Loss, Grief and Goodbyes

I never thought I would be writing a goodbye post to my big brother and best friend. I don't even really know where to begin. I wish I didn't have to begin. I wish I could hop in a Delorean with Doc and go back to July 22nd and change the course of events over the next 24 hours. Then I wouldn't be writing this.  How do you even say goodbye to such a young man with such a bright and promising future? I still haven't figured this out. At the age of 35, Rob had already accomplished more than most people do in a lifetime. He was the smartest, sweetest, kindest, most gentle guy I knew. I loved him deeply (and still do), but I never told him just how much he meant to me or how big of a role he played in my life. Now I will never get that chance.

Me and Rob 1981

I know freak accidents happen every day, I just never expected one to happen to someone so close to me. I guess I thought I was immune to the true pains of this world. From the time I scrambled to get on a plane that Saturday the 23rd until his funeral, I felt like I was living in a nightmare. Nothing really seemed real at the time and my mind kept telling me "this can't be happening, you'll wake up soon and everything will be as it should." But that never happened and nothing feels it is as it should be.  Reading his obituary in the paper made my stomach drop.

My two big brothers...the best brothers a girl could ask for

I truly believe Rob is in a better place, yet I still want him here with us.  How will I ever explain to Emma just how wonderful a man her "Uncle Wob" was? Rob loved his nieces and nephew deeply, and I'm so thankful Brooklyn and Ethan got to experience that love, but I feel cheated that my child, his godchild, never did. 

Emma and Uncle Rob at Lake Tahoe--July 4th, 2010

Emma and Uncle Rob at the Big Barn--Easter weekend 2011

Rob, Brooklyn and Ethan with an early Christmas present from Uncle Rob

I feel cheated as well. Cheated out of growing old with two brothers instead of one. It's not supposed to be just Jared and myself, Rob is supposed to be part of this equation. For some reason I always thought that Rob would have two kids--one boy and one girl. He always said his girl's name would be Katherine and I just assumed his boy would be Edward Robbins Koger, III and we'd call him Tripp or Trey. Not only is Rob gone, but so is the idea of one more niece and nephew. 

Rob and Jared--Southend Headquarters Summer 2010

I know I should count my blessings and thank God for the 35 wonderful years he had on this earth, and that I got to spend almost 31 years with him, but I can't. Every memory I have from my 30 years involves Rob in some capacity or another. Every holiday, every vacation, every major family event for the past 35 years, Rob has been there.  There will be no more late night movie marathons over Christmas where he always tried to push one of the Star Wars or Godfather movies. No more long walks on the ranch or driving around looking at our cows. No more coming back to my parents' house to find Emma and Rob on the porch eating a Pop Ice. No more pictures with him in them.  No more riding in the car with him as he changes the song every 7 seconds because he can't decide what he wants to listen to. No more asking me what movie soundtrack the instrumental he is playing is from. And no more random Chuck Norris fact text messages always sent while I was on the phone or meeting with my boss that led to me laughing at the most inappropriate times. It's heartbreaking. I feel like there is a void in my heart that will never be filled.  I feel guilty for wishing that if he had to die at 35 he would have had terminal cancer. Because then I would have gotten the chance to say goodbye. Not that I actually wanted him to suffer in pain for my sake...I guess there's just no good way to say what I mean. 

Rob has always looked out for me. He tried to teach me to walk. Tried teaching me to ride a bike. Encouraged me to apply to Middlebury College in Vermont where he graduated. Gave his opinion on guys I dated, whether they were worthy of me or not. (He always thought I had a much higher value than I actually do.) And he eventually became very good friends with my husband. I consider it a blessing to have a husband who genuinely likes both of my brothers and enjoys spending time with them, and that my brothers feel the same way about him. 

Rob's death has really been a test to my faith. I never questioned things before this incident rocked me to my core. I just went about my day knowing that there was a God and not really thinking twice about it. Now I look around and see all the people living in misery, the kids dying from cancer and I can't help but ask "why?" I know we're never going to get the answer to the why questions here on earth, but it would sure make this journey easier. My mom's cousin, Joe, has a wonderful tribute to Rob on his blog that you can read here. He sure has a way with words and has offered me much comfort through emails during this difficult time.

Jared and I gave the eulogy at Rob's funeral, and that isn't something I ever thought I would do at the age of 30. We weren't sure we would make it through it, but we felt we owed to Rob to give it a shot. Some have asked me to read it so here it is:

I’m not sure words can ever do the man who was our brother justice, but we feel we owe it to him to at least try. Please bear with us as we try to get through this.

First and foremost, there was something special about Rob.   We weren’t alone in thinking so—so many of his friends and people he spent any time with knew he was a good-hearted, kind and generous person and have told us so even before his passing.  The crowd here today is evidence of that. 

He always was something special.  He wasn’t your typical little boy, or teenager, or young man.  He had a gentler nature than most, a quality that sometimes embarrassed him, but he was so tender-hearted he couldn’t stand to hurt any living thing, or see it hurt.  I remember one time when we were kids, we were cleaning out one of the ranch buildings, one overrun with mice.  I grabbed a scoop shovel and was whacking away to exterminate the rodents; Rob was horrified.  That was his nature.

Mom remembers his reaction to the movie Top Gun.  And if you knew Rob, you knew that he absolutely loved movies, but he was a thoughtful critic even as a child.  After that movie, most young boys wanted to be a fighter pilot.  Rob thought so too for a while, but one day when he was walking with Mom he said out of nowhere, “You know, I don’t think I could be a fighter pilot.   I could never shoot people I don’t know.”  That was Rob.

Rob’s school years were typical of kids who grow up attending small schools.  He was involved in everything.  He played sports, but basketball was most important to him.  He was a naturally gifted pianist.  He was in the show choir, Accents. He was vice-president of National Honor Society, was class president all four years of high school, and he was voted “All-Around Boy” as a senior, about the highest tribute an Eagle from Coldwater High could achieve.

He always dreamed big about life after school, and with our Uncle Kirk’s encouragement, he applied to Middlebury College in Vermont.  Much to his surprise, he was accepted.  So off he went, scared to death, but displaying that special kind of courage Rob always did.   You could never say he displayed anything remotely like overconfidence, although he had every reason to, but despite his insecurities, he forged ahead. 

We’d like to share an email we received from one of Rob’s good friends and roommates from Middlebury:

I feel like a light has gone out with Rob's passing.  I can't seem to picture life without him in it.  He was so alive.  He had so much to offer everyone in his life.  Although shy at times, Rob was the extrovert that extroverts hoped someday to be, once you got to know him.  He was so alive and was so much larger than life, even when he felt (incorrectly, I always thought and insisted) that things weren't going well. 

He had so much ability--boundless ability, but he never gave up humility or kindness.  Rob always had time for you, no matter what it was.  He didn't care what his friends did or what kind of backgrounds they came from.  He was equal opportunity.  He was just as happy to buy a drink and talk all night with his friends from rural Vermont as he was with Wall Street types.  He was good friends with the black man in Burlington, Vermont--a genuinely good guy named Drew with gold fronts and a rope chain the size of my forearm. Rob is the one person who ever tried to bring me to spirituality (which he successfully did) without making me angry.

He always wanted to know how his friends were doing and what they were up to.  He always wanted to cheer me up, to make sure everything was alright (example: Rob frequently playing the referee when we occasionally overheated in political discussions in years divisible by four, even though (a) I was always the one strident, liberal skunk at the right-leaning party, (b) even though we differed, and (c) I usually had it coming).  He somehow managed to broker an invitation back to the Hashknife after I shot the hood of Jared's truck, blew up a chainsaw and a tire jack, stole your father's 30-30 ammunition only to be caught En flagrante on the way to a gravel pit to go shooting, and was implicated in the disappearance of a cat named Stiff.

I am so blessed for having known Rob, even this briefly.  More than that, I am so much better for having had the time I had with him here. It was too short, and it hurts so much to think that I will never see him again.  

He's with the angels now.  He belongs here, but he is in a happier place.

Touching words, but it seems that is how many, many people viewed our brother.

Rob always spoke about how excited he was to be a father some day and he would have been the best dad we have known.  Watching him interact with his nieces and nephew was proof enough that he would have done a great job. To them, he was more than just “Uncle Wob,” he was their hero and friend.  He could never say no to the kids.  We would joke that if the kids asked if they could jump off a cliff, he would say, “Okay, that’s fine.”  Ethan and Brooklyn had a special bond with Rob and were always so excited when Uncle Rob was coming over to play. Even Emma, who was Rob’s godchild, at the young age of 1 year, knew there was something special about him.  She always knew that Uncle Rob would do whatever she wanted, be it read her a book, take her outside or give her sugary treats that her parents wouldn’t normally let her have.

Rob had quit his job in Wichita last fall and come home.  He loved working with Dad and I in the ranch and hunting business, and Dad was thrilled to have him here.  I myself enjoyed having him home to help with the rigors of ranch life.  Just a phone call away, and he’d drop everything and be there. 

He and Grandpa Luder had recently begun a new internet enterprise, an opportunity he thoroughly enjoyed.  How many young men have that kind of privilege?  On top of that, Rob and his good friend Justin were actively pursuing another entrepreneurial venture here locally, and Rob was very excited about it.  He always dreamed big.

Rob chose a difficult and challenging path in life for a young man from a small town in Kansas.  Over these past few months, Rob--ever thoughtful and deliberate, never quite 100% sure he was making the right decision--had been reassessing his life’s path. He was torn between the desire to return to Texas, to Houston or Dallas, and pursue his career in finance, which he loved, or stay close to home and create a new career for himself here. He knew the one choice over time would inevitably lead to distance from his beloved family, and nieces and nephew, the other might at times leave him restive and wondering how high he might have flown if he’d taken wing.

It seemed he had finally chosen family and the comfort of life on the ranch, but we’ll never know for certain.  The only certainty is he was a unique and precious gift to all of us—a dreamer, a devoted son, grandson, brother, uncle, and friend, an idealist who was never completely satisfied with the incredible accomplishments he’d achieved and always had higher aspirations for himself, and most importantly now, a deeply spiritual man who struggled to understand God’s will for himself. Now he knows. So do we all.

Trying to make sense of Rob’s death is not something I’m sure I’ll ever achieve. The quote from the end of one of Rob’s favorite movies, The Shawshank Redemption is very fitting:  “Sometimes it makes me sad, though... (Rob) being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”

A friend sent this poem and said it offered her comfort when she was dealing with the passing of her grandmother, and we thought we’d share it with you. Even though we desperately want our brother here, we have to believe that God needed him more than we did.

The Broken Chain

We little knew that morning that
God was going to call your name.
In life we loved you dearly.
In death we do the same.

It broke our hearts to lose you.
You did not go alone,
for part of us went with you
the day God called you home.

You left us peaceful memories.
Your love is still our guide.
And though we cannot see you,
you are always at our side.

Our family chain is broken
and nothing seems the same,
but as God calls us one by one,
the chain will link again.

I used to fear death. Now, it doesn't seem that scary to me. I believe that if I lead a life worthy of the Kingdom of God, then I will be reunited with my brother again. I know my family needs me here now, but at least I know Rob will be there waiting for me when my time does come. Rob, we love you and will miss you every day for the rest of our lives. 

"The LORD is close to the brokenhearted, saves those whose spirit is crushed." 

Psalm 34:19