My little sister was a dreamer. She never did things the right way. When I let her draw in my coloring book, she never stayed in the lines. And she never used the right colors. The sun is not green, I would say. She would just smile and draws wings on the pink fish.

I taught her how to wash the dishes. When you are done, I would say, dry them and stack them on the counter while I wash the silverware. But on some nights, before bed time, I would come back to find a place mat, plate, silverware, glass and napkin carefully arranged on the table we had just cleared. Why did you put everything back on the table? I would ask. She would smile and say, now we are all ready if someone comes to visit.

One time we rode in my uncle’s car to visit my grandmother in the hospital. I had to skip basketball practice at the church. I didn’t complain even though I didn’t want to go to a boring hospital. My sister worked on a poem in the car. She let me read it. Grandma’s hair is black, I said, not silver like a cloud. Do you think she will like my poem? my sister asked. Yes, I said, even though I thought the poem was stupid.

My sister was always dreaming. If I was a pastor of a church, she would say, I would invite all the hurting people to live in the church. And we would have our worship services outside, in the parks, where everybody could come. What if it rains? I would ask. We would go swimming with the angels, she would say. What if it is winter? California winters are warm, she would say. We could barbecue hot dogs and dance if we get cold.

Every night when it was time for bed my sister would wrap her arms around my mother’s neck and shoulders. My mother would have to tickle her to get her to let go. Have you brushed your teeth? I would ask, already knowing she hadn’t. She would wait for my mother to make her brush her teeth. Then my sister would could come back, giggling, and hug me like she would never let go. What do you want for Christmas? my mother would ask. I want a computer, I would reply. I want to go fishing with grandma, was always my sister’s reply.

On Sundays my mother wanted to sleep in. My sister and I would get up early. I would watch some cartoons on television and then study my Sunday School lesson. When I would go to the kitchen to fix us some breakfast, I would hear my sister singing in the other room. I knew that she would soon be sitting on my mother’s bed, asking her to read Charlotte’s Web to her. Come on or we will be late for church, I would say. She would smile and close the book, jump off the bed and race to our room to change.

Even when I didn’t want to, I always took my sister to church. I got an award for perfect Sunday School attendance, three years in a row. I pinned it on my red baseball cap. My mother was proud of me. My sister was too. She often grabbed the baseball cap from my head and showed my pin to her friends. My brother is going to be a doctor, she would say.

When I was in college, I spent Sunday afternoons at home, studying. One Sunday my sister returned from her Sunday School class visit to the nursing home. She was excited from her chat with an old man who stayed there. His only wish is to go fishing, she said. Just one more time. You have a car. Let’s take him fishing. We can’t do that, I said. Just give him one of the shoe boxes of Christmas gifts that your Sunday School makes. Besides, I have to study. She pleaded with me. We can use grandma’s old fishing pole, she said. It is still in her apartment. I finally said, if you spent a little less time dreaming and a little more time studying, maybe you would have gotten an award at church, like I did. She walked away, silent. It broke my heart.

I am a doctor now. Sometimes I work around the clock at the hospital. But I never miss church on Sunday. I even help stuff shoe boxes for Christmas gifts to the poor. My sister is in her final year of seminary. She is going to be a missionary. I got a letter from her yesterday. She described the program they are developing. Business loans for the homeless. I had little hope that this program would work. But I felt her excitement. At one point, she mentioned that the God she knew kept breaking out of the walls of the church. I started to wonder if she believed in the same God that I did. Maybe, I thought, who you believe in is more important than what you accomplish.

In her letter she included a page torn from an old coloring book. In bright orange and blue colors was a scribbled mountain with a green sun behind it and a yellow river below. In between the mountain and the river, she had written a verse from the Bible: And his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

On the bank of the river, two stick people held fishing poles. One of the stick figures was wearing a red baseball cap. Jumping out of the river was a pink fish with wings. I took the picture to my chest and hugged it, like I would never let go.