Hook Em, Bobby!

This is one of my dad's dearest friends, Bobby, wearing one of my dads favorite shirts. (Dad wore that shirt waaaaay too much.) 

It is hard for me to find the words to adequately express how such a simple thing means to me, just a happy man in a Hawaiian shirt.

There are days that I feel defeated, as if no matter how hard I may try, our family and this life is just not as fun as it would have been if Dad were here. I know that may sound dramatic, or overly pessimistic, but it is at times how I feel. Before Dads death, our family still had arguments and dealt with hard things, but light hearted happiness came easier than it does now. It’s as if, years later, the air is still thick with missing him. We carry on, but we carry a heavy weight of missing him, too.  

A funny grandfather was playing with his three year old grandson at our neighborhood pool recently, and he quickly included Thomas in their water gun game. Thomas thought the man was so.much.fun. I longed for my dad so much in that moment. My stomach hurts just thinking back to it. I had tears at the pool that I couldn’t keep back, though thankfully got them under control in a flash. 

I’ve said it before: I know we have so much for which to be thankful. We are blessed beyond measure that Dad was so worthy of being dearly missed. I know some parents go quietly into the night. And even though it seems short, we are blessed with the years we had. I think of John and William, or friends’ who’s spouses didn’t meet their parents who are now gone, and I know I have no room to complain or feel entitled to more time. I watched a news story recently about a young man who’s dad died serving in our military when the boy was not yet born. Loss such as that I truly cannot fathom. 

And, I know some parents leave behind grown children who are not nearly as cared for or loved on as Gentry and I have been. Our community of friends and family is really something else. 

After Jay Chenoweth passed away, my dad talked about jaybird a lot. He told me how much he missed calling him with work questions, how often he thought of him. He told us that he was going to say his name any chance he had, especially around Jay’s boys. I remember him saying, “I don’t care if it makes some people uncomfortable, we are going to talk about Jay. I am going to say his name whenever I think of him.” 

They say that one of the sweetest sounds to someone is the sound of their own name. I think for someone grieving, even sweeter than their own name is the name of the one they’ve lost. I am immensely grateful for my dads friends who still talk about him, mention him without fear of it being awkward. You know what’s awkward? Acting like we’ve all forgotten who Dad was, or as if he’s away on business. 

My dad’s friends have been shoulder to shoulder with us in our grief. 

I don’t know that I need to explain this photo much, Bobby texting it to us says it all. Thank you for loving us so well, and missing Dad with us, Martins! 

A few people have asked my mom how to support people who are up to their chin in grief, treading just enough to breathe but not able to do much else. She says often, “just show up.” You don’t have to know the right things to say, you don’t have to bring a casserole if cooking is not your thing - just show up. 

Real life people like Bobby (and Lynne, and others) remind me that faith in God is much more than your church attendance chart or a list of good deeds. It makes me sad how many people think their faith is too small or that they have too many doubts. I spent a lot of time thinking my faith was pretty inadequate or insincere, and then all hell broke lose, and God has never felt more real or near or evident, even as I shook my fists at him. 

If you think you don’t know God, if you think you are of little faith- think of times when you have been inexplicably loved. 

You don’t have to have all the answers or understand every single thing- I love how God shows up through other real-life, in the flesh, people. The hands and feet of Christ. 

Don’t let a lack of theology make you feel inadequate. Let good friends in Hawaiian shirts remind you that the Lord is never far. But you may have to go halfway. You may have to look for Him. 

Some men will tell you that the sky sets burnt orange because Austin is, in fact, God’s country. I think that is still up for debate, but either way... Hook em, Bobby! 

five years of love does

The week that my dad passed away, I was overwhelmed by countless friends asking me what they could do to help. After Dad's plane engine malfunctioned in the Hill Country, and his body stopped breathing, we were overwhelmed with community. What a lovely thing to say: we were overwhelmed with support. 

My brother and I both felt strongly that we wanted to speak at his memorial service, and my mom gave us the go-ahead to do so. Dad died on a Saturday evening at sunset, and his service was the Thursday after. As we dealt with the shock and finality of Dad's death, friends kept asking: "what can we do?" One of my mom's dear friends, who I later learned had lost her dad when she was a teen, brought us toilet paper. Yes, TP. I remember looking through the front window of our house, watching her unload a giant case of toilet paper from her Toyota Camry. What a strange thing, I thought. People were bringing us meals and doing our dishes and reminding me to wash my hair. And here comes Mimi and Nancy up the sidewalk with toilet paper. But you know what? We needed that TP. These women had known grief and known trouble and known sadness, and somehow they knew - when tragedy strikes, and you're just trying to keep your head above water, you don't go to the store for toilet paper. And if you're like our family, and you're immensely blessed by friends by the dozen coming over to hug you, cry with you, laugh with you, tell stories about TR with you - well, with all those friends over, you're going to need more toilet paper than on a usual September week. 

It was a Bob Goff thing to do, to bring toilet paper without us asking. It was love in action, showing up, not waiting to be told how to help. Simply put, love does. It was a behind-the-scenes gesture, not a glamorous task, but it meant so much. 

A friend gave me a copy of Bob's book, Love Does, in July 2012. Drew and I got engaged in June, and I thought she was giving me a book about marriage, since love was in the title. I waited a few weeks to read it, and when I finally did, I devoured it. I remember telling my family stories from the book at our dinner to celebrate my July birthday. You have to read it, I told them. I remember smiling at my dad, sitting around our dining room table,  telling him how the author reminded me of him - not taking no for an answer, living that saying my dad said so often: "What do you have to lose by just asking? The worst thing they could do is tell you no." Isn't that just like Bob Goff, sitting on that bench waiting to be allowed to attend law school?  

My dad never had time to read Bob's book. August was a busy month, with him and my mom making arrangements for my grandfather, who's dementia was advancing and quality of life was going down the tubes. Life is never easy, is it? But gosh, is it worth living. At the end of August, my parents went to Switzerland for a New York Life business trip and a much needed break. They tacked on a few days at the beginning of the trip to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary. 


Bob Goff has his pilot's license, just like my dad, and flies an amphibious plane, just like my dad. He throws candy from his deck at his home in Canada to the kayakers below, just as my dad threw candy to boaters on the Highland Lakes. I wrote about how the NTSB officer had never seen anything like it when they examined Dad's plane after the crash - bubble gum by the fistful came pouring out of the tail of the plane. There's a quote in his book, live life like you're being shot out of a canon. Gosh, is that my dad, or what!? 

The week after Dad's accident, my close friends were grieving too. They wanted to know how to help. Distant friends came out of the woodwork, wondering the same thing, too. I received countless texts and facebook messages and emails, people sorry for our sudden loss, people wanting us to know they were there, they were hurting, too. 

As I prepared to speak at Dad's service, I hoped I would find something short and sweet to say, to capture Dad, to honor him. I remembered a letter Dad had typed and left on my desk when he and mom moved me in for college. I wanted to read from that letter, to share his humor, his advice, his reminder that I should pray often, and his encouragement for me to learn to flirt. (Ouch. It's a real eye opener when your Dad tells you that you need to learn to flirt.) And I wanted to read the quote from the Notebook, a movie he loved and wasn't ashamed to admit it. And as I prepared to add one quote from a book so fresh on my mind, Love Does, about living life "like you were shot out of a cannon", a lightbulb went off in my head: I know what they can do. All these sweet friends, wanting to know what they could do for us, I had an answer: they could read this book. They could leave the service and be charged to live their lives more like Bob Goff and more like my dad: on fire. Brave. Bold. Far from perfect. Adventurous. Chasing the Lord's will. Loving like were made of it. 

I am so thankful for so much, in the wake of Dad's accident. Our gratitude is often hard to express in words. The Lord is near the brokenhearted, and for that we are so thankful. The Lord drew near to us through you, sweet friends. 

It was a joy to hear from dozens of folks who heard of Love Does for the first time at my dad's service, and who read it and were changed by Bob's stories and faith. I love how scripture is woven through the text yet never directly quoted: it is an easy book to begin discussions about Jesus, to point us to Christ without pointing fingers, to remind us that God is Love. 

My gratitude continues to multiply since Dad's accident - after losing someone suddenly, you become aware of the things you take for granted. It's like my senses have been heightened. This is so true, even five years later. I try not to take things like birthdays and sunsets and bike rides and adventures big and small for granted. A trip with Drew to Carmel, California, and a ride to the grocery store seeing big tractors out the window with Thomas - it is all to be cherished. I try to hold things more with an open palm than a closed fist. (Something Sweet Maria Goff talked about on a podcast just released by Jamie Ivey.)  So I do not take for granted the incredible gesture of thoughtful friends who called Bob on his cell phone number, which is listed in the back of the book. He called me during our rehearsal dinner and wished us well - the author of this best selling book leaving me a voicemail on December 30, 2012, a time I'm sure he wanted to spend with his family but he took the time to call a young bride about to get married without her dad there to walk her down the aisle. What a huge smile his voicemail brought to my face, one that lingered for a long time. How generous, how kind of everyone involved - thank you, Lisa and Clay. Wow, what thoughtfulness. 

I realize this post is long enough, but our gratefulness continues. I've had the pleasure of seeing Bob in real life a handful of times - the first, when Mary C, Mom, and I went to the Love Does conference in Austin in 2013. He opened the conference by throwing buckets of candy into the crowd - my dad was a sugar fiend and it just felt like what my mom calls "God winks" - like the Lord was saying, I see you. I knew your dad and I love you and I see you. And if a grown man throwing candy into a crowd causes me to be reminded that God is real, and that sounds crazy to you well.... sorry that I'm not sorry. 

Lainey and I with Bob's briefcase - he asked us to hold it, we didn't peak. 

Meeting Bob for the first time in ATX

Then Yellowstone Academy had Bob to speak at their annual luncheon, and I was on staff at Yellowstone for a hot second (another thing for which I'm so grateful) and my mom and I got to be the INCREDIBLY lucky fools who drove Bob from his hotel to the school for a tour and then to the luncheon. Spending just a few minutes with Bob lets you know he is the real. deal. He walks the talk, people. 

We heard him speak last year at an event for West Houston Young Life, and it has been neat to sort of track him for five years, from the book release to five years later. He's still the same guy, huge smile, loud laugh, love for Jesus, cell phone printed in the book for all to see. Last September, in 2016, Bob spoke at the YL banquet and I furiously took notes. He talked about how their cabin burnt to the ground - a cabin he and his wife Sweet Maria have used so graciously to serve the Lord and to serve His people. They open their home up to SO MANY and give their lives away and the house burns to the ground! How hard to understand. He was talking about this to the ballroom full of Houston folks and he said this: "God shows His presence through the difficult things in our lives.(insert my loud AMEN here.) And I wanted to scissor kick people IN THE NECK when they told me that our cabin burned down to show God's power. No!!!! But He does show us His presence." He also talked about not making the gospel easier, just more simple. If you're making it easy, you're messing it up, he said. Don't water down scripture, but do make it accessible for thirsty people. Speak love and truth and Jesus into their lives. 

This September will mark five years since Dad was last on this Earth. I don't miss him any less, and I don't long for him any less, but I do think I've learned these past five years how to live more fully. How to hopefully live with more love. I hope my life shows people that God is good, all the time, even in the midst of inexplicable hurt. While I've been missing my dad and learning to live without him here, we have been living. And loving. One day at a time, like my mom models for us. 

Speaking of one day at a time: I was recently listening to an interview with Bob on a podcast (type Bob Goff into the search bar on podcast app and just pick something - you can't go wrong!) And Bob was saying that his team doesn't really show him his schedule for more than one day at a time. He is all over the world, all over the place, speaking and leading and telling stories of how to live and love well and spread Jesus - and his schedule MUST be overwhelming at times. So when he was asked about that, he talked about how he is never really shown more than one day or a week at a time. It reminded me of my mom, telling us in those months after the accident, and telling us sometimes now, one day at a time, sugars, one day at a time. 

Slowly, but surely, by God's grace, we move forward. Love Does. 

(if you have not read the book yet, for the love of pete, get on with it! also, we have a bunch of extra copies. Drew ordered a case from the publisher a while back for us to giveaway to friends, to take on trips and leave in our hotel rooms for folks to find - he is always teaching me how to love extravagantly.) 

“But the kind of love that God created and demonstrated is a costly one because it involves sacrifice and presence. It's a love that operates more like a sign language than being spoken outright.” 
-Bob Goff

happy birthday, harris! 1.30.17

February 1, 2017

As we walked out of the hospital doors -well actually, I rolled, pushed in a wheelchair per hospital policy- and stepped into the sunshine and warmth of Houston, I heard a buzzing sound overhead. I looked up to the blue sky and squinted to see what it was... immediately, over the top of the building, a red and white single engine plane came into sight, flying very low directly over us. Seriously? I mean, I cannot make this stuff up. 

I almost waved, it seemed so clearly to be my dad. With tears stinging my eyes, I smiled and held Harris in my lap a bit tighter. I see you, I thought. Impeccable timing. The red and white stars on the plane were an unneeded touch from my dad, telling me he's not far away. I see you, I thought. 

My mom has told us several times that she heard Jim Jackson once give a sermon on angels. I either wasn't there or can't remember it, but he spoke in his big voice with the southern Georgia drawl, of angels all around us. He's not a hocus-pocus type, so for him to be so confident of angels all around us, well... I'm with him. And I certainly felt their presence on the day our second son, Harris William Prochaska, was born.  

Harris did not come calmly or quietly into this world, though I realize emergency C-sections are not uncommon and really not too scary. I absolutely hate that we scared my my mom though, who was not at the hospital yet because she was at our house taking care of big brother Thomas. We called her that morning and told her everything looked great, my doctor had checked me and thought maybe around 2 pm to have family at the hospital. Within an hour we called back to say that we were being hurried to a c-section and could she please come up ASAP. 

The short version is this: we went in to be induced at 40 weeks and 1 day, and since Thomas was induced and his delivery totally normal and fine, there was even lower risk of c section for the second time around. I was dilated 3 cm the week before, which I never dilated with Thomas, even when I was 8 days past our due date. My body was progressing and my doctor felt good about inducing after 40 weeks. We arrived just after 7 am, and I remembered the perks of being induced - no crazy drive to the hospital, no excruciating pain wondering if you'll make it in time for meds, no drama- just walked in calmly and got settled in a room.  

Our good friend (framily member) Courtney Chenoweth is a labor and delivery nurse at Women's hospital. You might remember that she helped delivered Thomas even though she was not on call - and she hand-selected our nurse, Angela, for the night of Thomas' birth. In 2015, after almost 2 hours of pushing (with the epidural dialed down and then turned to "off" thanks-very-much) I truly felt that Angela was our angel. She's amazing. So kind, so knowledgeable, a calming presence, both cheerful and patient. 

Coco is on maternity leave, home with their new baby Evelyn. When Drew realized Courtney wouldn't be able to scrub in for baby #2s birth, his eyes were wide. "What will we do?!?!" He asked me. Um, I love Courtney, but I told him: I'm pretty sure I did a lot of the work last time, and I'll do a lot of the work this time, and hopefully our doctor will be there, and we'll be okay. (He didn't seem convinced.)

I texted my mom, Amy, Courtney, and Mary Chen updates from my last doctor appointment and told them we were scheduled to be induced Monday, January 30. It was not 10 minutes later that Coco texted back a game plan. Okay, if you go into labor this weekend, here's who will be your nurse. And if you're induced Monday, Angela is scrubbing in. "What?!?!" I felt terrible. Angela works nights! I did not want her to have to change her schedule. Courtney texted back: it's done, its on the schedule. I felt very guilty asking Angela to work a day shift - she has 3 kiddos and I'm sure it wasn't easy to change her schedule! And honestly it felt too good to be true, so I just didn't think much of it and didn't get my hopes up. 

Monday rolled around and still no baby. We walked down the hospital hall and saw Angela in her bright blue scrubs with a cup of coffee. I couldn't believe it! She gave us both hugs with a huge smile. Angela, I can't really believe you're here!!! I told her. It felt too good to be true, to have the same nurse as last time, someone we knew and trusted. Little did we know how invaluable that would be this time.  

Angela is an angel - but she's also a saint. Remember when I said she's patient? I HATE needles. We had a helluva time getting my IV in. I was nauseous, and pale, and felt myself nearly blacking out a few times. Normal nurses I'm sure would roll their eyes and think "you can't get an IV in without nearly passing out, but you're going to push a child out of your body today? Gooood luck." But instead, she shoved a large pamphlet from the hospital into Drew's hand and said "fan her" while she got a cold cloth for my forehead. I felt like such a baby, but man did I feel thankful for Angela, and the day was just getting started. 

We texted our moms and friends after Dr. Patni came in and broke my water. She told us, I'm thinking late afternoon. This won't be near as long as Thomas. Got it, I thought, getting excited, thinking I knew exactly how this was going to go. Thirty minutes later, the baby's heartbeat continued to dip low and go high and he was not tolerating my contractions well at all. They watched it closely for a while, and thirty minutes after that, we were headed to the OR for an emergency c-section. Dr. Patni scrubbed out of another surgery (routine) to be there for Harris' delivery. I knew it must be somewhat serious if she was doing that. Tears streamed down my face as Drew held my hand. I took off the oxygen mask they had on me and called my mom as I lay on my side and tried to stay calm. "I don't think I can do this." I said. Again, hate needles. Didn't want to be cut open while awake. 

"Of course you can, sweet girl. Your daddy is there! You have angels all around you. Think about how strong you were when your daddy died. If you can be strong through that, you can absolutely do this. Take deep breaths. This is going to be just fine, sweet girl." 

Angels all around, seen and unseen, on the phone and in the room. 

Soon after we got off the phone, another doctor came and introduced herself. 

"Hello, I am Dr. Hutton," she said. "I'm going to assist Dr. Patni with your c-section." 

Of course, I thought to myself. I think I smiled through my tears. Dr. Hutton, of course! I have literally never heard of another soul with the last name of Hutton, except for my mom's high school sweetheart, whom she just married in December. With Thomas, we had a doctor named Earl check me while Dr. Patni was home with her boys, who told me I wouldn't need a c-section with Thomas, which was such a relief back then. When I saw his name Earl on his scrubs, I just let the tears fall. Earl was my great-grandfather's name, who gave me away at our wedding when my dad couldn't be there. Of course. Earl and now Dr. Hutton. Through my tears I took it as a sign everything was just fine. Dr Patni leaned over me when she came back to the room. "I know this isn't what we planned, but we do these allll the time." They wheeled me to the OR. 

That's pretty much it, I've talked enough already. The actual surgery was incredibly surreal, what with being numb but still able to feel movement. I was most anxious right as they got him out, had started singing "Your love is high, and your love is deep" to myself.  Suddenly, Drew told me "it's a boy!" They whisked him off to a corner of the room to check vitals, and next thing I knew I could hear a voice calling for "neo" meaning ICU. We're bagging a baby, I heard some say not so calmly. I tried to stay calm but was beginning to panic. 

Why can't I hear him cry??? I asked. 

Maybe 20 seconds later, but it felt like eternity, he wailed. A NICU doctor came and introduced herself to Drew, who was sitting on my right side. They called me, but your baby is just fine now, I just wanted to say hello and congratulations. Whew, huge sigh of relief. 

Then Drew was able to bring him over to me, and I saw all his dark hair and perfectly round head. 

As with Thomas, the first moments in the room with the baby, and the days that followed, I've been filled with immense gratitude - for God's incredible provision and protection, for my strong and patient husband, for our medical team - Dr. Patni and our nurse, for our families, our friends, for this new life, this sweet tiny miracle with 10 fingers and 10 toes. 

When Thomas was born, for a while I just could not think of my dad, at least not in those middle of the night feedings or early mornings when I was so tired, too tired to fight the tears, too tired to fight missing him with every ounce of my being. It has been the same with Harris - I just cannot let my mind go there, or it's 100% waterworks. 

But I also can't believe that a little red and white plane flew over us the very moment we exited those hospital doors. A small thing, but somehow, through Dads friends and through Mom, I am constantly reminded that though he may be out of sight, he is not forgotten; though he may no longer be on this Earth, he is all around. Harris William, welcome to the world, baby boy! May you know that you are surrounded by angels. May we raise you to be a man just like your daddy and grandfather. 

Love, Mom

up in the air, wild blue yonder.

Recently, I came across this note from Stuart Ford to my mom, which he wrote the week my dad died. I found it very comforting to reread, so I'm sharing it below. We actually printed it and passed out Stuart's words at my dad's memorial service, so I hope he'd be okay with me sharing them again now. 

Someone recently asked me if I felt like people were really supportive right after Dad's death, and then they kind of went back to their own thing after a few days. Great question, and thankfully for me, I have a great answer: no. I really do not. The Lord has continuously provided such grace and joy through numerous friends for each of the five of us: Mom, Gentry and Amy, Drew, and myself. 

This note from Stuart Ford was a reminder that immediately, upon hearing about my dad's accident, people came running. On the night that Dad's plane engine malfunctioned, (Sept. 8, 2012) we were packed in at the Carrigan's house on Pine Grove Circle. People that we called didn't just answer their phones- they hung up and came over to hug us and cry with us and be brokenhearted right along with us. And they kept coming, all week. I wanted a burnt orange dress to wear to the service, and I had quite the shopping posse with me that Wednesday, as most of my close friends in Houston wanted to help in any way that they could, or just be near me as I did trivial things like shop for a dress. 

Stuart Ford and his wife Pat are friends of my parents: their son is my age and their daughter, Kelly, is Gentry's age and they were cheerleaders together at Memorial. (Being a dude cheerleader at MHS is cool.) The Fords are good friends, but they would by no means call my parents best friends. Stuart's kind words show how thoughtful he was to take the time to comfort us by writing down his thoughts and sharing them. 

He is a great example that you don't have to be "super close" to someone to comfort them and walk with them in their grief. You don't have to know exactly what to say, or how to say it, but Stuart shows us - just do something. Some people brought us toilet paper. Others brought us multi-vitamins to keep our immune systems up. Some brought sandwiches and drinks. Some said nothing, they were just present. Some said too much, but we knew they meant well. 

I've learned to listen to the Holy Spirit (insert eye roll for some, I know, it sounds hokey sometimes) but  I've learned to listen to what the Lord is guiding you to do, to be His love in the flesh, when someone you love is hurting. 

Death is terrible. But God is bigger than death. He sends people to hug you, love on you, wipe your tears, listen to you rant that this. is. not. fair. God is bigger than our pain. 

I miss Dad more than words can ever say. I miss Dad more than I thought it was possible for a heart and body to miss another being. And in that longing, I am greatly comforted by memories. Thank you, Stuart, for these great words, and thank you Mom, for reading them and immediately saying "I want to print these to pass out at the service." His words are worth holding on to. 


Cathy, 
The first time I ever flew with Tom was one of the most memorable days of my life. I am a plane fanatic and have been from birth. I was the kid in the outfield not picking flowers but watching every plane in the sky. There is still not a plane that flies over my head that I don't watch, try to identify what type of plane that is and wonder where it came from and where it is going. I have many friends with planes and every time they take off, I have an app that informs me of their flight and gives me a map of their progress and tells me when they land. 

I have flown in many, many types of private planes, from large jets to single engine planes, but, until I flew with Tom, I realized that I had never experienced what flying truly is. 

No doors, no windows, the wind in your face, the spray of the water when we would land on the lake, waving out the window to people I know when we flew over them, having the ability to turn the plane around to look at something we missed... 

When I met "The Real McCoy" and Tom at the Lakeway Airpark that morning, he was getting gas at the pump and there was a plane behind him waiting until he finished to get fuel, too. When Tom finished, the other pilot and I offered to help him push the plane away from the gas pump, and that is when Tom said "No problem, I got it" and Tom lifted the tail of his plane and effortlessly pushed it by himself. That is when I snapped this picture. (no e-version of the pic) 

Like many who have flown with Tom, Tom had me get in the front seat while he climbed in the back and made me familiar with the flight controls, instruments and gauges of the Real McCoy. After answering several hundred of my questions, Tom said, "Let's Go!" And I said, "I'm ready!" 

He then said: Start the plane. Of course I think that since I'm in the front seat there must be some key to turn or button to push and I am rapidly trying everything I can to not look stupid... I then gave up and said "Tom, I can't find the button." And he said: "Stuart, you have to get out and put the prop in your hands and pull down hard" ... and of course I said "Tom, that sounds like a perfect job for you" and he said "I've got to stay in the plane and hold the brakes so that the plane doesn't run over you"... terrific. 

It look me literally 15 times to start it because I kept backing away from the prop as I pulled it down... He finally told me that I had to stay very close to the prop in order for the downward motion to be powerful enough to start the engine. Wow. What a lesson! 

That first flight with Tom was the wonderful beginning of stregthening a terrific relationship that began years ago as members of "DOX - Dad's of Cheerleaders" a secretive fraternal organization designed to keep our children safe and alive during their tenure as Memorial High School cheerleaders! 

Tom and I shared the love of airplanes and he was so very kind and patient to take me and my family on more flights than I can count. All of us loved waving towels at him off of the back porch of our lake house when he flew over and we went crazy when we knew that he saw us when he waved his wings! 

When he would fly over our part of the lake, especially in the sea plane, and was unable to pick me up, I would watch him until he disappeared from view, wondering what it was like to be there with him. I am so proud of Tom. While we shared the passion of flying and the love of airplanes, he did so much more. He took that passion and love and did something about it - instead of just dreaming like me. He trained, he studied, he practiced, he researched, he practiced and he practiced and he became a proficient, safe pilot and he shared the dream with so many young and young at heart. He not only shared the flight but many stories about sleeping in hangers and landing in fields, flying cross-country and meeting wonderful people who helped him along his way. I hope to remember those stories. I believe that I know, with all the confidence that I have, where Tom is right now. He is sharing the wonders of flight with others right now! And I will fly with him again. 

-Stuart

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. 

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.

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