Unwrapping Sisterhood

Twenty-nine years ago, God blessed me with a little sister. It took me about twenty-seven years to realize that He had blessed me with a best friend as well.

Last year we shared our pregnancies together, and as our bellies grew, so did our relationship. Now we watch our babies pass new milestones; we send each other pictures and post on one another’s facebook walls. We laugh and cry and give advice and ask for prayer.

We only see each other once a year; sometimes weeks at a time go by where I don’t actually hear her voice; but nearly every day my inbox is flooded with her stories, her encouragements, her pleas for prayer. And every day I discover a little more how entirely amazing she is.

She has become my best friend, after all those years of rivalry and fighting and bad hair.

Happy birthday, Laura Jean.

You are a gift I unwrap every single day, and I am so blessed to call you my sister.

********

Head over to Chatting at the Sky for more Tuesdays Unwrapped!

Date Night #3– Relaxing

Last week was an entirely stressful and miserable kind of week.

I didn’t really share much of it here, because I expect you all get a little tired of hearing me whine. Plus, some of it was personal.

Still, by Friday night I was exhausted, emotional, and just generally a disaster of epic proportions. It was Art’s turn to plan our date night, and I have to admit I wasn’t very excited because all I really wanted to do was go to sleep.

My husband knows me well, though, and he knew all about my terrible week and the stress and the tiredness and the fact that I felt like collapsing. So he had planned a spa night.

I laid on the couch and he rubbed my back and neck and arms and shoulders and legs and feet and hands with lotion which later made his eyes get all puffy and allergic. He lit a candle and played relaxing music and even painted my toenails.

And then– I woke up.

I had fallen asleep on the couch for an hour.

So I went to bed.

And it was wonderful.

Sometimes the simplest things mean the most.

Simple, Not Easy

If only
I knew the way
to the path I should take–
flush questions,
wake to answers piled on the ground
like fresh snowfall.

You say
“go your way”
but the path before me seems hidden–
possibilities buried by problems,
streetlights blacking as I drive by.

I know
no easy answers–
only the simplest.
Your Word my headlights.
Your Life the answer to my flushed questions.
Ask– seek– knock.
Simple, not easy.

Lead me in paths of righteousness
For Your name’s sake.

********

A random act of poetry. Leave your own at Seedlings in Stone for a link and possible feature at High Calling Blogs this week.

February is the Month of LOOOOOOOVE

The other night, as I was leading song time for the Sparks in our AWANA club at church, I couldn’t help but notice two little blondies in the front row. They were sitting close to each other, giggling a lot, blonde heads put together, whispering behind hands into intent ears.

I did what I normally do with kids who aren’t usually the “trouble-making” sort. I made eye contact. Stood uncomfortably close. Reminded the group as a whole to be quiet while looking straight at the two towheads in the front row. My normal techniques, however, barely seemed to make an impression.

Song time ended, and we moved into games, and I watched the two of them as they stood on the yellow line, side-by-side, he just a little taller than she. They cheered each other on, and laughed uncontrollably, and told each other secrets.

And I knew.

Bubs has his very first crush.

Last night at dinner I asked him about it. I don’t want to be obnoxious and nosy, but I do want him to know that these things are okay to talk about too. It’s a fine line to walk.

“So, Bubba,” I said casually over my baked potato, “I noticed that you and S. seem to be really good friends now.”

“Yeah . . .” He shrugged. “She’s nice.”

“Do you have a crush on her?”

He turned a little red but said he didn’t know what that meant.

“It’s when you like someone a little more than you like your regular friends. And when you see her, your insides get all squeezy.”

The blush said it all.

“You’re blushing!” Stinky pointed out helpfully. As if we needed help noticing the beacon of red fire coming from poor Bubba’s face.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “It’s normal to have crushes on girls. Do you feel the same way about any other girls?” (He has about eight million little girl friends, so I thought I’d better ask).

“Not really,” he said, fading to a light shade of fuchsia.

“Oh. Well, she seems like a very nice girl.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s going to move up soon.”

“That’s true,” I said (mostly to Art). “She’s in second grade so she won’t be a Spark next year.”

(At this point I thought I heard Art mumble something about “older women” and “right on,” but if so I’m sure I was imagining it.)

By this point Stinky and Bubs were feeling very silly, overcome by all the mushy gushy love talk.

“Well, Bubba,” I said, “I just want you to know that it’s okay to have a crush on a girl, but you’re too young to be boyfriend and girlfriend, okay?”

“I know,” he assured me, face still a bit rosy.

And we all went back to our potatoes, giggly (the boys) and a little weepy (their parents) and screechy (Little One).

*******

In related news, twelve years ago today I fell in love with the best man in the universe. He is so amazing. I am so blessed.

And now, I think I shall go drown my sorrows in chocolate.

My baby is growing up. Hold Me.

Have You Ever . . .

Have you ever wondered what it would look like if an impressionist artist painted a picture of two young girls wearing polka-dotted t-shirts?

What’s that, you haven’t?

Ahem.

Oh, well, then. Never mind.

If My Sister Kills Me, Wear Polka-Dots to My Funeral

I don’t know how exactly the idea came to me. It was brilliant, though.

I had seen an ad for a portrait package at Sears. For only $8 or so, you got a whole ton of portraits. With Christmas coming up, the timing could not be better.

My sister and I pooled our meager resources and talked to our mom’s best friend, who quickly became our co-conspirator and willing chauffeur.

What more could parents want than portraits of their beautiful daughters?

Our first order of business was choosing clothing for this epic event. We quickly decided to wear matching shirts that we had recently bought at Shopko, or possibly K-Mart. With great anticipation we planned and giggled and planned some more.

The big night arrived, and I adorned myself in my awesome clothes, did my hair, and put in some seriously cool plastic earrings. My sister, determined that a girl who was old enough to be a part of top secret portrait plots was old enough to do her own hair, did just that. She swooped her permed hair into a side pony and then, with much application of water, hair gel, and hair spray, she swooped her bangs in the other direction.

She would not listen to me when I told her it looked stupid. She will tell you now that it was my fault. That I, as the older child, should have taken her hair matters into my own hands.

My sister is in severe denial as to her 9-year-old intractability. She was convinced that she looked gorgeous and I was just being annoying and bossy. So I refuse responsibility for her hair foibles.

The outfits, yes. Her hair, no.

On Christmas morning, we were so excited to see our parents’ faces when they unwrapped their amazing gift. One 8×10, two 5×7’s, two sheets of wallets, and one sheet of teensy-weensy little pictures– like 40 to a sheet– all of this:

I’m sure you can imagine what joy my parents experienced. Especially when they found the page of “portrait minis” or whatever they were called.

Fear the Dalmatian Sisters and their black spots of horror.

********

Linking up to Flashback Friday at Mylestones, where we are “honoring” our siblings this week.

Her birthday is next Tuesday so I’m going to have to do something really amazing to make up for this, huh?

(maybe I could buy her a scrunchie).

Unwrapping Her Laughter

The day has been long.

Grievances pile up, worries crowd corners, frustrations needle sore spots.

In the morning I sing of His love, but in the evening I despair of it.

I wonder where He is, where is the grace promised, the mercies new, the strength and the bright hope?

Boys wrestle on carpet and I grapple with faith.

We gather round scuffed table, pull up to plates of hot food and glasses of cool drink.

Hands linked, we give thanks for the day, thanks for the sustenance provided.

I struggle to find reasons for thanksgiving.

I alternate bringing food to my mouth and offering food to her. She squeals with displeasure when I linger too long over a mouthful. I remind her to say “please” and her hand finds her tummy again.

I praise her simple act and, grinning mouth full of peaches, she claps chubby hands together.

It is her newest crowd-pleaser, and our enthusiastic reaction does not disappoint her expectations.

Someone says something silly, and the boys collapse into heaps of laughter. She is sure they are laughing at something she has done, and she squinches up her face and laughs along, quite pleased with herself.

She raises her hands above her head, so big!

She smears graham cracker in her hair, behind her ear, on her cheeks and smiles proudly.

She bangs silver on tray and sings a tuneless song to her own percussion.

Over and over she makes her mama, heart full of fear and hurt and irritation, come back to this now, and laugh.

Later we bring out the notebook, record each evening of blessings received throughout the day. When it is my turn I do not hesitate. She has been my blessing tonight, pulling me to her young and joyful side, making faces, smiling, laughing, clapping hands, showing off newly discovered skills.

She is amazing.

The doubt and fear, they still linger. No bundle of chubby girl can take them away– only the One who cares for us can do that.

But in this moment, I am reminded that there are always reasons to give thanks– to consider myself blessed.

And this I unwrap.

Love Song

His love
Huge and consuming
Written across skies and in mountains and over seas
Etched with nails on hands
Painted in brilliant colors and shouted across the universe
Never to be ignored
Poured without reserve upon me

My love
Small and uninspiring
Written with fear on papers hidden and locked in darkness
Kept sealed in private heart-box
Penned in shaking hand and whispered to few
Barely to be heard
Held back in reserve from Him

His love
Knowing me from before time
Inside and out
Seeking, pursuing, understanding, dying
Calling me to His heart
Desiring to be my everything
Wrapping me with blood-bought grace

My love
Knowing Him for all these years
Yet still not knowing
Seeking then hiding, surrendering then turning away
Calling Him with faithless heart
Desiring to be His, yet fearing to be emptied
Wrapped in blood-bought grace

His love
Giving in spite of my weakness
Forgiving my faithlessness
Being all I need
Pouring out peace and mercy
Reaching down to my brokenness again
Over and over
Meeting me there
Beginning and ending

My love
Never adding up

Our love story
Truly only about

His love.

Linked to (In)Courage today– sharing our divine love stories.

imagining

Two years have passed since we learned that our third son lay dead within my womb.

The what-ifs, the should-have-beens, they still claw at my heart occasionally.

They touch that place that after two years is still tender to their ungentle touch.

I imagine him in heaven, all chubby legs and blond hair and noisy babble.

I imagine him climbing into the lap of a childless woman who prayed all her life for a son–

I imagine her holding his hand and tickling him jut so.

Maybe my imagination runs away with me.

It doesn’t matter.

He is there, with our loving Lord.

And someday he will take his big brother’s hands and show them around that beautiful place.

And someday he and his little sister will embrace with joy for the presence of the Lord.

And someday I, I will hold him in my arms and touch his face that I can only imagine now.

Until then though, I hold him in my heart.

Never forgotten.

Date Night #2– Destination, Seattle!

Yesterday, our tax return was deposited into our barren bank account, and there was great rejoicing.

In fact, we went a little crazy with all that money, and in a fit of get-us-out-of-here-itis, we put the kids to bed and went to Seattle.

We enjoyed fresh-ground Seattle’s Best coffee at a little cafe with a great view of the Space Needle.

We ate the catch of the day while listening to some great jazz music.

We took in the local art scene,

And were inspired to get all poetic and write some haiku.

O happy rain falls
On glist’ning, emerald shores,
And there is a boat.

Needle and mountains
Point up to cloudy heavens,
And there is a boat.

After we had gorged ourselves on coffee and fresh fish, created beautiful masterpieces, and waxed poetic, we left Seattle and returned to our couch, where we curled up and watched Sleepless in Seattle, of course.

But not before we had taken one more picture.

The best part is, I don’t think the kids even realized we were gone.

And also, there is a boat.

(Maybe you just had to be there).

technically I’m not supposed to post my Project 52 post till Tuesday, but this is the only interesting thing that has happened here recently, so you get to read about it early.

and also, I should have a real camera in my hands by Monday night. Which means that next week’s date night pictures won’t have to be taken on our six-year-old crunchy little Olympus. Woo-hoo!