From Where You Are

Sometimes, music just gets to me. It reaches out and grabs my heart in a way that nothing else can, and in losing Ammon there is no exception. There have been a few songs that have grabbed me, and this tear-jerker by Lifehouse is among the most heartfelt. It captures so completely my wistful longing for Ammons presence in my life, for him to be standing next to me, to see the sunlight light up his face one more time.



So far away from where you are

These miles have torn us worlds apart

And I miss you

Yeah, I miss you



So far away from where you are

Standing underneath the stars

And I wish you were here



I miss the years that were erased

I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face

I miss all the little things

I never thought that they’d mean everything to me

Yeah, I miss you

And I wish you were here



I feel the beating of your heart

I see the shadows of your face

Just know that wherever you are

Yeah, I miss you

And I wish you were here



I miss the years that were erased

I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face

I miss all the little things

I never thought that they’d mean everything to me

Yeah, I miss you

And I wish you were here



So far away from where you are

These miles have torn us worlds apart

And I miss you

Yeah, I miss you

And I wish you were here



I'm sure none of you have missed the fact that the Christmas season is upon us once again. I have written before about the trepidation with which I approach this holiday. A few weeks ago, I was invited to join our ward choir for the annual Christmas program, which will be performed in church the Sunday before Christmas. I sang with the choir last year, and enjoyed the experience immensely. This year, like so much else, I had decided not to inflict the experience on myself. Our ward choir practices an hour before our 1 o'clock meetings, and a few Sundays ago I was responsible for taking one of my nieces to practice. As I was already in the building, I decided to grit my teeth and see if I could make it through the pieces. I did. Barely. Later that week, the choir had scheduled a Saturday practice, and the helpful choir assistant called to let me know, and request my presence. I demurred, saying that I didn't think I was up to such a draining experience, and she was very understanding. On that Saturday, though, I found myself once again responsible for taking two nieces to choir practice, and once again--I decided to grit my teeth and sing. I was fine for most of the practice, actually. Subdued and trying to hold my insides together, for sure, but managing. That is--until the last song. It was a lovely arrangement of a song I'm not familiar with, but the last two pages changed to 'O Come all ye Faithful'. I know not why that song has always reached into the core of my soul and squeezed my heart painfully. I remember the year that Jeremy was a baby, and I was called as the piano player for the ward choir. The choir director and I had worked together to arrange 'O Come all ye Faithful' out of the hymnbook, and it included a few variations-including a soloist singing the first verse. I struggled with tears every time we sang that hymn in practice, and again when we performed in front of the congregation. In choir practice that Saturday, the old familiar hymn spoke to me once again. I made a rather transparent and hasty exit from the pulpit so that I could sob in peace in the hallway. Very quickly, our kind choir director found me. Brother Cass has been a friend, albeit quietly, since Ammon and I moved into this ward. He was one of the legions of priesthood holders that showed up the day that we moved into the ward, and became a good friend to Ammon in the short months between our entrance and Ammons death. Brother Cass was responsible for putting together and directing a boys choir to sing at Ammons funeral, at my request. He's intuitive about my grief, and when he found me crying in the hallway that day we had a good conversation about the merits of opening up my heart in song. I chose to continue with the choir, and am nervously anticipating our performance this Sunday.

I've been thinking a lot about my memory. I remember with exquisite detail the moment that the Sheriff told me that I was a widow. Russ and I, but mostly me, had been continually asking for updates in the 20 interminable minutes since the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot. I instantly noticed the Sheriff walking around his car, and when I saw that his destination was Russ-not me-I stopped him. I don't know if I used words, or if it was simply conveyed through my piercing stare--but I knew. This man stood in front of me, and started talking. I remember keenly the irrational desire I had to speak. The words bubbled up in my throat, and it was a physical struggle to suppress them. I was sitting on the curb, and the officer stood in front of me. How meaningless I felt. How helpless and small my existence seemed in that moment. I don't remember the words that he said before he broke the news. He was stalling, I'm sure. Nobody wants to tell a 25 year old woman that she's a widow. Not when she's staring at you with wide, terrified eyes. Not when you're keenly aware of her loss. Not when you're the first on the scene, and watched helplessly as the woman knelt over the body of her motionless husband and begged him to breathe. I remember the words that shattered my life and splintered my heart into a thousand tiny irretrievable pieces-- "I'm sorry, they weren't able to save him". He might have tried to offer platitudes after that, I'm not sure. My world crumpled. I knelt on the damp pavement and tried to claw my way from this world. A sound that can only be described as a desperate keening wail left my throat. It took a few moments for me to realize that the sound was, in fact, coming from me. All thoughts were jumbled. I thought certainly that my heart could not sustain the damage. I thought of his smiling face, and the warmth in his eyes. I refused to accept that I would never see him again. I thought surely that my heart would cease to function, and I would simply die with him. It didn't happen. How I longed for it to happen, but it didn't. I don't know how long I screamed. I know now that my scream was heard for blocks. I have spoken to neighbors who heard my grief-filled wail, and knew instantly that he had died. The sound still haunts me today, along with the sound of Ammons last breaths. The sound of his moan as he lay on the pavement. The sound of his gasping air gurgling through the blood pooled on the pavement. The sound of Russ saying to my mother, who was on the cell phone and had called for an update, over and over again, "It's over. It's over". "Yes", I thought. "It's over. My life, my happiness, my family. It's over". I remember it all. Sometimes, it is the sounds that pierce me the most. Within moments, I realized that the worst part was yet to come. I was responsible for telling my children that the father they adored-and adored them-was never coming home. I felt a pressing need to be the first to share the news with them, and at the same instant that clarity returned to my mind, I found myself on my feet and running with reckless abandon toward the house. I vaguely remember somebody putting out their arm and trying to stop me. I'm told that it was the Sheriff who broke the news, and in my haste, I punched him. I have no memory of this. I suppose punching him was well within my rights, for I was never approached about the violence.

I suppose I'm still reeling. I put on a good face, I think. Those who don't know me well couldn't guess at the grief my smile holds. Still, though, I miss the old me. I miss the Victoria who laughed without thought, and saw the world through hope-filled eyes. I have seen so many photos of myself taken in the last 8 months. Before, the smile reached all the way to my eyes. I was simply brimming with happiness, with light--with hope and expectation for mine and my family's future. Now, that light is gone. Even when I'm fully smiling, even when it's so big that my missing tooth is visible, that light is missing. My laugh sounds hollow to my ears. My joy, in the infrequent instances it exists, is always tainted. The loss of Ammon from my home, from my bed, from my arms-taints everything I do. It is a loss that I carry with me always, and it is oh.so.heavy. I feel it settle around me, like a cloak that is inescapably dark and weighted. It settles itself heavily around my shoulders, and I know not how to shake it. I don't like feeling like this. I don't like exhibiting false cheer and a plastic smile, but I know that my traditional "socially acceptable" mourning period is nearly over. The one year mark approaches rapidly, and I'm starting to confuse events. "When the storm hit last summer, was Ammon here?" I wonder. "He must not have been. In my anxiety, I called Janice. If Ammon was alive, I would have called him." My events are all getting scattered and shuffled into a myriad of pain filled memories. Did I love him well enough while he was here? Did I tell him often enough that I appreciated him?

I can't help but look at the world around me and wonder what it would be like if he was still here. How he would react to seeing Brooklyn as she is now. Would he be as enamored of her as I am? Ammon really only had two children. He never handled babies well, and so it would be the first year of their life that the children were mainly my responsibility, and as their personality bloomed and their abilities progressed in the second year, they would become more his children. Ammon never knew Brooklyn. He never got to see her sweet sense of humor, or the peace that she brings to me. How much joy would he have taken to see her, and how nimbly would she have wrapped him around her tender little finger? Events are draining. Jeremy's first day of school. Would he have gone in late so that we could put him on the bus for the first time together? Probably. Parent teacher conferences. Would he have taken off early, or re-arranged his schedule so that he could sit by my side? Likely. Kadon's preschool Christmas concert. Would he have taken the day off to attend, and then gone out to lunch with us afterwards? Probably. He would have taken his place at my side through so many things that this year has brought. It's so cruel that he wasn't able to. His loss still reverberates through every facet of my life. The grief is still changing shape, changing its plan of attack, altering my soul in ways that are painful, new, and terrifying. When will it stop?