(Pic courtesy of Cathy Winchester, who is a fantastic photographer!)
He might be somewhat annoyed at me for writing yet another
item that involves him, but how often does one’s baby brother turn almost
30? And I am not close enough to partake
in a little Southern Comfort with him (our shared favorite poison), so this is
what you get brother….
I was thinking this morning of what life was like before my
brother was born, and I can’t really remember it. I was 12 when he was born. I know he was a very great surprise to all of
us, someone not really planned. But I
think that the best things in life just seem to happen to us, don’t you?
I remember very
clearly the day Mom and Dad called me into the kitchen without the other kids
and shut the sliding door. I remember,
because I thought I was in trouble for something. Shutting the door was never a good
thing. They had me sit down on a chair
in the middle of the kitchen, while they stood across from me. I remember thinking that the situation felt very
much like a scene from a movie where it didn’t end well for the person sitting
in the chair. So, when they told me
there was going to be another baby, I about fell out of the chair, not as much
from the shock of a new baby but more from the release of tension that I was
not, in fact, going to be drawn and quartered.
I’m trying to remember what it was I had done, but that part has
conveniently fled the memory banks.
Caleb has known since day one that he was special
ordered. And his response is…”Blah,
blah, blah”. But too bad. All of his sisters made a concerted effort to
pray that we would have a boy, that he would have freckles, red hair, and green
eyes. And as you see by the above, we
got what we requested. I have strawberry
blonde hair, but that is the closest to red we have in our family. Both my folks were dark headed, and no one
has green eyes, though you can’t see in this pic…He has green eyes, though they
sometimes alter to a grayish color, I think.
I remember seeing him through the window at the hospital as
he lay in the little tiny bed with all the other babies, all new and shiny,
plump and a sheen of light red dusting the top of his little head, and I
remember thinking, “I will love this baby forever. I will spoil him, and I will dress him, and I
will protect him.” I was twelve…The
inner dialogue was not profound. I was
able to do with Caleb what I was not able to with my sisters, because I was so
much older and was able to help more with taking care of him. I was able to dress him and bathe him and
just play “little mommy” to him.
I am waxing selfish here, but I believe Caleb came along, in
part for me, because Abba knew I would never have a child of my own to
raise. I was able to be with him from
birth to the time I left home. I know he
remembers me being gone a lot as he got older, but I was in his life helping
raise him from the day he came home from the hospital until he was five years
old. Not too many years, but they were
some of the most important in my life, I would later discover. Many times in my dark teenage years, his
little voice saying, “Ya-yell” (couldn’t quite say my name, but most adults
struggle with it as well and don’t have the cute factor going for them). He would come running (when he was little…not
so much as he got bigger) and hug me when I walked in the door, his little
chubby legs churning to get to me. What
an ego booster!
I gave him the nickname, Slick, when he was a tot, because
he used to love it when I would wet his hair and slick it back. Loved it.
And later, when I went to beauty school, I would give him flat tops,
until Mom nixed that, saying the haircut turned him into “Dennis the Menace”. I have pictures of shaving his head into a Mohawk
and then bald, as was his preference when he got a bit older. Now, I still get to cut his hair, only, as
you can see in the pic, there is a lot more of it.
I have been privileged to be a part of this extraordinary
human’s life as he grew from baby to gangly boy to indecisive young man and
into a man of integrity, much like his father (though he does not think so). I believe we become versions of those we
admire most. We cannot become them, but
if we really try, we emulate. Caleb has
emulated the man he most admires, my dad, and he has become a wonderfully
sensitive, dangerous, humorous, honest, smart, fallible, and authentic version
of the only person he could be…himself.
As a person who has made many poor decisions unlike other
members of my family who have never crossed moral boundaries in the ways I
have, I identify with my brother. I have
an understanding of human carnage I share with him. He has been to war, as a Marine, seeing
things someone so young should never have.
And I have been walking through the war zone of mental illness, littered
with the devastation of addiction, insanity, and death that so many people with
such illnesses struggle with. Such
experiences make one jaded. They change
you and make you both strong and very vulnerable all at once. I think I share this with Caleb, and as his
eldest sister, I have always felt it my job, much like my grandma did for me,
to make sure he has someone in his life who he can tell anything and who will
not judge him in any way.
Enter, Jana. I no
longer worry about my little brother’s well being, because he found the perfect
mate. Jana is all the things Caleb
needs. She centers him. She helps him access the child within, she is
a Marine and understands that mentality, and she is 100% behind him. That is what he has always needed in a
significant other, and as with the good choice to go into the military to have
direction as a youth, he made another spectacular choice in her.
Now, he is a dad. And
he is a basket case, as I would expect with such a valuable little package. But he is going to be fine. He is going to walk through each day, taking in
failure and success as part of living.
He will, because he is made of very tough stuff. I know he may not always feel up to the task,
the weight of what should be often falling like cement blocks onto his shoulders,
but he will endure. He will laugh and
smile, and as he works his way back from all he has seen and heard to reconcile
with the stresses of daily life and responsibility, I believe he is finding joy
again.
The ruby is my birthstone.
They are not easy to get hold of, and did you know that a ruby that is
flawed is more valuable? Inclusions can
help certify that the ruby is authentic.
I think my brother is a ruby...and his flaws make him more valuable,
because anyone who sees him, knows him, can tell he is authentic.
I love you, Slick. It
is my very great honor and privilege to know you, from birth to eternity. Happy,
happy birthday sweet boy. Miss you every day!
Sis
