Today is my sister’s birthday. I’m not going to tell you how
old she is, and not just because I can’t remember. I’d have to start counting
forward from me, which is not helpful because I can’t remember how old I am
either. And not that she should care at
all if I disclose her age because she's beautiful.
But there’s girl code, and above that, sister code. So you won’t hear it from
me. Unless I can figure it out by the
time I’m finished writing this.
My sister is awesome, and not just as sisters go. She’s the
best friend you’ll ever have. Devoted, honest, wise, funny and ever-reliable, she makes you feel special on your worst day and smart on your dumbest. She can
talk you (or maybe it’s just me) into anything with three little words: “It’ll
be fun!” I fall for it every time. And even if “it” wasn’t any fun at all, it
was worth it just to watch her try to get me on board, arms flailing in big dramatic
motions in an attempt to glamorize this monstrous activity I want nothing to do
with. In addition to being a great talker-into-er, she’s an amazing teacher and spent
years of her adult life doing just that, teaching young girls, including her
children, how to grow up into amazing women of God. And by the looks of my
nieces, she nailed it. Now she has a heart to teach parents, and let me just
say if you have half a brain, you’ll sign up for her class - whether she has
one or not. Just be her friend, watch
her life, and you will learn amazing things. She has also spent her life
singing. And by life I mean, since birth. (Our daddy is a music minister, so this
was not an option. Good thing we love it anyway.) She has a beautiful soprano voice but always willingly sings
alto when we sing together just because I ask her to. (Although I don’t get
away with that much anymore. She’s on to me.) I just can’t think of anyone who deserves
honor and esteem on her birthday, and every day, more than my big sister.
Our relationship can best be summed up by a story my Aunt
Karen once told us. We were somewhere around the ages of 4 and 6 and all of my
Dad’s family was gathered at my aunt & uncle’s house in Houston. As was
typical of my parents, their siblings and in-laws, they were gathered around
the kitchen table playing a board game, probably “Careers”, which was way
better than Monopoly but for some reason we were the only ones who knew
that. All the kids were upstairs taking
baths, when, as Aunt Karen tells it, there came a blood-curdling scream from on
high. My mom and aunts shoved chairs away from the table and headed for the
stairs, taking them two and three at a time. When they reached the bathroom door
they found Lauri and I in the tub, me standing, screaming at the top of my lungs, and her just staring at me. “What in the world is wrong?” asked about 7 breathless
adults, to which Lauri replied, “Nothing. She always does that when the water
goes down the drain.”
And there you have it. That’s pretty much how it’s been all
our lives. I’m in full panic mode and she’s sitting down next to me, explaining to the rest of the world why I’m freakin’ out. And that’s just the way I like it.
That’s not to say that she never has moments of mania and I’m
never calm. For instance, I remember when she found out that Mary Hart was
issued a new pair of pantyhose every day to host Entertainment Tonight because
her legs showed on camera underneath the desk. Being the smart shopper and always mindful of her money, she was somewhat
incensed. "Why can't she recycle her pantyhose? Does she really need a brand new pair every day? Surely they don't have runs! All she did was sit there! She should have to wear the same pair for at least 3 days!" It was just too much for her practical, no-nonsense mind to grasp, and I
had to talk her off the ledge for once. Actually I don’t think I talked. I think I
laughed her off the ledge on that one.
But besides her occasional indignant semi-tantrums at
celebrity over spending - and shouldn’t we all be appalled at that?! - she’s
darn near perfect in my book. A fiery redhead with a hearty laugh that makes
you want to tell another story. And her taste in clothes is impeccable. After
all, I won best dressed in my 8th grade class because of her. True, it
was without her permission because I snuck into her closet after she left for cheerleading
practice at the crack of dawn every morning and wore her clothes, but a win is a win. And speaking
of mornings, she has greeted them with nothing less than a kick in the face and a
smile into adulthood as well. A machine
when it comes to discipline, she would get up at 5:30 AM when her babies were
still babies and work out. I know because
I was there. Usually. OK, just sometimes when I didn’t call at 5:15 and whisper
“I’m going back to bed.” So I was rarely there, but still. And now that her
girls are older, she gets to sleep a little later, but you can bet she’s gonna
be throwing some weights around the living room at some point in the day, every
day. And there is no greater model, save our parents, for a true, authentic,
sold out follower of Jesus Christ. While
the rest of us say we struggle to have a solid, consistent relationship with God every day, she just does it, and makes it look simple. She listens to God, spends
time in His Word and applies it to her life. Period. All of it. Not just the parts she likes. Not
just the parts that are warm & fuzzy. She does the hard stuff. The
unpopular-even-in-church-cuz-it-makes-the-less-dedicated-uncomfortable stuff. And she does it with an incredible combination of boldness and grace. And if
you’re lucky, as I have been, she’ll rub off on you. She has
always been a great source of wisdom and insight for me. As a young married
woman I remember calling her about the crazy and infuriating things my husband
did, like leave his underwear in the floor. "Who does that?" I asked. "Am I a
maid? Is he 5?" And then she would explain to me that this is something pretty
much all men do and this is when you have to employ that whole “choose your battles” thing.
And dirty underwear wasn’t worth the fit I’d thrown.
But sometimes she would surprise me on the spiritual front.
These are my favorite talks! Because it’s really annoying to have a best friend who’s
always right. Like, not just kinda right, but it’s-in-the-Bible right. How do
you counter that? You don’t. You hang up the phone and have no choice but to go
on with your life having full knowledge that throwing dishes is not allowed. So
the days when I get to find out she’s human after all are downright delightful.
Like when I left the house in bare feet,
no money and no place to go and just got in my car and started driving, all because
my husband had been operating in his own time zone. Again. So I decided to not
be available or on time and see how he liked it. She happened to call as I was
driving around and asked what I was doing. “Running away from home,” I said. “I’m
gonna make him worry for a change. I’ll call and say I’m on my way and then not
show up for another two hours.” I thought I knew what was coming. Something
like, “Do you want to be right or do you want to be right with God?” I braced
myself for the onslaught of correctness. But to my surprise, all I heard was, “OK. Call
me later and lemme know you’re all right.” I had never been prouder. I think I might’ve
wept with glee.
So happiest of birthdays to you, my beautiful, brave and
bold to the core big sister. Thank you for all the times you gave me sound
advice, and for the all the times you just let me get away with being mad. For the closet full of awesome clothes you never knew I wore. (And there were shoes, too). For all the “it’ll be funs!” and always being
the first one I call after I’ve eaten pavement in public because I know nobody
will laugh with me as hard as you. Thank
you for being my wingman when people say clueless things. Thank you for calling
me when I was 20 and saying you were sorry you didn’t let me sleep with you
when we were little and I was scared. And thank you for always, always, always
being there when I’m scared now. I love you more today than I did in that
bathtub. And that, my redheaded hero, is quite immeasurable.
