Part II of why my sibs are pretty dang amazing.
When I was thirteen months and ten days old, my parents gave Gina and I a long-awaited little brother. Okay, so Gina and I hadn't waited all that long, but I'm fairly certain I heard my Poppy's sigh of relief when they told him it was a boy, even all the way back at my grandma's house. JP was a skinny little thing, I've been told, the littlest of us babies at 6lbs and some change. He was a cutie, in his mini football uniform he got nearly every Christmas, out in the back running patterns with his imaginary BYU teammates. Did you know my brother played with Glen Kozlowski? Neither does Kozlowski, but he was an integral part of the imaginative football play in our backyard all those years JP was waiting for Moe to grow up a little bit.
I love JP, but that didn't happen naturally when we were young. He and I could butt heads with the best of them. The boys knew exactly how to push my buttons, and I was very bad at patiently controlling my anger at their hijinks. I recall a meltdown on a camping trip with our cousins when I discovered a cache of snails they had deposited in my sleeping bag. And that one time when they rubbed a clove of garlic on my pillowcase when I was a teenager. Aaargh.
Luckily, we get older, and in the case of JP and I, wiser. There were a few years where we didn't see a lot of each other. JP left for his mission about a year or so before I left for Detroit, and by the time I was home he had made his way to college. Then I went to Logan. And we both struggled.
While I was dealing with depression and anxiety, JP had his own bag of troubles to figure out. By the time he and I were out of school again and sharing an apartment, I rapidly became really worried about him. He was drowning, and none of us could figure out how to help him back to the shore.
I remember a dream I had around that time. After we gave up that apartment and went our separate ways, we were somewhat disconnected, but my heart was constantly drawn towards him. If you've ever loved someone you couldn't help, you'll know what I was feeling. One night I had a very vivid dream where JP was in the back of a pickup truck, wounded and bleeding and just barely breathing. I bolted awake that night in tears, so worried about my brother that I couldn't go back to sleep. My anxieties for his health and well-being were working their way into my subconscious mind, and I was sincerely afraid for a short time that I was going to get one of those awful late night phone calls.
It was a nightmare. I didn't know how long I could take it. I was always afraid for him, always worried about his physical, emotional and spiritual state. It was exhausting. But at the center of all this was a simply profound truth: I would rather suffer with him for all of eternity than lose him for even one moment. I would give my own life in teaspoons or buckets full of worry and stress and tears if it would give him any little moment of relief or redemption.
Of course, I cannot give JP, or anyone really, relief or redemption. That honor and burden is reserved for the One who gave his own life in our behalf. I feel like I was graced for just a moment to feel for my brother what his Savior feels for him, what He feels for me and for you. My testimony of Christ is rooted firmly in that knowledge.
Through the grace of God (and let's be honest, the strong and devoted heart of his beautiful wife) he found his way out of darkness and into a great light. Like me and all of us, he still has struggles--but they are accompanied by joys as big as the world. When I dream of him now, I see miracles--ones manifest already and so many to come. A few months ago, I was struggling again: scared, anxious, bleeding at the mouth over disappointed hopes, frustrated desires, and general confusion. I called him late at night in tears, sheepishly asking him to leave his little family to administer a priesthood blessing to me. In fifteen minutes he was on my doorstep, white shirt and tie, with a big hug and wiped tears. We talked for a few minutes--he kindly listened to my unhappiness, then he laid his hands on my head and with power and authority called on the powers of heaven to provide me comfort, peace and direction. I testify that he was the conduit for revelation. It's been a very long time since I felt the spirit of God the way I felt it in my little house that night because my brother, my dear JP, was willing and worthy.
Christ is real. His love is infinite and sufficient to overcome anything. No matter what you've done, no matter how the world has beaten you and been unfair, no matter how broken and bleeding you might feel, he bids us to come to Him. To never, never, ever give up. My brother taught me that, and I love him dearly for the lesson.
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