Dear Rob,
After going to your memorial today, I felt a wave of mixed emotions. First of all, I'm sorry I didn't say anything to anyone. I was really scared. Everybody had known you forever, and I had only known you for the last two years I was in church, and I only really had the opportunity to talk to you at church.
But what I wanted to say was, in those two years, I found that you were such a great guy. After every song I played on the piano, even though you sat way in the back, you made an effort to come over and tell me how much you enjoyed the song I played. Not to mention, you would say it despite the fact that I had blatantly made mistakes on the piece. Granted, people have told me that the majority might not have noticed unless they were musically-inclined, but somewhere in the back of my head, and I remember thinking to myself, "Oh, but Rob would notice." And the fact that you never brought it up to me, even though I'm sure you did notice, was such a kind gesture. I mean, I was already beating myself up inside about it. So that's how I knew from the beginning that you were a good guy.
Aside from that, you, at least in my memory, were always this guy in the back with the big ol' grin. I always liked that. Your smile was infectious. And I always liked how you updated me about all the things that was happening in your life -- and all of them were always positive things! You always had this positive energy around you. And a go-getter vibe, like you had this master scheme you were working on and you were eager to share it with me. And I felt kind of privileged that you would. I had never heard you complain, except for physical pains, but you had always brushed it off with a smile.
I was always excited when you talked about jamming together. We were supposed to jam this Christmas, man. I feel this sadness now that we had never gotten around to doing so. I'm sure you're a great musician. Your passion always showed through your eagerness. I always liked that.
Two weeks before I heard about the news, I was sitting on the bus to school. I had my nose buried in a book and I was so engrossed in it, it took me awhile to realize that someone was staring at me for the longest time. I slowly looked up from my book ready to chuck it at the offender, but instead, I was greeted by your big ol' cheesy grin. I breathed this sigh of relief and said, "Dude, I thought you were a creepy stalker." And you laughed so hard -- you had cheered up what had been a sour morning. You told me about all your latest plans and when your stop came, you kept talking to me all the way to the door. I thought the bus driver was gonna kick you out. Then before you left, you did this big wave at me and told me to take care and to have a blessed day.
I took that bus everyday to school and had never ran into you. It was the first time I had seen you outside of church. It was such a random occurrence, it stuck with me for some reason. I wanted to talk to you about it that following Sunday. I wasn't there, or you weren't there that Sunday. And then two weeks after that incident I heard. I couldn't believe my ears. I had just seen you. You looked so happy and healthy. You were loving life. I had admired that about you.
Rob, your smile was so big, I had never known you were suffering. But God held you up when you needed Him. And you let Him in, and He walked with you. I know, because when I think of you, and your bright, positive light, and the excitement you felt about your plans for life, I know now that that's what I had always seen in you. Now He's taken your suffering away. You're home -- you're home. And I'm so happy that I'll be able to see you and your big, cheesy grin again someday. I don't doubt that you're rockin' that guitar up there. We'll definitely jam one day, brother. 'Til then, RIP, Rob.
Francesca
