(I wrote this yesterday, but for some reason, it couldn't publish. So here it is. Just pretend it's Tuesday....)
This morning on his way to work, DH called and said to come outside.
I took the phone with me and went outside to see an ambulence and some police cars at our neighbors house down the street. DH drove by slowly and told me what he saw and then he left for work. I went back in the house, sad that my friend might be going to the hospital and got ready for preschool.
Just after one of the first moms arrived, the Bishop's wife called me. Our neighbor had died in his sleep last night. He wasn't at the hospital. He died.
He was old --and had been sick over the last few years. But he walked the street EVERYDAY, and years ago, he would run it. In fact, years and years and years ago --he ran it all the way to the Olympics. Ran it all the way as the BYU head track coach. Of course, he hasn't been able to run for a while, but for the last 5 years that I have known him, I've seen him walk our street so many times. He was walking it last week. That's what is so strange and so sad that he is now gone.
He leaves behind 9 children and tons of grandkids. His wife, twice his missionary companion, is one of my heroes. I love her so much and I mourn for her now.
The best part of all this is that I know where he is. I know that he is safe and has peace. He will be greatly missed by all who knew him, but he will be seen again. Having that comfort makes all things bearable. Bittersweet, I tell ya'. Bittersweet...