Shelby
Renae Brumbaugh Green
There’s this guy I know; I’ve known him all my life. And ever since I can remember, I’ve thought he was pretty doggone amazing. But it’s a secret I’ll carry with me to my grave, because it goes against every societal norm, every law of the land, every code of humanity to let him know I think he’s kinda special.
See, he’s my big brother. The same big brother who painted my face, put feathers in my hair, tied me up and burned me at the stake when I was two. He was the cowboy, back in the days when the cowboys actually won.
He’s the same big brother who convinced me to trade all my paper money for his can of shiny red coins, because paper’s not worth anything. It tears too easily. Why would anybody want a little piece of paper with a number on it when they could have a bunch of last-forever coins?
He’s the same guy who showed me some official papers before I could read and convinced me they were my adoption papers. The same fellow who, on long car trips, graciously agreed to split the back seat evenly with me. He got the seat. I got the floorboard.
Those are the reasons I can’t possibly tell him I think he’s a great guy, and that I’m proud to be his little sister. (I love it, by the way, that no matter how old I get, he’s always older. That’s a pretty sweet deal. )
But I’ll let you in on some privileged information, if you promise not to tell him. He’s a really cool big brother. When he got his driver’s license, and Mom and Dad would let him drive me to the store, he’d wait until we were around the corner, and then he’d let me drive the side streets in our neighborhood. It’s a wonder we’re both still alive.
When he was a senior in high school and had a girlfriend, he took me on dates with him. Not all the dates, mind you. But he let me tag along enough to make me feel special and grown up. And he never acted like he resented it.
When he went away to the Air Force, he wrote me letters. Lots of them. At least one a week. It was the highlight of my week, to get a letter from him out of the mailbox.
It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly twenty years since we lived under the same roof. Okay, thirty.
Okay, maybe more than thirty. Moving on.
It’s hard to fathom that we shared a house for a mere twelve years. We’ve lived several lifetimes since then, it seems like.
But no matter how far apart we live, no matter the different twists and turns our lives have made, one thing has never changed: I adore my big brother. I’m so proud of who he is and what he stands for. I’m proud he served his country so you and I can be free and safe. I’m proud he married a beautiful woman and has three exceptional, bright, gorgeous kids who call me Aunt Nae. I’m proud that no matter how busy he is, he always seems to make time to help those who need a hand.
He’s a pretty swell fella, and I’m so, so glad he’s my brother. And I want to take this moment to wish him a very happy 60th birthday.
Even though he’s only 55.
“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for the difficult times,” Proverbs 17:17.
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