When Rebecca was born I was 6 years old. She was a runty little thing with white corkscrews all over her head. She bit and cried and laughed and danced little jigs in diapers that always hung down to her knees.
(She was allowed two trunks. Mom decorated them for her so she could easily spot them at baggage claims)
I thought about that as she walked through security and out of our lives for the next year.
I thought about when she was 2 and picked up discarded toothpicks and gum off the ground and popped them in her mouth.
I thought about the first time she killed a spider for me. I was 10 and she was 4. I stood on the bed and screamed as she chased it around the room, finally smashing it with dad's house shoe.
She was brave, even back then.
I thought about the baby I will have without her here. I thought about how the next year won't be quite as bubbly or warm. I thought about the hole in my heart that can't be filled by anyone else. I thought about my youngest sister Rachel, and then I called her and threatened her life if she even so much as THOUGHT about leaving the country this year.
We watched as Rebecca went through security and walked to her terminal. We watched and cried until we couldn't see her anymore. Mom cried the most. Dad just got misty. I'm proud that she asked for God's will in her life... and that she was brave enough to go for it. I admire her, I love her.