Today my daughter Carmen turns eighteen; tonight she will attend a concert in a nearby city with her best friend. Tomorrow, she heads to Laramie, WY, to attend orientation at the university there and, perhaps more important to her, to visit her older sister, Laura. Although they have all kinds of plans for tattoos and 18-and-over activities, I know that just the prospect of spending the two days after her birthday with Laura makes Carmen’s celebration last longer. Laura has lived at least four hours away for the past ten months, and when you've grown up practically connected, only eighteen short months apart, such a separation feels unnatural. It will be good for both of them to spend these next two days together.
Thankfully, next fall they will once again have the opportunity to see each other more, as Carmen joins Laura in Laramie. After only just going through Laura's graduation and move to college, I am having trouble believing that Carmen has now graduated and will move from home in just over three months.
I've fallen into the habit these last few weeks of thinking of the two of them, Laura and Carmen, as a pair once again, the way I did when they were little girls. Back then, their natures balanced between opposites: Laura's blond to Carmen's brunette; Carmen's rowdiness to Laura's bookishness; Laura's obedience to Carmen's . . ahem . . not obedience. As they grew older, still the differences surfaced: Laura's cats to Carmen's horses; Carmen's outside to Laura's inside; Laura's procrastination to Carmen's organization; Laura’s math and writing skills to Carmen’s agriculture and speaking talents. But rather than divide them, the differences made them a stronger pair. Certainly they fought through the normal sibling disagreements that all sisters have, particularly during their junior high years; but as they've grown older, the fights have gradually lessened. I consider it a gift that these two sisters make the choice to spend time together whenever they can.
And their choice reminds me of two sisters I used to know: my Grandma Quinn and her sister, Marcella. We kids knew Marcella as Sister Margaret Francis, for she was a Franciscan nun. Sister would willingly spend each of her summer vacations at Grandma and Grandpa Quinn's farm, just to be close to Grandma and their other sister, Aileen. Just as with my girls, the differences among these three women created an energy that was stronger than its individual pieces.
As I did a year ago, I am writing this blog for my now-graduated daughter -- this year for Carmen. But instead of writing about the lessons her Papa Lipp would have taught her -- lessons that Carmen internalized years ago -- I will write instead of the wisdom of Sister Margaret Francis, a great-aunt about whom Carmen knows very little. The rest of this post, then, is for Carmen:
Look for the little surprises, the small beauties in life.
Sister Margaret Francis had, through her teaching and missionary work, many opportunities to travel. In fact, the wood carving that hangs on our dining room wall -- the one that portrays the Last Supper -- came from her, from her work in Chile. Had you known her, Carmen, you would have enjoyed her stories, as you share her love of travel. Still, Sister chose to return to South Dakota every summer, rather than visiting new places. This decision was, of course, based on her camaraderie with her sisters, but she never seemed to feel bored by the plains. Rather, she delighted in the small, tucked-away beauties of the prairie -- the birds, wildflowers, fields. On her daily walks, she found something interesting, pretty, or rewarding to focus on each day, and she talked of being grateful for those small surprises. Life won't always offer you big, exciting events: sometimes, Carmen, you will have look carefully to find your own reasons for joy.
Rather than complaining about things you can't have, appreciate those things you do.
Finding those small reasons for joy will give you something to hold on to when disappointments hit. Sister Margaret Francis battled Type I diabetes since girlhood; it was eventually the reason for her death in 1993. She loved to bake, however, and would prepare cakes and cookies for others to eat; I don't remember ever hearing her complain that she couldn't indulge in the sugary treats. When I was a girl, I didn't realize how much her health conditions hampered her enjoyment of pleasures I took for granted; now that I'm older, I am amazed at the courage it took, not to live resignedly with her condition, but to accept it and find other joys. You, my beautiful daughter, will certainly face disappoinments, times when you feel that pleasures you deserve to experience are taken from you -- by health conditions, by financial circumstances, by other people's choices. My hope is that, once you move through the initial anger and sadness that these times will bring, you will face your life with brave acceptance, and make the most of what you do have.
The world is not black and white: be true to your ideals, but be careful about judging others.
Lest I make it seem that Sister was a saint, I should also tell you that she sometimes made comments that were hurtful or unkind -- particularly when she felt others' behavior fell below her ideology. Great-nieces and nephews who made choices of which she didn't approve, or the farmers in our family whose business decisions she didn't understand often heard judgement, not acceptance, in her well-intentioned words of advice. While it is one thing to have morals, it is another to impose them on others. Carmen, you, too, can speak judgementally about the behavior of people around you; while you should not hide your truth, be careful about speaking it in a way that is not helpful or kind. Realize that not everyone's standards are the same as yours, and let compassion, not ideology, be your guiding philosophy.
Let your differences -- with friends, with colleagues, with sisters -- be a source of strength and learning.
Sister Margaret Francis obviously did not have children, but she learned much about motherhood and the joyful chaos of family life from her own sisters; likewise, those sisters did not travel much beyond South Dakota, but they learned about the world from listening to Sister's stories. The differences among them became a source of growth. During your childhood and adolescence, you at times felt very removed from your own sisters because of different interests, different personalities. You were never much for playing dolls and dressing up; you always preferred outside activities, and the muddier, the better. You love country music and horses; Laura loves all music but country, and rarely rides. Your natural tendency is to be friendly and extroverted -- sometimes even a little loud -- and so Maria's quiet introversion often confuses you. Yet through travel, through band and FFA activities, through living in a large family, you have learned that it takes all kinds of people to make the world interesting. You've had to adapt your own behavior to create comfortable relationships with the two sisters closest to you; and you've grown as a person because of that.
Trust that separation is not permanent.
Unfortunately, Carmen, since early childhood, your life has been marked by the loss of friends and classmates – sometimes to long-distance moves, but also to death. Some of those deaths were suicides; others, unfortunate accidents. Likewise, people who are close to you have “gone away” in another sense: by changing in such a way that they became strangers. Somehow, Carmen, you keep smiling, and your attitude is marked by hope, rather than resignation or gloom. Perhaps in this way more than any other, you remind me of Sister Margaret Francis. Deep inside you lies an abiding faith, a faith that is truly a grace of God. Hold on to that faith, Carmen. Those you have loved who are no longer visible to you are still somehow connected. I know you know this, given how often you visit Brandon’s grave. Those friends who move away, or who never lived close to you in the first place, will remain friends despite physical distance. Those who have made choices that make them seem far away will someday come back to you.
It's always seemed appropriate to me, Carmen, that your birthday happens just after the summer solstice: the world-wide celebration of light. You bring joy and light to our corner of the world, and I know you will bring that same light with you as you move on to bigger places. Like Sister, be light and joy and simplicity whenever you can; and when you can't, trust that the darkness never lasts forever.
Happy Birthday, dear Carmen.
