“A sister is on her way! A sister, for whom I would bend iron, swim torrents or even (perish the thought) do battle with clutter and dust bunnies. WHAT am I doing on FB? Up and working, lady!”
I posted that on Facebook the day that I realized I needed either a miracle or another week to whip my house into my preferred state for a sister’s visit. She and my brother-in-law live two provinces over and don’t come often.
As a younger woman, I scheduled routine household maintenance, and kept to the schedule. But as life filled with more important things like grandbeans and large projects, I let the scheduled tasks go in favour of a “when it jumps out and bites me” sort of maintenance.
That catches up on me whenever I start preparing for company – particularly sister company.
With each task, ten related ones pop up; things that once seemed important, but don’t anymore – until a sister visits. Dusting ceiling fans. Wiping baseboards. Painting worn stairs. Cleaning the back of the piano. De-cluttering the hall cupboards. Washing the window screens. Getting rid of last decade’s fashions from our closets.
Only for a big sister. Not that she’d care - or notice. When I mentioned in a text what I wanted to accomplish before V-day (visit day), she reacted. “STOP,” she wrote. “If you keep that up, we may just not come.”
A lovely sentiment, except… except… something in me won’t quit. Perhaps I need counselling, but I suspect there’s no fix. Older siblings have a power over us age doesn’t erase.
As a child, I looked to Beverly for authoritative answers on everything from clothing to friends. Almost always, I obeyed her. Wore what she chose, and didn’t wear what she knew “looked awful.”
And she knew everything. When the rare answer escaped her, she crammed her blue toque on top of her brown curls, perched on the edge of the bed, shut her eyes and commanded, “Be quiet, Kathy, I need to think.” Barely breathing, I waited. Answers always came.
We argued sometimes. Once I threw a hairbrush at her. But seldom did a conflict last. It couldn’t. Each night, before sliding between our covers, a single sentence spilled off our tongues, rapid as the raindrops on the roof over our attic bedroom.
“I’m sorry for all the bad things I said and did to you today. I’ll forgive you for all the bad things you said and did to me today if you’ll forgive me for all the bad things I said and did to you today.” Growing up with Jesus-following parents, you learn (or should) that confession and forgiveness matter in life – even if we didn’t get it quite right. But we meant it, and sleep followed.
I won’t have finished my list when Bev and Bruce pull in. But she’s right – it doesn’t matter. We’ll just make the most of the moments, even the messy ones, and thank God he made us sisters.
