A Baby by Easter

“Darla is smart and funny. She’s got a sweet heart and she loves people. But she doesn’t have any confidence in herself.” Susannah touched his arm. “She gets frustrated because she wants so badly to be what you want, and yet somehow, she just can’t get there.”

“I don’t want her to be anything,” he protested.

“You want her to be neat and tidy.” Susannah pressed on, determined to make him see what she saw.

“That’s wrong?” David asked.

“How many teens do you know who fit that designation? By nature teens are exploring, innovating, trying to figure out their world. Darla is no different.” Susannah said. “Except that she thinks you’re embarrassed when she spills something.”

“I’m not embarrassed about anything to do with my sister.” She saw the truth in his frank stare. “I thought…”

The complete uncertainty washing over his face gripped a soft spot in her heart.

“David, listen to me and, just for a moment, pretend that I know what I’m talking about.” She drew in a breath of courage. “Most teen girls love fashion, they love color. They experiment with style, trying to achieve the looks they see in magazines. It’s part of figuring out who they are. I’ll bet Darla used to do that, didn’t she?”

“She always liked red,” he said slowly.

“I didn’t see anything red in her closet.”

“No.” His solemn voice said he’d absorbed what she’d hinted at. “Go on.”

“With her current wardrobe, Darla couldn’t experiment if she wanted to,” Susannah told him. “Her clothes are like a mute button on a TV. They squash everything unique and wonderful about her.”

“But—” David stopped, closed his mouth and stared at her.

His silence encouraged Susannah to continue, though she softened her tone.

“I think her accident left her trying to figure out how she fits into her new world. She’s struggling to make what she is inside match with those boring clothes.”

“So how should she dress?” he asked, his eyes on her worn jeans.

“I want her to express herself. If she’s in a happy mood, I want her to be able to pull on something bright and cheerful. If she’s feeling down, I want her to express that, instead of becoming so frustrated she blows out of control and tantrums.”

A timid knock interrupted.

“Are you mad at me for cutting my dress, Davy?” Darla peeked around the door, her big brown eyes soulful as a puppy’s. “I’m sorry.”

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