Sunday, January 1, 2012 at 7:34pm
You were three years old once. Do you remember what it was like? For me it was 1984 (yes, also the year Brad was born *sigh*) and quite frankly I remember very little. What I have been told, was that from day one, I was in LOVE with my baby brother, who came as I approached the age of two. When Mom shuffled into the car's back seat that first ride home, I flipped over the front seat and reached into the back to get my first glimpse at Jeffrey. Our bond began instantly. He was my baby and he was going to be my best friend whether he liked it or not.
I can still hear Mom belly laughing while retelling the stories of those days... Jill Ritter had just gotten a baby and now I was going to have my own and he would not be left alone on my watch. We lived in a home that was narrow and long. Mom had been in the kitchen cooking her amazing food or cleaning up after our crummy little fingers had disgraced every surface. I was on baby watch in the front room. At the time, our home was carpeted and Jeff was about to have the ride of his young life. Determined to keep him with me at all times, I grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him down the house, through three rooms, until we safely arrived at Mom's feet in the kitchen. Content little guy had rug burns on the back of his arms and head!
And then there was the day that Mom didn't hear Jeff escape from the house, realized it was far too quiet, and looked out the front door to find me protectively holding him in the middle of the street with a van at a complete stop next to us. Jeff had out-smarted the screen door latch (Sound like anyone else's child?) and toddled into the path of oncoming traffic. I barreled out after him and just held him until Mom arrived.
And thus began our adventures...
Like the reasons Mom had to attach bells to Jeff's shoes, add a high latch to the front screen door, use a timer for video gaming on the Commodore 64, or be prepared to call 911 when he first spider-manned his way up the door jam. We played cowboys and indians, school (somehow I always managed to end up as the teacher bossing the poor kid around), read books by flashlight in the tunnel under his bed, rode bikes around the block and down secret paths, recorded fake radio stations, "Slip 'n Slide!", climbed the crab apple tree, climbed the dogwood tree, planted flowers, saved bunnies from Nacho, helped Dad take x-rays, went sledding, played in the snow and came back into the house to put our numbed fingers on Mom's warm tummy, played baseball in the empty lot behind our house where Jeff insisted on pretending like the ball was going to come at my face just to drop it behind his head (and people wonder why I flinch at everything!), visited the neighborhood's elderly, attended school together, rode the bus, played in sports, played the piano and guitar together, caught frogs camping, climbed massive dunes, laughed hysterically, married off, said goodbye, moved away, talked until wee hours of morning, cried together, held each other, loved one another...
And this is why it pains me to look into those bright brown eyes of Miss Ava Lillian. I, too, had a best friend in my brother and whether three or 30 years old, those things will never change or be lost. So, as much as this is about Jeff, it's about that little girl who is deeply pained because her big brother, her lifelong friend, is so very sick. Her reality has shifted and now sharing has become much more difficult.
Please pray for Ava tonight.
And Jeffrey, I love you.
