4:45 am.
I’m woken by 10 year old hands.
“Brother, I’m going to school, are you getting up?”
I had been at the children’s home for about a month. For a month, I had 11 brothers. 11 Malaysian brothers born from Indian descent. 11 brothers and 11 stories. Stories that dared not be told with other people around. Stories that couldn’t be uttered at a normal volume but had to be whispered. Stories that after years of waiting and countless attempts just can’t be forgotten, yet they themselves are the forgotten. Stories that have eyes. One look into them and words no longer do any justice.
“James, What time is it?” I ask as I shot up out of bed, scared something bad had happened.
“It’s time for me to catch the bus,” he said as he wiped the sleep out of his eyes.
When you have so little, you would think that you would hold onto it tight. But unfortunately that wasn’t the case. My brothers had nothing to hold on to. No family to speak of. No worldly possessions. Few, if any friends. The one thing they had was each other. They had a houseful of brothers; family that many of them never had, or if they did have, would rather forget. They could be there for each other, be there when no one else is, but that wasn’t the case. Most came from a background of abuse and that cycle carries on in that boy’s home today. Instead of seeing the hurt in their past and saying “NEVER ME,” the cycle persists. Jokes are made at the most sensitive of issues: dead mothers, brothers and sisters, etc. Any and every mistake is a good excuse for yelling and violence.
“James, do you always catch the bus this early?” I ask as I walk down the stairs holding the little guy’s hand.
He explains in broken English, “The bus is supposed to come at 5:30, but sometimes comes earlier or later and if I miss it I’ll get in trouble.”
We both jump on the old leather couch on the front porch and try to get comfortable.
Attention presents itself to be the most valuable thing to them. Good or bad, it does not matter. They act out in school. They act sweet when no one else is around. They punch their brother so you’ll look in their direction. More questions are asked than can be counted. I think attention is the only thing that keeps them going. The only thing that lets them know they are still alive. The orphan inside just wants to be looked at. To be known. To feel.
Next to James on the couch, I reach around and start to scratch his back and ask, “Are you still tired, buddy?”
Without a word, he shakes his head no. But in the pitch-black morning, almost before his head stops moving, he is drifting back asleep and slipping into my lap.
I wish I could say that I loved my brothers well last month. I wish I could say that I gave them everything I had. But I didn’t. I spent most of my time in that home frustrated that after so many talks and so many attempts, the abuse never stopped. Being there reminded me of my own demons. Abuse. Fatherless. Violence. Often times being there brought out the worst in me. In many ways it was sobering. I tried my best to get out of the house as often as possible just to feel like I could breathe. I’m a better man than I gave those boys, my brothers, and I see that now.
As my little brother lay asleep in my lap I continued to scratch his back, but began to pray over him there. “Father, I don’t understand why this little boy has to go through and live in such hell. Why him?”
James was my favorite. He had the best little laugh. I remember rolling around with James on the ground wrestling a little bit. When I got tired of wrestling, which was pretty quick, I started tickling him. His laugh was one of those genuine laughs that just makes you laugh along. I rolled around on the ground for close to an hour tickling my little brother until tears flowed down his checks. I would stop just long enough for James to catch his breath and think it was over before I pounced again for round 3, 4, 5, or 6! James had 2 sisters, ages 6 and 8, and both were as amazing as their big brother. He had a little family. He was big brother and he loved his sisters! Any time the boy’s home and the girl’s home got together, which was normally once a week for church, James could be found hugging his sisters and his sisters could be found kissing their brother!
Continuing to pray: “Lord, he is a good brother. Let him always have his little family. Keep family important to him. Remind him all the time that he is a good big brother to his sisters. Remind him that he has sisters who love him back. Let them learn to lean on each other when times get tough. He is a good brother. He loves his sisters. Family is important.”
Right then, James stirred and looked up at me, and in his half dream-like state, said “I’m gonna miss you, brother”
I ran my fingers through his hair and said “I’m gonna miss you too, James.”
At this point, trying to hold back tears, I looked down at my little brother and said,
“James, you’re a good brother. You love your sisters. Family is important.” Over and over, it came out of my mouth. “You’re a good brother. You love your sisters. Family is important. You’ll always be a good brother. Your sisters love you. Never forget how important family is!”
We sat out on that couch and continued talking and praying for a while. His bus didn’t come at 5:30, or 6:00 or 6:30. His bus finally came flying around the corner at around 7:10, and when James heard it blow its horn, he jumped to his feet and was gone. No time for a hug or any last goodbyes. I felt like Pi from The Life of Pi when, after everything he and Richard Parker had been through, Richard Parker just walked away.
I had never felt more like a father than in those few precious moments on the couch. Going from fatherless to father myself hasn’t been an easy journey. It’s been a life full of ups and downs. In hindsight, some of my biggest ups have been the things I saw as downs at the time, and the same holds true in the reverse.
A few hours later, I was packed and on a plane. Not knowing if I would ever hear from or see my little brother again. I know the Lord has James in His hands. I know he is safe there. I know he will be ok. But I miss him. I miss tickling him until he cries. I miss making funny faces at him. I miss giving him candy when none of the other boys are around. I miss trying to talk through his broken English. I miss that sweet moment on the porch, meant to be shared between a father and son. I miss my little brother!
