My Story
Dawn-Marie Norton

The first year after the kidnapping, my auntie became the central mother figure for me. She and my two cousins lived with us. I relished eating around the dinner table, bedtime routines, help with my homework, and laughter. I was happy. I experienced a brief normal until friction in our duct-taped family moved them out and I found myself devastated, bawling, and motherless again. In fifth grade, we were reunited for a year when my dad made arrangements for me to move in with them and she became a single mom of three. I loved staying up late and watching movies and eating popcorn or sleeping in her king-sized bed with a story before the lights went out. Thanks to her, popcorn is still one of my all-time favorite things.
 

In spite of all that I loved about living there, I missed my father and my older brother, so I was moved back home. My dad traveled a lot and in my younger years I would stay with my Granny and Grampy. During my visits with them, I would run to the mailbox and find the postcards he mailed to me from his business trips. I watched my Grampy in his workshop fix everything from my broken necklaces to the neighbor boy’s bike. He built furniture and houses and often smelled like the tobacco in his pipe.
 

My granny began teaching me to sew when I was five and I sat at her side learning on her machine with the knee pedal instead of a foot pedal. We made aprons with ruffles. I helped her make the salads for dinner with Ranch dressing from scratch. She taught me to knit and crochet and mind my manners. I remember memorizing the beatitudes and going to Christian Science Sunday School and questioning my Sunday School teacher. I remember all the homemade cookies stacked in coffee cans that I ate at her lunch table. Every can contained a different cookie treasure and when I sampled each one, I didn’t get in trouble. My grandmother provided stability in my unstable world.
 

Before I turned seven, these big feelings that I didn’t understand awakened in a fast and testimony meeting. I didn’t really know what burned within me, but I knew it felt true. The flame continued to grow because loving families and leaders took an interest in me and made sure I felt included, invited and loved. Many of them drove me to years of activities before I could even drive myself. I got an inside peek into families who I began wanting to be like.
 

Life with my dad was an adventure. As I grew, he often let my brother and me go with him on his trips. By the time I turned 17, our travels had taken us to nearly every state in America. He told the most captivating stories and often held us spellbound with near-death experiences, his time in the rodeo and ranch life in Montana with his horse Chico, mountain lions, bears, and hunting. He had more lives than a cat!
 

I still remember the tales of Chico taking a bite out of his side while he checked his hoof and Dad bringing Chico to his knees with one punch between his bewildered eyes. They were best friends after that. It thrilled me hearing how he and Chico were plastered to the side of a mountain with a roaring train only inches away after a bear chased them and my dad didn’t have his rifle.
 

He told us of hair-raising adventures of discovering a grizzly bear standing on his two feet on the back porch looking Dad squarely in the eyes as he looked out the window and shook in his shoes. Once he was nearly snowed in during subzero temperatures in Alaska after a successful hunt. He and his pals had to chip their way out of the ice in a boat with only minutes to spare before a raging storm set in. Sometimes he told me the stories when he tucked me into bed and I begged for another.
 

Dad gave me a love for America on those trips. He told me her history between the side of the road markers and drives through national parks. I loved winding through the Rockies and the Tetons and smelling the rain across the prairies and watching lightning storms streak across the night sky. We crisscrossed the nation from Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate Bridge, and from Custer’s Last Stand to Graceland. 
 

I couldn’t sing all the lyrics, but I felt like Johnny Cash knew my life when I heard him rattle off I’ve Been Everywhere Man on the radio. Sometimes we slept in the car at a rest stop, or in the grass next to an abandoned barn with a breeze blowing all night. Sometimes we stayed in a Motel 6 and ate pork and beans out of a can with the big plastic hotel key fob. On one of our vacations, we went to Utah and toured Temple Square in Salt Lake City when I was about 8 and my brother was 11. We have a yellowing picture in front of that amazing temple, each holding a book of Mormon and smiling broadly.
 

My dad never had a traditional job. He had an entrepreneurial spirit, and even though his income wasn’t steady, our needs were usually met and we never went hungry. Some of our travels and money came because we sold souvenirs as a family. We spent many weekends at Motocross and Nascar events and sometimes I invited a friend along. 
 

Once again, from Daytona to Canada, Talladega, Charlotte, and so many more racetracks, we ordered, received, inventoried, and sold stickers, sunglasses, jerseys, socks, t-shirts, pins, and other trinkets. I remember falling asleep late at night on the shipping dock after a big order or a weekend of inventory. 
 

He taught me about sales, business and money. He probably put me in some situations that would be dangerous by today's standards; like the time he sent me on a Greyhound bus when I was five to my grandparents from California to Arizona.  This really nice old couple stuck to me like glue, helping me get off and on for bathroom stops and making sure I ate until I landed safely with my grandparents.
 

I took my homework everywhere we went and managed to maintain straight A’s during my elementary years and into junior high. My dreams of a mother were temporarily raised and then crushed again when Dad’s second marriage lasted all of three weeks. She let her dogs in the house, he got rid of them, and that was the end of that. 
 

In my teens I finally began to wonder how my mom felt about my brother and me and our absence from her. How did she feel when we were taken? Did she miss us? Did she feel pain over our separation? Did she hurt as much as I quietly did? Those teen wonderings floated in and out of my quiet moments. I often imagined how I would feel if I was the mom and I had two children taken from me suddenly. Stepping into her shoes seemed to make the distance between us much closer.
 

I saw her once when I was thirteen. Mom came unannounced to Georgia with her then husband and my younger half-brother whom I had never met. When I got off the school bus and opened the mailbox, I heard someone calling to me. “Dawn-Marie!” I saw her standing by her car parked by the side of the road, as she began walking toward me and a wave of fear swept over me. My heart raced and I thought she wanted to take me away. 
 

I ran to the neighbors and pounded on the door. I must have surprised them when I hid behind it and told them not to let her take me! She finally convinced them she just wanted to talk to me and that sweet little brother with kind brown eyes like mine enticed me to come out from hiding. He tossed his baseball to me with a smile and told me I could keep it. I loved him! 
 

When they left me, my mother went straight to the “adults'' in my family and all hell broke loose. I don’t really know what happened. Nobody shared the details, but I know the police were called and there were frantic attempts to make sure I was safe. I knew it involved yelling and fighting and they were sent home unhappy.
 

There were difficulties as I approached adulthood. Once my home conditions and my dad’s rantings and ravings were so bad that I left my father a note telling him what behavior I could no longer tolerate, and I ran away to a friend’s house for three days without telling him where I went. I called him when I felt things were settled enough. He acted humbly and apologized, and gratefully things improved and I returned home. By this time, my brother had graduated and joined the Marines leaving just my dad and me. 
 

With my faith in God, I created a high standard for myself and began to live it more fully, because of the happiness I found in it. Girl’s camps and youth conferences and group scripture study were my favorite places to be because of the warmth I always felt attending them. I had no problem heading off to church alone and sitting with the friends who cared about me. I remember the motto we repeated in the girl’s group. “I will radiate the light of the gospel by bringing joy to others.” The light and peace kept me coming back. It coaxed the sadness and anxiety out of the little dark lacking places in my soul and gave me real happiness.
 

High school became the hub of my life. I was active and busy with friends as we dashed to early morning scripture study and band and drill team practice. I had the responsibility of running the household and carried a full load of classes. Choir and drama and fun filled my days. After school I held a part time job so balancing practices and homework kept me running until I dropped into bed exhausted, but happy. Near the end of my senior year, I received an acceptance letter to BYU. I let out a squeal as I contemplated being on my own and the fun times ahead of me.
 

My dad wasn’t an active member of our faith and only came occasionally. I went alone but I’m so grateful he saw the importance for my active involvement in it. I wanted more of the feelings it gave me. I hoped there would be more at BYU. I was 17 when I left home and went West. I knew this created an opportunity to build a different life for myself and my future. 
 

Our road trip across the country to Provo was the last one before I became completely responsible for myself. We took turns shooting pistols out of the windows across the amber waves of grain and laughing. I never asked him how he felt when he dropped me off at college. It excited me to live in a place where you could throw a rock and hit faithful people of my church! It seemed like a dream to be surrounded by faithful “Saints.” I’d have member pals everywhere to fellowship with and attend my meetings! I only had a handful  in high school. 
 

Near the end of my freshman year at BYU, the ache I felt for my mother overcame my hesitation and I decided to try to find her and see if there were new possibilities for us. It scared me to reach out. All of our lives, my dad told my brother and me that if we wanted to seek her out, we could…but…it would really hurt him if we did. That thought kept me from taking any action until I was on my own. 
 

The divorce memories were so ugly that my dad simply referred to my mother as S, the first initial in her name. Sometimes the way he said it made me wonder if he was thinking of satan or snakes. I could vividly imagine how he felt about her because profanities often accompanied that first initial. I decided not to let him know my plans.
 

I knew she lived in California. I knew the number for information, 555-1212 and I guessed that she still lived in the same city. She also lived in the same house, because she told me later that she hoped one day one of her children would call. I had memories in that house before the divorce with visitation back and forth. I remembered my mom tucking me in bed in that house. I also remembered when she told me I’d never see my blankety blank father again, but it didn’t turn out that way.
 

When I finally dialed the number and she answered the phone, I held my breath. I was confused when she refused to believe me and I had to share personal details about myself that she recognized.  “I was born December 15, 1966 in St. Joseph’s hospital early in the morning. That’s why I’m named Dawn. Dawn-Marie Renee. I was born in Burbank, California the same day Walt Disney died in the same hospital. My older brother is Ronald Allen and he’s in the Marines. I saw you when I was 13 and you came to see us in Georgia. I remember the flowers you sent to me at school on Valentine’s Day and the box of gifts that came that was sent back destroyed.”
 

Convinced I really was her Dawn-Marie, my mom and I exchanged letters and planned a visit during President’s Day. I still marvel at my tenacity! I found some girls on the ride board going to California and hitched a ride. She paid my way and we spent the better part of two days eating out at places I had never eaten, talking about the lives we missed, seeing sites and walking the beach, just she, that younger brown-eyed brother, and I. It felt like I planted a little mother-daughter relationship seed. With hope, a little time and nurturing, there might be a beautiful blooming flower garden in our future.
 

My first real answer to prayer came when I considered a summer job after my freshman year, in Southern California selling Living Scripture tapes of all things. I felt the excitement from my head to my toes and I hoped there would be more time visiting my mom. I’m still surprised at my courage to leave Utah after being rear-ended in a car accident on the way to sales training. My passenger ended up with a concussion that kept her from the summer job, but I forged on ahead, even though I smacked my head as well and lost some of my personal belongings.
 

I drove with my team to California and had faith that everything would work out with my teammates and I’d find a car. And I did. Going from a crushed Honda Civic to a Ford Mustang was a bonus! I always wanted a Mustang because my brother Ronnie had a really cool one in high school and he often drove me around in it with his hard rock music blaring.
 

I saw my mom twice that summer and the seeds began sprouting and taking root. My best memory is when I surprised her on the only Mother’s Day we spent together after we were taken from her. I slipped in quietly and stood in the bathroom doorway while she curled her hair. The expression on her face when she realized who was standing behind her was priceless and she threw her arms around me. We had a wonderful dinner together and the ease that entered our relationship brought me so much happiness. I finished my summer sales and went back to BYU for my sophomore year.
 

We continued exchanging letters through that school year. I shared my college fun and friends with her and she encouraged me and sent gifts and cards. I continued keeping it all secret from my dad and every other family member including my brother Ron, even when I went home for the summer. The pleasant letters and memories ended with one bearing heavy news.
 

I became concerned as my mother disclosed her recent diagnosis with breast cancer. I didn’t really understand the gravity of breast cancer because my grandmother’s religion avoided doctors and faith was her medicine. My childhood only included one visit to the doctor when I had pneumonia in second grade. I stayed in the hospital for three weeks. There were needles and tents and lots of coughing and visits from friends and the roses I left in my room that I cried over because Dad wouldn’t take me back to get them. There were whispers once that my Granny had a lump in her breast, but she  healed it through her spiritual studies and her faith.
 

Along with the cancer news and the surgery she endured, she separated from her second husband, filed for divorce, moved in with an uncle, and spent time with her sister near the hospital where she received treatment. I knew cancer wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t understand the weight she carried or the burdens it caused.
 

Dysfunction ran rampant in my family. Not only were my parents divorced, but my dad’s brother and sister, my uncle and aunt, had spouses that left them and married each other. My aunt’s husband left his kids and raised my uncle’s kids. So, my aunt’s two children grew up without their dad and with their now single mom. The other two children belonging to my uncle were raised by his spouse and his ex-brother-in-law. He never saw his children again while they were young and we never had the chance to grow up with them as cousins.
 

My mother shared that the cousin I didn’t know had her first baby that made my uncle a grandfather. She wanted me to share that information with him. That request changed the trajectory of our relationship and both of our lives forever. I wrestled with the thought of telling my dad but erred on believing that what he told me was true. I could always see my mom if I wanted and I could always trust him and tell him anything. Hundreds of times, I wished I could take that decision back, because it changed everything.
 

My family. Went. Nuts. The tragedy of three failed marriages that fell like dominoes one after the other, still felt painful thirteen years after it happened. All of the ex-spouses kept in touch with each other and now they were reaching through time to stir it all up and wreak havoc. My Granny said I had opened Pandora’s box. My aunt accused my mother of just twisting the knife in everyone’s back. My uncle wouldn’t speak to me and the combined emotions were all directed at me. It felt like an angry beehive had been unleashed upon me and I wanted to run!
 

My dad didn’t want to hear about my relationship. The previous promises of my choosing contact with my mom were empty of any meaning as he lowered the hammer on me. He demanded I end the relationship with my mom or suffer the consequences of his immediately cutting me out of his life. He said I might get an occasional card now and then, but there would be no more financial support at BYU, and if he moved, I wouldn’t know where to find him.
 

His words hit me with just as much force as if he punched me in the gut. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe and my head swirled with the impossibility of the demand he just made. I didn’t know what to think or do. I felt anger, resentment, and hurt. My family’s combined responses swept over that budding flower garden and mowed it all down. 
 

In the chaotic confusion, I thought, “I’m only nineteen years old and I don’t have a clue how to manage this!” I turned to the Lord, but in my turmoil there were no clear answers and the thought of choosing one parent over the other brought heartache and darkness. It was a no-win situation. I wrote to my mother and told her how my family received her news. I didn’t understand how it would shake her. I just shared the truth and she became defensive and lashed out.
 

As I waited for her response in the mail, it never occurred to me how she might react to this new twist. Her letter was just as heated as his demand. She was livid. She called them all names and told me they were controlling and hateful. Even though in the moment, I understood her feelings, I felt off balanced and dangerously suspended between two opposing sides and choices. Should I choose the budding relationship with my now angry, defensive mother or the known but complicated previously loving father who now threatened to cut me off from everything I’d ever known? Piece of cake. Only it wasn’t. It felt like deciding whether to cut off my arm or my leg.
 

I created an easy way out. I compromised. With the initial anger I felt, I wrote my dad a letter. “Fine. Cut me off. See if I care. I can take care of myself.” That’s the short version of five pages. I held it in my hand and trembled. When push came to shove, I didn’t have it in me to shove. Just thinking about it made me nauseous and I never gave him the letter. I put it in my journal where it still remains. 
 

Instead, I told myself that I would tell my dad that I stopped communicating with my mom and then I would just write to her now and then. I felt like my internal compass could handle that. I just couldn’t bear choosing one over the other. A few weeks later it was time to put my bags in the trunk and head back to BYU.
 

The next two months contained the common stresses of a college student, getting back to classes, moving into a new apartment and young adult church, and settling back into a routine. I figured I’d eventually write Mom a letter and mail it off. August rolled by. A tiny voice whispered in the back of my mind.

 

It quietly said, “call your mother.”

Me: “I should call my mother,” but I did not.

A few weeks later,  the volume increased, but still soft, “call your mother.”

Me: “I really do need to tell her what I'm thinking.” With angst in my chest, I wondered, “What will she say? How can I write it in a letter?”

The voice: (more urgently, a little louder) “Call your mother.”

Me: “Ok, ok, I’ll call.”

 

I still remember the phone ringing and that gasping kind of feeling stuck right behind my heart as I tried to figure out what to say. Her voice answered, but the voicemail played. I left a message apologizing for how long it had been, that I missed her, and I’d call again. How could it not have occurred to me to leave my new phone number? I should have, but I did not.

 

The voice continued. “Call your mother.”

Me: “I called. I left a message.”

 

It became a drumbeat into October. “Call your mother. Call your mother. CALL YOUR MOTHER!” It got lost in the busy-ness of college, and youth, and inexperience….and regret. 
 

It was a Wednesday evening, as I chatted and laughed with my roommates, and we planned our Homecoming dates, when the phone rang. One of them answered, paused, and handed it to me. I had no idea how that call would impact my life. So many times I have tried to make time go backward to before that day and imagine some kind of caller ID that pops up. Instead of numbers and a name, it would show “this call will change your life forever.” I’d try to figure out whether that was a good thing or a bad thing and maybe I wouldn’t answer, and life would go on as before that letter. We didn’t have caller ID back then. I took the call. It was an ugly exclamation point after that terrible summer and my life would never be the same.
 

I heard my Granny’s voice on the other end. She asked me how my classes and friends were. I sensed a hesitancy in her voice but suspected nothing. She asked me for my measurements for a new dress for me. She asked my opinion on color and style. I was excited that she was creating something new for me. Pleasantries aside, and preferences decided, the dress discussion concluded when an emergency call came in. 
 

With no call waiting or caller ID, the operator suddenly interrupted our discussion. “This is an emergency phone call for Dawn Coveney, is Dawn there?” The question led to my surprise and an acknowledgement to the operator telling me my brother was calling, followed by my grandmother sharing the unexpected reasons for something so rare and unusual.
 

“Well Dawn, Ron is probably calling you with some news. I thought I should be the one to tell you. Your mother’s attorneys called me today. They wanted to inform us that your mother died.” Just like that. And then I dropped the phone.
 

When the phone hit the floor, I did too. I collapsed in a heap and began screaming, “Hang it up, hang it up. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!” Even now, I can still replay the time warping super slow-motion reaction of my roommates. Puzzled looks, advances toward me, and questions of “Who, who?” I pleaded for them to please get my friend Terrell who lived across the street because I knew more than anything that I needed a spiritual blessing right then. I needed someone to make this better. Nobody could ever make this better. And I began wailing. My brother called, but I couldn’t take it, because I was so distraught.
 

Camille, my roommate and best friend from my teens, later told me that she could hear me screaming from inside of Terrell’s house as he and his roommate Jeff ran across the street to me. When Terrell came through the door, he slipped underneath me and wrapped his arms around me and began rocking back and forth until my wailing subsided into sobs. After a few more minutes, I regained enough composure to receive a blessing. There were promises given that have since been fulfilled. In the most desperate moment of my life, I’m so grateful two caring young men rescued me in the greatest crisis I’ve ever faced. 
 

My sobs finally subsided to tears and they went home to their apartment. My brother called again and we only spoke for a few minutes as he expressed his love for me and encouraged me to have faith. The phone rang again. I knew my dad was calling and quite frankly I did not want to talk to him. Why would he be calling me? My previous anger still hadn’t been resolved, but I answered anyway.

 

“Hello.”

“Hi, Dawnie, It’s Dad.” He sounded gentler than I expected.

“I know Dad. I just got off the phone with Granny.”

“Did she tell you?”

All of me ached and through my tears, “Yes, Dad, she told me.”

“I’m so sorry honey.”

 

How could he possibly say that? “No, Dad, you’re not sorry. You’re not sorry at all.” I began crying. If I believed he was sorry, I’d have to feel differently. I wanted to lash out at him and blame him and tell him this was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so severe, maybe she would still be alive. He was probably glad she died. I didn’t say any of the things I felt.

 

“Well honey, I’m going to let you go. We’ll talk more later. Good-bye.”

 

So many years of evil words spoken by my dad against my mom rose up within me and pounded my head with unwanted memories. I knew he returned her packages and cards. He lied to her and manipulated us to keep us from wanting her. My anger rose higher and he was the last person I wanted to share any of my feelings with.
 

I still didn’t know the details, but I already had my suspicions. Did the cancer return, or was it something else? Nobody I knew seemed to have those answers. I called one of my dearest friends who used to be my Youth Leader. She tried to comfort me as I cried and wondered why my life had to be so hard. Would it keep getting harder? She assured me that it would only get better. 

With that encouragement, I took a deep breath and called my grandmother; my mother’s mother. I didn’t even know my grandmother, but my Granny gave me her number and I needed answers. What she told me made it much, much worse. My mother had taken her own life.
 

There it was...the truth...and it was all my fault. Regret, remorse, and blame seemed to wind together and wrap around my heart with every should have, could have, and would have imaginable. They rose up in my throat to choke me. It wasn’t all my fault, but everything seemed to point straight to me. The reality of the truth stared me starkly in the face. “Call your mother.” I didn’t listen or heed the prompting. She was gone and my hopes with her.
 

In the quiet that fell over our house that night, I lay empty on the couch in the living room in the dark. The emptiness and darkness watched and waited to overtake me. With the emotions from my phone call thick in the air, most of my friends had gone to bed early. Light streaming from the kitchen did nothing to make me feel better. Camille entered quietly and sat at my side. She just sat, while I lay there. I don’t know how long she patiently waited with me, but it strangely comforted me that she said nothing. The screaming and crying and wailing emptied me completely out. She just remained present with me and my emptiness until I was ready to say something. 
 

I told Camille about the conversation with my grandmother and her words that cut me to my already shattered center. Her voice sounded just like my mom’s! “Your mom was so disappointed when you stopped communicating with her.” I caused that. I didn’t mean to, but now it didn’t matter. Overwhelmed by all she had been through with cancer and her impending divorce, my mother’s options were closing in on her and she retreated from everyone and everything. She put a pillow over her chest and pulled a trigger. My little 11 year old brother Von came home from school and found her. I’m not sure he’s ever been the same.
 

I poured out my heart and Camille listened. She hugged me. She helped me know it would be alright...someday. I was so afraid God would be angry with me for not following the Spirit. I agonized that her death was my fault. How do you get forgiveness for something like that? I didn’t know. 
 

I couldn’t imagine a day that would ever feel better. It felt like nothing would ever be all right again. I ignored the whisper. It wasn’t even a still small voice, it was a drumbeat! Why didn’t I call again? We never got to work things out. She was gone. I could never get any of it back. It was all my fault. I just kept willing the moments to roll backward so I could have another chance to refuse to tell my family, make the call, repair the rift, and have a different reality than this hell I landed myself in. 
 

The next few days were a blur with tears that came often and easily. My bishop came to visit me. My church and work friends came. I spent time with another best friend who had just had her first baby. Her tiny newborn girl brought me some of my first moments of joy. Home teachers came with a meal of ramen. One of my roommates' parents sent me yellow flowers. My visiting teachers brought me cookies. My Granny called to check on me. These little rays of light like starlight in the night sky began to prick holes through the darkness that had so overwhelmed me. I felt love and I began to recognize the peace that flowed with it.

I went for a walk late one night bundled up in a sweater, and looked up at the stars. “Heavenly Father, I love you. Thank you for giving me such good friends.” It felt so good to get outside of the confines of our little house and be by myself and feel gratitude for what I did have.
 

My brother felt terrible that he couldn’t go with me to California because the airfare from Georgia was so expensive with so little notice, and he didn’t have the money. I went by myself. A friend donated so I could go, but my airfare was a third of his.

I was so nervous to meet my mother’s family. It’s so strange to say that: my family. Here were people I should know and love but didn’t. A grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. All were excited to finally meet Dawn-Marie. They showed me as much kindness as they could and without fail, every single one of them told me how much my mother loved me.
 

On the one hand, it felt so good to know that, but did they all know what I thought? Did they know how responsible I felt? Those that I expressed even a hint of that thought to, reassured me, and helped me understand that the responsibility was not mine. My mother had been severely depressed. Several family members had tried to reach out to her. She hadn’t responded. She’d planned for the future care of my brother and she made the decision herself. They said she had withdrawn from everyone, but I still wondered. 
 

The morning of the funeral, I woke up feeling like I’d slept with a truck parked on my chest. I could hardly breathe. I slept on the couch where my mother had slept when she stayed with her sister for her cancer treatments. I was so heavy as I took my younger brother shopping for clothes to wear to his mom’s funeral.
 

Seeing her in the casket was difficult. I could hardly look at her with a pink blouse and a floral jacket, a strand of pearls and the rings she loved on her fingers. A lump rose in my throat because she didn’t look like the beautiful mother I knew our last time together. I recognized it wasn’t really her. I knew that she was not her body and I hoped she was somewhere so much better than her final experiences on earth. I tried to explain to Von what I knew, in hopes that it would help him understand. He was so sad, and I just tried to love on him. He was now living with my mother’s sister and her family.
 

We sat behind a curtained window facing the congregation. It felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable and I squirmed in my seat. I sat with my arm around my brother and held my grandmother’s hand. Before the funeral began, my mom’s husband came in drunk and swearing and caused a big scene. It made us all feel anxious and on edge, but he was removed until he could return calmly. I prayed the entire time that he would be still. 
 

I enjoyed the funeral to the degree that I could, but it was different from what I knew. I think it was the second funeral I had ever attended and it just wasn’t what I hoped for. It seemed to be missing the special things that I believed and cherished. I wanted to hear “Oh My Father” desperately. I wanted to know I had a mother there. 
 

The minister my mother spent time with in the last few months of her life gave a pleasant sermon with texts from Psalms and the New Testament. Her friends told of her sense of humor, her smile, her deep caring for others, her wild colorful style, and her loud happy laugh. I found gratitude for the few memories that we created together.
 

It wasn’t until we were at the cemetery that a stream of light finally broke through and chased away the remaining darkness in my heart. I wanted to say goodbye, but I couldn’t say goodbye. I finally bent over and put my head on the casket and cried; more tears coursed down my face and rolled on to the highly finished wood. I could smell the floral spray of roses and carnations, and in my heart, I whispered, “I love you mom.” I was afraid to tell her that while she was alive. We were becoming friends, but I hadn’t yet embraced her as my mom.  “I’ll miss you.” And then I stepped away from the casket.
 

Family and friends stood around for the small service at the graveside. The dedication of the grave was complete, and the services were over, but I didn’t want to go. The fog in my head remained and in spite of my willing and wanting and hoping, time was definitely not going back. This was real. There would be no flower gardens for my mother and me. I don’t think I really understood the meaning of permanent until that moment. 
 

I stood by myself for a few minutes, battling another wave of sadness as the tears began streaming again. Then just as the sadness began surrounding me like gloomy clouds, I felt as though the clouds suddenly parted. It felt like rays of sunshine fell upon me, even though the sky was blue and the sun was shining on everything. In that moment, I felt embraced in the arms of love. I took a deep breath in and welcomed it.
 

It seemed like heaven smiled upon me and I felt an outpouring; an abundance of peace that took me by surprise and finally, eased the greater portion of the grief and sorrow that had just been swirling around me. My burdens were lifted. The sorely needed tender mercy left an unforgettable impression in my heart and soul. I knew Heavenly Father knew me personally. Standing in a cemetery in Lancaster, California, I recognized my Savior's love and knew He knew what I was suffering and was there to comfort me. He knew my mother’s suffering too.
 

Just after that moment, an aunt that I hadn’t met previously, stepped up to me, hugged me and cried with me. She assured me that my mother knew I loved her. It was just another blessing that filled me with gratitude.
 

Before I left for the airport, my aunt gave me a stack of the letters I wrote to my mother. As I looked through them, remembering the last eighteen months, I saw the hand written note in one of the cards. “Tried to call Dawn, no longer at this number,” with a date after I left my voice message, but before she took her life. It stung a little less than it might have a few days before but still fed the remnants of responsibility that would take me several years to work through.
 

Instead of beating myself up with that fact, I thought about the loving experience at the graveside, all the way home to Provo, Ut. I had missed church that Sunday. Upon my return home, my roommates told me the bishop had announced what happened with my mother and he asked the members of my student church to pray for me. All of my young college friends were praying for me. When I heard it, I knew absolutely and immediately, that it was the prayers of dozens of friends and even my family in Georgia that I had felt in my desperate moment of need that brought me peace. I was so thankful for those prayers and the comfort that came from heaven.
 

In the many years since then, from one of the few happy memories I have before the insanity began, sitting on someone’s lap and watching my parents and older brother being baptized, through the unstable years without my mother till now, I see and recognize the Lord’s hand in my life. 
 

I was born into a family that, though not active in their faith, brought me into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I was baptized just before my 9th birthday. My dad, my bishop, the Primary President and the missionaries attended. My Heavenly Father gave me all the gifts and abilities He knew I would need for the trials in my life. Though I stumbled awkwardly through my childhood and teens without my mom and in less than ideal circumstances, He placed loving people all around me. 
 

My aunt and Granny helped me get the basics. Loving friends, home teachers, and youth leaders were frequently near to pick up the slack where family members weren’t providing. I loved the spirit I felt in everything, from church members taking interest in me, singing in Primary the times I attended, Girl’s Camps, Youth Conferences, youth activities, seminary, and my own experiences with answered prayers. I didn’t know that every one of those choices were drops of oil in my spiritual lamp, readying me with the strength and light I needed for dark times.
 

I had a few brief moments to celebrate a relationship with my mother. Even though it isn’t really possible to overcome growing up without a mother and her death by suicide, my relationship with Jesus Christ and His care for me throughout my life changed everything. 
 

I’ve wondered how my life might be different if she had been there and if she had not taken her life. I wonder if I would have been a better mother for my own children. Maybe I would be a completely different woman. However, maybe I am the woman I am because of those very circumstances. With my husband, the hopes I had to give my children a home that I didn’t have, were realized.
 

My journals before and after my mom’s death testify to the miracles around me. Just two weeks before in Relief Society, there was a lesson on death. I shared with a friend that I knew that lesson was for me, and I feared the loss of someone I loved. The day before I received the news, Elder Neal A. Maxwell spoke at the BYU devotional. I attended and took notes about how faith and meekness were intertwined around the great question of whether “there really is a rescuing and redeeming Christ.” 
 

Because of the support around me and my little lamp full of oil, my daily life bounced back within a few weeks. There still remained a deep sense of wondering what part I played, whether I would be forgiven, and whether my mother could be saved for her actions. One year after her death, the Ensign published a beautiful, encouraging article about suicide by Elder M. Russel Ballard. Reading it, the remaining tears of doubt and worry flowed out of my heart and coursed down my face as I rejoiced in the encouragement of the message. My mother was only accountable to the degree that she knew the truth and that she had control of her own faculties. 
 

Finally, only a few weeks before my own marriage, I was able to attend the temple and make sacred covenants on her behalf. I prayed hopefully that she could be present at my wedding, since I had no other family members in attendance in the Salt Lake City Temple. I briefly but strongly felt her presence with me. There have been other times, when I pause in a picture perfect moment, with my heart smiling, my soul refreshed and happy, and she comes suddenly to my thoughts. 
 

I know she’s been a part of gales of laughter while my boys dog piled on their daddy. I’ve felt her presence in the sacred moments after a precious baby left heaven and drifted into my arms. Maybe she kissed them and sent them to me. I’ve thought of her while rocking my toddler and brushing her hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. I’m sure she’s rejoiced with me at weddings, new daughters, and more babies. 
 

I trust in God’s promises to the faithful and look forward to the day when all will be made right and I will see my dear mother again. His love, grace and mercy make all my hopes possible and testifies that I really do have a mother there. One day, the day that changed everything will be overcome by the One who changed everything.