Remarks Given at Roy Robinson’s Funeral
December 18, 2002
By Mark S. Darrah
When Roy Robinson was born 64 years ago and his parents learned he suffered from Down’s Syndrome, they asked “Why us?” Now, as the gift of Roy’s earthly life comes to an end, those of us who have known and loved Roy ask “Why us?” Why have we been blessed by this gift? And, Roy’s life has been a gift.
Roy loved the simple things: playing with his rope, or drinking a soda, or for going for a ride in the car. The car didn’t even have to be going anywhere; just sitting in the car made him happy.
A problem developed when Roy lived at the Fairchild Center in Billings. It being a small town, people didn’t lock the doors on their cars and the Fairchild Center wasn’t a facility that locked it residents up. Folks from town would stop at the convenience store or the coop nearby and come back to their cars. Roy would be waiting inside, enjoying his imaginary ride, and would refuse to get out.
“Go to Maramec! Go to Pawnee!” he would say.
He loved to shake people’s hands. He was happy drinking a Coke. “Go to Maramec!” he would always say.
Having a brother or a son like Roy wasn’t easy. He wasn’t always in good humor. He could get stubborn. He’d get cantankerous and impatient and there wasn’t always a way to make him understand, but perhaps he understood a lot more than what we might think.
When his mother died, Roy had to be restrained when the emergency personnel came to the house to take Mrs. Robinson away. The family debated what to do about Roy. Should we take him to the funeral? It was decided to take him to the funeral home to see how he would handle it. When Roy walked into the room where his mother lay, he took off his hat, placed it over his heart, whispered a few words as if in prayer, and kissed his mother good-by. He knew. He knew.
When Roy fell three years ago and fractured his skull, family members gathered at the hospital in Enid. The strong, unquestioning resolve was: “Doctors, Nurses, just because our brother is different, you don’t treat him any other way than you would a patient without his limitations.”
Roy couldn’t walk again after that fall. He couldn’t drink a Coke. He couldn’t play with his rope. The family asked “Why, oh Lord, why?”
The staff at the Southern Oaks Nursing Home where Roy lived his last years will tell you a Robinson was there almost every day to visit Roy, to make sure he was comfortable, to make sure he was safe, to make sure the staff knew they had to treat him as someone without his limitations, to make sure he knew he was loved. When Roy had any physical problem, the family was there.
It wasn’t much of a life Roy lived these last three years. I found myself asking “God, why did you send someone like Roy into this world?”
I think the answer is that God sent Roy to this family to teach us how to love, but what kind of God would do that — send a person into this world simply to teach us how to love?
Then I remembered two thousand years ago, a child was born in Bethlehem, and a child and a life given simply to teach us how to love.
Monday, Roy Robinson went home. At first, I thought God sent his fanciest Cadillac, his best limousine, with a uniformed chauffeur, a refrigerator full of cold Cokes, and all kinds of pieces of rope in the passenger compartment, but then I knew I was wrong.
On Monday morning, an old, faded, beat-up Chevy Impala stopped at the Pawnee Hospital. Roy’s mother opened the door and said “Come on, Roy Lee, we’re going to Maramec!”
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