The Invisible Thread
Last spring we gave my son a bunk bed for his birthday. (PSA to all parents: I do not endorse bunk bed purchases unless you have an affinity for breaking a sweat and significantly increasing your heart rate while changing bed sheets. You must also be a bit of a thrill-seeker, as balancing your awkward adult self on a child-size ladder while your head dangerously dodges a moving ceiling fan, basically brushes you with death each and every time you do it.) He and his big sister have spent countless nights bunking together ever since. Before the bunk bed, they would often beg to sleep together in the guest room. They loved snuggling side by side in the queen size bed, giggling and chatting until well after their bedtime. My older brother Nathan and I used to do the same thing.
When I was young I had a queen size bed, part of an antique bedroom set passed down from grandparents. Nathan would often leave his twin-size bed and scurry across the hall to crawl under my covers. He always came bearing flashlights. We’d press ‘play’ on my tape cassette player (remember those?) and fast forward through The Little Mermaid soundtrack to our favorite song, “Under the Sea.” Then, the light show would begin. We’d carry on until our bellies ached from laughter. Our antics were, of course, not limited to bedtime flashlight shows. There were also the kitchen utensil sword fights, another favorite pastime of ours. While our parents were making dinner, we’d invade the kitchen and grab any available colanders or mixing bowls to don for helmets. Then we’d procure some extra long chopsticks and stand at the ready, taking an amateur fencing pose. My brother, being nearly three years older and significantly brawnier, always won. And by “won,” I mean he pinned me down by the wrists and administered relentless chopstick lashings across my forearms. Once my skin began to turn red, he’d let me up (careful to relent before I had any physical proof against him). I’d retaliate with my only defense, my claw-length fingernails. I would dig my nails deep into the tops of his hands. I didn’t know when to quit though, and I’d always leave small, half-moon-shaped divets in his skin. Under the guise of protecting me from consequences, Nathan would convince me to rub out the marks before Mom and Dad saw, “If you don’t want to get in trouble.” So I’d sit there, his faithful minion, rubbing his hands to rid of all incriminating evidence against me. Humiliating as it was, this is one of my favorite memories with my brother.
On the eve of my wedding, I was passing out gifts to our bridal party, sharing brief sentiments about each of them with the group. When I got to my brother, I shared with him how much I treasured our Christmas morning ritual together as children. He was usually the first one awake and he’d come to rouse me and pull me downstairs. We would sit in the quiet together, by the lights of the Christmas tree, unpacking our stockings and showing each other every new treasure Santa had left us. This ritual continued years after our belief in Santa dissipated. (It’s worth noting my belief was shattered at the age of six, no thanks to Nathan. He snuck me to the top of the stairs after bedtime on Christmas Eve, revealing our parents down below. They were pulling gifts from black garbage bags and placing them under the tree. I sat, stunned. My brother, empathetic as ever, simply shrugged and walked me back to bed.) Years later it was Nathan who would go scouting for hidden presents the week before Christmas. He would enlist me as the “lookout,” telling me to keep watch while he dug around in the attic and the back of closets. I had no interest in spoiling my surprise, but I was just so honored he trusted me with the position that I didn’t object. He got nothing for his efforts, but he did manage to find my new rollerblades under our parents’ bed. My Christmas morning was effectively ruined. It’s a wonder I ever forgave him for such atrocities.
Like many sibling sets, we are profoundly different, my brother and me. Nathan is introverted, pensive, cautious, and private, and his taste in music and movies couldn’t be further from mine. He’s also fiercely loyal and unfailingly generous. He cares a great deal more than he lets on, and he has a gentle, loving soul. I am, well, none of those things. I am a full-fledged extrovert. I wear my heart on my sleeve, I love being the center of attention, and I have selfish and impulsive tendencies. We often struggle to find anything in common. We fought like cats and dogs for much of our childhood. I would try anything just to be close to him but instead, I came off as the annoying little sister, invading his privacy and infringing on his personal space. Sometimes I think he sees my personal, “conversational” questions this same way. Our relationship has always been a bit sweet and sour. For every fond memory, there is one not so fond. But we choose what we want to remember, don’t we? I choose to remember the times he enlisted me as a “magician’s assistant.” He dabbled in magic for a short season, putting on shows for our parents. I’d dress in my craziest, mismatched outfit and act as the court jester while he wowed our Mom and Dad with card tricks and disappearing acts. I choose to remember the times he invited me into his room, instead of locking me out. I’ll treasure the encouragement he sent me when I was walking through failed adoptions, and I’ll recall the prayers I said for him as he navigated a difficult divorce. The times we held one another up, even from afar, will always trump hurtful words we’ve exchanged or rejection we’ve doled out in anger.
Nathan and I have kept each other at arm’s length most of our adult lives. This used to bother me, but as we’ve aged and matured, I’ve grown to appreciate what I have with my brother, thin and delicate as it is. When I feel frustrated by our surface-level friendship, I’m reminded of our common thread. We are family. We were raised by the same parents, in the same household. We will always be connected by this invisible thread. God ordains and knits our families so perfectly together. While feuding, frustration, crisis, or even grief, God’s purpose and intention can grow dim. I’ve often wondered why I’ve had to work so hard to have a connection with my brother, my flesh and blood. It should come more naturally, shouldn’t it? But the connection is already there. It’s woven into the tapestry of our past, our childhood, and our family home. It’s in the sideways glances, the recollection of stories, the keeping of traditions. Earlier this year we celebrated Nathan’s 40th birthday in San Francisco, just our parents and us. It had been years since the four of us were together like that, and the familiarity of it was so nostalgic. My brother and I gave sideways glances to each other in the backseat as our parents navigated the bustling traffic of busy city streets. We rolled eyes and jokingly insulted each other around the dinner table. It felt just like when we were kids.
I often refer to my kids as “built-in best friends.” They fit so well together, complementing each other in every way. They get along beautifully and they genuinely want to be together 24 hours a day. It’s a rare and wonderful thing. Nathan and I may never be best friends, but the “built-in” part of our relationship will always be there. We’ll have lasting memories to tie us together and draw us back to one another our entire lives. I’m so grateful my childhood included him. Something about this time of year causes me to reflect on my childhood a lot. I love when my kids ask me what their Uncle Nate and I were like as kids. I see so much of my brother in my daughter’s personality, and I see so much of me in my son’s. My daughter shows infinite patience toward her younger brother. She sighs in frustration a lot, but at the end of the day, she’s quick to forgive. She takes her role as protector and influencer very seriously. Nathan did the same for me. As they grow up, and possibly apart, I pray my children will both look back fondly at their childhood together, grateful to be in the same family, connected by an invisible, unbreakable thread.