He’s my brother. That’s what’s been on my mind for the last month or two. I attended a funeral of a beautiful young lady a few weeks ago; she left behind her parents and her brother, and her brother’s family. Everyone talked of how much her parents would miss her (she never married, had no children), but not many mentioned her brother. I thought of him throughout the whole funeral. I sat beside my younger brother at this funeral, and could not help but think of what it would be like without him. Of course, when I asked him if he ever pictured his own funeral (which I do, more often than I should, and boy, is it as good as it should be), he looked at me as if I were crazy and said “Um, Noooo.” Oh, that’s not normal, to picture who shows up and what songs are sung?
Okay, funeral planning aside, my mind has been on my brothers. I feel for the brother this friend of mine left behind. My brothers know me, they know my story, they know my inside jokes, because they are inside. Who but our siblings know the angst of our childhood? Who knows, with just a word or phrase, what I mean when I talk about life? That person who went through my early life with me, my brothers.
Of course, if you are my older brother, you leave me scarred…he convinced me that peanut butter had worms in it (which stopped me from eating it by the spoonful) and also told me that my favorite tween band’s album “Zenyatta Mendatta” meant “This side Up”. He had me totally believing that an ax murderer had lived in our basement at some time (even though the darn house was built by our dad), and he tortured me with his geeky friends incessantly. He also instilled in me my love of the musical giants The Beatles and Queen, and without him, I would never have discovered my absolute addiction to reading.
My younger brother was totally abused by me as a kid, but became my best friend as we got older. He never told any secrets he overheard, and his love for the Lord impressed me so much I decided to find out for myself what he found so appealing. Poor little brother, though, he suffered through the hits on the head and the yelling, and he even worked for me for a while. But my friendship with him and his family (his wife was in my wedding and his two sons are my heart with mine) would leave a huge hole that would be black and nasty and unfillable without his presence.
I guess I just wanted to say that family is not to be taken for granted, and if I die, my life won’t be just a mother and wife and daughter…it would be SISTER. I want that for my boys, and tell them all the time…”You are each other’s best friends, defenders and blood!” Nothing can take that away.