If anyone has not read my brother's blog, you should go check it out here. His latest post is a hilarious account from our home town and the junior high we went to. And if you never read his blog again, you have to read this post, an amazing yet honest story from his mission. I love my brother's writing. I love my brother, too.
Every once in a while someone who knows me but not our family sees a picture of my brother and remarks that we look nothing alike. Sometimes I respond to this with the matter of fact statement, "His mother died when he was little" or "My father was a widower when he married my mother." On occasion I regret the statement when the person says, "Oh, so he's your half-brother." This has always bothered me. I don't care what the genes say, he's my brother.
My brother is 12 years older than me, so it was really easy to idolize him growing up. He could do no wrong in my eyes. In retrospect, the worst thing he ever did to me was an unintentional adolescent slip-up. (That's a story he can tell if he wants to. It involves a televised football game and a babysitting assignment, and the baby walking out the front door unnoticed. Oops.) So I stick by my statement that he could do no wrong.
He really was an awesome older brother who put up with a lot from little sisters. He was in high school when I started kindergarten, but he still let me tag along sometimes when his best friend would come over. He would let me in his room to throw a football back and forth with me. (I still associate 80s music with that room.) When he locked his door to keep little girls out, he never got angry when I took a q-tip to the lock and got in anyway. (Or at least if he was, he never showed it.) He would let me watch him shave sometimes. And to the question "What is that?" as we pointed at zits here and there, he just said, "Frogs." He let me drink root beer with him and his German exchange student once. I remember there were a few times in kindergarten when he picked me up from school in his truck -- that was way cool.
When he went to the religious university to the north, I was only six. That Christmas, he brought back a cheerleader's outfit for me, which I promptly paraded around in, doing splits and jumps and feeling proud to wear his school's attire. While he was on his mission, I wrote fictional stories about him for assignments at school (I remember one involved a chickadee, and another one involved a penguin of all things). I still remember those little blue-and-red-rimmed envelopes with "Luftpost" stamped on them; they meant that my brother had written us more exciting news from his mission.
And as I grew, every time my brother returned from school, he always took time with me. We would play basketball together a lot, and while we played, we would talk. I remember that he always listened to me as if I were an adult and worth listening to. And then it was time for me to go to that same university in the north. He was already in a residency program at that point. When I was trying to get over my first college relationship, it was my brother who told me that there was certainly someone better for me, so I should enjoy the pain while I could. So I enjoyed the pain for a few days, and within a week I went on my first date with Linus.
My brother has always been a wonderful example to me. Wish I could see him more often.
Love you, bro.
Every once in a while someone who knows me but not our family sees a picture of my brother and remarks that we look nothing alike. Sometimes I respond to this with the matter of fact statement, "His mother died when he was little" or "My father was a widower when he married my mother." On occasion I regret the statement when the person says, "Oh, so he's your half-brother." This has always bothered me. I don't care what the genes say, he's my brother.
My brother is 12 years older than me, so it was really easy to idolize him growing up. He could do no wrong in my eyes. In retrospect, the worst thing he ever did to me was an unintentional adolescent slip-up. (That's a story he can tell if he wants to. It involves a televised football game and a babysitting assignment, and the baby walking out the front door unnoticed. Oops.) So I stick by my statement that he could do no wrong.
He really was an awesome older brother who put up with a lot from little sisters. He was in high school when I started kindergarten, but he still let me tag along sometimes when his best friend would come over. He would let me in his room to throw a football back and forth with me. (I still associate 80s music with that room.) When he locked his door to keep little girls out, he never got angry when I took a q-tip to the lock and got in anyway. (Or at least if he was, he never showed it.) He would let me watch him shave sometimes. And to the question "What is that?" as we pointed at zits here and there, he just said, "Frogs." He let me drink root beer with him and his German exchange student once. I remember there were a few times in kindergarten when he picked me up from school in his truck -- that was way cool.
When he went to the religious university to the north, I was only six. That Christmas, he brought back a cheerleader's outfit for me, which I promptly paraded around in, doing splits and jumps and feeling proud to wear his school's attire. While he was on his mission, I wrote fictional stories about him for assignments at school (I remember one involved a chickadee, and another one involved a penguin of all things). I still remember those little blue-and-red-rimmed envelopes with "Luftpost" stamped on them; they meant that my brother had written us more exciting news from his mission.
And as I grew, every time my brother returned from school, he always took time with me. We would play basketball together a lot, and while we played, we would talk. I remember that he always listened to me as if I were an adult and worth listening to. And then it was time for me to go to that same university in the north. He was already in a residency program at that point. When I was trying to get over my first college relationship, it was my brother who told me that there was certainly someone better for me, so I should enjoy the pain while I could. So I enjoyed the pain for a few days, and within a week I went on my first date with Linus.
My brother has always been a wonderful example to me. Wish I could see him more often.
Love you, bro.
6 comments:
I don't really think that any of us really look similar, although I always thought you looked more like our bro that I did.
"I still associate 80s music with that room." - so true! I'd forgotten about the q-tip.
You didn't mention how you would dote on anyone resembling him while he was on his mission.
Wow, a Wonder Years quote and a tribute to me on the same page...am I in heaven already?
I guess there's really nothing to say except Thank You.
So, "Thank You!"
Thank you all for being my children. I am proud of all of you and feel very fortunate indeed that you are related to me. Your mother(s) obviously had marvelous genes. Love- Papa
I always call my stepsisters my sisters, because although we don't share any genes at all, we grew up together, and they are definitely my sisters. That's great that he was so involved with you growing up. I've read the post too.
I also forgot to mention that I in part owe my violin and my German to my brother! Thanks for setting those traditions.
One of the memories I have of your brother is his willingness to provide care for his little sisters, even to the point of changing a diaper. His wife was a lucky girl to find him as he already had all that experience. You should have seen him the other night smiling and talking to his new little one. A genuinely good man. Mutti
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