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| Still thumpin' |
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You might expect that the sibling closest in age to Steve would have the most memories of him, but I'm afraid that's not the case. My memories are muddled at best and as Laura can attest, I can hardly remember what she told me two minutes ago, let alone what happened half a century ago. However, I do recall as a child dedicating a great deal of time and energy avoiding confrontations with Steve, because there was no doubt I would lose any battle ever engaged. Steve was the basement's Alpha Male and we all knew it. Being the Alpha, it was only natural that he would determine the boundaries of his domain. So, back when the three oldest shared an awful pink-carpeted bedroom, we all knew where the invisible line of demarcation was, separating his half of the room from the other half shared by Rob and me, and which we were forbidden to cross except, by his leave, to visit the common bathroom that was on his side.
I think I can thank Steve for my career in Public Relations because of all the early high-pressure training in talking my way either out of a fight or into the bathroom. I never had any knock down, drag out fights with Steve; the threat alone of physical harm was generally credible enough to cow you into fearful submission, unless you were Rob, who probably never backed down from a perceived injustice in his life; so he can thank Steve too for turning him into a lawyer.
One memory that stands out from that time is the image of Steve sitting on the stomach of either me or one of our brothers, arms pinned under his legs as he administered what he lovingly called "The Chinese Water Torture." I remember the sight of that middle knuckle raised ever so slightly above the clenched fist as it came thumping down on your unprotected sternum, then slowly raised to a height of about 12 inches only to reverse course and come thumping down again, and again, over and over in a nightmarish Asian prison camp parody. And no matter how hard you struggled to buck him off, he was just too big. You took your lumps until he either tired of the game, or Mom would hear the half-laugh, half-cry of the victim and come downstairs to investigate. Even though we all claimed to hate it, it was actually kind of an honor to be picked for poking. Because it meant that the Alpha was paying attention to you, that you were worthy of his touch, even if it was a thump in the chest.
About the only other things I can remember about Steve as we became teens is that he always had the coolest clothes, listened to the coolest music, and sported a Linc Hayes Afro to die for. He was one cool dude who taught me an appreciation for quality rock and roll to accompany the appreciation for quality classical music that Mom and Dad instilled with cello lessons (OK, maybe just Mom).
By the time I was ready to go away to Korea as a missionary, I was no longer afraid of my older brother's physical advantage, but we still were not close. I think Steve felt a little bad about that, however, because the day before I was to leave, he tried to break through the wall of what was then a kind of mutual toleration society by trying to give me some brotherly advice. Never mind that it was terrible advice that I had no intention of heeding; the point is that he was trying to show that he cared for me. And I missed it. He was giving me another little chest thump, but I just rolled my eyes and went off to Korea.
By the time I returned, Steve was off a-wandering and I got busy with college and Laura and career and family and before you knew it 25 years had passed away with only a handful of meaningless contacts between us.
Well most of you all know what happened next so I wont retell the story that I later wrote, about the day Steve came to my office so we could go to lunch and he could tell me he was sick. You already know about how I totally misjudged Steve and his intentions. It was my own fault. I'd been doing the same thing for decades. For too long I had wrongly assumed Steve was little more than a misguided, selfish addict, bouncing between addictions, homelessness and the occasional lawlessness. It was an unattractive cop-show stereotype and it was wrong. But I had held to it for so long that I didn't realize that I was the one becoming the stereotype: the rigid, unforgiving and seemingly uncaring brother who refuses to rejoice at the return of the prodigal.
But all it took was one question from Steve at lunch that day to crumble the carefully crafted cardio-protective shield I had constructed around my heart. When he asked me if I was OK or if he had ruined my life, it all came crashing down like bricks before an old Chinese Kung Fu master with one curiously raised knuckle.
And over the past 8 years, Steve has been thumping away again like crazy. With each cool or crazy little Christmas or birthday gift for the kids, with each gummy smile at one of your jokes, or with each hug after you go over to help fix his TV or computer, once again, you are honored to be thumped by the Alpha.
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Endnote: I'd like to express my confidence that Steve is OK. Not only because I suspect that two great sets of grandparents were there to greet Steve and will shepherd him along his path, but mostly because I have known the unmatched goodness and love of Christ and I know He loves Steve more than any of us can imagine. I know my Savior lives and because I know this, I know that Steve lives too. And one day when we meet again, we will find Steve happier than we have ever known him to be.
