I have a sister and also it's Christmas.

Sandra.  Her name means "defender of men" and is a derivative of the Greek "Alexandra."  After meeting her for the first time again, since she was two and I six, yesterday, my mind is brimming with facts and more than I can hold.  I've been telling all my loved ones as much of it as I can in the snippets of our lives we manage to intersect and yet I come home to so much of it left untold, and, like an affectionate kitty, it hops in my lap the moment I sit down and demands my attention.  The truth is, Sandra and I started a conversation that I am desperate to not lose and yet my own life seems a little too messy to house our new connection.  


It's the beginning of November and I want to immerse myself in the spiritual wonderland we Protestants call Christmastime. I am listening to Christmas music as I write and am determined to let at least a part of me remain aware of the simple pleasures these two months afford me.  Forgetting to schedule so much, as everyone is "so busy with the Holidays," they tend to want to postpone all things obligatory.  Smelling and cooking and giving and glueing and cutting and creating for the first time in months.  While many seem to get in high gear around Christmas, I tend to take that as my cue to lay low and look at lights and my children more closely.  I love giving and getting presents with the best of them, but my husband's choice to go back to school and my former one to drop out before obtaining my degree have left us with about two dollars.  


I do not remember any Christmases with Sandra.  In fact, we share one of the few memories I do have with her.  I was absolutely stunned when she told me on the phone yesterday that she remembers a dark-haired girl comforting her in a dark bedroom, seeming to be hiding her.  As I remember her face, whatever my 8-year old mind could record, it gets instantly replaced by my own 2-year old's face, Berea.  She is suddenly mine, more than ever, in my memory.  Strangely, I had always thought she was 4, but I realize now, that it was because I related to her as though she were very near me in age.  Not having had a child to see the development, I just felt she was a younger version of me.  So, back to our shared memory.  She remembers a dark-haired girl who was trying to comfort her in the dark.  I am elated at the fact that she remembers what I intended at the time.  So, here's what was really happening:  She had come to spend the weekend with my dad and my grandmother and when her mom came to pick her up, my dad lied and said she wasn't there.  Her mom got the police involved and my dad had told me to take her to the back bedroom and keep her with me there.  Curiosity got the best of me, and I snuck down the hall with her and peered around the wall and of course, the police saw her and got her.  I forever felt guilty that I had "let them find her."  As if they wouldn't have gone looking, anyway. I am just thankful that, somehow, God preserved that memory of her with me and we were allies in it.  That is all I hope to be to her now.


"Let's hope its a good one, without any fear...So this is Christmas...and what have we done?  The near and the dear ones, the old and the young..."  It's the only time of year where we honestly hope that every single person we know can be happy.  To have a loved one be sad on Christmas, although a common plight, I'm sure, seems to be an utmost failure of our own.  It just seems the one time of life where we aren't happy until everyone is.  And probably how we're supposed to be living life all year, but I thank God for coming at a specific time and making a cause for celebration, remembrance, and contemplation.   There will be a time and place where the Government will rest on His shoulders and we will make it our business at all times to make others as happy as ourselves.  For now, I am thankful that Heaven came to earth, for at least a night...is there another account of myriads of angels rejoicing in the sight of men?  Other than Revelation, where they sing Holy, Holy, Holy day and night...But here, on the night He was born, they can't help but invite men.  Humble shepherds.  It is so easy to make them sinless in our minds, as well as Mary and Joseph, and the Wise Men.  But we know this couldn't be true and they are simply in the right place, at the right time, when God wants to be happy about something, and He can't help but involve his delicate creation...and they do the only appropriate thing:  come and see...worship...stay awhile...I wonder if they knew when to leave?  I wonder if they wanted to see Jesus when Mary had just finished nursing Him to sleep.  "Can we see the baby??!" as my sweet friends said to me right at Anderson's bedtime, 5 days after we were home.  I wished they had offered to clean my house and I wonder if Mary was relieved of some of that compulsion by the mere fact that you can't exactly clean a stable.  Freed up to be with Him, herself.  So.  As I want so badly to make my house perfect, and I probably will, and my life perfect for all the visitors that come and want to see Him, I will try to remember the earthy smell of hay and horses and know that to "prepare Him room" is really all that is needed.  

Something I wrote the day (night) Jesse proposed to me.

I wish I had my camera phone still. I would take a picture of the windows in my room letting in the bright yet fading light of this February 12 winter's day. I have so much to say that it just seems easier to look at the tiny yellowish green leaves braving the cold, and wonder if they will stay til summer. ForChristmas, Naomi gave me these two lovely plastic plates with purple dogwoods on them. They perch perfectly on each of the handles of my window. Between them is a picture of the Boondogs and their little boy and big dog. I will be relying on the 10 cups of sugared-in-the-pot, Dulce de Leche Coffeemate-laden coffee previously consumed to fuel this one-sided conversation and not unlike other one-sided conversations we've all found ourselves (not) a part of, it may seem like the one talking is masking an unseemly amount of insomnia. Insomnia is usually unseemly, I would say, unless it is Seymour Glass's insomnia or some guy who is going to propose the next day. Aaahhh... an actual subject. I am so done pretending to be writer now. Was it fun for anyone at all? That's another thing people that drink coffee instead of sleep tend to do, I bet. So there's sort of a reason for the no sleeping thing on my part. "Thank you for calling YOUR 24 hour Walgreen's, this is Shaniqua, can I help you?" That 's my line. Last night I helped a guy from Chicago with an African accent pick out a Valentine present for a girl who he has known for 6 months and came in with a little piece of paper with the word "ALMONDS" written on it. I also met the sweet, waifish German girl who bought some German chocolate, Toffinay or something, and I told her I liked Nutella and she said "Yah, it's so much better than peanut butter. Because it has chocolate. That's the part I really like anyway, the chocolate." We were in total sync. She has Dido hair, almost exactly. As a matter of fact, the night started off really nicely with a Dido song playing and me thinking about my boyfriend during the whole thing and pretty much making sure no one got to leave the store knowing my eyecolor. "And even if I'm there, they'll all imply that I might not last the day, and then you call me and it's not so bad, it's not so baa aa ad...NnDAH-ahhh Want to Thank You..." Also spoke with some Turkish-ly delightful girls as well. One girl as white and strawberry blonde as I was but her two friends had some dark chocolate hair and clothes trendy enough to have been borrowed from E., the German girl's closet. They were talking the whole time they were checking out, all using the same credit card to pay for their orders separately. I said "Together?" And they said "Yes." Then when I started to put the next girl's order on the previous, one that spoke the most often to me said one of her total of 4 sentences to me, "Separate." They were a great picture of Together and still Separate in the way they looked so different but the conversation didn't seem to have a starting or stopping point. The language had both the runnning into itself nicely that French seems to and the occasional sharp corners that French doesn't seem to. That coffee is making me take sharp corners in order not to...nevermind. Not going to finish that metaphor. So I have alluded to one thing...I almost gave up dragging everyone around like this but just know I've been along for the ride and all its sudden turns with you and now I just want to say, the ride is so much nicer with Leigh Nash's music. At least the bumps are accounted for and the starkness is stared at squarely. Oh yeah, done being a writer. Right. So, going to push play again on her myspace to the song "Along the Wall."

If you ask me to come, I'll say Go

If you say you love me, I'll say 'Sure if you say so.'

whatever you tell me, I wont believe you

If you try, try to make me

oooo i would like to know which one is willing to lose

All along the wall

Between us

I see a teacher [something 80s in her voice here]

there for us

i look at the wall

i see right through it

there is a door

where I am standing

without a key

without a clue

without you [here she sounded like Jewel]

i am wandering

wondering about you

its a cold cold night

are you gonna call me?

and tell me about

how i go on and on about you

being like you used to be

how it's all

about me

ooo i would like to know

who is the wounded one

which one would make the move?

which one is willing to lose

i see a teacher

there for us

i look at the wall, I see right through it

i lean on the wall

there for us

you're my heaven

and my feet

beyond myself

you're my shadow

i am hollow

all along the wall...

So what I started this all about is to tell everyone about this boy whose voice I make a point to hear every day, more regularly than I brush my teeth, if you want to know the truth. Time to let the fireflies go! I hear you scream. Thank you if you were one of the few who believed they were still alive, slow-moving though they be, and are still reading. Our hands. They seem to know better than us that we should be together. He never seems to be weary of me/mywords/myface/mystupidhairandoutfitsand'lip-lick" but i was reminded by Someone Very Important that

Love is Blindness.

It's a really great song done by U2 and re-done even better, in my opinion, by Sixpence None the Richer. I spent this week with only one contact in, and when I look at how things are feeling in my closest relationships, I'm wondering if Bono's dangerous idea might almost make sense...

With one contact in, you relax a little, because if you hurry too much, you'll trip and stuff. So all that not hurrying (which, I am sure no one in my family noticed the speed-settings change, I just feel it myself) makes you see more of everyone else.

What I've seen of Anderson is that just the promise of closeness goes a long way with that little boy. When I say something like, "Do you wanna be close and show me you wanna be close by working on the same thing as me? i.e. getting dressed, getting a coat on to get out the door for wherever we probably don't need to be as urgently as I want to be "or do you want to be in your room by yourself with the door closed a little?" he is quick to respond with "I wanna be close!" And so I'm trying to remember that being close is what we're after instead of merely getting from Point A to Point B.

What I've seen of Berea is that even though, thus far, she has been an avid hugger/holder, recently she has begun to articulate her thoughts with such precision and poise, that I want to write down every word. She isn't two until February 6th, remember? Of course, when it's time to recall a sentence, I can't. She can talk, ok. And she's really good at it. Best example I can think of right now: "Dat's me." When I felt her foot touching my leg under the dinner table and asked "Is that you touching my leg?" Short sentence, long on clever/timely/adorable-ness.

With Jesse, I have realized that most of the love that is happening, is probably happening when I look away, and so much of my love seems never to escape my chest, either. Only when we get to re-watch the movie, with Commentary, will we notice and feel all the love our days have been soaked in all along. Til then, it's best we both turn blind eyes toward each other and see the rest in the softer, easy light of nearsightedness. To him I say, Glad you are here. Glad you are near. Would only want this nearness with you.

So, these are all accounts of someone seeing someone better, more completely. And in some cases, blindness helped. Here are the lyrics, in case you had them running through your head but couldn't quite make them out:

Love is blindness
I don't wanna see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me?
Oh my heart
Love is blindness
In a parked car
In a crowded street
You see your love
Made complete
Thread is ripping
The knot is slipping
Love is blindness

Love is clockworks
And cold steel
Fingers too numb to feel
Squeeze the handle
Blow out the candle
Love is blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me?
Oh my love
Blindness

A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby, a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense

Love is drowning
In a deep well
All the secrets
And no one to tell
Take the money
Honey
Blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me?
Oh my love
Blindness.