Chocolate-Covered Strawberries

Just a month before Brittany passed away, my parents were in town for the State Wild Bunch Shoot. One evening they wanted to take us out to eat, but Jenelle and I would be down in St. George for the night for a half-marathon I had the following morning. So, they just took the kids.

When my dad asked where they wanted to eat, Jordan responded sarcastically with “Golden Corral,” because he knew it was down in St. George and there was no way Grandpa would drive all the way down to St. George (an hour away) just to take them out to eat. To their surprise, he said “yes.” It proved to be a decision my parents would never regret.

All the kids, a year and a half before the adventure at Golden Corral. 

They all loaded up in my parents' truck for the drive down, which proved to be an adventure in itself. Four kids sat in back, probably not all in seat belts. Savanah, only six years old at the time, sat on Grandma's lap in the front. They were packed in like sardines, but that was half the fun!

(Coincidentally, and unbeknownst to us, while they ate at Golden Corral, we sat across the street at the Brick Oven eating pasta.)

Brittany half-filled her first plate with green beans and one or two other vegetables. Then, she went full-throttle for the desserts. She filled a plate with cotton candy, ice cream, jello that melted on the hot plate, and other sweets. Another plate was full of strawberries pierced with a stick and smothered with chocolate from the fondue fountain . . . and a little bit of broccoli. She also experimented with cotton candy and marshmallows covered in chocolate.

When she was done with that serving and lifted her plate from the table, there was a chocolate ring left beneath. Brittany was also very helpful with Jenna and Savanah, helping them to fill their plates. 

Grandpa reading to Brittany when she was four.

Grandma with Brittany on her lap.

In the end, Grandpa was aghast at how much junk they had eaten. When they were done, Brittany and Kaitlyn had to go into the bathroom to wash all the cotton candy and ice cream from their faces.

My dad (Grandpa) loves telling this story, and especially how Brittany had a plate full of chocolate-covered strawberries and how when she lifted her plate there was a ring of chocolate on the table. For my parents this was a very special evening because it was the last time they were able to spend good personal time with Brittany before she passed away.

Even though I wasn't there, I still laugh and get choked up every time I think of that memorable evening.

Brittany a few months before her passing. 

Last year on the anniversary of her passing, we drove to St. George as a family to attend an angel ceremony that happens to be on her anniversary (December 6) every year. Afterward we decided to eat dinner at Golden Corral.

I enjoyed hearing the stories from the kids, recalling their memories of that eventful evening twelve years earlier. I was touched as I reminisced about Brittany, the sound of her voice and how she may of looked on that infamous evening.⸻And just so I could taste the memories also, I made sure I got a plate of strawberries covered in chocolate. ♥

Remembering Brittany at Golden Corral. 

Angelic Faces

Sketch of Mary Ann Harrison

Tender mercies come when you least expect them.
 
Today marks twelve years since the passing of my daughter, Brittany. I miss her dearly. Especially in the months succeeding her death, small, but pleasant instances of “good luck” would fall upon us; however, they happened frequently enough that I didn't consider them to be “luck” at all. Perhaps divine intervention.
 
A month and a half after her burial I was browsing through a small local museum when I stumbled across a story that captured my heart.
 

Solomon Nunes Carvalho

A man by the name of Solomon Nunes Carvalho, a Jewish artist, was traveling with the John C. Fremont expedition in 1854 across a valley that would later become part of southern Utah. He became ill and chose to depart the group and travel to Salt Lake where he could recuperate. A few months later he returned to Southern Utah, this time with Brigham Young. During his stay in the young settlement of Cedar City he recorded the following experience in his journal:
 
“The morning after my arrival . . . I arose very early, and taking my sketchbook along, I sauntered around the city; in the course of my peregrinations, I saw a man walking up and down before an adobe shanty, apparently much distressed; I approached him, and inquired the cause of his dejection; he told me that his only daughter, (four) years of age, had died suddenly in the night; he pointed to the door and I entered the dwelling.
 
“Laid out upon a straw mattress, scrupulously clean, was one of the most angelic children I ever saw. On its face was a placid smile, and it looked more like the gentle repose of healthful sleep than the everlasting slumber of death. Beautiful curls clustered around a brow of snowy whiteness. It was easy to perceive that it was a child lately from England, from its peculiar conformation. I entered very softly, and did not disturb the afflicted mother, who reclined on the bed, face buried in the pillow, sobbing as if her heart would break.
 
“Without a second's reflection, I commenced making a sketch of the inanimate being before me, and in the course of half-an-hour I had procured an excellent likeness.
 
“A slight movement in the room caused the mother to look around her. She perceived me, and I apologized for my intrusion; and telling her that I was one of the Governor's party who arrived last night. I tore the leaf out of my book and presented it to her, and it is impossible to describe the delight and joy she expressed at its possession. She said I was an angel sent from heaven to comfort her. She had no likeness of the child.
 
“I bid her to place her trust in Him 'who giveth and taketh away,' and left her indulging in the excitement of joy and sorrow. I went out unperceived by the bereaved father, who was still walking up and down, buried in grief. I continued my walk, contemplating the strange combination of events, which gave this poor woman a slight ray of peace for her sorrowing heart.
 
“When I was about starting next day, I discovered in the wagon a basket filled with eggs, butter, and several loaves of bread, and a note to my address containing these words, 'From a grateful heart.'”

* * *
 
The child in the account was Mary Ann Harrison, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Harrison.  Their story touched me deeply. My heart tugged with sympathy for the bereaving parents. I could relate with them.
 
But something else stood out—how lucky I was to have dozens of photos and videos of Brittany. We are truly blessed to be able to capture an image or sound so easily. How many generations have passed that have had no opportunity to recreate the “likeness” of their loved ones?
 
Now, twelve years later, I can watch a video of her giggling voice, or see a photo of her brown silky hair and it brings me so close that in my mind's eye I can picture her as if she had never left. ♥

My Angel.

Les Misérables

High above the stage on the front row of a balcony seat, inside a plush Broadway theater in New York City, a young boy of seventeen sat mesmerized at what he saw. He could not understand many of the lyrics, nor did he catch much of the storyline. But he knew without a doubt that the voices he had heard that night were the best he had heard in his entire life. He even noted the orchestra sitting down below the stage, and of particular humor, he took note of the musician whose job it was to strum his stringed instrument—one strum—then wait, wait, wait, wait—then strum again. 

The young boy turned into a young man and flew across the ocean to serve his church and to serve his God. During his free time he would listen to soft and conducive music such as Tchaikovsky, Mozart, as well as many of the hymns from his church. But he noticed that some of his companions would listen to this same musical that he had once witnessed in New York City. He enjoyed this. He would listen also and now would sit down and be attentive to the lyrics and read from the songbook that came with the album. He learned the characters: Jean Valjean, Javert, Fantine, Cosette, Gavroche . . . he remembered that last one especially. On Broadway, Gavroche had the body of a ten-year-old, yet the voice of Pavarotti. The young man was determined that when he returned home, he would buy the music for himself. 

And that's just what happened. He obtained the music on two C.D.'s and listened to them on his own, and then once he got married, he listened to them with his wife, and then when kids were in the picture, he would listen to it when they were around. 

Not only did he enjoy the music, but the story also. The tale is of the plight of a man who was condemned to prison for nineteen years, who was released from captivity with bitterness in his heart, but who eventually eviscerated the rancor when a benevolent bishop performed a selfless act of charity. That man, Jean Valjean, lived the rest of his life in the service of others, even until his death many years later. 

The young man, now growing older and not so young anymore, thought it not enough to only listen to the music. He bought the novel and read it—all 1,463 pages of it! Within those leaves he learned in much greater depth the greatness of this Jean Valjean. He also learned of other charitable people whom he had never met. One such person was Sister Simplace, a nun, who helped protect Jean Valjean when authorities were unjustly pursuing him. He was also inspired by the Christ-like actions of this man who promised a dying woman that he would care for her child. Jean Valjean does this faithfully until the child, Cosette, marries and is able to move forward on her own. 

The growing man that we have been discussing was anxious to show the musical to his wife. The production was coming to a nearby town and to be performed in an outdoor theater among red rocks and amid the cool night air. They not only saw it once, but twice, and each time were mesmerized by the beautiful voices and inspiring storyline. 

Years passed and the kids grew, and one of them, a girl named Brittany, became highly interested in plays, musicals, acting and anything of that sort. Her dad let her listen to his C.D. of Les Misérables and described to her the plot and the kindness of many people in the story. He did this with anticipation because he knew that for the first time ever, the production was coming to their home town. So yes, he bought two tickets: one for him and the other for his thirteen-year-old daughter. 

The evening came, and wouldn't you know it, they sat on the front row of the balcony. When the lights dimmed the daughter exclaimed, “Dad, there's an orchestra down there!” Then the curtains were drawn and for the rest of the night a father and his daughter were taken back to a time in France when there were good people and bad people, and those who struggled, and those who fell in love. They wept together when Fantine died with Jean Valjean at her bedside. They later cried again, this time for joy, when Jean Valjean died and Fantine was there on the other side of the veil, waiting to take his hand. The father hugged his daughter and was happy that he was able to share this pleasure with one of his own. 

“How did you like it?” the father asked his daughter after the musical was over. 

“It was even better than I thought it would be,” the daughter replied. 

And on this note, the two of them walked side by side on the sidewalk, the father wrapping Brittany up with his right arm, and pulling her tight against his side. 

Less than two months later, shortly after her fourteenth birthday, Brittany started to get sick. She had so little energy that she could barely get out of bed. When she went to the doctor, she was so weak that her mother had to carry her in her arms. This was a terrifying time. The mother and father watched helplessly as their daughter lay unconscious in a hospital bed. 

On that cold December night Brittany and her mother were flown in an airplane to a larger city with a better hospital. Her father drove up with all of Brittany's siblings—one brother and three sisters. They were young and found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. 

At the hospital the doctors and nurses did all they could to keep Brittany alive, but in the end, there was nothing more they could do. The following morning, the mother, father, brother and sisters knelt at Brittany's bedside and touched her one last time. They sobbed and cried and couldn't believe this was happening. The father remembers putting his ear on Brittany's chest and feeling her heart pump one last time. And then it was gone. 

With weighted sorrow, Brittany's family planned a burial the following week. The hearse drove from the church to the cemetery where her casket was carried to the plot where her body would be interred. They sang a hymn and her father said a prayer over the grave. When it was over, everyone left and they were expected to live their lives as normal. 

Just two weeks after putting her body in the ground, a new movie came to their town that told the story that we have been following. For months the mother and father had waited for this movie, but now they were saddened because they had planned to watch it with their daughter. 

When the big night came they sat side by side in a cold theater and watched the characters come alive on the big screen. By now, the father knew the story by heart. Jean Valjean and Javert and all the rest bellowed in theatrical song, their voices reminding him much of voices he heard when he was a boy and watched it on Broadway in New York City. 

The middle-aged couple watched painfully as Fantine lay in her bed about to die. Their weeping turned to sobbing. The imagery was too raw. Every emotion felt as if Brittany was dying again.  It felt like a knife to the chest, slowly twisting inside the wound.

They continued to watch the story unfold, as Cosette grew into a beautiful young woman and fell in love with Marius. They felt sad when they watched this because they knew all too well that Brittany would never get married.

And then came the final scene of the movie where Jean Valjean sat dying, and Cosette and Marius found him and said their last goodbyes. And then, as he gave up the ghost, Fantine took his hand from the other side of the veil and led him to a brighter world where there was music and celebration and everyone was very much alive.

And as the father watched this final scene, a thought entered his mind.

He envisioned Brittany dying on her bed, but then he also envisioned family and friends on the other side of the veil being summoned to take her hand. He envisioned Grandma Lacy, Grandma and Grandpa Shumway, and Oma and Grandpa Francom. In his mind's eye he could also see Papa and Uncle Jim.

And then the father envisioned one last scene.

It was a day in the future, a day when he would turn old and die like Jean Valjean. Brittany would be there to take his hand! And when her mother should pass to the other side, Brittany would be there also. The two would embrace and stay in each others arms, mother and daughter, a long-awaited reunion. They would all be together again! ♥ 

 

Drawing by Jenelle Lacy.

 

Hollywood Boulevard

Several years ago we sat in McDonald's when suddenly Batman came through the door. He was all decked out with mask and cape and looked exactly as he had ten minutes earlier when we saw him posing for money on the street. He stayed in character as he walked to the counter and ordered his food. He sat down at a table, unwrapped the burger and ate like the rest of us (proving that even superheroes must have to put on their pants one leg at a time). It made us chuckle. A bizarre moment like this could only happen in a few places around the world, one of them being Hollywood Boulevard. 

That was our first time there and we enjoyed every minute of it. We felt as if we had landed on another planet. We strolled up and down the famous street along the Walk of Fame where all the celebrities had their stars. Brittany found the star of Amy Grant, who was her all-time favorite singer. Later we saw David Hasselhoff across the street as he stepped into a car (and no, it wasn't the Knight Rider car). And then, of course, we had to get our picture taken with the Hollywood sign in the background. 

That was a dozen years ago and now we decided to return for the sake of nostalgia. We paid $25 to park our car in a lot just off Hollywood Boulevard. That amount was just shy of what we paid to park at Disneyland. I'm not sure which of the two was more of a circus. 

As soon as we arrived we were met by the din of the street and what appeared to be a homeless guy singing for money. A lady grilled thick hotdogs for seven bucks a pop. Tourists flocked the sidewalks while hot rods and tour buses crowded the street. Neon signs flashed. Fumes of marijuana lifted to the sky. Among those in the streets were shabbily-dressed beggars and high-class snobs. This was Hollywood. 

The streets were lined with souvenir shops, over-priced eateries, Hollywood theaters and museums. I watched my wife and daughters closely as they walked among men I didn't trust. 

This was a place to show off extremes. People dressed bizarrely and got away with showing as much skin as possible. The amount of people with either mental or drug abuse issues was staggering. 

Hollywood Boulevard was sensory overload: flashing neon signs, the smell of food and smoke, all sorts of crazy people, traffic, exhaust, trash on the ground, filth in the stores and glamor in the shops. At the same time it was fascinating to imagine that this was the center of the movie world. This was where it all began. Famous people and wanna-be-famous people all hang out here. We soaked all this in as the sun disappeared and the night lights came on. 

One of the highlights was a man walking his pitbull. This was no ordinary dog, but the stoutest canine I had ever seen. It had been groomed to have a mane like that of a lion. When I first saw the dog I thought it was a cub on a leash. Needless to say, the owner had a lot of people gawking his way. 

We decided to top the night off with a trip to McDonald's. Secretly I hoped Batman would show up again and also, secretly, I knew it was the only place we could afford. There was no Batman this time, but a lot of crazy people in and out. 

One lady, who looked like she lived on the streets, prayed out loud so everyone in the room could hear. Most of it sounded like a wailing rant, but one detail I was able to pick out: she repeatedly forgave Satan. 

In the end, we were happy to return to our hotel. (I was happy that our car hadn't been broken into or stolen!) We all agreed that Hollywood Boulevard was a good place to experience, but we were also happy to leave. The glamor, the lights will linger in our minds, but I'm not sure that we'll ever return. ♠

 

 

Fremont Street

I've often wondered what my grandpa Lacy would think of Fremont Street if he were still alive. 

When I was younger, my brother and I spent some time with him and my grandma in Las Vegas. We occasionally ventured into Downtown. This was the older section of town, with a rougher, more stacked-together feeling than The Strip. I remember eating breakfast at Binion's Horseshoe, where our plate came with a ham steak that poured off the edges, a pile of hash browns, runny eggs, and toast over which my brother poured Tabasco sauce. 

Afterward we crossed the street and Grandpa walked us through the Golden Nugget. He showed us a display case which housed a large, shiny yellow stone that supposedly was the largest chunk of gold in the world. It was, for sure, the largest chunk of gold on Fremont Street. 

Grandpa was more familiar with Vegas than we were. He went there frequently to play poker. Over the years he gradually stopped making the 9-hour trip to Nevada and eventually took his game elsewhere.

That was over thirty years ago and Fremont Street has changed a lot since then. 

The street gets its name from John C. Fremont, one of three explorers who share credit with discovering the area. The other two were Antonio Armijo and his scout, Rafael Rivera, who passed through during the winter of 1829-30. But it was Fremont who put it on the map. 

During his second expedition, John C. Fremont pushed through what is now Utah and into Oregon. They returned by dropping south into California and passing through Sutter's Mill. After passing through a God-forsaken desert and enduring adventures with local Indians, Fremont and his group finally passed through the area now known as Las Vegas. 

His entry for May 3, 1844 records: 

“After a day's journey of 18 miles, in a northeasterly direction, we encamped in the midst of another very large basin, at a camping ground called Las Vegas⸺a term which the Spaniards use to signify fertile or marshy plains, in contradistinction to llanos, which they apply to dry and sterile plains. Two narrow streams of clear water, four or five feet deep, gush suddenly with a quick current, from two singularly large springs; these, and other waters of the basin, pass out in a gap to the eastward. The taste of the water is good, but rather too warm to be agreeable; the temperature being 71 in the one and 73 in the other. They, however, afford a delightful bathing place.” 

Fremont's 1845 report of this trip included maps. 20,000 copies were made and every sensible person heading west had a copy. Thus, thousands of pioneers came west feeling more confident as a result of his observations. 

Nowadays most people don't make the connection with Fremont Street and John C. Fremont, but rather conjure up images of the mob and notorious people such as Benny Binion and Tony Spilotro. This area of Sin City was once known as Glitter Gulch for all the neon lights. But behind all the sparkle were high-stake poker games and organized crime that got a blind-eye from city officials. 

I talked to a guy recently who lived in Vegas during the 1970's. He loved it! And, ironically, he said, it was the mob who kept it safe. According to him, there was very little street crime because the mob would pick off the criminals. He said that now Vegas is a lot more dangerous than it used to be when the mob was in control. 

During the 1990's Fremont Street received a drastic facelift. Due to the increasing popularity of The Strip, the Downtown area lost business and something had to be done. Consequently, the road was torn out and replaced with a pedestrian walkway. A gigantic neon canopy that spanned several blocks was stretched overhead. It was now a walker-friendly avenue that became known as The Fremont Street Experience. 

I was unaware of all these changes and happened upon them in the early 2000's when I took my young family to show them one of my “childhood places.” I was shocked at the new Fremont Street and not sure if I liked it or not. At that time my grandpa was still alive, although a frail old man, and I returned home to give him the report. He listened with interest, never giving an opinion one way or another. Of course, the Fremont Street I saw that day was quite mild from that which I would witness in coming years. 

Occasionally we returned as a family. My kids loved to watch the lights on the canopy overhead and people whizzing by on a zip-line. Live bands played on the walkway while my daughters and wife would dance. This place has become nostalgic for me because I recall Brittany dancing and having a blast, and this would be just a short year or two before she passed away. 

Recently, now 2022, I returned to Fremont Street with my family. I admit that the more I go, the less I want to bring the kids. It's certainly not a family-friendly place anymore. Music blared from every corner and there was not a single space devoid of noise. We saw bands and also solo artists playing for coins. 

Of course, there were the smells. The one I hated the most were the fumes of marijuana that seemed to permeate everywhere. But there was also the aroma of grilled hot dogs, street tacos and barbeque. 

Probably the biggest draw of Fremont Street is the people-watching. From freaks to showgirls, this place has it all. There are artists spray-painting their works in front of a mesmerized crowd. Magicians dazzle the audience and pull objects from thin air. Beggars stand with nothing more than an overturned hat and sign, sometimes with brutal honesty admitting that all they want is enough money to buy some weed. 

On this evening I came with my wife and three older daughters. As the years go by, I am always more hesitant to bring my kids because of all the filth. It seems to get sketchier all the time. 

We were pressed for time so we didn't stop to see much. My wife and I have been on this street about a dozen times and nothing shocks us anymore. 

There was a lot of alcohol consumption in the outdoor bars along the walkway. Consequently, there were also a lot of drunk people doing dumb things. 

We walked up and down the street looking for a place to eat that wasn't too expensive. Although not as bad as The Strip, Fremont Street is starting to catch up with its high prices. It is certainly not the street of bargain deals like when my grandpa took us to Binion's Horseshoe.⸺Tonight we ended up eating the $8.99 prime rib dinner at the Fremont. 

Afterward we had a funny experience. As I walked down Fremont Street I tried to clandestinely capture images that I could use for this blog post; pictures that spoke to the character of the place. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. 

And what would encapsulate the essence of Fremont Street? Showgirls, of course! I walked past a couple of girls with their pink feathers, high-heeled boots and wearing almost nothing else. I casually raised my camera to sneak a picture. Not only did they see me, but they smiled, posed, and then waved for me to come over! 

The next thing I knew, here was a Mormon boy carrying on a conversation with two showgirls while my wife and daughters were twenty feet away laughing their heads off! The showgirls were very nice and explained that I could have another picture with them, but they work for tips and accept credit cards if I didn't have cash. Flustered and not sure what to do, I politely declined and walked away. I had already taken my picture and hoped these girls would forgive me for not tipping them. ♠

 

 

My Daughter, the Doodler

In our home we tend to have a lot of notebooks. Some are for school, others for personal use. They may be used as a diary, for class notes, shopping lists and so on. With our older notebooks, there is usually one common denominator: at one time or another Brittany “borrowed” them to doodle. 

Now that she's been gone for ten years, this has been a blessing. Every time I open a notebook and find a sketch of the Eiffel Tower or a poodle, it always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eye. 

Between writing stories and drawing random pictures, she left treasures behind everywhere in our home. Her bedroom, which has largely been left untouched since her passing, is a trove of artwork. School projects remain on the wall. Pieces of loose paper or 3x5 index cards sport fancy little drawings. Of course, she owned several notebooks of her own, each displaying her skills. And then there's her journals. She didn't just write her daily events, she drew them. 

Last year I conceived the idea that I would pore over all those notebooks, scour her room looking for those stray pieces of paper, and dig through her journal to collect her drawings. Then I would capture the images with a camera. It has taken me a while to get around to it, but the last two months have been a pure delight, coming across memories that I hadn't recalled in years, and discovering new snippets I had never known. 

One such discovery was a book she wrote and illustrated. It was a retelling of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The most touching part, however, were the words on the inside flap: “For my two little sisters, Jenna and Savanah. I hope you both love reading this book or having it read to you!” Jenna is now 19 and Savanah, 16. It was as if their sister in heaven had written them a book. 

As parents, it took a while to realize that Brittany's doodling was healthy. In the beginning, when she doodled at school or church, she would get in trouble because we felt she wasn't paying attention. But then we learned that she was paying attention and if she were allowed to draw while listening to a teacher give a lesson, then it would help her focus. 

One of the amazing things about her drawings was that she never needed a reference point. Jenelle recalls one evening when she needed to draw a picture of a Confederate soldier for school the next day. She went in her room and ten minutes later came out with a perfect picture. She didn't need to go on the internet or look in a book to know how to draw it. 

Most of her artwork reflected herself and her real world, as well as her fantasy world. Common themes included girls, fairies, poodles, friends, cousins and anything to do with France, especially the Eiffel Tower. 

A couple weeks ago I was fortunate to meet up with one of Brittany's best friends. Ame is now grown and married, but back in the day they had a playhouse in Ame's backyard. In the playhouse was a fridge and the rule was that anyone who came inside had to write something on the fridge with an erasable marker. Brittany scribbled some words, then drew a picture of a beautiful girl in a pearl-strap dress. Ame's family never erased the drawing. Ame shared that story with us and sent us a picture. What a delight to come across another little treasure! 

For the most part, Brittany's drawings were never official pieces of art, but just doodles. Exceptions usually came in the form of assignments or contests at school. One such project was a “Peace Poster Contest.” Brittany spent time on the computer studying different flags and peace symbols from around the world. She then proceeded to create a drawing that included the Eiffel Tower, a pyramid, the Taj Majal, Statue of Liberty, peace symbols and flags from around the globe. The crowning feature was two doves with their tail-feathers intertwined in such a fashion to form yin and yang. 

The contest was held on a city-wide basis and she won second place. It was only two months before she passed. Now the poster sits behind glass and is on display in Jenelle's room at the elementary school. Young kids come in all the time and are fascinated by the poster. 

Another drawing we are fond of is that of an angel. Brittany drew it for her friend, Lauren. The angel sits atop a cloud with a large crescent moon behind her. A four-point star hangs from the moon and a small bird stands atop one of the points. We didn't know that Brittany had drawn this picture until Lauren showed it to us after she died. She made us a copy and now it is embedded forever on the corner of her headstone at the cemetery. 

It's hard to know what would have become of Brittany had she lived a longer life. She passed away just nine days after her fourteenth birthday. Would she have honed her skills and become a great artist? I don't know. Her greater passion, I believe, was writing. A lot of times her drawings were an enhancement to her writing. In addition to all those doodles scattered around our house are page after page of mostly fantasy stories that she began to write . . . some of them ending abruptly in mid-sentence! As I combed through her room I found one such novella that was 109 pages long and unfinished. 

The legacy of Brittany lives on. Not only do we talk about her and reminisce on her life, but now others are benefiting in her name. Shortly after her death, my brother created a scholarship in her name at Southern Utah University. It is intended for freshman students in the college of Performing and Visual Arts and is called the Brittany Lacy Memorial Endowed Scholarship. It has been a pleasure for Jenelle and I to attend banquets with the recipient of this award. 

As you read this post and look at some of our favorite doodles, I hope you feel just a little bit closer to Brittany. Left behind are gems and jewels more valuable than a chest of gold. My advice to all of us is that we look around and recognize the value of our riches. Not the wealth of the world, but the worth of souls. ♥