teamwork, the camaraderie, the friendships, and the hard work, have all helped him grow in ways I never anticipated. I see a kid now taking pride in overcoming something that was hard for him. He was acknowledged by his coach and team for that hard work. It’s not just that either- he’s actually good at it. He’s strong. He’s focused. And he’s happy.


Bean ran to meet him at the locker room the other day. A crowd of giant young men in pads and practice jerseys were milling about near the doors, filling water bottles and sitting on their helmets. From the car, I watched Bean approach, and the boys called out to him “Hey! It’s Little Jeff!” “Hey man, high five!” “Little Jeff!” and Bean just beamed. He came back to the car with a smile lighting his face. “Mom, maybe I’ll play football too…”

It’s been a learning experience for me, and probably a necessary and good one, to step back and allow him to venture beyond the bonds of my comfort levels. It’s not about me. This is something foreign to which I will never belong—and that’s okay. He and Jon bond over football. He says he can hear Jon yelling at every game—he’s an…exuberant and enthusiastic football dad. Jeff introduces Jon as his dad; he tells people he has two dads. (It’s fun to just smile and let folks wonder.)  He calls his grandpa to talk about the game or a play he made. He knows David loved football, and Jon and David’s favorite team happens to have been the same one. Jeff has now adopted it as his team, and this is a domain in which I am not included, and where I really don’t desire a place.

There is tremendous joy in watching him create his own room in the world, and forge his own relationships. He’s using tools I helped him develop, but which are now manifest in in ways totally unique and beautifully tailored to him. He did that. I helped him with the raw materials, but this is what he’s making from those materials.

This part of parenting is awesome; no one really tells you how much fun it is to watch them become independent people you not only love, but people whom you genuinely admire. So anyway. Football. It’s not my native language, but I’m learning.




In Brazil, there is a word, saudades. It doesn’t translate well to English, but it’s easily understood by anyone with a heart that’s been touched by life. It means a “love that remains after” a state of melancholy or longing, tinged with nostalgia.

One of the reasons it was nearly impossible for me to write when we got home from our trip to California and Utah is because I was swimming in saudades. My summer with my own family in Yosemite was the best of my adult life, followed by the rest of the month in Utah, where we were catapulted from the deepest grief to ephemeral happiness, and back again. And again. And again.

I felt like a person too-long on the calliope- spinning and disoriented, and I needed to get off, to find my center again, and hear my own heartbeat.

In talking to a childhood grief counselor about helping my children deal with their feelings, the idea of an animal– a dog specifically– kept rising to the surface as a way to help the kids heal.

I’ve wanted a dog for about 13 years, 8 months and 11 days. Give or take. My last (and greatest) dog, Jack, died of cancer when Jeffrey was just a baby. I knew I couldn’t handle a dog and a newborn, and then life just snowballed. I also knew, in the decade of upheaval that followed, that a I could not have given a dog a decent life. So I waited.

But it was time. It wasn’t just for the kids’ hearts, either. Clearly.

I started searching in earnest. Previously, I had longingly browsed the rescue pages, but always turning away. This time I started filling out applications and sending out emails. Jon and I talked about getting another rescue dog- he’d had one before, and I had had two- and they were good dogs. But they also can come with problems, and given the five kids in the house, and Bean in particular, the more we thought, the more we wanted to start with a puppy.

And if we were getting a puppy, there is only one puppy in the world for me.


That’s me, before Jeffrey was born, with my puppy… an English Mastiff named Jack Straw. Jon saw that picture and said he knew. He knew exactly what kind of puppy we’d be getting. He was right.

I found a family in Ohio (that sounds far, but on the east coast, it’s really not) with a mama dog that had a litter of puppies. Not a pet store, not a professional breeder, certainly not a puppy mill. They invited us to their home, where we met the mama and the litter of puppies. The kids spent a long time playing with the babies and with the children in the family, before finally settling on the puppy who would be ours.


We’ve had him for about two months now, and he’s the light of the family. We love and adore this dog like you cannot even imagine. After the early weeks of being up all night with him, and finally getting him housebroken, he’s now a teething machine, chewing branches, balls of yarn, shoes, and anything he can get his (rapidly growing) paws on. Everyone loves him. But mostly…really… Bean loves him.

His morning routine is with Jeffrey, but he waits by the door in the afternoon for Bean to come home. Wiggling out of his skin with joy, he can barely wait to let Bean in the door, and Bean drops his trumpet (swapped it for the cello *sob*) and his backpack in the entry way and falls to the floor in joy while he and the puppy welcome each other back after the eternal school day.


Bean, the child who has a hard time with people hugging or touching him, allows the puppy to crawl all over him, hugging, pouncing and chasing each other. It’s a joy beyond measure to see him like this.


So we have a dog. His name is Tiberius. He’s healing our children, and he’s healing me. I didn’t even know how much I missed having a dog. Jon wasn’t sure about getting a giant breed—just in case you don’t know, an English Mastiff is a giant breed—but I think he’s been won over. In that earthy, solid way dogs can do, he’s slowed time down, brought absolutely limitless love, and is a balm on our hearts. Dogs really are magical creatures.


The Happy Part


The thick, creamy envelope lay heavy in the open mouth of the mailbox. “Office of the First Presidency” was etched in the upper left corner. My heart raced and my hand shook as I handed it to my husband Jon, still standing in the driveway, his coat and satchel dropped on his shoes, not all the way home from work. We had been waiting for weeks—months, years, eons, eternity—for this letter to arrive. Our hopeful future rested on what was in that envelope.

I had not been sealed to my first husband. My children were not born in the covenant, nor were they sealed at any time after. There is no easy way to convey the magnitude of this to someone not of our faith. When I got divorced, I assumed this was a door that had been closed to us, and I tucked those hopes away, pretty sure God loved us anyway. I never expected to be holding one of those thick, creamy envelopes with my future in it.

My husband’s hands were shaking as badly as mine, keys still laced in his fingers, as he tore the letter open. Four sentences. Simple, spare words on a rich white page, signed, by all three of the First Presidency. Clearance granted. We would become Us, and my children would be sealed. Four sentences…

We cried together right there in the driveway while life swirled around us, holding each other up in relief and joy. Forever.


Thirty days later, I stared at myself in the silver mirror in the beautifully luxurious Bride’s Room of the Brigham City Temple. My sisters-in-law had insisted I have a wedding dress, since I didn’t have one at our civil ceremony the year before. My mother-in-law had carefully laced me into a lovely white gown we had rented the day before, and left me to have a few moments to myself. I was suddenly glad they had encouraged me to be formal.

My children—our children soon—were upstairs, being entertained by their uncle while waiting to be brought in for the ceremony. I looked into the silver mirror again. My nose was dotted with sweat, and my dress was covered in the temple robes. I was glad we had prepared the kids and told them what to expect. I fussed with the bows before gathering my skirts and stepping out. In the hallway, several sisters were waiting on another ceremony and smiled warmly the way you smile at a bride.

With my skirts in hand, I smiled back at the happy faces. My stomach was fluttering and swirling, an odd cocktail of ridiculously happy, nervously scared, and abatedly grieving.

The week before, our family had experienced the devastating loss of my children’s father. We had offered the kids the option of putting off the ceremony, of waiting for a time before moving forward. Each of the kids, without hesitation, said they wanted to do it. In retrospect, I consider this one of the greatest gifts their father gave them—he gave them permission to love. He had conveyed his approval, and his support, and his acceptance of their step-father. They knew they could love both men to the detriment of neither, and in the beautiful way only children can, they accepted that gift without reservation. It’s really been an ongoing miracle.

In the second-floor foyer, Jon met me and took my hand. Our family and the small group of friends had moved into the sealing room, and we joined them upstairs.

Only twice in my life have I done a Sealing Ceremony. I had stayed away—it was too painful to do for someone else what I could not myself have. The only other time was in Nauvoo many years ago. It was one of those rare experiences transcending description; it left me spent and changed, but filled my lamp with oil for years and through many dark nights. One of the friends who knelt with me in Nauvoo was now sitting in the witness chair alongside Jon’s father.

Nothing can prepare you for walking into that room; like so many emotionally intense experiences, the details are veiled now—but the impression of faces glowing with love in every possible direction is strong and abiding. Jon and I knelt, and the words were uttered and the vows made with each other and with God, taking us beyond the veil. All five of the children were brought in; my youngest son had prepared a paper with the name of his dad, and placed it gently on the chair to the left of Jon. Tears spilled down my cheeks, suddenly uncontainable.

The three children who entered the world through me were gathered around the alter with Jon and me, our hands interlaced, and the sacred words uttered, as a gift. In that moment, the children moved from mine, to ours, not just in the world, but in the eyes of the God we love. Forever.


Afterwards, our celebration was small and quiet, but very real and very happy. Jon’s family gathered around and joyfully welcomed me and my children. The kids and their cousins ran and played in the grass and poked the rocks and eddies at the edges of the slow-moving creek, while the grownups ate tart lemon cake and chatted, keeping one eye on the creek while the late summer sun sunk in the sky.

There is a lot I don’t understand about faith—any faith, my own faith, this faith to which I belong—but what I do know is something greater than my own understanding took place that afternoon. I felt people and love nearby in a tangible way that, again, like so much of the spirit, defies description.

Forever. Forever. Forever.



Approaching the Happy

IMG_4539Jon has asked me when I’m going to get to writing the happy stuff. I want to. There’s a lot of Happy Stuff that happened, and is continuing to happen. But every time I sit down to try and write it all, I slam up against a wall of unexpected grief.

Don’t get me wrong—I have never second-guessed the decision to divorce David and move on with my life—not even once. It was the right thing then, and it remains the right thing in retrospect. What may be unique about my situation is that David and I remained real friends after our divorce. We never stopped caring for one another, and we continued to try and place the needs of the kids above all else. We talked frequently, as friends and as parents. When Jon entered my life, David welcomed him, too, and they worked together to get to know each other, and to support the kids. I took this as natural, but I am realizing it’s kind of rarified air.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to pick up the phone to call David and tell him about something Abby did, or about Jeffrey’s football game (he’s playing football, did I tell you that?) or about Bean forsaking the cello in favor of the trumpet. And then my hand stops, and I hold the phone. My faith is shaky on an afterlife- I wish this kind of faith was among my gifts, but it’s not. I have hope. I want it to be true. I have to put my faith in people I trust who have stronger believe than I do on this one.

Jon is one of those people. He suggested I talk to David as I used to, when I would pick up the phone. So when I’m in the car alone, I sometimes try. Without fail, as soon as I do, the tears start. This surprised me; I’m fine, really. Life is normal, things are stable and good. The kids are adjusting, and why on earth am I crying? But every time, I do.

I’m not wishing anything was different- other than him not dying. I do wish he hadn’t died. I’m not missing him as a wife misses a husband- not even a tiny bit. I am missing my friend. I am missing the chance, the hope, my kids had to get to know the man I knew. I am so sad that he’s gone. I am so sad that his life ended the way it did, and that there was so much sadness for so much of his life. I did wish for him to have a happier second half. I did hope for him to heal, and for him to meet someone, and for him to be a regular part of his kids’ lives. And with his death, I am left with sadness, for so much is lost.

I know enough to just go with this. I know enough that I have to allow things to unfold and relax on their own time and in their own way. I’m just sort of curiously observing this process and trying to let the waves roll over me, and to be there for my kids when a wave catches them. We’re doing okay.

I find myself thanking the hand of providence again for Jon, and for his vast love for us. It’s a special man who can move past the conventional and can securely see beyond both beauty and sorrow, to what is real. I have been blessed twice.

Emerald Hills and Western Skies

I wrote this back in May, after Jon and I visited his family in Utah for Memorial Day Weekend. Turns out it was kind of important to the decisions we had to make in the week following David’s death. It first appeared at By Common Consent.


For the dozen odd years since I joined the church, I’ve been sort of an outlier. All of my experiences with the organized church and with my church community have been through the lens of being an adult convert. Nothing about that is unique, of course— there are adult converts everywhere, and in probably every faith— but joining a church that revolves in a potent way around an idealized family makes those coming in poignantly aware of our shortcomings. (Yes yes yes, I know there is no such thing as a perfect Mormon family, and I know everyone wears their best faces on Sunday, and every family has problems and struggles and challenges. I get all that. But bear with me.)

When I first joined the church, I experienced church as a woman with a non-member husband. Then, I experienced church as a woman with a husband who had joined, but to whom she was not sealed. I experienced having three babies “not born in the covenant”. Only one of my children was blessed as a baby. I didn’t understand what that meant, until I was suddenly experiencing church as a divorced mother and two of my children were not listed on the records of the church anywhere. I experienced church as a single mother. I experienced church where I had to find someone to baptize my children, because there was no family to whom the responsibility could be given. I experienced church as a single woman dating, while juggling three children and full-time college. I had never sat in a sacrament meeting with pews of people related to me. I had been a member of the church for almost ten years before I heard someone give thanks for me over the pulpit, and I remember it stunningly, because only in that moment did I realize it was a first. I burst into tears.

There have been tremendous kindnesses and generosity along the way. I have experienced the very best my church community can offer in love and support. My children have been valued, wonderful friends have cared for us, and included us in their families and in their holidays. Loving friends walked with my children into the baptism font, and countless hands have tenderly and richly blessed us. I attended the temple with friends I count as family, and with whom I have shared profound spiritual experiences. It has been a rich and complex journey, and I wouldn’t trade the perspective and joy for anything.

Because of the lens through which I experienced church, I have been guilty of being cynical at times. It’s hard being a convert. It’s hard being in an unsealed marriage, hearing constantly about the pinnacle of Mormon life, temple marriage. It’s hard being divorced. It’s hard being all these complicated things, hearing constantly about the importance of family, and feeling like no matter what, you fall short. I have been, at times, critical of our myopic focus on one type of family. It’s particularly painful for children, for singles, for divorced people, and for the myriad of folks who, for one reason or another, who fall outside the idealized family structure.

The family I come from is wonderful. I enjoy close relationships with all my siblings and extended family, and while my parents do not understand my Mormon conversion, or my raising my children in the church, they love us tremendously. Because being Mormon is a large part of my identity, my family simply cannot relate to some of my life. The warp and weave of a Mormon life is understandably foreign to them. They do not understand our vernacular, our idiosyncrasies, our vocabulary, our shorthand, or our rhythms. The Mormon rhetoric of the family is even more alienating to families outside Mormonism- Imagine how parents who have spent decades loving and building their family would feel at some of our expressions. My mother is already worried about her grandchildren’s weddings- and I can’t blame her. In many ways, I have straddled two worlds. My children are also going to have to manage that tension. It’s made me, at times, raw and kind of prickly. I’m aware of my faults, probably never moreso than now.

This last weekend, I experienced something I had previously only seen with my nose pressed to the glass on the outside. I experienced belonging to a Mormon family.

My husband and I flew to Utah for a family baby blessing. It was a slingshot trip for us from the Metropolitan DC area to Salt Lake City, but it was important for him to be there for his sister. The weekend was happy and boisterous and full of the commotion and laughter found in any big family— my husband is one of seven children— it was lovely and welcoming and wonderful. But I want to focus on two experiences that tectonically shifted my sprit and my perception.

The first was early Sunday morning, Memorial Day weekend.

Out in the vast yard of the homestead near Cache Valley, one of my sisters-in-law was gathering fresh cut flowers into white buckets from the Aggie Creamery. There were mums and irises and hydrangea and wildflowers overflowing the buckets onto the kitchen counters, as they were sorted into bouquets. There were siblings and children and dogs bouncing around the enormous kitchen, and the air of a holiday. Some had already headed off to different cemeteries; siblings talked about who was going where, and what time to meet at the main family memorial. All of the dead would be visited this day.

I had never… This was an utterly foreign land to me. My family are cremated. My beloved grandma had her ashes scattered at sea, and the Golden Gate Bridge, where we stood on the day she left, is her memorial in my heart. I can count the funerals I have attended on two fingers.

Heading up Cache Valley towards Old Main, we pass the Logan Temple, where several of Jon’s siblings were married, and where we are considering our own sealing. We turn into the Logan City Cemetery, where there is a sea of flowers, peppered with laughing children, balloons, visiting family and more flowers. Fresh, vibrant flowers are everywhere. The cemetery is full of cars and families, and people are working on their loved ones headstones. We park the car, and Jon takes my hand and walks towards “our people”. At the family plot, I meet more family members, and there is an air of celebration with contemplation. There are children, and mothers nursing while sitting on familiar markers. The kids know the stories of the lives marked here; they are nearly as familiar as anyone living. I am suddenly choked up. Jon walks me around, introducing me to folks living and dead, and quietly shows me the swath of rich emerald grass close to the rest of the family that bears no marker. It’s for us, hopefully far in the future, but there it is, bright and shining in the May sunlight, overlooking Cache Valley on the northern end of the Wasatch Front. This is where I will someday lay. There is, literally, a place for me.

Tears constrict my throat; there is something deeply meaningful and comforting in this beautiful certainty. It was like finding something I didn’t know I was missing. Whatever shape life may take, whatever happens between now and…then… there is this place. And there are the stories that will be told, the flowers that will be brought, and the children that will go on laughing and playing above the beautiful green lawn and beneath the splendid May skies.

We rejoined the family and gathered our armfuls of flowers and went in search of the family members to whom they belonged. No one was forgotten.

And I understood a little bit more about what family means.

Later that afternoon, washed and spiffed and in our Sunday best, we entered a chapel in Brigham City. Half the congregation was family. Row after row of family— smiling, happy faces greeting each other, leaning over the pews and chatting quietly, happy to see one another, and warmly welcoming me, the newest spouse. I found my sister-in-law, and helped her tie the booties I had knitted on her son’s tiny wiggling feet. The baby would be held in his father’s tartan Plaid, dressed in a beautiful outfit his grandmother had made him, and in booties my hands had knit.

The service was no different than any Mormon Sunday in any chapel anywhere. When it was time to bless the baby, seven brothers and their fathers stood up, buttoned their jackets, and formed a circle. My breath again caught in my chest and my eyes stung. This baby, so precious, so loved— all babies are, or should be, of course— but the men who will mentor, care for and raise him up were literally holding this baby in a circle of love. It was a visible proclamation and manifestation of the child’s relationship to the world.

What a profound blessing. And it had nothing to do with the words (though they were beautiful) spoken of actual blessing by his earthly father.

And I understood yet a little bit more about what family means.

Several years ago, I wrote:

We talk about our congregations being our ward-families. I hang onto this, out of necessity. It’s mostly true. Sort of. But family isn’t supposed to all disappear when some lines are redrawn on a map- and when your ward is your only family, that’s exactly what happens. Imperfections, it seems, are the norm both inside and outside the church. And those Sundays when a lesson is particularly painful or difficult or handled ham-fistedly by a hopefully well-meaning person and hurts me or my children, I wonder which imperfections are harder, and if I chose the better part.

Then I remember where the light comes from, and why I can even make it… Here is where I found my long-sought answers, and there is no reasoning or rationale or hurt feelings that will change that fact.

I am keenly aware of the imperfectness, and the flaws inherent in systems—all systems, including the church— and of course I haven’t forgotten the tensions, issues and problems that accompany so much of that family focus. But for today, I am grateful for the additional facets given to my vision, the additional nuance that broadens my compassion not in only one direction, but in all ways and places.

I am grateful to these magnificent families— both of my earthly families, and the family of the church— for folding me and mine in, for showing us with their actions what they mean by love, and for the healing they are working on my hurt soul. I did choose the better part.

I think I am just starting to understand.

Looking Up

In retrospect, I’ve tried to accurately portray the events that visited our family this summer. My inability to write was something I hadn’t experienced before, and the extended silence speaks volumes. But life goes on, as it will.

I’m a little numb when trying to recall details, but what I do know is that we were deeply cared for. The kids and I were supported, and given room to just feel whatever we needed to feel. The love and grace granted to us is a credit to Jon and his entire family. Siblings stopped by with treats, I was joined on the porch and just sat with in silence more than once, and we bumbled through those hard hours somehow.

When I was younger, long before we got married, David sat with me. I had just been through a terribly painful experience—one of those where you imagine you won’t survive and you can’t remember how to breathe. He was present with me. He gently told me to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and it would be okay. He walked with me. He bore witness to my sorrow, and was just there. That time ended up being formative to my sense of self. I could live through things that hurt like hell, and that taking those steps, even when you don’t know where you will land, is vital to a meaningful life.

It was Jon’s family who walked with us on those first tender days, and I am certain David saw the poetic beauty, and was grateful with me.

One evening, Jon’s baby sister Mookie and her husband Dave came over—they have two young boys and a golden retriever, and are about the cutest family ever. Dave had been thinking of my kids, and wanted to give them something lighthearted and fun to focus on for a while. He’d spent the day fashioning a hydraulic rocket launcher from PVC piping and empty pop bottles. Setting up in Grandma and Grandpa’s driveway, the kids were excited to hook up the hose and the air compressor to his crazy contraption and blast water rockets out over the pasture. There was laughter and joy, and much searching for spent rockets, to refill and re-launch. I think a few landed on the roof…


Dave also builds mini-drones. He brought one his aircraft, fitted with a camera, and let the kids wear the visor so they could experience flying over the family land, see themselves from the air, and buzz grandpa’s flagpole. Grandma and grandpa joined us outside, while the chickens hid from the chaos, and the sheep named Maverick was baffled by the plastic pop bottles that kept dropping from the sky.

My children were looking up, and they were smiling.

Had you sampled the tears on my cheeks, you’d have found a kalidescope—grief, gratitude, laughter, and relief that life would, in fact, go on. We are in the very best hands, in every direction… including up.

(Bean now, and probably forever after, calls Dave Uncle Rocket.)



Jon and his father with Jeffrey under the Northern Utah sky on July 24, 2015

A few weeks before David died, he and I were on the phone talking about summer plans. He knew we would be out west, but since he was planning on visiting us this fall, he said he’d just wait to see the kids in October.

I had called him with some good news- Jon and I had just received our clearance to be sealed. We’d been anxiously awaiting the letter; the process had been drawn out and challenging, and when it came, we both dissolved into tears of relief and joy.

(For those unfamiliar with Mormon ceremony, while we had already been civilly married for more than a year, our marriage was only “till death do you part”, and not given the church blessing to be binding beyond death. In practical law, it means nothing, but spiritually, it matters to Mormons. The letter meant that the top three leaders of the church had considered our request, and agreed that our marriage could be sealed in the temple, and that my children could be ritually adopted into Jon’s family, in a sealing believed to transcend death. It’s a big deal to Mormon families, and is why so many Mormons want their kids to get married in the temple.)

David fully understood the importance of sealing, and he enthusiastically encouraged me to seek the clearance. He liked Jon, and he was so grateful for the stability and family the kids would have with him- and said so openly. He told me he wanted the kids to have what he couldn’t provide, and he knew their sealing didn’t in any way effect his relationship as their father. It simply meant more people who would love and support them. His generous heart made my calling him with the good news a joyful occasion.

While we were on the phone, he asked how to give his permission for the sealings to take place. The temple had sent me a form for him to sign, and he asked me to email it to him immediately- I did, and while we were still talking, he printed it. Twenty-four hours later, it was on my doorstep. I had suggested he just mail it to Jon’s family in Utah, where were going to be, but he said he wanted it to be in my hands.

Thank God for his kindness and generosity.

Thank God for both of our willingness to forgive, and to put our kids first. Neither of us had any idea how short the time remaining was; I have never been so grateful for our decision to take the high road with each other, no matter how hard it was.

So when I got the call in the pre-dawn of July 24th, David had done everything in his power to provide for his children in the only way he could- he gave his blessing for them to be adopted in and loved by Jon’s entire family. Jon’s family encircled us, and loved us and held us up during those dark hours and days following that morning.

Amid the devastating loss, we were also left with awe-inspiring hope. We had not just my family, but a whole new family who was holding us tightly, and who had embraced us with loving, willing and open arms. And my children knew they could accept this love, this family, with their father’s blessing, and without reservation. The ultimate gift.