Chia Seeds and the Holy Spirit

My annual trip with Mom and Dad has been upended twice now. Last year, in celebration of Mom and Dad's 50th anniversary, the entire immediate family (all 16 of us) joined together to endure the rustic life of rural Colorado in the mountain cabins we frequented when my siblings and I were children.

This year, instead of our trio-excursion, Mom, Dad and my little sister Julie make a trip to Austin to visit me. I'm grateful they're to make the trek  to Central Texas during the hottest month of the year. I'm grateful, that is, until the onslaught of hilarious texts from my sister, Julie.

When she's not being flung side-to-side in the backseat of Mom and Dad's rental car as Dad attempts to avoid "chuck holes" while zooming beyond the speed limit down I-35, Julie texts that Dad's emotions are nearing the likes of climactic volcanic eruption. The relentlessly pounding rain mixed with the "damn Texas drivers" in Dallas inspires several exclamatory remarks from our father. Julie's periodic texts entail: "Née, these are the names Dad has directed at fellow road travelers who are apparently doing something very very wrong." [laughing-face emoticon before she lists: dumb cluck, son of a bitch, local yokel, dumb ass and pinhead].

My favorite is "Sheesh, do Mom and Dad need hearing aids?!"

Uh, is this really a question? Has she not read my blog posts from the past 3 years? Trying to carry on any sort of conversation with our parents from the backseat of a car, or, God forbid, requesting a bathroom break, is pointless.

I laugh knowing firsthand my sister's plight, and anticipate the forthcoming texts as the hours tick away and Mom and Dad's intermittent "Huh?", "What, Juice?" make her wish she was being waterboarded instead of being inescapably buckled  into a speeding car with our parents.

My parents and my sister finally arrive at my home in the Bouldin Creek neighborhood of South Austin. Mom and Dad greet me with their usual joyful dispositions, while my beautiful sister enters my house looking as though she needs a stiff drink.

As my parents unpack in the guest room, Julie sets up shop with me in my room for the long weekend. She unzips her suitcase, and out pops her stuffed bear. This isn't any ol' bear. He has no name (not even "Bear"), and she loves him so much that he goes everywhere that entails an overnight. Everywhere. He has traveled the world with her, sleeping every night nestled in the crook of her arm as she holds his little fur hand. Despite how annoying she was to me as a little girl, I always secretly adored her. In this moment, as she gently lay her bear and her special neck pillow (which also goes everywhere in the world with her) onto my bed, I adore her even more.

My sweet bear sentiment is interrupted when we hear our mother exclaim, "Shit fire!"

Julie and I crack up laughing as we hear Mom and Dad scuffling about and mumbling in the guest room. We've heard this made-up cuss word before, usually after our father has scared or surprised our mother– whether on purpose or unintentionally. He can startle her just by walking into a room.

It's rare that our mother ever cusses, so when she does it's hilarious. It's like hearing a 3-year old say the F-word. It's so out of character that you can't help but laugh. It's even more awesome when "shit fire" is followed by a resigned but emphatic, "Damnation, Gene! Come on!"

As I peer over at my sister through eyes that are now slits due to uncontrollable laughter, Julie looks 4 years old, bent over holding her stomach in deep laughter at our mother; the kind of laughter that makes all voice sound go inaudible, where the only indication of laughter is a big-mouthed smile and body convulsions. My sister is one of my most favorite people in the world with whom to belly-laugh, and God knows our parents have given us more than ample reason to engage in such laughter over our lifetime.

Cha-cha-cha Chia

As I revel in the sweetness of my sister's laugh, I catch an odd glimpse of Dad walking from the guest room into the kitchen carrying a half-gallon plastic milk bottle with a clear liquid that looks as though it has small black peppercorns floating in it.

"Ewww, Dad! What is that?"

"It's my chia water, Née Née."

I walk to the counter near my kitchen sink and see evidence of aliens in my home. My brow furrows in curiosity as I peer at a chubby round, blue salt shaker with scotch tape over its holes. I lift it and face my father as I inquire, "Am I going to regret asking what this is, Dad?"

Dad is shaking his milk jug of chia water like a maraca. "It's my chia seeds for my chia water, Née," he says, without skipping a beat on his milk jug idiophone.

Recalling that the last time I was home for the holidays and Dad was smearing warmed coconut oil from a skillet onto his face, I decide I'm going to act as though everyone carries half-gallon milk jugs full of "chia water" and salt shakers filled with chia seeds when they travel. I simply go about my own business washing a rogue pie pan with baked egg remains stuck to its side.

Apparently my family enjoyed a quiche or frittata while motoring at 80 miles per hour down Interstate 35, egg dishes clearly being customary road trip food. I cringe slightly as I realize that my kitchen sink contains not one single piece of dirty silverware. I imagine my parents and sister as barbaric cave people grabbing fistfuls of egg pie as they strain to hear the fractured conversation. Or maybe they somehow felt compelled to eat their community pie Ethiopian fashion– sans injera.

I'm silent as Dad begins to explain his daily chia water ritual. Frankly, I don't respond because I'm afraid I'll get the entire origin of chia itself if I make any further inquiries. Like the time I asked Dad why he drank so much damn water, and he launched into a disquisition on the 6 reservoirs in our bodies that keep us alive, like tiny aquifers that have to be hydrated in order for us to maintain optimal health. My friends still fondly recall this particular era of Dad's healthy lifestyle proselytizing, during which he regularly encouraged everyone he cared about to stay "hydrant." [Yeah, you read that right. Just follow my lead, and don't ask.]

As my right biceps cramps from scrubbing egg remains from the pan, I pray that the cha-cha-cha sound Dad is making with the milk jug will end soon, and I hope my father knows that the tapioca-like morsels in his water aren't going to somehow magically dissolve, no matter how vigorously shaken. I am also grateful that the history of chia has, for now, escaped my dad's incredibly vast archive of "interesting" facts he enjoys sharing with his eldest child. I'm certain that Dad has a story about chia water as compelling as the one  about the body's H2O reservoirs. I recognize, after so many years as his daughter, his eager-to-express stance, which begins with a vigorous inhale and a look on his face as though he is contemplating the best introductory line for the forthcoming pearls of wisdom.

Grasping for a way to stave off the onslaught, I quickly chime with enthusiasm, "Hmmm, chia water!. I'll have to try that! I've only sprinkled chia seeds on salad! I had no idea they were so delicious in water!"

Well, this is a mistake. I've just paved the way for Dad to launch. He doesn't necessarily drink the chia water for taste, but for the more noble aspect of its nutritional value, which…

I cut him off by offering a fun dose of his own medicine. "Did you know that chia seeds are one of the best phytonutrients you can consume, alongside blueberries and kale? I learned that from Dr. Oppenlander when I was working with him on his campaign."

This is just enough of a deflection to send Dad's mind back to memories of my kind-hearted vegan-activist client; his dissertation on chia seeds is derailed just enough for me to turn to him and acknowledge, "Dad, I'm super happy you are always taking such good care of yourself. Keep it up, because I'm throwing your ass in a home if you get sick and decrepit on us."

Dad chuckles and takes a huge swig from his wide-mouthed milk jug. I can issue such threats to my father without feeling badly. He and my mom are two of the youngest and healthiest 70-somethings I know.

Julie calls from the bathroom to ask whether I have any dry shampoo. Being flopped to and fro in Dad's avoidance of potholes has made her feel like freshening up. I walk into the bathroom and grab an Aveda product that claims to wash hair without water, which basically means applying a delicious-smelling talcum powder to oily roots.

As I begin to form the words to forewarn her not to push the top too hard, lest a large puff of powder douse her golden locks, she depresses the canister and instantly turns the crown of her head white.

"Oh! My! God! What is this stuff?!" she blurts. "Aaand it's Aveda???! Jenée! Don't you know that Estée Lauder bought Aveda, so God only knows what's in this crap!"

"Well, regardless of what's in it," I respond, "you'd better not put any more of it on your hair. You look ridiculous!" I try to swish some of it out of her hair with my fingertips.

"I look like I belong in the British court in my powdered wig!" Julie exclaims.

We laugh, then she depresses the top of the canister onto a different area of her head and another equally huge puff of powder whops her on the scalp.

I look at her with that, "WTF?!" look only a big sister can pull off–the same way I've looked at her a million times in our life as sisters; the same way I looked at her all those times when we were little and she would copy my every action, emulating the way I was standing, articulating my words, or moving my hands, or when she would quote an Abba song– specifically S.O.S. or Fernando– to commiserate with me when we'd gotten in trouble with Mom and wondered what sort of punishment awaited us when Dad got home.

Julie pumps the canister yet again, as if expecting a different result than her first two attempts. I shake my head in disbelief and walk out of the bathroom thinking to myself, "She is becoming our father."

Run, Julie, Run!

The next morning I make delicious bulletproof coffee after a night of solid sleep. Known to many as "butter coffee," this trendy craze that has caught on in the health and fitness worlds has become a daily ritual for me. Today, when there or three of us who drink coffee, it's a long process, making each espresso shot with an AeroPress and carefully adding Kerrygold butter and MCT oil.s. It's an act of love for me, until my sister drinks her second cup and declares that her stomach is suddenly rumbling. I decide that now is not the best time to tell her that I just remembered you're supposed to gradually build up a tolerance for MCT oil. You should start with, say, a teaspoon. Out of habit, I made all 6 cups that morning with a tablespoon each, not a teaspoon. This means that Julie's grumbling tummy has triple the dose of a highly concentrated oil that is supposed to be slowly introduced into one's diet. This is most apparent when we are miles from my house during our morning walk and Julie turns silent.

Call it sister's intuition, but I know she is doing everything in her power not to focus on the fact that she is right on the edge of panicking at the thought of possibly crapping her pants. I can tell that my little sister, in true Arthur fashion, is mustering the strength to endure the discomfort, and I know she's doing it with incredible confidence, certain that she can easily sprint to my house if her tenacity and fortitude should crumble.

You see, other than vampires, Julie Ann is one of the fastest runners I know. I've tested it throughout our lifetime, mostly while chasing her down to punch or pummel her for smarting off to me or mumbling her infamous "doot-da-doot-da-doo-doo, I can't hear you" taunt that would invariably make my blood boil and cause me to want to kill her.

Like the time she first shouted, "Damn you!" at me. It made me so mad that I chased her through the kitchen and dining room into the living room, where she threw the recliner in my path to slow me down, at which point I was forced to leap in front of the hallway to barricade the bathroom (the only door with a lock on it other than our own bedroom doors). This is where I make my mistake. When she realizes she can no longer seek refuge in the safety of a locked bathroom, she pivots on a dime and heads down the stairs to her own room.

"Dang it," I utter, and pick up speed. Short of leaping atop her on the stairs, I do my best to reach her before her bedroom door closes behind her. To no avail. She is in and the door is secured before I can even round the corner of the laundry room. She is so damn fast!

"Julie, open this door or I swear I'll break it down!"

I hear her laugh as she catches her breath.

"I mean it! Open this door! If I have to break it down, you are SO dead!"

And then... it happens. Between her breathless yet victorious giggles, I hear, "Doot-da-doot-da-doo-doo, I caaaan't heeeear youuuuu."

My nostrils flare. My blood reaches a feverish temp. I bite my tongue, make a fist and high-kick the door with all my might. It doesn't budge. This pisses me off more.

Julie, taking a very brief rest from chanting her obnoxious mantra, laughs, unaware that I am conjuring the strength of the Incredible Hulk. When I give her one last opportunity to open the door before I bust it down and swoop in to murder her, she simply resumes her singsong chant. What happens next is, I imagine, the same outcome that would result if someone injected pure adrenaline into my veins.

On the third thrust of my entire body into the door, I hear wood splinter and pop, as I feel the door give way and watch it fall forward, in a strange slow-motion, onto Julie's bed, only a portion of the bottom hinge still attached to the jamb.

I look across the room at my sister standing transfixed in the corner, as if I've entered a dream and am watching everything from outside of reality. Instantly, as though sound is suddenly eradicated from the planet, or never existed at all, everything is dead silent. We are in the soundless vacuum of space. Then, tearing through the quietude, comes a noise that I'm certain causese my ears to bleed.

Julie Ann lets out a scream from the depths of her core. It starts like Donald Sutherlands windy-throated growl in the final scene of The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, then crescendos into a deafening high-pitched girl scream that sounds like she is being stabbed to death.

"Shut up! Oh God, Julie, please!" I beg as I move toward her in the hopes of covering her mouth. She screams louder, thinking I am going to punch her.

"Julie! Seriously! Stop screaming. Please!" I plead, "I'm not going to hurt you, but Dad is going to hea...."

Julie stops screaming and her eyes grow wide as we both hear Dad's footsteps stomping at a pretty good clip on the floor above us as he makes his way from the back of the house to the front and onto the stairs that descend to our rooms. I can tell by each foot strike that he is not going to be his usual happy-go-lucky self when he reaches us.

I look away from my frightened sister and back to the carnage of the door I have just dislocated from its frame. I feel a knot form in my throat, and my solar plexus gets really really tight. When Dad appears out of thin air in the open doorway, I suddenly feel as though I might vomit.

My father is a gentle and loving man who usually walks in confidence that he and our mother have successfully modeled for their children the best ways to navigate the world with integrity and kindness. In this moment, Dad's face looks like that of a man who has failed miserably in raising sane human children, let alone upstanding citizens of the world.

No one in the room knows what to say, all of us standing frozen, eyes fixated on a yellow wooden door incongruously lying atop a floral bedspread, until Dad finally blurts, "What in the hell happened here?"

There's really nothing I can do but confess the entire rotten truth. Not being a narc, I know I have to frame this in a way that isn't going to get my bratty little sister into trouble for cussing. So I launch into a sad defensive story about how crafty my little sister is at "pushing my buttons" and how I was overtaken by anger and just couldn't help but bust through her door, at which point I can tell Dad is doing his best to refrain from laughing as I use dramatic words that don't exactly fit the moment. Dad patiently listens to the case I'm making for tearing through a wall, then softly chimes, "Okay. But don't you think you should apologize to your sister?"

I turn to my little sister, who is still standing lifeless in the corner of her room like a Stepford wife about to malfunction. "I'm sorry for breaking your door down, Julie."

She blinks a couple of times, still shell-shocked and unable to respond.

"Now go to your room. I'll be there in a few minutes," Dad commands.

I turn and walk out of the room past our father, my head lowered in shame at the thought of having disappointed him. Julie Ann remains silent, likely suffering the onset of PTSD from my hellish attack.

I enter my room and sit on the side of my bed, reflecting on what has just happened.

Soon, Dad enters my room, sits beside me, and shares his wisdom. He tells me nothing outside of me should be able to disrupt my peace of mind, not even an annoying little sister. He explains that my emotions are under my control, not controlled by outer life circumstances. This is one of my first lessons in realizing that I create the world within which I live, and that no brother, sister, bad hair day or world calamity has the power to affect me–unless I let it. It was a novel concept to me then; along with several other things my father has shared over the years, it has helped shape my entire life experience.

I can't say that I instantly chose to embrace Julie's infuriating jingle. She continued to use it on me, but it began to lose its power over me once I tried implementing Dad's lesson. I think Julie stopped using "doot-da-doot-da-doo-doo" when I began to complete it by singing back to her joyfully, "I caaan't heeear youuu."

Come Holy Spirit, Renew the Face of the Earth

As the memory of smashing Julie's bedroom door swishes in and out of my mind during our morning stroll, I take my little sister's hand and we walk side by side, our parents right behind us laughing together about something totally unrelated. Julie turns to me and smiles, squeezing my hand.

"How's your tummy?" I ask.

"It's still rumbly, but I'm okay," Julie calmly responds.

She's more than okay. She's my awesome little sister who has turned out to be a kind-hearted, compassionate warrior who's weathered every seemingly insurmountable storm in her life with incredible grace (and God knows she's experienced some pretty intense storms). As we walk hand in hand taking in the transformation of architecture happening in my neighborhood, I silently thank God for her. She is my best friend, my familial soulmate, and my confidant whom I learn from on a regular basis.

Later, joined by my girlfriend, we stop into a shop filled with Mexican and Catholic religious icons, where a particularly striking statue meets us as we enter: St. Jude, the saint of Impossible Cases. This statue of the saint that one beseeches when life is really upside down is life-size and taller than I am. I've prayed to St. Jude more than once in my life. I was taught at a young age not to pray to him for trivial things like good test scores or a particular type of candy in one's stocking, but rather to pray for St. Jude to help us through the truly tricky moments in life, like overcoming the grief of losing a loved one, or manifesting a cure for a devastating illness.

I'm slightly confused by the red dress hanging alongside the life-size St. Jude. I'm comfortable with the juxtaposition of Día de Muertos decorations and what appear to be Hindu and Buddhist spiritual objects. I like this combination, being somewhat of a Buddhist-Catholic myself, but the red dress draped over the right shoulder of St. Jude continues to confound me.

I'm distracted from the oddity of the red dress when Mom walks up to me and whispers that some random woman has just handed her a Benedictine bracelet, telling Mom that something told her to give it to her. I take it and study it. It's still in its original packaging.

Wondering, I ask Mom, "Did she just grab it off the shelf? Did she pay for it?"

Mom replies, "I don't know, honey. I thanked her, but I'm not sure what to do with it. I even told her I already have a Benedictine bracelet," as Mom holds her wrist up to show me a very similar bracelet already on her arm, "but she insists I'm supposed to have it."

"Well, I think we should ask a few more questions. I mean, what if you walk out of here with it, no one has paid for it and you get slapped with a shoplifting charge? Besides, I'm curious what 'inspired' her to give it to you."

Mom looks at me with a concerned face I've seen before. She doesn't want to prolong this confusion, but she is one of the most compassionate souls to walk the planet, and likely also doesn't want to make the woman feel bad. I go with her to talk to the woman who was “inspired” to give my mother a holy bracelet.

As I approach the mystery benefactor, I can see from her face that she realizes her act of kindness has inspired a few questions. I smile and look for a way to ask about her gift, when Mom interjects in her typical sweet way, "Thank you again for my bracelet. Are you sure I'm supposed to have it?" The woman says apologetically, "Yes. Please. I wish I had one for all of you, but I only have one left and I feel strongly that it belongs to you." She looks peculiarly lovingly at my mom.

The two of them then embrace like long-lost friends, apparently deeply touched by this moment of giving and receiving. As I look over at St. Jude and his red dress, I catch in my peripheral vision a glimpse of my sister bent forward at the waist as the store owner rubs the lumbar region of her back, my dad and my girlfriend watching intently, as if the store owner is performing a magic trick. I imagine St. Jude joins me in wondering "What the hell is going on here?" as I shake my head at the randomness of my life and sniff the coconut candle on the shelf in front of me.

The theme of the long weekend is, you guessed it, the Holy Spirit and the history of the Roman Catholic faith. We can thank my gorgeous Italian Texan for this. She wants to know more about the Catholic faith into which we've both been indoctrinated, and in her customary curious cadence, she probes my father's brain like an information-thirsty reporter. Of course, Dad loves this, seeing that sharing his faith is to him like consuming an entire cherry pie with a spoon.

On Saturday, we venture out to Wimberley, Texas, a little Hill Country village I called home for four of my first eighteen years as a Texan. We make our way to the newly remodeled Leaning Pear restaurant for some lunch and a reprieve from the harsh downpour of Texas rain. Sheesh, am I Noah? Flash flooding and rain have followed me all the way from Seattle.

At our lunch table, Deborah asks Dad to please expound on the meaning of the Holy Trinity. Julie and I give each other a look we've exchanged more times than we can count. We know we should just settle in, because Dad loves this subject.

My father begins to explain that God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit are three personifications of the same single entity– the Source of all things. Those aren't his exact words, but the words he does use mesmerize my girlfriend, and she listens with bated breath like a little girl hearing a fairy tale for the first time.

Truth be told, my father is a magnificent storyteller. The fact that he knows just about everything about the Roman Catholic faith, both scripturally and historically, makes him incredibly fun and interesting to listen to (even though I occasionally dispute the facts). Dad's devotion to conveying his faith is not lost on my girlfriend, whose mind is a sponge when it comes to history and getting to the bottom of the meaning of things close to her heart. She listens as though her life depends on the words, and the meaning behind the words, that my father is sharing with undeniable conviction. I look across the table and see that even my little sister is fixated on Dad, while I pick at the feta-sprinkled walnuts in my salad and listen, doing my best to minimize my realization that the table of six next to us are listening too.

Mom is such a good sport, as I'm certain she has heard this dissection of the meaning of the Trinity more than a dozen times in her life with my father. She too occasionally interjects her own understanding and reinforcement of the key points Dad is making. Dad takes my mom's hand and turns back to Deborah, inquiring, "Deborah, what does the Holy Spirit mean to you?"

I take a bite of bacon-infused macaroni and cheese, and after a slight moment of silence turn to look at Deborah. I see that she is looking past me and directly in at my father, her eyes tearing up, until she suddenly begins to sob and leans forward, grabbing my forearms as if to anchor herself. I pull loose from her solid grip and wrap her in my arms. I have no idea why this question has inspired such a poignant response, but her visceral reaction makes us all tear up, including my father, as Deborah attempts to gain her composure and respond.

I don't recall her exact words. I know, because she told me later, that she experienced a huge wave of feeling washing over and through her body. I do recall that the conversation post-cry was beautiful, and even inspired my sister to disclose that she had never heard the Holy Spirit described so beautifully and clearly as Dad had conveyed it that day.

As soon as I assess that all is well, I look around and realize that I recognize not one single person in the restaurant. Even the wait staff has undergone a shift change, and I become keenly aware of how long we have been occupying this table. I feel like I should order another round of food.

This slight discomfort inspires a reminiscent moment about how embarrassing it used to be to go out to eat as a family when I was a little girl. We always had to make the sign of the cross and pray the Grace before our meals, whether we were home or in public. I felt like we were a huge spectacle in the middle of a restaurant. I would pray that no one I knew would recognize me, as if it were possible to miss Dad's salt-n-peppered hair and the fact that he seemed to be speaking in decibels much higher than his normal tone as he recited his 5-minute litany of prayers, including a Hail Mary, an Our Father, a prayer for the souls of the faithfully departed, and even a damn prayer for more people to be called to the vocation of the priesthood, which was always confusing to me since I understood vocations to be a calling from God. I had no clue what sort of power our humble prayer had in a scenario where God Himself was supposedly beckoning to particular people to serve His church, but we diligently prayed for vocations every single night of my life–even in restaurants.

On our drive back to Austin, we discuss the Wimberley flood that was so catastrophic that it swept an entire house, with mother and children inside, down the river never to be seen again.

As we round a corner on the backroads, we are met with a line of cars u-turning and driving back past us. A low water crossing just down the hill from us has reached an impassible height. We are curious, so Dad drives down to the crossing, keeping a safe enough distance—for most of us, that is.

When we get back to Austin, Julie Ann declares that she has had enough of the spiritual slant that has monopolized the weekend so far. She grabs the rental car keys from Dad like a defiant teenager and hightails it to some boutiques to take refuge in shopping for a cute summer dress. In the meantime, Dad gives Deborah an in-depth overview of the Catholic men's Cursillo while the four of us walk around downtown Austin until it's time to meet my sister for Amy's ice cream and hang out at our favorite bookstore, Book People.

As me, Mom, Dad and Deborah walk the trail around Lady Bird Lake, Dad informs his newest pupil about the Cursillo weekends he used to participate in when I was a little girl, and that he continues to support as a commitment to his faith. Mom and I shake our heads as we revel in Deborah's ability to take it all in, but mostly at my father's tireless dissertation.

At one point, Mom proclaims, "Gene, really! Is Deborah about to throw herself off a bridge with all of this faith talk?"

Diplomatically changing the subject, Deborah shares with us an experience in a triathlon transition area. It was her first triathlon, and though she was well prepared to handle the swim-bike-run, she was not so practiced at expeditious transitions.

After swimming the first triathlon leg, she exits the lake, dripping wet and hungry. She sits down on the ground, pulls a banana from her transition bag, peels it and begins to eat it before putting on her biking shoes, grateful to be replenishing her body with potassium. She looks around and wonders why all of the athletes are rushing, "Don't they need to save their energy for the next leg? Hmmm." (Remember, this is the same woman who thought the poop emoji was a baby owl).

Her banana-eating break took a total of 4 minutes and 53 seconds. She found out after the fact that transitions are part of one's overall triathlon time. Lesson learned. Stay tuned for the time she drank "blueberry-flavored Alka Seltzer." Never a dull moment.

Anyone who knows my father knows that he is a purist when it comes to the Sacraments. He likes a traditional Mass, and hates clapping or excessively upbeat choirs, or, God forbid, a full rock band accompanying the choir.

After Saturday night Mass we get into the car to drive to dinner, and Mom  lets out a "Shit fire!" from the backseat. I don't know why she has exclaimed this yet again, because my attention is diverted to Deborah in the passenger seat who, never having heard my mother cuss, turns her head from forward- to backward-facing like Regan in the Exorcist, staring at my mother in disbelief. My Texas belle grew up in a family that is apparently more polite and proper, so the idea that our family's matriarch can blurt out the nastiest cuss word for ca-ca and not phase any of us leaves her dumbfounded. She has no idea what she's in for when she experiences all 70 of us in the same room at our traditional meat pie Christmas.

The next day, I send three of my favorite people on their way back home to the house my siblings and I grew up in before I head into my office in Buda.

"Juice, you want to try to go to potty before we hit the road?" Dad asks as if my sister is still in training diapers.

Julie's incredulous response is in true Arthur daughter form, "I've never understood the concept of 'trying' to go to the bathroom. You either have to go or you don't," she says as she heads to the restroom.

Dad laughs, because he secretly loves that his daughters are feisty. And I silently chuckle, knowing my sister, as much as she adores our parents, is resigning herself to another 10-hour long haul with two people who need Miracle Ear.

With that, and several so-long-for-now kisses, my little sister and parents exit my sweet abode and make their way to their car, which I find out later, via texts from Julie, is a chariot of insanity. Julie does her best to stifle her urge to punch one, if not both, of my parents in the back of the head for uttering, "Huh, Juice?" one too many times. The only thing that saves her from going Backseat Ninja on our parents is the hilarity of Dad's mild road rage during Dallas morning traffic.

I snort in laughter as I later read Julie's text. "Dad just called some poor Dallas driver a dickhead."

I'm at work when I get this text. I smile, overcome with gratitude for my beautiful family, my wonderful life and for all the adventures that continue to unfold in my world. The past 6 months have been a whirlwind of joy and opportunity in my ever-expanding life, and as I imagine my little sister in my customary spot in the middle of the backseat of the car (resembling a character in a Wes Anderson movie), I know everything is right with the world, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Little do I now know, I will be flying home later this week for the funeral of my childhood best friend's father, at which point my own father will inform his children that when he and Mom die, they want to be placed in pine boxes (that he will build with his own hands) and buried in a military cemetery. You can imagine how well this will go over with the four of us kids. Seriously. Where does my father come up with this stuff?!