People ask my older kids all the time what it’s like to have so many younger siblings. Do they like it? Is it fun? Do their little siblings bug them? Do they wish they were only children?
(Really, people ask this stuff.)
I can’t speak for them, obviously. All I can do, as their mother, is make sure that every child– from the youngest to the oldest– knows how loved, how valuable, how unique, and how precious he or she is in this family. I can help soothe the inevitable moments when the Biblical iron sharpening iron of so many complex personalities in one place begins to wear thin. I can help sort out communication gaps. I can interpret the actions of a preschooler … or a teenager … to an offended party. But in the end, the relationships belong to them. And how they feed and water and care for one another after they leave our house is not something I can– or wish to– dictate.
Still, what I see is promising. I hear Jack (11) encouraging John Mark (5) to break outside the box and build something completely new with his Legos. I see Mary Hannah slam her toe on the piano bench and watch as Birdie rushes to her side with the kind of empathy only still-clumsy preschoolers can offer. I listen to Phineas sing to Simon. Mathaus heads outside to sharpen his khukri, then later, as I wonder where John Mark has gotten off to, I find them together: Mathaus showing his little brother how to carefully hone the well-oiled blade.
I see these signs of life, and I think maybe we will be one of those families blessed to call one another best friends throughout our days. Maybe I will see my handsome sons standing tall alongside their brothers as groomsmen on their wedding day. Maybe I will be blessed to hear that a group of them have decided to meet up– without my husband and I– to vacation together. Maybe they will share private jokes I never hear, and encounter adventures I was not aware of … simply because I don’t have to be part of the equation anymore. Simply because they are friends.
I harbor no illusions that all (any?) of my children will someday settle within a few miles of one another, visiting us en masse every holiday and stopping by the the store to grab that gallon of milk I need on their way for our monthly Sunday dinner. I understand this dream and longing. I know how precious it is to the heart of a mother, especially. But I don’t think it will be us. I think, instead, I will have children on multiple continents, in different time zones, visiting with one another via Skype more often than in my living room. And while that pains me, it also gives me great joy. I believe that God is going to use these people in ways that are bigger than what I can see. I can’t wait to see what that looks like.
So these ties that bind them together are important. Even more important, I think, than mere geography. These ties, should they choose to allow themselves to be ensnared, must be strong enough to cross extended absences. They must allow for midnight phone calls announcing babies, and Christmas cards that never quite arrive. They must span the seasons of life that will someday find one sibling raising teens while another is a newlywed. And they have to do this all themselves. Out of love. Out of a desire to connect. Out of connection. Out of a shared beginning that will fork off into a unique future all its own.
God didn’t make a mistake in piecing together my family– or any family. He is at work there. He has plans, He has reasons. They aren’t always fun. They are rarely easy to live with. And they are often completely at odds with our own selfish wants. But they are always good, and they are always best. Even when it comes to little brothers.
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