Dylan Stafford

My younger sister, my only sister, Lisa died ten years ago today, on May 19, 2016.

She would be 54 today if she had made it.

This letter is to her, for her, from me, her brother.

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Dear sister Lisa,

How’s heaven treating you? Can you believe you’ve been there ten years? You probably already know everything I will write, but I like talking to you sister, especially today.

Questions:

Are there puppies in heaven? I imagine infinity with puppies everywhere and you surrounded by little yelping, laughing, loving spirits, peaceful and content and wiggling.

And how about time, is there time in heaven? Some people say God is bigger than time, so maybe no clocks in heaven. Just curious.

Down here, we still have time. I’m 57 now–Bwahhh! 57 makes me laugh when I say it out loud. 57 can’t possibly apply to me…but it does.

The last ten years have been without you Lisa. Even with ten years passed, everybody still misses you: Mom, Dad, Jon, Marisa, Jackson and Christian, our friends, me. We all miss you.

Updates:

Mom and Dad are well. They are in their early 80s now, and strong, lucid, and mobile. We are blessed by them. Brother Jon is his creative self, making songs and being the best son and brother and uncle. Marisa and I are well, with Jackson and Christian growing strong. Marisa’s huge family is full of new great-grandbabies; it’s beautiful.

Our boys: Jackson finished his freshman year of college. He went away to Baltimore, to Loyola University Maryland. His major is Chemistry. He made straight A’s, including Organic Chemistry I & II, with labs. I never got close to all A’s! He’s 6’3″ and doing great. Christian is completing 8th grade in a couple of weeks. He loves basketball and practices and plays on several teams. I wish I’d had more respect for sports growing up, because I see the many life lessons that Christian is learning that will serve him well in life.

Marisa has hit her stride as a management consultant. She helps executive teams untangle and move their organizations forward effectively. She loves her work and her business is strong.

UCLA Anderson is still my home, working with MBA students who are building companies, careers, and lives of significance. Podcasting has hit a new level. We made a mentor program. We are connecting alumni and current students and building community. As always, it is deeply rewarding work. Over the upcoming decade, I want to teach and speak and write: teaching about leadership, and speaking and writing on family and faith and children. I finished my third book last year, Daddy Muscles Too. You’d like it Lisa, it has more humor.

Time marches and I still miss you Lisa.

I miss you on your birthday. I miss you at Christmas. When we go to church in Ft. Worth with Mom and Dad, certain hymns bring you back to me. I miss you in Colorado. I miss you at the ranch. I miss hearing your “pet-whisperer” high-pitched squealy-voice. I miss hearing you say, “Hi Nunna!” when I walk into Mom and Dad’s home and seeing you sparkle and hugging you. I miss your long, delicate fingers and your beautiful penmanship; nothing beats a Lisa Note. I miss your amazing sense of style with your clothes. I miss your passion for music, and Lady Gaga and Tom Petty are Lisa-keys that always evoke you. I miss driving and talking with you, about everything. I miss our phone calls.

And I miss you for Mom’s sake. Mom lost her only daughter, but she also lost one of her best friends. When it’s time to shop, I think how you and Mom would have tackled whatever shopping task was pending with vim and power. Jon and I do our best, but we pale compared to you when the topic is shopping.

What else?

Your loss doesn’t stab me like it did the first years. Your loss is a temperature change now, not a stinging jab. A moment is a little cooler without you, but the crushing shock of your death has passed.

Mom talks about frequency, intensity, and duration–that we can measure our healing from trauma by seeing how frequently, how intensely, and for how long it hits us. All three are lower for me, and I don’t get sideswiped by grief now.

I still see you in the clouds, especially on road trips. You don’t visit me in my dreams like you did the first couple of years after you left. You come to me at church; Christian will look up at me and notice me quietly weeping–that’s a visit from you.

You are with me in sobriety meetings, especially the 7:00 a.m. Ft. Worth Harbor Group. You and I attended that meeting in person back in 2001. There are friends there who remember us, who knew you, who attended your Celebration of Life. That meeting went online in March of 2020 and I zoomed every day for three years straight, and I still go several times a week now, at 5:00 a.m. California time. Those relationships are magical, a loving bridge back to before you left earth.

Your life, your legacy, exists for me each day in my sobriety. I wouldn’t be sober without you Lisa, and without being sober, I’d have none of the gifts of this life. You held my hand and showed me how to trudge the road of happy destiny, 25 years ago. On February 28, 2001, that night I started sobriety, thanks to you, and with you. You were so transformed on your own journey, and I wanted what you had: peace, generosity, patience, love. You showed me a new path, how to take life one-day-at-a-time, and practice these twelve-step principles in all my affairs.

My whole life rests on a foundation of faith and sobriety: Family, Friends, Contribution, Love and Community, Relationships–they all stack on top of faith and sobriety. My life is blessed, and I wouldn’t have these blessings without your guidance Lisa.

Thank you Lisa. Thank you for 44 perfect years of having a little sister, a little sister who steered her big brother to a blessed life.

Thank you for these last 10 years of the memory of you and your legacy of sobriety girding my life.

You’re in my heart today Lisa. Thank you for the gifts and the guidance. I honor your memory, one-day-at-a-time, and I pay it forward walking this earth as a sober person, slowly learning about humility and service, like you showed me.

I love you Lisa,
Nunna