Today is my sister’s birthday; she’s 48 years old. I can’t send her a birthday card because she doesn’t have an address. I can’t call her because she doesn’t have a phone. I can’t visit her because I don’t know where she is. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen her. She’s not dead, she’s just gone. It’s an existence stranger than death, a ghost-like existence. There have been sightings from family and friends, people who think they’ve seen her, or who have actually spoken with her. My dad drives a school bus, and on a few occasions he thinks he sees her on the street during one of his routes; he’ll drive back to that spot after work only to find she’s not there. Maybe she wasn’t ever there in the first place. Maybe he just thinks he sees her out of that steadfast spark of hope in the back of his mind.
I saw my dad today, but I didn’t mention it. I kind of hope his terrible birth-date memory for all of us four kids might be a grace on this occasion. When I saw my mom she said, “Do you know what today is?” I know this is her awkward way of talking about my sister without talking about my sister. Of course I remember my sister’s birthday. Growing up, we often celebrated our birthdays together because it’s just a few days after mine. We’re ten years apart, but she was always game for fun and didn’t mind having a CareBear cake one year, or a MyLittlePony cake another year. She was vivacious and loved with a generous heart. (I write more about her here.)
My sister is selectively homeless. She might not look at it that way, but there were many open doors to her—all with the condition of going through recovery and staying clean. She wanted her independence, or her independence as she saw it. She reached out to my parents a couple times, asked for a warm sleeping bag, things like that, but eventually she cut off all contact.
This year I’m feeling pretty sad. I think the first few years—maybe like the grieving process—I didn’t feel too sad. At first it was like she’d slammed a door in everyone’s faces and I just yelled back a petulant fine-be-that-way. Then I tried joking about it. Then I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me. All the while I’ve also been telling myself I shouldn’t feel this strongly about it. She’s only my half-sister, or I can’t possibly feel as badly as my dad or her son, or I haven’t been close to her in a long time. All those things are true, but they don’t change my love and concern for her, nor do they change the pain of separation.
Today is my sister’s birthday and I wish I could see her. Even if it would be awkward and uncomfortable. I wish I could send her an inappropriately funny birthday card, the kind she would love. A birthday celebrates someone’s life, and I want her to know she’s loved and her life is important. In the struggle and confusion of dealing with addiction, I don’t know that I always showed her that. I cling to the mystery of God’s timing, the power of healing at work that I can’t see, the mystical body of Christ praying for her and others like her. God’s mercy is endless– both for me in the ways I have fallen short in loving her, and for all that weighs on her heart.
