Ode to Petchenya. (In D minor)

Our childhood together can be encapsulated by one event; an event so simple yet memorable that it has been retold by more memories and versions then there were people who actually witnessed it.

Our family, and some guests had assembled in our upstairs living room and were seated on the couch facing the all-star of the room, a beautiful old grand piano.

We had all gathered to hear Brooke play something. No one can remember exactly what, or even how old she was. It seems that she was a master of the piano before she was a master of conversation, so that issue gets a bit blurry at times. It is sufficient to say that no matter what impressive thing she played, the more impressive thing was how young and serious she was at her craft.

I could lie and say I remember being jealous of her getting attention. (As some theorize) but I don't remember that. I do remember later in life experiencing that particular emotion, but as far as this memory-- I don't even remember what I did, I have just been told about it so many times that I can almost remember doing it.

"Like Clark Kent into Superman," Is how my dad always tells it.

He was referring to the fact that one moment I was listening, fawning, "Ohhhhing" like the rest of them, and then the next moment I appeared in a leotard, a hula skirt, and a lei. (Foreshadowing for my future residence maybe?)

I didn't just appear. I arrived.

I twirled to center stage (or center room if you prefer) and began a vibrant display of some kicks and leaps.

The small audience came alive with laughter and clapping.

The enraged pianist played faster.

I copied a move from the Russian Dance in the Nutcracker where you hold your leg up to your head and spin really fast. The faster she played, the faster I spinned.

The pianist stopped.

I took a bow.

That is it. That is the whole story, but perhaps without saying anymore about US you can understand US better.

We are sisters.

Same thick hair, same funny knees, same big eyes, same mysterious bumps on our head.

But,

We never painted our toenails together.

We never stayed up late chatting about boys together.

We did not enjoy shopping together.

And we never SHARED clothing. (Unless you count how I "borrowed" most of her wardrobe while she was a missionary in Canada, and she dutifully returned the favor by "borrowing" my things when I served a mission in DC.)

We were not what mothers envision when you hear the word sisters.

Yet I am starting to think that the typical assumptions of sisterhood might actually limit the possibilities.

There was a point that Brooke and I found an alliance of sorts. It is silly that it took us so long as I don't think either of us would be the same without the other.

At times it was her radio-active personality traits that caused me to bend, to walk paths I wouldn't have chosen without her, to develop character traits that were a repercussion of her influence rather than a natural evolution. Sometimes it was my existence, my defiance to everything she did, that caused her to bend, to see things differently, and to walk into a new paradigm. We were like two chemicals that refused to combine, but became different elements completely, because of the others existence.

And now, I like myself completely and I like Brooke just as much even though we have grave differences over unimportant things like Mac vs. PC and John Schmidt vs. Bach. She is my fellow artist spirit. We share passions, convictions, often opinions, and definitely memories. Oh am I grateful that I have a sister!

I am sure people wonder why when I share something about US I feel I have to give a history. And to that I respond, "Can't you see? We have been unraveling each other our whole lives. And though neither of us are a finished knit, though both of us have vibrantly different colors, we are an inverted pattern of each other!"

What I am trying to write today isn't so much about sisters as it is about Brooke, but I feel so invariably linked to the whole ordeal because of the preciousness of HER story, and my real evolving love for her.

Today my beautiful, talented, motivated, unique sister had her first baby!

I am miles away from her but I feel like if I were there I would be at the hospital window gawking at her child and telling nurses, and other visitors, "That's MY nephew! MY sister brought him into the world!"And I would say it with more pride than I had when she played the lead in her school play, then when her compositions won awards and where published in magazines, then when her opera was performed, then when she graduated from college, went on a mission, got her master's degree, started a business from scratch, and even when she baked her first loaf of bread.

If I could go to her hospital room I would bring her a medal as if she had just finished the Boston Marathon. (Because really, she practically did!) And even though I loved her before I feel that I love her even more now because there is a reverence that you gain for people when you know that they have gone to the deep dark place of pain and struggle, that only hero's and mother's can emerge from. There is a birth of newness that envelopes a person when you know God has carved a great eternal principle on their souls.

Her birth story is hers to share, but her baby being here is a miracle.

As her sister I applaud her, congratulate her and her wonderful spouse, and offer deep thanks that I have her in my life. ( I suppose here would be a good place to insert a thanks to my mother for her similar marathon and the fact that she didn't stop with just one...or the "sister" part of this story would never have been written...)

Congratulations Brooke and Ben!

Я тебя люблю!