Emergency Alert


There are many facts in life I’m sure of.  Here are a few:  1. My name is Robyn.  2. I am allergic to cats, so I can never be a “Cat Lady”.  3. If you don’t put oil in your car, eventually it will explode and die… Forrrr…evvvvv…errrrrr… Forrrr…evvvvv…errrrrr.  So, there’s that. Facts are facts.  Now, here are some things I don’t know: 1. I don’t know how many miles it is to Heaven.  2. The process of the soul leaving the body is unfamiliar to me.  Does it have a layover?  Is there a connecting flight?  Is there someone on the other side holding a sign with the deceased’s last name?  3. When will it stop hurting?  Will the sickness in the pit of my stomach and throat ever go away?  When will the things that hurt me to think about now become something that I will eventually love to think about and cherish?

I don’t know.  It’s not something that I can research and then go: “Oh… Ok. Well, that’s cool. I didn’t realize that’s how it happens.  Good to know.  Now I can have peace of mind.”  I won’t know until it is my time.  Even then, I can’t report back to you so you’ll know too.  Sorry.  If anything ever changes in that area, I’ll be sure to let you know.

When my Dad passed last Saturday night it changed mine and my entire family’s life.  It will never be the same.  I will never hear my Dad tell his epic stories again.  I won’t be able to see his crooked fingers anymore.  His eyes are not here to twinkle and light up when he smiles.  I can’t call him to ask a question I don’t know the answer to or how to do something or to tell him something funny the boys did. He’s not there.  He’s not here anymore.  My Dad is gone.  Those are the words that repeat in my head multiple times a day because it doesn’t feel real.  At all.  But, it is. That is my new reality.  Half of the couple that gave me life no longer has life anymore.  That’s just weird.

I’ve been too busy to have idle time to process things.  Up until this point I’ve been strong, but I’m starting to unravel.  Not in a bad way but just in the natural order of the grieving process way.  It’s to be expected.  I haven’t sat and had an official “conversation with my Dad” yet.  Not a long one at least. However, I did drop him a couple lines one morning.  It was two days after his funeral while I was putting my shoes on.  I said to him: “Hey Daddy.  I miss you.  I want to feel you around me today.  Give me some kind of sign to let me know you made it there safe.” And then this happened… “We interrupt your normal broadcasting to bring you this.  This is only a test.  I repeat, this is only a test.” As I was saying the word “safe” thoughts flooded my brain.  They weren’t my own.  They were in my brain, but it’s like there was a purposeful invasion to interrupt what I was saying. It was an emergency alert. The words God or my Dad or whoever or whatever sent them to me were simple and true: “Your faith is how you know I made it.”  If my Dad were here to hear me question something so significant and serious, that’s exactly what he would say to me.  I know my Dad was saved.  I know what the Bible has taught me my entire life about what happens when you die.  I know how at peace my Dad was about dying and moving from here to there.  I just wanted some closure and peace of mind.  I just wanted to know-know.  Ya know? But, I already do.  Have you ever thought about why they run those tests periodically?  It’s to see if things are working correctly.  If there are any kinks or things that need to be fixed, they make sure and get it back in working order. Faith check.  The kinks are worked out.  “Your faith is how you know I made it.”  Now we send you back to your regularly scheduled program.



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