How beautiful Heaven must be.

As life continues to change and I proceed to grow, my idea of Heaven has evolved. My concept of Heaven as a child is laughable to me now. When I was younger, Heaven was where my childhood dog Princess was. It was a place lined with gold as taught to me in class, packed with old people from the Bible I had no personal connection to, and a God that I had trouble understanding. I had heard there was no sadness, but as a kid I had experienced very little sorrow, so I felt no need to escape from this world. The amount of sorrow I and the Beltline family have felt within the past year has been beyond outrageous. At this point it all seems unreal, like we will all wake up tomorrow and it will have been a terrible nightmare. For so many families, including my own, I wish this were the case. Throughout this year alone my idea of Heaven has tumbled from a distant place to a home. An embrace I look forward to whenever it is my own time. I have lost my fear for death. When Mike passed, I saw Heaven as lovely as I had seen it as a child, just with him there. I imagined him walking with Jesus, barefoot in the grass beside babbling brooks, discussing Mike’s many questions. Heaven became an idea of reunion. When Bailey left us, Heaven became a pure destination. A place I had to get to so I could hold her again. And the scenery of Heaven changed. When I dreamed of Heaven, it was my house. Mike opened the door, and Bailey was there, in the foyer. Arms open waiting to embrace me. And after I ran to her and cried on her shoulder, Mike came up behind us and wrapped us both in a bear hug and smiled. When Jim died, Heaven became Beltline. Mike, always the doorman, would push open the entrance beaming and I would run to Bailey. And as I hugged her I would look up and Jim would be standing behind us smiling. Mike would walk over and shake his hand and they would wait watching Bailey and I together, blessing it with their nods of encouragement. And then Baby Jack slipped away, and Heaven stayed at Beltline. But this time when Mike welcomed me in Bailey stood there with Jack in her arms, smiling at me and tilting her elbows down to allow me to see his sleeping face. I take Jack from her and she kisses my cheek and steps back to hug Mike and stand beside Jim. And now we have lost Chet. And Heaven becomes new yet again. I dreamed last night that I stood in front of Beltline. I knew that my loved ones were waiting inside and I boldly swung open the doors myself. And there they were. Mike sat across from Chet with his hand on Chet’s knee. Jim sat beside him, his arm around Chet’s shoulders. And Bailey sat on the floor below him with Baby Jack laying in her lap and her arms draped across Chet’s knee. And above them all is our Savior. He stands there watching them, His hands gripping Chet’s shoulders and as I stand there observing, Mike hears me. He turns to me and smiles, and then they all in unison raise their heads. They grin from ear to ear, happy for me to join their family. I think of this picture often. I imagine Bailey handing Jack off to Mike and running over to play soccer with Madison Dunlap and Noah. I see Jim Hedges and Peter fishing in the Tennessee River. I watch Mike and Paul study the Bible together on Beltline’s front pews. I see Bailey messing with Chet about the reflection of Angels wings off of Chet’s bald head. I hate that these souls are missing from our earthly Beltline family. I hate that their families are in pain. But personally, I believe Beltline will have the best welcoming committee possible in that City on a Hill. And frankly, I am quite ready to get there and see them all.

The Never Ending Sacrifice

There are many words you could use to describe mothers; hard working, compassionate, loving, and supportive, just to name a few. But I think the most accurate adjective to sum up motherhood would be sacrifice. They sacrifice nine months of their lives to be our incubator. They release their own bodies to form ours. They endure hours of physical pain and mental stress to bring us into the world. They lose days of sleep to tend to our every need. They trade a social life for our mute companionship. And all these things and more only pertain to year one. They are still responsible for at least 17 more years of life. Years of carpooling, laundry, cooking, cleaning, disciplining, and teaching. Some mothers have help, some do it alone. Some find is easy, some learn from mistakes. Some work, while others stay at home. There is no manual for motherhood, no magic method that guarantees perfect children. No mother is flawless, but as far moms go, my mother was pretty darn close. My mom went to school to be a teacher, and could have been a great one, but she made the decision to stay home with us instead. She was there every morning to help us get ready, every afternoon to assist with homework, and every evening to tuck us into bed. She was at every ball game, chorus concert, play, and awards day. She spent hours teaching us how to do household chores that we would carry into adulthood. But I don’t think I truly understood what an outstanding woman and mother my mom is until we lost our sweet Bailey. It is impossible to describe a mother’s love, but you can see it. I saw it in every mannerism the week of the funeral. There was a true sense of loneliness to her, as though a piece of her was missing. She seemed to be wandering, looking for something she had lost. She went through the motions but her mind was elsewhere. She longed for Bailey’s touch, for her warmth. She wanted her buddy back. But the true character and strength of my mother was carried out when she had every reason to fall apart, and she didn’t. When she could have been grieving the loss of one child, but recognized she had three others. No one would have blamed her for taking her own time, for separating herself for her personal healing. But being a mother never stops, and although she had lost one, she understood three others needed her love and comfort. She knew that Drew, Carter, and I are three very diverse and unique individuals and would need very different methods of care. She spent hours with each of us, catering to our personal needs, even if it wasn’t what she needed. When we needed to talk, she was there to listen. If we needed to cry, she provided a shoulder. If we needed to be angry, she let us rant. If we needed to be happy, she encouraged us to feel no guilt. And to this day she makes sure that we understand how special each of us is to her. She invests in each of us just as fervently as the other. I’ll be the first to admit that my mom and I have not always seen eye to eye. We are very different people in multiple aspects. But as our relationship has grown we have learned to respect one another for our unique talents. I will never understand my mom’s will power. She runs 6-8 miles BEFORE the sun rises and somehow manages to still function throughout the day. She keeps a house of 6 very involved people, fully functioning. We are never hungry, dirty, or off schedule. I guarantee you, this is not how I will be at 42. But at times I see my mom’s pride in little things I do and I understand that she appreciates the original gifts I contribute to our family as well. I had the privilege of watching an amazing mother-daughter relationship with Bailey and mom and I hate for her that Bay is not able to be around. But I hope through watching their bond and enjoying our own, I am able to carry the lessons my mother taught me and use them with my own children if God decides to make me a mother someday. Having Debra Robinson as a mother has truly been one of the greatest blessings of my life. Happy Mother’s Day mom. I love you.

"See you at Home."

There is no manual for how to handle death. There is no right or wrong way to approach it. At eighteen, I had never experienced death before and it left me not knowing what I could or couldn’t ask for. What was or wasn’t allowed and was or wasn’t appropriate. On the day of the funeral we were brought in a couple of hours early to be fed by the church as a family and we were then given the opportunity to say goodbye before the coffin was shut. It had bothered me that I hadn’t had any alone time with my sister thus far and on the day of the funeral I was itching to spend some time with her. I wanted my own good bye. But I didn’t know if you could do that. I didn’t want to be high maintenance, but I knew I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t try. This was my last opportunity and I knew I had to take it. Halfway through lunch I got up and went into the sanctuary of our church. I can’t explain my nerves, I suppose I was afraid they would tell me no, but I walked up to my youth minister and asked, “Could I maybe have fifteen minutes alone with her?” He went into action without any hesitation and deployed some of the ushers at each of the doors. He cleared the room completely as I stood waiting at the back of the auditorium. “I have people at the doors, no one will bother you. Take all the time you need.” He gave me a hug and walked out the back door, leaving me alone. My stomach turned. I had spent all morning planning how I was going to ask and what I was going to say, but now that I had gotten the time I had wanted, I was unsure of what to do. I wanted to hold her, to touch her. But what would I say? What was good enough for this moment? The slide show ran over her and I stood there watching our childhood in picture form. And I started walking. I drug legs of lead up to the stage and placed my feet on each stair until I found myself standing over her, looking down on my sleeping sister. And for the first time, I wept. I had cried in short spurts a few times over the past few days, but I had not let myself go. Until then I had responsibilities and eyes always watching. But now I was alone. Just she and I and the sounds of my ragged breathing. I watching my tears create water stains on her blouse and I absently brushed them away. I watched her intently, as if something was going to change. She looked lovely. Too much make up for Bay’s taste, but lovely. I began to panic. I was taking too much time. What if I had been in her for hours? What if I had held up the funeral? I couldn’t ruin everything, everyone had worked too hard. But I looked at the clock and two minutes had passed. I had spent two minutes in that room and I had assumed it was hours. I looked back at her and decided to take a mental note of everything I desperately wanted to remember. I buried my fingers in her hair begging my mind to remember how cool and soft it felt. I held her hand, forming mine to hers hoping to remember the shape of her long fingers. I brushed her cheeks lightly committing the texture to my mind. The conversation she had will stay between the two of us. My monologue rather, but I like to believe she was right there listening. I spent minutes trying to catch my breath and tell her things I needed her to know. I would pause between bitter tears, clear my throat and begin again. But for the first time, I was not embarrassed by my sobbing. It was just she and I, and I could cry in front of her. She understood how much I was hurting. I stood beside her, my body draped over the side of her casket. I held her hand with one of mine and pet her hair with the other. I rested my head on the pillow beside her and allowed my make up less tears to slide down her satin pillow. I held her and cried. I cried for my mother. My precious mother who had carried her for nine months and given her to us. The mother that had given up the chance at a career to devote her life completely to raising us in the Lord. The woman that woke us up in the morning, brought us home in the afternoon, and tucked us in at night. My mother that nursed us when we were sick, helped us when we were confused, and taught us when we need to learn. The mother that had become our friend. I cried for my dad. My father that spends hours overworking to provide for us. That spends all week working but was then up at the crack of dawn on Saturday to play with us in the yard. The dad that would miss any golf, football, or baseball game if it meant spending time with us. The dad that taught us how a man should treat us, and how our relationship with God should look, and had become our most trusted confident. I cried for Drew. Sweet Drew that is so much like Bailey. I look at him every day and see a piece of her.  He had become so much more confident with her encouragement and I ached for his upcoming pain. I cried for Carter. Our funny Carter that I’d never seen cry. Carter that would tell you daily how much he loved you, even if it was brief. But also, I cried for myself. I cried that I was burying my best friend. I cried that fifteen years was over. I cried that my baby sister was no more. I cried that I would have to live without her. I cried that she wasn’t there to dry my tears. I glanced at the clock and picked myself up, without letting go of her hand. And a thought came into my head. When she was younger I would go out, and she would be at home when I left and asleep when I came in. But as she had gotten older I had begun to see her out when I was. I had expressed just weeks earlier how odd it was for me to see my little sister out at events. I would always go up and attempt to embarrass her and we would laugh and go our separate ways. But every time we would see each other out we would say, “Love you. See you at home.” I smiled and looked down upon my sister for the final time. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, and stood up to gaze at her once again. I squeezed her hand and whispered through tears, “Love you sister. See you at Home.”