Tag: Brothers

I Hate Moths

Moths are homely butterflies. I’m sure some weirdos like moths, but I don’t. It’s not just because they are ugly. If I hated all things ugly, I’d have disowned half my family and all my wife’s family. 

My moth hatred is like Spiderman. It has an origin story. My “death of Uncle Ben” took the form of my older brother’s lying soul. 

We were spending the summer in Daytona Beach with my grandparents. Moths were an issue at night. These flying monsters swarmed around the porch light.

My brother noticed the look of concern in my eight year old eyes. He saw an opportunity. 

“Moths eat skulls.” 

I just learned the word skull. My eyes widened. I took a step back. 

I’ve grown since then both physically and emotionally. 

I still hate moths. They fly their stupid bodies into you and turn to dust when they die. I’m not going to give them a chance to eat my skull.

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I’m Done

My first memory is unpleasant because it involves my granny and nudity. My dad was the youngest of his family. I am the youngest of my family. That means I was doted on like few were. I was granny’s favorite. Some grandmothers get little white dogs and tote them around everywhere. My granny had me, and (at the time) I was little and white. I’m still white. 

She would take me to all sorts of places, but because she was retired and all of her friends were of a certain age, she mostly took me to funerals. If I ever smell flowers, I immediately think of funerals, me in a clip on tie, and my granny. 

Why did I spend so much time with her? My parents both worked and my brothers were both in school. I needed somewhere to go. Legend has it that I was put in daycare, but didn’t last. I was probably discharged for being too violent. Honestly, I was never violent. I was weepy. You could make me cry by looking at me. 

So I had to go somewhere. My granny took care of me every day before I was old enough for school. However, I was a jealous little bugger. I was jealous that my brothers were going to school, and I wasn’t. My granny was a lot like me. A problem solver. 

She bought or borrowed (maybe stole) a school desk. We had “granny school”. She would give me homework. One time in 2nd grade we were doing an assignment where we were supposed to collect leaves from a variety of trees. Child’s play. I was doing leaf books at 4 and a half. 

Back to my first memory. There I was standing with my undies around my ankles alone. I heard myself shout, “Granny, I’m done.” 

Thus begins my memory. I have always prided myself on having a better than average memory. It came in handy at school. My steel trap of a mind starts its illustrious journey by informing my grandmother of a successful poo.

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Meaty Legend

My 9-fingered brother started a church. At the time, he had 10 fingers. The phrase “started a church” makes it sound like he invented a religion. That’s not it. He started a new church in downtown Denver. Because “starting a church” sounds so weird, people that start churches came up with a different verb: plant. As in, my 9-fingered brother planted a church.

Planting a church is hard work and little pay. It is starting a business but not having anything to sell. He had to raise funds. He never asked me for money because he knew that I didn’t have any. 

I was living in Louisville during my first year at seminary, and he told me about a Christian conference in Chicago which is a 6 hour drive from Louisville. I planned on attending the conference. 

My good friend from high school, Derrin, also planned on going to this loftily named conference; the Gospel Coalition. We made plans for the 3 of us to share a hotel and attend the conference together. 

While in Chicago, we had some time before the conference started. My 9-fingered brother suggested that we catch a Cubs game. By the time we took the train to Wrigleyville, the game was in the 3rd inning. We bought some discounted tickets from a guy on the sidewalk and hustled to our seats. 

We were about to sit down when a ball came flying in from the field. My 9-fingered brother sprang up and caught it bare handed. Remember, at this time, he had 10 fingers. 

Catching a foul ball is exciting. Being in your designated seats for less than a minute and catching a foul ball is downright exhilarating. 

That night, my 9-fingered brother brought the baseball to a lecture featuring 2 prominent theologians. After they spoke, he asked them to sign the ball. Even though this was during the steroid’s era of baseball, we were pretty sure both of these guys were clean.

The next day, my 9-fingered brother met a pastor from the Denver area. The idea was to get this guy to convince his church to send money to my brother’s new church. Churches planting churches. Reproduction at its finest. 

My 9-fingered brother wanted to impress this guy, so he took him to lunch at Gino’s East, a deep dish pizza place famous in Chicago. Since I had the car,  Derrin and I got to tag along. My brother was schmoozing the pastor as Derrin and I perused the menu. One pizza looks particularly delicious: the Meaty Legend.

Even though I was at lunch with 2 pastors, attending a Gospel conference, and currently a seminary student, I was still a silly boy. I said, “Meaty Legend? That was my nickname in high school.” 

Derrin, my 9-fingered brother, and I laughed uncontrollably. The invited pastor did not. He also did not financially support my brother’s church plant. 

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I Toad You

As little boys, my brothers and I would play outside all day. Usually they did not let me play with them. They were (and still are) 4 and 5 years older, and I liked playing in the mud. They did let me play with them one time. We had Tonka trucks. These metal trucks were about the size of a dachshund. We also had a paved hill near our house. We put these two assets together and rolled down the hill riding on the Tonka trucks. Good clean fun. 

We moved from that area to a place in Granite City, Illinois. Our house was right next to a warehouse. Across the street from our front door was a solid brick wall. 

One Sunday, we came home from church, and a couple of neighborhood boys were near our house hitting something with baseball bats into the brick wall. My mom thought they were tennis balls. But one thing was unusual. Whatever the boys were hitting stuck to the brick. That’s not tennis ball behavior. 

Frogs. These little hoodlums were hitting live frogs with baseball bats into a brick wall. To say Granite City was a hard place to grow up is an understatement. It is named after a stone, and children kill amphibians in creative ways for fun. 

As if to underline this point, my brothers and I were in the front yard. I sat on the porch in a world of my own. This was usual for me. I had a bad habit of peeing my pants. Usually, I would just hold it for too long. I also wet the bed. I don’t like the term “bedwetter”. Wetting the bed was what I did, not who I was. If I was outside when my bladder failed, I covered my urine escapades with the hose by spraying myself. Then, I would need to change my clothes because they were wet with water and not urine. 

That morning, I was dry from both internal and external sources. My brothers milled about in the front yard. Then a boy on a bike came riding towards us. Without getting off the bike, he punched my brother Matt in the face. We found out that it was a case of mistaken identity. You were better off staying out of our front yard. You’d either be punched or batted into a brick wall. 

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