Robinson Family- Party of five.

Walking into church that Sunday morning was probably one of the most intimidating moments we had in those few days. I love Beltline and all of the wonderful people that attend there. I consider it my home.  But we all knew how absolutely heart crushing that experience would be.  To make matters worse, our precious preacher Mike Nix, who would have inevitably had the right things to say and do, had passed only six months earlier and his absence alone was painful and obvious. In Beltline there are no assigned seats, but each family grows accustomed to sitting in a certain area and this pew naturally comes to be known as the place where whichever family resides. Our little pew however, was very much so assigned that morning, with white sheets that read “ROBINSON FAMILY” in bold black type. My mother’s parents were with us that morning but the rest of our extended family was not due in Decatur until that afternoon, the afternoon of the visitation. So we sat in our little pew with what little space we needed. The rest of the row was empty and it felt lonely, like we had some disease. I thought to myself, “You can’t catch death people, you can come sit with us.” But the pew remained soul-less. It was just our little family of five, huddled together, with my grandparents tagged to the end. I was frustrated having to sit so close. I was determined to keep it together. There were too many people watching to lose it, and they didn’t mind you knowing. Everywhere I glanced there was another pair of eyes shifting their gaze in between the five of us, begging for any kind of information. I was not upset with them, I had expected such, and I am sure if I was honest with myself if the situation had been swapped and it was another family, I would have been watching too. But either way the amount of people waiting for me to break down, was even more of a challenge for me not to, and I sat through that entire service clearing my throat and swallowing tears and pinching my legs. The boys sat quietly, staring at the floor. They would glance up at my parents occasionally, sheepishly looking at their picture of strength that was now weeping openly. I placed my arm around Drew and bore my eyes into the speaker. I refused to look anywhere but the pulpit. The one person a daddy’s girl can’t watch cry, is her daddy, and I was completely unwilling to look any further to my left than was required. I don’t remember the message or the songs that were sung. I remember how long it felt. I remember how ready I was to leave that place. That place that had raised me and brought me such joy in coming was now against me. It wanted me to cry, and I wasn’t giving it the satisfaction. After what seemed an eternity, the invitation song began and we were told to leave. We stood up and walked up the isle and out the door. Looking back, it felt very much like the funeral processional we would be a part of in just a few days, with everyone standing, fixated as we marched in single file. In the hall I was happy to break free and I walked quickly to get in the front of the pack as my dad put his arm around my mother and pulled her into him. I was absolutely sick to my stomach and if I watched my parents anymore I would lose it. My parents explained to us in the car how the visitation would work. They told us that Jordan and I would drive up to the church just thirty minutes before the visitation because they would be meeting the funeral home and the body their early. I was immediately offended. Why didn’t I get to spend more time with the body? I know I had certainly not birthed her, but I had helped raise her too. I was there just as long as anyone else was. In fact, there was very much of our lives that was just the two of us, Bailey and me. I couldn’t count the times that she and I would spend as kids entertaining one another and then even as we grew older, we continued to pair off. It was always the girls, and the boys. The older ones, and the little ones. And I had lost my pair. My mom had my dad and Drew had Carter, but my second half was the one in the box. The tiny box for a tiny person that they would place underground, and then it would just be me- With no person. Why didn’t that mean anything to anyone? I felt shoved to the side as my parents continued to get personal time with her. Why didn’t I get alone time? Why wasn’t our relationship important enough for that? I often struggled with my anger towards all of this. I understood my parents were too emotionally exhausted to even think straight and certainly would have allowed me any extra time or attention I had needed, but I was angry with the funeral directors. Why wasn’t my relationship with her just as important as anyone else’s? Why weren’t the siblings, or at least an older sibling, given any kind of specific treatment? Of course in a rational mindset I know that there is only so much they can do. I know that the funeral directors and personnel did everything they could think of to accommodate us. But I believe this was the first indication to me that our relationship was so unique. Most people do not regard their siblings the way I had looked at mine. When you ask sisters about the other one, they usually respond with how much they argue or how difficult it is to share a bathroom or how annoying the other one is. Bailey and I were never like that. I cannot remember a time that we fought. I am sure there were small disagreements here and there, but as a whole, we were each other’s best friend. We didn’t see the point in fussing with one another, because at the end of the day I knew I had Bailey in my corner. Friends come and go, and are rarely a lifetime constant, but my sister had always been around. She had been at every game on the sidelines cheering me on. She had been at every play and choral concert in the audience with a standing ovation. She had been by my side in the hospital when I was little and had busted my lip. She had been in the car with me when I learned to drive. She had come to family counseling with me and my parents when I had been struggling and pleaded with me to get my life back on track. She had sat with me in countless devotionals at church when I didn’t want to sit alone. She had been my car ride buddy on any family vacation. She had been my gossip buddy when I switched schools and needed someone to talk to. She had been my running buddy when I just didn’t want to go alone. She had been there in the pews when I graduated from high school. She had been there the day I received my acceptance letters for college. She had been there helping me pack just days before the accident. And I had certainly planned on her being around for many more events. I knew she would be my maid of honor, and I would get to see her out of the corner of my eye, beaming as I pledged my life to a deserving Christian man. She would have been on the other line squealing when I called her to tell her I was expecting for the first time. She would have been at the hospital reassuring me of my child’s cuteness whenever it was born. She would have helped me decorate my first house when mom and I couldn’t agree. She would have helped me move out of my office if I ever lost my job. She would have been by my side whenever we lost our parents. She would have helped tirelessly if I had ever lost my health. But most importantly, she would have been in the front row at MY funeral, because I would have gone first.

                We arrived home to a family from our church in our kitchen warming up plates for lunch. My parent’s ate quickly and walked right back out the door after giving me brief instructions. I was left again to man the fort. Family started arriving soon after. Cousins, aunt, uncles, and grandparents, some from Decatur and other’s coming from Georgia, Tennessee, and Virginia. It is such an awkward and bittersweet thing. Part of you wants to be happy to see them, and the other part reminds you why they are there. My hostess mindset kicked in and I started to get up and introduce family, but Jordan demanded i sit down and eat before we would have to leave. As we are sitting there eating, one of my aunts was sitting at our kitchen table, and suddenly a chair broke under her. She apologized profusely and I knew she was embarrassed so I scooped the chair up quickly assuring her it was no big deal, and took it to the garage. Jordan trailed with the other piece of the broken chair and as I walked into the garage the most awful, matter of fact thought came to me, “Well I guess we don’t need that chair anymore.” It broke my heart. The Robinson family was now a family of five. When they asked us at restaurants how many, it would no longer be six. That seemed unnatural. And for the first time since the accident, I dropped the chair and sobbed. I help my waist and buried my face in my hand until Jordan walked around and embraced me, placing my head on her shoulder. Bailey’s chair was broken, because Bailey was gone. It was as if losing the chair, confirmed her absence. And like the chair she would slowly start to disappear out of each facet of our lives. We would continue living and times would come when we would have to list our family, and leave her out. And I couldn’t imagine that life. So I wept. I gave myself no more than a minute and angrily brushed at the tears. I didn’t have time for that and there were things that needed to be done that day. Jo encouraged me to take the time that I needed but I convinced her that it was fine and we went back into the house. I walked in and told the boys it was time to go. Carter grabbed a stuffed animal, and Drew his Gameboy. I loaded Carter’s car seat and buckled him in. Jo grabbed the keys and I slid into the passenger seat. And we drove to Beltline Church of Christ for the visitation of my fifteen year old sister.