You make me laugh, Sister.

When I think of Tasha, I can’t help but smile. My earliest memories of her go back to the Stearns house and the Meinhardt house and always include dolls. She loved (LOVED) playing house and would beg me to play with her. I always enjoyed it once we got started, but the dread of dragging out the box of Barbies or our American Girl dolls was way too much for me. She has said, as long as I can remember, “When I grow up, I want to be a mother.”

For years my mom dressed us two alike. I always liked it when people would ask if we were twins (despite the fact that I didn’t think we looked much alike). I sometimes laugh as I think of all the bows and puff sleeves and embroidery (no offence, Mom) we would wear. In high school people would say that Tasha looked like Julia Stiles. I’ll be honest, I never could quite figure out how, but I loved the compliment. I love Tasha’s unique beauty—her petite-ness, the “lazy eye” Dad pointed out on her wedding day, the two baby teeth in front, her smile.

When we were in high school, we were joined at the hip. Despite being a year and half older than me, we shared friends, a curfew, a car, the bunk bed, and ideals. If Tasha did it, I figured I should too. She was always unknowingly teaching me things. When we were going to be later than we expected, she would always call home and tell mom—something that just didn’t occur to me. When Mom was gone on a Saturday morning, she would take out the trash or straighten the living room—things that never crossed my mind. When her best friends did things they shouldn’t, she never wavered, never doubted, never hesitated to love them and to not do what they were doing. We always had each other: someone to go to the dance with, to sit by at the activity, to talk out the problem or fear with.

When she moved away to Ricks my senior year, I thought my world was crashing down around me. I remember crying and crying as we drove back through the California desert after leaving her there. That year I became her pen pal. Every Monday, like clockwork, I would lick an envelope shut with all of the last week’s letters—I don’t think there were ever less than two. I would write during AP physics (I definitely wasn’t understanding what was going on anyway), on the bus to soccer games, and late at night. In those letters to Tasha, I found myself. I discovered what I believed in, what there was to be grateful for, what my dreams were. A few years ago for Christmas, in her usual selflessness, Tasha gave me back those letters. I treasure them not because of me that is in those letters, but how they represent Tasha and our connection to each other.

Luckily for me, Tash transferred down to BYU my sophomore year and we became roommates again. We were back to sharing a car and a bunk bed and friends. I was sort of a manic studier and I remember I would come home at the end of the day and Tasha would have a casserole in the fridge waiting. Although I was not nearly as good, she always had a way of knowing just how to tell me she loved me—notes, hugs, smiles, a gift. She still does. I remember her telling me about the Love Languages and thinking: this is one of your greatest talents. She always has a way of knowing just how to make someone feel loved. And she loves doing it; she loves figuring out just what will make someone’s day.

Needless to say, I cried at her wedding two years later. No. I sobbed. It was like my senior year of high school all over again, only this time forever. No offence, Brian. It didn’t really hit me until the luncheon after the ceremony. We were all standing up and saying something about the bride or groom. I was one of the only people in the room who knew and loved them both. As I stood up, I suddenly realized just what was going on, and I didn’t like it. No more bunkbeds, no more sitting together at institute. And yet, this was what Tasha had been hoping and praying for since we were little girls. How could I not be happy for her?

Two weeks later, while I was helping her unpack into her tiny new apartment, we sat on the floor and looked at wedding pictures and I told her I had felt a strong prompting (akin to a kick in the pants) to go on a mission. We cried, knowing I wouldn’t be there for her first baby to be born, or her first year of marriage still living in Provo. And I wasn’t. Within a month, my papers were in. A few months later, I was in the MTC learning Spanish. I did, however, get to see her little belly growing for a few minutes while in the MTC. I was walking up to the temple with my district and Tasha and Brian were driving out. In un-missionary fashion I saw them and ran across the street, forced her out of the car crying, and bear hugged her. My poor companion didn’t have clue what was going on. It was my sister. Needless to say, one of the hardest days on my mission was the day she had Tanner. She was already in the hospital bed and going into labor on Mother’s Day when I talked to her. I had a wait a whole week for pictures of that perfect little face.

Since our Roman Gardens apartment, I haven’t lived near Tasha. When I got home from my mission and was living in Provo and working at the MTC, I would call her for 15-20 minute conversations on my way up to work from campus. I would email her and now, living farther away than ever, I blog with her. When I need advice, I call Tasha. When I need to vent, I call Tasha. When I am having a good day, I call Tasha. She is one of those people who just knows. She loves unconditionally. She is selfless and giving. She has bad days and gets anxiety, but mostly because she wishes she could do more. I am so grateful she is mine--that we are sealed to each other forever, no matter how far apart we live.

And today is her birthday. Happy Birthday, Tasha. I love you more than you know.