jpstest -1: The Rain in Spain is wet.

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Jonathan's Story

Day one, May 22^nd

It had been a wet May. The sky was overcast and the snow pack in the Wasatch mountains was well above normal. Weather forecasters and people in general were concerned with the snow pack, and the prospect of flooding had turned to reality in Utah as well as many parts of the country. Along the Wasatch front river levels were rising, which threatened and already cost private property and business owners considerable amounts of money.

The fear of course was that a repeat or worse of the flooding of down town Salt Lake due to snow pack that was at least as bad for this late in the year, as the pack in 1985 (?) which, after a wet snowy spring suddenly melted and dumped all it's moisture on the streets of Salt Lake City.

Politics as well as other local issues occupied the news. The main political stories revolved around reducing the national debt, the Mideast, terrorism, and of course the controversy surrounding President Barack Obama's domestic and foreign policies.

But for the moment these issues were the least of my concerns. I was on my way home from the grave yard shift at the University of Utah hospital in Salt lake City. It had been a long night, but nothing out of the ordinary. The chief electrician who happened to be at his desk noticed the work order I had sent in for an air handler in the new wing, building 522, that had quit in the middle of the night. As we could get by with the other four air handlers until Monday, I was surprised at his insistence that we check out the unit, and figure out what was wrong.

As it turned out, the unit failed due to a faulty sensor in the air handler, set on the metal plenum near the supply fans. As it had to go to controls and there was no one from the control shop in the building and as it wasn't an emergency, I decided to send another work order through and have the electrician sign off the WO I had sent to him.

There had been some talk by Jonathan and my wife Judi, about a girl living in Colorado my son had been talking to on the internet. As Jonathan was very shy around girls, this was a surprise. More importantly, the girl had agreed to visit our home and meet Jonathan the following week end. That was even more amazing, and almost unheard of. For Jonathan, by nature this was a very bold move and so I took this as a very good sign. At 31, I was concerned that Jonathan had moved in for good and would never get up enough courage to make another attempt to date.

Not that I didn't like his company. Jonathan was affable, helpful and easy to love. We had over the years done many things together. Skiing, hiking, camping, attended numerous foot ball games, scouting, and many family outings.

I have an incurable disease called Inclusion Body Myositis. It is a slow but progressive wasting disease that affects the muscles in the arms and legs. So as time has passed, I have come to rely on Jonathan for more things that demanded physical strength, and fine motor skills. And while he had his own concerns, he was always willing to help, and treated Judi and I with respect, and freely reciprocated our love.

I was unaware of any enemies, and his co – workers seemed to respect and admire him.

Also in about two weeks a trip to Toronto Canada had been planned , to visit my wife's sister and her family, whom I had not seen for many years. The trip was planned out, the air line tickets and car rental were bought. While there, we had scheduled a visit to Palmyra, New York where Joseph Smith had according to our faith, had his first vision.

In addition, Lorrie's youngest daughter- Jonathan's cousin- had planned a wedding, for the Saturday after our Friday arrival, which was two weeks from Yesterday.

But, again, these issues were, at that moment, secondary. Due to my own internal clock, it was imperative that I get to bed as soon as possible after grave yard shift. On Sunday mornings, I usually bathed, changed clothes and attended the 9 AM sacrament service. Then I returned home went to bed, and slept until late afternoon. And although I was not exhausted to the point of collapse, grave yard shifts do wear the body down. Under the circumstances, especially on Sunday mornings, usually the freeways are not crowded. That allows me to slow down. Sometimes, I'll tune the radio station to quiet, religious programming. This helps me to unwind, and put my mind at ease on the drive home.

At approximately 7:45 AM In pulled into the drive way, put the car in 'PARK' and turned off the engine. Due to the steep elevation of the driveway, if I didn't back the car in, it was always a trick to keep the car door open while I exited the door, especially considering the Myositis. Since we had made the mistake of not taking this into account when we moved in just over a year earlier, I had no one to blame but myself for this oversight.

I grabbed my knapsack and pushed the car door opened. I wedged my body against the door frame and pushed up to stand. Just then, I heard the front door fly open. My wife ran through the front door.

She was screaming.

“JOHN?”

“JOHN!! JONATHAN HAS BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT. HE IS NOT RESPONDING!!”

Stunned, I asked where it had happened. She cried she didn't know, but she had gotten a call from the Inter Mountain Medical center. They had told her that they had found her phone number on his cell phone. She was dressed in her night gown, turned around and went inside to get her street clothes on.

I slumped into the driver's seat, wrapped my arms around the nap sack and started to sob uncontrollably. Rocking back and forth, over and over, these words burst from my mouth:

“ PLEASE DEAR GOD, DON'T TAKE MY SON'S LIFE. OH PLEASE DEAR GOD, DON'T TAKE MY SON'S LIFE....”

Thus began our descent into hell.

Xxx

Beginnings.

When I write about my son, I realize his story is not unique. Many others; parents, loved ones and those friends left behind to mourn and pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, live as testaments to the terrible reality they must face under horrible and tragic circumstances. Yet, due to the events that had shaped his life, and choices for better and worse, had led Jonathan to that fateful place at that fateful time, I believe his story is worth the telling, and in doing so, hopefully, it will clarify issues parents, with children brought up in a Christian environment may confront when events beyond our control, tear us from our loved ones and rip open a hole in the fabric of our lives.

xxx

Jonathan McKay Bowers was born on Saturday September 29, 1979 in Provo, Utah which happened to be the same birth date of my brother, Kenneth. From the start, he was not of small physical stature. He came into the world at nine pounds even and approximately 21 inches in length. From there, he would grow to manhood at just under six feet six inches in height and weigh 240 pounds.

From the start, Jonathan like sports. Perhaps that came from my own insistence on attending the BYU football game after Jonathan was born, and my wife's situation had stabilized.

As I recall, BYU bested Texas- El Paso that day by a score of 31-10. When Jonathan was about one year old, we took him to his first BYU football game, though the particulars of the game are lost to my memory.

We decided on the name of Jonathan due of course to my own name. His middle name came from the name of a fellow student I had known that had the first name of MacKay. I liked it and so we used it as his middle name. And to me it seemed a good fit.

We lived in a small trailer court on the south side of town, that we rented from my parents. I was going to school and was winding up my bachelor's degree in finance. Jonathan was a welcome addition to Judi and I . Right from the start, he had an even disposition and was a good baby. He fussed little and usually gave us little reason for concern.

I graduated from BYU in the fall of 1980. As we had no where to go, her parents who lived in Canada said we could move in with them, until we got ourselves situated. We took them up on this offer and packed up our things and headed north.

This move for Judi and I started out to be a fortuitous decision. Judi was pregnant, and while we had medical insurance, we had assumed another normal birth, which turned out not to be the case. Un known to us when we crossed the border, she was pregnant with twin girls, which were born in early March, 1981.

So, Jonathan's sisters came upon the scene just two months after our move to Regina, Saskatchewan.

Though our income was modest, we managed to save up enough money to enjoy many family outings, including camping trips among the lakes, forests and plains of British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan.

Saskatchewan is known for bitter winds and winter temperatures that plunge well below 0 Fahrenheit.

Being from Mesa, Arizona, these temperatures came a shock to my system, from which I never recovered. But it never seemed to bother Jonathan. Even in the most severe weather, he was happy skating at the rink, playing hockey, and working on his puck handling skills.

Jonathan was also deeply involved in scouting. Over the course of about three years, he worked diligently and eventually his efforts paid off. Just shy of his sixteenth birthday, Jonathan achieved his Chief Scout award, which in the Canadian equivalent to the U.S. Eagle Scout.

To get his Chief scout, he has to , among other things hike so many miles, though I don't recall what that was. So he hikes and hikes and hikes. On a few of these occasions, I go with him, and these outings are usually in freezing cold. I am now in my early forties and these outings don't come easy. Hiking in the bush outside of the city( the bush is everywhere there isn't cleared farmland or parks) is a nightmare in the best of circumstances. Poison oak and wild rose bushes, along with dozens of other scrub brush species and trees fill the country side and hamper our progress. The wild rose is particularly bad. The thorns tear at your clothes and skin. But as usual, Jonathan takes most of this in stride. The only one who seems to be complaining is me.

One such outing, we are dropped off near the Queen Elizabeth power plant. It was late dusk, with little day light left. The city lights were clearly visible We hiked to the South Saskatchewan river's edge and plunged into the bush.. We were only a coupe of miles from the city, yet in the bush it is virtually pitch black. Almost instantly I am completely lost, and my mood sinks. I, like others were crawling along the ground, on my hands and knees in a futile attempt to make headway against the thorns and undergrowth. Lucky for everyone, I am not in charge. The scout master passess by me almost at a run, breaking a trail. He, like Jonathan do not seem to be affected by the thorns, or the cold temperatures.

In the dark, we pass through farm land. Barns and houses pass as ghosts, silhouetted in moon light. They vanish as soon as they appear. We walk, saying little for to do so takes energy.

In and out of the bush we march The moon light is welcome when we have it. The passing trees, and houses and barns cast errie shadows on the ground that move as we pass. But of course it is us that are moving, but at the time I am too tired to even think about this. Still, when we break into a clearing the scenery is almost breathtaking. My feet are sore. I am tired and simply want to stop and sleep.

The exposed skin on my arms and hands and face feel raw from the thorns and bush. It is early February, and it is below freezing. It could be far worse. The temperature is well above normal for this time of year.

Sometime around midnight we stop and camp near the river bank. The ground is frozen, and covered with frozen dew. We eat little, spread our tarps out, spread out our blankets and crawl into our sleeping bags. I crawl in fully clothed. I bring only a summer sleeping bag, and I quickly learn what that means. I spend the night freezing, shivering.

The next day is much better. The sun breaks through the mist that forms along the river. The river is froze over and some one suggests we move along the river to save time. But someone else nixes this idea and I tend to agree. This is all new to me, but in my frozen numbed mind, I see the danger of moving along the river ice.

We head out over land and soon we find asphalt. We hike along the road for a couple of miles, then back we go into the bush. More farmland, trees, and wild rose. As bad as it is, at least there are no bugs. (In a later overnighter in summertime with some scouts, the bishop offered his land as a place for a campsite. But the wasps, bees and other bugs come out in swarms. Instead, we go a campsite at a Provincial campground and I was in charge am grateful that sometimes I do make the right decisions.)

Sometime in late afternoon, we reach Camp Seewahnee. It is a scout campground, and I am grateful the hard part is over. We set camp, build a fire and eat. Then we play a game or two, then to the sleeping bags and welcome sleep.

The next day is Sunday. The camp is closed, but we pick a small clearing with logs spread across the ground for sitting. We have a short sacrament meeting. The scout leaders give short gospel talks and bear their testimonies. Then we break camp and head for home.

The following winter we are out on Black Strap Reservoir, to complete the hiking requirements for a merit badge, and for his Chief Scout. A few days before, Jonathan and I went to the reservoir to check out the weather and thickness of the ice. We walked out a ways and dug into the ice with the claw of a hammer. We realized it was frozen solid for at least several inches. It was November and very cold, well below 0 Fahrenheit. In addition, the wind was blowing and the wind chill in winter is always a big concern. I didn't like this one bit and I knew it meant no sleep, exhaustion and hours of walking in the snow and ice in sub zero conditions. But the gig is on and I and Jonathan are going whether I want to or not.

The day of the camp, we drive my van to a parking lot across from the planned campsite about three quarters of a mile across a narrow neck of Black Strap. The rule is clear. Unless there is an emergency, no one is to go anywhere near the cars for comfort or to get out of the snow. Then two of the cars are used to drive the scouts and equipment to the drop off point near the bridge and park the cars by my van, and come across the frozen water and join us at the campsite.

Once out of the car, we use twine to load and secure our supplies to the toboggans, and then set out across the frozen lake, to the campsite which is about 3 miles to the south. Of course as soon as we unload our stuff, things start to unravel. For starters, how about trying to tie twine with frozen fingers?

The snow is slippery and on lake ice it is even worse. The wind is blowing and hard. I am already shivering and begging my some miracle- broken leg or neck, I don't have to go through with it. But Jonathan is there and what am I to do?

We head out on the lake and go a few feet and then the load on the bob sleds starts to come loose and fall off. We constantly have to stop retie and secure the loads. I keep muttering- swearing is more like it- to myself about my plight, seeking some rational justification for volunteering for this insane ordeal.

Of course we have to carry our canteens next to our chests, inside our coats or the water will freeze. This is self evident even to the not so clued in types such as myself. But in spite of my best efforts, perhaps because of the constant jiggling, there is some leakage, which leads to further discomfort as water is subject to the laws of gravity and slowly seeps down the inside of my woolen shirt.

The idea is to avoid sweating when hiking in such severe conditions. Water decreases the thermal protection of clothing and can lower body temperature. I get pretty good at this, but still sweat breaks out across my brow. Slugging through the snow in such conditions is a nightmare at the best of times. But as I was the only 'leader' with the scouts at that time, the ordeal is far from over when we reach camp a couple of hours later. In fact is was only just beginning.

We reached camp and immediately began to build snow huts or 'Quinzhees.' These consists of nothing more than mounds of snow piled about seven feet high and then left to set for a few hours. Then sticks- branches about 10-12 inches long are stuck into the mounds at given intervals and left in until the mounds settle sufficiently to hollow out.

The Quinzhees are hollowed out using a small body with a snow suit or adequate protection against the snow. Once the snow is cleared t o the length of the sticks, the sticks are removed to allow for air circulation inside the huts, but yet allow for good thermal protection against outside temperatures and wind chill. The floor of the hut is then lined with cat tail stems and leaves and a sleeping bag laid on the leaves to soften the floor and protect the sleeping bags against moisture accumulation by creating air flow beneath the body.

After super and clean up me and Jonathan stretched out our bags in the Quinzhee and try to sleep. But I realized we made the entrance to big and too much cold air enters the hut and we freeze any way. My sleeping bag is this time made for such cold temperatures, but I spend both nights tossing and turning, trying in vain to find a position where my skin is not exposed to any tiny holes in the bag where jets of cold air irritate and freeze the skin. So, I spent both nights tossing and turning, struggling with bad thoughts, a sinking mood and foul disposition.

By morning, I feel miserable but try to hide my feelings and make the most of it. Jonathan, however seems to take this all in stride and seems to be enjoying himself or at least not hating it.

The second day consisted of long hikes and lots of burnt or uncooked food. Most of it is wasted and has to be dumped in the fire. Some of it however makes it into our guts and we don't throw up or get sick. So,I supposed this was a good sign. Another good sign in hindsight is that the fire is built on lake ice. But the ice is so thick and the melted water freezes overnight, so the fire dosen't sink into the lake.

Smart. Very smart.

Cleaning utensils and dinner ware is a bit tricky when the temperature is so cold. True, we boiled water, heating it enough to kill the germs, but if one wasn't careful, the metal dinner ware would freeze to the skin if left out for any length of time and touched with wet hands. This was followed by extreme discomfort of prying the dinner ware from one's hand and the risk of loosing skin was ever present, if we were not careful.

In the early afternoon, however, a few of the scouts did come down sick. So, they packed it off and went back toward the Blackstrap ski hill, to the north to catch a ride home. One of the scout leaders left about the same time, but the reasons escape me. Probably to accompany the sick scouts back to safe harbor, but I'm not sure.

By the end of the second day, all that were left were Jonathan, a handful of other scouts and one other scout leader and my Aerostar parked on the far side of the lake.

The morning of the third day, all of us were freezing, hungry and exhausted. We discussed staying another night to satisfy the requirements for another merit badge but that idea went now where.

So, we broke camp loaded up our stuff and headed for the van. Jonathan headed out ahead and asked me for the keys to the Aerostar. I consented, and brought up the rear with the other scout leader.

Trudging through the snow with the bobsled in tow I put one foot in front of the other, too tired to look to the right or left. I just kept my head down, looking up only to keep my bearings as I dragged my living corpse the last three quarters of a mile back to the van.

About two thirds of the way across, I noticed a bluish object partially covered in the snow, directly beneath my line of sight, that seemed oddly out of place. I stooped over and brushed away the snow.

A clear plastic bubble appeared, that was attached to a blue leather strap. Beneath the bubble the word “FORD” appeared in smooth hand written script.

A few minutes later, Jonathan returned, his eyes wet. He had been crying. He apologized for losing the keys to the only known car for miles. Slowly I reached down, pulled the keys from my pocket and dangled them in front of his eyes.

Many years later, I think of that trip, and thank God for small miracles. For a peaceful ride home and the warmth of my son's friendship forged from such experiences.

Jonathan experienced many of the things normal to growing up in a typical North American community. Scouting, paper routes, playing a musical instrument- trombone- in a high school band,

high school football player, learning to play the piano, skiing, family summer vacations.

He was not one to seek attention or praise for his endeavors. Physically, he was very strong, and had the capacity to work long hard hours.

I remember his morning paper route. He would get up around 5-5:30, pick up the papers that were left at the front door of our apartment, load them into paper bags strapped over his shoulders( a bicycle was simply not practical in the winter snows) and walk into the dark, freezing winter mornings. These bags were not light and my best guess, weighed from 50 to 75 lbs.

Sometimes, I helped him with his paper route, but of course I took the car. Once, when I did the route, I got up late. Hurrying to finish the route before I had to go to work, I stepped out of the car and forgot to put it in park. The car took off. There were cars parked on both sides of the street, and the street is caked with ice. But fortunately the ice is rutted and the ruts run down the middle of the street. But I am slipping and running after the car in my snow boots, hoping, praying it will stay in the middle of the street. After about 100 feet, I jumped in the open car door and slammed on the brakes.

Somewhere in his 'career' as a paper boy Jonathan turns sixteen. More and more he takes the car to deliver the papers. I grouse about this, but say nothing. Perhaps this is selfish of me, and Jonathan is

a good driver. But I think about the ice. Even the best drivers have difficulty on icy roads. Fender benders are all too common on Saskatoon streets in the winter.

XXX

On the morning of Sunday, May 22, my wife was getting ready for church when the hospital called.

They had found her number on Jonathan's cell phone. He was taken to Inter Mountain Medical Center in Murray Utah. Upon my return from work, Judi changed and knocked on the door of our neighbor across the street, Brother Lafiso and told him the news. He dressed quickly and accompanied us to the hospital.

Not far from home, we came upon a crash site at an intersection. We were diverted around the site and we wondered – rightly- at the time whether the crash involved Jonathan. Later, we learned from the police that the driver was going so fast, he slammed into Jonathan's car twisting and pushing the rear of the car on top of a car parked in the left lane, smashed into the car stopped in front of Jonathan pushing it through the intersection, and onto the intersecting street. The car then flew across the intersection crashing into a retaining wall on the far side.

Arriving at he hospital we took the elevator to the fifth floor, the Shock Trauma unit. There, we were greeted by a Dr. White. He ushered us into a conference room. Our hearts sank as were told the horrible news. Jonathan had suffered severe head injuries. The internal pressure in his brain was rising and the only option left to save our son's life was to undergo a crainectomy- the removal of a part of the skull- to reduce intercranial pressure which exceeded 60, which was far greater than found under normal circumstances. If the pressure was not releived, Jonathan would not survive.

Our world had just been violently turned upside down In that early Sunday morning hour, our son of almost 32 years, dressed for work and walked out our front door never to return. Now just a few hours later he lay in the hospital unresponsive with massive brain injuries, with little or no chance of survival.

As bad as it was, I had no idea of just how bad it would get.

At the hospital, my wife is given Jonathan's cell phone. On the cell phone there is a text message from a girl in Colorado Jonathan has been corresponding with. She was divorced , and Jonathan had begun to establish a rapport with on of her sons. A few days before, she had agreed to come to our home and meet Jonathan for the first time. This meeting was to take place the following weekend.

The test message read: “I hope you are having a good day.”

The gut wretching emotional upheaval of having to deal with such a terrible wound to our family, was and still is difficult to describe. The events of the next thirteen days would push my wife and family to the limits of endurance, and place an emotional, physical, and spiritual burden on us, that far exceeded anything I or my wife and daughters had ever known.

The bond between parent and child is incredibly strong, and for good reason. The demands placed on parents and children in the family are at times extremely taxing on multiple levels. From conception, these bonds form and strengthen, forming part of the foundation necessary for the sustenance of the family unit which is God given and necessary for the care and nurturing of children.

And this bond, so necessary for the survival of the family, the source of so much joy and satisfaction in child rearing, is also the main reason for feelings of loss, upheaval, agony and emptiness my wife and I were and still experience.

This is not to say that the bonds tying parent and child don't change. I fully realize the need for the child – parent bond to gradually stretch to allow the child with confidence to leave the nest and make his or her own way in life.

But the bond is ever present, and the emotions that surface, the hurt and emptiness that remain...

I have described it like someone putting a shot gun to my heart and pulling the trigger. And while the wound is not physical, nevertheless it is very real, and it hurts like hell.

A tangled mass of questions, carrying a lot of emotional baggage, surfaced during those early hours.

What exactly happened? Who else was involved? Any one else hurt? Was the criminal caught?

Was he arrested, or is he/she still on the loose? Have charges been filed? What is the prognosis for our son? What if any thing can we do do help in his recovery? What is being done do speed his recovery? If he does recover, what will that mean? If he does happen to wake up what will be left of what was once our son? Will he be normal (highly unlikely) or will he be a raving lunatic with severe disabilities, driven mad with constant headaches, and seizures? Will he be blind, deaf, and or dumb or all three?

And of course, the most enigmatic and unanswerable question off all.

Why?

By 'why' I don't mean who or how? We knew shortly after his arrival at the hospital about the car accident, and that alcohol or other mind altering drugs were involved. That the car had struck Jonathan's car at a high rate of speed. That the criminal had fled the scene and was driving on a suspended license. That others were injured and Jonathan probably didn't know what hit him.

By 'why,' I mean, why did God allow this to happen to our son, our only beloved son?

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I believed that God had a plan for everyone on this earth, including my son, Jonathan. Jonathan had lived an honorable life and had picked a job at least in the short term- where he could serve others. Even his Major studies in school- Emergency Management and Preparation reflected this desire.

Stories of his helping others abounded, may of which surfaced after he was gone. For example, for years, Jonathan attended a young single adults ward. One of the members was confined to a wheel chair. An activity was planned at a local skating rink, and Jonathan, not wanting to leave the young man out, helped him get to t he rink, and once there took him in his wheel chair out onto the ice and skated with him while he pushed him around the ice.

But the 'why' will probably remain unanswered for the rest of our lives, and is known only to God At some point in the next few days, our bishop shares his belief that the Lord had a calling for Jonathan to do on the other side of the veil, and this has something to do with his departure. Others express similar views and this is comforting to a point. I believe it wasn't God that brought our family to this tragedy, but it was the result an evil, savage selfish act of someone out getting his kicks on booze, or drugs. I do believe however that good eventually triumphs over evil, and that God uses evil as one of many means means to accomplish his purposes. Even if that means we who are left to pick up the pieces, at least in the short term, must endure intense personal suffering.

This reasoning makes to most sense to me and gives me the most comfort. Still, my son lies nearly brain dead in the hospital with only the thinnest thread of hope for full recovery. This reality, this knowledge still causes terrible pain.

Whether an act of God or not, I firmly believe the accident was completely avoidable, and the criminal should suffer to the fullest extent of the law.

Parents will do and say about anything to get their children back under such circumstances. Before Jonathan is taken into surgery to have part of his skull removed, I in the presence of doctors and the bishop's second counselor, say a prayer commanding God to heal my son. This is crazy talk, but I can't restrain myself. Even then, I realize my son probably won't make it, but what am I to do?

We leave the room and while Jonathan is is surgery, the bishop's counselor, myself, and a couple of other church leaders convene in a small room ,close the door and form a prayer circle. Each in turn says a prayer asking the Lord to spare Jonathan's life, and seeking to know his will.

The day drags on. Minutes turn to hours, hours to months, and months to years. Everything seems to stand still, while the pain, and emptiness increase. More people, relatives and friends stop by to give their condolences. Fellow employees of gold Cross Ambulance stop in to pay their respects. All the while the nurse's warn that we must keep the room quiet. During the first two or three days, the nurses are quite strict about this, and try to keep the number of visitors to a minimum.

Jonathan is returned to his room, much of his head is covered in bandages. There is a probe inserted into his head, which measures his inter cranial pressure. The numbers are low- around 15 and we are told they need to stay below 25. There is good blood flow to the brain and we are encouraged by this.

The nurses say the swelling should start to come down in four to five days, near the end of the week. We take these as positive signs, but we are under no illusions as to the seriousness of his condition.

This struggle between hoped for outcomes and reality, is a source of emotional upheaval during Jonathan's stay in the hospital. I feel like insides are being shredded. And these feelings only worsen as the days pass.

Right from the start I lose my appetite and find it increasingly difficult to sleep. My wife is suffering from the same symptoms. The nurse's warn us about this and tell us to take care of ourselves, for we could be in for the long haul, which seems to suggest this nightmare could go on for weeks or even months. I began to worry about what that means. Jonathan is now on a respirator, but he shows signs his body is at some level trying to breathe on it's own, but is not quite able. He still needs help. What if Jonathan recovers enough to breathe on his own and that is as far as his recovery goes. What then? What if at some point we decide to take Jonathan off the respirator and let nature take it's course, and Jonathan does not die right away, and instead lingers. For how long will he linger, and just how will we be forced to watch the awful spectacle as he slowly dies before our eyes? And if he lives it will in all likelihood be in a vegetative state. How then will we care for him?

At the time, Jonathan was working part time for Gold Cross Ambulance as an Emergency Medical Technician. As such he had no medical insurance, except for a modest amount he had on his car, as required by law. If it came to long term care, just where could we take him, and how would that be paid for?

In the days that followed, most of these questions would be answered. But at the time, the unknowns were emotionally draining, and caused us extreme pain and inner turmoil.

Nor were all these questions apparent at the outset. And how to deal with these issues from a faith based perspective was not at all clear. Except for prayer and fasting, how were we to find out God's will concerning our son, and in the end make decisions which first and foremost were in Jonathan's best interests? One of the greatest struggles during all of this was to set aside our own emotions and act accordingly.

Whether or not we acted in accordance with God's will, perhaps we won't know the full answer until the judgment day. But I do know that my wife and I both desperately tried, throughout the entire ordeal to do just that, and do what was best for Jonathan.

From 7 to 8:30 each morning and night we must clear the room, I assume to clean Jonathan and do other duties requiring some privacy. We come back later, and talk to Jonathan. We tell him how much we love him and want him to come back to us. We have a family prayer and hold each others hand and touch Jonathan to include him in the prayer circle.

We are very tired and leave around 10:30 PM.

Circa 1986- We are living on Bothwell street in Regina, Saskatchewan. Our home borders an old city dump ground that has been covered with dirt, planted over with grass and converted into a city park. Lots of hills for toboggans, sleds and kids, in the winter and flat open spaces for softball in the summer.

Jonathan takes to the toboggan like fish to water. He loves the out of doors and that love stays with him the rest of his life.

One night at home on Bothwell I hear singing coming from one of the bedrooms. I approach the door and peer in. Jonathan has an old Walt Disney song book out and is trying to lead Pete and Sam in the song “Supercalafragalisticexpealadoshis..”

One Saturday in the summertime, Jonathan is riding his bike and is hit by a car. He flips over the car and lands on his head. Other than scrapes and bruises, he appears ok. But the following day, Judi calls me at church from home . Jonathan started throwing up. I come home and we take him the hospital.

But the doctors can find nothing wrong. They tell us to take him home and keep an eye on him. We are very relieved. In the days that pass, there are no other symptoms or apparent damage.

He also starts Trombone lessons. He played for the Lions city band, but that is too expensive. So we switch to the Royal Conservatory. He sits at our piano and plays with the sheet music on the piano music stand. He scars the front of the piano, with the long slide. For five years we fight with him to learn the instrument. This one thing I regret. I played the trombone as a kid and figured it was as good as any place to start. Jonathan figures other wise. Eventually, he teaches himself to play the piano, and he is pretty good at it, and plays sometimes in church meetings, though he hates playing in public.

The second day, May 23^rd.

We arrive at the hospital around 9 AM. We offer multiple prayers and make family prayer including our son in the prayer circle a part of the daily routine. The intercranial pressure is creeping up, but the nurses say this is to be expected as the swelling continues. We are somewhat relieved and hopeful.

Then around noon, he is taken away for another CAT scan. We are hopeful for improvement. But, later in the day the doctor arrives with the latest results. He shows us the scan of Jonathan's brain when he first arrived Sunday morning, and then the one taken at noon. The latest scan shows massive brain injury, not only from the accident but from what they call “secondary swelling” that still continues.

Every cross section shows irreversible damage. This is an very ominous sign. And we have not given up hope. We try to put a good face on it, and say stuff like “well, yes but the swelling is supposed to continue at least until the weekend.” We believe that if God wills it, our son can be healed. But we are not kidding ourselves.

Most of the time is spent praying, reading scriptures. At times we talk to Jonathan in quiet tones and whisper to him to get well. We stroke his arms and kiss his hands, telling him how mush we love him and want him to come back to us.

Sometime later in the second day or the third, Tuesday, I watch as the nurse stops Jonathan's sedative medicine, and tries to wake him up. The nurse yells at Jonathan to wake up and shakes him vigorously.

But it's like shaking a damp rag. Jonathan shows no signs of regaining consciousness whatsoever.

The drugs continue unabated during this time including a saline solution to control the swelling. All of the drugs are administered with the greatest care. As explained to us, each drug given has side effects and has to be balanced against the other medicines and what the body can stand. During the remainder of his stay in the Shock Trauma unit, this balance is one the main ones fought to save Jonathan's life.

The day is filled with bad news, but we continue to pray for a miracle. As time passes this is the only thing we have to hold onto. We receive news that there are many friends at church, school and work that are praying for Jonathan. Many stop by and share their condolences. As the days go by, the trickle of visitors turns into a flood. Somewhere, the nurses relax the rule on only two visitors in the room at a time. They believe that Jonathan is not going to recover, but they want to spare our feelings and don't come right out and say it. At least not yet. But the signs are adding up.

By the end of the second day we are exhausted, and go home around 10:30 PM.

At home, I and Judi start to take sleeping pills. But I still continue to struggle with sleep and find in spite of the pills, my nights are filled with fear and prayer. Many times in the night, I cry out my son's name and beg God to save Jonathan's life.

In late April, 2010, we move into our new home in West Jordan from West Valley, about five miles distant. We have a cat named Lacy. She has been with us for about nine years. All of us love the cat and grow very fond of her. Soon after we move, however, we find out that Lacy has throat cancer. Except for pain killers there is little we can do. One day, in late June, Jonathan, Judi, and I take the cat to the hospital and have her put to sleep. We put her in a box and Jonathan and his cousin Natalie bury her in the back yard. Jonathan cries as he does this. Judi and I are also broken up and shed tears. This for me is highly unusual. I have never been attached to a pet like I was to Lacy. At some point after putting her down, I say something out loud to Jonathan and my wife to the effect that as traumatic as Lacy's death was, I couldn't guess how awful it would be to loose one of my children.

Circa 1993-94 One of many summer vacations, this one to Takaka falls in YO – HO National Park, British Columbia. The falls are spectacular and fall several hundred feet. Jonathan stands on a rock near the falls and with the water mist blowing around him, makes a funny face which I catch in a still photo.

On another trip to the falls, I jump across two outcroppings of rock. Beneath me the water from the falls flows through a narrows formed by the outcroppings. The rocks are slippery and I find I cannot return from the way I came. I wander to a place downstream where the river widens and I cross there.

But the river is still waist deep and running fast. The water is ice cold, and the bottom is slippery and my runners have little grip. The kids are embarrassed, laughing and pointing. And others vacationers are laughing, pointing and snapping photos. I have a BYU sweater on.

I have a tendency to make a fool of myself, especially on family outings. Sometimes I bribe the girls to sing a silly song in a restaurant or some other public place. Sometimes they take me up on it, most times, not. Gradually, I increase the bribe to simply get a reaction. Jonathan takes all of this in stride and acts like it's great fun. But he is also protective of his sisters and makes it known when he thinks I have gone to far.

I want the kids to remember these vacations, and fun we had, even when Dad made a fool of himself.

And I want them to remember that too. In the years that come, these times return in conversations with my wife and kids. In spite of our modest standard of living, there are lots of fond memories of these times. When they entered high School, the trips tapered off. I regret this and wish we had done more together.

On another trip to Duck Mountain and Riding Mountain provincial parks we camp. The scenery is stunningly beautiful. The kids entertain themselves by feeding the ground squirrels marsh mellows.

In a much earlier event, Jonathan is taking a bath with his sisters. I fill their hair with soap and form the hair into a kind of mow hawk and take a picture. We have the picture along with many others in family photo albums. Some day when the pain has eased somewhat, I will look at them again. But not now. Nor anytime soon.

Day three, Tuesday May 24^th.

Kim is a girl Jonathan had corresponded with on the internet for the last few months. Although they had developed a friendship, it had not gone beyond that until now. Then, someone suggested the idea that they meet. I'm not sure who, but to our surprise and delight, Kim agreed to this and was coming to West Jordan to meet Jonathan and the folks. We were to meet Kim the following weekend.

When Kim heard the news then I thought everything would change. But Kim discussed it with Judi and came anyway. She showed up at the hospital to meet Jonathan. She stayed two days. It was not uncommon for her to stand with us at Jonathan's bedside talking gently to and praying for Jonathan.

Kim is a divorce with five children. I had mixed feelings about this because of the number of kids and her former husband was still giving her lots of grief. But after meeting her, and seeing how she interacted with my wife and the rest of the family, I think Jonathan and Kim could have had some chemistry. Jonathan had developed some rapport with a least one of her boys. I would like to think they could have hit it off.

Maybe, should'a could'a. What might have been if... and the biggie- What if?

What if we had not moved to West Jordan but instead moved somewhere else? We had vacillated on this, whether to move into an apartment and wait for the housing market cool down or go ahead and buy. About a week after we sold, the housing bubble burst and changed from a buyers to a sellers market. The housing prices were soft when we sold, and then they stiffened. So many short sales narrowed the number of houses available in the short term, and with the demand spurred on by the first time buyers federal tax credit that expired at the end of April, the rush for homes immediately available increased. We got caught up in this, and we finally balked at moving into an apartment, and tried to find a home instead.

We looked for at least six weeks and by the time we found the home in West Jordan, we had just ten days left to buy a house, get final loan papers approved and move. This was not inconsequential nor without future ramifications for our family. But at the time, it seemed like the best thing to do.

This house had many good qualities and some bad major ones. The major bad one was it has a sloped driveway that makes it difficult to keep clear of snow and ice in the winter. Another problem was the price. This was a major jump in the size of the house and a considerable jump in our monthly mortgage payment. And at my age, 59- this was a foolish thing to do for that reason.

Everything seemed to fall into place for us to get the house. We took this as a good sign. And for just over a year, this seemed to be the case. There were some challenges with the snow but we adapted and with Jonathan to help out which he did on several occasions, things were going along ok. But this is not a good way to think. In hindsight buying the home was nothing short of a disaster. What if had been living somewhere else or had moved into an apartment and waited? If as we believe God has a plan for everyone ( see for example the Bible, Acts 17:26, Jeremiah 1:5 ) then would Jonathan's life have been taken regardless of where we lived? What possible good could come from the brutal selfish act that took his life ? If God needed him on the other side of the veil, and if God eventually overcomes evil with good, still the question remains. By what means are we going to be or will we ever find a way to compensate for this terrible loss?

This kind of thinking leads to endless second guessing and can wreck havoc on a person. The hand we are given, called life, is full of uncertainty. None of us are clairvoyant, nor do we possess the mind of God. Each decision creates it own uncertainties via the simple act of making the decision.

What if we turn turn left at one intersection instead of another one down the road that would have accomplished the same thing and gotten us to our destination just as easily and with the same effort and distance? Why did we turn there instead of using another route? We make it through the intersection and arrive at our destination without incident. Our loved ones await us, and life goes on. If we had taken another route, does our being there change time or one of an infinite number of unknown variables and coincidence enough to change the outcome? Do we instead, get into a fiery crash with a gasoline tanker and die in the inferno, by simply taking one route home over another, each seemly as harmless as the other?

Since Jonathan's accident, these questions haunt me. And no matter how hard I try not to think about them, they continue to surface. Unanswerable questions. Around and around I go, and I think I am going crazy. I think about my son and I cry, and cry and cry. All I care about is getting my son back, whole, himself and completely healed.

Am I driven by guilt? If supposedly I have the holy spirit to guide me, why didn't know of the impending accident, early enough to warn Jonathan? I have not lived a perfect life. Nobody does.

Despite the multitude of weaknesses that beset me, I have tried to live an honorable one.

Why didn't I know....Why oh God, why didn't I know?

The police along with a representative of the victims advocates unit arrive and share details of the crash. The criminal had a suspended license, was drunk, and ran from the scene. And he was speeding when he hit Jonathan. The victims unit had a fund we could access as a last source of funds for costs incurred.

The rest of the day passes without incident. But the inter crannial pressure continues to rise. I remember what the nurses and doctors have said about the swelling and I am reminded that there is good blood flow to the brain. Sometime in this day or the next, one of the doctors use the word “Catastrophic” for the first and only time that I recall. This rocks me, but I try not to dwell on it.

We invite Kim into our home and She and Judi seem to hit if off. This hurts even more and again I try not to think about what might have been.

A couple of weeks before Jonathan's accident, Jonathan removes a huge pine bush in the back yard. I appreciate his efforts. It is increasingly difficult if for me to do such work. It is one of the reasons why we had to move from our last home. The root bundle is huge and we have to hack off the roots with a saw to make the bundle fit into the green trash bin. I help him the best I can. The job is completed over several days. We want to put a tool shed at the same spot. But since Jonathan is gone, we just want to sell the house and move. It is too painful to stay. So the shed will not be built.

Any way, we might plant a tree instead and call it the “Jonathan tree.” I am not convinced this is a good idea. That would remind us of our son. And bring more pain.

Day four, Wednesday May 24^th.

We arrive later than usual. It is becoming more difficult to get up and go the the hospital. My legs and arms feel heavy, almost like lead. Walking across the parking lot to the hospital entrance is increasingly difficult. And I know why. It is not only because of the Myositis. I am trying to have faith and trust that my son will still recover. That somehow God will intervene and reverse the irreversible.

But every day brings more bad news. There are little if no “small victories” to hold onto. Watching my son die is taking a heavy toll on my health. In addition I am fasting intentionally. But I have little appetite and so what can it hurt? My thinking is fuzzy on this except that I am desperately trying to understand God's will concerning my son. And fasting, according to my faith, is one way of offering a sacrifice indicating my devotion to God.

The inter crannial pressure is now at or above 25. This is the number below which is considered a safe pressure. The nurses explain that the pressure readings are not the only thing to consider. There is still good blood flow to the brain and he is getting lots of nutrients. But he needs lots of rest and we need to keep the noise down to allow maximum opportunity for recovery.

The seeking of knowledge is crucial to making decisions, especially in situations like this. Just what is God's will and how does it manifest itself? We know prayer is one conduit. But there are others. Nature and the complexity of the universe far too complex to have been created by chance. So man, being part of nature was created for a reason. God did not create this world because he had nothing better to do with his time. So, in creating the world, is this not a manifestation of his will, and design?

If so, is not man and his ability to reason, also an extension or manifestation of that will, since we are created in the image of God, we must accept man's ability to reason, and reveal through reason

the secrets or laws of the universe- nature- that God used to create the universe and the rules governing it. Then it is not unreasonable to discover God's will when men try to use the laws of nature through applied medicine to protect and prolong life. For life is good. And to prolong life is good.

But even to prolong life according to man's ability has it's limits. And even if the doctor's had managed

to preserve Jonathan's life, just what kind of life would it be? Just because life can be prolonged, is it good to prolong life when by any measure the outcome will mean more suffering for us and more importantly for our son? Would we serve Jonathan's best interest if he wakes up raving mad or in excruciating pain for the rest of his life?

As the days pass, Judi and I hear stories of miraculous healings. One such story is about a person being pronounced brain dead, yet waking up on the day the respirator was to be removed and living a normal life. Another one told of a man being in a coma for months and eventually waking up.

Doctor mistakes in diagnosis, unexpected recoveries defying all medical knowledge. These feed the desperate hope burning in out hearts. In spite of what the CAT and MRI scans indicate, regardless of the stark truth plastered daily on the monitors that Jonathan will not recover, we still hold onto hope.

The doctors did say the swelling should come down by the weekend. Then we should have a better indication of what the prognosis is.

There is a common thread of miraculous divine intervention and healing in these stories that is very appealing, especially for us. But they fly in the face of what I am witnessing. If such intervention is to take place it has to be now if not sooner. Jonathan is not getting better over the days that drag on and on. He is getting worse. But we continue to fast and pray, hoping somehow things will still change for the better.

I ask about long term care if Jonathan makes enough of a recovery to breathe on his own, yet not wake up. The hospital social worker tells us of two institutions, one in Orem and another in Bountiful where people requiring intensive long term care are taken.

Even thinking such thoughts is depressing and encouraging at the same time. That Jonathan could survive, even in a prolonged comatose state is encouraging. At least he would be alive. And as long as he is alive there is hope But what kind of life and how long would he remain in that state, no one knows. Weeks, months. Maybe forever.

The Bishop gives me a blessing that it will become clear to me what we should do. About this time, I think the unthinkable. And I am ashamed because I not only think it, I actually discuss organ donation with one of the nurses. Organ donation is really the end. No organs no chance of recovery, no chance of life. I feel I am letting my son down. That I am giving up. And it's only been four days.

I am torn because of my lack of faith and the terrible reality that's staring me in the face. I want to turn and run. Runaway to some distant place, where I don't have to watch and think about my son lying in bed, the last spark of life being killed by the ever increasing pressure on his brain, caused by the swelling that still continues, that the doctors are unable to stop. But I cannot run. I cannot escape the terrible pain in my chest and the emptiness that consumes my strength and saps my hope.

Nor will I. He is our son, and Judi and I are not leaving his side, nor will we abandon him, no matter the outcome. He deserves far better than I am able to give. Perhaps if Jonathan had a father with greater faith, the outcome may be different. But this is only another form of self flagellation.

My wife has far greater faith than me. Her heart is breaking, yet she remains calm and is expressing words spoken by angels.

Her stand is un yielding. She has not and will not give up hope. This sustains me and give me hope. Nor do I believe our hope is vain. For hope and faith are interwoven in meaning and necessary for miracles to happen.

At Kim's suggestion we read from the Book of Mormon beginning at Chapter seven verse 24. Mormon speaks of the divers ways the Lord reveals things unto the children of men. That through the ministering of angels, and the words of God, men are able to exercise faith and lay hold upon every good thing. That from faith miracles are possible,that through the asking of the father in faith it will be done if it is “expedient in me.”

The words are stirring and sink deep into my heart. Over the last days of Jonathan's life we read them over and over again. I question my self, and whether I have faith enough for Jonathan to be healed. But we are asking God for nothing short of healing or giving Jonathan a new brain. For the accident has turned Jonathan's brain to hamburger, for lack of a better term.

I recall the stories from the Bible where Jesus healed the lame, caused the blind to see. He even raised Lazarus from the dead. And that is what we were asking God to do.

In hindsight, we were asking God to raise Jonathan from death unto life. We were asking God to resurrect our son. And this by any stretch, even for those who had walked and talked with Jesus, was no small undertaking.

Yet, as Christians, believing that God had restored the authority to act in his name, if we accept the miracles in the Bible as being authentic, then such miracles must be possible today. But a possible outcome is very different from what the Lord may want or what is staring us in the face. And it began to dawn on me what the Lord wants is staring at me, screaming in my eyes and ears and tearing at my heart.

The rest of the day is spent in fasting and prayer. Fellow workers from gold Cross stream in giving their condolences. Others from the singles wards Jonathan attended come and pay their respects.

The outpouring of love for Jonathan is stunning. The number of lives he touched and influenced seems endless. Some is understandable, for he worked and lived a life of service to others. But so much love for my son, so many expressions of sympathy are much more than I can explain. At home Jonathan was quiet, reserved. He was not the gabby type.

Perhaps that is the nature of love and service. If and when it is reciprocated, it returns to the giver in far greater quantities than when it was given.

There are many tears shed today. And this will continue in the days and nights to come.

My wife and I are distributors of Doterra precious oils. We learned that Frankincense is good for people with brain injuries. The only place we can apply it is to his feet. So, I start on a kind of ritual of anointing and messaging his feet with Frankincense. I love the smell, and even though it sounds like a hokey idea, I do it anyway.

Perhaps it is more for me than for Jonathan that I do this. While I anoint and message his feet with oil, I am sobbing and kissing his feet. Over and over I tell Jonathan how much I love him.

I wish I could stop crying. For someone my age to cry like a baby...this is not a manly way to behave.

We come back after the 7-8:30 PM break and stay about an hour. We offer more prayers including Jonathan in out little family circle. My daughters and son in law are there with us.

At home, more and more sleeping pills are needed to get needed rest. This is unusual for me, even with the chronic pain in my ears, I have tried to use them sparingly.

We are living at Gladmer Park in Regina, Saskatchewan, circa 1984. Jonathan is about 5 years old. These are old army barracks that have been converted into apartments. The rent is cheap, and that is reflected in the accommodations. The word 'spartan' comes to mind. Serviceable but spartan. One day, the kids decide to play house. As usual, Jonathan plays the father. Samantha plays the mother, and Petra is the son. But this time, Petra starts griping. She is tired of being the son, and wants to play someone else, instead.

Jonathan pipes up. “Ok Petra. Then you can be the chicken!”

On Sangster boulevard in Regina, a few years later, circa 1986. The apartment block borders on an elementary school ground The twins are going to kindergarten, their first year of school. I am watching through the window as they march off to school. The three of them are together, the girls flank Jonathan on each side. His arms are around the girls shoulders, as they walk together as one would do with the best of friends. I am also struck that Jonathan is acting like an older brother, a protector.

Day five Thursday May 26^th.

The day starts out with a bit of optimism. Even though the intercrannial pressure continues to rise,

we are feeling optimistic. Perhaps it is because of our own speculation and continued belief that the Lord will intervene and save our son's life.

The morning is filled with prayer. We speak softly to Jonathan and give him messages of hope and love. We caress his arms and hands. At least twice during the day I anoint his feet with Frankincense. About 11:am, Jonathan is taken away for an MRI scan.

It will be a couple of hours. We go for lunch, and continue to try and be optimistic. The results of the scan are not known until late afternoon. Then Doctor McFarland arrives and shows us Jonathan's brain, slide by slide. Each one tells the same story as the CAT scans. Massive irreparable brain damage.

For some strange reason we take this as a positive sign. His brain is badly damaged. But the scan shows nothing worse than what the CAT scans revealed.

Kim is standing next to me watching the same slides, and listening as the doctor lays out the stark reality of Jonathan's condition. I can see the strain on her face. She is a nurse and can knows what the slides are telling us. Still, she remains optimistic.

I am encouraged by her optimism, and also that of my wife. But dark thoughts tear at my heart and dampen my mood.

Again, nothing I am seeing tells me that Jonathan will recover, certainly not fully. But what if Jonathan does open his eyes. What then? And if he does not, how long will he live?

What then? How long? And what kind of life? How do we take care of him? These are questions which short of a complete recovery, no parent should be forced to answer, yet alone contemplate.

Yet, the questions persisted, taking on a life independent of our own volition, because the near future was a complete un known a void into which myself, Judi and loved ones had been violently thrust.

Seeking knowledge beyond man's ability or understanding. Wisdom, and knowledge where none existed and where medical knowledge could not take us, or give us assurances beyond the simple fact that Jonathan was not going to make it.

Perhaps it is into that void that, willingly or according to God's own time, we must take the leap, and in spite of the hellish nightmare that fills out lives, we trust.

And hope.

Day six Friday, May 27^th.

What ever hope we had the previous day was completely crushed on this day, at least for me. Around noon, an EKG was performed t o check for any upper brain activity. The results do not come back for some time. But later that afternoon the nurse tells us the news. Jonathan's brain shows no sign of seizures. We are thankful for that and take that as positive. But then we hear that upper brain, the part responsible the essence of who we are including consciousness, shows no brain activity whatsoever. The graph is completely flat.

Except for some brain stem activity supporting breathing and heart beat, Jonathan is brain dead. Legally he is not brain dead, but the Doctor's make it very clear. He will not recover. No one in his condition has ever recovered from such damage. There is nothing they can do to fix it. And what little brain activity remains in the brain stem is slowly dying. It is now just a matter of time.

The doctors and nurses have been very kind, and if Jonathan was to ever have a chance he couldn't have gone to a better trained staff and equipped hospital for such accidents.

But there are limits as to what doctors can do, especially when it comes to massive brain damage.

At one point, I am invited into a doctor's conference outside of Jonathan's room. They discuss his condition and on going treatment. This is before Friday, but I don't remember the day. I ask some general questions and engage in a few what if scenarios. Are there any drugs that could be given at the time or shortly after the accident to prevent the swelling that was responsible for so much of the damage to Jonathan's brain, and perhaps which in the future could save someone else's life? No is the answer. One the accident happened, the damage was so massive, the outcome was almost inevitable.

What about hypobaric oxygen treatment? The doctor says that these are good questions, but Jonathan was receiving enhanced Oxygen treatment. And the verdict on such treatment in Oxygen chambers under these conditions was still out and not at all certain.

Kim has left and gone back to Colorado. The what- if surrounding her might- have - been relationship with Jonathan haunts me. No marriage, no family no children, no grandchildren. All of this gone in an instant of savage selfishness.

The intercrannial pressure is now approaching 50, far above the safe level of 25. The doctors acknowledge there is little more they can to. The bulge underneath the flap of ski on the right side of Jonathan's head where part of the skull has been removed appears to be filling with brain matter. I cannot admit this to myself. The idea is to horrifying. Just the same it is there. The implication is unmistakable. The doctors cannot the swelling of the brain. And it still continues.

Jonathan is slipping away and there is nothing short of a miracle that will stop it.

That night around the dinner table, Judi, myself along with our relatives discuss how to proceed. Perhaps the ordeal is like Nephi's of old where he is commanded to retrieve the plates of brass. After several attempts have failed, he returns one more time to try and get the plates from Laban, not knowing beforehand what he should do or how he was going to obtain the plates. All he knew was in spite of the very real danger to his life, still he was commanded to get them.

After I hear the EKG report, I tear my hat from my head and throw it against the wall. I say something like “well, that's it. That's all she wrote.” I break down again, sobbing. Over and over I babble the word “WHY...WHY...”

Alsask, Saskatchewan Circa 1989

Alsask is a small- run down community on the border of Alberta and Saskatchewan. Nearby is an old radar dome, remnants of the Canadian Forces Pine Tree Line. We make frequent visits from Saskatoon to the trailer park, where my wife's parents live.

There is a golf course. Jonathan and I spend many days on course, walking the dusty sand filled fairway, I complain the golf course has it backwards. Most of the fairways are little more than one long sand trap after another, with little tufts of green sprouting through the sand and parched cracked ground. The only water hazard is little more than a bog filled with overgrown weeds, and smelly trapped runoff from very infrequent rains. The bog is not very large. Even so, I manage to land more than one ball in the muck.

The only part of the golf course that seems to get any attention are some, not all of the putting greens.

But the ground is hard and uneven. But there are ground squirrels every where, and their holes are all over the fairways and putting greens. And these holes burrowed in the fairways are the biggest hazard of all. We keep watch as we walk together along the greens and fairways. No wants to walk home with a sprained ankle. Jonathan seems to take all this in without much complaint. The dust and heat don't seem to bother him

In these games, there is no par, no handicap, and for the most part, score is not kept. But that is not the reason I play. Jonathan learns how to swing the club with pretty good results in spite of the teacher (me). Most of my swings result in hooks and slices, when I actually manage to hit the ball.

Most of the time, Jonathan manages to best me on the course, notwithstanding his youth.

On at least one occasion we walk several miles along the back roads and perimeter service road of the golf course. This is a necessity for the hiking requirements for scouting. We carry a lunch and at one point we stop and eat . There is a light breeze. The day is not too hot, and we find a small log on which to sit. I don't remember much about the hike except is was long, and dusty but not too hot. And I am with my son. That reason and this reason alone, makes the time spent on such activities well worth it.

Day seven, Saturday May 28^th

We return Saturday morning and are shocked, if that's possible. The doctors have removed the intercrannial pressure monitor and probe from Jonathan's skull. The reason is clear. They believe, and have the data to back it up, that Jonathan will not recover. There are no what if's or maybes. The EKG has confirmed what the MRI and CAT scans show. The questions that remain deal with how long he will continue to breathe on his own, and how long it will be before Judi and I come to terms with reality and consent to remove the respirator and let nature take it's course. The doctors cannot actively assist in the death of our son.

That is against the law. We must decide when to pull the plug. We have been told that if we, the parents consent to remove the breathing tubes, and turn off the respirator, Jonathan will not survive. It is not a matter of if, only a matter of when.

But what does that mean? One minute, an hour, a day perhaps more? We are torn about this. How do parents consent to do such a thing? The obvious answer is, to stop the suffering.

My wife still has faith, and believes God can heal Jonathan can be healed if it is his will. She continues to be the rock through this nightmare.

There is the other question to consider, which we have been wrestling with the last few days, although to this point we have not openly discussed it. It hangs there unanswered and the result means it's all over.

Organ donation is the final straw, and means certain death. Jonathan is all but brain dead anyway, so one may wonder what all the fuss is about. But it is not easy to let Jonathan go. At one point one of the nurses pulls me aside and thanks me for wanting to do such an unselfish thing. I tell her that I am just trying to make something positive come from this nightmare.

We are less than two days away from death, but at that time we do not know this. We do know that Jonathan is slipping away and no one except God can stop it. Jonathan's life is now completely in his hands.

The weight in my legs and arms gets heavier and heavier as time passes. We know there are many people praying and fasting for my son. This is a great comfort to us. But the pain of watching my son die is almost unbearable and only gets worse as the days drag on.

I spend more time outside near the reflecting pool and water fall. The sound of the water is calming, but cannot soothe the ache and emptiness in my chest. My energy is melting away, and by now almost every thing I do requires extreme effort. I think I am headed for a nervous breakdown if I am not careful.

I call my sister Suzie who lives in Virginia and give her an update. But this does not go well at all. Somehow I force the words out, and she understands in spite of my sobbings. Suzie cries and tells me how sorry she is and how much she loves me.

I am sure I have cried more in the last week than my entire lifetime. I would not wish this on my worst enemy.

We do not know with certainty what is going to happen even in the short term. But the question of when to pull the tubes and whether to donate Jonathan's organs are hanging over us like an un fulfilled curse. Of course, we cannot donate his organs once we remove Jonathan from the respirator. But we cannot contribute his organs unless we know he is legally dead, and Jonathan is still trying to breathe on his own, albeit his breathing response is getting weaker as the days pass.

Three Sisters campground summer 1988.

We have been camping for a couple of weeks. I graduated from The Saskatoon Institute of Applied Arts and Sciences. We are traveling and camping in Alberta as I visit various sites and businesses, looking for work. The campground is near the east entrance to Baniff National Park. After we park and set up camp, I tell Jonathan and his sisters to take the watermelon and place it in a shallow part of a nearby stream to cool. Instead, they go to the bridge and drop it into deeper water. It rolls among the rocks and lands in a nearby shallow pool. I grab the melon and tell Jonathan and Petra to take it to a nearby potable water fountain and wash off the dirt.

A short time before this, someone moved into the next camping spot and set up camp. They had a huge dog. They were walking down the trail connecting the camp sites when they encountered Petra and Jonathan. From beyond eye sight we hear a blood curling scream. Petra and Jonathan return and tells us about the dog and that Petra had thrown the melon into the air when she saw the dog coming near her. The melon lands on the ground and breaks into pieces.

I tell Jonathan to go back, pick up the pieces and throw them in the garbage. A while later, Jonathan returns with watermelon juice smeared on his cheeks and mouth. Carrying some dripping pieces in his hands he looked at me and said, “ that was really good, Dad.”

Day eight, Sunday May 29^th.

I am in bed. My eyes are glued to the clock radio on the other side of the bedroom. It is about 5:45 in the morning. From somewhere distant, I think I hear an explosion. Metal crashing into metal. It is the sound my wife heard one week ago at about this time that woke her up. I focus and listen, and I realize my mind is playing tricks on me.

But I listen anyway, trying to imagine my son's last moments before the accident. At 60 miles per hour a car is traveling 88 feet per second. 80 MPH converts to just over 117 feet per second. This is the speed witnesses say the car was traveling when it struck Jonathan. If that's true, then the car traveled the length of a football field in less than three seconds. How long does it take to get out of the way, to move the car or release the safety belt, open the door and run? My best guess; at lest ten seconds to shove the car in park, release the seat belt, open the door and get clear. And that would be under optimum circumstances. Ten seconds at 117 feet/second = 1,170 feet. One quarter mile = 1320 feet.

But again, that's optimal. Jonathan's car was equipped with manual door locks, and what would happen if the transmission shifter or the seat belt buckle stuck? And how many people would know instantly what a car over one thousand feet to the rear in clear view with no cars or visual obstacles blocking the view, would do?

Again, the 'what- if' game. But there is no way around it. Once Jonathan was stopped at the light, he didn't stand a chance. Perhaps if he was wearing a crash helmet...

Maybe. Probably not. I asked Dr McFarland if it would have made any difference if the accident had happened in the hospital parking lot. The answer was a final “no.” Once the accident happened, the brain damage was so severe it wouldn't have mattered.

I look at the clock again. Only ten minutes have passed. It's not even 6 O' clock yet. Just minutes have gone by. It seems like years. Again, I' ve had little sleep.

I start to sob. My wife is already up and is in the den. My heart is breaking, and I whisper his name;

“Oh Jonathan. My sweet dear son. Why... Oh dear God why...”

I do not hear her, but I know she is crying too.

We attend sacrament meeting in the morning and break our fast at noon. We go to the hospital. The doctors are now just keeping Jonathan 'comfortable' but they are not making any further attempts to control the swelling or any other symptoms. The swelling has not stopped and the bulge on the side of Jonathan's head is only getting larger. It's just a matter of time.

In the afternoon, Judi's mother, brother and sister and sister- in- law arrive from Canada. Everyone comes except Judi's father . We give Jonathan another blessing and offer more personal prayers.

After supper I go back to the hospital alone. I am in deep despair. I beg God to help me understand his word and know what his will is concerning my son. I ask him in prayer to teach me how to recognize his spirit in my heart, and what his will is concerning my son.

When I arrive, the doctors are busy trying to sustain Jonathan's blood pressure. It has fallen and he is very near dying due to sepsis- blood infection. In the beginning, Jonathan's brain couldn''t sustain life. Now his body is starting to fail, due to lying for so long in bed and the continuing deterioration of his

brain.

I call my wife and tell her about Jonathan's condition and that he may not make it through the night.

Most of them come up. By then Jonathan has stabilized. The charge nurse is Mormon and we get into a discussion about Jonathan's condition. She confirms what we already know. Jonathan is very near death and will not recover. We discuss the idea that God has plan for each of us on the earth and that Jonathan has fulfilled his reason for being here. This is heartbreaking, but I need to hear it. When Judi arrives, The nurse takes her to the side and sits down almost in front of her and takes Judi's hand in hers. Then she talks to her in hushed tones, but I can hear some of it. She is letting Judi know what's happening and affirm as gently as she can that Jonathan will not recover and he will not wake up.

I have lost the Frankincense, But I message and kiss my son's feet.

It is very late, around twelve midnight. The bishop arrives and we are allowed to used the conference room across the hall. We close the door and each of us expresses our view on what to do next. The bishop feels it may be time to give Jonathan a blessing and release Jonathan's spirit, or turn it over to God and let his will be done. Many express their love for Jonathan.

In the end, we decide to give Jonathan a blessing to release his spirit. We know we are near the end, but how much longer Jonathan will live we do not know. We do not know yet if he will live several more days, or if we will be forced to decide to remove the breathing tubes, turn off the respirator, and let nature take it's course or if or when he will stop breathing on his own.

We reassemble in Jonathan's room and the bishop gives Jonathan the blessing to release his spirit. Then we gather around Jonathan's bed and sing “God be with you 'til we meet again.”

We kiss and tell Jonathan how much we love him and say our farewells. We leave around one in the morning.

We are in the mission home in Provo, Utah saying farewell to our son. It is mid June, 1999 almost twelve years ago. There is a farewell meeting, and after it is over, we watch Jonathan file out with the other missionaries. He is going to the Montreal, Canada mission. He has reached his full stature and is a very handsome young man.

Two months later, I see Jonathan off at the Salt Lake airport. Sam and I hug Jonathan, express our love and wish him well. We watch as he disappears down the loading dock ramp toward the plane door.

Both occasions are heart rending, and I pray he will be in God's safe keeping.

On the return trip from Provo to Salt Lake, I feel a deep ache in my chest for my son. I will miss him terribly, but I know we will meet again in two years.

Day nine, May 30^th – Memorial Day

The phone call came around 9:30 AM. Doctor White had been trying to reach us for the last couple of hours. He tried my wife but was unable to get her on the phone. I was putting laundry in the dryer when my phone rang.

The doctor told me Jonathan had expired at about 7:30 AM. They had done the tests which confirmed that Jonathan was now legally brain dead.

He said he was very sorry.

I began to cry and I thanked him for his efforts on behalf of my son.. H e then asked me if I would approve getting Jonathan's body ready for organ donation. I told him to go ahead. He thanked me and the conversation ended.

Judi and myself went to the hospital and met with an organ donation team member. We talked about

the options, and about donating his major organs. In addition, she asked permission to donate skin, bone his eye balls, and other parts of the body. Judi was ok with it, but I was already agreeing to the donation of his major organs, ie, the heart, lungs, kidneys, pancreas, liver and corneas and I felt any further cutting was just mutilation.

Why I stopped there I don't really know, except perhaps guilt. Jonathan's body had already suffered enough. I couldn't agree to any more cutting.

Feelings of guilt persist and I think also it's because of a natural response to wanting to protect my son from further harm. It's hard for me not to think about organ donation as mutilation, although the good, the attempt to save lives can hardly be called such. But we were at this cross road as the result of an intentional terrible act. But that was what I was trying to do. Have something good come from evil.

I counseled with the bishop about this before hand. The bishop referred to the Church' official manual on policies and procedures. The church approves of organ donation and considers it an unselfish act.

I was desperate to try and have some good thing come from Jonathan's death and this was one obvious way. Perhaps someday we will receive news that Jonathan's death will have saved someone's life. That would be nice and I think it would help in the healing process.

I think Jonathan would have wanted it that way. I have prayed many times that we made the right decision. I know I would want someone to do the same for me.

After the donations were agreed to and the legal papers for consent were signed, we stayed for awhile, and then we left. But before we did, the nurses who had helped with Jonathan's care came up to us and gave us a hug. They were in tears. And even though Jonathan didn't make it, my wife and I will always remember their compassion and kindness. That they did everything they could to save his life.

Arriving home, we are welcomed by the sight of more then a dozen American flags lining our driveway and front yard. Later we learn the local scout troop put them there, at the Bishop's request.

We returned to the hospital that evening to say our last good byes. It was the last time we would see him at the hospital. We were told he was scheduled for organ donation the following day, but they were not sure when. Jonathan was still on the respirator and they had some kind of vibrator jacket around his chest, but the why of the Jacket eludes my memory.

They said we would get a call when they were going to take Jonathan in.

For the last time I messaged and kissed his feet. My wife and I kissed him on the forehead and bid our sweet beloved Jonathan farewell.

Queen Elizabeth elementary school playground. Saskatoon circa summer 1995.

The school is where Jonathan's graduated from eight grade. It is only about a block from Gladmer Park. It is one of many outings. Father and son playing catch. I hit the ball for awhile, then we switch. We play for about an hour then go home. Every summer we are there, and we go out into the late afternoons and do this over and over again. I don't mind doing it most of the time. But I wish he had more friends. I think he would have lots more fun. I'm no spring chicken anymore and my bones creak a lot. Chasing fly balls isn't nearly as easy as it was twenty years ago, and it wasn't easy then.

Elementary school was not easy for my kids, especially Jonathan. He was picked on a lot and there are a lot of bullies. I don't find out about this until years later, and I feel guilty about it. Many times, Samantha and Jonathan, unknown to Judi and I, ditch school and stay home. Of course, Jonathan and Samantha and mother don't tell me about this until much later. At the time, I think it's funny but I don't let on.. I'm supposed to be mad, just furious.

Perhaps the bullying came on because of Jonathan's gentle nature. A gentle giant. Gentleness is for some a sign of weakness.

I used to think it was funny watching people get drunk, swaying, cussing, stumbling their voices slurred, especially on TV and in the movies. Now, I'm not so sure.

Yelling, puking, parents screaming and fighting. Families broken up, more screaming, tires screeching, glass shattering. Flesh and bone being ripped and crushed by glass and metal shards. Bodies ejected through windows, burning, disfigured maimed for life. Blood. Death.

Jonathan.

A year ago we were in Provo. Me, Judi, and Jonathan visiting my mother and father's grave. We take photos. It is memorial day, 2010. Jonathan is shown in the photograph wearing a orange polo shirt with white stripes. Tomorrow, is June 27^th, 2011, Samantha's second wedding anniversary. Jonathan is horsing around with Jared, Petra's second child. He is holding Jared upside down in his arms. They are in front of the Denver Temple, dressed in suits. He is threatening to throw Jared in the pool. They are both laughing. Someone snaps a photo. Happier times.

Yesterday it was three weeks since we buried Jonathan. Today, Sunday, we went to Provo and visited

Jonathan's grave. We will be in Colorado on the fourth so we planted two small American flags, one at each end. Soon, we must get a headstone, but it must be a flat one because it is so close to the lane.

A man behind us is visiting his father's grave. His father died the day before Jonathan, and was buried on the same day. He was 71. Since I have sprained my knee and am hobbling around, he offers me a collapsible chair. I borrow a wooden bucket from the man and pour some water on the sod growing over Jonathan's grave. Soon, it will blend in with the rest of the grass and it will be more difficult to find Jonathan's grave on sight. I thought to measure out the distance from a hose bib nearby, but I didn't bring a tape measure.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks, feet, speed. Seconds until impact. Counting, and more counting.

Before we leave, Judi and I say a prayer. As a couple, over the years, we have prayed many times together. But recently, the prayers have been a little unusual. We ask God to part the veil so we can see our Jonathan one last time. To give us a chance to say goodbye.

As I pray, Judi is standing next to me. I am sitting with my sprained leg almost straight in front of me.

We are both sobbing and it is difficult to get the words out. We were crying on the way down, but this is much worse.

Day ten, Tuesday May 31^st

Today, our home is filled with relatives, most of them are Judi's siblings and mother from Canada. This is the most people we have had in out home for some time. Around ten, we get a call from KSL TV asking to do a piece on Jonathan. They want to interview us. We are not sure if they want to see us or our whole family. Some leave and some stay. But everyone helps out and the house is somewhat presentable when they arrive.

The crew consist of TV personality Sandra Yee a camera man and another assistant who took a bunch of still photos after the others had left. The interview comes off alright and at least I succeed in not looking at the camera, or crying. But Judi answers most of the questions and that's ok by me. Daisy, our cat tries to walk in front of us while the camera is on. But she is shooed away, So, she does an end run and walks along the back of the couch. I don't even know she is there. Later is becomes a family joke. If it's caught on camera, it is cut from the final take. But we laugh about it anyway, and for a few moments we are somewhere besides this nightmare.

Afterwards one of them stays and takes a bunch of stills. We talk and as he is loading pictures into his computer he tells me about the death of his brother and father. These stories are heartrending. It is good to connect if only briefly with others who suffer and still feel the loss of loved ones even after years have passed.

Later, outside, the photographer takes several stills of us, the house and the flags.

That afternoon we meet with the funeral home. This takes a couple of hours and is a very painful ordeal. We pick a royal blue casket – BYU- and white and blue floral arrangement. The program is arranged, but the program is not finalized for a couple of days. Gold cross wants to do a color guard and final call at the cemetary.

At this point, I am all but useless. My wife has taken charge of planning the funeral and I am grateful.

I am taking this much harder than her, or at least she is holding up much better then me.

We plan on a closed casket viewing and funeral. This is due to the swelling on the side of Jonathan's head. We decide not to embalm Jonathan for fear that the embalming will exacerbate the swelling.

Our bishop is there and is very supportive. We talk about dressing Jonathan. I just can't bring myself to help in this, so the bishop agrees to oversee the dressing. Jonathan is dressed according to LDS custom. I am glad about this.

At some point we are called by the hospital. They are taking Jonathan to the OR to remove his main organs. We know Jonathan has passed away, but for me lingering doubts remain about giving his organs away. But now he is really going to be dead. There is no turning back. No organs, no life.

Period.

I feel like something inside my chest has shattered. I have just been pushed off a cliff, from which there is no return. All the talk about Jonathan being called to help in the Lord's work on the other side, or that he is in a better place, or that it was “his time” means nothing. All I want is my son back. He didn't hurt anybody. What sins did he commit to deserve this?

The pain is increasing as the days go by. I watch a movie to try and hide my mind from the ache in my chest. I walk, sit, sleep, read a book, go for a drive. But I yearn for my son. My sorrow has no end, and there seems to be no way from under the emptiness that is filling my soul.

Day 11 Wednesday June 1^st

Today, we travel to the Provo cemetery. My folks are buried there. Jonathan always wanted to attend school at BYU. We think he would like being buried near them, near BYU. We examine the plots available and walk over to two sites that are not far from where my parents are interred. While I am studying the cemetery map, I am crying, sobbing. We talk to the receptionist and desire to have a closer look.

We walk the ground and get a good idea where the plots are located. One is a little nearer to my parents burial site than the other. I want to give Jonathan a good view of the ‘Y’ on the mountain.

Such an idea is silly, but I think Jonathan would approve.

When I get back to the cemetery office I have talked it over with Judi and I think I have made up my mind. Feelings of confusion stop me and I reconsider. I pick the other plot and we hold two other plots next to his and we hold the option on the extra plots for sixty days.

Why the confusion I’m not sure. But after I make the final decision, I feel some measure of peace. It is about the only thing I’ve felt good about since Jonathan’s accident.

We go for lunch at Brick Oven Pizza at the south west corner of the campus. I am not hungry, but I try to eat anyway. When sitting at the table, waiting to be served, I turn my head down and start sobbing again. I struggle to control my emotions and I apologize to the others for my breakdown From across the table, I hear Dana’s voice. “It’s ok, John,” she says softly. The warmth in her voice is soothing, but it’s not ok. Another hellish day. More hellish choices. We are all in deep sorrow. The loss is staggering to each of us and we will all be forced to grieve in our own way and time.

We return to Murray and Judi and I go to the hospital to attend to some issues involving costs for Jonathan’s hospital stay. So far, the hospital expenses alone are almost $ 130,000. And not all of the bills have been tallied. The final costs for this one accident including hospital expenses, insurance costs, city, state and federal government law enforcement and court expenses, Medicaid and Medicare payments, lawyer’s fees, funeral and cemetery costs, future litigation, destruction of property, and of course the loss of life, and incarceration are incalculable.

And all of this because of one brutal savage selfish act. And then there is the personal costs to the victim and relatives left behind to grieve and deal with the ruins of their shattered lives.

Provo, circa 1980.

My wife and I and Jonathan are sitting at a fast food drive in somewhere on State street, I think 5^th west in Provo. Jonathan is sitting on my lap. He is trying to reach the knobs on the dashboard of the Monte Carlo. The car is turned off and we are waiting for our food. He is dressed in his pajamas which are a jump suit style. The pajamas are tan with small figurines printed on the material. He is fascinated with the knobs. I suppose since he sees me use them, they must be something to play with. His fingers grab at the knobs and he is very animated and excited as he does so.

A few months later, we are moving from the house we lived in down on south 5^th west. My parents own the house and my brother is moving in once we leave. The front screen door has been taken off.

We are working in the back hallway, when Jonathan walks in. He trips on something, and falls on his back right in front of us. His mouth pops open, and he is crying. At the back of his throat are two huge black wooden screws that had been used to secure the screen door to the door jamb. Linda Sue, Dave’s wife, turns Jonathan upside down and reaches in with her fingers and pulls the screws out.

Day 12, Thursday June 2^nd

We go to the morturary to give the final details of the funeral program to the funeral director. We want to see Jonathan one last time, but he is not ready to be viewed. We get into a discussion about a similar tragedy involving her brother in law. These kinds of tragedies do not involve us directly, but they are heart rending nonetheless.

Not much else goes on today. I just want this nightmare to end. The hours and days take eternity to pass. I am exhausted and constantly think of my son. The ‘what ifs’ and ‘what might have beens’ stalk my thoughts and it takes all of my energy not to think about these things.

In bits and pieces- memories of my son also dominate my thoughts. I have inserted some of them into this memoir and I hope that in some form these memoirs and written history will help us to remember our son and the terrible price that Judy, myself and the rest of our family have paid and will pay for many years to come.

Day 13, Friday June 3^rd

Preparations are finished for the funeral and burial. Judi and I go to the funeral home and see Jonathan one last time. I kiss my son on the forehead. His skin is cold. The body has been kept in refrigeration. The body has not been enbalmed. Judi kisses him too. Today, the kisses are mixed freely with our tears.

We stay for a few minutes, but not for long. I dread tomorrow, and I want to run far far away. I want someone to hit me upside the head and wake me up. But I am awake, and I am in hell.

Day 14, Saturday June 4^th

It has been 12 years almost to the day, that we drove south across the Canadian border to take Jonathan to the mission home, and to seek employment in the United States. Samantha, Judi, Jonathan and I are in the car. We drive all night. The car is an Oldsmobile blue station wagon. The body is rusted but it has air conditioning and it is nice to drive.

One day before Jonathan enters the mission home, Jonathan, myself and his cousins go out into the desert and go shooting in a ravine. Before Jonathan leaves for his mission I miss him and my heart is aching for my son. But I am comforted that I will see him again in a couple of years.

There is a family viewing prior to the funeral in the relief society room. Many people arrive including friends from Gold Cross, our last ward, Hunter fifth, and other LDS wards that Jonathan attended.

Before the funeral, Jonathan’s casket is draped in an American flag, according to a request made by Gold Cross Ambulance.

The casket is wheeled into the Chapel. The opening song is “How Great Thou Art” from the songbook.

After the invocation, Rob Rowland gives the eulogy. There is a special musical number, and brother Robb, our neighbor across the street gives one of the talks.

The funeral is the hardest day of my life. The service ends with the song “God be with you ‘til we meet again.” This is the same song that was sung at my farewell in the mission home in ’72.

After the funeral, we follow the casket as it is wheeled out to the hearst. Outside Gold Cross employees are in full dress and form two rows and stand at attention as the casket passes by. I turn to the Gold Cross member in Charge and ask if I can shake each of their hands. He nods and gives his consent.

I walk down each side of the lane and shake each of their hands and thank them for this display of respect and friendship for my son.

The front of the church house and sidewalks are lined with flags. There is a fire truck from one of the local towns and it forms part of the funeral procession to Provo. It stays with us until the point of the Mountain.

Slowly the procession winds its way along the cemetery lane. I am lost in my thoughts and my pain. Both are inseparable, and I don’t know when I will be able to think another thought without thinking about my son. Slowly the cars and Hearst come to a stop. We are now beside a temporary structure a tent like gazebo, with chairs underneath for the next of kin. We take our seats while the pall bearers carry the coffin from the Hearst to the grave. The pallbearers are Cynthia’s boys, along with Suzie’s son, John and Travis, Samantha’s husband. The coffin is placed on the structure that will lower Jonathan’s body to it’s final resting place.

Bishop Butler opens the service with a few comments. The opening song is sung and then members of Gold Cross stretch the flag over the casket and hold it in place while I say the prayer dedicating the grave. After I am finished, I take a seat, and the Gold Cross color guard folds the flag and hands it to my wife. A last call is done over the pagers, and Jonathan’s name is called out over the Mike. A last call for my son to answer his page.

A few comments by the bishop, and talk is given, then a closing song. The color guard stand at attention until the service is over. Then they make their way to the ambulances parked nearby and drive away.

Today is Sunday July 3^rd Samantha’s baby boy is to be blessed today His name is Logan Alexander.

His baby clothes are to be the one’s Jonathan wore when he was blessed 31 years ago. I cannot remember the day or the blessing. Perhaps when the pain has gone maybe my thoughts will be clear.

Clear enough to remember.

I am looking at the picture again of Jonathan holding Jared over the water fountain in front of the Denver temple at Samantha’s wedding. They seem to be laughing, and both are having a great time.

Some memories aren’t very pretty. Another memory of Jonathan appears in my mind and I can’t seem to block it out. The nurse has taken Jonathan off sedatives, and she is shaking his shoulders, yelling at him, trying to wake him up. But Jonathan dosen’t wake up. No response.

Nothing. His body is limp, his head flops back and forth. I feel empty inside, and the pain in my chest is growing by the day. I do not admit the truth to myself. I dare not We are still praying, hoping for that miracle that will bring our son back to us whole and complete.

The bond between father and son is much stronger and deeper than I ever imagined. But the truth like grieving, will come it it’s time and so will the words.

But I am writing these words one month less a day after we buried our son. And I can speak the words, what I could not admit then. I wonder if I‘ll ever say the words without the pain, without the emptiness.

My beloved, my dear sweet Jonathan had past away.

jpstest -1

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Friday, March 23, 2012

The Rain in Spain is wet.

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