Christmas 2025

Dear Frenchie 

I woke up this morning to the rain — sweet, welcome rain that finally cooled us down. It’s been much needed. This is the first Christmas I can remember with temperatures in the 70s, and honestly? I don’t like it. You would love it, though. The forecast promised a few days of rain; instead, we got maybe an hour. Still, the Red Mountains outside my back patio were breathtaking in the mist and drizzle.

I didn’t do much today. I watched a Lifetime Christmas movie. Thought about you all day. And cried a little. I miss you — especially on holidays.

I received a message from Blake that said:

“Merry Christmas, Mama, I love you.”

Simple words, but they wrapped around my heart all day.

Kayla called to check on me. She’s been sick, and so were the boys. Of course, I didn’t want her coming over ill, so I told her to rest and that we’d talk another time. Haleigh sent three pictures — one of you standing in the snow, one of you and me together in the snow, and one of Ellis and Sena opening gifts this morning.

In that moment, memories overtook me.

I remembered that ski trip … the one where you tried to teach me how to ski for the first time. Oh boy, that was a mistake. You could glide down the mountain like a pro — I loved watching you. But when it came to teaching me? Patience wasn’t on your radar. You wanted me to catch on quickly so we could ski together. I just remember how hard it was — the bruises on my body and my ego.

I ran off the path more times than I can count — into trees, off balance, falling. You’d yell, “Monya … turn in your knees … what don’t you understand?” Then you’d ski down to meet me, completely perplexed.

I’d cry, and you’d ski off, shaking your head.

I vowed then I would never let you coach me again on anything you could do far better than I. I finally retired to the lodge, drank hot chocolate, and — would you believe it — met Robert Redford and his wife.

When I think about that now, it makes me laugh. You have never been the most patient when it comes to teaching — remember trying to help the kids with math and getting so frustrated with their homework?

Later in the day, my Bishop invited me to his home for dinner. I knew the kids were busy and I wouldn’t be seeing them, so I texted him to say I would love to come.

But first, I went to your grave. I shed a few tears, placed flowers, and talked to you — quietly, like I always do. I’ve come to realize something: most of the frustrating memories I have with you are now the ones I wouldn’t trade for anything. They make me laugh. They make me shake my head. They remind me why we allow silly things to ever upset us in the first place.

At dinner, Bishop Evans and his wife, Katie, told me about the years they struggled to carry a baby. Katie’s mom and dad were there too. They’ve served five missions — two as Mission Presidents. Katie served in France when she was young, and she lit up when I told her you had served in Belgium.

They most recently served in the Philadelphia Spanish-speaking mission, and before that, in the Dominican Republic. I told them I would love to serve on a mission someday — that when I retire, I plan to do just that. They made me feel so comfortable and welcomed.

Overall, Christmas Day was memorable — not in the way I expected, but in a way that reminded me of love, loss, connection, and the strange beauty that comes with remembering. I came home last night hoping our children had a great day too.

I love you,
Monya