In Memory of Randy

This was our gang, a rag-tag group of rowdy kids. That’s me, the little squirt kneeling in the front row, and that’s Randy in the red and white baseball tee. Somehow our cohorts Laura, Dani and Bret didn’t end up in this picture.

We were a group of neighborhood kids who grew up together, played hide and seek and tag and kickball in the street. But more often that not, we were up to some kind of highjinks, and Randy was always the ringleader.

For instance, one night ( back then we were always out running the streets at night, a different era I guess) we wanted to see if we could stop a car with our sheer strength. So we laid a rope down across the street, then waited for a car – several of us on each side of the street, hiding. When the car came, Randy yelled “PULL!” and we each pulled our end of the rope like a tug of war game. Of course it ended in the car screeching to a stop as someone’s dad jumped out of the car threatening to tan our hides while we all scrambled off into the bushes.

Randy was an imp, a feisty kid who was good at sports and no matter what we did, he was always the team captain. Every day he would challenge Laura, a sweet, shy girl,  to “Punch me in the stomach as hard as you can!” He walloped Dani upside the head one day and she turned him in to the principal- which caused a rift they would laugh about years later.

Randy and I just happened to have the same last name (Holmes) so we always ended up sitting next to each other at every assembly, and later, in home rooms.

As we grew up, Randy and I lost contact. He went off to play football for a different High School, and  ended up moving to Texas. Through the miracle of facebook, we reconnected a few years ago. What fun we had retelling the zany stories from “back in the day”. Later, we got into real conversations about life, our families, our kids, and I got to know Randy in a way I hadn’t before.

He was married to the love of his life, Sarah, and they’d had two great kids, Katie and Riley. Riley was a football player, just like his dad, heading off to college, Katie still in High school.

Randy, a true Texas conservative since leaving L.A., would razz me on facebook about my love for President Obama- but always in good fun- the same kind of ribbing he delivered as a kid. He liked to tease, but always with a good heart. He truly had a good heart. He followed my blog, and would write to tell me when a particular post had inspired him.

One day in 2010, Randy wrote to tell me that his wife Sarah had been diagnosed with cancer, but they were fighting. He and Riley shaved their heads in solidarity as she underwent chemo treatments. Sarah kept a blog about her experience and I became one of her loyal readers, always commenting, sending prayers. Randy was so happy in 2011 when he wrote to tell me Sarah was declared cancer free.

Last July, when we got the contract for Dancing at the Shame Prom, this is what Randy wrote me:

Hollye,

Congrats on your contract. You are proof that hanging tough pays off. Don't abandon your memoir, the market will come around, and you will become famous, and people will want to learn more about you. I have to say that you inspired me - all the hardships overcome. While we were children I had no idea. Now, your life is clearly blessed. As is mine. Sarah was just declared cancer free for the second time! I have learned a lot from her perseverance, fighting, being strong, and being positive... she and you have a lot in common in that regard. Keep following your dreams, love the family, and don't let anybody get in your way.

Love, Randy

A few months ago, Dani was in Austin on a business trip and made plans to hang out with Randy and Sarah. When Randy came to pick Dani up at her hotel, he told her they’d gotten some awful news that day – Sarah’s cancer had come back, and she’d been given three months to live. Randy still wanted Dani to come over, Sarah really wanted to meet her and especially to hear stories about Randy’s childhood. Dani said, in spite of the circumstance, they laughed and told stories and had the best time that night and that Sarah was a great woman, a bright light. Dani planned to return to Austin this Summer, and prayed Sarah would still be around.

Dani and I made a pact that we would be there for Randy when Sarah passed- we were, after all, a touchstone for him.

A few weeks ago, I got a message from a family friend on Sarah’s blog that Sarah was close to the end. Yesterday, when I saw another email from this same person, my stomach tensed as I steeled myself against what I assumed would be the news of Sarah’s passing.

What I did not expect was to hear that Randy had passed away the night before, as Sarah lay dying in her hospital bed.

My eyes filled with tears, my mind spun in panic. Did I read that right?

I had to have my husband come and read the email, to make sure I wasn’t in shock. He confirmed it. Sarah was still clinging to life in a hospital. Randy had passed away.

Dani, Laura and I got on the phone, all of us in tears, in shock. How could this be? Inside, we still feel like we’re just that gang of neighborhood kids. How could one of us be gone?

My mind has reached the only conclusion it could: Randy could not live without his Sarah. I wish I could make sense of this. My heart aches for Katie and Riley - much too young to be without both their parents. I wish there were something we could do to ease their overwhelming loss. I hope they will read this and know what their dad meant to a group of neighborhood kids, long, long ago, in a life so far away.

A few months, ago, when Sarah got really, really sick, Randy stopped writing. He was trying every last ditch effort to save Sarah, experimental treatments…anything.

This was the last exchange we had:

(me)

Randy,

Just want you to know I am thinking of you and your family and praying for you. I am so sorry for how hard life has been on you all. I wish there were something I could do.

Sending love,

Hollye

(Randy)

Thank you, Hollye. Just keep sending the love. Sarah is amazingly strong and positive. She truly inspires me. We will get through this. We had a great visit with Dani last Friday, (I got her a little drunk on merlot, but she wont admit it). I look forward to seeing all the Rhoda street crowd.

Randy

All the Rhoda street crowd misses you, Randy. We will always remember your crazy antics, and your deep love for your family. We will continue to pray for Riley and Katie, and for Sarah as she makes her way to you.

We salute you Randy, for all the fun memories you left us.  I hope you are creating mischief and poking fun up in Heaven as you await your beloved Sarah.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Randy Holmes on right, Charles Holt blowing bubble, Lori Silverman with her arm around me, Beverly Nelson Peters poking her head out behind us. Vonda Shepard in front, Sherri Lamanuzzi back row. 

UPDATE: I just got off the phone with Randy and Sarah's beautiful son Riley. Sarah passed away this morning. They say she died with a smile on her face.

Rest in peace forever, Randy and Sarah. May you be guardian angels watching over Riley and Katie for all their lives. God Bless You.

A Prayer for Gabriel

For over twenty years, Troy and I have made music with Gabriel’s family. Together, we have filled ballrooms and venues all over the country with music and laughter and joyous sound. But before Gabriel’s funeral, I never knew the sound of four hundred human souls wailing with grief. Now I do. As my husband Troy said, so eloquently, “The deafening thud of the first bit of earth dropped from mother's shovel to son’s casket is a sound I will not soon forget.”

On this darkest of days, the January sun shone bright, the cloudless sky above was never bluer, as we watched our sweet friend Susan bury her twenty-four year old son, then stand tall and call herself a blessed woman to have loved him. Such unbearable sorrow, such devastating grace and beauty. What to make of it all?

Everyone wants to know how it happened. How could such a young beautiful man die in his sleep? We don’t exactly know yet, and that’s not the point. The point is – it has happened. But still the questions… How? How? It’s as though we think if we can just understand how, we can immunize ourselves from such a terrible fate. I understand this, as I’ve done it myself. But the hard truth is we are not guaranteed any such security in life. Tragedies befall each of us in different ways.

Healing lies not in the how, not in the why, but in the acceptance of what is. It may take us a lifetime or beyond to understand, but this much I know of life. No one gets to elude the difficult parts. There are those who say that happiness is our birthright, but it’s not our only birthright. Suffering, joy, pain, health, illness, disaster, miracles…are all our birthright, because they are all part of the human experience. Pain is what leads us inevitably to Grace. As in the story of Michelangelo, every one of us is David, trapped in the marble, waiting for our Creator to chisel away our cowardice, our ego, our pride and resentments, to release the true essence of what we really are. Suffering opens the door to these defining moments, our holiest moments, if we allow ourselves to be broken open. And once we are, yes, we will know pain. But each of us carries the most powerful antidote in the world to pain, that miraculous healing medicine - love.

Susan and her children epitomized love as they each delivered raw, honest, heartwrenching eulogies to Gabriel. As I watched through tear-filled eyes, I saw light emanating from them, and knew at that moment they were being held by thousands of unseen hands, cradled in prayers from all over the world. Love in action.

They spoke of the overwhelming love Gabriel showed in his life, and asked us all to love each other better, that his life would not have been in vain.

Driving my youngest son Evan home from school yesterday, I was lost in thoughts of the funeral, still trying to process it all- what can I do, how can I help? when out of the blue Evan asked,

“Mommy, how much do you love me?”

“Oh my goodness,” I said, “I love you so much I could never even say…”

“Just try anyway...” he said.

I closed my eyes and absorbed his words. Just try anyway.

Maybe we don’t always know how to love each other better, but we can try anyway. That is what I intend. I will tell my children and all of the people in my life how very much I love them. I will show love through my choices and my actions until my very life becomes a form of prayer- a prayer which I offer in honor of Gabriel:

May my thoughts, my words, my deeds be centered in love.

It may be difficult on some days, and sometimes I may fail, but as my baby boy said…I will just try anyway.

The sun was just beginning to set as the funeral came to an end. The rabbi asked us to form a human walkway for the family to move through as they left the grave to walk back into life. There were so many of us - hundreds and hundreds- it was an astonishing sight. Susan held her head high, making eye contact with us as she passed, acknowledging the love being shown.

As Troy and I left the gravesite, we saw our beautiful friend Terry Lenley. We hugged each other so tight and cried. With tears running down his face, he gave us a reassuring look, “Love’s got this,” he said.

No truer words…

Silence is the sound we hear now. Silence to reflect, to pray, to remember. But one day soon, the silence will give way to music and laughter as Gabriel’s family once again fills their world with the joyous sounds of life. In those moments, I will imagine Gabriel dancing among us.

Rest in peace, Gabriel. And rest in Love.

Blue Hawaii

I have been blue all week, a deep sadness welling up inside me at random moments. It has really caught me off guard. No surprise that I also lost my voice this week.

One of the triggers is that tomorrow is Grandparent’s day at Evan’s school. They had to write and talk about it all week, and tomorrow the kids’ grandparents are coming to class for a celebration. This upset me. What about all the little kids who will have no one there for them tomorrow, like my son? Troy’s parents are in New Mexico, and my Dad is in Texas, and then there’s my mother who lives only twenty minutes away but doesn’t know Evan at all.

And perhaps the true source of my sadness, I just found out, through the grapevine, that my mother is moving to Hawaii next week.

My mother and I have been estranged for ten years. The rift between us was not a result of some petty squabble. In my extended family, there has been sexual impropriety, drug use and abuse, and, on the women’s part, enabling and denial. I made the choice to break the silence, and therefore break the cycle. I was rewarded for my honesty by being outcast, and then blamed for breaking up the family.

We tried to set it right again. We went to therapy, but my mother quit. She said she couldn’t afford it (then went on vacation to Costa Rica, and remodeled her house). We tried without therapists. We met in a park a few years ago to talk things through. I brought Evan who was only two at the time. My mother’s anger took on a life of its own, like a feral cat backed into a corner, hissing and clawing, and all of it directed at me. And there was sweet little Evan, witnessing it all.

I made the choice to protect my own children from that toxicity. I know in my heart it was the right thing to do. But when Grandparent’s day rolls around, it still hurts.

I realized that what I am experiencing is mourning. I still held on to a thin thread of hope for my mother and I. They say times heals…I was waiting. I kept telling myself, any day now, something’s gonna shift. But it never did, and now that she’s leaving, the thread of hope was snipped for good.

The bridge between us was not only burned, it was blown to smithereens.  This is not something that could be fixed long distance over the phone, or without professional help.

So as my mother packs her things and prepares for her new life, I am mourning the death of hope, and of possibility that things could ever be different.

I’ll give Evan pictures of his grandparents to take to school tomorrow. He may grow up without grandparent’s at his birthday parties, recitals or school events, but there is certainly no shortage of love surrounding him. As long as we have love, we can get through anything.

As for my mother, I wish her peace in her heart, and a beautiful life in paradise.

As the sun sets on our relationship, I guess there’s nothing else to say for now but…

Aloha, Mom.

Lessons Learned At A Funeral

I’ve been to more funerals in my life than I care to count. And I have sat bedside with critically ill friends at the ends of their lives. Although it has been painful, I consider this a privilege, for they have taught me valuable life lessons.

My dear friend of 25 years, Phyllis, was like a second mother to me. I loved her with all my heart, but she was a difficult woman. She was tall, strong, a force to be reckoned with, but she spent a lot of her life being offended by people. She was prickly and cantankerous. I’d had a few run-ins with her over the years, and she’d made me cry more than once, but always we came back to a place of love. The last time I saw Phyllis on her deathbed, all her hard edges had softened as she began to wither away. She looked so vulnerable, like a tiny baby bird in a nest of hospital blankets. She was peaceful, finally. Soon she would join her husband and son in the afterlife. The last thing this tough woman said to me before she died- “Love is all that matters.”

A year later, I would watch my friend John die from a brain tumor. At the end, I sat holding his hand while Troy played John’s beloved baby grand piano. The tumor had robbed him of his ability to speak in sentences, but there was no need for words. What mattered was clearly present in that room. John looked into my eyes, took my hand and squeezed it tight. With his other hand patting his heart, he said “So much…so much…”

This Sunday I attended yet another funeral- a sad, tragic funeral of a woman who died much too young. Andrea was Dani’s little sister. I can still see her sitting cross-legged on her bed at thirteen years old, talking about her boyfriend, as Dani and I were putting on make-up, getting ready to go out to some party or High School football game. Andrea, just a little girl in my memory, with her long wavy hair, and a whole life ahead of her.

Now she is ashes.

There had been hurt and misunderstanding between Dani and her sister over the years, and some of Andrea’s life decisions caused her to distance herself from those who loved her. Yet, on the last day of her life as she lied comatose in her hospital bed, Andrea opened her eyes and smiled at Dani. Nothing needed to be said. What was left at the end, above all the broken hearts and hurt feelings, was love.

At the funeral on Sunday, Andrea’s two teenage daughters, now orphaned, stood up and spoke about their love for their mother. Her oldest, Megan, lamented about all the time they spent fighting over petty things. That time could never be regained, time which could have been spent loving each other. I heard that message loud and clear.

Since Sunday, I have witnessed a lot of anger amongst my friends and family, some of it at each other, some at me, over small things, which will one day be long forgotten.  But Sunday put things in perspective for me. I don’t intend to waste a second of my precious life, which I am so lucky to have, quibbling over small things. I want to spend the hours of my life loving my family and friends, and helping others to do the same. I won’t be swayed from this.

People often comment on my relationship with Troy, how much in love we are after so many years. The reason our love has lasted is not because we don’t fight. We do. It doesn’t happen much anymore but in the early years, we almost didn’t make it. What saved us, time and again, is that we always come back to a place of love. Always. The love we have for each other is larger than either of our needs to be right or to be vindicated. The love outweighs our egos. 

My friendship with Erin is that way. We are a couple of strong-willed broads and we’ve collided spectacularly at times, but again, what I love so much about Erin is her great heart, which prevails over everything else, as does mine. As does Dani’s.

Life is rattling my cage pretty hard right now, testing me, challenging me to walk my talk. I ask myself, if I were lying on my deathbed, would these issues matter?

My life’s mission is to live a life of integrity, love and honesty, and to help others do the same. No matter what is thrown at me, I will stand strong in that mission, unshakable. For I know what will matter on my own deathbed is the love and kindness I shared with people.

Phyllis said it, John said it, and an eighteen year-old girl who’s had to grow up way too fast said it best. Love is all that matters.

Goodbye Friend.

(Brandy and Stitch playing in the living room)

One late night, six years ago, I was driving Taylor and his buddies home from one of their first gigs, when suddenly a big dog ran in front of my car and laid down in the street. We pulled over and called to her. She was timid, and at first she hid in the bushes, but finally she ran to me, collapsing at my feet. She was emaciated and filthy and very weak. Her legs had deep cuts- possibly coyote attack. Troy picked her up and carried her to our car and we took her home. When we fed her, she devoured the food like a wild animal. In the morning I took her to the vet. They dressed her leg wounds. She had a bad upper respiratory infection, so we got her on antibiotics and within a few days, our mellow rescue dog was a wild out of control lunatic who demolished everything in the house.

It took time, but eventually we housetrained her, taught her to sit, stay and walk on a leash. And we taught her how to high-five, a trick she loved to show off to little kids.

Life with Brandy wasn’t always easy. She was a scrappy thing, our street dog. She was an alpha, and although she never hurt another dog, she would let them know who was boss. She often drove us crazy with her need to dominate everything and everybody. If she wanted to be pet, she didn’t just sit at your feet, she got inches away from your face and would put her head under your hand repeatedly until you got the clue. She and Stitch used to tear through the living room chasing each other, adding to the chaos of our already turbulent household.

It’s funny how the things that annoy you will one day be the things you miss the most. How I wished in these last few weeks that she would push up against me and beg for attention, or go tearing through the living room.

Early July is when I noticed her panting hard in the middle of the night. Although we did extensive tests on her, nothing showed up. She still hiked with us, and played with Stitch, and ate heartily every day, but she was losing weight rapidly. In four months, she had lost 30 pounds. A few weeks ago I put my palm up to her for a high five, and she couldn’t muster up the strength. That’s when I knew we were in real trouble.

She stopped hiking with us, which was her favorite daily activity. She’d just lay down in the field and quit. Then she stopped eating a couple days ago. And by yesterday, she couldn’t get up at all. Her breathing was labored, her heart pounding erratically.

Panicked, we took her back to the vet, and he told us there was nothing he could do. It seemed her organs were shutting down. They still didn’t know what had gotten her, but with that weight loss, he felt sure it was some form of cancer. He said the kindest thing we could do was to help her cross over.

Although we wanted her suffering to end, it is the still most counterintuitive thing in the world to make the decision to end your pet’s life. Saying goodbye was so hard. I swear she knew what was happening, and it broke my heart. I told her she’d be with Sky now, our black lab who we lost three years ago. Evan said goodbye and I took him out of the room. Troy stayed with her until she was gone. When he came out of the room sobbing, I knew it was over. We walked to the car in silence, Evan dragging her leash, telling us he was walking his invisible dog.

I woke up this morning before the sun and walked through the house. Her leash hung by the front door. Her dog dish sat empty. Brandy is gone.

Good bye friend. Thanks for protecting us, and making us laugh, and making sure we got out to hike every day. I hope we did right by you, Brandy. You sure did annoy us sometimes and we did get mad at you, but we loved you. I hope you are having fun romping through fields with Sky, your best buddy. You were the best high-fiver on four paws, and we will always cherish the memories we had with you.

You may be gone, but the love we had for you is still here. I hope you took that with you when you left us last night.

Heartless

So…Dick Cheney is recovering from Heart Surgery. I saw a doctor on TV the other night explaining the procedure. There’s this amazing little machine inside him that’s pumping his blood, which means that right now, Cheney’s doesn’t actually have a pulse. Really? I mean, did he ever? For a man who by all means appears to be heartless, he’s sure had a lotta heart attacks. Count ‘em …FIVE. But still he lives….and lives….and lives. And yet how many have died as a result of his decisions? How many American soldiers, how many innocent Iraqi children, mothers, fathers? But Dick lives. Dick.

Our friend Greg was healthy and fit, and died instantly from one unexpected heart attack.

I’m pissed off. Seriously PISSED OFF. Why does DICK effin CHENEY get to live and Greg gets to die? Why does God spare him over and over, and not Greg?

Why doesn’t Charles Manson drop dead of a heart attack? Or Mel Gibson, in the middle of one of his racist, mysoginistic raves? Why do those who take other’s lives, make others miserable, get to live? Where is karma? Where is justice?

Anyone have any thoughts on this? If you do, please chime in. Because I’m left with this question in my mind….

Is God heartless, too?

Ain't no Sunshine when you're gone....

The sun has not shone in Los Angeles since our friend Greg Dawson died last week. It is the middle of July…in CALIFORNIA…and the sun has not shone. Coincidence? I think not.

Yesterday at his funeral, the sky actually opened up and wept with all of us. I’ve lived in California all my life. Never before do I remember it raining in July.

It was a beautiful but heartwrenching service. His friends and family who spoke did so with such eloquence, but endless tears. My husband Troy played guitar while a friend sang one of Greg’s songs. The service was two and a half hours long, standing room only. I would have expected nothing less.

This was a man who was absolutely beloved by every single person who knew him. Each person who spoke said they never heard him say a bad word about anyone. That was confirmed by all of his family members in their eulogies. What a legacy. If nothing else, I would like that to be my legacy, too.

Troy had to perform in San Diego immediately after the service. It was unbearable to drive away in separate cars. We talked and cried on our cell phones, driving opposite directions, until I was pulled over by a cop (against the law, I know.). When he saw me crying, the memorial photo of Greg on the front seat and the pile of Kleenex, he let me go.

Every time I turned on the radio, it was a song meant especially for my ears. The first was “Miss You” by the Stones. The second song was “Carry On My Wayward Son”….complete sobfest. I turned off the radio.

I drove two hours in silence, thinking, remembering…All these scenes ran through my mind. A few years ago at our friend Cam’s Christmas party, I got up to sing a Gladys Knight song …All of a sudden Greg and Cam and a few other friends jumped up to be my “Pips”. They had never heard the song, but they started making up background parts and dance steps. It was hysterical, and they were actually GOOD! That’s how Greg was. Fun, outgoing, silly, up for anything.

Maybe one of the reasons this is hitting me so damn hard is that Greg was so much like my husband. He was kind, sweet, sunny and good-natured, loved by everyone who knew him, caring, funny, creative, talented, adventurous, spontaneous. He was the kind of person you just felt good being around. Everyone talked about his hugs, and how wonderful he was with children and animals. I mean, really….how many freekin people like that exist in this world? Now Melanie is without him, and Connor will grow up with only photos and memories. With one switch of fate, it could have been me in Melanie’s shoes. I held Melanie’s hand as I promised to be there for her on the long road ahead. In her eyes was unbearable, soul wrenching pain. I felt it rip right through me, my heart pierced, my mind repeating it’s mantra…why, why,why, why…..

Sadly, today also marks one year since Troy’s best friend Dave lost his twelve-year-old daughter Alanna in a car accident. Last July was just as unbearable. Such unimaginable grief. One year without Alanna, the little girl who everyone said was the kindest, most loving girl who accepted everyone. It’s always the good ones….No, the sun should not shine today. It should not.

Lying in the dark last night, I remembered a time that Troy and I were in New Mexico visiting our friend Joe, who is a rabbi. We were sitting outside at night under that huge New Mexico sky full of stars, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, and talking about the mysteries of life. Joe shared with us a philosophy of the Jewish Faith. He said when each of us dies, we must leave a little bit undone, something for the next generation to pick up and continue.

I was so heartbroken that Greg had died with music still in him, dreams unfulfilled, work unfinished, a child yet to be raised into a man. But remembering Joe’s words, I realized it’s up to us now to pick up the loose threads of his life tapestry, and continue to weave.

So many threads he left… of kindness, creativity, hope, love, music, friendship. He left us all the gift of each other, the friendships we have formed through him. He left us the work he hired us to do. He left us Melanie and Connor.

We are weary and hurting, but we will pick up and carry on, just as Greg, and Alanna, would want us all to do. We will try our best to remember their lessons of kindness and acceptance. I will strive to leave a legacy of “never saying a bad word about anyone”.

Every one of us has lost someone we loved at some time in our lives, but we are still here. We live. We walk the Earth with their stories alive inside us. Love can never be erased. Memories can never be taken away. We are richer for having loved them.

Let us pick up those threads, and continue the work ….

How We Muddle Through...

When we got the news about our dear friend Greg passing, we were in a hotel room alongside the Merced river, about to head home in hours of holiday weekend traffic. With our spirits broken, we just couldn’t face the long grueling drive, so we decided to stay in Yosemite for one more day. For Troy and I, our church has always been nature. This is where we feel closest to creation and the creator, and where we wanted to be when mourning our friend.

We took a day trip, 8000 feet in elevation, into high country. It seemed closer to Heaven, the right place to say goodbye. At times we drove in silence, but it was tough with our four-year-old Evan bouncing around in the back, singing loudly, asking questions, reciting the Korean alphabet over and over (his newest obsession).

We thought of Greg as we drove through canyons, past countless waterfalls, through meadows with grazing deer, around pristine cobalt blue lakes, through patches of snow nestled between tall shady pines. So much beauty, and yet life is always hanging  precariously. The forest will be taken by wildfire, the deer by a predator. So many questions crowded my mind. Such senseless heartache. What reason could there possibly be for this loss? Greg was young, healthy, and dropped dead suddenly of a heart attack. How could this be? At times, I’d look over at Troy and see a tear streaming down the side of his face as he drove, and all the while Evan was singing the Bob Marley song…Don’t worry…bout a thing…every little thing…gonna be alright…

Our best friends Erin and Beth met us at the top, with their four-year-old Ben. We ventured out on a hike into a landscape so gorgeous it may be what Heaven is actually modeled after. The Toulumne meadow stretches on forever, a blanket of green-gold grasses dotted with wildflowers, ribboned with rivers, streams and mineral springs. Evan and Ben skipped through the meadow, over bridges and streams, laughing and playing tag. At any moment you expected to find Julie Andrews spinning in place and singing. All this and yet so heavy our hearts.

It is said that prayer is talking and meditation is listening. I tried to do a lot of listening in this country. I listened as we watched a herd of deer in the center of the meadow, the bucks standing watch as the does and fawns grazed. I listened as we stood ten feet away from a brown bear, who looked up to acknowledge our presence, but peacefully went about his business eating plants and berries, allowing us to sit close and observe him. I listened, and I wondered how the world could be so heartbreakingly beautiful and yet so cruel. But this is nature – pristine, perfect in its design, and absolutely cruel.

I have no answers, only endless questions. All I know is that life is a miracle, and it can also be a nightmare. It is a gift that will one day be snatched away. It is Heaven and it is Hell, and we’re here to experience it all. And I’m reminded that we are definitely on borrowed time, so there’s no use putting things off until “one day”. One thing Troy said that brought me to tears, and does even typing it now...he said Greg died with so much music still in him, dreams he never saw fulfilled. That crushed me.

After a long hike, we began our descent back to the Yosemite Valley. We were quiet and contemplative in the car, but our four year old was not. He’s on a new kick with knock-knock jokes. For forty minutes we endured this:

Evan: Knock-knock!

Me: Who’s there?

Evan: Interrupting chicken!

Me: Interrupt…

Evan: BOK!!!

And it went on with a litany of other interrupting animals; cows, pigs, snakes, parrots…until finally I told him we needed to take a little break so Daddy and I could have some quiet time. At only four years old, he had no idea what we were dealing with, nor should he have to.

Troy and I discussed Greg’s life, asked the questions aloud. How could this happen? What kind of a God allows this? Why always the good ones? All the questions you ask in a horrific circumstance like this.

Evan: Excuse me Mommy.

Me: Not now Evan….

We continued to talk about Greg's life, what a sweet soul he was. We grieved for his young son, and his wife.

Evan: Excuuuuuse me….Mommy I want to tell you something…

Me: Please don’t interrupt Evan.

We went on. I started to cry when I talked about how unique Greg was, how positive and kind he was. Troy and I talked about how Greg always made you feel lifted…

Evan: EXCUSE ME MOMMY- I WANT TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.

Me: (A little annoyed now) What is it Evan?

I whipped my head around to look at him. He was sitting in his car seat, with his huge blue eyes and a sweet expression.

Evan: Mommy, I will lift you up.

Of course this left us both speechless. I paused, and put my hand on his cheek.

Me: You are my sweet angel. I love you. Thank you for saying that.

Evan: I love you, too.

He smiled sweetly, kicking his little legs back and forth. I wiped my eyes and thanked God for my blessings.

Evan: And Mommy?

Me: Yes, my love?

Evan: KNOCK KNOCK!

And that’s how we muddle through. Life simply goes on…

In Memory of Greg...

On our last night in Yosemite, after having been incommunicado for a few days (no cell phones, no internet) my husband Troy called his answering service and found several urgent messages waiting for him. We were horrified to find out our friend of ten years, and Troy’s boss for the past year, had died over the weekend.

Greg was our age, fit, healthy, happy-go-lucky. He had a wife and a six-year-old son, Connor. He dropped dead of a heart attack, no warning. We are beyond devastated. Troy can hardly move, hardly speak. Neither of us could sleep at all.

It’s impossible to believe that Greg is gone. He was so vital, upbeat, joyful, charming, funny, creative. Above all he had a generosity of spirit that one rarely finds in this world. Sure he had his troubles which he sometimes shared with Troy, but he didn’t let them crush his enthusiasm for life.

About ten years ago, Troy produced an album for Greg. That experience began a friendship and mutual respect. Last year, Greg called Troy out of the blue to say he was now head of music production for a new children’s learning website, and wanted to hire Troy as a composer. Seemed like a fun gig, and Troy jumped at the opportunity to work with Greg again. That job has not only paid all our bills, but paid for all the financial disasters of this past year. At a time of recession when most musicians are struggling to find work (including me) Troy has been swamped, thanks to Greg. The work has been fun and creative, but one of the best things about it was working with Greg every day.

Greg was Troy’s champion, his number one cheerleader. He got Troy the position of lead composer, then raised Troy’s rate because he believed Troy was “worth more”. He loved Troy’s compositions, and would say so every day. He would call in the morning with a request, maybe something like, we need a learning song about the Grand Canyon, and it has to be bouncy with a western flair. Troy would get behind his keyboards with manuscript paper, guitars and banjos, and get cracking. Later that day he would have written and recorded a song. Sometimes I helped with vocals. Then he would email the file over to Greg and wait for his call. That was the best part, getting Greg’s call. Greg was so encouraging and uplifting. In the past whenever Troy did any composing for TV or film, it was a constant headache. In Hollywood, they always want it yesterday, and then it’s never right. But Greg always loved Troy’s work, and would tell him so – believe me, very rare in this business. And they weren’t Hollywood compliments Greg was throwing out, they were sincere, thoughtful comments. When I would hear Troy’s footsteps bounding up the stairs from the studio at the end of the day, I could tell he had just hit another one out of the park, and Greg had given him the huge thumbs up.

I’ve been up all night crying and sick to my stomach thinking of Greg’s wife and young son, because I know that Greg is an irreplaceable person. I know that he was the rock in his family, and it pains me to imagine what his wife Melanie is going through.

He’s also irreplaceable to me because my husband was so happy this year. Career-wise, it’s been one of his best years. Working with Greg lifted his spirits and made him feel good about his work every day.

Recently I did a vocal session with Greg. He had a way of making everything fun, positive and upbeat. We laughed and joked our way through singing together, and at the end Greg said to me “We are definitely going to do that again!” About a week later, after a twelve-hour day at work, Greg came to see Troy and I at a restaurant gig. He came by himself, sat there smiling at us for the whole set. We took a break and visited with him. Again, he was so complimentary and sincere, I felt myself buoyed by his enthusiasm, and felt better about myself as a singer by the time he left. In fact, for days afterward I reflected on the kind words he said to me that night. That is a real gift, to walk into a room and make others feel lifted.

Selfishly, I don’t want to let go. I can’t accept that he’s gone, that my husband won’t be bounding up the steps two at a time at the end of his work days.

I’m having a real hard time believing that this is God’s plan. Why would God take a loving father away from his young son? When I think of Greg, I picture him carrying Connor as a baby in the Snuggli like a Daddy Kangaroo. At six years old, I wonder how much Connor will remember his Daddy as he grows up. It pains me to think of Greg’s memory fading away from him, or from any of us.

They say you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone. In this case, that’s not true. We always were grateful for Greg, the work he provided, the encouragement, and the gift of his friendship.

There are a lot of shitheads in the world, but it seems they’re never the ones who drop dead of heart attacks. They live long enough to make life miserable for the rest of us. The world needs people like Greg to balance out the mean spirited ones, the ones who want to tear you down. Right now I’m angry at god, at the way the Universe seems to be weighted toward the negative. Today the world feels completely out of balance.

I guess it’s up to me to find a little more of Greg’s spirit in myself. Maybe if we all strive for more of his spirit, we can set it back on its axis again.

If I could ask a favor of you… it would be just this. Please keep Greg in mind, and in his honor, be kind enough to give someone a leg up when you can. Be encouraging. Be kind. I ask you not only to remember Greg, but to be a “Greg”, because God knows the world needs it, especially now.