Snatched Up

These last few hot, muggy weeks, I've been a little obsessed with water. We've had the ocean, pools, rain...all those fun things. But these last few days, when a dire emergency came rushing into our lives, I found myself feeling like I was suspended in time, floating somewhere in the murky water between life and death. Not my own, but my baby brother's. To look at him, you'd think he was older than me (he's ten years younger but I keep saying that...). He has a massive, curly, white beard and a cue-ball-shiny head, devoid of hair. He looks like one of those Reformed pastors of old, but nope, he's current, though he preaches in a deep, intellectual manner similar to those sage men.

We got a call, saying that he had been taken by ambulance to the hospital. The symptoms seemed to indicate he had a blood clot in his lung. Then the story changed, saying that he was having back spasms. Then it seemed he might actually go on home, with some pain meds. My 25-year-old nephew (his son) insisted that he stay at the hospital for more tests. Thank God he did, for if he had not, we'd be having a funeral this week. What was wrong, in the end, was that he had a large aneurysm hiding in his heart that had torn. This was bad news to all of us, because our Grandma had died of such a thing, several years ago. We remembered her fateful end, at a fairly young age. Hours later we all gathered in the hospital waiting room, the same room where we waited for our precious Daddy's last breaths a few years ago. The air was charged with uncertainty as the minutes agonizingly ticked by. My dear sister-in-law couldn't keep her seat as two of her sons walked her nervously down the halls. It seemed that it would never end, but over 6 hours later, he emerged triumphant, though with a large scar running down his chest and with no small amount of blood loss. When I was able to finally see him, the next day, I barely recognized him. His normally swarthy skin was white as paste, his voice reduced to a whisper. In that weakened state, however, he told me of his lack of fear in the face of death. He was happy; he had seen the tunnel and knew Who he belonged to. Not even the spectre of the grave could snatch his peace.

I was nearly ten years old when he was born. The doctors had told my Mother that she couldn't have any more children, so when she discovered she was five months pregnant, it was the shock of a lifetime. Daddy knew he was a boy and nothing would dissuade him from knowing or saying it to everyone he met. Mama was worried about that. They'd had two girls that he had predicted and wanted, and this time it was a boy no matter what anyone said. The first time I saw him, this tiny little man in the crib, he had coppery curls and chocolate brown eyes. I fell in love and thought God had given me my own personal baby doll. As soon as he could talk, we started a conversation that hasn't let up since. Now, we might go for weeks and not converse, but then we start right back where we left off. We purposely don't call each other sometimes, because who has two hours to just chew the fat? We both love books. After years of my returning his borrowed books with teeth marks, rumpled pages and water marks all over them, he refused to let me borrow any more. Now he just buys them for me. Every time, it's going to be an awesome read.

I believe there's a day and a time for us all to meet our Maker. Crazy contortions and coincidences seem to run rampant, when someone lives through what my brother just experienced. I don't know what all God's got for him to do, but he's still here and I am so very thankful.