grace under fire

My mom spoke at a national New York Life conference this morning.

The large company, for which my dad worked for 22+ years, asked my mom to talk about him – about how he got in the life insurance business (let go from a bank late 1980s), how much his study group impacted him (a member of said group actually held my dad’s body in his arms in his last moments) and his legacy in the business (he was the number one Houston agent the year before he died.)

My dad was elected as a national officer to serve in 2013 – similar to student council president, in my small mind. He should have been speaking at each of these conferences this fall. But his plane engine should have worked. It did not. So New York Life asked my mom to speak, since he could not.

She got a huge standing ovation in Florida today. My brother and his wife Amy were in the audience; Gentry is there as an employee since he’s taken over Dad’s work and his clients. I am sooooo proud of him, but today's post is about mom. 

My mom is incredible. She is neither a public speaker nor a morning person, and I have countless stories to prove it. But there she was today, at a podium with teleprompters, 1100+ people in the audience, prepped at 7 am for her 8:30 am speech. 8:30 people!!!!

Gentry and I already are busting at the seams with admiration for our mom. What she has been through, how she has not merely survived, but – she is herself. She is our strong, funny mom. She is there for us just like before Dad died.

We put her through two weddings and all the details and parties and showers full of fun friends, when she probably just wanted to stay in bed. But she did it, and she did it with a huge smile. She was our example of doing what Dad would want: continuing to live. Her dad died in March 2013, six months after her husband. Satan worked through different people and terrorized her at times, frivolous lawsuits were threatened, drama everywhere. She remained steadfast, guiding our ship through what felt like a hurricane for most of fall 2012 and continues at time to feel like a storm. 

Through all of that, she has become a public speaker! With the help of a professional speechwriter, who New York Life flew to Houston to meet with her, she has conquered fears in the face of tremendous loss. Who does that?!

I cannot imagine how huge my dad’s grin must be in Heaven. How immensely thankful I am that New York Life asked her to speak. And how in awe of her that she took the call.

Many wives would have politely said no, shied away from this, but my mom knows my dad’s story is one others should hear. My mom knows the value of life insurance (boy, does she.) Many women would be shattered after an accident like my dad’s. 

But not this woman. Tom married Cathy for many reasons. Her strength. Her charm. Her smile. Her faith. Her grit. Her loyalty. Her hospitality.

I’ve seen movies and read books about people who are a fraction of themselves after tragedy. But I've seen firsthand people who are fighters. First Mary, then my mom, have overcome so many obstacles, and continue to do so daily. This isn’t something that goes away, I’ve learned. It bugs the crap out of me when people say “oh it gets so much easier with time.” Liar. It’s been a year and this is no easier. Maybe less fresh, sure, but not easier.

They have such faith. Such courage. Such grace. These two live love in action everyday.

If you’ve read Bob Goff’s book you know what I mean when I say this: 

their lives are the Love Does kind of lives. Love in action. Love doing something.

My mom’s love for her husband and devotion to the Lord got her up on that stage. 

I am so, so, so very proud.

boiling over

It shouldn't be like this.

There are a lot of people in the world that go through some crazy, unfair, terrible, horrible, unspeakable awful. But I'm tired of our unfair. I long for our nice-but-crazy, wonderful-but-far-from-perfect, loving-but-push-each-others-buttons, great, awesome family to be back to our "normal." (Normal is a relative term when you're a Robinson.)

How do the Chenoweth's do this? How do people get through this? I thought we were close and I thought our family shared their pain when Jay died and I thought we were there for them, but... now I wonder. It is very different when your Dad's BFF dies than when your Dad dies. It's easy to sympathize with them, cry with them, and then go home to your house and lay on the foot of your parents' bed and talk to your Dad about baseball or boys or politics or how to solve the world's problems or make fun of your mom.

I know a lot of people who have known loss and hardship and heartache. My family has experienced some, but this - one of our four is gone. Forever. (Now, thankfully there are two more, without whom we'd be much more lost.)

Sometimes, I have a nice attitude. Rarely, I'm truly angry about the accident and sudden death and the hell of a mess that was made. But today, well… Today, you've caught me in a different mood. Today, I am sick and tired of this mopey feeling I can't shake and I wish he'd come back and I really don't understand how my mom is supposed to live in a house without him and I am just. so. sick of it.

Someone at work who I had never met before asked me about my dad. It made me mad. He couldn't help it and honestly was trying to be nice, but at the same time, it was like I was a piece of gossip, like they were just filling the quiet with conversation.

On other days, I'm glad to talk about Dad and love that people look at his pictures in my office or tell me a story about their time with him. Today, though, I was on the verge of tears, this stranger asking questions so casually and seeming so unaware of how painful it must be to hear "so you're the one who's dad died right?" Yep. That's me. Bingo.

I fell asleep on the couch after work today, before dark, something I haven't done in a very long time. Drew got home earlier than usual, from a job site in Pearland, and at 5:30 he woke me up with a kiss. I had been in a deep sleep. Suddenly my eyes were watering, and before I knew it there were warm, wet tears running down my face.

For some reason, I woke up incredibly sad, missing my dad, dying for the chance to call him and just talk. I think maybe I was dreaming that he was here, real, and it just - it hurt. Physically. I know I'm blessed to have had him in my life 26 years and to have known someone so great and have so much of him in my personality, and I am thankful, but. Today I'm also, quite frankly, pissy.

It shouldn't be like this. My sweet, fun husband shouldn't have to wonder exactly why I'm crying or what triggered it. He shouldn't have to wipe my tears on a Wednesday afternoon because my heart is consistently broken but I keep it held in too long.

We live in a fallen world. It shouldn't be like this. God designed it to be something different, but he gave us free will, and so this whole world has mess and hurt as a result. God designed the garden of Eden, and we squandered it.

But God restores our souls; he is making all things new.  He is love.

I think God is okay with me being angry sometimes, as long as I don't do something rash with that anger.  As long as I acknowledge Him and that he wants to be here to lick my wounds.

I wonder if God feels like I did today at work, someone making something so serious seem so casual. I realized he must feel like the butt of a terrible joke a lot.

When we disrespect God's power, when we act like something else made the beautiful mountains and the rivers, when we are flippant about the almighty... I bet it feels a lot worse than I did today. Thankfully God is a lot more forgiving and wise and mature and graceful than little ol’ me. I just want to stomp my feet and throw a fit sometimes. This. isn't. fair. But thankfully, in the middle of my fit, I know people are still praying for us, taking care of us, and loving on us. 

And thankfully, just once in a while, God lets me throw a complete fit, a kicking-screaming-yelling, get it all out, buy a canoe, throw something against the wall kind of fit. And then we slowly feel better and calm down and return to the whole one-foot-in-front-of-the-other “but for the grace of god go I” mentality. 

But for today, I am feisty. Today, I want answers to questions I don't have. Today, I am rolling with the punches, and throwing a few myself. 

334 days.

Three hundred thirty four days. 

Three hundred thirty four days since my dad's accident. Three hundred thirty three mornings, waking up without him. Three hundred thirty three nights, his side of the bed empty, his wife-our mom-without him.

Three hundred thirty four days to press on, move forward, relish memories, delight in the promises of God, offer gratitude for the time we did have together.

My dad and I talked often. A minimum, once a week. It was probably ten days at the most, in my whole lifetime, that we did not communicate - even if he was on travel or if I was on a trip, we emailed. What a lucky daughter I am, to have a dad so hands on and fun, that he felt just as much a friend as a dad.

My dad and my mom were close. They clicked. They were fiesty, and they knew how to argue, but more than that, they knew how to love, how to laugh. Notes by the dozen arrived in the mail after my dad's accident, people from all walks of life talking about how my parents marriage impacted them. I cannot begin to put myself in my mom's shoes, after 30 years of marriage, to have your husband gone in a split second. It's nauseating.

Lately I've been a bit more angry than in the past. I'm still mad/confused/sad that our friend Jay Chen is not on the planet, that's he off in Heaven and we're left here to deal with life without him. And now, Dad's gone too. I thought to  myself, "You know, we weren't even over Jay's death yet- my dad and his friends still missed their friend... my friends still miss their dad on a daily basis, and now - we have to deal with this? It's too soon." But then I realized - we're never going to be "over" Jay's untimely death. And we're never ygoing to be "over" Dads. We just... we take a deep breath, we grip the hand of someone nearby, maybe til our knuckles turn white, and we keep walking forward.

Together - that's how we move forward. Something that has gotten me through these past three hundred thirty four days without my dad is the camaraderie that comes with grief. When one of Dad's oldest and dearest friends, Jim, seems sad, or tells a story from their middle school cafeteria, I feel better. When his friend Bobby texts me from the Marble Falls triathlon, and refers to himself as Team BobbyTommy, I feel so much better. Dad meant something to a lot of people. And Dad left people behind who will take care of us. We're not alone in this. God has provided comfort and peace through so many, many avenues.

I went to my first Astros game since Dad died this week. I've been to at least 50 astros games in the past 15 years, and only two were without Dad: one with college roomie Amy, and one with a future husband. This time, Drew was there, too, and because he was the reason I was going, it was bearable. Life goes on, and I see so very much of Dad in Drew, and he is always wonderfully supportive, if I'm sad, happy, whatever, he rides along with my emotional rollercoaster. But it was still...weird. Couldn't text him the score. Couldn't ask him where the name for the Crawford boxes came from. Couldn't tell him we found free street parking (I know he was still proud from Heaven.) Baseball is something Dad loved and shared with me - and I am so thankful for all the people that loved Dad and continue to share with us.

When I was in a teary mood after the Astros game, I went to my dad's facebook page, which he created while he was a YoungLife leader so he could "facebook" with his high school kids. A girl from the grade level he led had written on his wall right after his death, and for some reason, it made me smile and sob at the same time. Some girl, in high school, met a 49/50 year old dude that meant something to her, and she was sad he died. It has been so tremendously comforting to know I'm not crazy to be so sad. If she can be sad and mourn a young life leader's death, I can certainly be sad and mourn his death since he was my dad. 

Luke and Sarah Allen have been one of MANY to take such good care of the five of us since Dad died. Sarah wrote a blog I hadn't read since December. She posted it in September and I read it numerous times in the fall. But it was good for me to read again, recently. Good to know that Dad is not forgotten. Good to know Dad is a man worth imitating. Good to know Dad is one of many, many people who leave us "early"- who leaves a deep, aching feeling in our gut when we have to say goodbye.

God works in mysterious ways, that's for sure. And hard as this is, as much as it hurts lately, God is here. God has shown up in ways I didn't even know he could - through someone's writing, through a facebook post, through a hug, through pictures, through song. I don't understand how it all works, but I do know this - Faith is being sure of what we do not see. And I can't see him, but I know that Dad is still in so much that we are doing. Dad still lives on in all of us who miss him. (like Team BobbyTommy at the Marble Falls Tri.)

Three hundred thirty four days. Every single day, we've missed you Dad. And every single day, God has loved us.

“Living a life fully engaged and full of whimsy and the kind of things that love does is something most people plan to do, but along the way they just kind of forget. Their dreams become one of those "we'll go there next time" deferrals. The sad thing is, for many there is no "next time" because passing on the chance to cross over is an overall attitude toward life rather than a single decision.” -Bob Goff, Love Does

Sarah Allen's blog post about TR: http://icouldneverblog.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/i-need-to-write-this-down/