Long time coming

After my sister was about two years old and I got over her cute-ness factor, we fought constantly. Throughout my childhood, my grandmother told me to treat her with more kindness. She told me that when I left home, I'd miss her and I'd regret all our fighting. I left home. We kept fighting. I got married. We kept fighting. 

Even though we fought, and even though everyone around us told us we hated each other, we kept trying to be sisters. When we both lived in California, we visited each other fairly frequently for weekends at a time. But Sunday morning would come, and inevitably, no matter how smoothly the rest of the weekend had gone, within 3 hours of the departure, a huge fight would ensue. It would feel like whatever good we'd worked toward in the weekend would have been ruined. 

The one reprieve I remember from our bickering growing up was when I would be driving her around together, older siblings get that great honor of being the personal chauffer. While driving, we would roll the windows down and crank up some worship music and sing at the top of our lungs. Maybe there were other people in the car. Maybe they would look at us like we were crazy people. Maybe they would join in. But it was our thing. 

Now my sister lives on the other side of the country. 3000 miles away. And for a few years now, by the grace of God, we've finally started getting along. I DO miss her. Finally. I do regret our fighting, the missed years when we could have been enjoying life together. 

She's a great sister. She does her best to keep me more up to date on fashion, culture, music. She loves my daughter like crazy. She thinks of me and misses me. She loves me. 

And this weekend, as if it were "on the way," she made a jaunt up to Maine after a weekend in New York. She spent extra money, expended extra energy [she came on 2 hours of sleep], and she shared extra joy with us for less than 24 hours that she was able to stay. 

This morning, I drove her to the airport. She sat in the back seat with Sofia, keeping her entertained on the 40 minute drive. Within minutes of getting on the road, Sofia was asking to sing songs. Auntie Nina, as we call her now, went through as many nursery rhymes as young hip single woman might be expected to be able to recall before she looked up to me a bit baffled. I filled in a few more while Nina searched for ways to meet her nieces demands. As I concluded a round of "One little two little three little polar bears," my sister had some worship songs playing from her phone that she could sing along to. I hooked it up to the car speakers and turned the volume up high. We both both sang our hearts out. I could see the hands raised in the back. I raised my free hand up front. I heard her teaching Sofia how to raise her hands, I heard her cheering as Sofia supposedly did raise her hands along to the music. She initiated my daughter into our little tradition of praise. 

There were no fights this trip. And at the end, when we might have had our traditional parting hostilities, we were singing praises instead. Because, you know, that's our thing. 

It's been a long time coming, but I am so grateful that we've finally figured out how to love each other. And I'm so overwhelmed with joy that Sofia gets to be part of our fun and part of our love. God's grace is sweet.