The last time I shared some of these chapters, I omitted this part.
It's a little sensitive and the joke is that we (Abby, my cousin, and I) can't write certain things because as my mom says, "not enough people are dead yet." So, apologies, not-dead-people, it is in order this time; and I love you.
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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 1/Beginning: The Fullness of Potential
Part 2 (Part 1 in a previous post.)
Until I was six I knew my half-sister. Debbie was twelve. I
really liked her. She would let me lean on her shoulder when my head felt heavy
and eyes were tired. We had long trips to Grandma’s house, about 45 minutes
away. Mom would often start singing “Over the River and Through the Woods.” We
had to go over Fox River and through the country to get there. It is humorous
now; my mom has a degree in Library Science, I assume that explains a little about why these sorts
of things happened.
Debbie had winter gloves that changed color when they were
warmed up. When they were cold the chevrons on the back were all blue, but when
you touched them with warm hands they turned pink. It was before HyperColor. I never before saw anything like it, and it
was amazing. When we were stuck in the car, on those long drives, she’d let me
mess with them until her hands got cold, she’d apologize and take her gloves
back. She was always nice to me.
I looked forward to nights when she’d let me play with her
super long hair. Courageous for a pre-teen to let a six year old do that. Debbie always wore her hair in two pigtails
pulled back into one thick light brown ponytail. Everything about her was cool.
My grandma said we looked alike. My mom said some angles of view were freakishly
similar. Sometimes mom would just stop and stare and say, “wow, that really
looked like Debbie, just now.” I always wondered what specifically did that—what
triggered the stop in your tracks type of reaction.
My identity began forming as someone who was special, set-apart,
because I loved my cool half-sister. She
is Dad’s daughter from a previous marriage. We always knew when Dad was on the
phone with her because he’d disappear into the home office or bedroom and talk
quietly. When she was with us, she’d come by some weekends, we’d watch Dallas and The Muppet Show re-runs together.
None of us liked Dallas. When she wasn’t with us we wouldn’t watch it.
She wasn’t with us often but I liked it when she was, the
house felt full. And we, as a family, felt complete. When I was six things
began to change.
That year, Thanksgiving was hosted by my parents and that
was the last time I saw Debbie. Sometime during the family gathering, she
slipped on stairs and hurt her wrist--badly. Being the pesky little, I had to find her; I
didn’t see her so I went to find her. When I did there was a moment that is
burned into my mind so clear and crisp I could probably draw it.
I found her in the upstairs bedroom. She begged and begged me not to tell anyone
about her wrist, and I didn’t listen. I couldn’t stand knowing she was hurt and
crying and alone. A little while later,
Grandma, Dad, and my half-sister left for the emergency room. Mom stayed with all the guests, being Thanksgiving.
And that was it. I remember the door closing, and Grandma smiling and saying “it
will be okay.”
Shortly after, drama unfolded. My sister, brother and I were
told some high-level reasons; Debbie wouldn’t be coming back, ever. I felt a
ton of confusion. All I really knew was
that she was gone. People made choices they couldn’t take back, things were
said that couldn’t be unsaid and that was that. And I wished and wished and wished we could
rewind the clock. That I did not tell anyone or that and she had not fallen.
But mostly that would be well and I could see her.
I don’t know the details; I don’t want to. I know enough to
confirm that sometimes life is not fair and people can be cruel.
And life went on. Someone was missing. And I was sad.
Time keeps moving—even when we have a loss, and for some reason
that is shocking. It is obvious, time would keep being time and all, but it is
a foreign feeling when you need life to stop and it just won’t.
But we kept being a unit, and it wasn’t okay until one day
it was. Not okay meaning acceptable, but instead meaning tolerable and live-able
and where the memories didn’t disrupt every other minute.
Mostly, I’m sad about the lifetime of missed things. Things
we should have shared that we didn’t. Like my sister’s wedding, and her
daughter’s arrival, Dad’s 70th birthday and finding out he had
cancer—those moments are supposed to be shared. There is unspent potential, and
that hurts.
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We are imprinted with messages from the beginning of life.
You look like, sound like, are like, remind me of so-and-so. Or other messages
about being weird or people leaving for lousy reasons. To escape childhood with any realistic sense
of self and who God is the truest miracle. We are never as good as or as bad as
we think we are. God’s beautiful plan is
that we can re-write parts or whole sections of who we are even when the
unexpected happens and people are missing.
Grace and prayer are powerful. God wants all of us but will
gladly take whatever parts we are willing to give. Giving ourselves is a
process and often God gives us the sacrificed parts back again, there’s more
work to do. We can choose how to dedicate them to the Lord. We are called to
worship God with our lives. But to do that, it is so important to remain mold-able-- not becoming bitter or so bound by hurt and longing we can’t enjoy
today or that we can’t approach God. It is tempting to shut down, to protect
our wounds but we need to have the self-discipline to keep going back and saying
“help me, God?” And then, “what do I do now, God?”
