Living with parents

The time has come.
This is it.
The end of an era.
The beginning of...
Responsibility?

The sixth and final brother is gone. Leaving me with.. myself. In a week he will take an airplane allll the way to... Arizona... Where I will faithfully write him uplifting letters each and every week.

And me? I'll go through his stuff and put his junk to good use. His clothes, his MP3 player, his Gameboy, his room. It will miss him, but not as much as I will. I'll think about him every now and then. But mostly I just stay occupado and pretend he'll be coming home late tonight. Denial? Nah.. More like when a child clings to a blanket when his mother leaves. More like comfort food. Less like denial, more like that.

And you know what the neatest thing is? A week and a half later I'll get the opportunity to go to the baptism of my very dear friends. And as I sit on the pew surrounded by friends with enormous hearts and strong testimonies, I get to look up at the stand and see the four handsome missionaries sitting there and I get to say "My brother's doing that." And I get to see, with my very own heart, the great work he has set out to do. The life-changing message he gets to share. And I get to feel in my very own soul, the greatest Spirit of acceptance. And my very own love.

I know that my Redeemer lives.

As Christmas draws nearer, I feel like I'm moving backwards in time, backwards to turkey sandwiches and candied yams. Back to Thanksgiving and an everlasting warmth of gratitude. An attitude that has so fully enveloped my heart that it has changed my life and strenghthened my soul. Not to mention the burning testimony within that soul.

Merry Christmas.