Dan

Dan was six years old and had three sisters (one older) when Mum became pregnant with her fifth child. She and Dad didn't know if they were having a boy or a girl each time, so they gave each baby a nickname, such as Bartholomew or another unlikely name. When they got to number five, they decided they were done, so they went with "Quits."

Regardless of their calling it quits, Dan wanted a brother so much that when Mum entered the hospital to give birth, he somberly told her, "If it's not a boy, don't come home." I don't know how Dan would have reacted if I hadn't appeared on the scene, but I'm sure he would have accepted me if I'd been born a girl. Thankfully, though, I was an answer to Dan's fervent wishes and prayers, and I have spent fifty-six happy years being his little brother.

One of Dan's first requests after I was home for a couple of months was to take me on the bus with him to school for show-and-tell. He promised Mum that he would take good care of me! He said he would feed me, change my diaper, and make sure I got a nap. He didn't understand why she wouldn't let him take me on the school bus. It's a sweet story that we five siblings have recalled and laughed about many times over the years.

At some point, Dan and I began referring to one another as Big Bother and Little Bother. To this day, these terms of endearment feature strongly in texts, emails, and letters, even when we are referring to each other and not necessarily addressing one another directly. In our sibling social media messenger group yesterday, as our sisters greeted Dan with thoughtful tidbits praising his wisdom and godliness, as they wished him a happy birthday, I just stuck to the traditional "happy birthday to my favorite Big Bother" celebratory comment.

"Big Bother" carries so much love and affection that it cannot be translated into other words. Although Dan was in college while I was still in junior high, he made an effort to include me in much of what he did as I was growing up. When his friends came to our house to play croquet--there wasn't much to do in our country town--Dan made sure to include me. If they played board games, he made sure to let me play. He taught me not to whine and to be a good sport. We played catch and frisbee. He took me to town when he went to play basketball with friends. I was usually bored to tears, but being with Dan made me happy, and he was glad to oblige. When the battery died in his car, he showed me how to jumpstart it by pushing it down the road and popping the clutch to get the engine running. We did that more times than I can remember.

He sprained his ankle one time in town. I was too young to drive, but I controlled the accelerator and the gear shift, while he used his good foot to do the clutch and brake, and steered the car to get home. It was interesting.

Dan, at six years my senior, was fun-loving and a teaser, but whenever he saw that his teasing annoyed me, his heart melted. He was also fiercely protective. When kids from another neighborhood knocked me off my bike, giving me severe road rash and busting up the bicycle, he found out who had done it. Then he called them to let them know that Mack's Big Brother and His High School Buddies would be paying them a visit if they ever did it again. They never did it again. Instead, they apologized. They didn't know Dan, but they knew his friends, and those guys weren't big kids they wanted to cross.

As rough-and-tumble as some of Dan's friends were, though, they were as meek as kittens at our house. Mum laid down the law with them: No swearing. No smoking. No inappropriate talk. The truth is that they loved Mum almost as much as we did. They respected Dad, too. Our parents provided consistent discipline and a safe, fair space for several teenagers who didn't receive the same treatment in their homes. So, when Mum laid down the law or when Dad needed a haying crew, Dan's friends stepped up. I learned from them how to live up to higher expectations, and how to treat my kids' friends with grace and compassion.

We had good parents, but the age difference between Dad and me led to some difficulties relating to one another. He was thirty-six when I was born. When I was in my early twenties, Dad admitted that he struggled to relate to me as a young boy. I could tell. We were at odds with one another frequently. As an older adult, I figured out that a significant reason for that was that I learned differently and couldn't explain that to Dad. He would tell me to "go to the shed and get the" whatever tool he wanted, but I never comprehended what he was talking about. He could picture the tool, but I just saw the letters of the name of it, in my head.

That is, if he told me to get an "awl," I did not picture the tool. I saw "a-w-l" in my mind. More than that, I saw, "Go to the shed and get the awl that's on the second shelf of the gray cabinet." My brain has always worked that way. If you talk to me, my brain runs a teletype--a chyron--of the words you're saying. As a child, I had no idea that that was different from what most people experienced. It certainly explained why I had so much trouble learning Algebra and Geometry! I literally could not picture the mathematical configurations!

Anyway, this alternative processing gave my dad fits when he wanted my help, and we butted heads all the time. Dan has told me that he often didn't know what Dad wanted, but he figured it out more often than not. I was simply lost, and as the last child, it seemed that Dad had run out of patience.

As a result, I looked to Dan to help me learn the facts of life. When I struggled to understand interpersonal relationships, I called Dan. When it was time to learn how to shave, I waited until he was home from college or graduate school to show me (I can't remember when I first shaved). In many ways, my childhood hero--who included me with his friends' games and activities as much as possible--was a surrogate dad, even while our own Dad lived, and Dad knew it. And Dad didn't resent it. He recognized that Dan connected with me in ways he couldn't and didn't.

In Dad's later years, when he remarried after losing Mum to cancer, Dan played mediator as the second spouse wasn't as pleased with Dad's children being involved in his life as Mum had been. He taught me to honor my father when I was tempted to walk away. He taught me to love in difficult circumstances. By how he raised his own sons, he modeled fatherhood more strongly than our dad did. Again, I don't believe Dad begrudged him that.

Dan is not a perfect man. He is the first to tell anyone that. He relies on the grace of God to make him a good man. All of his siblings love him still, even though he tortured our sisters endlessly growing up. One of his favorite teasings was to take the clothespin from the lightstring in the dining room--where we pinned messages to each other in the manner of texts long before cell phones--and pin our sisters on the earlobe or nose.

But my Big Bother remains a hero to me. He is a hero because he still teaches me how to be a good man, a good husband, and a good dad. He still treats me like his Little Bother. For decades, when each birthday rolled around, he'd call me and say, "And you can even speak in complete sentences now! Love you, Little Bother!" It cracked me up every time.

From this Little Bother to my Big Bother, Dan, Happy Birthday! My Childhood Hero is All Grown UP! Love you, Big Bother!