In Memoriam

Today is Memorial Day. What does that mean? I could go research the origins of the holiday and spout off the facts of how it got started, but I don't feel like that answers my question. A holiday should mean more than just what you can find on Wikipedia. There should be some sort of personal intersection with your own life, your own heart; otherwise, why are you celebrating?

So I've decided today to sit down for a moment and figure out where Memorial Day intersects with me. I have family who have served in the military, but not many who have died in service (not for 100 years or so). But I have lost loved ones in the regular course of mortality, and I think that merits something, too. This is Memorial Day - a day of remembrance. So maybe it's time to look back at some of the people who meant enough to me that they left a piece of themselves behind when they died.

These are some of the people I carry with me.

Myrna Darleen (Packer) Grosland

My Grandma Grosland. She died of cancer in 2009, just a month or so before my high school graduation. When I think about her, I hear her delighted laughter and see her smile - I can't remember her ever not being happy. She took me fishing, she taught me how to play Skip-Bo and Phase 10, and she always always had good things to snack on at her house (cookies, Twizzlers, Ritz crackers, etc.). But what I remember most is that she loved me - wholeheartedly, without reservations - and that I always felt safe when I was with her. 

Love you, Grandma.

Josephine (Mower) Duncan Conover

I know I had other great-grandparents, but my Great-Grandma Conover is the only one I remember well. She died just before the year 2000, when I was about nine years old. From stories and home videos I know that she was my mother's savior, a safe harbor she could hide in when she wanted to run away from home. For myself, I remember that she was quiet and peaceful, and that love bubbled out of her. She was an angel, so I'm sure the transition to heaven was second-nature to her. 

Thanks, Grandma Conover.

Kevin Holm

He was Brother Holm to me - a man in my home ward, married to one of the coolest women I know. She was loud and vibrant, while he was quiet, so I regret that I did not get to know him better before he passed. But my best friends in the ward, Logan and Eric, knew him very well. He taught them about chivalry, manners, and class. His well-dressed demeanor and stories of "a better time" inspired them to wear suits to high school every day for a year. What he was really known for, though, was the fedora. Through him, a fedora became a symbol for a person of quality, and - one by one - every young man in my ward showed up to church wearing a fedora, until the hat rack by the chapel was full of them. My friends even bought me a suitable lady's hat so that I could be part of the group. 

What we didn't know was that beneath his calm exterior Brother Holm was battling depression. He had been suffering for years, but somehow he never let his pain leak out and stain other people. He used the strength he had to protect other people from his illness; and so eventually he didn't have enough strength left to protect himself. Brother Holm was the first person I knew to kill himself. I was in high school, and didn't know at all how to deal with suicide. I didn't know if it should change the way I thought of him or not.

I went to his funeral, hollow and unsure. As agreed upon in advance, my friends and I all wore our hats. After a deeply heartfelt speech, our bishop asked everyone who'd received a hat via Brother Holm to stand up. Over a dozen of us rose to our feet, and I saw in our witness a monument to his legacy. Brother Holm was truly a good man, and one who inspired others to become truly good men. He died because of a mental illness, not because of a character flaw. I am grateful for his example, both as a man of principles and as a man of suffering, because he taught me better than anyone else that a mental illness is something that happens to you - it is not a part of you.

Rest in peace, Brother Holm.

Jordan Needham

Jordan was a guy in my singles ward. He was cute, so I noticed him, but we weren't best friends or anything. We talked a few times at church, and we goofed around a lot at our ward's volleyball night; that was pretty much all it took. Jordan was friendly, so everyone he talked to became his friend. He was an expert at making people feel important and valued in just five seconds of conversation. He was the kind of guy who lived life at full volume all the time - and so he died young. He was killed while riding the motorcycle that he loved, with no helmet. It's difficult not to be frustrated by that - losing someone you care about because of their own foolish mistake - but Jordan was so generous with himself during his life that I can't seem to hold this one mistake against him.

Happy trails, Jordan.

I still don't know what Memorial Day means. But I know who I remember.

Who do you remember?