This concludes a series of guest posts from lovely Leslie R. of Heaven’s Overlook. Many thanks to Leslie for sharing with us her poetic style, poignant insights and thoughtful prose.

If, as Herod, we fill our lives with things,
and again with things; If we consider ourselves so
unimportant that we must fill every moment of our
lives with action, when will we have the time to
make the long slow journey across the desert as did
the Magi? Or sit and watch the stars as did the
shepherds? Or brood over the coming of the child
as did Mary? For each of us, there is a desert to travel.
A star to discover,
and a being within ourselves
to bring to life.

~Anonymous

Seven years ago, just before Christmas, I lost my father. I nursed him through the last few weeks of his life, feeding him tomato soup and cranberry juice for lunch everyday. Two days before he left our family, I buried my head into his chest and begged him not to leave. Complications from cancer.  In the mix of four sons, I was his only girl and it was an honor to see him gently to the end. But it was a loss. It wasn’t the type of loss I felt when I lost for cheerleader, or the loss I felt as a mother when I lost a child in the store. It wore on my soul differently than the loss of baby through miscarriage and a molar pregnancy.

The loss of my father penetrates in the cavern of my chest and I carry it daily, and with even more heaviness just before Christmas.

Last Sunday I left my ward to sit on the bench with my mother. Her chapel is a few blocks away and I knew it would feel good to her to have a shoulder to bump up against. It’s funny how people sit on the same benches in our chapels. Is it comfort or perspective? Is it habit or staking territory? There she was, on the same bench my family occupied when we were all within her reach. She was alone and relieved to have one of her clan close by.

The program chimed with violins, small families singing, and Primary kids nestled together under the chorus of Away in a Manger. My old bishop spoke about an experience he had as a young elder on Christmas Eve in the loneliness of missionary service.  In the fiercest of storms, he received a witness of the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. And then he asked, “When did you receive your witness?”  It’s a live-wire question, one that I am still reeling through all the details.

And then came the closing song —Silent Night with violins, choirs of womanly angels, the piano, the organ, me and my mother. As I child I watched my mother weep during her favorite hymns. I knew which ones they were, and as a grown woman I cry whenever I sing them because they remind me of how closely I watched my mother believe. The last verse of How Great thou Art reminds her of Diane, the friend she lost to cancer. The Light Divine was the song her Aunt Sarah Belle sang as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. She raised my mother when she lost both her mother and father by the age of thirteen. Abide With Me Tis Eventide –well, that one makes anyone cry.

This time it was me.  I wept to the verses of Silent Night and then I sobbed. My mother’s arms wrapped around me and I felt like a child once again.  Why was everything coming to the surface?  Did I miss my dad? Was I worn down from all of the seasonal stress? Was I grateful to be back in the ward that I grew up in that always offered me safety and refuge from a broken world? Or was it the realization that I was my mother’s child and she still had all the love I needed to heal up and move forward in my journey?

Every time my world started to unravel my father stood on the sideline with his unwavering love and told me I would be just fine. He took me to buy my first prom dress, taught me to ski without fear, and took me for ice cream when I failed my math tests. Now he is gone from this world and I am left standing with only a mother at the front of the line to take care of me.  Sure, it is natural to lose a parent. As daughters most of us will go through the experience of watching our parents safely to the end. For me, it was raw, painful, spiritual, filled with physical and mental scars, and it hurt like I never knew loss could feel.

Seven years have passed and I carry the knowledge that great loss brings abundant gains. I have one more person coming to my defense on the other side. My father is waiting, watching, and still on the sidelines of my life cheering me on. I received this witness while sitting in church on the same bench we always do, my own little clan of three girls within my reach. I am without my father and it is part of my desert, and every step belongs to my journey.

So those of you with living parents roaming the earth, take it from a woman who still aches for that fatherly hug—- Life has loveliness to sell. When you see your parents throughout the holidays—- hug them no matter what the cost.  Change the landscape of your desert and imagine what it must have been like to bring your new life into this world.