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 photos of her four adult kids to go with the pictures of her four babies. It would help her remember our faces. The problem was finding four head-shots that matched well enough.
That included my little brother. Emotions surfaced as I shuffled old photographs. Someone murdered him in 2003. Memories of the good times and the not so good coupled with a truncated life of someone I loved, and still love deeply. Computer problems compiled the stress, but my husband solved over the phone while out of town. Finally, frustration made me quit for the day, and I sat down to read a large stack of mail.
One envelope waited to the end, a letter from my Dad’s stepsister. I resisted opening it as it meant more emotions to process. It contained five pages, both sides handwritten in 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. This good man honored people who never received any 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 felt the contempt for those he now called family.
My aunt suddenly had a big brother, 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, and he was a real cutie.
But that was not why she loved him. She described her new brother as the best man she ever met, a mirror of his Dad. Both men cared for people in a way that most people cannot fathom.
I knew that man as my father.
Like his father, he brought home “visitors” for Mom to feed. 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 he changed their lives.
Mom called them “riff-raff.” She acted friendly, but she rarely appreciated Dad’s generosity or his guests.
As I read, I saw my brother in my aunt’s words. After he died, the testimonies of his friends told the same story. He took care of those around him and encouraged drug addicts to stay clean. My brother hunted for lost people until someone found them. 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 have left this world, but their legacy lives on in all the lives they touched. They loved people 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 of “riff-raff” as unsafe, their compassion as foolishness.
My personality is not a mirror of theirs. I am too much of a hermit and 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 echoes of my mother’s contempt.
I pray that when I die, people will remember me, the good and the bad. My life should benefit people, so their lives contain hope for 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 I find difficult, but I will continue to strive toward that goal. Because… love is the right thing to do.
