Another journal excerpt--the day my dad died

Monday, February 02, 2004
Today is an anniversary of sorts. Three years ago today (which would have been Feb. 2, 2001) I put Shannon on a plane to China to bring home our daughter Marlee from her orphanage. That was at 5:30 AM. Seventeen hours later (about 10:45 that night) my brother Tom called to tell me that had died.

That was a long hard night for me. It was a Friday, so I was working the basketball game at Ki-Be. Eric (who was 10) spent the night at Jacob Ball's house. After I got off the phone with Tom, I said a prayer for Dad, asking Heavenly Father to bless his spirit, commending his soul back into the loving arms of the Lord. I prayed for comfort and peace to be upon Mom and my brothers and sisters. I prayed for strength to be able to deal with the challenges that I knew were ahead of me--funeral and burial preparations, dealing with my family, and helping Eric deal with the loss. Fortunately, I'd been up late the night before helping Shannon get ready for her trip; I only got about 3 hours of sleep that night, had taken Shannon to the airport, taught all day, and worked the games that night. I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

After my prayers, I went to bed, so tired that I was almost incoherent. Dad had only been dead a couple of hours. I remember thinking that, as a kid, I always drew comfort from knowing that Mom and Dad were asleep in their room, and if I needed anything all I had to do was call. Even after I left home, went to college, got married and started my own family, one of the last thoughts that tucked me in each night was the knowledge that Mom and Dad were still there, within my reach if I needed them. Now this was the first time in my life when I'd gone to bed without the security of knowing that my dad was alive. And I also knew that every night for the rest of my life, I'd sleep with that sense of loss. As I slept that night, I dreamed of a family reunion in Heaven.

I got up early the next day and sent Shannon a quick e-mail telling her about my dad. Then I drove to the Balls' to pick up Eric. When we got home, I broke the news to him. He was crushed. He sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed an eternity. I tried to reason with him, to help him understand that Grandpa was with his mom and dad now, that he wasn't in pain any more. I bore my testimony to him that I knew with ever fiber of my existence that we will see my dad again when we are all resurrected. But he was 10 and missed his grandpa.

Eric still doesn't deal with death very well. His reaction is the same no matter who the deceased is; he reacts the same way if it's his grandpa, our next-door neighbor Mr. McMakin, KC the Dog, his hamster, or his fish. He's such a sensitive kid. He has always cared more about others' feeling than his own--at least he did until he turned 13. Hormones having a way of taking a perfectly good kid and turning him into a freak--aka a teenager! But I always try to remember that hormones can't touch his heart and his spirit. I know my son's heart, and it's a good one.

Anyway, back to the day after my dad died......I asked Eric if he wanted to come to Prosser with me. I told him I needed to go with Grandma, Aunt Sue, and Uncle Tom to the funeral home to meet with the mortician and plan the funeral. If he went, he could stay at Tom's with Kathy and the kids. He said he didn't want to go, choosing to go to Shannon's parents instead.

We drove the few blocks to the Goodeys'. When we got there, I told them the news. Eric cried again and Helen did her best to comfort him. Watching him in her arms, it struck me that if ever a little boy needed his mom, this one did. But his mom was half a world away doing something that only she could do--bring our daughter home. After Eric calmed down we had a short visit--I'm sure Helen made us breakfast--I gave Eric a hug and prepared to head to Prosser.

I swung by the house to pick some things up and remembered that I was supposed to work the basketball game at Ki-Be that night also. I called my principal, Mark Muxen, to tell him what had happened and to let him know that I was taking the whole week off. Although Mark was never a very warm guy at school, he told me how sorry he was for my loss and said he'd take care of arranging my sub for the week and find someone to keep score for the game that night. With that, I was off to plan my dad's funeral.

It has always struck me as odd (and Tom and I have talked about this many times since then) that of my Mom and Dad's seven children, the youngest (Tom and me) had the lion's share of the responsibility in taking care of the funeral arrangements. I guess geography played a major role in that. Russ was in Cheney, and, as I remember, fresh out of jail or court-ordered rehab or something. Sue, who lived with Mom and Dad, was an emotional wreck. Dan was in Port Angeles, Gary in Omaha, Nebraska, and Mary was in Seattle. Each of them (except Sue) was making their way home. Mary would arrive later that day, the others on either Sunday or Monday.

I met Mom and Sue at Tom's house. We hugged and cried and shared our love for one another. Our appointment at the funeral home wasn't for another hour or so, so Mom took a nap in the big recliner while Tom and Sue filled me in on the details of the previous night.

When it came time for our appointment at the funeral home, Tom, Mom, Sue and I drove there together. The funeral director was very kind. He made sure we were comfortable and offered Mom and Sue coffee. Then we began discussing the plans.

We talked about package prices. We discussed the options available. A couple of times, Sue would get choked up and have to step outside. After a few minutes, Mom would ask either Tom or me to go check on her. This scenario was repeated several times that afternoon.

We picked the funeral program cover and the verse inside. When it came time to discuss the actual funeral service, the director asked if we wanted the service in our church or at the chapel there on site. We discussed it briefly and all agreed that the mortuary chapel was best. Dad wasn't particularly religious; he didn't attend church, so he had no priest, pastor, or minister who knew him or the family. The funeral director said he could conduct the service or we could have a family member. After a quiet moment, Mom asked me if I'd be willing to conduct the funeral.

It surprised me. The only of Mom and Dad's kids who are "religious" are Tom and me. He attends a "born again" Protestant church which is pretty mainstream; I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I fully expected Mom to ask Tom. But, for whatever reason, she wanted me to do it. Later Tom confided in me that he didn't think he could have done it without breaking up, so he was glad I accepted.

I accepted Mom's invitation. The director then discussed with me the usual elements of a service, but, he made it clear that we could do anything we wanted--within reason. It was decided that the funeral would be held on Wednesday to allow family time to travel in. Next we talked about the obituary. It was decided that I would also write the obit since I a) was doing the eulogy and would have the pertinent information, b) was an English teacher and so could (allegedly) write well, and c) had some journalism background, having taught it for a number of years. I'll try to find a copy of the obit and include it here.

After all the funeral and headstone arrangements had been made, the only thing left to do was select the coffin. Mom reaffirmed Dad's age-old wish that we "just put him in an old pine box and nail the lid shut." The director led us (Mom, Tom, and me--Sue stepped outside again) into the casket display room. The very first casket we saw was made of beautiful pine. Mom said, "That's it." We looked briefly at a few others, but mostly out of courtesy to the director. The decision had been made.

As the appointment ended, the last thing the director asked was about burial clothes. Dad had one suit that he didn't wear often. He didn't own a white dress shirt. Mom said she'd pick some clothes out and have us bring them to the funeral home. With that, we made our initial payment, thanked the director and went back to Mom's. We looked through Dad's clothes and found his grey suit but couldn't find a decent shirt. Tom and I convinced Mom to let us buy a white shirt and tie to match the suit for him to be buried in. Both Sue and Mom were tired, so they decided to nap.

Tom and I stopped by his house briefly and then headed out in search of a shirt and tie. Thus began one of my fondest memories connected to my dad's funeral. By this time it was close to 4:00 in the afternoon. The funeral director said he'd like the clothes ASAP in order to prepare Dad's body for viewing on Monday. He told us he'd be working late that night as there were several funerals scheduled that week.

Prosser had no place that sold white dress shirts, so Tom and I headed to Sunnyside. Things had been so emotional and so tense that day--we needed some laugh time. Every little thing we said or saw set us into hysterical laughter. We literally laughed until we cried. We laughed about Sue's 900 trips outside to regain her composure. It wasn't funny--but it didn't matter. To us at that moment in time, it was--and we laughed. Once we got to Sunnyside, our first stop was K-Mart. After 30 minutes of searching the aisles, we finally asked a clerk where the white dress shirts were. She led us to the underwear aisle and pointed to the dozens of white shirts on the shelves--white T-shirts!! We busted up laughing; I'm sure she thought we were very rude. When we told her we needed a white dress shirt with buttons and a collar, she said, "Oh...we don't have any."

Next stop was Wal-Mart. There we were able to find what we needed. As we were checking out, we noticed the Little Caesar's Pizza counter in the front of the store. In unison, Tom and I looked at each other and said, "Ohhh, that smells good." After paying for the shirt and tie, we hit the pizza counter and got two big slices of pepperoni and some pop. Out in the car, it dawned on us that it was close to 5:00 and we hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. We snarfed down the pizza there in the Wal-Mart parking lot. I don't even remember what else we talked about, but we laughed. I do remember laughing. But then, Tom and I always laugh together.

On the drive back to the funeral home, we discussed the funeral service. I asked Tom what he thought of doing a photo slideshow. We had 3 days; I'd done lots of them for the volleyball team. Tom liked the idea. Back at the funeral home, we delivered the shirt and tie, and we asked the director if we could do a slideshow as part of the service. He said we could if we had the equipment. It was set.

Once back at Tom's, Mary had arrived and was over at Mom's. We searched through old pictures to use for the slideshow. A short time later Mary came back to Tom's and helped us. Around 7:00 I headed back to Richland. Eric was still at Shannon's parents' house.

When I picked him up, I sat and shared with Helen and Oris the plans for the funeral. They expressed their love for me and my family and again offered to be of help in any way they could. Near 9:00, Eric and I headed home. He was sad and tired. He had a little meltdown. I let him sleep in my bed with me. Shannon had only been gone a day and half. He missed his mom, and I could have used a big hug right about then too.

By 9:30 Eric was asleep; I began working on Dad's obituary. Around 11:00 I was exhausted and crawled into bed next to Eric. At about 5:00 AM Sunday, the phone rang. I stumbled out of bed and answered it. On the other end of the line was Shannon, calling from Beijing. She could only talk for a minute or two. She told me she was sorry about my dad and wished she could be here. I told her I loved her. We decided to let Eric sleep. Shannon and I said our goodbyes; she said she'd email later that day and would call in a couple of days when she had Marlee. Then she was halfway around the world again. I hung up the phone. For the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be alone. I sat down on the hallway steps, and then it was my turn to cry.

After I'd had my cry, I crawled back into bed and was able to sleep for a couple of more hours. Eric got me up and we had breakfast. I can't remember if he came to Prosser with me that day or not. It was a Sunday, so if he didn't, he would have gone to church with Helen and Oris and then stayed with them--but I think he did.

Once in Prosser, Tom and I worked on putting together the slideshow for Dad's funeral. We scanned lots of pictures. Mary showed up and said she had great old pics of Mom and Dad at her place. She called Scott (who wasn't coming 'til Tuesday because he had a job interview) and asked him to find the pics, scan them, and e-mail them to us.

We had a good time going through those old pictures. We laughed and cried and reminisced. I don't remember if anyone else came home that day or not. While there I shared the obituary I had written for Dad with Tom and Mary. They liked it; Mom and Sue had come over so I showed it to them. Mom gave her final approval so Tom and I drove the obit to the funeral home so the director could get it to the paper in time. (I've tried to find a copy of the obituary to include her, but I can't. I'll keep looking.)

The rest of the day was spent at Tom's working on the slideshow and coming up with the schedule for the funeral. Around 7:00 that night Eric and I headed home. After he went to bed, I continued working on the funeral talk. Around 10:00 I went to bed. The date was Feb. 4th. I knew that Shannon was set to meet Marlee for the first time on Feb. 5th. I wondered if she already had her, but I was too tired to do the math for figuring out the time change between Richland, WA and Shenyang, PRC. I crawled into bed and slept like a rock.

Consistently Inconsistent

I really do suck at keeping my blog updated. I wish I did a better job. Honestly, I do. Oh well, it is what it is.

I think I'm going to post a few excerpts from my private journal. I update my journal only slightly more frequently than this blog, but whenever I have a milestone in my life I try to record a few thoughts. The main reason I record those things is so my children will have a record of my thoughts when I'm gone. As I've researched the history of my family, I can't tell you how many times I wished I had a journal or diary of my ancestors so I could get to know them better.

Here is an entry from:

Sunday, December 09, 2007

Well....here we are again. Here I am repenting for the billionth time for not keeping a better journal. In the Oct 2007 General Conference, Pres. Henry B. Eyring (who holds a special place in my heart) gave a wonderful talk entitled "O Remember, Remember." It was all about keeping journals and why we do it. He said a couple of things that really touched me:

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property.

He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind—not in my own voice—these words: “I’m not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down.”

I went inside. I didn’t go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn’t have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.

I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.

The years have gone by. My boys are grown men. And now and then one of them will surprise me by saying, “Dad, I was reading in my copy of the journal about when . . . ” and then he will tell me about how reading of what happened long ago helped him notice something God had done in his day.

My point is to urge you to find ways to recognize and remember God’s kindness. It will build our testimonies. You may not keep a journal. You may not share whatever record you keep with those you love and serve. But you and they will be blessed as you remember what the Lord has done.

So, there I have the reason why we are supposed to keep journals. My hope is to be able to record some thoughts and memories here so my family will be able to know the things I'm thankful for and the ways the Lord has blessed me and our family.

Right now the thing I'm most thankful for is that my kids have the opportunity to know Grandma and Grandpa Goodey. Eric has some recollections of my mom and dad. Marlee has none of my dad since he died before she came home, and only vague memories of my mom. Those will fade away. But at least they'll have great memories of Shannon's parents.

I never really knew my grandparents. Grandpa Voss (Mom's dad) died before I was born. Grandpa Turner died when I was 6. Grandma Turner lived in Colorado while we lived in Washington, so I rarely saw her. The one I knew the most was Grandma Voss. She even lived with us for a short while when I was very young. I don't remember much of that. She died when I was about 13.

She was never active in my life. She never came to school concerts or ball games or birthday parties. By the time I got to the age of remembrance, she was old and sick. Most of my memories of her are of sickness and nursing homes. To this day I am uncomfortable in nursing homes because of the things I saw in my grandma's nursing home the last time we visited her before she died.

I'm thankful that Eric and Marlee know and love Grandma and Grandpa Goodey. I just wish Shannon would relax a little around her mom. She gets so frustrated with Helen. I've tried to tell her to just let it go. Her mom is 82. Tonight she was upset because Helen wanted her to go upstairs to see look at some fabric she's using for a quilt or something. Shannon said, "I told her I already looked at it, but she wanted me to look at it again." I told her that in 5 years she'll wish she took the time to look at it again.

I've tried to tell her that I know things she doesn't know. I know what it's like to have both parents dead and buried. My faith tells me I'll see them again but right now they're gone. And, barring a tragic death on my part, they'll be gone from me for a long time. I can't tell you how many times I've run through my head the things I should have said, the calls I should have made, the visits I should have made. But I didn't. And now all I can do is wish I would have.