christmas without a tree

In 2001, I was a sophomore in high school. For Christmas that year, I wrote – for months – a story on my giant Dell computer that was passed down to me and was my in my own bedroom. My own computer!

I wrote a story for my parents’ gift – I edited and edited and printed the final draft on red computer paper. I gave it to them Christmas Eve, and I can remember them sitting in our living room downstairs reading it together late that night.

The story was my first real attempt at becoming a writer, and it was probably the loudest applause I got from my ever-affirming parents. My dad still mentioned it when he would read one of my more coherent blog posts. I can hear him now, calling and saying “I read your blog today. Remember the Christmas story you wrote? Things like that – you need to keep writing, you need to get published.”

The story was called “Christmas Without a Tree” and was told from a sixteen year old girl’s point of view on September 11, living out my worst nightmare – losing one of her parents. In the story, the girl’s mom died, she was in a meeting in the World Trade towers. She and her dad spent the night visiting NYC hospitals hoping to find her in a bed somewhere.

Who knew that eleven years later, I would lose a parent suddenly, just like the character I created. Dad died suddenly, tragically – sure, much less tragic than at the hands of terrorists, but still – every day that we woke up last fall and approached a new day without Dad was tragic, just as it was for the girl in my story.

Last year, we couldn’t bring ourselves to get out our Christmas ornaments. Most of them tell a story – from a trip we went on as a family, or a trip my parents took and thought of us and brought home an ornament – my mom and Gentry and I just couldn’t dig through those ornaments and dig through those memories. Not to mention Drew & I were getting married just six years after Christmas.

My mom did decorate last year. She didn’t want to feel like “Scrooge” and she did a fantastic job of remaining alive as we dealt with my dad’s death. But I remember one night my memory clicked – remember that story I wrote mom? They family didn’t want to ignore Christmas, but they wanted to do something different to honor/recognize the mom’s absence, so they decided together to not put up a tree like usual.  

Just tonight, Drew & I set up our tree. It was his idea last year to go buy a tree December 27, take advantage of the after-Christmas sales. Just like him, always planning, always looking ahead to our future together. He reminds me so much of my dad, living in the moment, but always excited for the next adventure, always making it clear that life with me is fun and he loves thinking about the next step. Just like Dad made it clear he felt that way about life with mom, with us – Dad and Drew are both magnetic, and fun, and for their many similarities I am thankful.

I’m allergic to real trees, so we have a fake one.  I tell myself it’s good for the environment,  but - some factory had to crank out this tree, so I’m not sure that’s really true.

Christmas music is painful for me, as is most music without my dad. So many songs remind me of him, jamming in the car, on the boat, in our living room as a little girl, on the dance floor at family events later on, he loved music.

But I sucked it up tonight and played Christmas music on Pandora. I spread out the branches on our tree and thought of our mom, doing it year after year as we didn’t help much until the fun part – ornaments!

I wrapped a vintage red and white ribbon my mom found for me through the branches of me & Drew’s tree, and I thought about the twinkle lights. I thought about how my parents had done this for 30 years. Just 30 Christmases. Sounds like a lot and so few at the same time.

I want him back. I want my dad back for me, for my brother, for Dad’s friends, but I want him back for my mom above all else.

At a women’s brunch on Saturday at our church, the women’s minister talked about the mystery of Christmas. She talked about how she loved Nancy Drew as a child and how she loves to look closely at the mystery of Christmas.

I realized, as I wove the branches in among the twinkle lights of our tree, that it’s not just Christmas that is a mystery. It’s faith in general. Believing in Christ is a bit of a mystery, and where we question and doubt, the Holy Spirit zooms in (sometimes much less quickly than I would like) and softens our hearts, quiets our questions, brings the “peace that passes understanding.”

I love Christmas, just as my dad did, my parents together. But… Christmas is a mystery. The savior of all people wore diapers. (Likely the cloth messy kind, bless Mary having a newborn and no such thing as a washing machine!)

Christmas doesn’t add up, and that’s what makes it beautiful. How did God become flesh and dwell among us? How is the Word God and also “with God” at the same time? How does the darkness not overcome the light? (John 1)

Christmas is a mystery, and we gather as families in our churches and our homes and we sing and we celebrate and we rejoice, though we have questions. Our questions are quieted by the joy, the fellowship, the light.

My dad’s death is the same, I think. As is anyone’s death this is untimely. Anyone who dies too young – it’s a mystery why the good die young, and others that wreak havoc and wreck families remain living. I question, just as I wonder how God was laid in a manger, why my dad’s plane engine failed. I wonder why he couldn’t have just sold it, why he needed one more ride. I wonder why the trees couldn’t break his fall. I wonder why God died for me, and you, and my Dad, and all the rest of us messy people.

It is all a mystery. I’ve known this about Christmas, that it doesn’t really all make sense, but I’ve never really compared it to other things in life that don’t make sense.

Have you ever sat around with your family Christmas Eve and talked about all the things that aren’t logical with the nativity and the story of Christ’s birth? Probably not. Most families likely just enjoy the time together and the parts that they do understand. They rejoice in the miracle and the star that shone in the night. That dwell in its light and wrap themselves in it’s warm glow.

This is what I know I should do with Dad, too. His death leaves a lot of questions, but I should focus on his memory. On his wonderful stories and the funny things he used to say and the way he brought joy wherever he went. I should focus on how loving he was, to me and Gentry and mom, I should celebrate that he spent a Christmas morning with Drew and Amy and that he knows we are all alright- we are more than alright.  

My dad loved Christmas music. He used to looooove to drive around, with me and Gentry and whoever else in the back, and mom upfront, his hand stretched across the center console to hold hers, glancing over and smiling at her often. Or making fun of her and then looking over at her to wink in his loving way.

I can see his head bobbing in the driver’s seat, enjoying Christmas and the songs and time with his family.

It’s hard to pinpoint his favorite one, but right now, Wonderful Christmastime is playing, and it seems perfect. 

“We’re here tonight, and that’s enough.”

The moon is right 
The spirit's up 
We're here tonight 
And that's enough 

Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 

The party's on 
The feelin's here 
That only comes 
This time of year 

Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 

in defense of heaven

One of my mom's favorite people, her grandfather, died in September. He was ninety-six years old, and certainly we knew he had to leave us sometime. But part of us really hoped he could just live forever. 

We were in Dallas for the last 48 hours of his life. My mom and I arrived at my great-grandparents house in Dallas two days after they placed him on hospice. Friday afternoon his mind was sharp was but his body clearly tired. His lungs were failing. 

I followed my mom's example and did not let his ashen color or the fact he was clearly in pain keep me from going to him, talking to him like normal, holding his hand and sitting next to his hospital bed that had been put in his bedroom. 

My mom. A rock. Sure, she's pretty bad at some things, but when it comes to what is really important, she gets it. Though I don't hear her quote scripture or pray out loud all that often, things I used to think meant you knew God, you can watch her actions and know her faith is unshakable. 

We were visiting with my grandmother in the living room in Dallas when a nurse came out from Papa's bedroom, had heard us arrive. 

"Which one of you is Catherine? He's been asking for you." 

Immediately, I mean immediately, a thought jumped into my brain "That is exactly what she is going to hear when she gets to Heaven." 

My mom loves people really well. She takes excellent care of people. And here was my great-grandfather, a man my mom had been close to for her 53 years, asking for his granddaughter from his, not to sound dramatic, death bed. Is there anything sweeter? 

Death should probably make my mom nervous. She should probably be too fragile to deal with stuff. But she is not that way. Grace fills in where human flesh fails. 

I was nervous to be in Papa's bedroom. Hospice. Hospital beds. Raspy breathing. Nearly choking. It was scary. 

But not to my mom. She got a cd player set up and Papa's favorite music playing. She asked the nurses to turn off the TV. She held his hand and talked to him. He opened his eyes and talked some. He was still fully with it, mentally. When she left the room, I held his hands and talked to him, looking out the window at the swimming pool where I had spent so many summer days. He hadn't noticed she had left. With his eyes closed, he talked to me as if she was still in the room. I obliged. 

"Catherine, how's your house coming?" He remembered her current project in Houston. 

"And do you have a washing machine yet?" He remembered she still does her laundry at her mom's house. 

"How's Gus?" He loved my mom's brown lab. 

The next day, she did the same thing, sat by his side. He was coughing like crazy. 

"You know what, Papa? I think it might be best if you went to see Dear soon. I know she is waiting for you. We will take care of Mom. And Lene. Mom will be fine. We will all be fine." 

I was smiling, holding back tears, and rubbing his feet at the foot of his bed as she sat near his head, rubbing his hands. 

Hospice said it would probably be a week before his body gave out. Could even linger a month. 

We prayed it would be much quicker. 

And about 12 hours after my mom telling him to let go, the nurse came in as we sat in the living room, about 6:45 am Sunday morning. 

"Mr. Monk has passed away." 

I went in to his room and laid my head on his chest. This man, who had walked me down the aisle instead of my dad, was gone. No life in the body. 

There weren't angels. There was no visible sign of heaven. I was mad. 

I went to Papa's study in the back of their house, sat in the dark with my knees pulled to my chest, and sobbed. My mom came and found me a few minutes later. You okay sugars? 

I just miss him so much. I miss him. I miss him. He should be here. He should be here with us! 

Papa dying peacefully in his sleep seemed natural. Dad dying at 53, never knowing his grand children, leaving behind a lot of living to do, well...it made me mad. I wanted him there. 

I really doubted Heaven in those few minutes. Do we just tell each other "they're in a better place" to make ourselves feel better? How does it work? Would Dad see Papa that day? If we don't have our earthly bodies how do we know each other? 

I took a few deep breaths. I asked myself. "Do I doubt God?" immediately I knew the answer.  No. Surely, no. I very much believe in God, though I may not understand his ways.

So, if I believe in God, I have to believe in his promises. And he promises us Heaven. He promised to save us a room in His father's house. One of my dad's favorite passages, we read several times together after his mom died. 

For the meantime, while I don't have all the answers, I pray for the strength and grace my mom and grandmother possess. In eighteen months, my grandmother lost her mom, her son-in-law, her husband, and then her dad. But does she hide in her bed everyday? No. Is she "woe is me?" Not for a second. 

I hope I grow up to be the kind of comforting presence that my mom is - people just feel better with her near. 

"Which one of you is Catherine? He's been asking for you." 

haters gonna hate

My brother has a lot on his plate. Particularly since Dad passed away. He’s taken over Dad’s business, with the help of my dad’s study group. And specifically with Carrie Hall as his mentor – she’s a top New York Life agent who partnered with my dad, and continues to visit Houston monthly.

He has had a lot of support, and my mom, me, his wife, his in-laws, tons of friends, are all here if he ever felt it was too much – on top of it being a huge stressful job, he’s walking in my dad’s footsteps each day. He sits at his desk. He talks to his clients. It’s emotionally draining. I know in many ways it’s also healing. But, it's also exhausting.

Wait, don’t get the wrong idea - I am not about to throw the kid a pity party. He signed on for this, he’s bringing home a lot of bacon, he gets to take his dogs to work! That said, I know I need to say “Way to Go, Gentry!” a lot more than I do. The kid has been thrown a mountain of bricks, and he’s managed to dodge all but a few of them. He has handled all that is on his plate beautifully.

Recently at the Love Does conference I heard a speaker that I wish I would have recorded for Gentry. The speaker’s words were a relief to hear; I literally felt a weight lifted as he spoke.

The devil is real, we've noticed since last September. There is, in fact, a battle going on, one I gave very little thought to before we were put under such trial and went through such loss. I even scoffed at people who said things like “the battle” and “Satan’s grip.” I scoffed largely because I had never felt it so undoubtedly. 

God was given a lot of glory through my dad’s death – his memorial service was uplifting, sparked so many conversations about people wanting to do more with their life, live fully, love on their kids. Not that my dad was perfect- ha!- but he lived his life with zest. He built relationships everywhere he went. He loved on people.

About a week after my dad’s service, all hell broke loose in several ways. I don’t know if my mom said it or someone else, my memory is cloudy, but it went like this: “Too much good was coming out of Tom’s service. Just as God is good and restores things, satan breaks them down.” It made me think of the first part of one of my dad’s favorite verses: A thief comes in the night to destroy. John 10:10. Yep. That thief keeps on comin’.

Haters are always gonna hate.

This speaker, Jon Acuff, said that at the Love Does conference. He was laugh out loud funny but so real, so wise.

He also said this (I took a lot of notes):

People are looking for a scandal.

Haters never bother losers.

I thought, he’s right: you really have to be somebody, you have to intimidate people or threaten them or make them insecure or whatever – if you have a bunch of people hating on you, you’re somebody. When you stand for something, people hate on you. Nothing worth having comes easy, they say.

People who are doing stuff, they got haters.

My dad didn't let too much get him down, and when he did, he kept it quiet – sharing troubles with just my mom, or a few friends. He was very positive, roll it off your shoulder kind of guy. Very optimistic. Always told us “what do you have to lose by just asking? Just trying? Nothing.”

I know my brother wishes he could talk to Dad daily – about business, and marriage, and wives that aren’t always on time but are really good lookin’-about Colorado, and football, and anything.

I know he still wants his approval, that “you done good” feeling that feels best from those you love most.

Dad would say something like this to G, I think:

When things seem too good to be true, people start looking for a scandal. Haters gonna hate. But so what? Let em. Prove em wrong. Only you are in charge of you. Don’t let them get you down. People can be hateful, petty, bothersome. Get your work done, and then: be done. Play. Go outside.

Gentry and Dad played softball together when G was in high school. I only made it to 2 games but it was hilarious to watch. There was my dad, 48 or 50 or whenever it was, sliding into third with shorts on, getting his knees and legs bloody and gross, just for the sake of winning.

I can see Dad’s feet moving so fast around the bases, his eyes shifting from the baseman to whoever had the ball, calculating if he could make it to the next base in time- could he push it home?

He was short, and old, and really probably lots of people were yelling “You’re crazy, Tom! Slow down!” 

But he couldn't hear the haters. He was having too much fun.

That’s what I think he would tell Gentry. Be busy having so much fun and enjoying your life that nothing, no one, can keep you down. Let the haters hate, let them fuel you to run faster, be better, whatever. This is your one life. I figured out it can seem pretty short. So…Bring. It. On.

And also, I’m so stinking proud of you, Tiger!

happy birthday, niknak

Aunts are a big deal. Most people have several. Our family is small, and she's been the only aunt I've had that lived near me and saw me on a regular basis. And where I come from, people die young. Every birthday is, frankly, a big damned deal. 

My aunt just had a birthday. And I'm so glad she was born. 

I've learned a lot from my aunt about marriage. She treats all of us as her blood family - we're not, mind you, but when she said "I do" to my uncle, she agreed to treat his mom as hers, his sister as hers, his nieces and nephews as hers. When I look around, I see how rarely that is accomplished - an in-law, dropping the "in-law" part and just embracing family as family. 

She's a fighter, my aunt. She and my uncle lost her first born to leukemia, but she is still a woman of courage and faith and strength. 

I remember her letting me hold him as a newborn, (sure, I was sitting on a cushy couch and not walking around with him) but still, there I was, 8 years old, trusted to hold a newborn by his mom. Everyone needs an aunt like her, for so many reasons.  

She has a big laugh, one that's contagious, and she tells great stories about my dad. 

I love the story of the time we were all in Port Aransas for a holiday weekend, and Nikki caught a seagull with her fish hook. My uncle had to put it in a bucket, if I remember correctly, and get the hook out of it somehow. 

My aunt makes family gatherings fun, she likes to bake rolls with the wrapper still on, she refuses to lose in card games, she's really good at math, she puts up with my uncle and oh lord, she puts up with my grandmother. 

Sometimes we just let birthdays go by and it's just another day. But like I said, where I come from, people don't have unlimited birthdays. So everytime that day rolls around, I think we need to stop and say OH HEYYYY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! Glad you were born! Hope you keep breathin' for a while! 

going numb

It's been a while since I've posted anything. Life has been a wonderful whirlwind in the past few weeks. Though I wouldn't trade any of the trips or experiences for anything, and I'm extremely grateful to have such a full calendar, I am glad for the slow down. Without realizing it, I think I went on autopilot a bit, trying to make it through it all with a smile, because that's what my dad would want for all of us: happiness.  

I wrote this about a week ago and finally edited my thoughts to make them more coherent. 

I owe my Dad an apology. 

For the last few weeks, I'm not sure when it started, I've tried to avoid him in many ways. 

The missing him just became too much. Dealing with the everyday reality of my mom without her other half was just too painful. Seeing Gentry take over the office my dad should run, and take on all his stress and long hours and trials, it was too much. I clicked the "ignore" button and kept right on going. 

I have become what I think God almost never wants us to be - numb. 

Have you ever felt in that limbo, where you're not hurting but you're missing joy, too? Like a shell of who you should be. But, at the same time, you're not as fragile. So it feels okay and it gets addicting and it builds. And then you're just...numb. The dictionary calls it "deprived of the power of sensation." Deprived. Without power. In short, not good. 

Sometimes I feel the same way when I've skipped a few work outs. You know, you're not sore and there's less pain, but you don't feel very good about yourself, either. I think my dad would like this comparison, as he loved working out and pushing himself; he enjoyed complaining about being sore, from a run or a softball game or a weight session with the dudes. 

Who do you admire more, the girl with it all together who is always fine and dandy, or the girl that's so real she pulls you in to her mess and gets to really know you, too? If me being "wrecked" brings God glory, I'm finally realizing, that's what I truly want. If me being messy lights up the world for God, than I can be okay being messy. 

I've been so tired of tearing up about my dad or breaking down in sobs missing him that I ruin dinner with Drew or being mopey with friends. I've been so fed up with not even knowing how to articulate why I'm sad or what I'm feeling. I, I, I...it's not all about me, but grief can make you feel so selfish. I want to ignore the grief. 

There are so many people out there with their own trial, their own grief. It's not just me. Maybe we can all work on being the opposite of numb with each other. So many of my friends are great at sharing how they're really doing. But I think we could all do better. I, for one, know I need to stop stuffing the sad down. If it's how I feel, I need to work through it. Maybe there's a purpose behind it. Maybe the tears streaming down my face at church give someone else permission to be real, to let go, to be hurting. 

I love dictionaries. And I discovered today that an antonym for numb is "sensible." What does sensible mean, you ask? Showing good sense or judgment. Designed to be useful. 

Let's be the opposite of numb. Let's be sensible. 

Sponsor a Child

Y​ou've likely heard about Tom's House – actually, you probably helped us build it. 

Through generous donations from friends of Tom Robinson, we built a house in Dad's memory, called Tom's House, in the capital of Zambia, through Family Legacy Missions, a company based here in Texas. 

We traveled as a family with the Carrigans to Africa this summer, and we set up the interior of the house and met the boys as they moved in to this amazing “Tom's House.” For the rest of our trip, we worked at a weeklong “day camp” for orphans. Did you know there are more than 1 million orphans living in Zambia?

We now have the option to get each of these kids who we spent a week with a "sponsor." That's where you Americans come in. 

As you keep reading, we want to put a bug in your ear - each of our Tom's House boys need sponsors, too. But it's quite a price jump - $250 per month, but it means A LOT for the child: three meals a day (2700 calories actually! these boys need to bulk up!), covers the cost of full day school, pays the two house mothers that live with them, etc. If you are interested, let us know, because this is DIFFERENT from sponsoring the kids we were with at camp. Below is information about how to sponsor a child who is NOT living in Tom's House for $44/month. 

​For now, we'll cut to the chase: ​

It costs $44 per month to sponsor a child in Zambia through Family Legacy missions. (There's also a one time $95 fee that covers lots of things - the Americans that work for Family Legacy in Zambia and make all of this a reality have to eat, too, I guess. :)

I work at a non-profit. I know that $44 is not "chump change" if you're on a budget. I know that people our age don't have $44 lying in their couch cushions each month and it's easy to say "I don't have that kind of money to spare."  

But I've also met these kids. I've smelled their stench and looked at their giant, contagious smiles. I've seen them weep because they have NEVER set foot inside a school. I've seen them jump for joy and tackle each other in excitement just to sing songs with a rich white girl and talk about Jesus for a day. I've seen them shriek with delight when we gave them a wool blanket. Can you imagine a 10-year-old American running in circles with delight over a wool blanket?

Many children in Zambia are a burden to their guardians. Many are told they would be better off dead. Can you imagine? Let's say your parents are dead or gone, you don't even know your grandparents, and a neighbor in your slum is taking care of you. You sleep on her dirt floor, she yells at you when she's drunk, she beats you... you wander around aimlessly during the day because the government school is full. You eat one meal a day, and even then, it's not the kind of meal Americans are used to. 

But then, an organization finds you. They take you to a "Vacation Bible School-like" camp for a week. You use a port-o-potty for the first time! You sing songs about God. You feel loved, and you eat a good lunch each day. For the first time, someone asks you questions about yourself, like "what do you want to be when you grow up." 

Then, that organization gets word back to America, a rich, blessed country, where families throw away more food than what you eat.

When a child is "sponsored" they are no longer a burden to their guardians. Your sponsorship includes a monthly food drop. It also means they'll start going to a government school in their community, and soon a school will be built that is run by Family Legacy. You'll start meeting with a discipleship leader, a Christian Zambian, similar to a youth minister. Your life will seriously change because of the sponsor.

Instead of a burden, when a child is sponsored, they are seen as a blessing. They are getting food, but they're also getting an education, which means a better future, and that they might someday take care of their guardian.

When I went to Africa, I really felt like there was plenty of need in America, that it was silly to travel so far when we have great needs so close. But I've never seen such great need as I saw walking through the compounds in Zambia.

This summer I learned that we are children of God, not children of one country or another. We belong to His kingdom. And just like children living in poverty in America need help, children in Africa need our help, too. 

Will you consider sponsoring a child through Family Legacy? The deadline is October 1st - so act fast!!
Click the names for link to the website. 

Drew’s Guys

-Most urgent needs, have no living relatives: Justin, Robson
-Others who really need help: Eliot, Laza, Michael, Raban

Cathy’s Group
-Most urgent needs: Precious, Loveness, Alice

Gentry’s Group

Courtney’s Group

Lauren (carrigan) Allen and I shared a group and she is THE BOMB and almost all of our girls are sponsored. We still have two left.

Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. 2 Cor 9:7 ESV

inevitable

Dear Death,

I. Hate. You.

I’m sick of you talking about you, thinking about you.

I’m sick of you making everyone think they know exactly what we’re going through. Really? Your dad died too? Oh, when he was old, like in his 80s, had lived a long life? Well guess what?! I. Do. Not. Care. We are not the same. I was 26 when my dad died, and you were how old?

And there you go again, making me heinous. I don’t mean to be so mean. I don't mean to compare my sadness to theirs. I know life isn't fair. 

I also know that in your twisted way you bring people together and without you, I would have NEVER felt so prayed over, probably ever. When my dad died, people prayed for our family ALL the time. And I really felt it - still do. And people told me their own story, they opened up to me - still do...I remember a woman whom I admire greatly, thought I knew pretty well, told me her mom had died when she was 8 years old. I was shocked, and in awe of her strength, and I was strengthened – and I did not go around thinking she had told me that just to say “I was worse off than you.” Not at all. See, I was not so mean.

You make me irritable. Unstable. You give me nightmares. You make me afraid.

I hear you, whispering in my ear: “I’m coming for her, too.” 

I worry that you’ll take her, and I’ll be left – not alone, but, still – lost.  We need both of them, and if you come close to either of them, I will… I don’t know what I’ll do. You seem untouchable. I hate that.

I hate you, death. You’ve been wandering around too close us to us. You get the healthy, young, loving ones. You make them sick. I don’t even like it when you take the old, the ones we’ve actually known so long it seems we’ll have them forever. We need them. You’ve taken everything else. We need them.

I like control. And you take everything out of my control. And I know that God is bigger than you and I know the verses that say he works good through all and that he covers us with his feathers and … In Him, there is no darkness. Maybe that’s why I hate you. You bring darkness, and you are so unlike God.

I hate you, death. I wish we could all just coexist and live and die at the same time and that me and Dad and Jay and Dear and Mom and Drew and all the wonderful people I know could just go to Heaven at the same time.

That’s what God intended. God made the Garden of Eden and there was no such thing as death.

And then man decided that we were smarter than God and that it’s better when we are in charge instead of Him and then…. Death.

I hate you, death. I wish you’d go away.

But, in the meantime, warm, fuzzy, joyful people pull themselves together and get on with life even in your midst.

Like my mom. Like Mary. Like my grandmother. Like Mike and Nikki. Like William. And John. And my brave brother.

I went to my sweet sister in laws grandmothers’ funeral recently. And it didn't feel like you were there, death. Sure, someone had died, and there were tears, but – it was a celebration of a LIFE. You were not the victor. You were not the punch line.

God tells me “I have loved you with an everlasting love.” And that’s what all these people do in the face of death, the Carrigans and the Chenoweths and everyone who has said goodbye for now to someone they did not want to say goodbye to – they love the ones that are still here, and they laugh and they smile and the cry tears for the ones they miss and they breathe in and out and they gloriously LIVE.

Just like taxes, no one can avoid you, death. You are inevitable. And I know you’re coming for me, someday.

But you can bet your bottom dollar I’m gonna be twirling around with a huge smile on my face when you find me. 

Dad's Memorial Service

Dear friends, 

It has been one year today since we gathered together to celebrate the life of Tom Robinson, Robo, TR, Dad, Pops.

My sweet husband set up the video so that there is a link for anyone who wants to watch it (or parts of it, as it is lengthy.) We continue to hear from people who felt called to action, called to love, after the memorial service. Our family could not have done it without close friends, the NYL study group, incredible ministers, the Chapelwood church family, and of course, the grace of God. 

William Chenoweth and his brother John have walked the road that Gentry and I are walking now. I like to think we're all walking it together. And William has reminded me several times that my dad used to call him up, ask how things were, and tell him his Dad would be so proud of him. Then Dad would say "I'm really missing your Dad today. When we hang up, I'm going to put on "Open the Eyes of My Heart" and have a good cry." 
William says Dad would always suggest he do the same, and he would. 

William told me that every time it hurts, but feels good. 

Today, I think, it's probably time for a good cry, and a reminder that life must go on. 

You can click here for the video of the service: 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyEPax0XlCQ

september 11, 2013

September Eleventh. A reminder that I'm not the only one to suffer loss, to be in shock at the unexpected death of a loved one, to cry over random things, to get nervous when you hear ambulance sirens.

September 11 has new meaning for me these days. Last year, my dad had just died three days before and his funeral was set for the 13th. I don't remember much about September 11 last year, and this feels in many ways like the first time the day has passed without our Dad.

Dad was an American. He loved baseball, and cracker jacks, he loved to talk about economic practices that involved more freedoms and less government regulation, he studied dudes like Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Payne and admired Ben Franklin (and looked quite like him when he wore his reading glasses low on his nose. Nerd.)

You remember where you were on September 11, don't you? And you remember how you felt about us going to war then, and how that feeling may have changed over the years as the war in Iraq continued. You probably remember wanting to do something for the New Yorkers, the ones at the Pentagon, the group that died in Pennsylvania.

September 11 seems far away. I was a sophomore in high school in 2001, and I remember being at home after school, watching the news with my dad in our living room, laying on opposite couches, and he talked to me about what was happening, what this meant for our country, mentioned Pearl Harbor and other historic moments. I always admired how he and my mom treated us as adults, how my dad thought I was old enough to handle truth, hard concepts, things he'd talk about with peers or colleagues.

September 11 impacted me, just like it did you. I had just begun writing for "fun" back then, and I wrote my parents a short story as their Christmas gift called "Christmas Without A Tree." It followed a fictional sixteen year old girl who's mom had a meeting in the World Trade Towers that morning. I focused on how she and her dad and her brother got through those few months without her mom. Both my parents loved the story (or so they said) and continued to encourage me to write.

And here we are, with a sudden loss in the family and the roller coaster of emotions that follows. My dad looked in to joining the Air Force during high school, but his vision would never have allowed him to fly, according to their regulations. So he went to UT and he made great friends and dated my mom (and maybe a few other girls freshman year that he loved to brag about) and he grew up to be this hands-on Dad, imperfect but our hero. He was a great man, a great friend, and so proud of his country. He loved current events and history and democracy. He taught us a lot. He should have lived forever.

More than 3,000 people died on September 11. I wonder how many were parents, simple, unknown, folks, just like my dad - still someone's hero, a child's role model, a son's best friend, a soul mate.

September 11 has brought me comfort this year. Who am I to pity myself? Who am I to ask God why?

My dad died in an accident, doing something he loved - flying - in a plane that had passed inspections and should have worked just fine. I cannot begin to imagine having a parent die in a terrorist attack. The anger. Someone who hates your country, and it's ideals and freedoms and daily life, planned, INTENTIONALLY, to kill. And your parent lost their life.

What empathy I have gained for the surviving family of 9/11 victims. How hurtful, how reckless, to see someone die when some men from a different country flew giant planes into buildings.

I force images of my dad's final moments out of my brain. I know that is the devil, wanting me to focus on the ugly part of death, the fear, the unknown. Did he know he was dying? Did he feel pain? There are blood stains on the baseball cap he was wearing. His glasses broke. His watch strap was broken. His iphone though, that was tucked in his khaki shorts pocket, was fine. Unscratched. If his brain and body couldn't survive, HOW did his iPhone make it? Questions and questions and visual images and really, none of it matters. None of it will fix him. I know that's the devil, wanting me to doubt, to wonder, to get angry.

 3,000 people died on September 11, 2001. And for each of them, someone out there, more than one "someone", has wondered about their final moments, as the plane hit the towers, or their office building collapsed, or their plane plunged to a field avoiding the White House, or an office worker in the Pentagon was killed in fire. Daughters have wondered if their dad's felt pain. Sons have avoided the images on TV, just like Gentry did last September. Wives have stopped asking and said "It is what it is" just like mine did.

September 11 is dangerous because we easily forget how crucial our firefighters and police are, and our counter-intelligence teams. Go hug a FBI agent today! I wonder how many deaths they've prevented through their thankless work. A good friend of my dad's and fellow pilot is currently in the middle east, spending an entire year away from family, friends, and his incredible wife. I am so thankful for his sacrifice for our country that I can't really even put it in words.

3,000 people died suddenly. When they woke up the morning of September 11, they didn't know it would be their last day on Earth. Many of them died heroically, but they all died needlessly. They were all essentially murdered - because of a group of people that hate Western ideals. How amazing and at peace do I feel to know my dad died celebrating life, at sunset, doing an activity that let him soar like an eagle.

Before I went to Africa this summer, I really viewed myself as only American. But now, my eyes are open to the fact that we're more global than that, we're bigger than the country where we were born. Being an American is a privilege. Something undeserved.

And guess what? September 11 has reminded me that losing my dad the way I did - maybe I shouldn't feel so sorry for myself and my family. There is hurt all over the world that people don't deserve. There are far war things than dying the way my dad did, living his dream in the hill country, celebrating thirty years of being married to his true love. Shoot, he had a giant piece of pie about an hour before he died. I said it could be worse.

I read in a magazine yesterday, on September 11, a story about the principal of Sandy Hook Elementary who died heroically blocking her students from the madman, the shooter.

Her daughter was engaged when the shooting happened. They had picked out her wedding dress together, just like my dad had gone to the dress shop to see me in mine before we made the final decision. She got married in July, six months after her mom was killed, suddenly, needlessly. You can do it, I thought as I read the article. I wanted to cheer her on, this daughter mourning a parent's sudden, tragic death. My mom and Mary and good friends have taught us, "we can do this" as they put one foot in front of the other.

We're not the only ones to have lost someone amazing. We're not the only family to see a great American, a hero in many ways, die too young.

We will not forget September 11, we will not forget the fallen, or their families.

We will remember, we will press on, and we will stand for freedom. 

you have restored my soul

I have sat down several times to express my gratitude to ministers we know and have never been able to do so eloquently. But it’s been almost a year. It’s time. So forgive me if I stumble here, but it is silly of me to keep quiet about what a handful of ministers have done for our family.

Mike Maddry. Josef Klam. Jim Jackson. Luke Allen. Lori Anderson. Parker Stuckey. Richard Colquitt. Wick Stuckey. Each of their spouses.

These people have committed their lives to loving people others in the name of Jesus. They have literally been a light in a dark world, when it has been thankless and draining to do so. Ministers are often paid less and work more than other professions. They are emotionally drained and not compensated for it. And sure, they’ll be rewarded in Heaven, but when you’re exhausted and the bills are piling up and another person close to you has died or has cancer, seriously, do the jewels in Heaven sound that glamorous? (I mean, I’m kidding, sort of.) They  sacrifice so much.

Many, many, many – okay, let’s say countless times – I cried tears that wouldn’t stop or lay confused in my parents living room, I wondered, I questioned, as I thanked God for these people: what if none of them had gone into ministry? What if none of these friends answered the call to serve in the way that they do?

What if Mike Maddry had never convinced my dad to be a Young Life leader? That added so much depth and purpose and joy to his life. Dad said he had never lived his faith so freely or boldly or genuinely as when he was having a weekly bible study with high school dudes. (And doing silly skits on Monday nights and wearing funny outfits.)

Josef Klam, his softball buddy and chapelwood youth minister. The night my dad died, he came directly over to find me and Gentry at the Carrigans, and prayed with us, still in a suit from a wedding reception where he had been. Wick Stuckey was there too, and they both guided us through that treacherous week with their eyes fixed on the unseen. Without them I am sure Dad’s memorial service would have been far less focused or joyful. They heard we were hurting, and they didn't wait to be invited over - they just ran to us, and tried to help us through our pain. They showed up. Over and over. 

Luke Allen. Man, what wisdom in a young guy. My dad loved him, and his wife; he admired Luke, and his hilarity, and was proud of the way he gave it all to spread the gospel. From the moment we found out about Dad’s plane crash, Luke was there for whatever. He put his life on hold to make sure we’d live through this chaos. He and Sarah were everything we needed – they were sad, but they smiled and told funny stories of Dad to make us laugh, and they reminded us of John 10:10 and the promise of Heaven.

From the moment I saw Richard Colquitt pacing in the window of the Carrigan’s house, I knew down deep that he and Susan were there to tell me about my dad. I ran into the house, and Richard and Susan had the burden of telling me: he wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t critical condition or ICU- it was goodbye, at least from Earth, forever. Gone. I remember a peace about Susan that was almost…holy. Everything was wrong, and everything was okay. We had deep relationships with these people, we knew them well, and they knew the Gospel, better than us.

All these ministers were there to guide us. We hadn’t gotten to know them in the “just in case” way. I hadn’t admired Richard Colquitt and Mike Maddry on the off chance I’d go through tradegy someday. My dad didn’t quote Jim Jackson and follow his teachings on the off chance he’d leave us behind at age 53. That’s not how faith or friendships work. I didn’t grow up loving Young Life because it made the giant sad things seem hard, no- I went because I got to know God at Young Life, through other people, and those people made the everyday and the mundane seem like a great adventure.  It made faith real. I know my mom and dad didn't push us to be active in a church because it's helpful to know a few great ministers if you ever are planning a funeral. Drew & I certainly are not joining a church together on the off chance one of us will plan the other's funeral soon. No, not at all. But I wonder, often, where we would be in the face of sudden, immense loss, without our church and Young Life families and our amazing community in west Houston. 

My first moment of true peace, down to my toes, after Dad’s heart stopped, was at Memorial Forest Club at Young Life on Monday night. My brother and his fiance were leaders, and they wanted to be there. Luke invited us to come. So we did. He played guitar and led us in worship, just like when my dad had been a volunteer leader there. He had stood right where I was standing and sung praise to our great and mighty God. He had grieved the loss of his good friend Jay in this building, and talked to his high school kids about it. And now we did the same, for him. Jennifer, Kelsey, Stephanie, Renza, my mom, Nancy Simpson, Sarah Allen, Gentry, Amy, Parker, and Ryan Simpson – we sang 10,000 reasons for my heart to find. My heart was broken, but I knew my dad was in Heaven, doing something very similar. If it weren’t for Luke Allen, I would have been drowning. But I was rejoicing. How do you thank someone for that, or even put it in words? 

I wonder, without these people who poured our foundation, who led us to put our trust in Jesus, where I’d be today? How would my mom get out of bed and continue to live so bravely? How would Gentry face my dad’s colleagues and clients with such courage? Without these ministers' selfless love, we would have killed each other in our grief by now. (And if you know us well, you know I'm not exaggerating...)

Last September, the night Dad died, Sabrina Stuckey sat next to me on a step in the Carrigans living room. She had on her Aggie game gear, it was late at night, she had left her three children in the care of others. She didn’t take the time to shower or change clothes or even eat, but was just, there, with her husband Parker, in case we needed them. She sat next to me and I don’t remember if she said anything wise (probably) but I remember her there, as I waited for my mom to get there from Marble Falls.  I remember her shoulder literally being next to mine. It was people like her, faithful and steady, that kept me from ever feeling alone. And I know that’s true for my brother, too. I know Parker's words about my dad's life at his memorial service helped remind people - live for something. 

Lori Anderson, my 6^th grade confirmation youth pastor at Chapelwood, someone who’s seen me at my nerdiest, knew my dad way back, because he was a small group leader. (I was such a homebody I likely would not have gone to Sunday School and made friends without him.) She called me in April, to tell me something kind of strange- she’d seen my dad in a dream. And she could have easily ignored this dream, and never told me, but she gave me words I’ll remember always. In her sweet, familiar Lori voice on the phone, she told me, “Your dad looked the same. He seemed just like I always picture him, just like he really looked with the same smile. I don’t know how you’ve been lately, but maybe God wanted someone to tell you- your dad is okay. He is happy.” I think of that often, and picture my dad smiling in Heaven, and I don’t know the details of how it all works, but that’s okay, too.

How immensely grateful am I that men and women become ministers, and that their spouses support them, and how they give up so much to be our Earthly angels?

I truly wonder, what would I believe, how would I be okay, without these people. And certainly, dozens, probably hundreds if I made a list, of loving, giving souls have pulled together and gotten us thus far, helped us remember dad and honor dad and grieve and celebrate and try to pretend life is normal. And they are not ministers, full time, but they are certainly being Jesus to us. If you’re not a minister, don’t leave this think I do not appreciate you. I simply, stand in awe, of people who make ministry their number one focus. They deserve praise, though they will not take it. 

If you look up minister in the dictionary, you’ll find synonyms: to care for, to tend to, to nurse. Our earthly ministers have brought heavenly healing, for which I’ll never even come close to thanking them properly. 

Philemon 1:4

I thank my God always when I remember you in my prayers, because I hear of your love and of the faith that you have toward the Lord Jesus and for all the saints…” 

Psalm 23:3 "he restores my soul."