flying to colorado

It has always been a sort of rite of passage – the 18 hour drive, (or in some years with lots of snow or running out of gas dilemmas, 23 hours.) The sore muscles, the jittery feeling from too much caffeine and only a few hours of sleep, the dog hair flying about the suburban, the movie quotes and the laughing hysterically at something Jay or Bobby has said over the walkie talkie.

My family has always driven to Colorado for spring break ski trips, and in 2008 and 2009, due to one varsity pitcher’s spring schedule, we skied in December instead. As we got out of the car for the past 6 or 7 years, it felt as if we’d earned vacation – the thousands of miles behind us, the fact that we could survive such tight quarters for nearly 24 hours without killing each other, feeling old enough and trusted enough to drive the 2 am stretch through the panhandle, or New Mexico, or wherever…the drive, for me, has always been as much of the vacation as the actual skiing.

Some of my most vivid memories of Jay are in gas stations across Texas and Colorado – all of us sleepily emerging from our vehicles, eyes tired, bodies adjusting to the dropping temperatures, excited to reach our final destination. Homie always made some crack about what crappy candy my dad would buy, and I can remember him hugging me as we stood in line for the restroom. I remember him always seeming so tall – height not something familiar to the Robos. I remember his laugh, and his smile, and knowing we were safe, knowing that he –and Bobby! – would keep an eye on my dad – not let him overdose on chewy sprees or dry up his kidneys with gallons of diet dr. pepper, not let him swerve off the road… Yes - they would ensure we arrived in one piece.

I guess that’s why flying is strange to me – not just because I feel like a princess, swiping a credit card, showing an ID, boarding a plane and almost instantly arriving in Denver. What about the stiff knees? The exhaustion? The grumpiness? Flying is so easy, I feel like a celebrity. Someone else carries my ski boots and luggage; I read a book and drink a diet coke on the plane, two hours later, boom! Colorado. You didn’t earn anything.
But it’s not that, really. I don’t mind the princess thing that much. I could get used to the pampering, the easy way of travel. The real reason I don’t love flying to Colorado? It reminds me something has changed. It reminds me that something isn’t right. It reminds me that Jay isn’t here.

I know that our faith teaches us all in the world happens for a reason. I know that our faith says that there is a heaven, a place beyond our imagination, far better than being here on this rock. But for those of still on this rock, that place is hard to fathom. It is hard to be the ones left behind. It is hard to be without Jay, harder for my friends john, willie, and mary. Watching the ones you love hurt sucks.

I cling to the memories we all have of our friend Jay. I cling to the people we are still left with- the Chennies, and the Martins, and the Gentrys, (and the ts, even though they don’t ski. J) I cling to the hope and the joy that we must go on living, knowing that though the years on this earth feel like forever, God’s timeline is different, and we are not left without Jay for long. There will be a day when we all return to His presence and stand with the ones we love so much. I cling to the goodness, and the laughter, and the truth, and I pray that will be enough to keep us moving onward.

I cling to the thought that if it was one of us, Homie would do the very same. And I know that from somewhere, he is looking on, watching us, loving us, and pushing us forward. Though we can’t see him, I fully believe he is loving his boys, his sweet Mare, and daring Tom to “put some more in there.” More than anything, Jay’s absence reminds me to do just that: believe, and believe with my whole heart.