To Daniel

To put it in 21^st century terms, the birth of my brother on this day 30 years ago completely screwed my life. In 1986 that was not a term used unless you were actually talking about putting a screw through something. But when you think about how a screw is twisted hard into whatever it’s intended to hold, that’s a pretty accurate description. Having a brother hurt.

If I was to see a psychologist, I’m sure there would be some “shrinky” words to use for how messed up I am from having a brother. But I’m also sure such words can be used for any of us who have siblings – brother or sister, older or younger. Siblings will do that to you – and I have seven of them!

But having a brother was different than having a sister. And 30 years ago, my life changed in ways I wouldn’t realize until I was much older. It would be easy to say that 75% of those ways were bad, but that’s to take what God sovereignly gives us in life and throw it back it back in His face as if He didn’t know what He was doing. God gave me a brother. I can either be bitter about it, or I can accept the many lessons that come with a brother – some I’ve learned, others I’m still sludging through.

Anyone who tells you there isn’t a difference between boys and girls either has their head in the sand or is avoiding the obvious. There was a world of difference between having my sister and having my brother. Even if Katey and I did love to go out and play Swiss Family Robinson, the following day we played house with our dolls. I never played house with Daniel. Or school. Or library. Nor was he in the midst of my sisters as they played switch-board operator or orphanage. In truth, I didn’t play a lot with Daniel. We couldn’t settle on the same games.

So while I didn’t have a lot of play time with my brother, I will give credit where credit is due. Surrounded by sisters (two older and four younger), I don’t even want to know how many times he had to suffer through girly movies, or lost the vote on where we were going, or was generally lost in the midst of our voices. It honestly couldn’t have been easy. No wonder he joined the Marines.

Today, it’s hard to believe the little baby boy I visited in the hospital is 30 years old. The little boy that loved big trucks, could get a crowd of adults to play tag and was generally a pest (like little brothers should be) is 30 years old. Lots of memories. Lots of regrets. Lord willing, the next 30 years will be better.

Happy Birthday, Daniel.