My brother Jim’s mother died when he was a toddler. His life was topsy-turvy. Jim describes his teen years as stealing cigarettes from our parent’s room, sneaking off with his friends to drink alcohol, and getting into trouble with school. Jim joined the Air Force. At the risk that further misconduct involving illegal drugs would result in a bad conduct discharge, my father flew down to Texas, where Jim was stationed, and appealed to Jim’s commander. When he left the service, Jim received a general discharge. None of us could appreciate then what a significant act of foresight on Dad’s part that was. All of Jim’s veteran benefits were left intact with his discharge.
Jim’s life since then consisted of a variety of homes, locations, and jobs. None of these ever quite worked out for Jim resulting in his later years of living in group homes. I hadn’t seen him yet in his new digs in the veteran’s home in southern Maryland, an hour away from me.
Much competed to take priority. A busy work schedule, my kids still at home, and of course, COVID delayed any visit. Jim’s calls had not been as frequent. Perhaps he forgot my number or lost his cell phone. Maybe he was tired of calling and leaving a message. I don’t pick up every time Jim calls. Although his calls are very brief, I need to be in a patient place. I know I will hear the same topics repeated over and over. The topics of working out and reading his big AA book represent what is most life-giving to Jim. He is reaching out, hoping that someone will pick up the phone and hear him. A nod, at least from his family, from his sister, he exists. I should have been worried that the calls weren’t as frequent, but I wasn’t. I was relieved. Jim isn’t the easiest person to talk with on the phone. Jim is paranoid schizophrenic.
Because of Jim’s mental health issues, we don’t invite him to our family events. We know from experience that all the attention and energy in the room will go to Jim. The list includes weddings and even our Dad’s funeral. He still remembers that he didn’t get to attend the funeral. I can tell that hurts Jim even if he can’t grasp all the reasons.
But this past week with my brother Jeff, I finally saw Jim in person again masked and socially distant. All I could see was his eyes. They were my father’s eyes. It was so arresting to sit across from Jim and see those eyes. See my father. See that this crazy guy is my brother, made in both my earthly and heavenly Father’s image with those eyes no matter the past.
Jim ended our visit with a pretty crazy rambling of a blessing. But it was a blessing no less, and in God’s eyes, I am sure a blessing more real than the giver or receivers could comprehend.
Next time Jim calls, I’ll remember his eyes and to whom they belong. I hope I’ll be less slow to pick up the phone.
Very nice and insightful. Thanks