they love him

I watched as my kids played on Sunday with their uncle; my 18 year old little brother who just finished up high school. They love him. He is attentive and sensitive. He is attuned to the minutia of their budding personalities. Brennan (our 6 year old) created a game called basket football which consists of throwing a football into the basketball hoop (slightly more difficult than it sounds—particularly the rebounding); my little brother played with him until they were both exhausted and sweaty (Brennan won, 21-19). Earlier that day as we sat in church, Brennan peacefully put his head on my brother’s shoulder—a sign of unadulterated affection from a little boy who is often too busy to display such physical manifestations of his love. Zoe (our three year old) was playing with magnetic dollies, dressing them up and placing various hairstyles on each doll until she found the perfect combination of hair, shirt, and pants/shorts/capris. My brother’s was her favorite. He found a blonde dolly and enhanced her appearance with the careful placement of magnetic lederhosen and a cat mask. There was an innocence to their creative and expressive play that left me clinging to hope and fearing the future at the same time. I juxtaposed the happy, clear faces of my children with the smiling, pale, drug-enhanced darkness that shone from my sweet brother’s countenance. They don’t have any idea of the thoughts he has, or the means by which he corrals them. They don’t know of his destructive plan to walk down a path from which so many have not returned. I remember him as a child, constantly engaged in a creative and expressive play that charmed his family. When and why did the toy dinosaurs and dress up clothes evolve into pipes and powders? Why didn’t those childhood games lead to harmless (if not obnoxious) teenage games? Should I allow my guilt and hopelessness to be swallowed up by the joy my children experience in the presence of this tender, sensitive, thoughtful, and kind drug addict? Do I abandon my natural tendency to fix even the unfixable and follow the lead of my children—enjoying the moments I have to spend with my little brother? I’m confident in a hope that I can teach them—when that time comes—what happened to their uncle…why he fell in and out of consciousness as they sat playing with him. I will explain why his light was overshadowed by his darkness. I will explain why we have the deified capacity to accept and love those whom we could easily reject and disregard. Until the time for these explanations arrives, I will teach what I can, and continue to love my children. And I will love them for loving my brother. And I will love him. And I will continue to take in the lessons to be learned on these adventures in fathersitting.