Hallowed Sister

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This tale is based on a true story of Halloween tensions within a church youth group. These events expose the possibility of sibling romantic love within a sincere Christian faith context. This is not a rehash of any story you've read on Lit before. In the story's context, "hallowed" is a double entendre, referring to the spooky holiday as well as the struggle for holiness when both society and the church would cast stones at one's "sin." If you're patient enough for some build-up between brother and sister, you'll be rewarded. Enjoy!

Hallowed Sister

"I'm sorry, Steve -- I just can't support it!"

Shelly's voice had a catch in it as she rose from our living room couch, turning her back to me.

Lord, help me!

I thought. It was a sincere prayer, not just an expression of vexation. There were multiple reasons for my momentary divine conversation. I needed wisdom to defuse the situation with my sister. And I needed strength to overcome my temptation to gawk at the lusciously rounded derriere she had so innocently posed, accented by a quirk of one hip in my direction.

I had been an evangelical Christian for nearly five years now, after my "come-to-Jesus" moment as a wayward fifteen-year-old. But that experience is a story for another day. Suffice it to say, as a matter of faith and family, I truly cared about my sister, and I felt tremendous pangs of guilt at my long-time infatuation with her.

I knew from life-long experience that Shelly was now very close to tears. As she turned back to face me, her luminous emerald eyes began to well up, and her chin began to quiver.

Shelly's tears had never moved me in the early years as we were growing up. In fact, they had annoyed me. But in recent years, her emotional well-being had become dear to me. And now, gazing at her angelic face, sprinkled with a dash of cinnamon freckles, I'd do just about anything to keep her happy.

Anything to bring a smile to those lush, unintentionally pouting lips. Anything to bring a sparkle to those beautiful pleading eyes. Anything to lower the arch from that neatly trimmed coppery eyebrow, raised at me in anger and frustration.

Well, almost anything. At that moment, my sense of responsibility kicked in and my resolve dug in its heels. There were other things at stake here besides her happiness. I rose from the recliner.

"Aw, Shel -- why do you have to be such a spoil sport?" I asked.

At that, her tears flowed freely.

Not the right way to phrase the question, Alex

, I thought in a "Jeopardy" flashback moment. Leave it to me to make my sweet, smart, conscientious, and incredibly sexy (

Did I say that

?) sister cry.

Shelly looked toward the floor, drops of misery falling from her eyes. I moved toward my sole sibling as the sobs wracked her, shoulders heaving. I wrapped her in a hug, pulling her against my shoulder and pressing her close. She tensed up, her body silently declaring the hurt I'd inflicted upon her.

"It's okay, Sis," I soothed. "I'm sorry to be such a dweeb. I didn't mean to make you cry."

She relaxed into my embrace, still sobbing. Within seconds, I could feel the moisture from her tears soaking through my green 100% cotton "Legend of Zelda" t-shirt. I hugged her closer. After another sobbing ten-count, her sniffling began to slow.

Moments later, Shelly pushed back to look up into my eyes. Though she was tall at 5' 10", her face was a good six inches below mine, as I stood at 6' 4" and 220 pounds. Her slender frame was athletically muscled but still carried about 85 pounds less than mine.

The stricken look in her gaze made a lump form in my throat, but I was determined not to mirror her tears.

"I have the whole y-y-y...," she stammered, as tears began to flow again. I waited patiently, squeezing her hand gently as she stopped to compose herself.

She squeezed my hand back.

"The whole y-y-youth group... is against me, Steve," she managed. "I just can't take it if

you're

against me, too."

She straightened up, shoulders square, chest out in defiance. I tried not to notice the way her improved posture stretched the fabric of her wool sweater, the way her jutting breasts called out to me like mythic sirens inviting me to founder on the rocks.

Lord, have mercy!

I thought, though this was more caveman reaction than silent prayer. Shelly's defiant pose accentuated the perfection within her 34-C cup bra. Yes, I took regular turns doing the family laundry, and I had seen the tag.

"Aw, Sis, it's not like that," I said. "I'm not against you. I just don't get why you're making such a big deal about something so innocent."

Shelly glared at me.

"I honestly don't see it the same way," she said. "It actually is a

very

big deal to me. I can handle having the rest of the group upset with me. Just not you, my dear but clueless big brother."

Shelly was a senior in high school and an active member of our church's youth group, for which I was one of the volunteer assistant leaders. She'd just missed the cutoff date for starting school in an earlier cohort of students when she was a kid, so even though we were just over 2 years apart in age, I had always been three grades ahead in school.

I'd graduated high school a couple of years plus a summer ago. I opted to attend a community college rather than head south to Georgia Tech -- much to Mom's dismay. She had wanted her boy to fulfill his great potential, and I'd been offered an academic scholarship to join the Ramblin' Wreck at the "MIT of the South." I guess I felt like Mom and Shelly needed me closer. Dad's fatal heart attack three years earlier - just at the start of my senior year - was still an open wound for the three of us.

"I'm not upset with you, Shel," I replied. "I just don't get why you're choosing to draw a line in the sand on this. A haunted house is just an opportunity to have some fun and raise some money for the youth group."

She frowned and shot me a look that told me in no uncertain terms that I was a doofus.

"We can raise money another way -- bake sale, car wash, something like that," she said. "We don't have to do a haunted house. There's no reason to actively promote evil in order to raise funds for our youth mission trip next summer."

"It's not promoting evil," I countered, "Everyone knows it's not real. It's just some innocent fun. And we can probably raise three times as much money with a haunted house as we can with those other fundraisers!"

Halloween. Derived from the phrase "All Hallow's Eve." The evening before All Hallow's Day - that is, All Saints' Day. And the irony of it all -- not just due to her objections to Halloween, but in every way that mattered - was that my sister was truly a saint. Some might call her a "holy roller," but she wasn't a self-righteous bitch like the image that that phrase conjures up. She was the real deal. A sincere believer who understood and embraced the concept of grace. A person of principle who cared as much for others as for herself. Shelly was truly my hallowed sister.

But her love for others also meant protecting them fiercely when she thought they were being led astray.

"Agree to disagree," she said, "It's not innocent fun. The Bible is pretty clear that evil spirits exist. And the way I see it, Halloween is a way of glorifying them, even if that's not the group's intent."

I let out a deep, disheartened sigh. She could surely read the frustration in my body language. I needed to choose my words carefully here.

Instinctively, I reached out and pushed a stray lock of her long auburn hair behind her ear. To my surprise, she flinched and gave me an unsettled look. I'm sure I must have blushed in response as I moved my hand away.

"C'mon, Shel. I respect your views. Really, I do. It's just..."

I paused, not wanting her to feel like I was piling on. I hoped she could see the depth of caring in my eyes.

Shelly broke the silence. "Arguing with me about it doesn't feel like respect," she said quietly.

I sighed, trying not to show my exasperation.

"It's just that all the other kids see it differently..." I began, but she cut me off.

"Hold it right there, mister! We aren't

kids

-- we're youth. If you want to get technical, I'm an adult. A

woman

."

She was right about that. She was physically

all

woman. And she'd turned eighteen a few weeks ago, shortly after the school year started in early September. Birth date cutoffs for entry into our school system were based on the school year rather than the calendar year, and Shelly was one of the oldest in her senior class.

"Okay, okay," I said. "The other

youth

see it differently. They see an opportunity to exercise their creativity, have a little fun, earn some money for summer missions, and build camaraderie among the group while they work together toward a common goal. Your protest against the haunted house for Halloween is actually tearing down the fellowship rather than building it up."

Shelly's drying tears gave way to something else. Her jaw became set rather than tremulous. Her green eyes gleamed with simmering indignation. I'd always thought I could see fire in her eyes at times like this. Green fire. Her nostrils flared. Thankfully, no fire there, though I could imagine it.

"Not my fault," she said quietly, maintaining my gaze. "The youth leaders need to study the scriptures and then show a little backbone."

Her comment clearly had me lined up in its sights. When she refused to blink or look away, I feigned taking a dagger to the heart in an effort at some comedic relief. She didn't bite. And she didn't smile. Her comment had been heartfelt and serious.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I promise I'll take a closer look at the Bible references you gave me, and then I'll talk with Pastor Ralph and maybe some of the other youth leaders.

"Good," replied Shelly. "I'll hold you to it." She continued to hold my gaze for several seconds. Her expression softened, with a somewhat wistful look as her head tilted a little to the side.

Finally, she smiled, like a ray of sunshine breaking through black clouds at the end of a storm. I almost expected to see a rainbow. Her smile gave me a stir of butterflies in my stomach -- or, perhaps, my heart. I refused to acknowledge that I was feeling it lower down.

"C'mere, kid," I said, both arms outstretched for a hug.

"Not a kid," she laughed, and fairly jumped into my arms. I couldn't resist a tight squeeze, and I tried hard not to enjoy the warmth of her embrace too much. Or to let my mind dwell on the oh-so-supple but not-too-subtle mammary pressure of her full-frontal hug against my chest. Or to let her feel the burgeoning tumescence pressing from within my jeans against her lower stomach.

* * * * * *

"Hey, Ralph -- thanks for meeting me," I said. I stood up from the table to shake Pastor Ralph's hand. He was our full-time youth and music ministries leader. After releasing my grip, he took his Red Sox jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair opposite from me.

"Can't turn down a good cuppa java," Ralph smiled. He had agreed to meet me on Thursday afternoon of the following week at our local coffee shop. The topic of discussion: Shelly's protest.

Ralph took his seat. The café was noisy and crowded, so I raised my voice.

"I've been doing a lot of research over the last week," I began. "Even learned what the word 'hermeneutics' means."

"Good for you!" Ralph replied. "So have you been applying it to our current situation?"

"The haunted house? Yeah, well there's not a lot directly related to that in the Bible." I frowned and shook my head solemnly.

"Exactly why you need hermeneutics," he answered, "to know ways to interpret what it says and apply it to a new context. That's after you use 'exegesis' to best explain what it meant in its original context."

"I don't know about all the fancy terminology," I said, raising both hands as if in surrender. "I just honestly want to know what's right and what's wrong."

"And the Bible can help you know that," Ralph said, "Even if it doesn't speak directly to the issue. You have to look for recurring themes, not isolated passages. Plenty of people have been known to make the Bible say what they want it to say, by ripping passages out of their context."

"What kind of context do you mean?" I asked.

Ralph smiled. "Well, the context of the culture of the time or the historical background," he said. "Like when the apostle Paul said for women to keep quiet in the church, it was to deal with a specific problem in a specific congregation at a specific point in time. You have to recognize the difference between contextual issues and eternal truths."

"So - you think Shelly's concerns about the haunted house are really just based on a contextual issue from way back when?" I queried.

"That's a tough one," Ralph said. "I personally don't have a problem with a haunted house, any more than a water slide or a basketball game or Harry Potter World at Universal Studios. They're all forms of entertainment. But I think your sister is genuinely concerned about what she sees as eternal truths rather than contextual issues. And sometimes people's perceptions about what the truth is are as important as the truth itself. I think that's why Paul wrote in the book of Ephesians about 'speaking the truth in love'."

"What does that have to do with haunted houses?"

"It has to do with balance. Some people -- and church leaders are notorious for this -- gleefully spout off 'truths' with no regard to how they're relating to other people in the process. If you're going to do it right, you have to care just as much about the relationship with the person as you do about the truth. Just as much - not more, not less. It's a balancing act."

The relationship

, I thought.

That's pretty complicated.

"Yeah, well, I've already made her cry over this one," I said.

"But you let her know you love her even though you disagree, right?" Ralph asked.

Love her? Yes, I do. More than I care to admit

.

She absolutely knows that I love her. But she doesn't know how much, or in what ways. I can't speak that truth, no matter how much it's done in love. No matter how much I'm in love....

Ralph cleared his throat to elicit a response from me. I snapped out of my reverie.

"Eventually, yes, I let her know - after the tears began to flow," I replied. "But I pushed her to change her mind first..."

"Well, that's about my speed with my wife," Ralph said. "Thankfully, I'm learning. That's what they call 'sanctification.' Sinners saved by grace, but continually in need of improvement."

"Yep," I said. "I'm certainly glad that it's God's grace and not our perfection that makes us right with Him. I'd certainly be in a world of hurt otherwise."

You're definitely a sinner

, my conscience told me.

Starting with having the hots for your sister

.

I prayed - somewhat figuratively and somewhat literally - that Pastor Ralph couldn't detect the depth of the familial bonds that were driving my questioning of biblical answers, in hopes of making my beloved sister happy.

"Steve, there may be more to it than what you're sharing," Ralph said.

What? Had Ralph read my mind? Had God rejected my semi-prayer on the spot?

"Not sure what you mean, Ralph," I mumbled.

"It might be about more than speaking the truth in love, Steve. It might be about conscience," he said.

Conscience. Was he wanting me to share about my guilty conscience? My sense of wrong about loving my sister

that

way?

"C-C-C... Conscience?" I asked.

"Yeah, conscience," he continued. "It might not matter so much whether a haunted house is right or wrong as a universal truth. The issue here might be about your sister's conscience."

"You mean - she did something wrong?"

Pastor Ralph laughed, almost a whinny. A couple of curious patrons at a nearby table looked our way in search of the horse.

"No, no, no, Steve!" Ralph snorted. "I mean that the whole haunted house thing might be about your sister's

belief

that it's wrong, whether or not it's

actually

wrong. Paul's deal about 'not causing your brother or sister to stumble'."

"Stumble on what?" I asked.

"Meat that's been offered to idols," Ralph said with a grin.

"What's meat got to do with it, and how is my sister going to trip over meat?"

Ralph suppressed the whinny and settled for a somewhat girlish giggle.

"I figured you might ask," he laughed, nodding. "You remember that passage in First Corinthians about idols? The one where Paul says they're not gods, and there is but one God?"

"Sorta," I said, sounding as tentative as I felt. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about.

"Well, anyway, the whole gist of it was that Paul was comfortable eating meat that had been sacrificed to idols, because he knew that idols had no power. But not everyone agreed. Many in the church felt that it was wrong to eat such meat. Paul understood that other believers who didn't sense the same freedom that he did might be led to sin in other areas of their lives if they thought he was freely doing something sinful."

Ralph looked at me expectantly, as if I should get it. I didn't.

"Yeah?" I answered, with all the simulated astuteness that I could muster.

"So what's the application?" Ralph asked. "How does Paul's situation apply to your sister and the haunted house?"

"Um..." I continued my awesome display of feigned astuteness.

"Maybe, just maybe," explained Ralph, "even if

you

see nothing wrong with a haunted house fundraiser at the church, you should support your

sister's

decision not to participate."

"But what about the other youth? I don't want her to ruin it for them."

"Let me worry about them," Ralph said. "You need to think about Shelly. She already knows you love her. Maybe she needs to know that you respect her decision."

Respect

. Tough word. I didn't agree with her position, but did I have to win the argument?

* * * * * *

After securing a refill, I left my late afternoon coffee break with Pastor Ralph, still unsure what to make of his advice. I arrived at the school to pick up Shelly a little before 5:00. She needed a ride home after volleyball practice. I decided to wait inside for her and finish my coffee while I watched her practice wind down.

I could hear the squeaking of sneakers on the gym floor as I walked down the hallway. Pushing my way through the double doors with one shoulder while trying not to spill my coffee, I hung a left and climbed the bleachers. As I took a seat and turned to look down on the court, I did a double take.

Shelly was about to serve the volleyball over the net. She held the ball in her left hand, preparing to toss it up and strike it overhand with her right. She stepped back with her left foot, bending at the waist to get leverage and power. Nothing remarkable, right?

Oh, but the tight little black shorts that she wore.

Tight little black shorts - filled by a tight little athletic butt. A luscious, squeezable, kissable butt

. Pooching out enticingly due to that crouch before the serve.

Let me back up. Shelly is a very conservative dresser - when she has a choice. No plunging necklines. No painted-on jeans. Heck, even her swimsuit has a wrap-around skirt.

But on the volleyball court, you're part of a team. A team that has uniforms. And you have to wear the uniform. The uniform that they give you. And, along with a bright yellow loose-fitting knit jersey, part of her school's uniform is a pair of very tiny, very tight form-fitting black Lycra shorts.

If you haven't seen a girls' volleyball game recently, you may not be able to relate. Suffice it to say that all of the girls on virtually every team wear these tiny shorts, and most of them look really great in them. But I had eyes only for Shelly.