Christmas 22

I wrote my very first book when I was 8 years old in the third grade.  I was in Mrs. Tucker's class at IPS School 70 and the assignment was to write a few poems and short stories and then craft, bind and illustrate a book.  I can vividly remember most of my classmates not wanting to do this, even dreading this assignment, but not me, I was excited...very excited!  I got an "A+" on my project and the book was showcased as one of the best in the class.  If it weren't for the fact that we had to write our stories in class, Mrs. Tucker would not have believed that I was in fact the author of them.  She even had to defend my work to the other teachers who thought I got help from my parents or from my teacher.  I wrote a poem and two short stories, one of which was called, "At Night, a Knight!"  It was about how creatures of the night come from under the bed and in the closet to attack the unsuspecting towns people and how the little boy with his "pillow as his sword, covers as his shield, and bed as his horse," turns into a brave knight that defeats the night crawlers.  I often marvel at the gift I have been given: to translate life into words and mental pictures that can curl up the corners of one's lips, accelerate the heart, moisten the cheeks with tears that flow like rivers forging a path to an ocean of joy.  Even though I can look back at that book and chronicle it as my very first, I do not remember it primarily because of the content, rather I remember the obscure words I prophetically penned on the Dedication page.

The Dedication Page read: "I dedicate this book to my mommy and daddy, my big sister and my little brother in my mommy's stomach."  My mother laughed when she read this, because at age 34, she had no intention whatsoever to have any more children.  And she was definitely nowhere near pregnant at the time.  She asked, "Do you think your mommy is that fat that you believe she is pregnant?"  "No, mommy!"  I replied, "I just know that you will be and I will have a little brother."  She smiled and carried on and told me that if she ever has another boy, I could be the one to name him.

By the end of my Fifth Grade year, my mother told my sister and me that she was pregnant and that my father (already a grandfather at this time) would be a father at the tender age of 50 for the seventh time.  "Is it a brother?" I asked excited that my prediction was coming true.  "We don't know yet," she said.  "It's a brother!"  I said, confident that I needed to think of a name, eager to have my mother fulfill her promise to me.

A few months later, on Sunday, December 20, 1987, my little brother was born.  I had the honor of giving him the name Derrin Shane and received a special Christmas gift that year.  Each year I have had an even better honor: to watch this gift re-gift himself over and over to those he encounters as he uses his special gifts, talents, warm smile, beautiful inner strength, and curious mind to uplift the world.  Over the years I have seen him grow.  I have taught him how to play basketball, never allowing him to win to gain his confidence, rather beating him just enough so that he will want to come back for more the next time.  Now, to give me confidence, he has to allow me to win, because my skills (if they were ever there) have declined severely with age and increased waist size.  I have been able to share many wonderful experiences with him that have taught him character, showed him love, corrected his behavior, and have made him laugh.  Now, watching how wonderful a father he has become, I turn to him for advice on how to be a better one. Now, he is the one chastising me for my erratic behavior, or less than excellent character, telling me that I am better than what I display. His words and actions toward me are all too familiar, for they are often regurgitations of words, thoughts, ideas, actions that I once told to him to help him through the challenges life tends to bring forth. And my words to him were more than likely ideas, thoughts, etc. told to me from our father.


This year will mark the twenty second time I have had the pleasure of celebrating Christmas with my little brother, a gift I get to open each time he calls, I get to play with each time we work out together or play basketball, I get to share with all my family and friends, I get to continuously unwrap at the end of each hug. Now I get to dedicate more than just a book to him, I have an opportunity to dedicate my time, energy, and well-being, for as I constantly seek ways to improve myself; it unconsciously gives him permission to do the same. He is a wonderful book that I get to witness being written, with most of the chapters God personally organizes. I marvel at his level of growth and determination to accomplish his goals and the way he defeats the things that approach in the darkness of night that come to destroy his peace of mind. His “pillow is his sword, covers are his shield, bed is his horse….” Know this little bro, as long as I am alive, you will never have to fight alone.