A Tribute to Sisters

I have plenty of sisters. Four, to be exact. And I can call on any of them, at any time. They're available. Generally, though, I say different things to each.

I call my older sister when I want to chat, share or hear the latest news, enjoy the funniest "out of the mouths of babes" stories ever, or bounce off what I think about what she thinks about what Mom thinks about what Erin thinks about this or that going on. Although we're both past college days, both "adults," she'll always be my big sister. Her wisdom is beyond mine, but still fresh enough to reach my understanding. Somehow she manages to span the gap between husband-and-five-kids and single-going-through-grad-school with an ease and grace that makes it unremarkable. And her children are the most beautiful creatures on the planet.

I call my younger sister when I want to chat, hear what she's doing, hear what mutual friends are doing, hear her latest theory on [insert any fascinating topic here, ranging from deck spiders to fashion trends]. Or I call her when I need to vent and complain. This last reason has something to do with the 3-hour time difference, coupled with my frequent need for emotional support after dark. It has more to do, though, with my darling sister's talent for wholly and completely commiserating, while throwing any situation into blunt perspective with a wild toss of analogies and one-liners! When telling her my woes, I can count on my feelings being understood and upheld. I can also count on a clear frame of reference in which to insert my particular grumblings, just in case I want to see the whole picture.

My youngest sisters are not usually targets of my phonecalls, but they nevertheless will answer the phone at home. The older of the two would chat forever--she's full of hope and excitement and wide-eyed daydreams about everything. Her enthusiasm spans all that life has to offer, while still filtering through the details of existence to embrace the latest Nora Jones album. She trusts that the world will give her bouquets of roses, and at the same time, fears that the world will betray her trust. Her carefree matter-of-fact attitude masks her fragile sensitivity. I want to get lost in her smiling eyes and clapping hands; at the same time, I want to comb down her excitement and hide it from anyone who would see, in order to save her from any disappointment.

The youngest does not find her fulfillment in small talk. We attempt to exchange niceties, but we can't get far enough to float beyond them before her impatience bursts, "Um, do you want to talk to Mom?" However, when I come home, this one will join me in a run on our mountain trail, or stay up late and watch a "chick flick." She'll regard my petty frustrations with an aloof disinterest, but her out-of-context hugs are always free and warm. She makes outsiders compete for her regard, but she asks me wake her in the wee hours of the morning to say goodbye. Her family is the source of bossy orders directed at her as the youngest. But she misses anyone who's gone, and has suffered no loss of spinal column.

There must be so many unspoken memories we unknowingly share--memories that belong to us alone, because we're sisters. The Lord gave us all to the same family, and that family backdrop supported such different characters. But there's something that still holds us close to one another, no matter how different we are individually.

A mutual friend said once of Erin and me, "People who see both of you can tell that you're sisters. People who know both of you don't see how you can be sisters. People who really see inside each of you understand that you must be sisters."

I wonder if that's true for all five of us.