Warning: this post is an emotional dumping ground

In some ways, this has been one of the most difficult weekends of my life, and in other ways, it has been an experience I wouldn't trade for anything.

I am the type of person you want to have around in a bad situation. I respond well in emergencies because I can control my emotions and keep a level head. This very much comes from my father who is a former volunteer firefighter and hospital chaplain. From him I learned how to recognize needs and see a way to fulfill them. But I also have equal parts of my mom in me. My mother is the most soft-hearted person I know. Every action she takes is motivated by compassion, so I have learned to emulate that by example.

Being with the (Walquist) Winn family this weekend afforded me the opportunity to put both of these traits into action. Ashley has three little brothers and eight cousins along with five aunts and four uncles on her mom's side, which made for a very full house at grandma's. I spent much of my time cooking, cleaning and wrangling kids, all tasks that made me feel useful in a situation I felt so helpless about.

I come from a rather large family, so I'm used to cooking and cleaning for a small army. The food basically took care of itself as Paul, Idaho, a town of 998 people, rallied around the family and filled the house to the rafters with meals and snakes for the kids. All I had to do was make sure the kids ate more than just fruit roll-ups and that the appropriate food was heated and on the counter before people got too hungry. I've also had a lot of practice making lists and then making sure everything gets done on those lists, which came in handy Monday morning when kids needed baths, last-minute items needed to be picked up at the store and everyone needed to be on time for the funeral.

Being with the kids so much also meant I had a pretty much constant supply of hugs and kisses as long as I didn't mind being run into the ground by adolescent boys, answering endless questions about death and dealing with a wide array of extremely strong emotions coming from children who didn't know what to do with their grief. But they were as much a comfort to me as I hope I was to them. We spent a lot of time together both talking about Ashley and trying to keep our minds off what was going on around us.

So from fingers stuck in an elevator door to 30 helium balloons attempting to escape before the appropriate time to a very lonely puppy licking my feet at 5 a.m., I managed to keep pretty busy this weekend. And while the thought of giving the service invocation made me sick to my stomach, I got through it with minimal mascara-runnage while still being able to take comfort in the words that were spoken by the people who loved Ashley best.

Now that I've had a chance to sit still and be alone with my thoughts for a few moments, I can't believe Ashley is really gone. I already miss her smile and laugh and complete love for life. She was my dear little friend who taught me more than she could possibly know. I feel so blessed to have had the opportunity to love Ashley and be loved by her in return.

The next few weeks and months (and possibly years) will be extremely difficult for her family, but knowing them like I do, they will come away from this a stronger family. Her three little brothers will learn that Ashley wasn't just a gift to them, but they were also a gift to her. They have so much love and joy yet to give this world, and I know I will enjoy watching them grow into the amazing young men I know they will become. Connie and Jason are also two of the most incredible people I have even had the pleasure of knowing. The love that binds that family is a rare gift that was not given to them by chance.

As I make my 2,000-mile return trip today, my heart breaks a little knowing I am leaving so many people I love so much behind. I wish I could stay to cook and clean and tend them back to happiness. If only life were that simple. A little piece of me will always be buried in the Paul, Idaho, cemetery, but the next time I am there, I will be able to place a little bouquet of flowers tied in a purple ribbon on Ashley's grave, knowing that she is in a better place without the pain and suffering she felt on this earth. I will see Ashley again. I will hear her laugh once more. I will be greeted by that great, big smile of hers and know that she is happy to see me again, too.

Until then, I have faith in the Lord's promise: "I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you to bear you up" (D&C 84:88). That little angel is still with us. Our hearts might be failing in this moment, but I truly believe that joy comes in the morning (Psalms 30:5).

In Loving Memory

We lost our little angel this morning. She passed away with her mother by her side and her faith in God carrying her through. Please keep her family in your thoughts and prayers.


In loving memory of Ashley Marie Winn: July 19, 1997-March 2, 2010.

Weeping in the Night

I've been trying so hard to keep my blog upbeat this past month. It is the holiday season, which means joy should fill the air. As snow blankets the country and family gathers near, I want to focus on good things--happy memories, hope for the future. But things aren't very happy this holiday season.

Ashley isn't doing well and wants to go to Heaven now. She's so tired. In so much pain. Ready to go home. You'd think I'd want her suffering to end so she could be at peace this holiday season, but I can't help but think about the pain her passing will bring. I wish that I was selfless enough to understand her desire to be done with all of this, but I'm not. And it gets even worse because I don't feel this way because I hate seeing what the thought of losing her is doing to her family--it's because I don't want to let her go, at least not yet.

I want to see her again, even though I know it wouldn't be like when I saw her this past summer. She wouldn't be laughing and having fun with her cousins. She wouldn't be able to tell me stories or help me make dinner or read me her favorite book. But I want to hold her in my arms one last time and tell her how much I love her, how grateful I am to know her, what a source of joy and love and learning she is in my life.

Yet a part of me knows I won't get that chance. I keep telling myself I was blessed to be able to do this last June when I saw her. I should be grateful for the time I've had with Ashley and the wonderful blessing her family has been in my life. But that just isn't enough. I don't know if anything will ever be enough.

And as hard as it is for me to relinquish any kind of control, this really is in God's hands. I have said my goodbyes and now I need to be at peace with that. Though my heart is braking, I need to trust that everything will be all right in the end. Things in life always seem to work out, and now I just need to have a little faith that even this will work out, too.

Twelve Days of Thanksgiving: Day 1

I've never posted about Ashley before, but after reading her mother's new blog, I realized I was holding back sharing the blessings of her life with all of you.

Ashley is twelve years old and succumbing to heart failure. If you want the details of what that means, you'd have to ask a member of her immediate family. All I know is that it means she spent many nights with us after hospital visits, I've held her in my arms as she's cried from the pain, and that someday far too soon, she'll no longer be with us. And knowing that, my heart fails me a little as well.

I've never known a child with a terminal condition before. All of my friends who have died have done so suddenly--tragic, yes, but sudden. And my family members who have passed on have died at reasonable ages--too soon, yes, but after living full lives. I have never watched someone I love fight a battle over so many years and slowly begin to fade.

When I first met Ashley, she wasn't even ten years old. I was living in Salt Lake City, roommates with an old college friend who is Ashley's aunt. I had spent years hearing stories about Ashley and felt like I already knew her. She and her family would make the eight-hour drive down from Boise to have procedures done at Primary Children's Medical Center.

Because I am a picture book fanatic, I'd always send a few books with Tammy up to the hospital to keep Ashley's mind off the sometimes painful procedures. From Mo Willem's Leonardo the Terrible Monster to Lady Cottington's Pressed Fairy Book by Brian Froud, laughter was a great medicine, until a mean old nurse had to ask them to put away the books because Ashley was laughing so hard she was having heart spasms.

Ashley would often come to stay with us so her parents could have some alone time. She'd sit at the kitchen table and tell me stories while I made dinner or entertain us by reading aloud from one of her favorite books. Or sometimes, she's be so tired we'd put in a movie and she'd fall asleep on my shoulder long before the closing credits began to roll.

When I moved back east, there were a lot of things I was sad to leave behind, but probably the hardest thing to leave was Ashley. I knew she was getting sicker, I knew Tammy needed someone to lean on, and I knew I might not have the chance to see Ashley again. But last June, I went to Idaho for a wedding and was able to spend an afternoon with Ashley and her family. And a few months ago I got a phone call from Ashley so she could read me the new book her aunt had bought her for her hospital stay. These little moments have meant the world to me and eased my heart.

Then over Labor Day weekend while driving back to DC from Chicago, I got a phone call. Ashley was not doing very well and there was nothing more the doctors could do for her. The PICC line would come out and Ashley would go home. All of a sudden, life had shifted from "if" to "when." I was grateful when I lost cell service in the Pennsylvania mountains so I could cry alone for a few minutes.

I have spent a lot of nights crying since then--after phone calls with Tammy, after reading messages from Ashley's mom, after a phone conversation with a friend who had just spent the weekend with Ashley. I cried from knowing Ashley was not going to get better. I cried from knowing I couldn't be there for my friend and her family. I cried from knowing there was nothing anyone could do. And I especially cried from knowing the next time I would go out west would not be as much fun as my trip in June.

But I've also cried from happy thoughts. Each day Ashley is with us is a blessing. It is another memory we can have for when she is gone. It has brought her family closer together and made them stronger. I often think of that scripture "For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning" (Psalms 30:5).

I don't mean to turn this into a "preachy" blog post, and for many of you who don't know me, you might be surprised to find out I have a deep faith in God, but that faith is so personal to me I have never felt right about sharing it in a public blog. The thing is, as the past month has progressed and my emotions have been in turmoil, I can't help but draw on my faith to keep me going. Ashley is like a niece to me, her mother like a sister, her three energetic little brothers like nephews. She and her family are never far from my thoughts, and when they enter my thoughts, the love of God enters my heart.

So if you believe in God--or you even have a glimmer of hope that there is some kind of higher power out there--I ask that you offer up a pray for Ashley. Not that some miracle will happen and we'll get to keep her for a little more time, but offer up a pray of thanksgiving that Ashley has been able to touch so many lives, and maybe, just maybe, she'll be able to touch your life as well.