Ella Jensen
Jeff Westover

Our Family in the Spirit World

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Ella Jensen

Ella Jensen on her wedding day in 1895, about four years after her near death experience.

It has been something of a difficult year. This week we noted the passing of two more family members, the latest felt very keenly with my wife and her dear family. It is a tender time.

It is amazing to me how losing a loved one re-centers me.

I have found that even attending a funeral for someone who is not a family member touches me on a very fundamental level and reminds me how the things of this world pale in comparison to the eternal principles of love.

A good death, it seems, leads to a greater appreciation for living and loving better the people around me.

It is natural, in the process of mourning the loss of one so loved, to worry about where they are and if they are happy.

Those with gospel-centered teachings and a testimony of the Savior take comfort in God’s known plan. Others, whose lives have not given them access or opportunity to learn those things, may suffer more when a loved one leaves this life.

That is why I have always had a fascination with stories of “the other side”.

Long, long before my testimony strengthened in the Gospel of Jesus Christ I read and collected stories of near death experiences.

Today I again stumbled upon a story I had read before of a woman named Ella Jensen.

There are many accounts of her experience but I prefer this one, first published in 1929 while she was still alive. A shorter version can be found here.

This is an old story. Ella was nearly 20 years old when she died and was called back to life after being dead for nearly 3 hours. As with many near death experiences she tells a remarkable experience in seeing and conversing with loved ones who had preceded her in death. The detail in her story is amazing.

As I read her tale again, and contemplated it in the context of loved ones we have recently lost, it occurred to me how close Ella Jensen lived more than 100 years ago to where I am living now.

I know we have her maiden name Jensen in our Family Tree and the family historian in me couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection. So off to Family Search I went.

I looked her up and – boom – there it was: a link to “view my relationship” with Ella Jensen. “I’ll be darned,” I thought. “We ARE family.”

I quickly scanned her tree looking for familiar names, thinking in my head this was another of my Westover connections from Northern Utah and South Eastern Idaho. But none of the names looked familiar.

So I hit the relationship link and was shocked to see I’m not related to Ella Jensen through my Westover line – it’s through my mother’s family that the distant relation dating back to the Puritans of Duxbury, Massachusetts is made. My 9th great grandmother, Mary Howland, is Ella Jensen’s 6th great grandmother. We’re cousins.

That changes the story doesn’t it? Her family is my family, just as much, I feel, as my wife’s family is my family. That being said, in context with Ella and her experience when she died, what might be the experience of this dear aunt lost this week on the other side?

For me the answers are clear. She is with family. She is with people who love her. And she is happy.

Does that lessen the sense of loss?

Good heavens, no.

It has been more than three years since I lost my Mom. I miss her more and more every day. I cannot count the times I have wept over missing her.

But at the same time, as hard as it is for me to explain, I’ve become closer to my Mother since she died.

I very firmly believe it comes from working on her family especially in these efforts of family history. This, I believe, is something I very much still hold in common with Mom.

I would give anything to have another conversation with her. I would give anything to tell her once again how much I love her.

But as Ella explained to those in her life that grieved, I feel Mother would be unhappy to know of my continued mourning.

Those moments, and they surely come, I find are more about me than about her. And by that I mean I want her back, I want her here during moments that are important to me. That makes the sting of death truly sting.

What gives me relief is that my Mother is with those she once lost – and that I too, have truly not lost anyone and never really will.

Yes, there is separation, a part of God’s plan to help us learn and grow in knowledge and in love. But those moments of separation are indeed merely moments on an eternal time line.

I will continue to be fascinated with the next life and, in a small way, live in envy of those who have already made that transition.

I know I too will someday go through it, as we all must. But it is not something I dread. In fact, I think of it with great rejoicing and give thanks to our Savior who makes such things possible.

Ella Jensen lived to tell the story. My mother, in her dying days, had moments while here with others on the other side, too. I witnessed it.

I believe it is part of the dying process and I’m convinced those we’ve lost this year all experienced the same. It is part of living, of this earth’s experience for each of us.

And in the end I think we will be surprised at all we can count as family. Whether they comes as in-laws or as distant relations like Ella, we are all family.

None Knew Them
Jeff Westover

None Knew Them But to Praise

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The generation of my grandparents is rightfully known as The Greatest Generation.

They have been so identified because of their sacrifices and contributions during the years of the Great Depression and World War II.

We likewise are free with our praise of the Pioneer Generation, those pre-and-post Civil War era ancestors who conquered the West

We marvel as well over the Generation of Emigrants who crossed oceans and continents around the turn of the 20th century.

In greater measure, we identify our Pilgrim and Puritan ancestors of the Great Migration generations of the 1600s.

But as I continue to work family history it occurs to me that there was a generation just as great as all these yet they seem to escape any recognition. I have come to call them the Unheralded Generation.

This is the generation of ancestors born from roughly 1790 to 1810, or so – the children and grandchildren of early colonists of the American Revolution.

We just don’t give them the credit they deserve.

This thought came to me as I pondered over the graves of ancestors this week in Mendon, Utah.

There, between the tiny markers for William and Linzey Findley, is a monument erected in their honor by the Daughters of Utah Pioneers.

The monument clearly says “None knew them but to love them. None named them but to praise.”

Curious, I began to poke around looking for where those words came from. I wanted to know why these words are assigned to a marker to these 5th great-grandparents of mine.

The all-knowing Google could only point me in the direction of an obscure 19th century America poet by the name of Fitz-Greene Halleck.

Halleck was something of a mover and shaker in early American publishing circles in New York. He rubbed shoulders with the likes of Washington Irving and Edgar Allen Poe.

A New York Times article described his poetic works as “ranging from the incomprehensible to the awful”. Yet there Halleck is, immortalized on the great Literary Walk of Central Park with William Shakespeare, Walter Scott and Robert Burns.

His one claim to poetic greatness comes from a work he penned for another poet, Joseph Rodman Drake, when Drake died. This poem made Halleck’s name widely known in the 19th century:

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, who truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine.

It should be mine to braid it,
Around thy faded brow,
But I’ve in vain essayed it,
And feel I can not now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.

I have pondered all week why the Daughters of Utah Pioneers would put those words on that monument above the graves of the Findleys.

I have shared the history of the Findleys before in telling the story of Ann Westover, her brother William, Jr. and his wife, Sarah.

But I’ve not said much about their parents, William Sr. and Linzey, because there is honestly little known there to share.

I have a feeling it is the story of a great love between two people. It is clearly a story of tremendous sacrifice. And it is certainly a story that has never been told nor rightfully recognized.

William Sr. was a Scot, a coal miner and quite nearly an old man when he pushed the family handcart with Linzey and Ann to Utah in 1856.

He was 47 years old that year and he would spend the last 30 years of his life toiling on the farm in Mendon in obscurity.

The town of Mendon has a plaque honoring the founding families of the city near the town square and the Findley name is on it. But that is a reference to William Findley Jr, who came to Mendon in 1859 and claimed some of the best farm land there to be found.

It was William Findley Jr who was well known in the community. He was the one with the impressive team of 12 champion horses. It was William Jr who on the High Council. It was William Jr. the journals of visiting Church authorities would mention as a leader in the Mendon Ward.

William Sr. and Linzey settled next door to William Jr. and Sarah.

When William Jr. unexpectedly died in 1869 it was William Sr. who sent for daughter Ann.

We know William Sr. was faithful. He appears on the records of the Mendon Ward in various activities all the way until about a month or so before his passing in 1887.

When Ann received her patriarchal blessing it was mentioned that William Sr. had just previously given Ann a father’s blessing, and was standing in with the Patriarch as Ann received her patriarchal blessing.

There can be no doubt of how close Ann Westover was to her parents. She named her first son William.

When she came to Mendon it was to help William, Jr.’s widow – Sarah, and her children – but she lived in the home and on the farm of her parents next door.

Their place, in time, became “Sister Westover’s house”, where the school children would pass each day and stop for cookies and storytelling.

Throughout all this drama the steady influence and presence of William Sr. and Linzey is evident – but never mentioned.

We know that Linzey was a beloved Matriarch. Generations of granddaughters after her carry her name. We know the little iron that Sarah carried beneath her skirts across the plains has been passed down in the decades since only to daughters named Lindsay.

Yet no stories or known written history of William, Sr. and Linzey Findley exist.

“None named thee but to praise”, indeed.

These honored and beloved pioneers are not the only ones of their generation whose true stories are not really known.

Alexander Westover – Edwin’s father – is practically unknown as a man. His wife, Electa, we have a little more about but she too lived a life of incredible loneliness and sacrifice.

David Rowe and his wife, Hannah – grandparents to Ruth Althea Rowe Westover – were of this generation as well.

Their son William’s stories of service in the Mormon Battalion and great spiritual experiences are documented well. But the stories of conversion and sacrifice for David and Hannah are not known or remembered.

Levi Murdock, and his wife Elizabeth, are significant figures in the settlement of the north Ogden area of Utah. But they were considered among the oldest and wisest of Mormon pioneer families yet they left behind no family records, relying on their history to be recorded in the journals of others.

David Smith and his companion, Deborah Alden – parents to Albert Smith, are better remembered not for their own history but for their distant heritage among the pilgrim and puritan settlers of New England.

Grandma Sophie’s parents – Johan Frederick and Sophie Catrine – have no known history. Perhaps all the records from Denmark are yet to be found.

From the Humble side of the family we do know a little more of those of this generation. George and Mary Ann came over from England in about 1850. But while we know their travels a lot more could be known of their story.

We do have a few from this generation whose stories we know.

Notably we know the stories of Gardner Snow, Horace Roberts and of Elam Cheney. These are all notable characters in early LDS history. But without outside record keeping from Church events we might not know anything about them at all.

I think of this generation as unheralded because they were truly the first to push westward. They may have first settled in places like Indiana, Ohio and Illinois before pressing forward towards Utah but they aren’t celebrated for that.

They were, if truth be told, pioneers to many of those WE consider to be pioneers.

So I find the DUP marker between William and Linzey in Mendon to be quite appropriate in its sentiment.

But I hope to one day make that sentiment obsolete. Their story should be discovered, shared and celebrated. They were, by all evidence, greatly devoted to family and grandparents I would be proud to know.

Jeff Westover

A Fitting Memorial for Grandpa

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Memorial Day. A day argued by many that is lost to some in meaning. Many mark it as an extra day off — a day of barbeques, a first summer swim in a lake or a chance to get away.

It began as Decoration Day, an event to decorate the graves of the fallen from the North and the South during the Civil War. It is a day specifically set aside to recognize those who died in the service of country.

Indeed, my own marking of the day has wandered over the years.

These days I make my way up to Mendon, and place flowers on the grave of grandmother Ann Findley Westover, a grandparent I hadn’t even known about 10 years ago. She never served in the armed forces, however, and if we’re going to split hairs you could say she wasn’t even an American.

But for me her grave gives me a special place to remember all who came before me – because they all died in the service of me and my children.

They all fought different kinds of battles, to be sure, and most never wore a uniform. But serve us they did – every one of them. Grandma Ann seems to be representative of them all in so many ways.

To be honest, as the grandson of one taken by war I have always been a bit lost on remembering him well each Memorial Day.

After all, his only grave that I know about is in France.

I have never been there and will likely never get the chance to go there.

There is, simply, no fitting place of memorial where I can leave my tokens of gratitude for him.

It was just Monday of last week that we buried my grandson, Quin.

His was a life taken before it ever truly began. His little body was laid to rest in Salt Lake City, a tiny grave tenderly prepared for him by loving parents and gathered family determined to remember his place in the family.

Odd as it seems, I could not help pondering the similarities between my grandson and my grandfather while at the cemetery this week.

It is no small wonder to me that Quin resides now within the same realm as my Grandpa Carl. These two men of the family – Quin, my grandson and Carl, my grandfather – have their common connection in me and my children.

Perhaps their circumstance is giving them the chance to know each other – a powerful thought to me.

That will be an opportunity we all face as the curtain of life descends on each of us.

In the months before my mother died I had some very sacred conversations with her about the family she would see when she got to the other side.

I asked her what she would say to her mother when the time came and Mom said, “I want to tell her how very much I have missed her but somehow I think she already knows that.”

But Mother was never one to keep conversations like this one sided.

“What would you tell her? Or, better yet, what do you want me to tell her?”

When it came to Nana my answer was simple. “You tell her, Mom, that I love her.”

Of her step-father, Bumpa, Mom was concerned with some earthly things – what he would say about what she did with the stuff he left her.

I told Mom that he wouldn’t care about that stuff but I can recall her smiling as she said, “Yes, but he’s going to ask me nonetheless.”

Her answer to my query about Grandma Begich was one of great interest to me.

Mother and I had not discussed her for many years. It was a topic I had dropped because Mom was, in my perception, a little bitter about Grandma’s refusal to see me when I had visited Minnesota in the 1980s. She took it very personally.

But Mom surprised me.

She sighed and said, “I just want to give her a hug and tell her I am sorry.”

That answer caused me to marvel and quite nearly made it impossible for me to say anything when Mom asked what she could tell Grandma Begich for me. “You tell her the hug is from us both, Mom”, was all I could think of to say.

But when it came to Grandpa Carl the question proved one very difficult for both of us to answer.

You see, my mother did not know her father. The war took him away before she could even create a memory of him. Mother would not have just one question for her father, I assure you.

I consider now what Mom said then to be something very sacred.

So I won’t reveal it here or at this time.

But Mom did ask me what she could say to him from me when the time came.

And that I will share with you.

“Mom, I’d like you to tell Grandpa that we have not forgotten him. I want him to know that even though we didn’t know him or his family in this life that we are trying to. I want him to know I appreciate how much he spoke of love for you and for Nana. I want him to know I’ve read of his love for his mother and for his father, and for his family. I want him to know that while I honor him for his sacrifice, I love him for who he was to them.”

Mother chuckled a little bit when I said that. “I don’t think I can remember all that”, she said. Yes, you will, Mom. In fact, I’m sure you did.

My brother has recently taken up the quest of trying to find out why Grandpa Carl died five days after the war ended in Europe.

The circumstances of his death have always been suspicious and while I think the sting of needing to know has subsided a bit I think the deeper curiosity now is fueled by a desire to know yet another story about him.

That will be interesting to learn, if we ever get to the truth. But there is, simply, more to his life than the tale of his death.

For me, however, the most fitting memorial for Grandpa Carl is finally starting to materialize.

It isn’t in a grave marker.

It is, as it ever has been, in his family.

Recently we have made new connections and we have learned more of Grandpa Carl.

But more importantly – much more importantly – we have felt love from those who claim him as family.

We have heard stories, we have seen tears shed, we have pondered together the what-if’s. And we have celebrated these lost individuals who have left this world to us from the Begich side of the family.

This, I think, would make Grandpa Carl very happy.

When he got to the other side I don’t think there was anyone in his life that he knew there to greet him. His father was another 20 years in passing over. His mother wouldn’t come for nearly 50 years.

But one by one his family members that he knew in this life have joined him.

What did he do to prepare for them? Who did he meet before they ever got there? How has he been able to connect to our family long passed to the family still occupying the earth?

I don’t know the answer to those questions except in this respect: it’s happening.

I am meeting and getting to know my Begich cousins. We are learning what they know of those my Grandpa Carl held most dear.

Baby step by baby step, we are becoming family – in the truest sense of the word.

What more fitting memorial can there be for Grandpa Carl?

To that end we will keep trying and keep connecting.

Who knows? Maybe someday – perhaps on a Memorial Day weekend – we can gather to remember, to honor and to celebrate.

And then everyone can bring flowers.

Norm Welty
Jeff Westover

The Beauty of the Little Details

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Recently I have had the chance to connect with more of my Begich cousins. It has been wonderful.

In conversing with one via email this week I asked some questions about my great Grandpa Mike Begich, who immigrated to the United States around 1905. He lived from 1886 to 1965.

In my lifetime I’ve heard so very little personal detail about him. So little details like this from my cousin this week are very meaningful to me:

“As an 8-year-old, I used to visit and stay over with my grandparents fairly often. Grandpa would always let me rummage through his junk drawer to admire old pocket watches and jack knives and other paraphernalia. Grandpa collected wood slats from peach and other fruit crates (Grandma was ALWAYS canning something or other) and showed me how to make bird houses out of them with his tools.”

So many think family history is tied to the epic events in their lives – the stories of overcoming, of moving from one country to another, of accomplishing great things. Those things have their place but I find greater comfort in the finer and even mundane details of their lives.

Norm WeltyFor example, pictured to the right is my Uncle Norm Welty, my grandmother’s little brother. Taken in 1978, he is about 60 years old and working on an engine in his garage. Cars were a passion with him and his family. This is Uncle Norm in his element. And it is a treasure to me. This picture speaks to me of Norm’s goodness.

There are many such lessons to find in the everyday details.

Another example: Grandmother Ann Finley Westover, a handcart pioneer, was known through-out the community of Mendon for her cookies. Her house was very close the school, which was in the center of town, and most children coming home from school knew they could stop in at Sister Westover’s house for stories and cookies on a daily basis.

Some of the details speak of normal stuff – like fighting with siblings.

In this delightful video Grandma Maurine Westover talks about having to fight like a boy with her brother:

Albert Smith left some wonderful detail about his pioneer life in his journals.

He had more mouths to feed than ever in 1855 and yet had suffered a total loss of his crops due to “the hoppers”, as he called them.

They were destitute and needed food. I can almost hear Albert in conversation as he told the story of what they had to do:

We heard that there was good crops raised up north in Ogden were two of my brothers-in-law lived Isaac Outicark and Orilin Colving. I saw no alternative for we only go there and get some grain, yet I had nothing to buy with so I had to go and get it by faith. I hocked my 2 yoke of oxen to my wagon, took plenty of sacks and Emily with her two babies and Almon her old child a lad of six years old and started for Egip, I mean Ogden, far west. We had good luck going there and we found our friends all well. Nearby one of my brother-in-law there was a large field where there was good chance for to glean. I improved every minute of my time that I could for 16 days gathered it together and thrashed it, cleaned and put it in to sacks and when it was done I had (22) twenty-two bushels of wheat. Emily had gotten 8 or 10 bushels with made me as big a load as I could hall with two yoke of oxen. We returned in safety the distance 150 miles. We found our family all well. So much for work and faith. That 32 bushels of wheat with the potatoes and few bushels or corn served us for bread the year (12 instead of 11 in my family) without and suffering although I had to give the Indians not such less than one bushel of potatoes for 40 or 50 days.

Amongst my Grandpa Carl’s letters I found this thought he had written home on New Year’s Eve in a letter to my Nana, speaking of the day my mother was born:

“…Being New Year’s Eve and all that sort of rot means its just another day for me, another evening spent in further solemnity, solitude and deep thought, thoughts pertinent to exactly one year ago today. And yet, I don’t looking up this day as being anything really, of true value. It only means that 1944 is here. But, I look further, exactly 11 days – eleven days from this evening. Gees — Mt. Kisco Hospital; maternity ward; a big whooping squeal and bingo, there she was: Cathy. Remember? Then too, the next day when I visited you – and saw you in the recuperating department. Yes, dearest, I cherish those things. How find and beautiful you looked the next day, your eyes were plain fire balls, shining like the sun…”

At the end of the day do these small details matter? Do we really need to know that our English grandfather named John Westover III had three cows names Lily, Sparkle and Pickle?

Maybe not, but I think they make a difference.

The beauty of the little details makes these grandparents and ancestors so much more than names on a headstone.

They were just normal folks, doing the same things we all do.

They took their joys as blessings and their challenges as opportunities to grow faith. They did, as we all do — the very best they could.

I find more and more as I seek out family and get to know more about those I have not known I come to appreciate most these little details.

What is normal is sacred to me about them. I think that is because I want to be worthy of them. And it is the small normal things that makes that possible.

Jeff Westover

The Babies We Send Home

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Hidden behind many of these pages is a contemporary record of my family. It dates back to when my wife and I married in 1991 and there are many reasons I have not yet made it available to anyone. Someday it will be a part of the public archives here.

I don’t share these things now because I think the last things my kids need is their Dad talking about them on the Internet. I do that in bits and pieces on social media, as many parents do, because I just cannot contain myself at times.

But the more pure, complete and accurate stories of our history remain private for now.

Yet there are some family events I feel that must be publicly noted nearly as they happen. Such was the case three years ago when I lost my mother.

What follows is my record of recent events in the life of our eldest daughter, Aubree, and her husband, Ryan. I am well aware of the need for their privacy over these delicate matters.

I am likewise well aware of how their experience has profoundly affected all of us and the need that exists for ongoing discussion about what has transpired.

I am aware of the sacred and delicate nature of much of this event. I am not disclosing everything that has transpired for that very reason.

These are my recollections and reflections. They do not and cannot tell the entire story. Please forgive me if there are inaccuracies.

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When Aubree and Ryan wed in November 2017 it was no secret they planned almost immediately to begin a family. Their age and circumstance made that something of a foregone conclusion and we all took joy in that prospect.

So when Aubree announced in January that they were expecting the news was met with great rejoicing. Their fairy-tale love story had indeed gone to the next level.

But by sometime in March Aubree and Ryan were made aware there were complications in their pregnancy.

Their baby was not measuring as big as he should have and he was not growing at a rate that was good. Something was very wrong.

Though not yet officially diagnosed, the doctors felt the baby had a chromosomal abnormality, a kind of miss-wiring of the DNA that prevents natural development. Of the type they spoke of it is almost always fatal.

Aubree and Ryan were devastated.

Though always given a sliver of hope by the doctors – these cases were sometimes misdiagnosed – together they faced a heartbreaking trial as a newlywed couple.

Aubree disclosed the details to very few people, I believe. As is her way, she methodically took inventory of everything – her feelings, her thoughts, and her options.

No part of this was unturned over the weeks as the baby continued to grow within her, albeit at a different pace and with a now-anticipated different outcome.

Looking back now I consider those weeks to be of consequential decision and deep soul searching for Aubree and Ryan.

Of course, there were tears. Of course there was great grieving. Of course, the full cycle of human emotions were felt by many of us, not just Aubree and Ryan.

But what I observed to be happening within Aubree in particular was a very conscious acceptance of what was happening and a deliberate effort to learn and gain from the experience somehow.

Over the course of these months of pregnancy we discussed all the possible outcomes.

What if the baby survived? What dangers did a long term pregnancy with a child having this condition present for Aubree? Could this impact their ability to have other children? So many questions were asked and considered over and over again.

None of this is the stuff that new parents usually have to contemplate. Where there was once great excitement in anticipating baby – picking out the crib, buying outfits, debating names, etc. – there was now just one difficult question after another.

Finally this week, it happened.

Aubree’s scheduled appointment included yet another ultrasound only this time no strong heartbeat was heard. The baby was gone.

It was at once one of the most heartbreaking and heartwarming phone calls of my life.

This precious daughter of ours bravely called us to tell us of her decision to induce labor. The baby was a boy. And yes, there would be a small funeral for him.

She and Ryan had to make that same phone call to Ryan’s parents, to her grandparents, and to their siblings.

All were watching with great anticipation and concern for Aubree. All knew the significance of this event in their lives. All felt keenly their great hopes and their devastating disappointment.

I marveled when Aubree told us during this call, “I only want to feel what joy I can from this experience.”

I am pretty sure all were astonished at their stoic acceptance and struggle to find answers and hope going forward.

Later that night the phone rang again. It was Aubree and she was laughing.

“Dad,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this. We’ve been looking again at names and a name that recently stood out to me is Avery. Do you know what that name means?”

“I believe I do.” I said.

“Shut up!” she laughed. “Can you believe that?”

The name means the same thing the name Aubree means: ruler of elves.

This is a longstanding fact of joy in our family. Aubree was five when her mother and I met. As our eldest child we knew she would be the leader of the pack. When our Christmas story unfolded that first year we were married I looked up the name Aubree and found it a coincidental, funny fact that her name means “ruler of elves”. As the first of seven dwarves in our house, this just seemed to fit her perfectly.

So does the name Avery fit for Aubree’s first child. His name would be Quin Avery Turley.

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Over the course of that first phone call Aubree asked some interesting questions.

“Do we take Quin’s name to the temple and do his work for him?”

My first inclination in considering that question was no – it was not necessary for Quin to have ordinance work done.

He was perfect and didn’t require the same as those who walk in mortality.

For whatever reason, Heavenly Father took him home and his redemption was made automatic through the Savior.

But the question troubled me and I started to wonder if I understood that wrong.

So too did I feel the same about another question Aubree discussed: would Quin be given a name and a blessing?

Later that night as I tossed over these things, I decided it best to look it up on LDS.org and see what the prophets have said about stillborn children.

The official church policy concerning stillborn births is short and plain.

No, temple ordinance work is not required of them and, yes, stillborn children can be given a name and a blessing.

The order in which such is administered is slightly different, as there are no official records of the child associated with the Church.

While I appreciated the policy it didn’t settle well with me, for whatever reason. I needed to understand better.

I felt about this grandson the same as I do my other grandsons. They need the blessings of the priesthood. Surely, I thought, there had to be more said about these precious souls.

I considered what I knew of babies from the stories in the scriptures.

One of my favorite of all stories comes from the New Testament, when Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was at that time a little further along in pregnancy with John.

“And it came to pass, that, when Elisabeth heard the salutation of Mary, the babe leaped in her womb; and Elisabeth was filled with the Holy Ghost: And she spake out with a loud voice, and said, Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. And whence is this to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? For, lo, as soon as the voice of thy salutation sounded in mine ears, the babe leaped in my womb for joy.” (Luke 1:41-44)

That scripture in the context of an unborn child tells us much.

John, a prophet and the forerunner of Christ, was indeed a select spirit.

But was he, in the womb, different really than any other baby?

He was alive. He was intelligent. He was a being aware of circumstance and capable of feeling.

Are not all babies?

Aubree and Ryan for three months or more went to the doctor on regular visits. Through modern technology they could witness in real time their baby alive in the womb. They saw him move. They heard his heartbeat.

It all brings to the surface one of the burning questions that man has asked since the beginning of time: when does life begin?

Some argue that it doesn’t begin until the baby is out of the womb – a life, they say, requires drawing breath.

Others are not so quick to pass that judgment.

Modern technology has assured over and over again that babies sometime during gestation gain knowledge of and some control over their bodies while in the womb.

They are subject and react to environmental conditions within their sphere: heat and cold, movement and such.

In my mind, this new grandson of ours was no different than any of the rest of us.

He is a child of God. He was known unto Him, as the Lord told Jeremiah:

“Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the nations.”

Would not the Lord know my grandson just as well as He knew Jeremiah?

In my view, yes.

The Lord knows us all, even in the womb – even before the womb.

From modern scripture we have knowledge of this.

To Joseph F. Smith the Lord revealed in section 138 of the Doctrine and Covenants: “Even before they were born, they, with many others, received their first lessons in the world of spirits and were prepared to come forth in the due time of the Lord to labor in his vineyard for the salvation of the souls of men.” (D&C 138:56)

On this night of the very sad phone call from my daughter – in the hours before his body would make its worldly debut – it struck me how well known and prepared Baby Quin was long before he resided within his mother’s womb.

He was, like all of us, called, set apart and sent forth on a mission — a mission designed for his growth and development.

Like all of us, his mission was unique and made just for him.

His mortal experience was different than the mortal experience than the rest of us. He never was allowed to leave that special protective sphere from within his mother.

But while there he experienced all that world had to offer and his parents witnessed that little life within.

Then he passed through what we all pass through. He left that life and went to what comes next.

Does his mortal experience lead to any less of an outcome than that of anyone else?

No – not less of an outcome.

Likely, more and different than the outcome we know.

Of these things the Prophet Joseph Smith spoke plainly and hopefully:

“We have again the warning voice sounded in our midst, which shows the uncertainty of human life; and in my leisure moments I have meditated upon the subject, and asked the question, why it is that infants, innocent children, are taken away from us, especially those that seem to be the most intelligent and interesting. The strongest reasons that present themselves to my mind are these: This world is a very wicked world; and it … grows more wicked and corrupt. … The Lord takes many away, even in infancy, that they may escape the envy of man, and the sorrows and evils of this present world; they were too pure, too lovely, to live on earth; therefore, if rightly considered, instead of mourning we have reason to rejoice as they are delivered from evil, and we shall soon have them again. …”

That Aubree and Ryan – and indeed, all of us – would have cause to mourn is only natural.

We shared so much with Quin already before he was born it seems unfair to think of all the things we will never be able to share with him in this life.

The Prophet knew this.

He experienced the same himself, as he and Emma had lost several of their children. He said:

“I have a father, brothers, children, and friends who have gone to a world of spirits. They are only absent for a moment. They are in the spirit, and we shall soon meet again. The time will soon arrive when the trumpet shall sound. When we depart, we shall hail our mothers, fathers, friends, and all whom we love, who have fallen asleep in Jesus.”

But what of Aubree, my precious daughter who has righteously longed to be a mother?

Joseph was again very plain spoken:

“A question may be asked—‘Will mothers have their children in eternity?’ Yes! Yes! Mothers, you shall have your children; for they shall have eternal life, for their debt is paid.”

Studying all these things and contemplating through prayer all that was transpiring made me feel better. I did not know exactly how things would unfold over the next few days but I had a calming reassurance that all would be well – somehow.

I marveled at how the Lord works through things over and over again through faith.

It always gets back to the old #1 – the first principle of the gospel.

I wouldn’t call the life and death of my grandson in this context a real trial of my faith.

I would call, instead, the grief felt by his mother and his father a greater trial of my faith.

I could not, after all, see the physical struggle of my young grandson.

But I could see the trial on the face of my daughter and I could hear it in the words of my son-in-law. Their love for their son, their willingness and desire to bring him in to the world and enjoy him as a part of each other is something so sacred between any couple.

To have that taken away is painful and confusing.

That they would go through this was a trial to me. And I wept over it.

I know my wife did as well.

As we discussed it as she packed her bag to go to Salt Lake City she expressed over and over her desire to somehow do this for Aubree – to take her place if possible, in experiencing the pain of childbirth.

And it wasn’t to deny her the experience of motherhood – it was to take away the sting of motherhood denied. My dear wife, expressing the love only a mother can feel, didn’t want Aubree to suffer from the broken heart that comes with empty arms.

That, of course, is not possible.

What we were about to learn from Aubree – and she has always taught us – is that none of that is really even necessary.

The experience, while less than ideal, need not be a bad one.

The outcome, while admittedly sad, need not be ruled by sadness.

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Sandy went to Salt Lake within an hour or two of Aubree’s phone call on Tuesday night. There wasn’t even a question of where she needed to be. Off she went.

I stayed home to get the girls to school and to put in hours at work until we knew more for sure what was going on.

Tuesday night was restless for me and I spent most of it reading online, studying the scriptures, and contemplating over and over what Aubree and Ryan had likely already been thinking about for months.

I went to work on Wednesday morning wondering when the call would come to head down to Salt Lake.

By 10:30am, the message came and I was on my way.

I messaged my father and told him I needed him to assist in giving a blessing. Like always, Dad was ready and responded instantly.

What I didn’t tell him and what I could not share was that I was greatly apprehensive about giving a blessing to my daughter in this circumstance.

My heart was breaking for her. While I could understand the Lord’s rationale for taking this child home to Him I could not reconcile in my mind the heartbreak of my child.

I wasn’t sure I could place my hands on her head.

I had never felt that way about giving a blessing before.

I thought about the many, many times my father and I had given blessings to my Mother during her years of illness and there were some difficult times with those.

But nothing seemed to compare to this situation.

As I pulled into Salt Lake and turned onto North Temple to head towards Aubree and Ryan’s place I again felt a calming reassurance.

I needed to do this.

It was my responsibility.

If my daughter was to exercise her faith I needed to exercise my own.

I was relieved to arrive to find Ryan’s parents already there, and a light spirit of love was felt when I entered the home.

Aubree was warm and smiled broadly in seeing me. How was it she was making me feel better?

It was also reassuring to me to be reunited with Sandy.

How I had missed her the past 12 hours or so.

It dawned on me then this wasn’t just an experience in parenting for only Aubree and Ryan. As a couple, Sandy and I were breaking new ground – again.

Dad showed up a short while later and just his being there helped to ease the inner turmoil even more. I was nervous and I felt that if I messed up Dad could save the day.

Of the blessing itself I will only say this, out of respect for the sacred nature of that event: I felt it was one of those rare moments of pure revelation in my life.

I cannot recall what exactly was said, only that I felt overcome with…light.

After Aubree received a blessing, Ryan’s father gave him a blessing. It was a moment of watching the patriarchal order of the priesthood work as the Lord designed it.

I felt the eyes and presence of many in that room – some I knew and others I did not know but presume were of Ryan’s family.

And that was another great thing that dawned on me throughout all this: this was a great, inclusive event.

It wasn’t limited to just Aubree and Ryan. We were not, as their parents, the only ones hovering in concern near them. There were many there.

Aubree was in no rush to get on with things. After the blessings and final packing of bags we headed out for a brief lunch before going on to the hospital.

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I have a lot of experience sitting in hospital waiting rooms. What made this experience so different, and frankly, enjoyable, was talking with Ryan’s parents.

They are tremendous people. I found much in common with them concerning the state of modern parenting and the parallel experiences we have had in bringing up our large families. They know the struggle all too well.

I also came to greatly admire their love for their son, and their hope in his future. It gave me great reassurance to hear them express their love for Aubree and how they see the two of them as a couple. Odd as it is to say, it felt good to know there are others who see and feel exactly as Sandy and I do about our families. We are not alone.

Meanwhile, Aubree and Ryan attended to the paperwork and got settled into their room.

After a while we were invited in and we heard the instruction and information given about what they would go through. The experience would be same as a normal delivery in many respects, and very different in other respects.

What was clear was that it would take a long time to resolve. And part of the conversations turned, for the first time, of a funeral for the baby.

This would give me much to think about on the way back to Cache Valley.

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I went back home because that’s where Madelyn and Emma were. We practically abandoned them on Tuesday and Wednesday. They’re big girls and can take care of themselves but being the end of the school year they also have a lot going on.

I needed to get home to check in with them and see where things stood.

Of course, they wanted news. All my children did.

We burned up the messaging apps and social media channels at all hours to keep each other updated.

It reminded me, in a way, of what we had gone through last summer when Allie had a sudden medical crisis that put her in surgery and in the hospital for a time.

Everything stopped and the talk among the siblings was nothing but love and concern. They needed to know and they needed to be there.

I got little sleep that night between those messages and the messages I was expecting from my wife.

We didn’t know how long the medication they gave Aubree would take to work. We were told that once it kicked in, things would happen fast. But it could take from 6 to 24 hours for things to kick-in.

For so many long hours the message was, “No news, Honey”.

Then, the next day, Thursday May 10th, around 1:30 pm, I got the urgent message – “Aubree’s water broke – message the kids and my mother for me”.

So I did as I was told.

It was like lighting a match to parched brush. The messages from my children lit up my screen with a billion questions.

But among the incoming barrage there was just one other message stood out as it came in around 2pm.

“He’s here. He’s beautiful. And Aubree is fine.”

I jumped in the shower and within a short amount of time I was headed to Salt Lake, this time with two stowaways in Madelyn and Maggie, who dropped everything they were doing because they just had to be there.

When we arrived – with a smoking car, by the way – we were met by Allie, Sandy and Ryan’s parents already there with Ryan and Aubree.

It was a room filled with great energy – smiles, laughter and warm feelings.

I got a chance to peer into the face of my third grandson. He was all there.

Yes, he clearly had indications of his genetic anomalies. But just as clearly he was not there in that little body. I was struck immediately with a witness that his little tabernacle had served a useful purpose and that its mission was complete.

But from Aubree and Ryan – as was their right – I heard too of another side to the story. They had received a witness of him – young, strong, tall – sometime during the experience in bringing forth Quin’s body from the womb.

What a merciful gift – a gift that brought all the smiles and love I was feeling in the room.

Ryan’s parents were soon to leave.

They had been there the whole time and needed to get back to Idaho. So the talk soon turned to giving the baby a name and a blessing.

This too, was something I had studied.

The Church handbook instructs that it is appropriate in the case of stillborn child to do this.

The method is slightly different. Instead of naming the baby as he would be known upon the records of the Church it states we should declare his name as it will be known upon the records of the family.

I love that.

So many depend upon the Church for their record keeping.

The Church keeps records as part of the Lord’s direction in “keeping a house of order”. The Church’s primary mission is to build up the Kingdom of God and thus ordinances are required and records are kept of those ordinances.

Quin would require no ordinances. Without that, there are no records kept of him in the Church.

His name and place cannot be forgotten. It falls then on the family, as it always has and as it ultimately will.

The Church has its place in the record keeping of the family but ultimately, if we are to be redeemed and exalted as families, it will be our records that are paramount.

The family records are the reason why Lehi sent his sons back to Jerusalem.

Adam and his family kept records, “And a book of remembrance was kept, in the which was recorded, in the language of Adam, for it was given unto as many as called upon God to write by the spirit of inspiration;” (Moses 6:5)

The Prophet Joseph Smith foresaw our duty: “The great day of the Lord is at hand …, ” he said. “Let us, therefore, as a church and a people, and as Latter‑day Saints, offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness; and let us present in his holy temple … a book containing the records of our dead, which shall be worthy of all acceptation.”

Quin is a reminder, to me, of the vital importance of our family record.

Typically, a baby blessing provides an opportunity to pronounce blessings that highlight the mortal path. This is an appropriate use of Priesthood power.

But how do you bless an infant who has already passed on from this life?

This was opportunity given to me as Ryan’s father and I took the tiny, tiny body of Quin into our hands.

I could not help but recall President Nelson’s most recent admonition concerning the use of priesthood power in blessing babies: “Brethren, we hold the holy priesthood of God! We have His authority to bless His people. Just think of the remarkable assurance the Lord gave us when He said, “Whomsoever you bless I will bless.”

In that tender moment, contemplating on my grandson and where he was as his brief mortal mission concluded, I was filled with two thoughts: family and resurrection.

Speaking of the resurrection, President Joseph Fielding Smith said “that these little ones will receive a resurrection and then belong to us.”

To that end, Quin was blessed to be able to claim his body on the morning of the first resurrection.

But more importantly, Quin was also blessed in regards to his family.

Having passed through the veil he was now in company with all of his family on every side that has come before him – except of those of us here still in mortality.

What an unusual reversal of the natural order.

He will know our ancients. There is Priesthood organization of the family there and he will operate under its direction.

While absent of his mother he will be kept by generations of grandmothers.

Of all the sacred work that goes on there we cannot possibly know the part Quin will play. But he was blessed to learn his place and to do his part.

This story, of course, is not over. There is much family history here yet to go through and to record.

I am grateful for the blessings of this week. It has been an experience like no other I have had as a father and grandfather. It has been humbling and centering in many respects.

I have a deep and abiding love for all my children. They give me great joy. I think of each of them more in eternal terms than in any other way.

That thought, in their youth, I know makes some of the uncomfortable.

I pray that in time they will all come to know and understand those feelings. I know as they bring their own children into the world they come to understand that level of love.

I know Aubree feels it keenly.

It has been a joy to see her wonder in discovery through the blessings of motherhood. I always pictured her a Mom, as I have all my daughters, because of their natural greatness as daughters of God.

But I’m not sure how they have pictured the same in themselves.

Watching Aubree throughout this process has been a joy to me because it was sweeter than she anticipated, and deeper than she knew it would be.

That love, even when the outcome is not entirely as desired brought to her whole new dimensions of knowing herself, knowing love and knowing Heavenly Father.

If that alone is what Quin’s brief season of life taught us, it is enough.

Of course, it is so much more.