DOUG ASAY - PRESENCE

Doug and Julie Asay

This past Spring, when our friend Kathy Oleson died unexpectedly, we gathered in celebration of her life. As a Relief Society we prepared and served a luncheon for her family and close friends after the funeral service. With a good crew of willing and capable people in the kitchen I went out to visit with some of the family while they were eating. My friends Doug and Julie Asay waved me over to their table. I sat and visited a few minutes, interfacing with Kathy’s kids and grandkids, as well as my old friends Doug and Julie. We were no longer in the same church congregation, so we had some catching up to do. While we visited, Kathy’s little grandkids got a little restless, understandably, following a viewing, service, and burial. Doug leaned over and reached into a bag at the side of his chair. Out came two red plastic Corvettes. The boys were soon entertaining themselves on the cultural hall floor.  

“Of course you just happened to have toy Vettes in your bag!” I laughed. 

“Yes, and we brought butterflies for the girls in case they aren't into cars.”

Doug was a giver of presents. First of all, he knew where to find the cool stuff… the stuff nobody else had. One day he showed up in our driveway with a pair of speakers for a sound system.

“Can you use these?” he asked, setting them in my garage. This was years ago. I still use them. 

Once he had a beautiful small acoustic bass that had been damaged.

“You want this?” 

“Sure!” (We are kindred spirits this way. If anyone needs anything… anything at all… one of us probably has it. And if we don’t have it, Doug knows where to get it.) We had it repaired and it now belongs to our composer grandson.

The problem for us now is that Doug took that storehouse of knowledge, good humor, secret haunts for special finds, and remarkable ability… he took all of that and skipped town this week. Left these earthly bonds. Found the perfect glassy reservoir of water and went waterskiing up to Heaven.

This was not too long ago.
 He could hardly walk, but by golly
 he was gonna get up on those skis!

A few weeks ago Doug and Julie came over to our house for a sweet afternoon of music and reminiscence. Dave and my sisters joined us. We laughed a lot and cried a bit. Doug was frail, and not long for this world. He sat in the recliner and talked the talk of a storyteller. Julie kept the stories straight as they veered off in Doug’s imagination. It touched me to see how she gracefully allowed him to be his own storyteller. She has surely been a blessing to him.

Snuggled down for an afternoon in our family room.

Doug’s been sick a long time, and he has outlived what most doctors told him would be his lifespan with the liver disease he was dealing with. He’s a tenacious fellow, determined and driven, and his resiliency has helped them hobble through some rough blows in their lives. Julie has been his steady, in every possible way. When they came she brought a gift of aromatic bath salts for each of us. I am reminded daily of our blessed time together.

Doug is not just a giver of presents. He is a giver of presence. 

Years ago, decades now, our family suffered a great unexpected loss. We had united in a vigil over our eighteen-year-old nephew, Clayton. He had experienced brain trauma in a motorcycle accident. We watched as his beautiful healthy skin healed, and his bruises dissipated. But his brain would not be able to heal from the swelling. We huddled in our grief and celebrated his life, slightly comforted by the lifesaving donation of most of his healthy young body to the transplant healing of other lives. Still, the grief was immense. The light from the doorway at the back of the chapel was blocked by a form just as the services began. There stood Doug, miles from his home, showing up. He knew my brother, Clayton’s dad, through business and had heard of his loss. So, he showed up. His presence still moves us to this day. Always will.

Doug would be the first to tell you of his flaws. And he would be the first to be the hands of Mercy in your own struggles. Libby and I both say if we had gone to the same high school we all would have been best buds. He’s that intriguing blend of faith and mischief. 

By the end the faith won. Even when he used his very last ounce of energy to spark a little mischief. It was love and trust that won in the end. Julie, with every ounce of her own energy and intelligence, let Doug be Doug right up to the moment he flew away. His daughter Melissa spent every morning helping him begin to navigate the day. He laughed till he had no more energy to laugh, sitting in our recliner that last afternoon, telling us about getting up before Melissa did one day and putting on her clothes instead of his own. It was a mistake of a brain being taxed, but he rode it for all it was worth. Doug, and his devoted family, had learned from life experience to roll with the punches and ride the wake of every splashy oversized cruiser that passed them by. No matter how often he ended up down in the water, he always got back up. This is the eternal legacy that ease and comfort will not create. And while what Doug wanted more than anything was to bestow presents on everyone he loved… and even those he may not have liked very much… what he gave, that is uniquely Doug, was his presence.

We could all take a lesson.

The Asay Clan

I have this image in my head of the pearly gates of heaven opening wide for a shiny rebuilt Corvette as it purrs on through. Doug throws his arm up and waves. And depending on where you stand, its either good-bye or hello. Either way, there’s gonna be some sort of memorable story to be told.

 

https://www.russonmortuary.com/obituaries/alan-asay

RICE PUDDING

If I find myself missing my mom, especially on a chilly autumn day when the windows get closed and the heater kicks on,

and the rice cooker has leftover rice from last night’s dinner,

and I happen to have fresh cream in the fridge (because it is the season for fresh peaches)..

Then all I have to do is whip up a batch of rice pudding,

nestle in an easy chair,

and conjure up the sound of her voice in the kitchen,

or on the phone,

or chatting with someone she loves…

Then I am home.

RICE PUDDING with COOKED RICE

1 1/2 c cooked white rice

1 c whole or 2% milk

1/4 t salt

1/2 c cream

1 egg, beaten

1/4 t cinnamon

a pinch of nutmeg

1/3 c sugar

1/3 c golden raisins (optional)

1/3 c raisins (optional)

1 t butter

1/2 t vanilla

Mix and set aside: beaten egg, cream, spices to be added later..

Put cooked rice. salt and milk in a pan and simmer about 10 minutes, stirring regularly, till it thickens.

Add sugar and stir.

Slowly stream-in egg and cream mix, stirring constantly till it's well combined. Stir till thick.

Stir in raisins, vanilla and butter.

Let cook at least 10 minutes.

WHERE'S THE TOOTH FAIRY WHEN YOU NEED HER?

“I only have one baby tooth left,” Joe announced as he bit into a slice of pizza. His seven-year-old sister, Gracie, sat next to him. I had just commented on the disappearing gap where her former baby tooth had been summarily dismissed by a newly emerging permanent tooth. “Wow, your new tooth is coming in nicely!”

Gracie offered a pizza-faced smile, poking the tip of her tongue through the shrinking space of her faded infancy. I smiled back, a full gap of my deterioration revealing itself to her.

What had started last year as an innocent root canal ended up with my tooth being pulled. The first implant failed. The second one happened last month, leaving my face with a lovely variegated patina that lasted nearly three weeks. 

I don’t generally consider myself vain. I’ve had to have decades of discussion with myself to come to peace with the face in the mirror. Nonetheless, the missing tooth in the front of my mouth bothers me. Its probably the result of spending three years working with women in the jail who had lost their teeth to meth use. I smile the crooked smile of my own childhood, when that spot in my mouth carried a baby tooth until I was 16 years-old and surgery and braces pulled the adult tooth to replace it from the roof of my mouth. That was a hard-earned tooth, and now it’s gone. But I have well trained lips that know how to smile a crooked smile in public places. 

I have resorted to fasting and prayer that this most recent implant will hold. I need to be free to laugh unrestrained. Seriously, we all need that grace. (Someday I will outgrow myself)
Take care of that tooth, Gracie! A missing tooth in the mouth of a child is charming. Not so much on an old lady. Alas, such is my fate. 
Trying to replace this missing tooth is costing me a pound of flesh and thousands of dollars. Do you think the tooth fairy would be willing to leave that much under my pillow? 

TWIRLING FOR LIZ

"Are we going to twirl for Liz today?"

Tessie asks this every Thursday after her ballet class. It was more common when she was in preschool and ballet was a little later in the day. This year she was in Kindergarten, so ballet was early, a bit too early for a 94 year-old to be up and ready for company. It was for Judy’s sake that we did not stop by every single Thursday, because Liz would fixate on the thought of Tess’ arms around her neck and it would confuse the routine. But we did arrange quite a few times, when Judy was able to take a break and make sure Liz could be ready. Judy, for the past many years, has been companion to her stepmother, doing what few understand unless you have lived with someone who is well past the date they finally got their senior discounts. Judy works from home in a room in the back of their mobile home, so most often when Tess bounced into their living room, there was only Liz. Tess would stand in front of Liz, smile for her, then when Liz said Go she would spin her little body in circles while her frothy ballet skirt lifted in a rippled circle around her waist. Liz always clapped and cheered. Then she’d throw her arms out and Tess would run into them, reaching her soft little girl arms up and locking them around the back of Liz’ neck. I have watched this routine with great delight, loving how sweet it is for Tess to learn how beautiful old people can be up close and personal.

Liz grew gracefully old. I can’t recall when it was she actually became old. She has always just been Liz. We met three decades ago when she moved into our area and joined our congregation at church. She was sharp and witty, a professional woman who had been widowed for years. 

Born and raised in Los Angeles, CA she had the class of a city girl with the faith of a woman of pioneer heritage. Her great uncle was Heber J Grant, a leader and apostle and eventually prophet and president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints during the early settlement of Utah. Liz Grant fell in love and married Lee Wissler in LA. Lee was a widower whose daughter Judy was a teen at the time. Lee and Liz adopted two children, Glen and Libby. Then, far too early Lee died. For the decades I have known Liz she has mourned the loss of her Lee, not in a pitiful way, more like a wistful yearning. The last number of years, as her legs have caused he significant pain and those she has known and loved have moved on from this mortal state, Liz has longed to be able to just go find Lee; to return to the heavenly home her faith framed for her, and to be reunited with her beloved parents and siblings. It was not that she did not appreciate this life, or the people here who love and enjoy being with her. She had considerable social grace and always made us feel welcome, loved and important. My husband Dave has served as her Home Teacher and Ministering Brother for twenty years or more. My sister Libby and I have been Visiting Teachers and ministers to her for as long, though neither of us has had that official calling for a quite a while. I am, however, currently blessed to be her Relief Society President, which has facilitated a depth to our already sweet and intimate relationship. Years ago, Liz was our Relief Society President. Life is full of twirling circles.

Libby, Liz and I at the Bountiful Temple

Liz has always been a source for delight. If you ever felt a humbug coming on, or a case of winter blues, all you needed to do was go over and visit Lloyds Park #17. Liz and Judy are both the Queens of Christmas. Christmas went up immediately following Halloween. Some of it remains year-round, like joy refusing to be suppressed.  Then, right about when the light of Christmas starts to wane, Valentine’s Day comes hand in hand with Liz’s birthday. The delight of all of this shortens the dull of winter and soon the green pots lining the steps to the front door are blooming with flowers again.

Once Liz and I were talking about the power of familiar scents and she told me about a particular perfume her husband Lee used to love. I told her how I wear different perfumes the people I love often wear. When I am missing them, or want to feel the strength of their spirit, I spritz a little bit of the scent of them on my wrists. The perfume Lee used to buy Liz was called Joy. A fitting name, don’t you think? 

“Do you have any?” I asked. 

“No, goodness, it’s far too expensive.”

That next birthday we gave her a bottle of Joy. You would have thought we had paid off her mortgage! Sometimes I would lean down and kiss her cheek just to inhale the love she had for Lee.

A couple weeks ago Tess had her ballet recital. We had arranged, with permission, to have Dave and Libby pick up Liz and bring her to the dress rehearsal at Weber State College so she could see the finished product of Tessie’s lessons. I was playing and singing for the dancers. The whole recital would have been too much. Liz was 94 years old, and her legs were not working well. 

The morning of the recital Liz tried to get out of bed and fell, breaking her femur up by the hip. She had already been recovering from a previous fall. Lib and I rushed to the hospital to meet with Judy and their friend-who’s-like-a-sister, Chris. Judy said they had two choices, as per the doctor in the ER: one was terrible and the other awful. They opted for terrible, since awful involved not doing surgery and living in considerable pain, never leaving her bed for the rest of her life. They chose surgery, where a rod would be inserted through the upper leg. (Interestingly, three members of our Relief Society have had broken femurs in the last two months. What is it with femurs and the Somerset Ward?) There were pretty even odds that Liz might not make it through surgery. So instead of watching Tessa twirl with her ballet class Liz was in the operating room. She made it through surgery. 

Tess, Dave and I stopped at McKay Dee Hospital after rehearsal. when Liz was just an hour out of surgery. She was sitting up in her bed. When she saw Tess she threw up her arms and called out her name. Tessie twirled at the foot of her hospital bed in her yellow rain boots and little yellow “Singing in the Rain” costume. Liz clapped and cheered, nothing close to how one would imagine a person to be after they had been in such an involved surgery. Dave lifted Tess up to the side of her bed, then down she went, into Liz’s arms, her lips on her wrinkled cheek, her soft little girl arms tucked between her neck and her pillow. It was their last embrace.

Liz came home from that surgery and the rest of her body decided not to cooperate. Hospice helped ease the exit. My sister Libby and I spent the night two days ago so Judy could get some much-needed rest. It was a sacred time. Liz was not comfortable, and at times it was necessary to have two of us there. Eventually I went home and Libby nurtured her on her won until Judy, still with not enough rest, took over. Yesterday Judy’s daughter Tiffany flew in from Oregan to help stand guard. Last night Dave and Paul Dickamore laid their worthy hands atop Liz’s white hair and offered her comfort and assurance that she could go Home. When they left I sat at her bedside. A circle of women gathered around her: Tiffany, Chris and Judy and I. I played my guitar and sang for her, songs she knew and loved, including songs she had planned for years to have me sing at her funeral. I sang them with a pinch of heartache because I was leaving for a long-planned family trip back to our hometown near Pittsburgh PA. All of children and grandchildren, 20 of us. Knowing, after all these years of her wanting to die and not being able to, that when it finally happened I might be gone caused my heart to ache, so I sang us through the heartache. About five hours later Liz took the mighty leap into Heaven. 

I am sitting now in the seat of our van, the seats behind me filled with grandchildren, Dave at the wheel, somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. My computer sits on my lap and that pit in my stomach jabs as I click the keys. Liz and I are both going home I suppose. Back to where things are vaguely familiar but details are sketchy. My sister Libby carries the torch, along with my counselors and other church leaders, in helping Judy work through Liz’s going away party. 

Tess sits in the booster seat behind me. I have not yet told her about her Liz going back to Jesus. She left her mom this morning to ride across the country with us, and we thought the weight of such news would make her little girl heart too heavy right now. So, for a minute or two, we will let her think she will be able to go twirl for Liz in a few weeks when ballet starts up again. Truth is, Tess, we will get to twirl for our Liz, whether she is watching from her new place, or it is years from now and we are all in that place together. We will no doubt do whatver it takes to delight one another. Meanwhile Tessie, when you twirl for me, we will think of Liz.

Fare well, dear friend.

FEED THE 5000 PASTA SALAD

Got a crowd to feed? Here ya go.... I've made this for all sorts of gatherings, from showers to family picnics. I often scoop it onto Costco croissants, though I usually cut them in half to make them more manageable. It will store covered in the fridge for days. FEED THE 5000 PASTA SALAD   3 - 8 oz. pkgs. Medium or large shell pasta (cooked) 1/4 c. chopped green onion 1 small can water chestnuts, drained 6 c. cooked and cubed chicken breast 2 c. chopped celery 2 large cans crushed pineapple, drain juice and reserve in a separate bowl 2 c. diced red apples (soak apples in reserved pineapple juice for a few minutes, then drain - to help avoid browning) 2 c. red grapes, halved 1/2 c. cashews (optional. Add just before serving) salt and pepper to taste

Cook pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until slightly tender. Drain water and cool pasta. Put in large mixing bowl and add remaining ingredients. Toss together then add dressing and mix well. Dressing:  2 c mayo 3T vinegar (or lemon juice)  3 T  sugar ½ t celery seed (optional)  Salt and pepper.  Mix well   Or 1 c. mayonnaise 1 - 8 oz. bottle of Kraft coleslaw dressing Mix together salad and dressing. Will keep a few days. After a day or so, add more dressing to moisten it up a bit. Add nuts only before serving or they will get soft.   Chill in refrigerator before serving. Serve either on leaf lettuce or on croissant as sandwiches.

2023/40 JEN HOLE'S LAST SONG

Good Friday started for us in Ireland this year, and ended in a ferry journey across the water and into Wales. That crossing brought to us one of life’s most treasured memories in a trip bursting with magical moments. It brought us one last visit with Jen.

We first knew the Holes and Daniels as stalwarts in the gospel when my brother spent three years in Wales. But my personal relationship with them began when our son served in the Bristol England Mission, which included South Wales. When we came to Wales to retrieve him after his mission, we gathered in a small church in Swansea with fellow saints. They encircled our boy, quite literally, and sang to him. 

Well keep a welcome in the hillside.

Well keep a welcome in the Vales

This land you knew will still be singing

When you come home again to Wales.

This land of song will keep a welcome

And with a love that never fails,

Well kiss away each hour of hiraeth

When you come home again to Wales.

 

We listened, watched, and wept. So did our boy. Every Welshperson I’ve ever met knows that song.

A few years later, when we were traveling with Seatrek 2001, performing the oratorio I helped write, we stayed with Jen and her family. I performed a separate concert for the people of Swansea. When I finished, someone in the audience rose and started singing. The whole crowd of them rose and joined in… "We’ll keep a welcome in the hillside….” Once again I watched and wept.

Through the years since then Jen has visited in the US and we have been able to reconnect. Years between embraces melt away every time.

THE HOLE KIDS
Nancy, Glenn, David and Paul

Jen and Jeff and the kids

The Hole Gang at Christmas dinner
(I borrowed all these photos from their social media pages)

Sisters

Jeff and Jen

Less than two weeks ago, when we boarded the plane to visit my sister in London, I messaged Jen to see if we might meet up at some point. She responded that she was in hospital and would regrettably miss seeing us this time. She had cancer. Not wanting to push anything, I thought perhaps she had had a bone marrow transplant and could not have visitors.

We spent five lovely days with my sister and her husband, who are serving a temple mission in London. We were able to visit Cornwall and St Fagan’s in Cardiff.  Then Ann Marie and Mike went on to London for a few days’ vacation (the temple was closed for two weeks), and Dave and I went on to journey through Ireland. As the time to board a ferry and return to Wales approached I had a recurring desire to see Jen, so much so that I contacted her son Glenn to see how she was doing and if there was even a small chance to stop and wave at her through the hospital window. We would shift our plans however necessary. Glenn, who lives is Canada, contacted his sister Nancy who contacted us. It turns out Jen was not in a good way. She had taken a turn for the worst in her last planned chemo treatment and they decided they could not do anything more to save her. They had begun palliative care. 

Nancy talked to the hospital staff and arranged to get us in, even though it was nearly midnight, so we could see her mum. Nancy met us at the door, a white hospital blanket wrapped around her tired shoulders. We wept when we hugged. I knew, then, that this was holy ground we were walking on. We weaved through the hallways to Jen’s little hospital room. There was a small thin mattress on the floor by the doorway, evidence of children whose love and devotion were part of their eternal bond with their mother. Her grown children made sure she was not left alone each night, and  took turns spending the night on that small cushion on the floor. 

Jen was sleeping. The faint light of the machines around her reflected off her hairless head.

“Mum. Mum, you have visitors.”

Nancy bent over her mother and woke her gently, then moved aside to I could bring my face closer to hers. She opened her heavy eyelids, then raised her brows and whispered; “Cori? Cori?”

I laughed the laughter of friends happily reunited.

“Yes, Jen. Yes, its me! Dave and I came to see you.”

She looked endlessly straight into my eyes. A long, comfortable, eternal gaze. I could not move my eyes from looking into hers, that beautiful welcoming blue that has always been so inviting. Her lips repeated over and over. “I can’t believe you came.” I giggled, “Of course we did. We love you. We love you.” I had to stop myself from repeating it too much… as if there could be too many “I love you’s.”

She asked if I would sing her a song. Her sister Vanessa, and her husband Gary were with us, virtually, through a tiny phone screen. She had been keeping vigil with her sister for days, as were Jen’s children who lived too far away to touch. They asked for a couple songs I wrote; Sisters and Idaho Wind. I sang them, stumbling through them acapella and in far too high a key for my aging vocal chords. I leaned in close to her, almost heart to heart, our eyes never breaking the connection. She looked over at one point and saw Dave in the dark corner. “David! Thank you for coming.”

It reminded me of the scene in Sense and Sensibility when Colonel Brandon had brought Marianne’s mother to her as she lay near death. Marianne sees him in the corner and whispers, “Colonel Brandon. Thank you.” That alone was enough for all the effort it had taken him to reunite them. My David would change any plan, and drive after a very long day to get us to the hospital, because his heart is that good and selfless. Dave slipped into the dim light and took Jenn’s warm, soft hand. “Thank you.” She repeated to him.

“Remember Jen,” I said, “When we came to stay with you and you kicked Nancy out of her bed so you could give it us? She had to sleep upstairs with the boys. Thank you, Nancy!”

Jen nodded her head, the corners of her mouth turning up. I could hear Vanessa's laughter through tears from the speaker on the phone on the table over Jenn's knees.

“And then, remember when you came to the states at Christmastime and we went to the Tabernacle Choir Concert in Salt Lake? And we got our friend to take us all down into the basement of the Conference Center where the giant organ pipes are housed?”

Again, her chest rose and fell with quickness, and she nodded.

“We may not have done a whole lot, but what we have done sure has been wonderful, hasn’t it?”

She was too weak to speak many words, but the language of love sang a full oratorio that night. 

She was getting too weary, and we knew we should go.

“Would it  be ok if we prayed together?” I asked. 

And so I prayed over my friend, Jen Hole. Prayed words to represent all of us. Asked our Lord to ease her journey. Asked him to bless her family. I held one hand, Nancy held the other. It was like Jenn was a conduit of love.

Afterward, when I told her that we would be going, I asked if we could all sing one last song together. 

“Today is Good Friday, you know. The saddest of all days in history. Yesterday would have been the day our Lord had washed feet, broken bread, and given a new commandment. This woman lying in a hospital bed near Swansea exemplified the fulfilment of that commandment. She lived it purely and wholly.”

I started with the tune and the words… As I have loved you…. The others joined in, Nancy from her faithful spot beside her mum, Vanessa and Gary from their devoted chairs in Utah, Dave and I standing on the opposite side of her bed… all of circled around this pillar of love…

Love one another,

This New Commandment, Love One Another

By this shall men know ye are my disciples

If ye have love, one to another.

I lowered my ear down near Jen’s faintly moving lips, to hear the whisper of her last song.

Today, Easter Sunday, Jen flew up to her Lord.

If she had any say in the matter, I believe she would have chosen this very day, because of the message of eternal hope it offers.

Faithful to the end. Devoted and loving to the end. Beloved even still.

I called Nancy this evening to see if she was ok. The family had gathered in her house for Easter dinner, prepared by her loving sister-in-law. Jenn had known they had made plans to share this meal. Nancy said she kind of thought her mum may have sped things up so she would not interrupt the gathering of her most precious treasures in her journey back home. As it turned out, Paul and Nancy had her hand at the very end, both of them having dedicated each night committed to never leaving their mother alone. David had gone to fetch their dad, Jeff. Glenn was aching, from far across the sea, to jump through space and be there with the family. Each of her children and her sister kept vigil, in every way they could, from where they had to be. Thank the Lord for modern technology that makes such a thing possible.

I suggested to Nancy that perhaps Jen took the big leap when she did so she herself could join them. It was the safest way to get there. No doubt she did.

Jen is fine, I’m sure of it. She is feeling so much better and is connecting with her longed-for mother and others. Now it's up to the rest of us to allow the Comforter to do what he has promised to do, for us, and every other soul who knew and loved Jennifer Hole.

Tonight we are feeling a goodly portion of hiraeth. A longing for what feels like home.  I expect that is a bit of us longing for heaven. Keep a place for us there, dear Jen. Until we meet again.

Her finest treasures

In her happy place. Surrounded by family.

2023/39 KATHY OLESON'S EASTER JOURNEY

My old friend Kathy sat beside me on the first pew in our chapel, up front, where we both ended up sitting after bearing our testimonies in church two weeks ago. Kathy had stood to witness to all or us that she loved her Lord. Then she asked, against her timid nature, if we would mind praying for her. “I’m having surgery and feel like I need some extra prayers.” 

Kathy is a faithful soul. If I were in need of prayers, I would want hers. 

Kathy and her husband, Paul.

I’ve known her since before she was baptized into our church. I rejoiced with our friends and neighbors when she entered the waters of baptism. Her husband Paul would stand in testimony meeting when she was not yet a member and tell her from the pulpit that one day she would embrace this gospel. I remember thinking that was rather forward of Paul to do. But by golly, he was right. She did embrace this pathway to our Lord. She has walked it faithfully ever since.

She has the heart of a disciple, ministering and nurturing according to the whisperings of the Spirit. We have been on the receiving end of her graciousness too many times to count. She is gentleness and kindness personified. If you’ve ever received one of Kathy’s pecan pies, you would have tasted her love. Its divine.

In December, before my concert, she called and asked if I wanted the strawberries she had picked from her garden and frozen for the winter. She knew I made jam to sell as a fundraiser for orphan children. When I make jam from Kathy’s berries I write a little “K” on the top, so I know this is the prime jam. In my mind’s eye I see her bent over in her garden, scrunched down there close to the earth, picking those tiny, sweet berries. These are not the big grocery store ones, with a hint of strawberry flavor. A bag of these little super flavorful berries is a trove of treasure. Kathy gives these things away freely.

Kathy and her precious daughter, Katherine.

Years ago, I spent ten days in the hospital with pancreatitis. Kathy was an administrator at Salt lake Regional Hospital at the time, the same hospital where I was staying. Every single day Kathy came to visit me. A sit-down-and-be-together kind of visit, not just an “I hope you’re ok. Bye.” pop-your-head-in kind of visit. Not that those aren’t a message of love as well. My heart cinched itself to her one day at a time during that stay. 

Recently Kathy had been feeling a lack of her usual energy, so she went to her doctor. Turns out there was an issue with her heart. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would work itself out. So, she and her medical team decided that surgery was the route she would take.

I asked her, as we both sat there in the first pew two weeks ago, if she had confidence in her doctor. She is an astute woman, has worked for a long time in the medical field, and she had done her research on qualifications. She had confidence in his skill. Still, something in her compelled her to ask for prayers.

And so, we prayed. She has been in the prayers Dave and I say together, in my private prayers, in our family prayers and our ward prayers.

She had the surgery Monday. Things seemed ok.

And then they didn’t. 

Because I’m in England and Ireland my sister Libby has had to keep me posted. It seems every worst-case scenario has happened. One night, from my hotel room in Cornwall, I spent into the wee hours sending individual texts to our ward members, calling them to prayer. If you know the people in this community of worshipers in the Somerset Ward of the LDS church, you’d know the response. I imagined little pierced holes of light above our neighborhood as prayers were sent up immediately.

Of course, we know there’s no arithmetic in prayers. I don’t think there’s an accountant up in Heaven counting the prayers then doling out blessings. We understand the Lord knows more than we do. What kind of God would we be worshiping if we thought we knew better than him? But we also know He has invited us to communicate with him, and to ask for the righteous desires of our hearts. So, we pray.

Sometimes we don’t like the answers.

Tonight, Holy Saturday, we entered Easter Vigil at Westminster Abbey in London. Every seat was filled, and then they shut the massive wooden doors. The only light was the moonlight streaming through stained glass windows. They lit the Paschal candle, then one by one that single candle passed its light to the hundreds of candles held by each person there. We watched as darkness gave way to a brilliant glowing light. The choir sang, with the angelic high soprano notes of young choir boys ringing with purity, echoing off the cathedral walls. The liturgy was spoken in beautiful British tones. Prayers were given. Eucharist was offered and received. As we followed along with each word of the two-hour service, we were struck by how much of the words, beliefs and practices of another religious path follows the religious pattern of our church. We are all united in Christ.

We stood together and spoke the Lord’s Prayer. We did not need to read it. Few people did. We all knew it.

There was a moment, just after 9 pm, when I felt a pulsing warmth. The choir sang a hymn where the choir boys carried the part of the angels, the basses held a solid deep melody, and the tenors and baritones owned their own melodies. They all overlapped, even with their different songs, in a passionate and beautiful harmonic musical dance. I raised my head, and watched as incense rose, up past the crowds, past the altar and the choir and into the highest chambers of the cathedral. I imagined at that time my friend Kathy’s spirit being released and flying to the Lord she loves. I felt a reassurance that this was a gift to her. She would not have to withstand what would have been a long and excruciating recovery. 

I am not very prone to tears, but they came tonight. Because while I rejoiced at her freeing flight, I also pictured a small grieving family clustered around her, begging her not to have to go, but knowing there was no stopping it. I’ve known her children since they were kids. I’ve seen them go through some tough times. I’ve seen them rise victorious. I’ve watched her bind herself to her beloved grandchildren. She knows their touch, and they know hers. Kathy is fine, I’m sure of it. It’s that little family who loves her and feels a need for her that needs our prayers now.

I can hear her, in my mind’s eye, calling down to us, “Oh my! This is amazing! Come look!” She will move through the gates of a heavenly garden and wonder at the fruits. 

I hear time in Heaven moves at a different rate than here, if there is such a thing as time. She’ll have visited with loved ones already there. She will wash her hands of the weariness of the world, and she will set herself to work. She’ll find herself tomorrow in a deep green patch of heavenly berries and will stand to stretch her spiritual back and turn, putting her hand up to shadow the abundant light. She’ll look a little more closely and see each of us coming. She’ll pull off her gloves and run to us, her hair floating behind her, “Oh, you’re here already?” Then her arms will be safely back around the people she loves.

I have no doubt of it.

If Kathy Oleson had any say in choosing the day she would die it would be perfectly fitting that she would choose the day before Easter to go. She would remind us that just as daylight follows night, so Easter Sunday follows that unimaginable Friday, and the heartache and questions that came with Saturday. She would be sitting with us on Sunday morning, fresh with the hope of new life, worshiping the Savior who made it possible for her, and all of us, to live again… with arms to hug, and lips to kiss, and hearts to beat one against another.

Kathy Johnson Oleson, who loved abundantly, remains beloved, and always will.