"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.”

He's done it again..

I don’t there could have been a more inconvenient time for my sister to have left this earth. It seems as though anytime we get to a good place, there is some sort of holiday or tradition that shows up to remind us of the tragic turns our lives have taken.  We were forced to recognize Christmas three weeks after she was gone, having to stare at empty stockings and vacant spaces under the tree. New Year’s followed closely which brought the aching reality that Bailey would not be a part of 2012 or any year to follow. Valentine’s Day flickered past without the person I love the most and the opportunity to tell her so. Saint Patrick’s Day, which doubles as sweet Bailey’s birthday, turned a day of celebration into a reminder of her inability to age. And finally Easter with an empty egg basket and a missing person in our family pictures. However, the end of the semester is near and I cannot express what a relief that is for me. I left Decatur a month after the accident nervous and lonely and am leaving with the ability to live on my own with confidence and a few lifelong friends. I will not miss Troy. I discovered quickly it is not the place for me. I always viewed it as a transition, and I am ready to put this part of my life behind me. This semester was about healing, and though I am not as strong as I could be, I see myself growing a little bit stronger daily. It’s funny how I started a blog two years ago as a quest to strength and here I am now, doing the same thing. God never stops giving you opportunities to improve yourself. At times, I am thankful for the challenge he put before me. Don’t get me wrong, I would bring my sister back today if it were an option, but God has showed me a lot about myself and my faith through this loss. I was not the person I am now two years ago. I was lost and looking for myself in all the wrong places and all the wrong people. I defined myself by the actions I felt I couldn’t escape.  When I finally got the help I needed and turned my life over to my Maker, I spent quite a bit of time avoiding any encounters with any kind of temptation. Whereas that was certainly what I needed at the time, I sometimes found myself wondering if my faith was solid because there were no obstacles in my path. If I was loving God in the good days, because I had seen the bad. But what would I become if my life wasn’t perfect? Would I return to that person? Is that who I was? Is this a façade I was putting up for those around me? I spent honest time questioning the validity of my love for God. Did I love the material things He had blessed me with and the ease of my life and in that way defined God? Or was my love for Him true? Was my faith Facebook statuses and quotes, or was I a true representative of my Savior? And I would wrestle with that for hours. I prayed for God to challenge me, to give me an opportunity to show Him my faith was real. To prove to the church that had held me up and invested such time and effort into me, that I was an honest soldier of God. That I was someone who could lead their children and someone they could feel comfortable supporting. Someone others could look up to and not see me, but see the grace of God and how far He will go to rescue His lost lamb. And see a success story because of Jesus Christ and not only Him, but what He can do through His people. So others could see God through my parents that through their determination and undying love for me, used every resource at their disposal to help me see the true child of God I was and that I was raised to be. Through my siblings that regardless of the things they heard from their friends, believed in me and the person they knew I was. Through my best friend Jo, who became another sibling with her dedication to me and her patience with my behavior. Through my church, that found a way to forgive a sinner that had brought shame to the name of such a place as Beltline and spent hours in prayer for a solution. I needed to show to all these and more, that what they had invested in me, was not a waste. And sometimes, you get more than you feel like you asked for. I asked God for a challenge, and He gave me one. A big one. He allowed my sister to come home to Him early, and allowed it to be less than a month before I would leave the city I was raised in for the first time. But I am sitting here now with less than three weeks to go on the worst five months of my life, and I can’t help but feel confident that I accepted my challenge and have done my very best. I have not done everything perfect, and I will continue to not do so. I am human, and God understands that. But yet again I find myself overwhelmed with His love for me. With His grace, I will be able to put this semester behind me and move on with my life, stronger than before. He has surrounded me with His love and His people just as He has done always. I look forward to a summer at home with my family, friends, and church. I have far more healing to do, and I am happy I will be home with that people that love me most to hold me up and help me through. For all the prayers and cards and words of encouragement throughout the semester, I am truly thankful. It was things such as these that helped me make it. Never doubt that your words are wasted. I smile every time any little words of encouragement come my way. Continue to be the amazing people you are. There is always someone that could use it. 22 days to go, I will see you all very soon.

Rain.

I saw a funeral procession today. It was the first one I have seen since Bay’s funeral and for some reason it upset me incredibly. My car sat still at the green light and I found myself staring at the people in the car next to me. They were frustrated at the length of the cars and they tapped at their brakes with annoyed expressions. It took every ounce of my inner strength not to get out of my car. Don’t they know that family is exhausted?? Don’t they know those cars are full of people just trying to be supportive?? Don’t they know that those people would rather be ANYWHERE else than in that car line?? Sorry they put a five minute bump in your day, that death changed their life.  But as I drove after what was a rather short stop I thought, you know, they probably have no idea. I certainly didn’t. I had no idea how any of that worked until I had to know. I remember sitting in our van after the funeral. Our car sat at the entrance to the church building and also the main exit. As we sat in the car people began pouring out and for the first time in days, many left us alone. I remember feeling like I was in a submarine, watching a school of fish capsize my “ship”. They scurried about heading to their own cars, to follow or return to their lives. I watched people’s faces. Some were tear stained, some were stressed, some even looked confused. Jo sat beside me and the boys rode in the back seat. We sat there for what seemed like an eternity just waiting. I think seeing other funerals and processionals put into perspective just how special my sister was. I have never in my life seen that magnitude of people. And as I sat there watching the endless faces, I couldn’t help but feel like I was flipping through a story book of my own life. I saw countless old teachers that Bailey and I had shared, many I hadn’t seen in years. I saw many older couples from sister churches, and multiple people from the church we had gone to until we moved to Beltline my second grade year. Pictures of my past danced before me as I remembered my specific relationship with each of them, and more importantly their relationship with Bailey. I saw our very first preacher Mike King and his sweet wife Mrs. Sheila who came to the car to squeeze my father’s hand. I hadn’t expected to see them until I was old enough to ask him to do my wedding. I remember seeing Dr. Weinbaum, the principle at the middle school Bay and I had attended. I chuckled when I saw her and thought of the very different relationship she had experienced between me and Bailey.  I remember seeing a group of girls from Rome, Georgia that stayed with us every summer for a work camp our church hosts. I remember also how sweet the girls were to my mother and how they ran to hug her. They had always appreciated how my mom had so graciously cooked and cleaned and housed them for that week and they all say they remember feeling like a part of our family the week they stay. I saw people from my father’s work that I had been introduced to in passing multiple times. I’m sure they saw more of us from the pictures my dad displays than in person, but it made me very proud to know they respected my dad enough as a boss and co-worker to come to the funeral of someone they had never really met. It’s an odd array of people that are at a funeral. Some come for the family, some come for the deceased. There were multiple children that walked through the visitation line I had never seen before. They were just school friends of Bailey’s that had come to pay their respects to her. But I was also amazed at the countless people that came and admitted they had never known Bailey, they had just come there to hold us up. As the mass of people finally separated, we began to ease our van out of the parking. It was raining. Rain is what I felt like it should have been doing. I would have been bitter if the sun had been out I believe. It was not a time to celebrate. We had celebrated her life in the funeral, now she was headed to be buried, and there is nothing glorious about that. You would think after all this time of people dying, we would have found a more humane way to honor bodies. But no, we put them in a far too expensive box that is then covered in dirt and never seen again. Placed under a suffocating amount of earth to stay amongst worms and vermin. It bothered me. She is much too pretty to be sealed away. I struggled with the burial more than any aspect of her death. I was able to handle her being gone. I was able to handle hours of a visitation. I was able to handle a funeral with what I think was poise and respect. But I could touch her then. I could feel her face and hold her hand. But when they put her in the ground, when they took her away from me that final time, that was it. I couldn’t change my mind and run back to see her. I couldn’t ask for extra time. It was done. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I could visit her grave, which I do often, but it is very unsatisfying. It is a mound of dirt that is a constant reminder that the last thing we did to her, was throw mud on top her. That hurt me. And the closer and closer we got to the gardens where she was laid to rest, the harder and harder it became for me to breathe. I closed my eyes and sucked in air to clear my throat of the knot that was forming. I spent the entire twenty minute ride there convincing myself that this wasn’t cruel. Chanting in my head, “This is what they do to everyone. You’re not a bad sister for letting them do this.” But it’s a hard thing to convince yourself of. It’s hard to let go of a lifetime of protecting someone you love and accepting that four men you don’t know are going to take her from you, and then she is gone. Her tiny coffin for a tiny person is going to carry her away. And of course I knew she had been gone since Friday. Friday, December 2^nd at roughly 6:16. But I wanted her to stay. I wanted that tiny piece of sister I still had. The part of could hold. The part I could touch. The part I could FEEL. Because of the rain they had set up green tents for us to sit under as some final words were spoken and prayer was led before she was lowered into her grave. I had been given a rose to carry throughout the day just before the funeral, and I dug my fingers into the stem and clung to my necklace as I sat in front of her. I had made it that long without crying and I wasn’t going start then. I rocked myself back and forth as Scott spoke, blocking out the words and thinking of a happy memory to tide me over. And the rocking brought me to it. I closed my eyes and I was at the lake. My grandparents own a lake cabin on Lake Martin that we would practically live at during the summers when we were little. And there was a hammock that I loved. A hammock that sat at the top of the yard and was stretched between two trees that overlooked the lake. And after a long day of swimming I would sit in that hammock and swing for hours until I would finally lull myself to sleep.  But as I was sitting there at the burial of my sister I remembered a very specific time just a few years ago. It was after lunch and I had gone out to the hammock with a pillow to take my nap. And for some reason, Bailey followed me. I would lay with my head at one end and she would lay with her head at the other so we were both cacooned by the hammock strings. I remember us sitting in that hammock and cutting up for hours. I couldn’t tell you what we talked about but I remember looking at her at one point and feeling so grateful to have her.  She had patterns on her tan legs that were created by the sun shining through the maze of leaves above us. She was smiling at me with her happy grin. And she had her toes tangled in the prongs behind my head, twisting and popping them as she told me a story. And we rocked back and forth. And so I rocked. I rocked as Scott said final words. I rocked as the prayer was said. And I only interrupted myself to rise and place my rose on the top of her coffin as my farewell. And as I walked back towards our car, a raindrop hit my hand. And my bliss was broken. I was no longer in the hammock at the lake with my baby sister that had grown into my best friend. I was at a burial, being led back to a car under an umbrella to prevent the rain from drenching me. Rain that personifies sadness. Rain that prompts gloom. I used the memory of sun to get me through the finale, but I am satisfied with rain on the day I lost my sister forever.

The Healing Project

I apologize it has been so long since i have posted. College life has proven to be much busier than i had expected, but i promise to be back to you soon. I thought i would however drop in and let you know about a project i am working on that i am particularly excited about. My sister always encouraged me to write and record music, and i always came up with excuses not to. I act as though i am fearless, but i am honestly a coward. I never compete in anything i feel i cannot win. I have a terrible fear of embarassing myself and because of this fear i have missed out on many oppurtunities throughout my life. I would always rather have the excuse that i didn't try, than have to explain why i wasn't the best. So i skipped out on countless events that i could have performed because i was terrified of someone being better than me. But my sister taught me that there is nothing wrong with not being the best. The only thing God expects is for each of us to be our best individuals selves. He gives us talents for a reason and it is selfish and even SINFUL not to use them for Him and His kingdom. So a few nights ago i decided that i wanted to write a song. It seems like a very small goal, but it is something i have always wanted to be able to do. To reflect my feelings in something that i have such a passion for. So i called a friend and we sat down the next day for four hours and came up with , The Healing Project. The idea is to essentially write a song for every stage of grief, and more specifically each stage of my own story. The C.D as a whole is a journey through my healing, but a journey of healing must start from where you were broken. I hope that when this is finished, God willing, it can be a relief for many others besides just myself, but right now it has been amazing therapy for me to put all my efforts into something i have always wished i could do. I wrote my very first song the other day, and no it may not be amazing but it was a start. I was able to channel my feelings and express it in SONG and that my friends, is so powerful for me. I have decided to share the lyrics to the first song i've written below. They are not fantastic, but they are a life goal fulfilled. I will post lyrics and recordings as this project continues and any prayers towards the project would be fantastic. I love knowing i am working on something that is bigger than me. I feel like God is working through this project and i feel honored to be His servant. God bless.

*This song is about the last time i saw my sister. The last image i have of her and the final words we said to one another. Enjoy.

Rushing to be somewhere, as people often do
Walking out the door, I pause while passing through
Hands stretched over keys, across ivory and black
A mirror of our mother, when staring at her back

Memories of normal, there never was a sign
No risk of losing or spending borrowed time
Life is often beautiful and rarely ever cruel
Fading image of my sister on her piano stool

There are no words to say
There really is no way
Oh, If I only knew
But how to say “good-bye”
To 15 years of life
I’m guessing “I love you” …Will do

If i had been aware, I wouldn't have let go
I would have held on tighter, i would have let her know
You are my best friend, and my other half too
I can't imagine, any life without you

There are no words to say
There really is no way
Oh, If I only knew
But how to say “good-bye”
To 15 years of life
I’m guessing “I love you” …Will do

Two VERY different peas in a pod.

My sister and I are very different beings. My sister is quiet and understanding. I am loud and stubborn. My sister is sweet and forgiving. I am harsh and occasionally vindictive. My sister has a sweet and gentle spirit. I have a spirit of passion and perseverance.  My sister likes to play by the rules. I like to break them and make new ones. My sister learns from listening. I have to learn from experience. My sister is reserved and content. I am outgoing and unsettled. And what’s funny about the two of us is that we were both very jealous of one another. Not in a way that caused problems, but in a way of respect. Of course I had too much pride to ever admit that to her, but I never understood the contentment my sister seemed to have in all aspects of her life. Part of my constant ventures were fueled by fear that if I didn’t continue people would stop inviting me. I would cease to exist if I didn’t keep my presence known and obvious. But my sister was fully confident in her relationships and she felt completely comfortable to do what it was SHE wanted to do, and those that loved and cared for her would either join her, or still invite her the next time. I never understood that mindset. I am constantly working on my relationships. If not mending them I’m working to make them better. But my sister could sit back and allow things to work themselves out, and that drove me insane. As I have thought on this I must conclude that it was her flawless faith in God and His ways that allowed her to function in this manner. That was another thing that I envied- her faith. My sister and I are very different servants of God. I am always looking for the next thing, but I have a very narrow view. I look in my talent areas, and assume that because God gave me those gifts He would only ask me to work in those areas. Consequently, if I looked for an opportunity to speak, and none arose, I concluded that God didn’t need me, instead of searching in other areas. My sister waited patiently for God to put something in front of her, and then she responded regardless. It didn’t have to be something she was good at, she would do her best. I have never been able to do that. If I wasn’t going to be the best at something, I didn’t do it. I would rather have the excuse of not participating, than have to explain to someone that I wasn’t good enough. My sister didn’t need that crutch. She didn’t have to be THE best, she just had to do HER best, and I still struggle with that mindset. My sister taught me more in her fifteen years of life than anyone I have ever known. I hate that it took her passing for me to LISTEN to what she was telling me. But as I look back on very conversation and every tiny bit of encouragement, I see deeper and more meaningful lessons unfold. There was an underlying message that came with every one of her utterances. I know when she told me to break a leg she meant, “Do this unto the Lord, for He has given you this gift.” When she told me that she missed me she meant, “I miss the effect God allows you to have on my life.” When she said that she wishes we spent more time together she meant, “I wish you had more confidence in yourself, and could allow yourself to pull away from outside people.” When she told me I was a goofball she meant, “I am thankful God allows you to bring joy to my life.” When she told me to leave her room she meant, “Stay as long as you want.” And when she told me she loved me she meant, “I love you with the love of the Lord. God allowed us to be sisters and I will forever be grateful to Him.” When I look back on the simple things she said to me, they bloom into far greater memories. My sister had the Lord in her heart and I am confident everything she said to anyone held a deeper message than they understood. Though the price was great, I am glad God gave me the opportunity to truly listen to my sister. Her words hold far more meaning now than they may ever have in life. God is always working. Glory to Him forever.

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.

Bailey Ellen Robinson 3/17/96-12/2/11

I only remember bits and pieces of December 2nd. The parts i do remember are acute and haunting, and the parts i have to put together and vague and difficult to understand. But i remember how ridiculously normal the day felt before my life was completely altered. How disgustingly fake the day feels looking back. I was scheduled to work a double at the restaurant. I had worked that morning and left not feeling well, so i had decided to lay down and take a nap before i took on the evening shift. I was due back to work at 6:00 so i set my alarm for 5:35. At 5:53 i woke up in a frenzy, realizing i had overslept, and i changed quickly rushing out of my room to the bathroom for a brush. My dad stopped me and explained that they were taking the boys to dinner and that Nick was coming to pick up Bailey for their date that evening. He asked me to make sure they were gone when i left, because the Robinson household has a strict "no boys in the house without a parent present" rule. I, of course, accepted the job willingly because i loved giving any of my sister's boyfriends a hard time. I let him know i was running late and in a hurry, but i would make sure they were gone before i was. I went back to getting ready and heard the garage door close as my parents left. I looked at the clock, 6:00. I finally had myself together and ran out with keys in hand to see Bailey and Nick sitting at my mother's piano in our living room. I walked over to Nick and said, "Hey, you know y'all can't be here alone. I'm leaving, y'all gotta go." He turned with a smile and replied, "Nice to see you too Elise. Hold on one second, she really wanted to show me this song. Once this song is over we will leave, i promise." I gave him what i had hoped was an intimidating gaze and responded, "Fine. But that song only. And it better be a short one Bay." Bailey who had not so much as looked up yet, turned and smiled. "I got it Elise. Have a good night at work. Love you." Reminding of work i turned around and hurried for my car yelling over my shoulder, "Thanks!! Love you too Bay. Y'all be safe." And closed the door behind me. There was no indication to me whatsoever that that moment was significant. There was no gut wrenching feeling that i should turn back and reiterate that she meant the world to me. No unsettling notion to alert me of something amiss. Nothing. I had no idea that those would be the last words i spoke to my sister. The last words spoken to her at all really, other than Nick's. But i have decided I am content with that good bye. I know that i would never be able to live with myself if i had said anything ugly. And i feel like knowing i needed to say good bye would have made me nervous and put all sorts of pressure on me to come up with a farewell that would never have been sufficient  in my mind. As far as last words go, i am content that our last words showed our love and concern for one another's happiness and wellbeing, regardless of whether we knew they were significant or not. I jumped in my car and glanced at the clock. 6:08 as i was driving off my street, 6:18 when my precious sister left this earth.

                 I left work around 8:30 and called a friend to accompany me to Wal Mart to kill some time. We were walking through the aisles, piddling, when I looked down at my phone and saw three missed calls. Assuming they were my mother, I checked them, but was surprised to find they were from three extremely random friends that I would rarely talk to on the phone. People close enough to text, but not to have long meaningful conversations with. Then I began receiving text messages from everyone in the city of Decatur it seemed. I went from zero to seventeen text messages in less than two minutes. Frazzled and unable to check them all, I glanced over the names and read the latest message. The first one I saw said, “There’s been an accident, you need to call your parents.” For some reason, my mind immediately flashed to my grandparents. They are older and an ‘accident’ wouldn’t be unthinkable. And furthermore they were well known in Decatur, and we are close enough that people would inform me and want to send their condolences. I decided the best information would lie with my sister because she would be at home. I assumed my father was just too upset to get in touch with me yet. So I called her, and it sent me to voicemail. Thinking quickly, I grabbed Ricky’s phone and logged onto Facebook, hoping my sister might have put some information up about where I could go to meet them, what hospital or if I should just go home. I typed in her named and scrolled down her page to find two simple posts that would  permanently alter my life, “RIP Bailey and Nick, you will be missed.” And “We love you Bailey. Praying for your family.” I stopped to process. Surely someone wouldn’t JOKE about that on Facebook. And if there had been an accident, and there were those posts… And then my best friend called. My other half really, that had gone to Texas for college. I answered hesitant, and her bawling over the phone confirmed my fears. A wave of nausea washed over me and I felt the color drain from my face. “What happened Jo?” I demanded. But she just cried. “I can’t be the one to tell you Elise, I just can’t. You need to call your parents.” She replied between sobs. But I had called them, they wouldn’t answer. I hung up the phone and tried again. But again, voicemail. The blur begins here. At some point I received information that told me to meet my youth minister at work. And I rushed there, glad to have some instruction. Many people have told me they called me that evening, and I remember getting many calls, but who they were and what was said is completely lost from me. I was completely numb. I wasn’t mad or sad, I was just an empty shell. I felt absolutely lifeless. I think I was still confused when I reached the restaurant, but Scott’s tears confirmed it all. I fell into him and let out whatever sound had been contained in my chest. What that was I will never know, an awful combination of a sob and scream. Just a sound of desperation.  But that was all. No tears, no weeping, that was it. Scott led me to the truck and drove me home. He pulled up to my house and I see roughly fifteen people standing in my driveway and yard waiting for my arrival. And I just sat there in the truck. And I felt something. I felt anger. I was angry that these people had known and I didn’t. That they were here with my family and I wasn’t. I was mad that I hadn’t been the first person on their minds other than my parents. I have learned since then that of course I was the first priority, the communication had just been poor, that is simply the only recorded emotion I can remember having that night. I sat in the truck and waited. I could have stayed in that truck for the rest of my life, because getting out would be facing reality. The harsh reality that was lurking inside that house for me. The reality that would be the rest of my life. So I just sat. But Scott came around the truck and crushed the only minute of peace I would have for weeks. He opened the door, and half drug me out of the car onto the grass where I would begin that long walk up my yard and through my front door. It had never felt like this before. My house had always been an inviting and peaceful sight for me. And now it looked huge. Like it was going to swallow me whole. I hugged a few of the people in the line that led to my house, but quickly became annoyed and began to push past them searching the faces for my parents. I remember it feeling like a movie.  All the faces of these normally happy people drawn and tear stained. I kept repeating over and over again in my head, “This is not my life. This is not my life. This is not my life.” I walked through the kitchen doorway and finally spotted my mother. I had thought this would help, but it was certainly a bittersweet emotion. I was glad to have found her, but bitter that I had to see my mother that way. I felt another wave of nausea and walked back to my bathroom. The bathroom Bay and I shared. Scott stayed right on my tail, watching my every move. As did many people that evening. I kept wanting to tell people that I was not suicidal, but I decided to let them do what made them feel helpful, I knew this was all they were trying to do.  The fog sets in again here. I remember Scott sitting on my bed and me asking a lot of questions. I remember the questions making other people uncomfortable. But I am a “rip the band aid off” kind of person. And I wanted all of the facts, because I was only going to imagine worse. I remember pacing. I remember people coming in crying and looking at me with looks of desperation. I remember people staring into my eyes waiting for tears. But I wasn’t sad. I had a boost of adrenaline, stemmed from frustration. I wanted to figure it all out before I let myself cry. I needed to look at the situation objectively and sort it in my head before I let emotions in. Or that’s what my brain told me. And I needed people to stop hugging me. I didn’t want to be touched. I wanted to run. I wanted to get out and move. So I turned to Libby. I remember walking into my dad and asking for permission to leave. He didn’t seem fond of it, but he didn’t tell me no, and frankly right then I was fine with that. I remember going to the church and seeing kids with relation to Bailey or Nick there. Kids of all ages and all walks of life. The strangest combination of kids, all brought together in tragedy. Many of them had no similarities other than the similar pain they were feeling at that moment. So they sat together and wept. I remember people coming to me and I remember feeling embarrassed. That was not my intention of coming. I had not come for people to comfort me or pay attention to me, I had just wanted to see what Bailey and Nick had set in motion. I don’t know why. I spent very little time there and had no real purpose. I felt like I was walking through a graveyard. I wandered around the room of fallen children and hurt for them. I pet on a few, but knew there was little I could do. It was too soon for comfort, and that’s all I knew.  So I left. I remember Libby taking me home and my dear cousin John still sitting in my room waiting. My parents came in to tell me they were going to bed, which I was simply too afraid to do. I knew shutting my eyes would open a dream world of far harsher things than even the reality I was living in. I have always had very vivid and memorable dreams and I feared the worst of nightmares would envelope me if I were to sleep. So I turned to John and asked for a ride. I didn’t tell him where I wanted to go, and he didn’t ask. But we got to the edge of my neighborhood and I instructed him to go left. “Left…?” he asked. “Yes” I answered. I was short with no emotion, and he knew where I wanted to go. He watched me carefully as we approached. This annoyed me at first, but I became very used to being watched over the next few days. I stared out the passenger window, saying nothing, watching the houses turn into pastures as we approached the end of Modaus Road. We came to a four way stop and I looked up. In front of me sat the wreck site, ominous and looming. I had expected tape or even police cars to still be there, but there was nothing. It had been hours after the accident and there job was done. They went home to families and their lives continued. While mine was destroyed. The only thing left to signify that anything had even taken place, was some powder that had been dusted over the road in order to soak up the leaking oil and anti-freeze from the crushed vehicles. I didn’t understand. The wreck didn’t make sense. How had it been so fatal?? What about it made this accident different?? But all the questions to all the right people wouldn’t have given me the answers I wanted. Trust me, I tried. In days following I asked anyone and everyone, everything there was to ask. I practically interrogated fire fighters that had been on the scene, only for them to regretfully say there was little they could tell me. It was just an “accident”. That’s why they call them that. Nothing could have been done, it just happened.  And it didn’t take me long to just accept that. I could spend my entire life asking questions, but what an exhausting existence that would be. I don’t have time to question God, I believe in the things He promises, so I leave it at that. And when people ask me why, or what happened, or who caused the wreck, I reply with that thought process. I don’t know who caused the wreck. I know what was reported, but I don’t know the truth. I wasn’t there. What I do know, is that God has a plan. A very intricate and divine plan. And for some reason, it was Bailey’s time. He knew that from the time He formed her. From the time God saw that my parents were deserving of that angel, He knew that He would take her prematurely. He knew that was to be her life destiny. And if He hadn’t allowed the wreck that night, at that time, He would have seen to His plan regardless. And somehow, some other way, she would have joined Him. I rejoice in the painlessness of my sister’s death. I praise God for not allowing her to fear. I would have never imagined a time in which my thinking would be that morbid, but I am thankful that God spared my sister from suffering. I am thankful He allowed her to live the fullness of her life rather than her receiving an illness and not having the ability to enjoy living as she did. We drove back and forth over the dust, each time I would scan the grass and road for anything. Clues, belongings, but there was nothing. Some glass, which was unsettling, but nothing of value. It did not strike me that day, but since then the wreck site has become a bit of a morbid comfort for me. Most people would avoid such a thing and wouldn’t understand the place of an accident that took someone away being anything but ghastly. And in a way I suppose I understand that. But that place, is where my sister entered Heaven. That was the place where she quietly passed from this earth into a far better existence. That grass ditch on Modaus, that I had passed many times before and it has meant nothing, was my sister’s portal to eternity.  I visit it occasionally, and I made a point for it to be the last place I went before moving to Troy for college. There are two tiny wooden crosses there with their names written in teenage hand writing and white flowers sitting in between. White, a color of purity and youth, and therefore could not be more appropriate to sit amongst the wooden crosses representing the souls of Nick and Bailey. We left the site and travelled on. I don’t remember exactly where we went, or what was talked about. I remember we drove, for a very long time. There was music in the background, country, but it meant nothing to me. I watched cars. I watched them slide along the roads untouched. I watched people in their cars, unaffected. Their lives were completely the same as they had been thirty minutes ago. They were completely unaware of the devastation that had taken place in the community. Or they were far enough removed that it was just news. I was not angry, but I envied these people. I was jealous of their worries and concerns. Jealous that the things on their minds were so insignificant. Things I was worried about just hours ago. Grocery lists, bills, homework, relationship issues, all of these things that run through a mind daily, I longed for their pettiness. John picked me up some food, but it was tasteless. I ate to appease, but left most to be thrown away. And finally, I told him I was ready to go back. I didn’t want to call it home. It didn’t quite feel like a home. But I wanted to sit still, and I wanted my bed, so my house would do. He brought me home and walked me inside. I sat down on my bed and he stood waiting for instruction. I reassured him I would be fine and walked him to the door. He promised to see me the next day, and I locked the front door and turned off the lights. I wandered back to my room and decisively shut her bed room door. I didn’t want to look inside. Today it does not bother me, but that night it seemed so “lived in.” Like it was just waiting for her to come back to it. There were a couple of items of clothes astray on the floor and her back pack and saxophone sitting on her bed from school that day. Just a normal teenage room, unaware that my mother would have to straighten it up since Bailey was not returning. Scared of sleep, I spent hours on Facebook and my cell phone answering concerned texts and regrets through all sorts of media. It was purely amazing the response of this community, and those that had simply heard through the grapevine in other reaches of the United States, but wanted to let us know they felt for us and were sending up prayers. Prayer, is without a doubt the thing that got us through those days. My parents has told me previously they wanted me awake when they told the boys. They had been asleep when the coroner had arrived with Scott and no one had the heart to wake them. Again, I was jealous. They got one more night of peace, before their world was destroyed. At 6:00 A.M I decided to try and sleep. I turned all my lamps on and settled in a bed that suddenly felt too big for me. I wrapped my covers around me in a make shift embrace and stared at the wall waiting for emotion. But it didn’t come, and the next time I opened my eyes, it was morning.

                Saturday, December 3^rd, was easily the worst day of my life. For starters there is that dreadful feeling the morning after something terrible. That feeling of bliss when you first awaken because you have not yet remembered the events of the day before and then that awful gut wrenching ache, when your contentment is mercilessly ripped away from you and you discover you wish you had stayed asleep. My mind woke before my eyes, and the night set in. I was waiting for it. I had woken up and reminded myself not to get my hopes up. I started to process, and then came the most vivid memory I have of those days. I was laying there, eyes still closed, and I heard a sobbing in the main foyer. And it was an awful noise. A mixture of desperation and sorrow. And to this day I don’t know who it was. At first I thought it was my father but I found him in another room when I came in. The person from whom the sound came will always be a mystery to me. But I will never forget the cold chill that it sent. It was miserable. Laying there listening to that sound and knowing that even if I ran to that person right then and grabbed them in my arms, it would do no good. Because I could not fix it for them. And I would have to listen to these sobs for days to come. I would have to watch people weep, and there was absolutely nothing I could do for them. Because I was not her. It was also a jarring reality of, “this is my new life.” This sadness that lurked in my home, was real. This was what I had to wake up to. So with no other resolve, I woke up.  I walked into the kitchen and saw the boys in the study, and upon that went to my parents to question why I was not woken up and they said they thought I needed the sleep. Which would have been true I suppose if I had gotten any.  Saturday is another bit of a blur day. My parents had arranged for the boys to go to a family friends house to play while they worked with the funeral home to make arrangements. It was certainly necessary and had to be done, but that left me alone to take care of the house. And that was the most exhausting task of my life. People were wonderful with their overflow of affection and gifts, but I was tired. And emotionally drained. And people continued to crowd and ask me questions that I didn’t know the answers to. If it wasn’t about a serving spoon it was about funeral arrangements that had not even been made. I had absolutely no information, yet I was the only one with answers. They assumed my parents were busy and too delicate and the boys were obviously no help, so Elise was the death liaison. But I had never done this before! This was as new to me as it was anyone else. So I held it together. I made a ridiculously long list of people that had come by and what they had brought and their numbers that had been left. I put gifts away so that my parents would not come home to a mess. I showed masses of people where our dishes stayed and where our hot pads were stashed. I directed people to family and introduced when needed. And after six hours of this I had reached my limit, and it was visible. A family friend and my grandmother encouraged me to get away, and take a break from the chaos, so once again with John at my disposal, I grabbed his arm and we headed for his truck. Now in all of this I am leaving out a very important part of my life and a person that was behind the scenes texting and calling constantly this entire time as she rushed to my side.  My best friend and absolute other half, Jordan Corlew.  Our relationship is simply indescribable and it would take me this book and five more to try and explain what we do for one another. She decided to attend a school in Texas and because of this was very far away when she discovered the news of my sister. But my best friend being the amazing person she is, jumped on a plane to come home to me skipping an entire week of school to be by my side. That is love. She did everything from handing tissues, to dipping food, to holding my hand. And she was due to arrive around 4:00. Needless to say my life was going to get a little bit better once my other half was back beside me. So after wasting time with my cousin I came home to wait on the arrival of Jo. I stood on the porch, and saw her father’s truck as it turned onto my street. I watched patiently as it rolled to a stop in my driveway. My best friend that I had not seen in months stepped down from the vehicle and walked towards me. It wasn’t a big moment, because coming back together was what we were used to. She fell into place beside me, and it was the most natural feeling in the world. With a quick hug, we turned and walked together into the house. And so began our week of constant companionship.

               The next few days were fairly broadcasted to the public. Many saw the emotions firsthand at the funeral or visitation or any memorial service after. I mainly wrote this excerpt to portray the feelings beforehand. The raw emotions before we were exposed to the masses. The feelings that crept along in the privacy of our home. I am pleased to say that this is certainly only a small portion of my writings. I have big plans for the further pages that are already written and all the pages yet to be touched remaining. I hope to one day compile them into a book, a book on the loss of a sibling. How to move past losing your other half, and how to make yourself feel whole again. I wish there was a step by step process. I wish there was a manual on how to grieve. But there is no such thing. And that is probably the hardest thing for me. The uncertainty of grief. And though I cannot provide that I would love to provide a story. The story that God gave me, which is currently my life. Regardless of how well or how much I write, I will never be able to convey to you the love I had for my sister. The protectiveness I felt for her. The ache our separation leaves me with. But honestly, that is not something I feel I need to prove. My sister, who is now all knowing, completely understands that love. And I am grateful God gave me the opportunity to love her at all. If you are reading this and you did anything in any little way for my family, I want to thank you. Every prayer, card, flower, and meal meant the world to us. Please continue to pray as we have a long way to go. And please watch for more. I will continue to post as the book progresses. Love you all and God bless.