Joel, do you remember that time when we were waiting on Mom and Dad in the church parking lot (We waited on Mom and Dad a lot.) and I hit you in the head with a rock? Of course, I can't remember now what you did to frustrate and taunt me, but I do remember being really mad - mad enough to throw a rock at your head. To both our surprise I actually hit my target- your head- and became immediately afraid of the consequences. (Surprised because we were a good distance from each other, at least 3 or 4 hundred yards apart.) Fortunately, for some reason it didn't really hurt or injure you. (At least, that's how I remember it.) I actually don't remember the consequences, but I'm guessing I got spanked.
Another event that stands out in my mind occurred a few years earlier when I was in first grade and you were in 5th. We were walking home from W.E. Cherry Elementary and you were fooling around with a few of your friends. (No doubt trying to make them laugh by using an extreme "what if..." scenario.) You were swinging a bag with your thermos in it (hitting a newly planted bush, I think) when I walked too close to the circumference of your full-armed motion. WHACK!!! Right above my eye. The blood flowed fast, but you ran faster. All the way home, you sprinted to get help from mom. I don't know what amount of fear was inside you regarding the punishment you might get for this careless act, but I do know that you didn't let that stop you from getting aid for your little brother. Looking back now, I think you might have actually got more attention for your adrenaline-assisted dash home than I got for being hurt, but that's okay.
The last account I want to mention occurred in the field across from our house, when again, a head was hit - my head. Hit not by a rock or thermos, but by a knee. We were playing mud football with a group of friends and it was a blast. That is, until the back of my head was dealt a blow from a speeding knee on the way to recover the ball. It hurt - bad. I immediately began balling and had to leave the game. If fact, I later threw up, which probably means I received a slight concussion.
I bring up this third story because even though I knew it wasn't you who nailed me, (Joel Barzack was the culprit, I think) for some reason I blamed you. You came over to see what happened and asked who fell on me. I declared through tears, "You did!" Perhaps I was delirious, because I knew you weren't close to the play, but still I blamed you. Maybe I was blaming you because subconsciously I believed that it was your fault for letting it happen. I don't know; knowing how hard I was hit I'm surprised I remember anything at all.
My point in recalling these three stories is simple. Brothers, injuries and pain go together. Now, I realize that compared to other brothers we know (say... David and Doug), we didn't physically wrestle or fight with each other very much at all. (We were never allowed and we were too chicken to get hurt or in trouble.) Nevertheless, we have received and inflicted our share of pain upon each other. Sometimes it happened on purpose, sometimes it happened on accident and sometimes it didn't even happen, but still we blamed each other.
Our lives have moved past these points of blood and pain (I hope) and now they are merely memories. Fortunately, all the head wounds we caused each other have been healed and forgiveness has been granted. Nevertheless, I bring them up because these, too, are part of our story, part of our brotherhood. At least, neither of us tried to club the other to death in a field for offering a better sacrifice to the Almighty.
