My mother’s birthday is coming
up. Finding a “not Christmas” gift this
close after Christmas has always been difficult. Finding something for an 86 year old with
Alzheimer’s living in a memory ward is even more so.
I came up with a brilliant idea. I would frame a set of pictures of her four
adult kids to go with the pictures of her four babies. It would help her remember what we look like
longer. The problem was finding four headshots
that matched well enough. That included
one of my little brother.
Emotions surfaced as I shuffled
old photographs. He was murdered in
2003. Memories of the good times and the
not so good coupled with a truncated life of someone I loved, still love deeply. The stress was compiled by computer problems
solved over the phone by my husband who was out of town. Finally, frustration made me quit for the day,
and I sat down to read a large stack of mail.
One piece waited to the end, a
letter from my Dad’s stepsister. I
resisted opening it as it meant more emotions to process. Five pages, both sides, hand written in a shaky
but once beautiful cursive. She
described her health problems and mourned for my mother’s loss of memory. Then, she started unfolding her childhood memories
with my Grandfather and dad. Her words
were so beautiful. They glowed with love
and admiration. Instead of crying, I
smiled.
She described her “dad” as the
best man she ever met. He was kind and
generous to everyone, especially those who could not return a favor or those he
would never see again. He honored people
who never received honor. His love was
for everyone.
Mixed in was the pain that his
family never accepted her mom. A
divorced woman with three kids marrying a man 30 years her senior had to be for
security, a gold-digger. They never saw
the love that made them a family. They
never understood how much these women needed acceptance.
My dad was in high school at
that time. He saw. He called them family. The only one who did.
She suddenly had a big brother. This is something she desperately wanted as her
two brothers had died. In her young
eyes, he was the most handsome man in town. She may have been right. I’ve seen pictures. He was a real cutie.
But that was not why she loved
him. She described my dad as the best man
she ever met, a mirror of his dad. He
too cared for people in a way that most people cannot fathom.
I knew that man as my father. Mom was always appalled at the “riff-raff” he
brought home and asked her to feed. She
did, but she never understood. He would
sit and “chat,” listening to their stories and making them feel wanted. Some of those people were never seen
again. Others kept in touch; they needed
to tell him how knowing him changed their lives.
As I read, I saw my brother in her
words. After he died, the testimonies of
his friends told the same story. He took
care of those around him. He encouraged
drug addicts to stay clean. He hunted
for lost people until they were found.
He fed the hungry and gave his clothes for others to wear. His home and heart were always open when they
needed him.
These three wonderful men are
gone from this world, but their legacy lives on in all the lives they touched. They loved because it was the right thing to
do. None of these men were perfect, yet
something in them changed people. Sadly,
their families only saw the imperfections and condemned their acceptance as
unsafe, their compassion as foolishness.
My personality is not a mirror
of theirs. I am too much of a hermit. I must work to accomplish one act of kindness
where they breathed mercy. I worry that
my love for humanity falls short too often.
Some friendships do not make sense, as a “safety first” video replays in
my head. Some acts befuddle my mind, and
I hear echo’s of my mother’s contempt.
I pray that when I die people
will say such words about me, the good and the bad. I want to live a life that helps people to
live, to hope in a better future. I want
to give a hand instead of a pat on the back from a distance. I want to build up and not tear down. These are difficult, but I will continue to
strive toward that goal. Because… love
is the right thing to do.