Unraveling My Tattered Heart Strings

            Growing up, my sister and I always eagerly anticipated summertime.  Ashley and I would line up large garbage bags, squeeze out a whole bottle of dawn dish soap, and leave the hose running for hours as we reveled on our homemade slip ‘n slide.  Alabama summers consisted of frequent visits to the snow cone vendor in the Delchamps Grocer parking lot, swimming in our neighbor’s pool, and dancing in the neighborhood sprinklers with blades of grass sticking to our ankles.  Ashley always came up with the cleverest ideas- from homemade slip n’ slides to stuffed animal fashion shows, and secret slumber parties in the spare room (‘the play room’) above our kitchen. 
            There was something captivating about Ashley’s presence.  I loved and hated her at the same time.  I longed so desperately to switch places- in my eyes, she was the strong one, the brave one, the beautiful one, and I felt as if I were trapped in the shadow of something great.  Yet her greatness did not come without its consequences.  She received the blame whenever our plans went south; she would take on the punishment without tears.  She would never expose her weakness, and she rarely ratted me out. 
            I’ve always resented her for that.  Ashley would protect me with her life, she would bring home gifts from school when I was sick, and she called me her best friend, while I struggled to ever admit my love for her- my dependence upon her.  I suppose we both had our ways of protecting each other from feeling too much. 
            In 2005, when we dropped Ashley off at college, I remember feigning apathy until we had said our good-byes; I sat in the backseat of the car silently weeping the whole way home.  Through every move and every season, Ashley had been my constant- she took me for ice cream when I tragically bleached my hair to banana blond, she curled up beside me and made me laugh after my first heartache, she did my make-up for my first homecoming dance, she believed in my dreams- from an artist, to opening a shelter for abused dogs, to vet school, to teaching, to law school, to a cupcake bakery… my ambitions changed daily, but Ashley’s support was never assuaged.
 
            Life has a way of trading our plans with the unexpected, and God has a way of making the puzzle pieces fit together into a beautiful portrait of His glory.  However, in the moment of our broken dreams, proximity takes precedence over the big picture, and there is pain. 
            I couldn’t prevent the man from taking away my sister’s innocence, and I can’t fashion my sister back into the little girl who looked at the world’s trash bag and saw a slip n’ slide… no matter how hard I try, and believe me, I’ve tried.
           
            Prior to this trip, I felt as if I knew freedom.  I thought I had stopped blaming myself for my sister’s hurt, but as I walked down Bangla Road Friday night, I realized that forgiveness is a long process that I am just now commencing.  No matter how desperately I long to be God and to save the world, I can’t.
            On Friday night, I ran into Knit, my first friend from the bars.  Due to discomfort with her bar owner, as a team we decided not to pursue her any further at this time.  Yet, she came running towards me down Bangla.  She embraced me, and I was overwhelmed with joy.  Then, I watched helplessly as her customer grabbed her wrist and dragged her away.  I barely got the chance to say “I love you,” as he pulled her down the street.  In my mind, I saw my sister being pulled away from me again.  Despite my greatest efforts to feign strength, wayward tears flooded down my cheeks. 
 
            There will always be things that I cannot control.. hurts that I cannot heal, and mistakes that I cannot undo.  As I confront my inabilities, I believe that even though I am unable to heal the world, my God can, and with my mustard seed of faith, I proclaim that He will. He will. You will, Abba. Please.