The day began in darkness, with only the moon and her sparkling courtiers as my traveling companions through the city, a sky itself with glittering lights and dark splatters, crowded spots and lonely spots that wove like a terrestrial picnic blanket on the Midwestern ground. When sleeping fields finally appeared, the sun eased himself awake and warmed my back, lighting up and painting the barren trees and broken stalks amid snow. Snowdrifts graced the side of the road like frosted peaks, and I drove steadily west.
I neared the X at the end of my dashed line, and when I had looped around it like a bird landing, I found a sister to warm my soul and tea to warm my hands.
It began as it always does when we are tired: a story, some silence, some cooking, another story, some trying to wake up, some grocery shopping, this unsteady pattern. We always sort it out, and end in ferocious sister-laughter, sides hurting, hearts healing, a melody inimitable that tumbles like a leaf in the wind.
What we always find is how big He is in the small things. I fight for joy, counting, looking with faith that joy will be found. She sighs with the ease of old company, and I pen, and sister visits are always the best.