Sister - 3/6 - Momastery » Momastery

Sister,

The Fourth of July has come and gone without you.

I started getting nervous about the upcoming weekend early last week. On ordinary days, your absence feels like a dull, overall ache, but on special days it feels more like repeated jabs to the gut.

So this weekend, I survived by watching the family and our little town carefully, and trying to notice the moments you’d notice. The moments that would make you grab my hand and squeeze it or clap really loud or murmur . . . No. no no no no no . . . the way you do when something that is too special to have really happened happens. I did my best, Sister.

Thursday night Chase and Tish performed at the grand finale of their summer Bible Camp. They made friends, there, Sister.New friends in their new town.

Chase learned the twelve disciples and Tish sort of learned three. She reported them to her teacher as “Simon, Alvin, and Theodore.” Close enough, baby, I said.

Friday morning, we were off to the beach, of course.

Order this book, Sissy.

The houses on our street, Sister . . . they each looked so elegant and proud.

I know you are where you belong for now, Sister. But someday soon you belong in a sun dress on one of these front porch swings. With me and Tisha. And some ice tea. With some important things to discuss, and nowhere important to go. Watching little ones running around barefoot in the front yard and feeling the breeze off the water and smelling the crabs cooking inside.

Saturday morning we were up early for the Annual 5 K.

Chase ran the whole thing with Craig for the first time.

He was so, so proud, Sister.

Tish requested a chauffeur. Even so, after the first mile, she asked me to stop because her “legs were very sore.” No comment.

After the race, the real action began.

When we were sufficiently soaked and dirty, we rushed home to get ready for the main event, The Parade.

Bubba and his boatshop buddies hung out by the beer on the porch, but they still managed to submit their two cents. For example, when I walked by them during the loudest point of the parade, while the firetruck sirens were blaring so loudly it hurt, Bubba yelled, “Hey, G…it sounds just like your family room.” Things like this. It’s how he passes the time till you get back.

My favorite float of the year isn’t shown here. It carried a family of five – minus one – standing in the bed of a pick-up truck. The truck was decorated with waving flags, dancing streamers, and a large poster that said “My daddy is my hero.” The children had added drawings of families and hearts and soldiers and the mama had written Iraq, along with the date her husband was deployed. The heroes’ kids smiled and waved and threw candy to my kids.

There’s no picture because the truck was moving quickly, and I didn’t have enough time to both salute and shoot. So I dropped my camera and saluted…with the wrong hand, as always. I caught the Mama’s eye and mouthed Thank You. And I thought about how brave and beautiful people are and my throat got tight and my heart swelled all by its lonesome since you weren’t there.

I wish I could have stopped the parade and made sure that the children of those two heroes . . . the soldier and his wife . . . knew that all of it – -the decorated homes, the waving flags, the parade, the race, the fireworks, the huge smiles – all of it, was for them. Just for them.There was no time, though. Thank you would have to suffice.

Military families, thank you.

As you can see . . . all was peaceful and beautiful, Sister. Right up until this point:

Sister, don’t worry. I met her at the end of the parade route, beat her severely, and removed the sash that is so rightfully yours.Charges are pending, but it was worth it.

Tisha soaked it all up, Sis, like she does. She clapped her elegant hands and laughed regally and held court over that front yard. I want to be just like her when I grow up, Sis, don’t you? She also started most of her sentences with…”Next year, when Mandy and John are here…” which helped.

Sister, we miss you. We are grateful for you. We know that the work you are doing makes us all safer and truer and braver.

God Bless America. God Bless Rwanda. God Bless us, Every One.

All Our Love,

Him….

Him . . .

Her . . .

And us.

Hurry Home, Sweet Sister.

I’m planning to visit Sister in Rwanda soon. So I’ve been spending lots of time trying to convince Craig that it’ll be a perfectly safe trip, mostly by making up stories and statistics that I’ve “read recently.” This is how I prepare most of my opening arguments. When I wanted to get pregnant with Amma, I told Craig that I “read recently” that couples with three children are statistically likely to become filthy rich and also make out ridiculously often. Welcome, Amma!

So I was Skyping with Sister the other day and she mentioned that she was exhausted because she’d spent the whole day interviewing potential guards for her new Rwandan home.

At dinner that night I said to Craig, “Honey, strangest thing. I just read that Rwanda was recently listed on Forbes’ Safest Places for Women to Visit Alone In The Whole Wide World list! Isn’t that great news?” Then I told him about how tired Sister was from all the guard hiring.

Craig ignored the exciting fake Forbes news and said, “Hon, If Rwanda is so safe, why does Sister need to hire a guard?”

Drat.

I ran upstairs after dinner, Skyped Sister back and said, “HEY! If Rwanda is so safe why do you need to hire a guard, anyway??”

Sister said, “Well, there’s really no violent crime here, but there is theft, so every compound has a guard on the premises so the house never appears vacant. But it’s mostly for show. The guards don’t even have arms.”

Kay.

Now over the past few months I have learned that there is a lot about Africa that I just don’t understand. And I have finally accepted the fact that just because something doesn’t make sense to me, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t make sense. And so I keep my mouth shut a lot. But I draw the line at armless guards.

“SISTER, WHAT THE HELL? WHAT is your lovely guard going to do if someone DOES try to break in? Bite him? Kick him? Give him a really dirty look? Why don’t you just guard yourself, Sister? At least you have ARMS!!”

Sister was very quiet for a moment.

Then she said slowly. “Um. I meant guns, Sister. The guards do have actual arms, they just don’t carry guns.”

My turn to be a little quiet.

Oh, I said. Ohhhh. Right. I thought maybe it was some sort of “armless affirmative action” program. Not that there would be anything wrong with that, Sister. I mean, if that were the case, I would totally support that program.

I know you would, G, said Sister. I know you would.