My little sister Shea had a birthday this week. I can’t believe she’s thirty-five.
My sister is great. Most people would say Shea is my polar opposite – she doesn’t own a car or TV, raising chickens doesn’t freak her out, she can build a greenhouse on her own, she is confident making french fry grease into engine fuel, and she doesn’t shave her legs or armpits. I think people wonder how we are related. But if you really peer closely at how Shea and I both tick, we have so many qualities that mirror the other.
Like our stubborn streak. Our determination. Our love of music. Our love of sleep. And seeming tough, but being sensitive to people hurting or disappointing us.
My kids are so lucky to have Aunt Shea and Uncle Paul in their lives. Shea and Paul let them play in a chicken coop, feed them awesome hippie food, and have sing-a-longs with the guitar. They make up crazy games and homemade toys, grind grains in some old-fashioned doohickey, and go for canoe rides on the Jordan River. It’s like Camp Kumbaya over there.
Happy birthday, Shea. I adore you.