Two years

I don't know if anyone even reads this anymore--it's hard to say. It might be easier to believe that than to consider that there might be people who don't know me that well lurking out there since Dave and I used this blog to collect addresses and share our engagement story, etc. Especially since I just want to talk about my mom for a second, a topic that is pretty sacred to me.

I've tried to pretend this day could just pass by if I didn't give it much thought, just like I thought that if I didn't spend too much time hugging my mom at the airport for the last time that our parting wouldn't hurt so bad. I was wrong then and I was wrong this time. Anniversaries are strange things. It's just another day on the calendar, and yet today feels different. People's lives are going on like normal, and my day has stood still. I remember feeling so disoriented after my mom died when I came across coverage of the Oscars. My initial reaction was, how could anyone possibly care about an event like this when my world has just ended? It was the first time I realized that every day someone's world ends and that I was not the first to wonder how the world can just charge on in the face of so much sorrow and loss.

My life slowed down significantly that day. Things that used to matter to me fell by the wayside. In survival mode, only the most important things remained in my life. As I reflect on my life two years later, I'm happy to find that that particular way of living is still mostly in place.

This year's anniversary is much different than last year's. Last year I was still enduring the hottest part of the crucible. I wasn't sure I was going to make it--on many levels. Then came a moment of deliverance. Followed by a lonely summer in Rexburg where I really had to figure my life out: where I wanted to go, if I wanted God to be a part of my life, how I was going to trust him again. And then, one day--labor weekend, actually--after months of fasting and prayer, suddenly the fire stopped burning. I can't explain it, but it was as if I had been covered in a shroud of darkness that had suddenly been drawn away, and I realized the sun had been shining all along. It had been shining all along. All along.

My life changed in that moment. I felt guilty for feeling so relieved, so happy, but then I felt her next to me, telling me, "Julie, if you're happy, I'm happy. Be happy."

A little over a month later, I met Dave. I never thought I would be happy again, and here I am, happier than I have ever been in my entire life. It is one of those bittersweet moments: the growth I experienced in the wake of my mother's death was necessary for me to be ready for Dave. Consequently, though, the two most important people in my life will never meet. Not in mortality anyway.

Dave and I will be married in 45 days in the St. George Temple. I am fairly certain that not even a legion of angels could keep her from attending. I just wish I could see her. Hug her. Hear her tell me how proud she is of me. How happy she is that Dave and I found each other. I wish we could share that happiness together, in person, with her holding my hand. That's what I wish today. Wishing may not make it happen, but I can certainly paint that lovely, happy picture in my head.