The Delight of a Sister's Heart...

Today is my sister's birthday. She's eleven. I can't believe it. I remember wondering when she was 3 months old what she would be like when she was this age. Now I wonder what she will be like at sixteen, eighteen, and twenty...

I just realized that can't think much beyond that. Something about imagining her older than I am now is a little scary, a little too unfamiliar, a little too far beyond- it seems almost dangerous or perilous. . . Hmm. . . Why is that? What is about creating a perceivable image of my baby sister at thirty that completely freaks me out and makes my mind spin? Is it that I can't think beyond what I have experienced- it is unknown to me so I can't apply it to her? Is it because I realize that if she were thirty, I would be forty?! That is scary. Ha. (*No offense to anyone.) Or is it simply because she's my baby sister?

It's scary how fast time goes. I remember the day that my parents told us that my mom was pregnant. I was nine and my brother was twelve. I remember my mom was preparing a "special dinner," but she wouldn't tell us what it was for. I walked out into the dining room and saw the "I am special" plate stationed in front of my mom's spot at the table. I racked my mind for a explanation: I knew it wasn't even close to her birthday, or an anniversary, it wasn't Mother's Day.... what could it be? Being a little kid and a highly impatient person, not knowing what the red, mysterious plate was for completely mystified my young mind; I almost couldn't handle the suspense. I begged my mom to tell me why she was special today, but she refused to say until we had all sat down at the table.

After my dad said grace, I flung open my eyes and looked expectantly at my mom. She smiled. It killed me- I wanted to know; I needed to know. She looked at my dad and he smiled too. "Will someone please tell us what is going on?!" I shrieked. I looked at my brother; he was looking calmly at my parents and that made me even more mad. "Don't you want to know too?!" I glared at him and turned back to my mom.

Then she said something that I will never forget; she simply said, "Katie, Richie, I'm pregnant." She reached her hand across the table and took my dad's hand as mine and my brother's mouths dropped to the floor. Then I did the most rational thing I could think to do at such a moment: I stood up in my chair and screamed. . . I grabbed my brother by the shoulders and shook him, but he just sat there and looked at my parents.

I can honestly say I don't think I have EVER been more excited in my entire life. I had been begging my parents to have another baby since I was about three. I couldn't believe I was going to be a big sister. I remember my brother looking up at me and telling me to stop screaming. "Katie," he said, "calm down! Just hang on a minute. I need to take this in!" But I couldn't contain my excitement. I'm pretty sure I actually got down from my chair and started, literally, running around the house. . . like a dog-you know, when dogs get really excited and start running in circles and can't stop? I'm surprised I didn't pee my pants. Needless to say, I don't think I ate another bite of the twice baked potatoes and flank steak that my mom had prepared.

The next few months were a blur of preparing our house and our lives for a new baby. When we found out that we were going to have a little girl, my poor brother cried, but I was excited because that meant I would get to share my room with her.

I had a special connection with my new sister before she was even born. In fact, I predicted her birth. I told my mom the day before she was born that my mom would go into labor that night and she would give birth early the next morning... and she did. The night that my parents went to the hospital I got the flu before they left, and I was so disappointed because I knew it was going to happen that night. I don't know how I knew, but I did.

My brother and I were taken to the hospital the next morning to meet our new, baby sister. On the way there, we had decided that we would let our mom name her Abigail. We had argued about names since we had found out, but in the end, we decided to allow mom to have her first choice.

So that is the story of how my precious, beautiful, little sister was born; well, at least from my perspective, and never once have I questioned our families decision in naming her Abby which means "Delight of the Father's Heart," for she is certainly the delight of mine as well and always will be. And I thank her Father and mine daily for her presence in my life.

Seattle Fog

This morning I was driving through Seattle on my way down to my sister's soccer game, and as I was coming over the bridge I saw one the most amazing images of the space needle that I have ever seen. I just wish that I had my camera in my car, I would have found a way to take the picture. It was fairly early, the sky was still a little pink, fog had settled over Lake Union and wrapped itself around the legs of the needle. It was

B E A U T I F U L . . .

My Family

Truth Covered in Green

The Gideons were out today. They were handing out their little Bibles wrapped in green pleather. I spotted them right as I got off the bus at 15th and Campus Parkway. There were three of them- all smiling, all holding about ten Bibles, and next to them was a box filled to the top with more. One man who was passing them out to the crowd that was hurriedly fleeing the humanity-packed-public-transportation-vehicle, called out, “A free gift for you!” I grinned and accepted one as I walked by.

After doing my devotions earlier this morning, I had made up my mind that this was going to be a good day; yesterday was a little rough. Seeing these fellow Christians handing out the greatest gift that one can give to another definitely put an extra, little skip in my step.

I climbed the stairs to the bridge that straddles 15th and transports its pedestrians onto campus; it reminds me of the bridges in Candyland- you know, the ones that enable you to cut straight to the Gum Drop Mountain if you land on the green square. Anyways, I was being raptured from this world to the world of academics when something hit me. Holding my new Bible, as I shuffled past the horde of students moving across the bridge, I thought about how many brilliant minds, on just this single day, passed by this solitary thing that is the manifestation of Truth itself- this one Book. I thought about all the students and all the professors on campus searching, blindly, for such Truth and could be for the rest of their lives, when here it is. That which they are seeking is right in front of them- being passed out for FREE by a bunch of middle-aged, uneducated men all over school property, and yet they are just too blind to see it and too proud to admit it. How ironic…

Allow me for a moment to step out of my reverie: I just realized how sad this sounds, but that is not all I thought about. I think if I would have lingered on such depressing thoughts, my stubborn resolve to have a good day would have been ruined. However, perhaps in order to preserve my mood, I moved on to think about more uplifting things.

I clutched the small Book that I was given and thanked God. I thought about how many people would give all their possessions in order to possess this one Book. I thought about how blessed we are to live in a country that allows men to stand on corners and pass out the Truth. I thought about how blessed we are that we live in an economy that allows for free distribution of such vital information. The fact that they are able to give them out for free is a blessing in of itself- not many countries could afford such a gift. I wondered how many Bibles they would give out today. I wondered how many people that received one would actually read it.

As I write this, I realize that I never took the time to stop and pray for those people that accepted one. Is it too assertive to ask anyone who reads this to pray for those people today? And also, while you're at it, pray for those who are seeking the truth; pray that their eyes will open and their knees will bend and thank God for those who were willing to stand in the cold and hand out the gift of Truth for free.

Today was a good day.

To Blog or Not to Blog?

I've been debating for awhile about creating my own Blog. The idea kinda makes me laugh. Don't get me wrong, I love reading other people's, but I'm not sure if anyone will really enjoy reading mine. What do I have to say that people will want to read? How is my life any different from the balding, latte-drinking, tuna-fish-smelling, middle-aged man sitting across me at the Blue Dog Cafe?

I love this cafe. It's not the coffee, or the peppy barista, I think that it is simply the atmosphere. That sounds pretty cliché, but it’s true, and I like it that way. Despite the commercialized sign that hangs over the door- which, at first, turned me off from even entering- it is pretty quarky. A conundrum of couches, tables, and chairs polka dot the small room- all of which are extremely tatty (I like that term: tatty. I thesaurused the word “worn” and that’s what I got). Anyways, the furniture looks like it belongs in my Grandma Edna’s old house.

Grandma Edna’s always smelled like fresh-baked pie, pot-roast, and moth balls mixed in a great blender- maybe Cuisinart or Oster (c with a circle around it). The other thing that always reminds me of Grandma is Fig Newtons (another c with a circle).

In my cupboard right now I have an opened box/plastic container thingy with a peel off, yet replaceable tab- it’s pretty trendy and makes the newtons WAY more marketable. But, I have the fat free kind, and they definitely aren’t as good as the ones Grandma used to keep in her cookie jar on the right side of the sink. The sink below the window that looked out into her back yard, where the old, blue, rusted swing set used to be- the one with the double-person swing on which my brother and I use to sit for hours, rocking back-and-forth.

Ok, it probably wasn’t hours, since we both had symptoms of A.D.H.D. and couldn’t do the same thing for that long… and still can’t- as you can see from my writing. No, pretty soon we would get bored of staring one another down (the seats faced each other), and we would run off to pick plums or teeter on the teeter-totter or sneak down into the basement. For some reason, Grandma never liked us playing down there. She said it was dirty, but I’m pretty sure she just didn’t want us to find something that was hidden- something secretive and maybe even magical.

I’m twenty-one years old and I still think everything is magical. Today, for example, was a very magical day. I was walking across campus in the rain with my hood down, allowing the drops to sprinkle the top of my bouffant- I like wearing my hair this way mostly so I can say the word “bouffant.” It sounds so classy- “Ah yes. I think I will wear my hair in a bouffant today…” But, in reality, it’s more like a little bump on top of my head, pinned back with bobby-pins and then braided down the back. Anyways, the rain trickled down onto my forehead and I raised my head to keep them from rolling into my eyes. I imagined that I was a cup-cake and the rain was the brightly colored sprinkles that my five-year old self always applied so liberally to each little mound.

Putting the sprinkles on top was always my favorite part about baking. I can remember spending FOREVER (not literally) on putting the “finishing touches,” as I always called it, on my birthday cake every year. Ask my mom, I’m pretty sure the layer of frosting, candy, and sprinkles was thicker than the cake itself. I don’t even like cake, but I loved the manufacturing process.

I could go on for hours allowing my fingers to record my sporadic flow-of-consciousness, but as I said at the beginning, who is going to read this?! I just literally laughed out loud (capitalized LOL). I just spent about an hour on this haphazard piece of writing- an hour that should have been spent on homework. Ah! What was I thinking?! I have so much to do! So, my conclusion is: I hate blogging, but I think I will be back soon…

if not tomorrow.