10 Activities to Celebrate Sisterhood

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

“A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.” 

~Marion C. Garretty

She has annoyed you, frustrated you, and raided your closet on more than one occasion. And, although you can’t prove it, you are sure she is responsible for the Brussels sprout incident that was entirely blamed on you.

On the other hand, she has applauded you, inspired you, and held you close when you cried. And you’re not quite sure how it happened, but the teen magazine you wanted but couldn’t afford ended up on your pillow.

Your sister is a mixed bag of wonderful. During her younger years, she may have ruffled your feathers now and then, but in the long run she proved to be a keeper.

A Perfect Memory

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

With a sigh, my mind carries me back home to smalltown Porterville, to a hundred-year-old home and a side yard with a swing set and plenty of grass for games of tag and Red Rover. Next to the yard, a field is tufted with weeds and grass and newborn lambs.

My fingers are crossed, tight as can be, that my neighbors will be outside at the precise time that I am. Hope rises as I see the huge baby bottles of milk being carried to the field. I look at my sister. She looks at me. We share the same question. Will we be invited to help feed the baby sheep?

Campaign Interrupted: Governor Christine Gregoire’s Battle Against Breast Cancer

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

The cancer was silent. Its victim was not.

In 2003, Christine Gregoire was serving her third term as Washington State’s attorney general and in the midst of her campaign to win the democratic gubernatorial nomination for our state.

She was also the recipient of heart-stopping news: she had breast cancer.

The 56-year-old had no evident symptoms, no nagging premonitions that anything was wrong. It was a few months shy of her annual physical exam and mammogram, but with a demanding campaign on the horizon, she wanted to assure the public she was in good health and ready to become governor. She made the appointment with her doctor.

Her checkup was fine. No lumps in the breast. No swollen lymph nodes. But that mammogram. That mammogram.

Wait

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

The Easter bunny visited Mom’s hospital room with help from my nephews. At the clever ages of 10 and eight, the boys didn’t want Grandma to miss out on Easter treats just because she was in the hospital for a second knee replacement surgery.

A few days later, Mom returned to her Utah home to recuperate. My sister and the boys lived nearby and would help provide care. Neighbors planned to pitch in, a nurse would stop by throughout the week and a physical therapist would visit twice a week.

I lived in Washington State with my husband and two young daughters. I desperately wanted to be with Mom after her surgery, but after much prayer, I realized I wasn’t meant to go home to Utah. I felt guilt — oddly combined with comfort — but each time I prayed, the answer was “wait.”

Learning to Love the Kitchen

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

I married into a nice German family and was blessed with a mother-in-law who is caring and understanding. She’s also a great cook. This was definitely a boon for me, since the culinary gene of my own talented family seemed to skip my generation. Well, more definitively, the culinary gene skipped me. My sister’s a great cook. Now I’m not saying that I couldn’t boil water when I became a wife, but I will admit to a Jell-o fiasco that continues to haunt my dreams. And I won’t mention the hamburger incident at my college dorm. My husband still teases me about the fire trucks.

It’s not that my own mother didn’t try to teach me a few cooking skills. She was known for her great meals and had a stack of blue ribbons that proved her worth in the kitchen. It’s just that I wasn’t into cooking. I’m more into power tools. Or reading books. Or taking walks in the country. Basically, I’m into anything that doesn’t require a spatula.

Forget-me-knots of Heaven

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

“Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven

Blossomed the forget-me-knots of the angels.”

These words, written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1849, first captured my attention when I was a freshman in high school. My imagination fancied angels dancing through fields of green, with blue forget-me-knots magically filling the footsteps the angels left behind. My vision was fanciful — fitting for a young teenager. 

A few short years later, as a teenager on the brink of adulthood, my innocence began to open its eyes to the impact others have on our lives. I began to realize how beautiful and true Longfellow’s words really are.