This Life Does Not End. It's Eternal

Three years and five days ago my family and I said our goodbyes to a man I loved very much: my grandpa.
He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) when my mother was still very young. From the time she was a little girl, she had been told that he would not live to see her graduate college. Every prayer in her family included the phrase, "Please help us find a cure for MS."
And perhaps they did.
Considering after his first diagnosis some forty or so years before his death, he hadn't been expected to see his second eldest daughter, my mother, graduate college, the fact that he attended the graduation of his eldest grandchild, my sister, and died the proud grandfather of 17 grandchildren was nothing short of a miracle. His family never found the cure to give him back the movement and control of his body, but as a result of their love, support, and positive attitudes, my grandpa cherished his life with a spirit of hope, faith, patience, and gratitude, and surpassed all odds, dying at the remarkable age of 72.
Their cure was a simple one, with the most profound of impacts: Love.
When my uncles Todd and Brent were young, they saved their money to buy a bench press so that they would be better able to help take care of their father. My grandma spent countless hours dressing, shaving and caring for him, and everything he ate was fed to him one bite at a time by a hand as patient and selfless as the mouth it served.
That tradition of love and service forged their family together, and became a foundation and a legacy for his children and grandchildren.
I remember when we would come to visit, every morning my sister and I would stretch and strain with our young and undeveloped muscles to help crank Grandpa from bed into his wheelchair. We each also had our turns helping to feed him.
His disease, in the end, brought his family together in such a way that perhaps nothing else could have. Every summer, he and his family would go camping together, pushing and puling his wheelchair through the sand so that he could float peacefully in the waves that rolled in along the shore—one of the few times he was free of his wheelchair.
I never knew him without his wheelchair. The morning of his death, as I lay alone on my bed, listening to the rain outside patter against the window pain like the constant drip of morphine that was at that time entering his veins, watching the blinking red light on my alarm clock illuminate the otherwise dark room, I fought to suppress the feelings of regret and self-pity that accompanied the realization that he would be leaving us. He'd been a quadriplegic for forty years - all my life. Never had I the opportunity to toss a football with him in the backyard. Never had he read to me or walked down the street holding my hand. I'd heard he had a beautiful bass singing voice that I had never heard.
We played the games that he could play: chicken feet and Mormon Bridge. At night he would tell us bedtime stories, which always began with "once upon a time," because, he said, "That's how all good stories start", and ended with "they lived happily ever after," because that's how all good stories end.
When he came down to visit we would have cookouts in the fire pit in our backyard and he would eat all the burned marshmallows. We thought he liked them that way, because he always offered to eat them when no one else would, and so we, thinking ourselves so kind, would sometimes burn them on purpose for him. It was only when we were older that we learned he'd never liked them burned.
Whenever we had potato chips we would try and find the biggest one and see if he could fit it in his mouth without cracking it. If he did, we owed him a kiss.
I remember how every time when we went up to visit grandma's house, he would be waiting in his wheelchair, right inside the door, dressed to his best. He would greet us with a hearty "Hi-ya" and we would clamber onto his lap to give him a kiss, because "all kisses go to Grandpa."
Many times when I was younger I would go for a ride on his lap, making circles throughout the house. I would throw my arms around his neck and give him a big hug. But never had he been able to hug me back.

While we were up at my grandma's house this past week, we went to visit his grave. I looked over at my grandma and wondered what she could be thinking about as we sat around the tombstone on a grassy hillside, and my mind kept wandering. It's hard to think about death.
"I wonder what he's doing right now," I heard my grandma say.
"I'm sure he's busy. I'm sure he's running and swimming and singing and doing all the things he loved," my mother replied.

I remember when my mother told me he was going to die, and later informed of his death, there was a feeling of comfort, of peace. A few days later at his funeral, I had held the hand of my little brother as we stood together peering into the beautiful oak casket. I'd watched as he reached out his hand and laid it gently on that of my grandpa's, recoiling ever so slightly at the touch. "He's so stiff and cold," he whispered, "And he looks so sad." I'd smiled to myself as a tear rolled down my cheek. "That's because he's not there," I told him, "but I'm sure he's here with us now." I didn't have to explain for him to know what I meant. I could tell from the small smile glowing on his face, and the glint of warmth in his eyes that he understood.

That feeling of peace and comfort I'd had when my mom had told me he would die and later informed me of his death was there again as we sat around his grave. And I knew now, as I knew then, what it was. It was joy and hope; hope for the life beyond this one when I shall run up and hug him among the hosts of heaven. Joy, for when he can run and hug me back.

I'm so grateful for the knowledge of eternal families and of a life beyond this one where we can dwell with God. This life does not end. It's eternal. I am grateful for the sacrifice of God's beloved Son, Jesus Christ. I am grateful to know that He lives and that because He lives, all men shall live again. Because He lives, all things shall be restored to their perfect form, and shall be brought to stand before the bar of God.

I look forward to the day that I shall meet my grandpa there, standing to great me, and I shall hear his beautiful bass voice say "Hi-ya. Welcome home."
And we will live happily ever after. Because that's how all good stories end.

I love you Grandpa,

Brooke

Daily Laughs

I'm in the car and my brother, sitting behind me, keeps creeping on me with his tortoise.
"Hi tortoise," I say to it.
"Rawr," he replies. " Meow. Woof. Woof. Hiss."
"Dallin," I tell him, " I think your tortoise has identity crisis."
"No, he's just good at impressions," Dallin replies, then continuing where he left off, "Cow. Cow."
In the midst of all this, Dallin accidentally drops his tortoise.
"Baa. Help me."
Car trips with Dallin are never boring.

Then later this same day I'm asked if I would like to join my mom and grandma in a run to Costco to pick up a watermelon. Shopping with those two is like spending an afternoon with two comedians on laughing gas. And I'm not about to miss out on that.
Though, knowing our luck, perhaps we shouldn't have been so surprised, we were still disappointed to find that Costco was clean out of watermelons.
Grandma decides to ask if they have any more in the back somewhere, and for once, we're in luck. A shipment just arrived and they hadn't yet unloaded them from the truck. They'd be happy to bring one out for us.
"But what if it's not ripe enough? We've got to thunk them to check," says Mom after the kind Costco employee has gone to fetch our watermelon.
When our watermelon arrives, Mom gives it a good knock while Grandma and I wait for its interpretation.
"It's not quite ripe enough," says Mom.
She's told me how the thunk method works, but she's the expert.
We debate whether or not to put it back. "We could ask them if we could go back and thunk the watermelons."
Dallin gives her a look and suggests we not.
In mock reply, Mom lowers her glasses to the tip of her nose and looking rather like professor McGonigal, proceeds to enact her request, "Excuse me, I'm getting my PHD in the resonate tonal qualities of watermelon and was wondering if I could thunk your watermelons."

Dallin requests to hide in the car.
We were cracking up for a solid five minutes.
In the end, we did ask if we could go back to thunk the watermelons in order to compare their ripeness, but were told that we could not go back to the unloading area, and not just because of our seemingly absurd request.
After all that, we just had to keep the watermelon.
By tomorrow when we cut it up we'll know whether it is in fact not quite ripe. I'll let you know. But I'll say this, the thunk method: it works. And Mom's usually right.
Either way, it was worth the laughs.

Candidly,

Cookie

The Hills Are Alive

Early in July, we took a family trip to Telluride Colorado. Every moment of it was doused in deja vu and a light mist of nostalgia. We went nearly every summer when I was younger, and since then when I pictured paradise, I would picture Telluride Colorado, not just because of the breath-taking scenery, but because that place is packed with fun-filled memories of family. We haven't been back in quite a few years, and in our absence, time has donned rose-tinted glasses. I was slightly apprehensive to return and find it not as grand as I remembered, but what I found is that the mountain streams are flowing with the waters of Tuck Everlasting. Not much changes in Telluride. The mountains never age, and they are alive as ever. 

I found one of the few things better than a memory looked back on with rose tinted glasses, is a moment that doesn't need them, which I found was every moment in the quaint and beautiful historic town of Telluride. 

This was the top of our 10.4 mile hike. We had The Sound of Music going through our heads. 

They're a little hard to see in this picture, but one of my favorite things about Aspens are that all the little knots on them look  like eyes, keeping a solemn watch over the forest. 

When we got to the basin and heard thunder, we were worried it would rain. Not to worry, it decided to hail instead.
Meanwhile, the thunder was incredible. We were in this tiny basin just beneath the clouds and the thunder sounded like the mountain was going to crack apart, and it bounced back and forth inside the basin with the buzzing frenzy of a wasp caught between the blinds and the window pane. It was the best thunderstorm I've ever heard. 

My wonderful Dad, to whom belongs the majority of the photo credit. He is an excellent photographer. 

Telluride is a historic mining town, which means there are restrictions on how many houses are built, how far up the mountain you can build them, and whether the exterior matches the rest of this archaic little town. I think there must also be a rule that there must be AT LEAST six zeros on the price tag as well . . . I'm sure, because it's in Telluride, even this little mining shack would sell for a couple million. I think it would make a nice summer cottage, don't you? 

We found the biggest dandelions and we couldn't resist. Dallin found it's hard to blow when you're laughing . . . 

This was possibly the fluffiest, cutest little dog I've ever seen, and I got to hold him! I was in heaven. 

The gondola in the top left corner of the picture runs from Telluride, up the mountain, and over to Mountain Village on the other side, with a stop at the top. It's a family favorite. And the best part: it's free. 

The deal was, if you want your hair painted, you have to be in the parade. Jacob was all in, and Kaitlin had fun too. 

All decorated for the fourth of July parade. These people go all out. 

See that little black speck in the sky? That would be the start of the parade fly over. It's hard to beat a fourth of July parade in a town where main street is from the old west, the scenery is from a fairy tale, and the budget is from your wildest dreams.

If the parade was elaborate, the fireworks were INTENSE. Forty-five minute, non stop firework show, and the best one I've ever seen. Not to mention the rattling, booming echoes off the mountains, as if every tree was a rain stick, and every boulder a base drum. If I'd been blind, it still would have been the best show. 

After enduring rain, sleet, hail, heat exhaustion, starvation, a pack of ravenous wolves, an angry mountain lion, and enough photos to make your smile permanently crooked, we finally reached the top.
 We may be guilty of a little embellishment. 

This was the river that we had to cross on our 10.4 mile hike. It doesn't look like much, but allow me to complete the picture for you. This water is from still-melting ice caps. It is freezing, not to mention fast. IN order to keep our shoes and socks dry, we crossed it barefoot. It's hard to imagine something could be so cold that it is seriously painful, until you've experienced it, which I have. If that's not enough, check out the picture above. That's what we were crossing, not too far upstream. 

No wonder we got cold . . .

We found Dallin's twin. 

When we were little, Kylie and I would hike ahead to this spot and read. Now that we're all about the same pace, we didn't have time to get out our books to pose for the picture. Ah well, we made do.

Lovin these Aspen forests and that handsome little man who is not so little anymore. 

And that would be Telluride. Yep, that's all of it. 

It was hard to say goodbye. 

Candidly,
Cookie