Wanted: Voices from the Dust

Posted by Kathryn P. | September 6, 2009 | 22 Comments

james-skate

The derecho, an angry gang of thunderstorms packing hurricane force winds poured across the plains, leaving smashed trees and destroyed lives in its wake. Sailing on a lake, my parents saw the black clouds surging across the pale green sky. My parents reached the dock, but as my dad yanked down the sails, the derecho ripped the roof off a boathouse and dropped it on my parents. The only time I ever saw my grandpa cry was when he told us that our father had died.

Years later, an institute teacher states that LDS funerals are happy occasions because of our belief in eternal families. That may be true when someone dies at the age of 99, but when a father dies, leaving behind a severely injured widow and five young children, it is scary and the sadness lingers… I was eight years old and I remember smashing my pillow against my ears so I wouldn’t hear my mother sobbing in her dark and lonely bed night after night.

In the Luther Vandross song “Dance with My Father” he mourns the death of his father and the tears of his mother. He prays that God will bring back the only man his mother ever loved. The last two lines of the song can still make me cry:

Every night I fall asleep
And this is all I ever dream…

If I could relive one day, it would be the day my father took me to his secretary’s wedding. I did not want to wear a dress and go to a stupid wedding on a Saturday afternoon. I threw a tantrum all the way to the cathedral, until my father finally had to bribe me with a strawberry ice cream cone. One month later, he died.

If I could relive that day, I’d be the most charming and appreciative daughter. I’d tell my dad that I loved him and I’d give him a million hugs. I was slightly precocious, so maybe he wouldn’t think it odd when I asked him about his hopes and dreams. He worked for an insurance company, so maybe I could preface our conversation, with: “You know dad, when you work on those accidental death reports, have you ever considered the possibility that you might…”

A family friend later told me that my father was so sweet and kind that people said, “Well, it shouldn’t surprise us that Jim died because he didn’t have anything else to learn; he had learned everything there was to know about love.” I didn’t really explore love until I became a mother. I wish my dad had left behind his roadmap…

Sometimes I envy the sons of Alma. Their father’s dramatic conversion story was recorded on golden plates. Some of my favorite words in the Book of Mormon were spoken in Alma’s role as a loving father:

”Yea I say unto you, my son, that there could be nothing so exquisite and so bitter as were my pains. Yea and again I say unto you, my son, that on the other hand, there can be nothing so exquisite and sweet as was my joy.” -Alma 36:21

My father was raised LDS, but he was lukewarm about the church– until he became a father. I wish my father had written down his own exquisite conversion story.

If I could relive that day, I would notice his laugh. I would talk to him for hours. I would suggest that he record his testimony, just in case he should suddenly vanish off the face of the earth. And maybe he could start keeping a journal. Or even just highlight his favorite scriptures. It wouldn’t take much time and maybe it would help strengthen the testimonies of his children and grandchildren in forty years, when he is just a shadowy figure in bits and pieces of childhood memory footage…

Comments

22 Responses to “Wanted: Voices from the Dust”

Sunny
September 6th, 2009 @ 11:25 am

Kathryn,

That was a very honest and touching post. Having lost both of my parents, your feelings of regret and wishing for a “do-over” resonate strongly with me. I had so many regrets and “wish I would have’s” after the death of my father, but the strange thing is, those feelings didn’t really lead me to do things differently with my mother. Can I ask, has the experience of losing your dad lead you to create in other relationships the things you wish you had done with your dad? Often after a tragic loss we hear people say things like, “It just makes you want to hold your loved ones a little closer”. Yes, but how long does the feeling really last? For me, even the tragedies in my own life haven’t effected lasting change in my other relationships. I’m just wondering if that has been your experience as well?
Maralise
September 6th, 2009 @ 12:13 pm

Thanks Kathryn
Melissa M.
September 6th, 2009 @ 1:06 pm

Just today we had a lesson in Young Women about the importance of keeping a journal. One of the things that I gleaned from this post is how much we will bless our posterity by simply recording our lives, our thoughts, and our experiences, and how sad it would be if we didn’t. Thanks for a lovely post.
Carol
September 6th, 2009 @ 1:21 pm

A beautiful post! My father died of cancer when I was a teen. Although his cancer was in remission until shortly before he died, he taped his life story and then wrote a copy of his testimony. They are among my most treasured possessions.

You have some beautiful memories which you can write and share with your family. What a blessing to have the love of a wonderful day, but, oh, how we miss them!
mmiles
September 6th, 2009 @ 1:31 pm

Beautiful Kathryn. Thank you.
FoxyJ
September 6th, 2009 @ 1:56 pm

That was beautiful and touching. I’ve been to a few sad funerals in the last few years of my life; even though we do believe in life after death, it’s still hard to lose someone when you are young and have a lot of life left to live without them. And it is good to have a reminder about writing down our lives for those who come after us.
Sharlee
September 6th, 2009 @ 5:16 pm

Beautiful, Kathryn. My father died when I was five, and I, too, have longed for some record of his life (thoughts, feelings, testimony) in his own hand. It’s made me a more diligent journal keeper than I otherwise might be inclined to be.
jenny
September 6th, 2009 @ 6:36 pm

Kathryn,
Your story breaks my heart. It is so true that our words will be lost (like the Lamanites) if we do not write them down. We think we will remember things, and the verbal passing down of stories has its own magic and charm, but it is not for testimonies. We (the ones left behind) need {and crave} them in a more concrete form. Thank you for this touching reminder.
jamesrivergirl
September 6th, 2009 @ 7:03 pm

Thank you, Kathryn.
Dovie
September 6th, 2009 @ 7:53 pm

Kathryn,

Thank you for your beautiful words about your father.

I’ve lost my dad three times. When I was five he left our little family for reasons I didn’t understand. For years I was sure it was a tantrum over yogurt. Thrown by me of course. I wanted a whole one and my mom and dad wanted me to share one with my little brother. In the face of my four year old fury they relented. I was sure for years that was the reason that he left. For years I wished more than anything that I could go back and change that one thing, I would be a good girl and share the yogurt with my little brother.

As a grown up there was an incident that made things between my dad and I difficult for a time. Eventually hearts were mended. More time passed. Then his heart became sick for real and then a year and a half later he was gone. This time in a way that can’t be mended in mortality. Truly no do overs. I find myself wishing that so many things were different. That I had been different, better. When it is late at night and I am alone this eats me up. Other times the spirit is there reassuring me that the Atonement will mend all things. When all the dust settles again and I again I find myself missing him, loving him. Hoping believing that he still is.

That same little brother that I would not share yogurt with is all grown up now and put into words at the funeral this recurrent ache in my heart.

“I love my dad, I miss him. When we left the eternal reams of our heavenly parents to come to earth, we brought with us a longing to return to live in their presence. God placed that same yearning between parent and child with us in our earthly families. I have always had a yearning to be with my dad. That yearning was intensified during periods of my life when circumstances made it difficult to be with him. Now that he has passed to the other side that yearning has again been intensified as it has been extended beyond the bounds of this mortal existence.”

He was the oldest of twelve children and at the funeral and in conversations since his siblings have given the gift of their memories of him to us his children. I relish those stories but at the same time they make that ache and the regret of not appreciating him more while he was here grow stronger. Eventually the Spirit comes and reassures me that the Lord is over all and loves me is mindful of me even in this and I will understand it all someday.
m&m
September 6th, 2009 @ 8:48 pm

How people face the pain of life w/o the gospel is beyond me. It’s hard enough with it.

This was heartrending to read. As were the comments. I’m sorry for the loss you and others have experienced.

I appreciated the testimony given of the atonement by dovie.
Rose
September 6th, 2009 @ 9:00 pm

Sis – your memory of the wedding is so strange to me… cause my memory is how I was so sad that I couldn’t go. The night before when they told us we were going to go to a big wedding – I was so excited that I jumped over a bush and broke my arm. Mom and I were at the emergency room getting me casted while you and Dad went to the wedding. I was so jealous.
My best memory with dad was when he took me canoeing in the pond at the bottom of the hill- at the crack of dawn that summer. Very special time – just the two of us.
Kathryn P.
September 7th, 2009 @ 1:57 am

We had a birthday in our family today, so I didn’t have time until now to read your comments. One of the first blogs I wrote for Segullah was about Insider Clubs. The tender connection I feel to other people who have lost a parent to death motivated the writing of that blog, so I’m especially grateful for the members of that “club” who shared their feelings today.

Today’s blog was partly motivated by the desire to encourage you to record your testimonies because, as Carol shared, a parent’s testimony is a precious possession. I’m a faithful journal keeper and I’m currently compiling my memoir (which will include my testimony) for my children and future grandchildren.

Sunny,I think all my childhood experiences influenced how I treat my children and husband. Every day with my family now seems like a precious gift and so I always make sure my last words to them are words of love as they leave the house. However, understanding the trauma of my childhood has been a 40 year journey. I was only eight years old when my mother suffered the traumatic head injury in the accident which killed my father. A couple years ago, a friend in my ward suffered a traumatic head injury in the same part of the brain as my mother’s injury. She was sent to a doctor that specializes in brain injuries and tested her to determine how the accident had changed her personality and mental processing skills. That type of testing did not exist 40 years ago. That part of the brain is where the social filters are located. My friend is able to discuss with her little children why she seems like a different mother since her accident. Plus they still have their father to provide love and stability. We didn’t have that kind of support.
Selwyn
September 7th, 2009 @ 2:26 am

I only posted about my Dads yesterday. Loss is such a empty, longing emotion. I imagine how anything written or received from the dust would help me understand people that are now totally out of reach, which usually makes me feel worse, knowing there will never be that special something. At least not here in this life.

Thank you for sharing so lyrically Kathryn.
jendoop
September 7th, 2009 @ 7:25 am

Thank you for sharing your tender and precious feelings.

My Dad is still living but I feel like his testimony died and I’d like his journals to know who he was before that happened. He doesn’t talk, other than ‘pass the ketchup’ and ‘good to see you’. I don’t really feel that I know who he is. I can’t make him talk and I’m sure one day I’ll have many regrets about our relationship. If he had journaled maybe he’d have more answers to his questions as well.
Merry Michelle
September 7th, 2009 @ 10:30 am

Kathryn,

This was so achingly gorgeous! I loved your little bits of memory footage in such vivid detail. What a blessing to be born with an enchanted pen yourself and to record so beautifully what you do remember.

I have not lost my father, but our relationship has been very strained at times. He came from a very abusive childhood and didn’t exactly have the best temper.

That being said, I came to realize (as an adult) that his mission was to come to earth and break the chain of abuse and suffering. He may have had a short fuse, but he did not carry on the abuse inflicted on him and generations before him. He was a “Savior on Mount Zion” and purified a family line, and for that I will forever be grateful to him no matter what idiosyncrasies still linger in his personality.

But I have to say that the most striking thing for me in this post was the resemblance between your son and your Dad. They’re like mirror images of each other! I literally had to get out my out my ward directory (the one with the pictures) and compare. That big, cheesy grin is IDENTICAL! You have a bit of your dad with you…
Michelle
September 7th, 2009 @ 8:39 pm

Beautiful, beautiful writing. Thanks for the inspiration.
Sage
September 8th, 2009 @ 5:58 am

Thank you, Kathryn, for this beautiful post. Both my parents lost their fathers when they were children (my father at 1 1/2, my mother at age 8). It affected how they developed their view of the world.

Like Merry Michelle, I feel like I have a strained relationship…or at least a distant one that I always wished were different (I begged for him to write me a letter when I was a missionary. I think he finally wrote me once).

It seems I still have some things to learn about how to relate to my father.

Thanks for sharing your stories. It helps me make sense of my own.
Carolee
September 8th, 2009 @ 10:38 am

Thanks for writing so beautifully about this, Kathryn. It brought tears to my eyes. I remember the night your father died, we were camping with other ward members during the storms which tore apart the area. I don’t remember a lot of things in my childhood, but I remember clearly being told about the accident and your father’s death and the shock and grief on the faces of the ward members. The camping trip ended prematurely and we all went home to face a different reality. My friend had lost her father, and I didn’t know how to help you because it frightened me so much — the possibility of losing a parent. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend to you and more supportive of you with the pain you were living with after that day. I was a child too, and didn’t know a lot. But if I could go back, that’s one thing I wish I could do better.
Kathryn P.
September 8th, 2009 @ 2:53 pm

I really appreciate all the kind and thoughtful comments.

Carolee, your comment felt like a warm hug. The love my siblings and I received from our childhood ward is one of the main reasons that four of us are still active church members. The members of that ward, including your family, were like beacons of light and hope.
Sue
September 10th, 2009 @ 11:40 am

This is a poignant reminder to all of us that we need to put our lives down on paper so our children (and their children’s children) can know us. I have very little in writing from my grandparents, but what I do have, I treasure.

My mom, on the other hand, is on p. 120 of her personal history!

Great post.

=)
Jenny
September 10th, 2009 @ 8:07 pm

So lovely. I love my parents, and can’t imagine enduring that type of loss. Your experience makes me want to really make something meaningful of our time together. Thank you for that.