by Victoria -

My Sister

I originally wrote this May 14, 2015. My sister died just over 7 months later on December 30th. I was able to see her before she died and tell her I loved her.

The value of her life seems minimal. How many would really miss her when she’s gone? The prognosis isn’t at all good. Dismal, really.

Such a contrast between us. My sister and me.

I’ve always felt her jealousy. And I’ve always felt my mom’s affection against me and toward her. I’m not ‘special’ like my sister. I’m not needy like my sister.

And now she lays, very sick, in a hospital bed. And I haven’t gone to see her. I know it’s over a thousand miles, but still. If it were my children or grandchildren I would be there. Or my parents. But my sister, well, we have this history. And our history, evolving as it has, has erased most of any sibling love we may have had at one time in our lives.

So here I sit, contemplating her life and its value. She didn’t ask to have her brain not work properly. She didn’t ask to be schizophrenic. She didn’t plan her life to live in a group home, never learning to drive, working a little here and there, with no goals, no responsibilities, no others to lavish her love and attention on. She didn’t ask for what she ended up with.

But by the same token, I didn’t ask to be smart and beautiful either. I didn’t ask to have children I love and grandchildren I adore. I didn’t ask for these things. But that’s what God chose to give me.

I have so much, and she has so little.

Whose life has more value? Are we the same?

If we truly believe that God is the one who forms us and determines our destinies, and loves us equally, then I think we have to agree that, yes, we are the same. Our value is the same.

I would like to say that if I were still living in Michigan, close to where she is, that I’d be at the hospital on a regular basis to show her I love her. But I don’t know if that’s true. Our history infringes on my personal space, reminding me of our past. I’d like to tell myself that I’d be there for her, maybe to make me feel better. But she’s the one who isn’t feeling well. She’s the one who may be dying.

What is our life? A vapor. What is eternity? Forever.

Our value, then, must come from our forevers, not our heres.

My sister’s value comes from her humanness, and shouldn’t be affected by our history.

Did I mention her birthday is tomorrow?

Happy birthday, sister.

by Victoria -

My Someday Country

I linger at the window, not seeing the view from my second story apartment, my hands cradling my still warm cup of tea. I sigh deeply and close my weary eyes, envisioning a someday country in my mind. I let my fertile imagination envelope my senses, and I feel myself going back. Back to a place of sunshine and heat – the kind of heat that makes my skin smell alive.

This, my someday country, has incredible mountain views where I can visit any time I desire. I can gaze longingly on the Watchers from afar, or I can get up close and personal. Climbing through the scrub, up and around the winding trail, resting my hand momentarily on the smooth and warm surface of massive boulders birthed ages ago as I work my way upwards. Stepping carefully around jumping cholla, enthralled at the delicate flowers growing out of rock. Breathing ever more deeply as I work my way up higher and higher until I can see the way I came from the top of the small mountain. Tears slowly track their way down my cheeks as my heart is flooded with love for this place. It is a feeling hard to explain.

There, far below me is the path I took to get here. And further away in the distance the blue mountains and the snaking road, curving around, finding its way back from where I’ve come.

As I stand here on my own personal pinnacle, I can feel the beating of my heart slow and the sweat begin to dry on my skin as the breeze moves my hair, bringing coolness to my neck, whispering in my ear.

I linger over the view for some time, drinking in the beauty and the distance and the height. Filling my eyes and my heart with all I see and all I sense and all I hear. The deep, aching azure of the mountains. The smallness of the cars moving along the road. The towering saguaro holding their arms up high as if in praise. There is a peacefulness here that comforts me in my deepest places, healing the wounds obtained from living.

I don’t want to leave.

But there is no shelter here. Just some scraggly mesquite and palo verde trees with scant shade. I sigh deeply and attempt to absorb this place one last time, this moment, etching it forever in my mind and on my heart.

I turn and begin to steadily make my way down the other side, stepping carefully amid the loose stones until I gain the bottom, pausing every so often to listen to the beauty. I feel the history that occurred here. I feel the hopes and laughter and tears of others who left a piece of themselves in this place many years before me. So many who have lived and died here.

I feel their strength and their legacy. Their sacrifice and their triumph.

I hear the whisper of the wind again in my ear.

Now I know. I brought my someday country away with me. My mind’s eye and my heart are still filled with my mountains and my desert. Because I can never forget, I will always remember. As my heart revisits this place, my memories become etched ever deeper into my being.

And I now know I can draw on the strength and courage of every traveler who left a part of themselves behind in that beautiful and terrible place still resonating with their life force.

I can hear the wind whispering once again in my ear.

“Do not be afraid. This is the way, walk in it.”