Mike and me
Have you ever heard of Irish twins? I never thought much of it until I read the term the other day. It originated in the 19th century and was a derogatory moniker, focused on Irish Catholics, to describe two children born of the same mother within a year of each other. If I had been born nineteen days earlier, my brother Mike and I would have been considered Irish twins. Derogatory or not, I rather like the title.
Plain and simple, Mike was my hero. You know that song, “Anything you can do, I can do better”? It pretty much describes our childhood. If Mike climbed a tree, I wanted to climb it higher. If he caught a fish, I wanted to catch a bigger one. I don’t know if I was a tomboy because I hung out with Mike, or if I hung out with Mike because I was a tomboy. We spent so much time together (and shared more than one birthday party), people thought we were twins. I don’t know how Mike felt about it, but I took it as a compliment.
The problem with having my older brother as my hero and favorite playmate was that I got talked into doing all manner of things better left undone. I clearly remember us painting his closet door with shaving cream. Later, he had the brilliant plan for us to pepper his bedroom carpet, so every time Mom vacuumed, she’d sneeze. Oh, and then there was the day he found chocolate Ex-Lax in the bathroom medicine chest and decided to share it with me. Fortunately for me, his way of divvying up the goods was, “One for you, two for me.” By the time Mom got us to the hospital, it was too late. He got the raw end of that deal, let me tell you.
When all these adventures took place, we lived in a new development which backed up to ranch land. There was only a barbed-wire fence dividing our backyard from the cattle that roamed the pasture. My poor mother was cleaning the upstairs bathroom one day when she looked out the window to see us climbing through the fence with a stool and a bucket. Mike must have seen something on television that gave him the idea we should try our hand at milking the cows. The only problem with his plan, aside from us not having a clue what we were doing, was they weren’t cows. They were steer. Poor Mom. It’s a miracle she lived long enough to have more children.
When we were in middle school, we moved to Alameda, California. Our paternal grandmother lived in San Leandro, which didn’t seem all that far away when Dad drove us to her place. It was a summer day and we were bored. Mike decided we should walk to Grandma’s. Things got a little dicey when we reached inner city Oakland. Two white kids looked pretty stark and scared, let me tell you. Luckily, we had enough change to call Grandma, who called our uncle, who picked us up and drove us to her apartment. When Dad came to get us after work, he made it pretty darn clear our adventures were over. You didn’t argue with an angry, 250-pound, 6’5” father.
Mike made me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever known. He used humor as a way of getting out of trouble—especially with Mom. When she was ready to lose it, he’d talk to her like Donald Duck—and he had it down. He got away with saying the most insulting things to us, his sisters, just by doing this. His sense of humor is one of the things I miss most about him.
When Mike was 48, he took his own life, for which I still struggle with to this day. If someone you’ve loved decided to take his or her life, I’m sure you understand survivor’s guilt. I knew something was horribly wrong with him, but I couldn’t get through. The harder I pushed, the angrier he became. The angrier he became, the more he shut me out.
The aftermath is horrible. Some people don’t know what to say, and then, of course, there were those who were insensitive (and uninformed) enough to tell me he went to hell.
I want to be clear. Mike was a born-again, evangelizing Christian. He was a member of Bikers for Christ. He traveled to Thailand on a missionary trip. He taught others how to share their faith. But he was broken, misdiagnosed, and lost. And I believe with my whole heart he is now with Jesus, who came to save the lost—not to condemn them.
You might wonder why I’m sharing Mike’s life with you. This dear, sweet, funny brother of mine was the inspiration behind my next novel, Providence (Book 3 in the Apple Hill Series.) When I stood up to share these anecdotes of Mike at his funeral, I clearly heard the Lord say, This is your story. It’s not about Mike or his family, but it’s about the emotional upheaval suicide causes to those who love the victim of such a senseless loss.
Comments 4
I remember Mike’s Donald Duck voice so clearly. I can still picture him outside grandma’s apartment one day doing his impression. He was so funny and such a sweet, caring person. I am thankful I got to know him more during the times I babysat his 2 oldest girls. He was a true gem. It was so hard to believe the tragedy when mom called to tell me the news. I pray for you dear cuz as I can imagine the bond you and Mike shared was so strong that it truly felt as if you were twins. Loved reading these stories and picturing the antics of your “adventures“ together. ❤️
I am with you. There is no way God didn’t see the good in Mike. He had it in spades. Like you I feel guilty. I should have called him more, been up to date on what was going on. I miss him terribly as well.
Author
I don’t want to get on a soap box, but I need this to be clear to anyone reading these comments. My brother Mike was a good person. However, that is NOT why he is in heaven today. There is no one good enough to enter the Heavenly Kingdom, which is why Jesus came to die for our sins as a ransom. None of us are “good” and our holy God cannot look on anything that is not holy. Jesus came and took the punishment for our sins so that we may have eternal life. We cannot earn it, and we don’t deserve it. The only thing on our part that is required is that we acknowledge we are sinners, believe in Jesus Christ and His sacrifice on the cross and that He was resurrected. If any of you reading this has not surrendered her life to Christ, I urge you to do so. You will be blessed beyond measure.
Thank you Jennifer for sharing your precious memories you have of your brother. That’s a great picture of the two of you. Such a tragedy and who can measure the mental anguish one truly is going through. I never realized the closeness you both once shared. I’m glad he’s with Jesus and that you will see him again, one day.