Dear Sisters,

Christmastime has come and nearly gone and this is the first bit of time I've been able to sit down and write a few words for quasi-posterity. It has been a whole year now, since last Christmas Eve, when we said our long goodbye and headed north for Ireland. I find myself thinking of you all week long; not in sad, homesick ways, but in happy memories of past adventures and wistful thoughts of one-too-many hands in the kitchen and white chocolate pretzels by the handful.

Our house is a happy one at the moment, to be sure. There's a dog now, and two grandmas, and Christmas movies and pie and coffee and sunshine. Ella has literally never been happier, as she squeaks puppy toys and cuddles with Cocoa on the couch. They sit there, all twisted up in blankets and I think this may be the best Christmas ever. Asher walks up and down the hallway with his guitar, dancing in the glare of the sliding glass doors, and Great-Grandma and I dance to his music. That moment or two where we swing hips side by side, laughing, will live on in infamy. Jack finished his lego masterpiece in record time and we each take pilgrimages to his room to survey the wonder. Mom sits with tea and a book, reading Seamus Heaney or cuddling a sick child. I eat pie. Lots and lots of pie.



But still... you are not here, and I am not with you. Oh sure, you have your own families as I have mine and I think this is adulthood and real life. Most everyone is separated by cities or states or oceans. We send e-greetings, trade photos and post on Facebook, together in spirit if not in person. I know you both wore red, that the boys were silly, there was ice on the ground and a candelight service or two. You've been kept abreast of our activities, pictures of Mom and Grandma on Killiney Hill, Jack leaning over a mixing bowl. We are not truly alone and apart, but still I am lonely for you.

So this Christmas, as you are huddled in Kansas City, as we plant ourselves deep in Dublin, know you are loved. You are missed. You are treasured this day and every day. And I long to sit near you, laughing and posing, ignoring the children maybe just a bit, lingering over the dinner table one minute longer. The Irish homestead saves a place for you, a door forever open.

And in May we will dance at a sister wedding. Christmas together can wait until then.

Love,
Me




Sometimes I write letters to my sisters, women young and old brought to me through blood, circumstance and Jesus. Today I write for the two I share wedding photos and nephews and Christmas Eves with. Who are you missing this time of year?

Dear Sister {While you were out}

From Jessica:

I just asked Asher "are you crazy?" and he said, "I'm crazy about you, baby!" Love.

Ella is trading kisses for goldfish cracker for Asher. It's a concerning trend.

I showed Asher your picture. He said, "awwww." I told him what it said [we miss you!] and he said (somewhat indignantly) "I know that!"

Asher would only eat after mom named the halves of the quesadilla after Power Rangers characters.

This is how Asher insisted on eating lunch today... weirdo...

"We don't put things in our underwear."

Ella and mom had an awesome time out last night! They took a taxi home and last night when I was tucking E in, she kept saying how cool the taxi and the driver were. She wanted me to pray that she would get to ride in a taxi again. :)

This was pre-naptime -- it may have been a hint.

Asher just skulked out of the kitchen (because I wouldn't give him dessert because he refused to eat his dinner). When I got to the front room (where he had skulked to), he was halfway out the window. Soooo...

***

From Jack:

Hey mum, thank you for talking to us tonight. I love you! Goodnight mum! I miss you!!!!!!!!

***

I write letters to my sisters, and sometimes they write to me. So thankful for a little sister time (and aunt time and granny time) on this side of the ocean. And thankful they can put up with all the stuff I had to edit out. :)

Dear Sister {On your engagement}

Dear Sister,

I've had tears in my eyes all weekend. Dumb ocean. Of course I missed the 2 am (and then the 3am) texts. Of course cell reception would be bad. Of course I wouldn't hear your voice tell me those sweet words. Of course your world would be sleeping, while mine would be rejoicing, wanting to shout from rooftops.

Of course, none of that matters.

Ella is fine wearing a dress, she wants you to know that. Matt told Jack, who came downstairs twinkling, giving his own play-by-play to the others. I sat on the couch with my coffee, blinking away the happiness, the melancholy of being separated. It's bittersweet, just a bit, but so much more sweet than I can fathom.

You will be a wife soon. A wife!

Oh, we have prayed for that man. Knowing God could only create a wonder, someone who would be good enough for you, someone who could match your creativity and your joy and still joke about your tall forehead. Only those of us who love you best could understand that, and we're all in on the joke because it shows how much he loves you. Just you. For you.

We toasted you last night. Because you are worth celebrating, not just for the engagement, but for your past and present and future. For how God made you and how He knows you. For Nathan and the adventures you will have together. For the joy and wonder (perseverance and patience, too) we know is coming. And for the little art-cultivating, music-playing, people-loving babies that may come your way.

For all of it.

So Sister, here's to you. On your engagement. Even from afar, three cheers to you and your fella. Hip Hip... 

Hooray.

Love,
Me.



I write letters to my sisters, both the God-given ones and the blood-tied ones. Letters for the regular days and for the totally-amazing-non-regular-in-every-way days. This day was one of the latter... more of both, though, are still to come.

Dear Sister {Roundabout Russian Roulette}

Dear Sister,

There's a game I like to call Roundabout Russian Roulette, wherein your car stalls right after you drive through a roundabout. You sit your car there in the left lane (right lane, for you), watch the bevy of cars come at you in the rearview mirror, and wait. The game ends either when a car hits you or a tow truck comes to rescue you. You can also forfeit the game by leaving said car, stranding it alone in traffic or in the hands of another player.

Well, I played Roundabout Russian Roulette for about an hour one day.

I tell myself it wouldn't have been so bad had Asher not been with me. Or if Matt had. Or if our mobile phone service had been working (on the morning it acquired another mobile company, thereby making it the most powerful phone company in all the land; the irony is not lost on me).

But the truth is, no matter how many players were in the game or what rules we had to play by (I couldn't even phone a friend!), I would've lost my crap anyway. And I did. I lost it. I mean crying hot tears of abandonment and ordering Jesus to HELP ME.

Asher, good sport that he was, kept his cool, offering ocassional anecdotes and waving to the angry cars as they passed us by. "I love chicken nuggets," or "It just needs a battery," or "Why your phone not working?" My screams and abuse of the steering wheel didn't seem to alter his good mood in the least.

Sixty long minutes, many unanswered phone calls and one order of curly fries later (the ill-fated drive thru which precipitated this dangerous game offered me at least one consolation), Matt and the ever dependable Tom arrived. I passed the baton to the more able-bodied spouse, forfeiting my lot and speeding off with Tom, Asher and Cyclops (toy) to collect the big kids from school. Matt survived the game, too, when two hours post-hence a tow truck arrived.

And our car? Oh, it won the game of Roundabout Russion Roulette without a scratch. The actual diagnosis that left me stranded in the first place? IT RAN OUT OF GAS! In shame I hang my head thinking about it, though it did afford us some friendly ribbing from the mechanic and the minor cost of some labour and a full tank.

The only casualty in this game of dare was Matt's poor finger, the tip sliced off in the euphoria of post-victory dinner prep.

In hindsight, the finger now healing and the car back where it belongs, I remember how I literally demanded Jesus to help me. How I hyperventilated and lost all the cool and level-headedness I ever had (not much to begin with, anyway). I remember how silent it was in the car, just me and the crying and heavy breathing, no discernible movement from God to coach me through. I would've prefered the loud grunts of Bela Karolyi in that moment to the holy silence that seemed to surround me. I remember the momentary relief in surviving one minor catastrophe only to replace it with another.

But, but... because you, Sister, are not here to lean on in these moments, we have no choice but to reach out for others. And they met us here, in spades. Tom and so many others, in prayers and school runs and trips to the ER and kindness, kindness, filling us to the brim.

It's such a small thing, to feel a brief bit of holy silence in a broken down car.

It's such a big thing, to see Jesus in so many, running with us, towards the finish line.

I hope I can be that for the next one, whomever it is, when he or she is stuck in the game of Roundabout Russian Roulette. Hold me to it.

Miss you,
Me.



I write letters to my vast array of Sisters (and occasional Brother). Because I'm terrible at real correspondence, and because they are really here with me, even if not geographically. Win or lose, what was the last game you were forced to play?

A smile = happy {Dear Brother}

Hey Brother,

Today is your birthday. You are 26 years old and I remember the day you were born.

There was a brief phase where I masqueraded as a ballerina. I'm not sure who's idea it was: Dad's or my Mom's or your Mom's. Either way, it was ill-advised and I was seriously no good at it. On the night of my big recital, as our sister put on my sparkly make-up and worked her magic with the curling iron, Dad was rushing your mom to the hospital. Sometime in the night you were born, happily drowning out whatever clumsy mishap may have occurred at my ballet recital. For months I kept a crinkly hospital photo of you with me, showing it off to my friends and teachers. Proof I had been gifted a brother.

I'm ashamed to say I don't know you better. We've never really lived together, unless you count the summer where Laura and I drank Dr Pepper by the litre, trading babysitting and VBS duties (I got stuck with VBS). I remember more about her Poison poster than I do about about your habits, your toys or the books you liked to read. But I know you loved a good dance party, and at Christmas in that first small house, as they were trying to fit in this new mosaic of four children, I would hold your small arms and dance. You were blonde as could be, beautiful and mostly, I think, happy.

I know you haven't always been. Happy, that is. I know grade school was horrible for you. Teachers were cruel and children didn't understand.  I know you couldn't see well. I know we would sit by your side after your first surgery (I was in college, but came home for you), when you were only beginning to see the world how it should be, and cleaned out your puke bowl.

I know when you were first diagnosed with Asperger's and it was scary and confusing, but a small light in a long, dark tunnel. Who you were until then was like a jigsaw puzzle without straight edges. But the diagnosis gave us all a horizon from which to see you. Your puzzle pieces slowly started to fit together and we would test you with flashcards:

A smile = happy
A frown = sad



It can't have been easy, having three highly emotive, loud, domineering big sisters. I speak as much for me as I speak for us all, and I'm sure they wouldn't argue. Well, they would argue, which I guess is the point. We could easily drown you out with our fighting and our loving, but you were what we all had in common.

You are the permanent link. You share all of our blood and in you we each see a bit of ourselves, blending so well with the mark of each sister.

You were 11 when I got married, walking tall and proud to light candles, which of course didn't light. Your highly logical mind took that as a challenge and you seemed to stand there for ages, waiting for each wick to burn. I love that memory of you. Of not giving up. Of knowing how things should be, and insisting they come around.

But then I moved away. And you grew up. I had kids, and you became an uncle. Three boys would sit at your knee, and though you wouldn't hold them (afraid of the kissing and the drool), you met them at eye level. Showed them how to play a drum. You muss their hair, still, and you love. Greeting them with a smile.

A smile = happy

You taught them that, like we taught you. And the mirror image of your scruffy face in the roundness of my Jack or Laura's Justin would shine. You are a brilliant uncle and a kind brother. And we love you, even when we're not sure how to say it.

I will try not to overpower you with my voice and hand motions and kiddo insanity. I will try to let you just be you, to watch and to learn and to understand your heart and your mind. Your puzzle is not yet finished, though I think a piece is placed every day, every Christmas around the dinner table. We're still figuring you out, you see. And that's OK, I think. You are so much more than we realize.

Thank you for being patient with us, with me.

Happy birthday. I love you. I miss you.

Love,
Your Sister

Dear Sister {I am not cut out for espionage}

Dear Sister,

So there we are, sitting in immigration for unending hours, our number just about to be miraculously called, when Matt has to leave. E is done with school in 40 minutes, and we are in the city centre, a 20 minute bus-ride away. He asks me, "Are you OK here?" and I'm all like, "What? Me? Me and the stress migraine? Yeah, sure, I'll be fine. What can possibly go wrong?"

This is all a part of moving to another country. Visas (or immigration bureau cards) have to be applied for, procured, renewed every year. It's routine, really. Except you gotta be specific, have to assure them we won't work here, that we live off of funds from the United States and won't be a drain on their own fragile State. There are words you should use, words you definitely cannot use, and then there's the fingerprinting. No matter how honest and upright we are in the citizenry department, I still feel like a criminal. I still feel like I'm in deep cover, using an alias. 

As it turns out, I am not cut out for espionage. I text Matt all panicky and maniacally. I forget I have a bank card. And the fingerprinting - done digitally - takes for.ev.er. as I can't hold my shaky hands steady. I joke with the immigration officer about my dad being a policeman, how I should know how to do this, how it's really so crazy they can't get a clear image of my prints and we have to do them over 2, 3, 4 times. "I'm sorry," I say, "I really don't know what the problem is."

But today I remember, the hours we sat there with the television on. Sky News and the dragging of a man behind a police van. A police van. Images may be graphic, they say, but it's really the best way to get you to pay attention. You can't unsee this, is what they should say, as a crowd of men pulls him kicking and screaming, ties his hands behind his head, and attaches them to the bed of the van. It pulls away slowly, maybe to make sure he holds, I don't really know. Then it takes off, and the man - hands over his head and backside banging along a dirty South African road - is gone. He died in custody, they tell you.

And you, you just can't unsee that. In a room filled with immigrants, veiled and exhausted and babies crying under unfamiliar eyes, we all can't unsee that. And it's not until later when I think, maybe the others there, from every country and language imaginable, maybe they've been much closer than a television screen to that man on the South African road. Maybe that's why they're here. Giving fingerprints. In deep cover.

So no, Sister, for as much Alias as you and I have watched together, I'm just not cut out for espionage. Or international intrigue. Or torture. Or police with blood on their hands. But I am cut out for here, and for these people, and when he says, "You must've liked it well enough to come back here again," I say, "Yes. We love it." And my shaky fingerprint leaves a smudge.

I miss you. Hug dad.

Love,
Me.

***

A new series of posts entitled Dear Sister. I have four of them, each one unique, each brought to me in a different way (and now I realize I have so many more than four sisters, most of them brought to me directly by Jesus). I thought I'd write to them here... it'll save me a stamp. Plus, I get to make another button!

Dear Sister {no guilt trips}

Dear Sister,

I hope you're OK. I haven't heard from you in awhile, and we're so far apart now, it's hard to know how things are on your side of the world. It's ok, really it is. You'll receive no guilt trips in the mail. But I miss you, and I wanted you to know.

You should see E right now, "I'm really small because I'm really, really old," she says. She's on her knees, using two toy hammers as crutches, wearing her new school tie.

"I'm an old, old man."

It's amazing the ideas that come out of her small brown head. I wish I could look inside, see her cranks spinning, hold her tender imagination, keeping it always young and free. But I settle for her songs, her strange little plays. "I'm a unicorn," she says now. She's really a chameleon, I think, ever changing.

There are times when I worry for her, because she doesn't have a sister. I'm afraid she'll miss out on the secrets, the confidants, the fighting, the companionship. But then I remember sisters come to us in so many different ways. By birth, by marriage, by divorce, by school, by location, by Jesus. That's how God gave me you. And I know she'll be ok. Sisters will come for her, too, one way or the other.

So write when you get a chance. Know I love you, even from afar, even with kids and oceans and jobs and husbands between us. Know you're not alone over there, even on the cold, long days. And know you have sisters there among you. Reach out for one. She'll meet you there.

Love,
Me.



A new series of posts entitled Dear Sister. I have four of them, each one unique, each brought to me in a different way (and now I realize I have so many more than four sisters, most of them brought to me directly by Jesus). I thought I'd write to them here... it'll save me a stamp. Plus, I get to make another button!

Dear Sister {Jet-lag}

Dear Sister,

I am so tired. 

You know how we thought, "Here we go on this great adventure," thankful for the resilience and joy our kiddos showed despite the uprooting and the leaving and the goodbyes? Well, they're resilient all right. So resilient that they don't need sleep or food for fuel, they need only a random assortment of videos and suddenly they're running rabid through the intersections of an old port town. They need cold peas at three in the morning. They need to push all the buttons on the under-the-sink washing machine. They need pillow fights and rice krispies under foot and maybe a black eye or two.

But what they do not need is sleep.

Me? I need sleep. Before midnight, preferably. It would be good to get out of bed before noon, too. And maybe three square meals a day. Do I ask too much, five days after moving overseas? Is a 10pm bedtime and breakfast before 11am unrealistic?

Pray for me. Think of those chubby, ruddy cheeks on the darling faces of my children and pray, "Sleep, you little monsters. Sleep!" 

I miss you.

Love,
Me.



First in a new series of posts entitled Dear Sister. I have four of them, each one unique, each brought to me in a different way. I thought I'd write to them here... it'll save me a stamp. Plus, I get to make another button!