He Ain't Heavy

My poor sweet little brother. So many problems ... after reading my grandmother's journal, I think my mother has been skipping parts of the story her whole life. As my mom tells it, Christian Larry was born premature in an Air Force hospital to incompetent doctors. He was not breathing and was put in an incubator. Later, they discovered he had digestive problems, couldn't keep any food down. Gramma's journal had him at four months being 24" and 6 pounds 14 oz. My little Sagan was small at 19" and 6 pounds 5 oz at BIRTH! That's when my parents left me with gramma and took Chris to Texas for special medical treatment. Knowing that, I'm pretty lucky I had a brother at all.

So, my little brother had problems from the start. My memories of him start when he was about 5, he was diagnosed with ADD and put on Ritalin. I wish I could go back and give my parents some advice. My parents wanted me to take my brother with me to play with my friends, it often was a requirement for me to be allowed to go play. I was playing girly games with my girl friends ... I think (it was mostly my mom, as dad was usually sleeping) she wanted a break. As a mom, I am always so thankful when Crichton lets Canon play when friends are over, and Crichton has a friend who is so good to play with Canon, too. But I don't force it because I so resented being forced to play with my brother.

He was just 2 years younger (though developmentally delayed). His passion was music. He was stuck playing with us girls, we loved dress-ups. So often he would be spinning in my blue checkered clogging skirt, spinning and singing songs from The Sound of Music. He had a great memory for music.

I used to write plays for the neighborhood kids, Chris was a pretty good actor, he liked it a lot.

When he'd get excited he would bounce around and flap his hands, talk very loud, and repeat himself. This would often make my parents yell at him to calm down. Yelling at someone rarely calms them down.

Chris was just a sweetheart. SO forgiving. Kids would make fun of him, kids he thought of as friends, the next day, if they felt like being nice, he'd play with them. Kids always seem to pick on "different" kids. A few times I stood up for my brother, yelling at a group of bullies at the bus stop to leave him alone. Most of the time (and I wish to God it had been different, I had been strong) I just let it go. I didn't participate, but I pretended like it wasn't happening. Goes back to my desire for normalcy.

I have my testimony of Joseph Smith thanks, in part, to my brother. It had been an exceptionally hard day for him. Kids at the bus stop picking on him, my friend saying he couldn't play at her house, which, by my parents rule, meant I couldn't play either. My dad would get these baloney ring things and they were just for him, but both Chris and I loved them and would sometimes steal a bite or two. I took some, Chris took some, together, we took too much and dad was so mad. I lied about my theft let Chris take the fall for both of us, which meant a spanking and lots of yelling, grounded to the bedroom, no music.

I felt so much guilt ... I could never confess my wrongdoings to my parents, they just went crazy, plus they seemed to want to believe I was perfect and it was easy to convince them Chris had done wrong. With my kids, when they confess their wrong doings to me, I try so hard to leave emotion out of it ... to thank them for their honesty and punish the action fairly. Being caught in a lie, to me, is far worse than any other deed they could do.

So, Chris and I had bunk beds, he was so sad that night. His life was just ... hard. He asked me why mom and dad didn't love him. I was maybe 13. I just hugged him and asked if he wanted me to read him some stories. He asked me to read scriptures. I discovered that my scriptures ("inherited" from my gramma) has the Joseph Smith History in it. So, for the first time in my life, I read Joseph Smith's own account of his vision of God the Father and Jesus Christ.

Chris had fallen asleep before I got very far. I read the whole thing and then started this dialogue with God. Not a prayer, more casual, but sincere. I asked Him why He made Chris the way he was, why He let people hurt him, why He'd put Chris in our family, with a mom and dad that didn't care about him. I asked God if the story Joseph told was even true, if the church was true, if God was even true or I am talking to myself and everything is a lie?

That was the moment for me. I was crying so hard, my heart was so broken and I felt lost, unloved, and helpless. Then, I suddenly felt whole. I reasked the questions in my mind and before I could complete the thought, I knew it was God was there and it was true. It's not something logical or rational, not something that adds up or sounds right when you try to explain it. It just clicked in me and I can never deny it.

As I lost my way through adolescence and early adulthood, making poor choices and making the mistakes that make me who I am, I never forgot this moment. I had this revelation in me the whole time. God had answered my prayer one night, had made himself known to me, given me the knowledge that he loves me and knows my challenges. I know that Joseph Smith had a vision of God and Christ and went on to restore the gospel of Christ to the earth. It's not something I can convince anyone else of, but something in me knows this is Truth and I live my life for it.

My brother was always in Special Education classes. He got to about an 8 year old level of development. I've written of Chris's death. He was just a loving happy kid. It still breaks my heart when I think of his life, so hard and so sad, he had no one who really understood him. No soft voices to comfort him, no patient parent to help him surpass the expectations. My mom and dad were focused on damage control. They were focused on their own issues and challenges, besides us kids. I'm hard on my parents, I know, I sound ungrateful and critical and whiny, but the parents God gave me were not like your parents. Or if they were like yours,then you get where I'm coming from. Home was not a cozy nest to enrich the lives of the children. Home was a dirty hell hole, scarce were the happy moments. Home was not a place to make happy memories. I was a bright little girl and I realized that and got out of the house as much as possible. Chris was trapped. He escaped in music, I guess.

I think I've written enough about my family memories. It was not the best. I thank God for my gramma's influence for those first 12 years. I thank Him for my amazing aunts and uncles who took time from their own children to help me, and for the brilliant examples of family they set.

There's the metaphor of lovely flowers growing out of manure. I hope I can take the crap from the first of my life and learn from it and make the rest of my life a garden paradise. I am happy now. I'm a little bitter, but I try to be good about, not let it overly influence my life, if that's possible. It's hard now, with my mom here, pretending things were different than I remember. Her comments about straightening up my messy house for me. What is that quote? Something like holding a grudge is like taking poison and expecting the other person to get sick. I am always working on it, but I try to move on.

So, now, this friday, it will be 7 years since my brother's death. 7 years of people asking if I have any brothers or sisters and my answer making for awkward apologies. I can tell people without crying now.

I'll scan in some pictures of him when the kitchen PC recovers. Today is Saturday and there is much to do.