For My Sister

We have a tradition in our church where tiny babies are given a blessing by their fathers. Sunday I listened as two fathers held their tiny children in their arms and blessed them. What’s remarkable every time I listen is how every blessing is exactly the same and completely different all at the same time. The blessings list every wish and every dream that father has for his child. They all want their children to be happy and they all have different ideas about what tools their children will need in order to be happy. They talk about education and marriage and the time when they will have families of their own. They lay out their hopes for a long life and every stage of it. The father’s fears are also laid out for all to hear. Please bless my child that she will be kindhearted or that she will be smart or that she will be strong and healthy. Please bless my son that he will value family, that he will recognize both the immense responsibility of being a father and the incredible blessing as well. Their hopes are just as loud. Bless my daughter that she will be given the means to accomplish whatever tasks she sets out to do in her life. Bless him to recognize truth.


From the moment they’re born we would sacrifice most anything in exchange for a guarantee that they will have a happy life. We think of our children as George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life,” knowing that the world will be different simply because they are alive. And we wish with all our hearts that they will innately know how special they are without God having to send an angel down to show them how sad the world would be without them.

Our parents felt the same way about us. The difference is that they have had more years to watch us grow and they’ve watched us make decisions that probably wouldn’t have. They’ve also watched the world bash into us—as it always will—like a tropical storm determined to test us to see if we are really willing to ride the storm out or if we’ll give up and exit stage right. I’m sure I’ve pleased and disappointed parents, made decisions they would never have made for me, and pursued dreams that they hadn’t even imagined when my dad was holding me in his arms to give me a blessing. But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch our children drag themselves through the difficult and profoundly unhappy parts of life. And, since we rarely have the same experiences, it doesn’t make us any wiser.

I have no idea what to tell my sister to help her now that she’s dragging herself through the tough stuff of life. Everything sounds like a cliché. “Hang in there!” “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” And, what’s worse, I have no idea if any of the advice I can spew out will do her any good whatsoever. Maybe that’s why we call it our personal life. It’s deeply personal and we have to make our own decisions because, for better or worse, we will have to live with the consequences of our decisions day in and day out.

All I know is that when I look at her I still see the little girl that my dad held in his arms so long ago. And although I can’t remember the words he said, I can remember how he protected all of us. How he supported our mother as she nurtured our dreams and how she believed in us when we didn’t believe in ourselves. She’s my little sister and my sincerest wish is that she be happy because I’ve never known anyone so full of life. I know that the world would be a darker place if I didn’t have my sisters.

I also know that hope floats. A cliché by any definition, but a truth none the less. Our parents sent their hopes for us floating on this vast ocean of life and, eventually, they’ll reach us and when they do we will be reminded just how loved we really are.