Dear Rob, Just Wishing...

Dear Rob,

I wish you were here.

I don’t sit around wishing that very often.

At almost 5 years into you being gone,

I know wishing it usually just makes it worse.

But tonight, right now, I am wishing it.

I am wishing you were here.

Our teenage sons are in the living room playing a game together and, for who knows what reason, they are singing a song from Sponge Bob.  With one really deep voice and one “getting there but not quite as deep” voice, they are belting out this song with zeal as they play a video game.  Their voices joining together as they are playing and singing without a care in the world made (and is making) my heart smile and it would yours too.

Our Anna is in her room packing up to move out of the house.

She leaves for college in 2 days (1 day by the time this posts).

She is going through her things – deciding what to take and what not to take.

Pondering just how much stuff can fit into that tiny dorm room.

Washing clothes one last time for free.

Planning her last steps to living independently from her mother

after already having been forced by your death to live independently from you.

I wish you were here for her.

To help carry her stuff into her dorm room as you did for her older sister.

To tell her how proud you are and how excited you are for her.

To give her a parent speech about holding true to her values

and to keep on loving Jesus more than anything else – EVER.

To tell her goodbye and tell her you love her.

To try unsuccessfully to hold back your tears as we start to walk away from her dorm.

Then to turn and hug her yet again and tell her you love her and always will.

(Even though you were a Duke fan, you would have proudly worn this shirt)!

I wish you were here for me.

To remember with 

– things about our Anna that only you and I experienced 

– memories that only you and I shared.

To be excited for our girl with.

To laugh and be grateful with that at least Anna’s not on the 10^th floor like Crystol was!

To be sad with.

To come home without her with.

To cuddle up to in bed with as we spend the first night without her living in our house.

To miss her with.

It’s just incredibly hard doing this without you.

It’s just incredibly sad doing this without you.

I don’t want to walk through this weekend alone.

If throwing myself on the floor kicking and screaming 

and pitching a temper tantrum fit could bring you back
for this weekend, 

I would be doing it.

But it won’t.

So I will do what I’ve been doing for almost 5 years now.

With God’s strength, I will parent alone.

I will get her moved in – with the help of her brothers.

I will give the last minute speeches.

I will be excited for her as she starts on this new part of her journey
for her junior and senior years of college.

I will tell her how proud of her I am and how proud you would have been.

I will tell her how much you loved her and how much I do.

I will give her some money.

I will hug her goodbye as I, again, tell her I love her.

And as I walk away from that dorm, 

I will not even try to hold back the tears.

Because I will be missing you both.

Love,

Janna