Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Omelets at Midnight

It was 11PM. I was almost to dreamland when I received a text message from Lauren that interrupted the journey.


I sighed and texted back: coming.

So much for getting to bed early.

I arrived downstairs where Corrie and Lauren were already busy cutting up onions, cracking eggs, and buttering the frying pans. The several doors that lead to the kitchen were closed to conceal the noise, though we would still have to talk in whispers.

I don’t remember what we talked about that night. We’ve had so many middle-of-the-night kitchen parties that they all run together. That evening was omelets. On other nights we’ve made pancakes, warmed up leftovers, or cooked a pizza. It would just depend on what we felt like. Sometimes, we’d even run down the street to Sonic and get slushies.

I was addicted to making memories with my sisters. Even if it did interrupt my sleep, I didn’t want to miss anything. I’m pretty sure Corrie and Lauren felt the same way.

Closeness was an understatement. There was a time where I would describe my shadow or my conscience as one or all of my sisters.

Though it’s not so much that way anymore—circumstances changed and we all lead different lives—that was bound to happen some day. We were always aware of this and constantly lived under the belief that it would not be this way forever.

That’s why sleep wasn’t so important when omelets were on the menu.

Even so, what I had with my sisters—and still have, to some extent, today—was magic. Very often, this magic would extend beyond our family and would envelope a girl who didn’t have sisters. That would make the magic stronger.

One summer evening, Lauren and I sat on our roof and looked at the stars. By light of a candle, we read Isaiah 40, where God gives names to all of the stars.

What would it be like to name a star?

I’m sure it felt a little like having omelets in the middle of the night. I’m sure it felt like sitting on the countertops because we didn’t want to make noise pulling out the chairs around the table. I’m sure it felt like suppressing laughter at something that caused you to double over, but when morning came you couldn’t remember why it was so funny.

I’m sure it felt like magic.

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