Sissie and me, not long after our first shared "birth" day.
For fifteen years we celebrated our birthdays together.
Sometimes they were long-distance celebrations. Cards and phone calls. Sometimes a room full of people sang “Happy Birthday” to the two of us. Those years, we shared cakes and posed together for pictures. She entertained my friends with elaborate (and messy) party games.
She was our aunt, but we called her Sissie. I used to think the reason our relationship with her was special was because she had no children of her own. I’m sure now that it was really she who was special. I think she would have loved us that much even if she’d had a house full of her own kids.
Three days after my fifteenth birthday, she died on a long, straight stretch of country road. Twenty years ago.
Here’s the thing about losing someone you love (something I imagine most of you already know): it doesn’t hurt less, just differently. The pain doesn’t go away, but you do become accustomed to it.
Also, this: it grows.
Loss is not a one-time event. It reveals itself over time, becoming bigger and more unwieldy with each missed birthday, wedding, graduation, child’s birth.
I still enjoyed my birthdays after 15, it’s just that they felt lopsided. Too much me. Someone else always missing.
Thirteen unshared birthdays.
Until I turned 29. That day my son was born.
Me and Thaddeus. Our first birthday together.
This Saturday, we share our sixth birthday together.
I will celebrate my 35th birthday with a gluten-free, dairy-free cake. It will be decorated with Hot Wheels. I love butter, and I do not care for Hot Wheels, but I’m finally old enough to wonder whether Sissie really wanted to celebrate her birthday by orchestrating games of Chubby Bunny for twenty-two six-year-olds.
It’s not the wanting that matters (because, if I’m honest, I want a cake full of butter and wheat, I want a party attended by adults, and I want another shared birthday with Sissie). It’s the love that matters most. In this case, love looks like celebrating 35 with a Hot Wheels cake. Love means no time alone with my husband, just a date to see the latest Pixar movie with a six-year-old boy.
Small things that give me just a glimpse of a much, much bigger love.
Because love is a God who will one day restore all that has been lost (no matter how big that loss has become).
And love is a God who is always, every day, giving new gifts.
This is beautifully written. I love the glimpse into your heart, your hurt. I love the details, the picture, the truth you share.
Thank you.
And happy birthday, my friend!!!!
Thank you so much, Jamee!
wow! crying. Love it
oh, christie. beautiful. crying like Lisa.
it’s hard to imagine seeing her again, introducing her to our kids, but we will won’t we? we will!
i think next time we get the grands together again we should make a point of teaching them all of sissie’s games. i definitely want them know the same laughter in their lives that sissie gave us:)
Good idea, Kelli.
aaaaaah – so beautiful – crying with all of you. Such great memories and so beautifully written as always. Love you
This made me cry. How cool that our God uses a date on the calendar to heal us? My daughter and 1st granddaughter of my mother-in-law, Mot, shared the same birthday. Rae turned 1 when she turned 60. When Mot died of cancer at 64, the shared birthday’s meaning became so much deeper. Bittersweet but further proof that God’s in the details…
This is so beautiful, Christie. You are such a wonderful communicator. I have such fond memories of Connie (Sissie). She loved sharing her birthday with you and her nieces and nephew meant the world to her. She would be so proud of you and would have been thrilled to share your birthdays with Thaddeus – complete with chubby bunny and hot wheels! Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Sandy. And I have so many fond memories of spending time with Sissie and you! You two were a package deal, and my siblings and I loved it. xxoo