My parents never had sons which may be where the problem first started. Growing up as third in a line of three daughters, I occasionally scrutinized my parents to determine if I was a disappointment. Surely they’d wanted a Yoder son, someone to protect the homestead and spring clean the chimney. Carry on the proud German name we suspected was once Amish.

These days, Mom lives alone in our childhood home in West Virginia, her offspring spread across multiple states, the closest one still nearly three hours away. Ultimately this means that whenever we appear in town to “check in,” carefully selected chores are waiting. Hauling brush, loading up the trunk of the car with free mulch, perilously balancing on the deck railing to replace a gutter guard – you name it, we’ve attempted it. 

Recently, my “check in” entailed a drive out to Mom’s camp house on the Little Kanawha River. With a large yard, countless wasp nests, and no cell service, it’s rife with opportunity for me to outshine my sisters as Mom’s most valuable son. “Bring honor to us all!” we’ll text each other, complete with Mulan GIFs. 

This particular adventure skyrocketed when the water pump failed to respond to our jiggling of the lever, leaving us without running water. Not to be deterred, Mom still sent me out to mow. I finished up the front yard in the dark, drenched in sweat, gasoline on my hands, eaten alive by mosquitoes, and without a single bar of cell service so I could boast to my sisters.

Foregoing a moonlight dip in the river, we washed faces and brushed teeth with a jug of water at the bathroom sink. I fell asleep desperately hot and sticky, listening to the soundtrack of Cheney the St. Bernard moan and flop disconsolately in the next room over.

In the morning, the sun came with a glimmer of peace. Mom and I sat on the back porch with toast and tea and watched fog drift above the river. We savored brown water prickling under flashes of white light, stars captured beneath the surface. Trees bathing along the bank. The rich scent of October chill and wet earth in the air.

So enamored were we with the moody weather, we didn’t notice the sliding glass door lock behind Mom. As to be expected, the front glass door was locked, too. Mom has a particular phobia of bandits who see an occupied house with a car out front and rob it blind while unsuspecting fools read on the back deck.

Giggling down panic, we glanced at each other and assessed our options. Car keys inside. No means of contacting the outside world. I could nearly hear Mom’s thoughts – At least you can finish mowing.

But as Mother Abbess so wisely says in Sound of Music, when God closes a door, He opens a window. A small one, maybe just wide enough to squeeze through. Using a skewer typically reserved for roasting marshmallows, we pried out the window screen, and I climbed through in my socks, landing on the couch on the other side. 

Delighted, Mom congratulated my resourcefulness, then sent me out to mow. 

Despite how much I’ve historically loathed picking up sticks and raking brush and hauling firewood, for some reason, I wouldn’t change a thing. I am who I am because there were no brothers. 

Without a doubt, we are built from circumstance, family being one of those unalterable foundational blocks in a human life. Family is our first source of identity. Before nearly anything else, I knew myself as the youngest of three sisters. As a thirteen-year-old, I knew myself as the least enchanting of the Yoder sisters, not yet introduced to mascara and pants other than basketball shorts.

I am who I am because of early sorrow, loss, and change. Because of cancer. Because of insecurity. Because of the competitive need to excel. 

Perhaps you are who you are because there were brothers. Or grew up as an only child in downtown San Fran or rural Kentucky. Regardless of the diversity of our beginnings, we all share a singular commonality. We are who we are because of our response to those circumstances. 

Attitude is a choice. It is preeminent over what happens to us. Superior to what others think or say or do to us. Attitude is more important than our skillset, our physical appearance, or the number of friends we accumulated in college.

Family raises us, forms us, molds our first identity. If we’re fortunate, that earliest circumstance will make us strong, resilient, intelligent. But eventually, regardless of our status at birth, we all enter a world where we retain the final word in very little. 

That’s been a hard lesson to learn – coming to terms with the fact that I can’t hold back the dark days. I can’t stop my friend from losing his job or my cousin from losing her son. I can’t protect myself. When the hammer thunders down, all I can control is my response to it. 

I’ve gone through dark seasons of life where my emotions flailed like a fish fighting against a hook. I couldn’t choose to be happy. Emotion is distinct from attitude. What we feel often removed from what we must do. But I can choose what to believe, and I hope that my response will forever be a prayerful, faith-filled, patient belief that this is only for a moment. Joy comes in the morning – this life or the next.

In these seasons, I am thankful to derive strength and solidarity from those earliest circumstances. From those smart and competitive sisters, the older ladies at church, friends from high school, my insightful husband. I am constantly reminded of the beauty of friendship, of what it means to be surrounded by the right people. 

I’m proud to be the third Yoder daughter. Grateful for that beginning. Even if it means toting pounds of Christmas ornaments up and down Mom’s broken attic steps and mowing in the dark. Even if it means I’ll be wearing a hand-me-down dress at my own funeral. 

Even still. It’s part of me.