Carol Ann, My Sister, My Angel

Some people are born with gentle hands and kind hearts, and my sister Carol Ann (Ann, as we called her) was one of them. The eldest of seven, she carried the weight of responsibility with a grace that made her seem more like a second mother than just a big sister.

Ann had long, dark brown hair that flowed all the way to her hips, thick and coarse like Daddy’s. Her skin was pale, her frame curvy, and her heart? Pure gold. She was soft-spoken, kind, and nurturing, always looking out for us, always making sure we felt safe, loved, and cared for, even when the world around us felt anything but.

When I was little, my hair was a tangled disaster. I would brush just the top layer, just enough to make it seem like I’d done the job. But after about a week, the knots underneath would grow into something fierce, a matted mess at the nape of my neck, thick as a ball of yarn. If Momma got a hold of me with a brush, it was pure torture. The whole time, she’d threaten to cut it all off, her frustration making the strokes sharper, the pulling harder.

But Ann? She had patience.

She’d sit me in her lap, settle me down, and gently work through the knots, cooing soft reassurances.
"You’ve gotta brush it every day, now. Be a big girl. It won’t hurt if you don’t let it get this bad."

I’d nod, knowing full well I’d do the same thing all over again next week, because Ann would always be there to rescue me.

I don’t know how many times she saved me, not just from hairbrushes, but from monsters, burns, and childhood fears.

At night, when the attic fan roared to life, I swore it sounded like footsteps creeping across the ceiling. My brothers, always looking for a way to scare me, fed my fears with stories of attic-dwelling monsters. I’d tiptoe into Ann’s bed, my little heart racing. She never turned me away, never sighed or groaned that I was too old for such things. She’d just pull me close and whisper, “You’re safe with me.”

Then there was the day with the bacon grease.

Momma had made a big skillet full of bacon, leaving the pan full of scalding hot grease on the stove. I, being small but determined, decided to tilt the pan forward just enough to grab a slice. But my tiny hands lost control, and in an instant, that boiling grease poured over my chest and legs, the pain searing through my skin.

I don’t remember much except the cold towels laid over the blisters, the way my skin throbbed and burned with every heartbeat. But what I do remember is Ann. Stroking my hair, whispering, “Don’t you worry about those tangles. I’ll take care of them later.”

She always took care of things, of me.

Ann was also the one who took us to church, making sure we made it to Vacation Bible School every summer, where we got cookies and punch and learned about faith. I remember the time I got to carry the flag at the front of the church, leading the kids in. I have no doubt Ann pulled some strings to make that happen.

And I’ll never forget her wedding day.

The moment the preacher asked, "If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace", a massive train wreck shook the town, BOOM! The windows of the church rattled in their panes. It was as if the world itself was making sure we all knew this moment was happening. But Ann? She just laughed it off, in her own special way.

Later, when I was visiting her, she stood ironing clothes as I sat nearby, my heart heavy with a question that had been sitting in my chest for weeks.

"Ann, how do you know when Jesus is in your heart? How do you know when it’s time to be baptized?"

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t brush me off. Instead, she gave me the answer I needed, the kind that a scared little girl could hold onto in her heart.

She told me, "When you love Jesus and you’re ready to give your heart to Him, you’ll know."

That Sunday, I walked down the aisle of our small Baptist church, nervous but sure. As the preacher finished his sermon and asked if anyone accepted Jesus, I took a deep breath and whispered the words Ann had told me to say:

"I love Jesus, and I want to be saved."

The following Sunday, I stood in a white robe, walking down into the warm baptismal water, the preacher’s hands firm as he guided me under and back up, washed clean in more ways than one.

Ann was always there, to guide me, to comfort me, to love me.

She was more than a sister. She was an angel in my life, a second mother when I needed one most, and a heart big enough to hold us all.

#StoriesFromThePineyWoods #SistersAreAngels #FaithFamilyAndFriedBacon #ChildhoodMemories #BaptismDay #FamilyLove