"Let's run a half marathon!" Whitnee suggested, her excitement oozing through the typed Facebook message.
It was one of those ideas I thought would fade away, but it lingered. My little sister often imagines lofty dreams, few of which my realistic self will take seriously. She is only 18 months younger than me, but we couldn't be more different.
One of my favorite questions to ask people about their siblings is, "If you weren't related to your sister/brother, would you still be friends?" Whitnee takes the hopeful approach when answering the question, but I tend to be more realistic. I don't think we'd be friends. We'd annoy each other too much. She's spontaneous and daring, I'm predictable and practical. It makes her the fun one, and me the responsible one. We are the quintessential birth-order stereotypes.
But for some reason, this idea one was different. Running a half marathon seemed doable. I applied my organizational skills to Whitnee's grandiose vision and soon, we found ourselves with an actual plan.
The weekend of the half, Whitnee was dog sitting for her nanny family, so we lived in their beautiful home in Burbank for the weekend. The Agora Hills half marathon was Saturday morning, and we were in the race.
Lesson #1: Crazy Dreams Can Happen. Just go for it.
It was Whitnee's first half marathon--and for some reason, neither of us had made the time to really train. Ah the things we learn in hindsight. Jake and I had run the Rock n' Roll half in Denver two years before, so I naturally assumed all half marathons came with masses of people filling the city streets on a Sunday morning, encouraging cheers, frequent water stops, and clever poster boards lining the course. This half, however--The Great Race--was unlike the Rock n' Roll. We gathered with maybe 200 other crazy people, and took off running through the misty hills. Though beautiful, the upbeat energy I counted on from the gatorade, funny signs, and clanging cowbells wasn't there. As we ran, we came to the heart-stopping realization that this was a race for actual runners--for dedicated athletes who did smart things, like TRAIN!
We found ourselves trudging along without another runner in sight. As expected, we started strong; we may have even boasted about how easy running at sea level was. She intentionally documented our run with snapchat, that is, before her phone died. Apparently its charge that night had been unsuccessful.
Lesson #2: If you want to document a long-suffering run for all your snapchat friends to watch when they wake up, thereby earning the admiration and jealousy of your friends, charge your phone.
What snapchat didn't document, much to our dismay, was our gradual slow to a heavy plod around mile 8. I literally thought my body would collapse with every step.
Like Paul's race metaphor in Hebrews, we encouraged one another--knowing if we were doing this alone we'd never make it. But, by some miracle of will, we somehow managed to round the final corner.
In true Whitnee fashion, her energy soared when the finish line came into view. She mustered every ounce of strength, silenced her aching body, and sprinted to the finish line. Over the speakers we hear the announcer, "Look at this crazy girl! WHITNEE SHERMAN!" (Yes, the race was so small that he could look up her bib number and shout her name.) I continued to plod, thankful my feet were still shuffling, but I couldn't contain the proud smile that widened across my face when Whitnee kicked up her heels to finish the race.
Lesson #3: When you've got nothing left, give more.
We enjoyed the post race festivities and devoured a plate of pancakes before mustering the stamina to walk back to the car. We spent the next 8 hours in bed. Everything hurt. We learned our lesson.
Lesson #4: If you want to run a half marathon, it'd behoove you to run a little bit before hand.
We laid there for the rest of the day. For dinner we ordered delivery Thai food and ate it...in bed. By some miracle, our aching legs secured their footing on the ground and at 8:00 we ventured out to meet some friends.
Unfortunately, the car has always been a place of conflict for me and Whit. From being on a family road trip as 8 and 6 year olds punching each other in the backseat to getting lost in a rainstorm when I first got my license, Sherman-girl tempers rage high when we're trapped in an automobile.
This evening was no different, in fact, it was doomed from its beginning. Running late, we were emotional, exhausted, and unable to find a parking spot. About our third time driving down Ventura Boulevard, I lost my filter. I shamefully attacked her cautious driving and poked fun at her mannerisms. Whitnee, belittled from the past few minutes of my criticism, looked at me hurt, threw her hands up in frustration (a dangerous move for a tired driver) and cried,
"I'm not a kid anymore!"
The echoes of her battle cry reverberating in our ears, we sat quietly, still looking for a parking spot. But it was in that silence that I finally heard my little sister's plea to be taken seriously. I heard her longing to be seen as responsible, trustworthy, and put together. And I saw the wound my doubt in her ability had caused.
All she wanted was my vote--for me to believe she could do this thing called "life."
Even though, to me, Whitnee is the same wide-blue-eyed girl who lovingly left cookies for Santa and carrots for his reindeer (to be fair, she still makes sure we do that every Christmas Eve), she isn't a kid anymore.
My baby sister has a great job, a tall boyfriend, and her own church family. She rents a homey, cute apartment that even has a rooftop view of the Hollywood sign. She frequents ethnic restaurants and hipster coffee shops. She sports a stylish wardrobe and dresses to look the part of a twenty-something living in LA. She's freaking adorable. She cooks her own meals, enjoys going out with her friends, and drives on the 405 everyday.
She has everything to look the part--to be an official young adult by the world's standards.
But Whitnee is more grown up than most. She is mature beyond her 24 years--not because of what she has, but because of who she is.
She is loving, generous, and unassuming. She is brilliantly creative, fearlessly ambitious, and continues to dream like she did when we were young. She is a fighter--fighting for her hopes, those she loves, and the voiceless. She is brave and adventurous, and still unashamedly authentic, boasting of God's strength in her weaknesses. She radiates the joy of the Lord--so much that its contagious to anyone and everyone.
I don't know when it happened. Maybe it was when I wasn't looking or after she got her first nanny job, but, y'all, my little sister grew up. And she's one hell of a kingdom woman.
Lesson #5: It's okay to learn from your little sister. She's pretty awesome.