Daddy's girl

I have always been a daddy’s girl. From the beginning, the relationship between my father and I has been special. For starters, we are basically the same person. We don’t stress about the little things. We have to be taken from any crowd, if you allow us to stand there and socialize we will be there for hours. We love to laugh. We love a good story, especially something inspirational. We love politics and history. We love family. We love God. But more than that some of our strongest convictions have come from what we have learned from each other. My father has learned to be more open minded and I have learned that a compassionate heart is never weary. I have learned that your home is a blessing from God and you are to use it to glorify Him, and he has learned words can be more powerful than he ever imagined. And above all of this, we understand that at the end of the day, we are there for each other, and our relationship can withstand any trials because it is founded on our love for the Lord, our original Father, who makes these earthly dads possible. The Father that allows us to connect and have these human interactions and imbedded love into our souls.  My definition of Father has changed many times throughout my life. As a child, my father was a man who protected me. A man who taught me right from wrong. A man who held my fingers as I started to walk on wobbly legs. A man who determined when I would eat or sleep. And as a child I depended on him completely. But as I have grown my father has taken on a different role. He no longer protects me, but stands beside me when times are tough and watches me take things on myself, whether it pains him or not. He allows me to be an adult and understands that he can no longer shelter me, so he stands in the wings and watches with pride. He no longer teaches me right from wrong, he has taught me everything I need to know. He is always willing to talk or give advice, but he is also wise enough to understand that he does not have all the answers and he often points me to the word of God so that I can seek my own understanding. He no longer holds my fingers or schedules my sleeping. I have grown from dependent to independent, which is the goal of a Godly father.  My father is an amazing man. In this year alone he lost his daughter and his best friend and yet he somehow manages to get up every morning, put a smile on his face, and lead what’s left of our family towards Heaven. When Mr. Chet passed, my dad was selected to be a Paul Bearer. Wanting to go in as a team, I asked if there was anything I could do to help and was told I could usher. We arrived that morning dressed in black. The same black dress I had fashioned for all of Beltline’s funerals, including my sister’s. For anyone that has lost a loved one, funerals are tough. It’s not a selfish thing, your body just naturally reacts. It’s like remembering a meal you ate before you had a stomach flu. No one means to make another’s funeral about themselves, but they create instant flashbacks, and Mr. Chet’s funeral was the first we had attended since our sweet Bailey’s. I walked in nervous and found my dad. I wanted to take care of him so badly. I wanted to take away his hurt and squeeze him to death. But I had to allow him to do this his way. So I watched him. All day. I walked up to the doors of the auditorium and peeked in the small glass window. I saw the coffin and my airway closed. I completely lost the ability to breathe. I walked swiftly to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. And I made a promise. I made a promise to make it through that day for the Humphries. To make it through that day for my dad. And to prove to everyone in that congregation that I was strong enough to handle this. That God hadn’t messed up giving me a challenge, he had chosen the right girl. I said a quick prayer, put on my game face, and I walked out of the bathroom ready to serve. I was instructed to stand about fifteen feet away from the family and weave the line of guests towards them. Talk to the people, greet them, and put them at as much ease as possible. My father stood at the back of the auditorium for a majority of the time. We would catch each other watching one another. But I was far too focused to be emotional. I thought very little of our own experience as I spoke to numerous people. I would flick my eyes towards the Humphries and then realize that was a poor decision. I focused on the crowd. The many many people that had been touched by that amazing man. And as the time for the funeral approached Mrs. Donna came to tell me it was time to lead the family back. We cut off the line and I stood to make a path for them, trying to stay out of the way. I assumed my work was done until I looked and saw Cara Paige veering away from the family. She came up to me, wrapped her arms around my hips, and laid her head on my chest. I felt my heart crumble and I laid my head on top of hers and held her close. I had wanted so badly to be helpful and for the first time that day I felt as though I was doing something right. And every emotion I could have possibly had at that moment whizzed through my head. I was taken back to Bailey’s funeral. I remembered walking up that aisle to leave and wanting to hold her so badly. To wrap arms around her one more time and feel her breathe against me. And with my eyes closed and Cara’s petite warm body near, she became my Bailey. She fulfilled what I had longed for since December 2^nd. And two people that were hurting, two people that were broken, were able to hold one another and fill that empty space with a little love. I put my arm around her waist and walked her up the aisle and to the foyer where I kissed her forehead. And I watched her walk down that hall that we had walked down. The hall that sealed the passageway and forever kept us from seeing our Bailey again. And after an entire day of swallowing tears and playing strong, I collapsed into weeping. I walked towards the wall and buried my faced and allowed by body to give into my break down. And as I cry I feel someone under me. I feel arms embrace me and I grab onto a man’s jacket that is against me. I don’t know who this person is, but I was too exhausted to care. And when I summoned the courage to look up, I saw my dad. And at the moment, I wouldn’t had wanted anyone else. And we cried. I am so thankful to have a father that isn’t afraid of emotion. One that understands that this life hurts and we need each other to lean on, and to cry into. My dad has taught me how to be strong. And being strong doesn’t mean you don’t weep. You take care of your responsibilities, and you don’t allow your emotions to get in the way when you are needed, but you take time to give yourself a break and understand that you can’t be strong around the clock. And you find people that understand this journey is a rugged road. I am glad to have my dad this Father’s day. I am glad we are given a day just to show him how important he is in our lives. I am glad that Bailey got to experience a dad as great as ours and I know that he and my mother are responsible for the beginnings of her faith and for her pathway to Heaven. I hope that as I age, I never grow weary in searching for my husband, and that I don’t allow myself to stop until I find someone as wonderful as my own father. Thank you for all that you do, all that you will do, and all that you didn’t have to do. I love you daddy.

Six blessings, for six months.

Six months sounds like a long time when you say it out loud. Six months is when a fetus develops their optic nerve. Six months is how long it takes for a fig tree to sprout. Six months is a full semester of school. Six months is half of an entire year. Time is an odd thing. During trauma it seems to slow down. You feel as if your life is a movie and everything is going on around you. But the scary part is when you sense your life change from slow motion to fast paced, and you realize the terrible, awful, no good thing about life is… It goes on. Whether you are prepared for it or not. And everyday the clock ticks. The seconds, minutes, and hours pass. Nights turn into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, and we slip farther and farther away from the time of Bailey on this earth. Memories become muddled. Sounds are hard to recall and her smell is impossible to find. I make an active decision to think about Bailey when I decide because otherwise, I am terrified to waste my memories of her. Scared that if I over use them, details will change or the memory itself will pass away forever. I carefully select which thoughts I wish to use. However, there is no measure of what I have lost, to how much I have gained. So here are a few things I have learned in this half of a year without Bay.

1. My God is my Father. He loves me immensely and He would never do anything to hurt me. He allows things to happen that benefit my faith. That cause me growth or cause others to grow through me. He hurts when I hurt, but He allows pain when it is what’s best for me. He gave me this trial because He knew I was strong enough to handle it, and my entire life up until now He has been training me to prepare me for this task. And much like a Father, I feel His pride when I surrender to His will.
2. Your church family, IS your family. Christ came to this earth to establish a church, to make a home for His followers in this imperfect world. Our Lord understands that this life makes us weary. He sees our burdens and pains. So He blesses us with relationships that carry us through the hard times. He gives us a place to rest, a safe haven from the reality of life. A place free of judgment and malice. And He fills this place with individuals from all walks of life that essentially have nothing in common besides the fact that they are all bound together by the blood of Christ. And because of His sacrifice He has created a way for them to become our family. In times of sorrow, they lend a shoulder. In times of heartache, they surround you with love. In times of happiness, they rejoice alongside you. In times of anger, they find ways to calm you. And in times of loss, they remind you who your family is.
3. Satan is a tricky fella. He uses tactics that we are blind to. He exerts his own powers to tempt us in every possible way. He causes confusion to create chaos. He slithers into your thoughts to muddle your knowledge in Christ. He prompts you to ask the wrong questions and he entices you with his fruit of lies. Do not be deceived by the world around you. Do not allow Satan to infect your heart.
4. You are not a freak. This grieving thing, everyone does it differently. There is no right or wrong way. As long as the way you choose to grieve does not hinder another Christian’s healing, you’re good. If you are not a crier, don’t cry. If you are emotional, weep when you see fit. If you feel the need to comfort others, do it. If you need to be alone, find a quiet place. Your process will be completely different from the person’s next to you. Pray on it, and God will show you what is best for you. Do not hesitate to do what your body is telling you, even if you feel it is unconventional. It might be just what someone needs to see or it could be a huge step on your highway to healing.
5. You can use it, or abuse it. I can allow Bailey’s death to change me for the better or the worse. It is solely my decision. I could turn to drugs and alcohol to drown out the world and destroy my life while blaming it on the death of my sister, or I can allow it to transform me into the person I am meant to be. Events such as these are not coincidences. They are not meant to be thrown away as a small stepping stone in your life. It is a monumental boulder that if you are strong enough to push aside, carry it on your back to make you stronger.
6. My sister wouldn’t change it. There are days that if given the choice, I would run to Heaven, grab her, and bring her home. But I had a dream once that changed my perspective. I was running through a long black hall and I saw the light of Heaven in front. I stopped at The Gates panting and looked up into the face of Peter. He looked at me, confused, and asked me what I was doing at the Gates of Heaven. I stood up boldly and announced, “I’m here to get my sister!” He smiled at me sympathetically, opened the Gates and said, “If she will go, you may have her.” I paid little attention to this remark as I was already sprinting through the streets of Heaven searching the faces for my baby sister. And I found her. I raced to her and embraced her, tears flowing down as I kissed her cheeks. We held each other for minutes but finally she pulled back and looked at me with a frown, “What are you doing here Elise?” she asked with a worried expression. “I’m here to get you Bailey!! I’m here to rescue you! Come home with me!!” I tugged at her hand anxiously and beamed at her with such pride. She gripped my hand, stared into my eyes and said, “But Elise, HE rescued me. And THIS is my home.” She walked towards me and kissed my forehead and after a bright flash, I woke up in bed. And I sobbed. As much as I breaks my heart to live here without my sister, I know that she is where she worked her entire life to be.

There are many other things God has taught me over the course of this time. But here are six things for six months that have been particular blessings. I hope they benefit you as well.

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.”

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.