Today is Fathers’ Day. I feel like I need to write about how I feel. I’m not necessarily looking for sympathy or encouragement; just stating how I feel. If you feel like writing words of condolence or encouragement, that’s fine; I’m just stating that that’s just not my motivation for writing. Maybe this will be helpful for you; maybe it will be helpful for someone else.

I guess I wasn’t prepared for how hard Fathers’ Day has been for me today. I have been doing fairly well at functioning without the grief “front and center” all the time — like it was for so long after Ashton died. Today was one of those “front and center” days. I listened to “Music and the Spoken Word” by The Mormon Tabernacle Choir on the radio as I showered and dressed this morning. Lloyd Newell gives the “spoken word” and he spoke of a father who asked his three adult children to share with him their memories of things he had done well and mistakes he had made as he raised them. All three of them shared their gratitude for his efforts to be a good father; he wasn’t perfect, but his imperfections were something none of them recalled. I thought of my imperfections as a person and as a father. I confess that I wonder if there was something I could have done more of or differently that might have made it possible for Ashton to still be alive today. Feelings aren’t logical; logically, I know that those thoughts are useless, since I can’t undo what has already been done; I can go forward and leave my mistakes in the past. That is one of the main functions of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I can’t fix my past mistakes, but He can and does and will. God be thanked for the matchless gift of His Divine Son!

I miss Ashton today. I feel conflicted for missing him because I still have five children (counting a wonderful son- and daughter-in-law) and six grandchildren who ARE here and I don’t want my missing Ashton to taint my feelings of love for those who ARE here.

As I was driving to our church meetings in Willcox today (we help with the Spanish congregation there), I thought of cycling, something I love to participate in very much. When I first started riding, I would dread riding up the hills. With time and experience, I learned to look forward to them, to welcome them with enthusiasm; doing so helped me have a better attitude. It also helped me remember that riding up hills improved my conditioning. Often, riding UP the hill meant that I could ride DOWN the hill on the other side — and that is REALLY fun! I thought of my sadness on Fathers’ Day and compared it to riding up a hill: as I lean into this opportunity, it will make me a stronger person. I don’t know if there is a “downhill” on the other side or not. If nothing else, climbing this “hill” will make me stronger so I can climb the next one — whenever and whatever that will be — because I know there will be more of them. The difference between my experience today and riding bikes is that I could always see the hills coming when I was riding. With grief, sometimes the “hills” sneak up on me.

One of my favorite authors is Ashleigh Brilliant, who writes some very thought-provoking, brief statements called “epigrams.” One of them is “Please put your poverty away; it’s making me too sad.” (Book VII, p. 75, Pot-Shot #4344). I think the same might be said for grief: “Please put your grief away; it’s making me too sad.” Just like those struggling with poverty, I also wish it were that easy to simply put my grief away. I’ve learned with time that some are not open or ready to deal with my grief — and that’s OK. I don’t blame them or resent them. Nor am I trying to “wallow” in my grief; I wish I could just paint on a happy face and face the world without any outward evidence of the pain I sometimes feel. Frankly, I don’t think that’s realistic nor possible nor even healthy. I feel what I feel. I try to deal with those feelings the best I can.

You may have noticed that I haven’t written a post in a long time; that’s partly because I have been doing so well. I don’t think the sadness I feel today is a “setback” nor an aberration. I think it’s all part of the normal healing process — which I am trying to embrace the best I can.

Thanks for reading.

Written by Carter