Two Years



Brett, our almost-brother, and Brent


Can you just take a look at that grin? Does it take your breath away like it does mine? When I saw this picture earlier this week after Brett posted it to my Facebook wall, I was shocked to immediately burst into tears. It was the grin that stabbed me in the heart, that infectious grin that I haven't seen for two years. I sat at my kitchen table with saltwater pouring down my face. Sophie saw what was on the screen and put her arm around me. I caught my breath, dried the tears and closed the screen.

We miss him. We miss him dreadfully. It's terrible that he's missed two of his birthdays, two Christmases, two new babies (a niece and a nephew that he would have adored,) not to mention so much laughing, so many conversations, games of Big Boggle, boy movies with all the brothers, brothers-in-law and Josh, family dinners...oh, too too many things.

I've been thinking about the Jack Gilbert poem I posted a few weeks ago, especially these lines:

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.

So today I decided to delight, to accept my gladness and grab the joy there is all around me, to remember my little brother by living fully and happily. I ran and hiked on another gorgeous trail near our home, talking to him about how much we miss him, how much he would enjoy the kids right now. I bought wildflower seeds to scatter. We nixed the yard work and cleaning. David and I went to breakfast with friends, then took Josh to The Avengers. I took Sophie and a friend to City Creek and to my favorite gelato place. I ate blackberry cobbler. I took pictures of the sunset. We watched a family DVD with the kids. I read to Ben and snuggled Kate. And through it all, I remembered him.
 
One of the hardest lessons I've learned through the last two years is that there is no safe and easy path through life. The world can indeed be a ruthless furnace, but every day we accept that truth and love our time here anyway is a day to celebrate. And so today I celebrated Brent, his life, and the fact that I loved him so much that his loss has created this hole. Holes left in our hearts are the proof of loving recklessly, with abandon, despite the risk of pain. The hole of his life is huge in our family's collective hearts because we loved him hugely. I would rather love hugely and risk huge pain than live a quiet, safer, subdued life with a quiet, safer, subdued heart. I may not have felt that way earlier in this journey, but I now make this conscious choice every day: to love, to cherish, to risk.
 
Rest well, my sweet little brother. You are missed. You are loved.

Six Months

I miss you.

My Messages from Beyond

So, every once in a while, Brent's email address still pops up in my inbox. His email has obviously been hacked, and I know very well what kind of message I'll find, but I open every one anyway.

Today is the three-month anniversary of his death. I've been thinking about him all day. And when I checked my email, I had a new message from "Brent."

And this is apparently what he wants me to know:

Dear friend, Haven`t seen you for a long time! How are you recently? I would like to introduce you an international foreign trade company：sei-Mart. they trade mainly in many kinds of famous electornic products. All of their products are very good in quality, and the price is low. It is really a good opportunity for us to do shopping. Well do is better than well say, just do it! Their website: (I blocked it out) Have a good time!

Yes, friend, it HAS been a long time. Too long. And I can't stand how long it will be before I see you again.

How am I recently? I am doing better, most of the time, but I am missing you all the same.

I know...I should just delete the messages when they show up, but I love seeing his email address in my inbox.

I love it, but I also really really hate it.

It's not an straightforward process, this losing someone you love. Grief is full of twists and turns, full of peace and pain, full of learning and being angry and being grateful. And I wish we hadn't been put on this path. The price we've paid for the learning is the steepest you can pay.

Do me a favor today. Go tell your brothers and sisters you love them.

Because, as "Brent" said:

Well do is better than well say, just do it!

Your Birthday(s)

Today is the birthday of two people I love dearly.

It's a bittersweet day.

It's sweet because it's Christina's birthday, and I was blessed beyond measure when Eric married her, gifting me a dear beloved sister.

It's bitter because it's also Brent's birthday, and we miss him dreadfully.

On August 22, 1979, (when I was nearly eight) Brent came into the world.

He was blessed the day I was confirmed, and I remember being very proud of all the time we took up in Sacrament Meeting that day. (I was also very proud of the cute dress my mom had made me, but that doesn't have much to do with this blog post.)

I loved my little Brown Bear. He got this nickname because unlike me, Chad, or Matt, the kid had some melanin in his skin. And his smile could light up a room. I remember putting makeup on him when he was four or five (sorry, Brentie) and deciding he would have been a darned pretty girl. He was always a looker, with makeup or without.

Brent's birthday became something of a family joke. Despite evidence to the contrary (parties at Knott's Berry Farm, for example), he liked to complain that most of his childhood birthdays were spent in the car traveling home from family camp. Although this was a highly exaggerated claim, I definitely remember one year we cut up a small store-bought cake at a rest stop somewhere in California.

But Brent's birthday got a shot in the arm when Christina married Eric. We loved that she had a twin birthday with Brent, and they celebrated their birthdays together for many many years when they all lived in California.

Christina is amazing. She is funny, she has a great eye for design, she is a really good mom to four really intense kidlets, she loves my brother so much, she is loyal. She loves animals. She is faithful to a degree I admire immensely, even when her faith comes at a great cost. Her laugh is infectious. She is silly. She is giving. She is kind. And she is an excellent listener.

Today was not an easy day for her. I am so sorry, Christina. I know that we all wish circumstances were different. I will say again, though, that I am so glad you share a birthday with Brent. This day will now continue to be a happy day, because we get to celebrate the day you came into the world. And that makes this world a much much better place.

So here are some pictures of my beloved birthday twins. And no, Christina, I did NOT post the Hungry Hungry Hippo picture. But oh, I was sorely tempted.

First, here is Christina:

And then, here is Brent:

I'll admit, going through these pictures of Brent was harder than I thought it would be, especially when I got to last August 22. I was with him last year for his 30th birthday. It was a great day. Mom loved to tease him every year with the trick candles that don't blow out. We played Big Boggle (and he beat us all, as expected), he played with my kids, and man, I just wish I could have a re-play. I'd love to go back and soak up every single second.

Happy birthday, Brentie B. You are so loved and so missed. There's a big hole in our hearts without you here.

And happy birthday, Nina. Thank you for being my sister. We love you bunches and bunches.

Missing Mrs. Gibson

When I was a five year old with red ponytails, I took the first of many treks up the hill to Cal State Long Beach. I was excited to take my very first piano lesson with Leaine Gibson. Lessons were very exciting. Not only did I get to walk past rehearsal rooms filled with music-making, I got to play in a room with music staff chalkboards. And of course, there was the piano. I don't remember not playing the piano, and I can't remember how I felt about the first time I played. I just know that I quickly learned to love the piano and to love Mrs. Gibson.

I loved lessons at CSULB and I loved lessons at her house in Long Beach. I loved her vast collections of miniatures and books. I loved her cats. I loved talking to her about everything and anything going on in my life. I loved thinking I convinced her that I'd worked really hard on a piece I was sightreading until she said, "That was nice sightreading. How would that have sounded if you'd practiced it?" I didn't love that if I forgot my music (on purpose) she'd have a copy so I'd have to play anyway. I loved our recitals. I loved the receptions in her backyard after our recitals. And I loved knowing that she cared about me even more than she cared about my playing.

She had her quirks. One October day when I was in high school, I drove to Fullerton College to meet her for a lesson. We met in the parking lot and because it was close to Halloween, she handed me a feathered mask. She put on her own, and we walked to the music building wearing our masks. My 17 year old self was mortified. College boys might see me. But she wasn't about to let me get away with holding it. I was going to wear the darned thing.

She influenced my political choices. She influenced my reading. She influenced my love of specific composers. (I didn't, however, remain in love with miniatures. Or cats.)

Even after I graduated from high school, I would take lessons from her during the summer. Even after I married David, I would take lessons from her when we'd visit. And even after Josh was born, she helped fulfill one of my life-long dreams when she recommended me to be soloist for a concert with the Fullerton Symphony Orchestra.

I honestly don't know who I'd be without my years and years of time with this dear woman.

A few days before Brent died, a friend of hers called to let me know that Leaine had had a stroke and was on hospice care. She had moved to Washington to be with her daughter, so I knew that saying goodbye wasn't an option. I was devastated and so regretful. Our letters had never stopped going back and forth, but their frequency had lessened over the years. The idea that she wouldn't be available to me as a mentor or friend hadn't really crossed my mind. I just assumed she'd be there, always ready to send me a piece she'd fallen in love with, some quotes about music or animals, or a picture of Katherine Hepburn (she always said I looked like her.)

And then, while still in California after the funeral, I got the news that Mrs. Gibson had died one week after Brent, and that her memorial service would be held on July 24, back in California at the church where I had won my first competition, the church where I had listened to her play so many recitals. I was so sad not to be able to be there.

And then her family asked me to play. And I couldn't not be there. So tomorrow I fly to California to remember Mrs. Gibson, to play her one last piece. I am honored to be included.

I will play her some Mompou. We both loved Mompou. She liked to try to trick me with composers and introduce me to new ones whenever possible. One visit, she asked me to guess the composer as she played a piece. I think she was both disappointed AND thrilled when I knew it was Mompou.

These last few weeks have been full of heartache and love and gratitude. Loss seems to be around every corner. But I am so very very grateful for the time I've had with these dear ones I've lost.

Leaine's friend Pat read me this Edna St. Vincent Millay poem over the phone as we talked about how much we miss Leaine. I'm afraid that I wept and wept as she read, and that even now, writing it out, I wept again. I guess I've learned (and it is a much harder lesson than any of my piano lessons ever were. Even the ones I didn't practice for.) that although the reality of eternal life and eventual reunion is deep in my heart, the initial stages of grief for me block out that reality for a time. For now, I feel mostly the loss. The hope for our eventual reunion is there, but it is muted. I believe that with time, this will be reversed, but for now, I'm accepting the daily grief and waiting for the relief.

I am not resigned to the loss of my dear Mrs. Gibson, or my dear Brent. But I am grateful for the beauty of the hours I spent loving them. I am grateful for how my life was gently shaped because of knowing them.

Dirge without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, --

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the blossoms in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Brent Youngberg's Funeral 6.18.10

How do I even begin to talk about the funeral?

I have to start by talking about those who gave of their time and resources so freely. The printers (who did an incredible job on the tri-fold programs) donated the programs because they think so highly of my parents. My brother Chad's friend did the design work. The Relief Society spent hours preparing the lunch and making the space beautiful for our family, along with providing a nursery for the littlest cousins during the funeral. And each of us spent time helping to make the funeral a way to remember Brent and his life along with a way to mourn and give peace to his family and friends.

And the result was a small space in time to focus solely on our love for our brother, our son, our uncle, cousin, grandson, friend and to celebrate his life, to remember his individuality, and to grieve for his loss.

It was not easy to say goodbye to him.

It was not easy to see him in the casket. After all, he is my little brother. He is special. I loved playing with him when he was little. I loved watching him play basketball. I loved hearing about his opinions. I loved watching him smile.

He shouldn't be gone.

While we got ready for the funeral, we found all of the mementos of his life. Chad cleaned out his apartment and brought home the odds and ends in a box. There were pictures our children had drawn for him. There were photographs of him with friends and family, and again, especially with our children. The love he had for them was so evident.

We also read his childhood journal and laughed and laughed and laughed. He was so smart and so funny and sometimes even a little full of himself (like when he talked about how he couldn't stand his school teacher because she kept going on about how smart and brilliant he was.)

So to help us, we surrounded him with all of this memorabilia, to remember how he shone, how he lit up our lives and the world around him.

And after we gathered around him and tried to acclimate to the fact that while his body was there with us, our Brent was not, we began to be surrounded by love.

Our extended family and friends streamed through the viewing room. I was overwhelmed by the show of support and love. My friends came for me (and I love you for it) and for my family. Family drove hours and hours and hours to be there. Brent's friend Matt's parents changed vacation plans and flew in to be there.

We were able to meet some of Brent's coworkers and friends, who had already begun to share their memories of Brent on the comments on my blog and on Facebook.

When the viewing had ended, we said our family goodbye to Brent and had our family prayer. And then Kurt closed the casket.

The pallbearers (the brothers, brothers-in-law and Josh) guided the casket so carefully, so gently into the chapel for the funeral and we walked behind on what felt like a long, long walk.

And the funeral began.

It was a beautiful funeral. The program went according to the program above. The cousins sounded darling, even with Josh's just-changed voice. Kurt's talk was sweet. He shared the poem on the back of the program, written by his friend Barrett, he talked about Brent's life, and about memories of our brother and his love for nature, along with passages from the Tao. The Flower Duet from Lakme was incredible. So so beautiful. Eric's talk, about the importance of family to Brent, was profound and funny. I played Brahms. My dad talked about the LDS view on the Plan of Happiness, and also shared some memories of Brent, and the funeral ended with the congregation singing "For the Beauty of the Earth."

And then it was over. We spent a while being embraced by those who came to support us. I saw friends I hadn't seen in years. My heart was overflowing.

After a beautiful lunch, and more visiting with wonderful people, along with memories of Brent from his best friend Brett and our cousins Devin and Robbie, we headed up to Palos Verdes to the cemetery.

I don't really have much I want to say about the cemetery, but here is a story to let you know how it felt.

After the dedication of the grave, we walked over to visit the graves of my grandpa, my great-grandma, and my great-grandpa. (It's somehow comforting to think of Brent near them.) At one point, someone said, "Let's take a picture of all the siblings." And all I could think was, "No. No. We're not all here. We'll never all be here again."

And then I got in the line, smiled my bravest smile, and missed Brent.

Brent. One Month.

I really don't have many words today, although I feel them pushing and shoving in my head, wanting to get out.

He's still gone.

Isn't that terrible? I haven't yet woken up and discovered (to my delight) that it's all just been a bad bad dream.

I haven't written many things that need to be written. I haven't written about memories of him. I haven't written about the funeral. I haven't posted a lot of pictures.

I thought I'd do all that today, but it can all wait.

Instead, here is a George Santayana sonnet a friend sent us.

With you a part of me hath passed away,

For in the peopled forest of my mind

A tree made leafless by this wintry wind

Shall never don again its green array.

Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,

Have something of their friendliness resigned;

Another, if I would, I could not find,

And I am grown much older in a day.

But yet I treasure in my memory

Your gift of charity, and young heart’s ease,

And the dear honor of your amity:

For these once mine, my life is rich with these.

And I scarce know which part may greater be—

What I keep of you, or you rob from me.

Love you, Brentie B. Miss you.

6.11.10

This is not a perfect picture of the day.

It's David, cleaning out Kurt's car.

After Kurt hiked out of Havasupai, he drove to my parents' home in Brent's car. Ashleigh, sick with grief and worry about Kurt, decided to fly out with Holden on Thursday on the first flight she could catch. So her car was at our house while we were all in California.

All of us worried about Kurt. We all felt helpless. Besides praying, what else could we do for him?

My sweet David figured out something and changed his worry to action. He started giving their car a David detailing job. He worked for hours and hours and hours to clean that car. I would go out into the garage to talk to him and find him crying as he waxed or vacuumed or polished.

He is such a good good man.

And that is the kind of love we found people giving us in abundance. Our neighbors and friends from our old neighborhood made us dinner and gathered money for the gas for the trip home. My visiting teachers (women from our church who are asked to care for individual families) came with love and made us lunch to take with us on the trip. We had more friends give us gifts of money, care packages for the car ride (both there AND home) and so many many sweet calls, cards, and especially prayers.

I can't thank you enough. I really truly can't.

But as I think about it, maybe this really is the perfect picture of the day. The love we have felt from you all has affected us so much that we'll never be the same. Our opportunities to serve will be one way we can thank you.

6.10.10

Flowers from my sweet friend and running partner, Tiernae.

So I hope you never have a day like our June 10.

(June 9 was pretty horrible, too.)

I really really do. The pain? Nearly unbearable. The tears? I didn't know there could be so many. The questions? Mostly unanswered and always present.

And yet, I will admit that in the exquisite pain, there was a mixture of exquisite joy. I have never felt so sure that love is everything, both the end and the beginning. And the outpouring of love for our family was just starting.

Backpacking 6.9.10

Josh is fourth from the left? See him? He's the rebel without his Scout shirt, thinking he's all old and experienced, since he's almost 14. FOURTEEN. Freaking me out.

(I had my first kiss at 14. DO NOT TELL HIM.)

I've been practicing the art of avoidance. I haven't wanted to face what is ahead. But here it is. June 9.

My boy went off with his Scout troop to backpack almost 30 miles. I left him, praying for his safety, and went home to make dinner, put kids to bed, and fold clothes while watching a little TV.

And my brother was already dead. He was already gone. I just didn't know yet that the universe had torn open.

How?

How did I not know? How could the thread of my life have continued to unwind? Why didn't my heart seize? Why didn't the sky go dark?

I'm still baffled by it.

After we got the news, we decided not to search for Josh and the Scouts, even though my Mommy heart wanted to find him, grab him and pull him right next to me to keep him safe. But we decided to let him have three more days without knowing. I wanted him to have the gift of being outdoors, in the mountains he (and we) love so dearly, without the heavy burden of grief I knew he'd eventually have to carry. I think it's what Brent would have wanted too.

And maybe that's why I got those extra few hours of my normal life. Maybe.

laying him to rest

We buried my brother today.


It was dreadful and beautiful. We celebrated his life and mourned his death, and again saw evidence of the transformative power of love.


In one room today, there were hundreds of hearts knit together in love for one young man and for his family. The spirit of God was abundant and poured out peace on us. We were not of one mind philosophically, religiously, politically. But we were of one heart.


The world glows differently after such an experience. The insignificant falls away. And what is left?


Love.


Love for Brent.


Love for family.


Love for friends.


Love for our Maker.


Love for the shining glory that lies within each one of us, but so often goes unnoticed.


The terrible price we've paid for the gaining of this understanding is too high. My Brentie is gone from this world. His body is under the ground. We miss him like missing a limb. This pain won't be healed quickly. But as we move gently back to the push and pull of our normal lives, I think it will be a reminder of the beauty from ashes that we've experienced this week. I hope it keeps us in mind of the love that ties us all together in large and small ways.


We love our Brent and we love you.

Funeral Information for Brent Youngberg

Brent's life will be celebrated this Friday, June 18 at 10 am.

Location:

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
441 S. Fairmont Blvd
Anaheim Hills, CA 92808

There will be a viewing from 9 until 9:45 am.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your amazing outpouring of love. Your generous donations to Doctors without Borders have been a remarkable representation of your care for him and for us.

We also so much appreciate your prayers on our behalf. We love you.

Love Unbounded, Love Overflowing

My heart is constantly full of contrasting emotions. I'm living with love and anger and pain and confusion and laughter and grief and joy. We all are. We're laughing and we're weeping and we're planning and we're questioning and we're energized and we're spent.

But mostly, we're we. We're this big mass of grieving family, loving each other more fully than ever ever before.

And we're surrounded, overwhelmed by the love of all of you, by your prayers, by your constant support. I could write all night about the amazing service you've provided. We've been blessed with financial support, gifts of time and care packages for our long drives, food, food and more delicious food, kind words and prayers. Your love is carrying us. Words are not enough now and will never be enough to thank you sufficiently.

But I'll try.

THANK YOU. Thank you with all of my heart. I've been on the other side of tragedy, wanting to help and not knowing how. And now I know that every little thing is not insignificant. Every card is read and cherished. Every bite of food is eaten with gratitude. Every prayer deepens the cushion protecting us from our pain.

Some information:

Brent's funeral will be on Friday at 10 am at the Anaheim California East Stake Center, 441 S. Fairmont Blvd, with a viewing at 9 am.

Also, we have decided to create a memorial fund to honor Brent. In lieu of flowers, donations for Doctors without Borders, Brent's favorite charity, are welcome through this link.

Again, thank you. We're getting through this one day at a time. We miss Brent.

Loss

Kurt and Brent, Havasupai, 2008

Something rubs my eyes with sandpaper.

Something burdens my shoulders with a load of lead.

Something holds my chest tightly so I can catch only shallow breaths.

Something chases my thoughts so they skitter around without a resting place.

My previous visits with this something have hardly been pleasant, but THIS something, this current grief, is raw and harsh and powerful and torments me in waves.

..........

Last night at 10:40, I was folding clothes on the couch with David, watching So You Think You Can Dance.

Josh was off to his first three-night backpacking trip, so the house felt a little more empty than normal. Ben and Kate were finally asleep. Sophie was feeling hot and came out to beg for the fan to cool down her room.

The phone rang. It was my mom and dad. David said, "This is a little late for them to be calling."

I answered, and Dad said, his voice cracking, "We have some sad news."

I thought maybe something had happened to my sweet 93 year old grandma.

But he said, "We lost Brent today. He was caught under a waterfall at Havasupai."

And the world stopped. Just like that.

I couldn't speak. I could only wail. Mom said, "Give the phone to David." So I did. And Sophie came over and started to rub my back and hug me. I couldn't hear what David was saying. Ugly, ugly grief grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go.

..........

My brothers Brent and Kurt had a special love for the Havasupai reservation, and I will admit I was jealous EVERY TIME they went. It's a hidden treasure at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, with pristine waterfalls and pools. They'd been looking forward to this trip for months. Four of them hiked in on Sunday and another group joined them yesterday.

From what I understand, they were hanging out in the water, jumping off rocks, talking, taking pictures, and then Brent wasn't there anymore. They searched for him. They didn't know what had happened to him. And then someone found him.

After Brent was found, a helicopter came to take him away. Kurt had to get to the village of Supai to call my dad, and then hike out with three of his friends, friends who have given so much of themselves to my sweet brothers that they should be adopted into our family. I am forever grateful that Kurt had them surrounding him through this horrible horrible time.

..........

I wanted to have lots of pretty words to say about my brother. They will have to wait. This is not the time for pretty-ness.

Do I have faith in the plan of salvation? Yes. Will I see Brent again? Yes. Does this take away the bone-crunching grief? Maybe it will in another few days, but for now I'm wearing it like a concrete vest, not by choice, but by fact.

There are sweet moments of rest. Speaking with my family and dear friends. Playing the piano. Loving my babies.

And there are moments when the reality of this crashes down around me.

I must also say, while I should hardly be shocked at the outpouring of love from so so SO many, I am. I'm greatly humbled by your love, by your kindnesses, and by your prayers. I am so very grateful. Thank you for loving Brentie and for loving us. Your prayers have helped us and will continue to help us. I remember a time in my life a few years ago where I felt the prayers of others supporting me like an actual web of love. The physical power of prayer is real. I know we need it now and will continue to need it. Thank you for offering it.

I miss my good, sweet, smart, handsome, kind brother. I MISS him.

Kate said, "It would be great if Jesus would come again tomorrow so we would only miss Brent for one day."

Yes, Kate. Yes, it would.

Brent

Brent Youngberg
22 August 1979 - 9 June 2010

My Brothers 3.4.10

Brent came up for a short visit (not long enough to suit me!). I loved having him around. Honestly, these brothers of mine are so fun. This isn't the best picture (hello. focus a little there, Kerri), but Brent's smile is so infectious.

I have six younger brothers, and they are all so different and so amazing. I think the plan is that we'll all be together for this Christmas, and I can't wait to listen to them laugh.