Siblings and Stories

My brother accumulated thousands of days away from his wife and 4 children to serve our country as an Air Force pilot. His retirement ceremony and last flight in his A-10 is this week. I wasn’t able to be there.  But my mind and heart were.
Rich is one of those even-keel types that applied to The Air Force Academy, was accepted, and accomplished his dream. I secretly think watching Tom Cruise in “Top Gun” inspired him, but whatever it was, he plodded a direct path to heroism one step at a time.
I am scatter-brained and cobble a life together, barely balancing my career and passions and parenthood. He has laser focus. He sets a goal and works quietly and without complaint. He’s humble and one of the strongest Christian men I know. He is intentional and hilarious. And a darn good fisherman. These qualities are rare.
One of my most treasured possessions is the flag he gave me for my 40th birthday. He had flown it on his plane in my honor over Afghanistan.  When he presented it to me I was overwhelmed.

Frankly, it’s a bit of a wake-up call to have my younger brother old enough to retire.  I’m still not sure I’ve come to terms with the fact that he has chest hair or his driver’s license.  To be honest, I see both of my younger brothers just like this:

That’s Rich the pilot on the right and Mike (computer-entrepenuer guru) on the left. They are both anchors to me. Born 13 months apart they were like twins growing up.

I am in my truest form with my brothers. I am goofy and transparent. In the past few years we have rekindled our friendship with each other and relied on one another a great deal. I am grateful.   Because long ago we shared the kid’s table at Thanksgiving dinners, huddled under the staircase to tell stories, and pulled our sleds up the hill on Ravenna Road.  We prayed for snow days together. We had a secret clubhouse in the barn and built contraptions and wove dreams and schemed to convince Dad to make popcorn or his famous rice pudding.  We put our “oldies” on and did yard work and so we could earn a movie night or a trip to Mr. Ghatti’s Pizza or Dairy Queen.  We slid down the banister in that old century home and lifted lids of sap buckets lining the maple trees in our front yard in snowy Ohio.  We navigated, discovered, partnered, shared, fought, confided in each other, and caught fireflies in the dusk of the evenings.

In those early years our parents and other adults were gathered in kitchens or around campfires as we wrote our names in 4th of July sparklers and used all the energy children reserve for shenanigans after dark. I reach way back and remember how I wanted to protect my brothers.  I practiced mothering on them way before I had children of my own.  I made them play “school” when they wanted to play cowboys and Indians.    We also know the broken places in each other.  Because we were there when things fell apart. When our parents divorced and the glass shattered we each picked up some shards.   In a way my brothers redeemed my childhood.   With plastic soldiers in the sandbox, blanket forts, garage rockets and boy scout ceremonies. They witnessed my growing up years. Saw me fall in the feed bunks in Iowa and fall in love for the first time with that crazy boy in high school.     When I left for college I missed them. 

But the missing them got dulled with aspirations and college friends and choosing a major and dreams and eventually my wedding and then becoming a mom. I buried memories and forged on in my life and the 3 of us never all made it home again at the same time.

The truth is that nobody has ever understood me as well as they do.  And when some healing happened and years passed we drifted back to talking and sharing and laughing.  It all came into focus how I need our shared history. There is something pure and healing in our childhood memories. They let me relive the first chapters of my life and wring all the goodness possible out of them.   The retelling of our antics soothes me when I stumble and forget who I am and where I came from.  Knowing my brothers are still on my side is a powerful gift.  When I bumble and flail around in my life they help me remember that I am the same girl that cast out that fishing line on the dock at the cabin and chased fireflies and hunted for worms in the Midwest soil.    It grounds me.

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Now each of the 3 of us parent the next generation. We text and call and email and share memories. Our children will inherit our names and traditions and just as surely our generational sin and struggles.  We tell all our stories to our children. The one about Rich eating chap stick that he thought was candy, and the bike rides and sailing Lake Okoboji and fishing with grandpa and running the feed bunks in Iowa. And how much we loved the Himalaya rides when the festival came to town.   As we share these stories we giggle almost as much as we did more than 30 years ago when the scenes were playing out.   Because our stories are the only thing that will exist when we are no longer here.    And I think that after our faith, there is no greater gift we can pass to our children than the stories.   Memories paint a beautiful mosaic picture of us at our best.  The laughter teaches our children that humor is an awfully powerful tool for gaining perspective and offering grace.   Because even when the bottom fell out in our family and we lost our footing and we entered adulthood and our marriages and didn’t know how to build a bridge back far enough to meet? I never lost my love for my brothers and I always prayed for them. I think they would tell you the same.   Shared history is a powerful force.

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The Air Force is losing a terrific pilot today. I have to come to terms that he really is a grown-up man.  My brother will fly his A-10  for the last time over Arizona skies.  Family and friends will cheer and reminisce.  I will ache that I am not there too.   But God has orchestrated his rest-of-his-life home to be in Georgia.  So I’ll beam from here~ and I’ll look to the sky.    Thanks for giving me back my brother, United States Air Force. I remember him as a little boy. You helped him become a man. He is brave. He is my hero. And I can’t wait to welcome him home.