a letter to my niece {december 2014}

Dear Clare, 

Welcome to the world, baby girl!! 

You were born Friday, December 5, and from the get-go you've been this bundle of perfection! Your long fingers and your ten little toes, your button nose-and that great hair! 

The doctor wasn't sure at first if you were going to come into the world on your own. She thought she might need to do surgery (c-section) to get you out of your mommys tummy, and she also thought that maybe your shoulders were going to be really wide and she might have to break one of your bones if she didn't do the surgery. But, early evening Friday, she said, wait and see, so we all did…

Your mommy was a champ! They gave her some medicine to see if it would help you come out on your own, and, viola, about 3 hours later, Dr. Hall said she was ready for your mommy to start pushing you into the world! 

Clare, your daddy, who I've known since the day he was born ( though I don't remember it, I hadn't even had my first birthday yet!) – your daddy was as calm and confident as he's ever been. He was there for whatever your mom needed- first, driving fast to the hospital, then home, then back, then ice chips, getting nurses to check on your mom, you name it, he got it. Apparently, your daddy is a grown up! This may seem obvious to you sweet girl, but to me, it’s a newsflash I need to sit down for.

About ten minutes after you were here, he came into the waiting room, all smiles, all 6 feet of him, a strong and brave new daddy! I was jumping up and down, "she's here, she's here!" We have waited for you a while, Clare, and those last 24 hours you were in your mommy’s tummy, well, you really made her wait! 

Oh, the joy that filled everyone! Catherine Clare Robinson is here! Your CC was maybe the most excited of all! She came to the waiting room from the hall before Gentry had come to tell us the news. "I think I heard her cry!!! I think she's here!!!" She was SO ready to meet you she stayed outside the hospital room just hoping to hear you, sweet girl! 

Your other grandmother, who doesn't have a grandmother nickname yet, was so very proud of your daddy!! And she's always, always proud of your mom, her "Angel Amy" as she calls her! 

It was a tough day, this happy day, without your grandfather, Pops. But your grandmother was strong, and your daddy, and we are always so thankful for the understanding and joy that CC and Gunner bring us.

Without a doubt, I know your Pops was watching over you and your mom as you made your way here. Remember the doctor’s worries I mentioned earlier? Well, you came out with no problems. No broken bones, no c section! All of the concerns the doctor had, poof, they were gone. Lots of angels looking after you, my love! (You had a slight fever when you got here, so the nurse gave you some medicine, but it was nothing unusual.)

You weighed 7 lbs 14 oz and I think your exact time of birth was 10:39. Did you know we all took bets to guess what day you'd arrive? Your due date was December 6. I picked that day, and Drew did, too! Your dad was giving your mom a hard time, saying that you’d be late just like she “always is” – but you were right on time, even early! The winner was Gunner, who predicted December 5, and beautiful, he said. He was right on both accounts! Here you are, as beautiful and as peaceful as ever. 

It's December 8 today, and I'm in your bedroom at your house right now. I feel so very lucky! Your daddy is in the shower (thank goodness, stinky stanky!) and your mommy is trying to nap because you kept them up all night. You're in a blanket that your grandmother wrapped you in, laying on my chest as I type this right now. Oh Clare, what a delight you are! You smell delicious!! And I can't get over all your hair!

Holding you for the first time was better than I could have ever imagined. My brother and one of my very best friends MADE you! You are theirs and they are yours and you are OURS. Welcome to the crazy club! (no badges needed)

Your cousin is in my tummy now, and I'm so very thankful that God planned for y'all to be born just months apart. If I didn't have a baby in my tummy, I might be tempted to dash to my car right this second with you in my arms, and take you home with me! You are just so perfect! 

But, you remind me of your mama already, thus you must stay here. You're very alert, you already lift your head on your own to look around. What kind of three-day-old baby lifts and turns her own head?! 

Hank and Red loved meeting you today. Red tried to make your lamb doll his own chew toy, but I said it was for you, so he gave it right back. They love sniffing you and you're very brave to let them put their noses right on you! :) 

Clare, it's a crazy, mad, messy, beautiful world that you were just born into. Your parents have known great joy, amazing love, and tremendous loss. You will likely know all these things too, at different times of your life. And I pray you'll also know incredible hope - the kind of hope that comes from new life, from beginnings, from joining families together. I pray you continue to know the incredible hope you’ve brought to all of us, sweet Clare!

We are all so in love with you and so in awe of this miracle in my arms right now! May you grow up knowing how loved and cared for you are, baby girl. I can't imagine a child born to a better team than the mom and dad you've got, and all the people they’ve got, loving on them, and thus, you.

I love you, Clare, so very much! 

Eskimo kisses,

Courtney 

the anger stage. lemme hit somethin, hard.

Apparently, there are books on grieving, by the hundreds, for all faiths and backgrounds. For the grieving parent, the grieving child, the grieving whoever you are, there's a book for you. And in some of these books they describe the stages of grief.

I think I've got my grieving out of order. Wait... There is no freaking "order" when it comes to grief. It looks different and feels different and sounds different for everyone. Sometimes it's wailing. Sometimes it's silent tears. Sometimes it's belly laughing over a great memory. Sometimes it's pure confusion.

I. Am. Pissed. For the past few days I've felt this anger, this rage, rising up. Tonight I feel pretty ready to blow. Legal matters have come up again pertaining to matters my dad handled that no one else touched, paperwork and files and things he kept in his head. It is shit that no one should have to deal with. But that's what happens when people die suddenly I guess - the mess is still being cleaned up and waded through years later.

I wrote some thoughts a while back about how when I went to the crash site, on the gravel runway where Dad's heart stopped beating and his plane smashed to the earth, there was chips of blue paint everywhere. Three months after the accident, sizable pieces of blue paint from his plane were everywhere. It made me happy and heartbroken to see it. He had been there. He had left his mark. And now he was gone.

I also wrote how the wreckage from the plane stayed around months after the crash, and reminded me how we are still dealing with the aftermath of Dad's death, the messiness of it all. And I would have thought, after two years, we'd be done digging through files and paperwork, we'd be done with the death certificates and the heir-ship documents and the bullshit that comes with sudden death.

I don't know how families of people without life insurance do it. I have no idea how people find the time or afford the legal counsel of attorneys and accountants and all kinds of junk it takes to settle matters after someone dies, someone who owns a business and has utilities in his name and titles to cars and endless, endless items. I should be on a commercial for life insurance. And updated wills. And that you should have a stinking alternate contact on your AT&T bill.

When I called to update my mom's TV/phone/wireless internet account, they want you to fax a death certificate and notarized form and all kinds of stuff to them before anyone, even the deceased's WIFE, is authorized to do anything. But don't worry, they'll take the dead man's payment, you betcha. It really gets me going. But...you know what I do? I learned from a wise friend who has to deal with this crap, too. I say that I am Tom Robinson. Yep. Works like a charm, time after time. I call with the correct account number and 4 digit password and when they say who am I speaking with I say Tom Robinson. They call me m'am in a questioning voice and I just keep right on talking. I don't feel bad about it. My dad hated red tape and silly rules and I know he's in Heaven shaking his head at stupid AT&T policies, too. Actually, he's not. His eyes are on eternal matters now. They don't give two cents about AT&T policies up in Heaven. I'm sure of it.

There are worse things in the world than what we're going through. And that really pisses me off, because you know what? This sucks. Completely and totally sucks. No one should go through worse than this.
He should be here. He should be with my mom. He should be here to meet his grandchildren. He should still be running the company and Gentry learning from him, not Gentry learning as-he-goes business sense that is far beyond his years. He should be here, for a thousand reasons.

I opened a cabinet at my dad's office that is now my brother's. There, staring me in the face, were some of Dad's old running shoes. Even the Asics logo is screaming "he should be here!!!!" Seeing those shoes made me furious, for a number of reasons... one, regretting all the times I had put off running with him because he was so much faster than me and annoyingly peppy/talkative while jogging. Why couldn't he be out of breath like me? Just once? And it made me angry for Gentry, sweet Gentry who often seems so tough, that he hadn't gotten rid of Dad's shoes. Here we are, two years later, and those shoes are way too small for tall Gentch, those shoes are not needed. But there they are, tucked in the cabinet, a reminder of who's shoes he's filling every day at that office. If I had stood there two more seconds, I feel certain I would have chunked those effing shoes across the room and smack into a wall. GET BACK HERE AND WEAR THESE SHOES!!!!!! I wanted to irrationally scream. Instead I went to the restroom, took deep breaths, and texted my husband so he could talk me off the ledge like a normal person.

I know life is weird as we approach September 8. I don't know why. I don't remember feeling this way last year, but maybe I did and just can't remember. I am dreading the day. I just want it to be gone. I don't want to think about it.

And yet I dwell on it. Me and my anger, we stew. We wander. We slide away from the grace and grip of God and we let the questions in.

I want to know so much. I want to know who passed the inspection of the airplane. I want to know if anyone else has lost their life from this type of engine malfunction. If so, I want to console their families. I want to know who carried Dad in to the Llano hospital from the ambulance that brought him there. I want to know when they moved his body to the morgue in Austin county. I want to know who took off his watch and wedding ring and cut the corner of his driver's license before they gave it to my mom. I want to know why.

I want to know how his stupid freaking iphone survived the plane crash without. a. single. scratch. It was tucked in the pocket of his khaki shorts and it went in the ambulance with him - his body couldn't make it, but the iphone, no problem. I looked at that phone for weeks after the accident just wondering, please, could we strike some deal with God and exchange the phone for his body. Smash the phone, save the man. Please.

I am so, so, so very angry. Angry that he went flying that day. Angry that there wasn't a thunderstorm, that he couldn't have just sold the plane to the two buyers without flying it. They were using it for parts, if I remember correctly. They weren't going to fly it anyway. Why did he have to? It had been safe for hundreds and hundreds of joy rides with surely a hundred people with him. It had flown from Kingsland to Montana and back without a hitch. Why, why now? Why three months from my wedding? Why just a year after he met Drew? Sweet Drew who deserves a dad, and only the best. Why any freaking time? Why?

The anger feels good, I do admit. It's kind of like a long run where you get a really good stitch in your side and it hurts to breathe but it feels right, it feels good.

I am not worried this anger will last forever. I know the thankful heart, the one mostly at peace with Dad being gone, the heart that knows I can't change anything and that God is still near and surrounding us with love, that heart will return I'm sure. This anger won't last forever. And hopefully, I won't hit anyone until it passes.

And if I do, I'll keep an eye out for Ouiser Boudreaux from Steel Magnolias. If you've never seen it, you should fix that, and quickly. Sally Fields is completely losing her composure at her daughter's funeral, and wants to hit something. Here, M'Lynn. Hit this. We'll sell t-shirts that say "I slapped Ouiser Boudreaux."

when it hits the fan, who do you turn to?

*** I wrote this one night this past June, while my mom and I were on a road trip from Houston to Crested Butte. 

I miss my dad daily, all the little questions I want to ask and advice I want to get from him. He was my go-to guy. First real job offer? Talked it over with dad. First car purchase? Dad. First real boyfriend as an adult? Talked to dad all about him on a long bike ride. (10 months later he asked my parents for their blessing for us to get married.) 

I miss him for the big things, like Laura Thornton's wedding and Williams 21st birthday, but I miss him for the small things, like funny things drew says that remind me of Dad, or when my mom does something that we would inevitably tease her about together. (Like hit a pine tree with her car while searching for cell service in the country. You're welcome, Mom.)  

And then, when shit really hits the fan, I am surprised how much I expect Dad to be there for me, for us. 

Like today when my mom and I were about two hours south of Santa Fe. And our tire blew. And we swerved into the left lane uncontrollably and then mom steadied the car and and pulled off to the shoulder. We had three dogs in the car, sun was setting, no jack. I know he's not here, but I wanted to call him. Tell him we were okay. Have him tell us we'd be okay. 

I called AAA and my mom called 911 and said it was a non emergency- they sent a sheriff who was in the area. He helped us get our spare out (and a you tube video also helped, Land Rovers are tricky creatures) and started to change it. The nice mechanic and his wife arrived soon after. Nobody knew what caused the tire to blow. The mechanic says he rarely sees something like that. 

Our knees were shaky and mom and I were pretty wound up. 18 wheelers passed by loudly. 

"I have to tell y'all, my husband died in a plane crash, and I don't do accidents well. I've seen them end badly. I am very very thankful you're here." 

On the way to the mechanics shop, my mom got teary, which is rare. She's usually the strong one and me, I'm the weeper. 

We were talking about things we were thankful for, like that there was no one in the other lane when the tire blew, thankful we had cell service thirteen miles out from the nearest one-stop light town. And thankful that it wasn't dark outside yet. Though it was pitch black in this tiny town now. Her voice cracked. 

"I don't know why your dads engine couldn't have just held."

I said nothing for a while, afraid my voice would give away the sob I was holding back. Finally I said "I don't know why some people beat cancer and others don't." 

My mom told me something she had never told me. When Chip May (New York life agent in Fort Worth, fellow pilot, long time friend of my dads) came to tell my mom that dads plane had crashed and he wasn't coming back, she remembers almost immediately saying...

"Chip, that can't be right. We already lost Jay...And Courtney is getting married in December. He has to walk her down the aisle."

We can't explain the mess in life, how the good die young and others go around aimlessly not doing much of any living or loving. 

I don't have answers to a lot of questions. But I do know, people push us forward. The mechanic from AAA had us follow him back to his shop so he could check our lug nuts and pressure of the spare. He and his wife went above and beyond to be sure we were safe, us city folk in our shiny car and them in their rusty, creaking truck. The sheriff stayed with us when he didn't have to. My 96 year old great-grandfather gave me away. 

We fill in for each other. 

We give up ourselves for others. We shake our head and wonder, why bad things happen to good people, but we don't let the wondering consume us. We sit on the side of the road shaky for a minute, and then we patch up our tire and carry on. 

It's what those that have left such holes in our hearts would want us to do - fill each other up, and live. 

it's pretty cool that my parents got hitched, i guess

Let me give it to you straight. My parents' marriage is one of the best, most tangible examples I've ever seen of love - unconditional, laugh out loud, love each other through the tough stuff, everybody farts and nobody's smells like roses, still making out "over the hill", straight outta Nicholas Sparks "The Notebook" kind of marriage. 

My friend Ali Kefalos Smith (huge encourager of my writing) sometimes shares these instagram posts that she tags as "honest instas." Well, here's an honest-insta-kind of post....wait for it....

My dad once threw a plate across our backyard. I was in elementary school, and still remember it. He stood up from the table, where we were eating as a family on our patio, and, in serious frustration, flung the blue and white ceramic plate across our backyard. Frisbee-style. I can't make this stuff up. Somehow it landed far out in the grass, undamaged. We all sat their with our mouths open. We might expect a grand gesture like this from my mom in the middle of a heated conversation, but patient Tom, well....

I tell you this so that you know my parents argued. Not all the time and certainly very rarely was it over anything major. But, if your last name is Thornton, Trackwell, Chenoweth, Martin, Gentry, Carrigan, the list is endless, you realize - we Robinsons argue. We push each other's buttons. My parents did that. But their eyes sparkled for each other like characters from  the big screen - my parents were always in love. I don't remember what the argument was that caused the rare overreaction from my dad that day, but I do remember him constantly reaching for my mom's hand when we were driving - somewhere mundane, or on a long roadtrip, or a big event like a friend's wedding - it didn't matter. He was in love. Holding my mom's hand made him happy, even after decades of already doing so. They were romantic. Dad made it evident he had eyes only for my mom. They argued, they played, they worked through life together. 

My parents celebrated their 30th anniversary the July before his plane crash. Thirty years. What once sounded so long, seems too short. Way too short. 

My dad loved cracking jokes, making fun of people he loved, and mostly, turning the jokes on himself. One of his favorite one liners..."Being married to your mom has felt like 10 minutes!... Underwater." Chuckle chuckle chuckle. Good one, Pops. 

Gentry still blushes when he recalls Dad telling him how attractive he found Mom, both when they met, and on that current day. One of the last times I spent with Dad on Lake Marble Falls, his dream home where he would pull my mom close and say "Pinch me, I must be dreaming..." We were on the dock and he blasted the song "The Wobble" from the boat speakers. His feet jumped onto the dock from the boat. He bounced along to the song. "Hey BIG GIRL." he sang. "Baby back it up!!!" My mom was not too thrilled that he said the song reminded him of her. Beyonce and The Wobble, Dad had good taste in music. Danced like a white boy for sure, but still, great taste in music. 

I will forever cherish the handwritten note my mom saved that my dad wrote and left for her to find in their hotel room in New York City. "I love this city, but I love it mostly with you." 

My dad knew he had a keeper when he found my mom. Her bravery is astonishing. She's returned to New York City, with colleagues and friends of my dad, to support them and the company he worked for over twenty years. I know it was painful. I know it was more bitter than sweet, but sweet for sure. I know this: my mom does thing to honor my dad every single day, like keep her cheerfulness to help me and Gentry do the same, like get out of bed everyday and face the world without her teammate, roommate, soulmate if we're going to get cheesy. 

A lot of us love our parents. A lot of us are incredibly thankful for the example that our parents' marriage is for us, as we are adults and getting married, too. A lot of us witnessed extraordinary love in our kitchens, driveways, our living rooms. And I am so, so grateful that Gentry and I are in that group of "a lot of us." 

We will look at pictures of the beautiful couple, young and tanned on their summer wedding day, older and paler on winter ski trips, and all the memories in between, and we will share their story. The commitment Tom and Cathy made on July 31, 1982 will last far beyond their years together on this Earth. We will share their stories. And we will share their love. 

peace like a river

in the past few weeks, it feels like drew and i have been running around a bit frantic. we are thankful that are lives are full, that we are surrounded by adventures and fun and such times of joy, but, it has been exhausting. i am sure you've experienced a similar time in life, when every night is busy and there is no time for rest. sitting in church, early for once, i listened to the music as lunden mcgill played guitar and sang. and these words just sort of rushed out of me and i jotted them on paper. sharing them now in case you need to hear them, as i did. 

come, friends, let us sit. let us be still. 

let our minds slow down, our hearts stop racing, our to-do lists fall by the wayside. 

come, friends, let us be peaceful. 

let our questions and fears and anger and guilt and often unbearable hurt and our anxieties rise up, boil up and over and right on out of us. 

let us be quiet. let us be still. 

let the questions run out of steam, like a train on a track, until the wheels stop turning completely, and peace washes over us. 

peace, like a river. let us be the rocks and the lord the river, coolly and beautifully flowing over us, mere rocks. cleansing us, refreshing us. giving us purpose and refuge and beauty. 

without the glory of the clear water, without the river, we are merely rocks - heavy, ugly, burdensome, clumped together... dry. 

let the floodgates open and the peace rush on down. let the cool waters bind us together - for that is how we were designed, to be together. 

peace like a river, for anyone willing to take it. 

i wish for you, my friends, peace, like a river. 

happy 55th birthday, pops

"Love and hate are beasts, and the one that grows is the one you feed."

I love this quote. it provides such clarity to me, to getting through each day, but more than just "getting through" - to intentionally setting out and living life. 

During the last few years, there has been much to love and much to hate in my life. I never really understood "the best of times, the worst of times" until 2012. 

I met this guy who is all love. Drew. He is 110% loving, patient, kind. He too has a lot of things in his life that would make it easy to fuel the "hate beast" and go through life angry, bitter, or even just unsettled. He is far from any of those things. His faith is firm and rooted in forgiveness. 

I have a dad who is dead. And Drew has a dad a lot like sasquatch - i've heard of him, but i've never once seen him. 

Drew has taught me a lot about grace and forgiveness. He has taught me that having an incredible dad is not something that is a RIGHT. It is a gift. It is something to be cherished if you possess it. But it is not something that you should allow to define your whole life. I have my dad's memories, and legacy of love, and I want to continue to be like him. What I do not want is to be angry or bitter that his plane engine malfunctioned, that we didn't have nearly as much time with him as we wanted. 

I grew up knowing someone who fed the "hate beast" because of a great loss he experienced. It made it pretty miserable to be around him for years. He avoided church, he stayed pretty grumpy, he wasn't the person others had known. He let the loss fuel hate, instead of love. and through that, he was a great example-"don't walk down this road..." choose love. 

One of my dad's oldest and best friends, Jim, has told us that he doesn't want to celebrate or make special the day my dad's plane crashed. "I want May 29 to be a day we celebrate," he told me last summer. I totally agree. (and then i went and completely missed Jim's birthday this year. how nice! what a friend. FAIL!) 

My dad was all about life - and I hope that we find his birthday a joyful day, always. A day I'll celebrate with my children and family, a day we'll pause and think "how I can I love on someone? how I can spread dad's joys and his big heart through the world?" 

I haven't decided exactly what to do for dad's birthday this year. I've thought about talking to drew and sponsoring someone to go to a baseball camp, like a yellowstone kiddo for summer, or a MHS Young Life kid to camp in Colorado. Dad loved sports and he loved to be quietly generous. I've thought about making a donation to family legacy, where we built tom's house, and where we sponsor two boys each month through camp life. I've thought about getting a bunch of James Coney hot dogs and driving around and giving them to hungry people here in Houston. "Here, from Tom..."

If i sat still long enough to let the tears fall and really think about what Dad would want for his 55th birthday, I know it's simple. no grand gestures needed. just love. just do. I hesitate to quote Bob Goff all the time, but his words are brilliant and applicable. love does. love moves. 

"you don't need a plan, you just need to be present." -BG

mumford & sons - in these bodies we will live, and in these bodies we will die. where we invest our love, we invest our life. 

let's all go forward and invest in love. Let's love on people, let's live our lives, let's DO things. 

For you, TWR, we light birthday candles and celebrate. To honor you, we walk forward in love, moving away from hate.

boy meets girl, charles meets leslie, the rest is history

Boy meets girl, and the rest is history! 

I've thought Charles Simmons was a total keeper since I met him. I got to know him through my brothers gentry & George. (I'll always claim George Doubleday as a blood relative though technically we are not.) 

The night I met Charles, we rode home from the Houston rodeo in Gentry's truck, and Charles was grilling me ab my boyfriend, Drew, who was unable to join us because he was coaching a lacrosse game. I barely knew Charles. He said "Gentry do you know this guy she's dating?!? Do you APPROVE? Is he worthy of this girl?!?" Instantly charming, that Charles Simmons. And as I got to know him better, I knew he couldn't date just anyone. 

Flash forward six months later. Sitting around with Amy and Gentry, at my great-grandparents house, it dawned on me - Leslie Carrigan!!! I married into the Carrigan family (by way of my bro) and think the world of each & every one of them. And Leslie, what a CATCH. 

I texted Leslie, and was nervous if she'd agree to meet Charles. I had a great feeling about this, and I really wanted it to work!!!

I texted Charles. "I want you to meet Amy's sister. She's beautiful, loves kids like you, used to work at Yellowstone Academy, she's really athletic..." 

He texted back, sure why not... Later that Friday night, I sent a picture. It didn't take long for my phone to ring. It was past midnight and my mom and I were asleep in a guest bedroom. 

The next morning, Mom remembered my phone ringing and asked who it was- Charles, I explained.  After seeing Leslie's picture he wanted her number IMMEDIATELY to call and ask her out. 

The very next week, Charles took Leslie to dinner. The rest, as they say, is history. They both texted me after their second date, running at Memorial Park. 

Charles "She is beautiful. I was so proud to be seen running next to her. One of my friends who saw us emailed me already to see who she was and couldn't believe I was with HER. I paid people to pass by us and say hi to me so I seemed cool." 

Leslie "He is really fun! And when we ran at Memorial Park last night, he seemed to know EVERYONE!" 

And then, my work was done! Less than a year later they were engaged. This weekend, they become Mr. & Mrs. 

Leslie & Charles are one of those movie couples. They are so happy they make you happy to be around them. Their smiles are contagious. They seem too good to be true...but they are the real deal.

Oh, what fun! Can't wait for them to get hitched this weekend and feeling so lucky to get to be there! 

Cheers to the bride & groom!! 

prayer, day one (are my eyebrows too dark? and other worldly concerns)

I'm in a bit of a funk. A juxtaposition, I guess... I still remember learning the word juxtaposition in English class. It's when two things are placed together that are different - well, that's what I thought. But according to the dictionary it's just when two things are placed side by side. 

So on one side, there is my brain (and my heart, too) that is so sure of God's grace and mercy. This one side relies on it daily, just to get through the day, because there is not one day that I do not long for my Dad, not a day that my heart ceases to ache for myself, my brother, my mom, his friends, their friends, and there is nothing but the peace of Christ that soothes that ache. There is this side that can't get through life without things such as: holy music, like "10,000 reasons for my heart to find" or anything of David Crowder, uplifting verses, thoughtful words from loved ones, etc. 

And there is one side that is tired, selfish, weak, and weary. This one side lately that lets the pain numb me, blind me, and just ...coast. This one side has almost forgotten how to pray. Literally, I was with a few girls last week, and one insisted we "popcorn" pray and everyone participate, and I fumbled for my words. I realized how little I have been praying lately. And how different that is from me a year ago - when we went to Zambia, we prayed big and bold prayers all the time, internal, outloud, you name it - we talked to God. But lately, there's a side of me that keeps God at distance, my arm stretched out, holding him there - within reach if I need him, but out of the way when I feel like I don't. 

So here we are, these two sides of my brain, my heart, pressed up against each other. Drew & I just completed a year long bible study through our church with the most wonderful small group. And there was an end of year meeting/celebration last night for all the small groups at our church, and we went. And on the way there, I caught myself doing this: wondering if my eyebrows were too dark for my face and if I should do something about it. Seriously. I looked at pictures of myself on my phone at a red light and was legitimately concerned. Then I spent an hour at church, with genuine people and genuine faith (and the imperfections and struggles that accompany that) and I could have cared less about my eyebrows. I was focused on how I was loving people, what ministries Drew & I should pour our time into, wondering why I wasn't praying more, why I'm not reading scripture more excitedly. 

So here we are. For the next seven days, I plan to make time to do nothing but pray for five minutes. Sounds easy. Sounds daunting. Another juxtaposition! 

Last night, a church staffer read Romans 12. I'm soaking it in today. (The first part of the chapter is below.) 

Oh Lord, let me draw near to you. Fill my heart with the need to lean on you. Thank you for all the people you've put in my life that point me to you. I rejoice, God, that you promise to never leave or forsake me. Help me bring that comfort to others. 

A Living Sacrifice

1 I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. 2 Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.

Gifts of Grace

3 For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. 4 For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, 5 so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another. 6 Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them: if prophecy, in proportion to our faith; 7 if service, in our serving; the one who teaches, in his teaching; 8 the one who exhorts, in his exhortation; the one who contributes, in generosity; the one who leads, with zeal; the one who does acts of mercy, with cheerfulness.

my cup runneth over

There is a lot in this life that I am unsure about, lots that makes wonder and ponder and doubt. 

But from the first date, I was sure about Drew - and not even assurance that was from me really, it just felt like, peace, bigger than I had known before. Like, "this is it." As we dated and got to know each other, it felt like God was hitting me over the head saying "It's your time. This is the one. You two are better together than you are apart."

Supportive, funny, wonderful. He reminds me of dad in so many ways, from his unruly eye brows and inability to remember names, to the way he makes budgeting spreadsheets and work out calendars and puts others above himself. It was important before Dad passed away that they have similarities, and it's so appreciated and comforting now. 

We argue, we think differently on many topics (never thought I'd fall for someone outside the GOP!!!) and I'm rude to him ("you're wearing THAT?") 

But we also encourage each other, make each other laugh til our faces hurt, and remind each other as we face pain around us that there's more to life than what we see on the surface. 

Drew pushes me, and often if we miss church or have a long drive, like a Sunday a few months ago driving back from a lacrosse tournament, he had us listen to sermons in the car. And we recently heard one about living life with an "open palm" instead of a closed fist around the things we love. We should be able, with an open, outstretched palm, be able to share our most cherished possessions, including our loved ones. 

I am aware that it is unholy to cling to tight to what God has given us. We cannot demand blessings from God. We cannot close our fist around the things we want to keep and live our lives very joyfully. Closed fists almost always indicates anger. 

I don't know if we'll be married 13 or 30 or 60 years, because I don't know our number of days remaining on the earth. My mom and Mary have been great examples to me of an extravagant love that gives strength to go on, even in the midst of heart-breaking sorrow. 

Drew pushes me to do the same. To love each other and those around us with everlasting hope. To be so thankful for our many, many blessings. Blessings I forget to even count as a blessing in my busyness. To count the glass as half full. 

Lord, let me stop today and realize, I am in need of nothing. My glass-my cup-is more than half full. In fact, my cup runneth over. 

two steps forward, one step back

"Springing forward" was my dad’s favorite. He loved using up every minute of daylight – when we were younger, spring daylight savings time meant more time to play outside when he was home from work, more time to get dirty, to breathe fresh air, to roller-blade or bike or walk with mom and Sam, our beloved golden.

I could feel dad in the way the light poured in my window from the west tonight, as I drove home from work. Sunset feels different after springing forward, as spring and summer approach, the sun hangs longer on the horizon, and it reminds me of so much he loved.

They say it’s a three year roller-coaster, this thing called grief. A minister told me that, about a month after Dad died.  “The first three years are the hardest.” I remember thinking, three years? That may as well be forever. This will forever be hard.

I also remember a few people telling me this will get easier with time. And though I know they’re right in some ways, it still fired me up on the inside. It’s not ever going to be easy, life without my dad. Who are you to dare to tell me that? But I’m sure I’ve told others that, before I knew about this bone-crushing grief. I hope they forgive me for careless words.

So it’s been a year and a half, since Dad’s accident. 18 months. If the three-year-theory is true, we’re halfway there. And I see a lot of truth in what Josef said – this is a continual roller coaster, but the highs stay high and the lows get less and less low. Or less and less often. Or both.

Saturday night was a deep low for me. I was physically exhausted after an amazing day with old friends, friends who are in my life if for nothing else than to prove God’s grace. I don’t deserve them. I didn’t see the low coming, when it hit me, and there I was – sobbing. Gasping for air. Alone in my house. It had been a loooong time since I had felt this, the fear, the panic, the inability to be soothed – Dad. Is. Not. Coming. Back. Not for me, not for my brother, not for my husband who I so very much wanted my dad to be there for. Not for my children, not for his friends, not for the Chen boys, and the worst of the worst, not for my mom. She was fifty-two when the plane crashed. If she lives to ninety (my new most fervent prayer request) she will have gone thirty-eight years on memory alone. It’s terrifying and tragic and too sad for me to wrap my brain around at times. Like Saturday night.

Then it passes. Ironically it’s usually my mom that pulls me up out of the pit. And it’s good for the tears to roll, less often now than before, and I know, the crying and the uncontrollable shakes and the desperation, it is good. Because it passes, and it’s out of my system for a while, and somehow some clarity comes with it.

“I can’t do this anymore. I really just can’t. He is not coming back, Mom, and I just…we can’t I don’t see how we can do this.”

“We have to, sweet girl.” She said patiently.

And then, just when I think the hurt might swallow me up, the car starts back up the track. It click, click, clicks up the rollercoaster track, slowly. And we come to a view of daylight savings time, the smell of baseball in the air, and nothing but sweet memories of Dad. And it is okay, for now. It is okay. 

my dad was a weirdo.

 

In a culture consumed with seeming cool, my dad was an outcast.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve seen the high school pictures. His long blonde hair and pooka shell necklace- my dad thought he was cool. But in the days I knew him, the twenty-six years I knew him on this planet, Dad didn’t spend much time trying to be “cool.”

TWR lived large. I think he left the earth with very few regrets, which is really saying something since he died so suddenly, and, by many definitions, young. I think a lot of that has to do with how he lived – how well he loved others, where he based his faith and his worth, and how silly he was on a daily basis.

When I was little, Dad made even going to bed fun. I can remember him getting us to “blow” out the lights like we were blowing out a candle, and he’d subtly flip the light switch at just the right moment to turn out the light. He dressed up as a clown for one of mine and Gentry’s birthday parties – head to toe, we’re talking. Picture a short, skinny version of Cam from Modern Family. Our very own Fizbo.

My dad made life interesting. He made it fun. He made it an adventure to be around him.

In high school, I somehow was on our homecoming court senior year. The five of us brought our dads to  a weeknight practice with the band, getting ready for the actual football game coming up that weekend. My dad brought Bubba teeth in his pocket and wore them during all of practice. He really liked our class principal and thought it would make him laugh. I was half mortified and half beaming with pride that this weirdo belonged to me.

I remember helping him plan t-shirts for his softball team - he was playing with his Young Life high school guys while he was a leader. The Narwhals, he chose as the mascot. What a goofball! You know the animal from the movie Elf with the long tusk like a unicorn? Yep. Silly. But those guys thought he was cool. 

When Kelsey, Stephanie, and I lived in an apartment in the Heights, Dad snuck through an office parking lot to climb the concrete walls of the bayou that our windows overlooked. He used a bucket full of sidewalk chalk and wrote our initials and alma mater logos on the concrete for all to see. (He did this I am sure just so he could draw a giant UT sign for Steph) – and he wrote “Happy First Day” – which I saw in the wee hours before my first day as a teacher with Teach For America.

Some dads might have been as thoughtful as him, and sent their daughter flowers. Not mine. No, he risked getting a ticket for graffiti and sidewalk-chalked White Oak bayou to show he cared.

My mom tells the best Tom stories, tales of the prankster in action. There are legendary stories from each of their New York Life study group meetings – including the time they had run out of space in the rent cars when the large group went to dinner. So Tom offered to ride in the trunk – for fun, my mom reminds everyone. And then at red lights he would bang on the trunk from inside to freak out the people in other cars. Silly. Hysterical. Never a dull moment. 

What I love most about the author Bob Goff (Love Does, read it already!) is that he draws you in to his life, inspires you to live boldly, without throwing bible verses in your face or being “preachy.” He’s just real. And he’s goofy. And he’s fun and exciting and makes everyone feel like they matter. All things that make me want to be more like my dad.

Gentry is like my dad in countless ways, and I know his Hans alter-ego is something straight out of Tom's book. (But Gentry has Saturday-Night-Live quality accents. Dad had ... none.)

We spent years witnessing important lessons, never knowing that someday soon all we’d have were those laugh out loud memories of a hilarious man.

Though my dad was very successful in business, that was not always the case. He fought long and hard for that "success." I love in the speech my mom gave this past year for New York Life agents that she mentions how he was fired from a bank in the late 80s when Gentry and I were little. Not a good time to be fired. Not a way to "look cool." 

But no matter my parent’s bank account status or his stress level, no matter how many toys he had at the time (from zilch to boats and planes) my dad found the time to be joyful. To be funny. To be goofy. To make life an adventure. Whether he was driving a beat-up Ford Taurus on it's last leg or a brand new fancy Acura (ordered from Costco, he was so proud of that) road trips were a riot with this man. Adventure was the goal, what you were driving was just a detail. 

To Tom, age was merely a number. Coolness was subjective. Life was, as Helen Keller said, a daring adventure, or it is nothing. I don't want to have nothing. Tom reminds me to get off my couch. To talk to strangers. To smile at people. To stop worrying what people think and just do stuff.

Our final silliness story – my dad LOVED flying his little blue plane and because it was open air, he could fly low and have his passenger (or himself) throw nerf balls out to campers at Camp Longhorn or boats on Lake LBJ. He would write names on them and “deliver” to people. It made his day more than it made theirs. He had people all the time at Lake Marble Falls ask to go flying with him. Never once did he say no. 

He was like Summer Santa – instead of a sleigh with reindeer, it was a little blue plane and a short little man. He would do a “gum drop” for their annual Young Life trip to the lake and throw gum out of the plane for kids to catch. He did this often to boats, too, and people began to recognize the blue plane. "Oh, that crazy man is gonna throw us something!"

Usually, someone else would throw while he piloted the plane – and the wind would knock some pieces right back in your face and into the plane. Sometimes you'd find stray pieces by your feet from his last drop, pieces that had blown back in instead of flying out. 

When the FAA inspected the plane after Dad’s crash, they came to the house in Houston to give us preliminary reports and answer any family member’s questions.

The FAA rep was personal and patient with us. We were huddled together in the living room. 

“You know, when we took the tail off the body of the airplane, we found something I had never seen in all my decades with the FAA.” Long pause. “And I don’t think I’ll ever see anything like it again.” 

Long pause.

 “We found handfuls of Double Bubble bubble gum in the tail of the airplane. Can someone explain that?”

“Every day God invites us on the same kind of adventure. It's not a trip where He sends us a rigid itinerary, He simply invites us. God asks what it is He's made us to love, what it is that captures our attention, what feeds that deep indescribable need of our souls to experience the richness of the world He made. And then, leaning over us, He whispers, "Let's go do that together.” 
― Bob Goff