I think of that time he took us to the fair when I was young. I had $10, an amount of money I had little experience with at that time in my life. My timid inability to say no to the assertive carnies had me half-heartedly buying a bucket full of darts on the promise that a popped balloon would produce an oversized stuffed bear that would be the singular answer to the myriad of dilemmas in my ten-year-old world.
By the end of that bucket, I was burning with regret and shame. The salty, jerky-skinned man went from believing in me more than anyone in my whole life had ever believed in me to turning his back so quickly he almost hit my traumatized face with his scraggly white ponytail. I remember standing there, dazed, thinking that he was an adult and I was just a kid and he should have been looking out for me, but he took advantage of me and now I couldn’t ride my favorite rides or eat cotton candy or laugh with my sister at the distorted funhouse mirror reflection of ourselves.
I felt so ashamed. I never, ever got to do something fun like this, and now my one chance was thrown away because I was so stupid. I wanted to cry, but I was so angry at myself I told myself I didn’t deserve to cry, which just made me want to cry even more. I swallowed the trembly lump in my throat, resolved to play sick and tell everyone that I just didn’t feel like doing anything. I knew my heart would rend as I watched them do all the things I wished in my heart I could do, but I didn’t deserve to have fun because I was so stupid.
As I drew away from the balloon stand, I glued my eyes to the ground. I didn’t want anyone to see how sad I felt or how ashamed I was.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Mark. He looked at me kindly, like fifteen-year old brothers with summer jobs rarely look at their younger sisters. He said,
In his hand, he held a new chance. A new life. A $10 bill. I was so heartbroken over my stupidity that I didn’t want to take it, I wanted to wallow in my own pity and let the scorpion of my shame sting me over and over and over again.
I told him I couldn’t take it. I had seen him walk to the gas station in the heat of Mississippi summer to fill the gas tank, lug it home, fill the mower, and push that thing all over our big back yard and front yard to get the money he was so freely handing me now. I didn’t deserve it. I was riding my bike and playing with my cats and hitting nothing-but-net with my Space Jam basketball. I didn’t deserve what he had worked so hard for. I had my chance and I blew it.
I told him I couldn’t take it. He told me I could. I just stood there as he folded the bill over and stuck it in my shirt pocket. He smiled. I don’t have a photographic memory, but I can still remember the soft purple sky and the lights of the ferris wheel behind that smile.
“Don’t feel guilty, I’ve done things like this before, too. I’m just doing for you what dad has done for me.”
I’m not lying when I say that my brother lived stories like this every day. He was so full of life, brimming with forgiveness and compassion and love. But this story is Jesus. It is Jesus through and through. Seeing my heartache when I think no one else sees, identifying with my situation, toiling on his own to buy back my lost happiness, pointing to the goodness of the Father at all chances.
My brother lived a life like Jesus I have rarely seen in this world. He didn’t traverse the globe, he never even left the country. But he showed me a love that most sisters will never see from their brothers. He forgave me, doted on me, thought I was spectacular when I was really quite ordinary. The lessons I learned from him have cultivated me into who I am today, and in that sense, his touch has reached people all over the world.
I know this is only the beginning of my grief. I don’t know how I can ever recover from such a devastating loss. I can’t imagine never talking to him again in this life. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that he’s gone.
