My Brother's Keeper

Mom, me and Scott last summer

My cellphone rang at 1:30 in the morning and my tiny screen showed "Scott." My brother.

I didn't answer it. Because it was 1:30 — and I was afraid. Afraid he was in a rage. Afraid he was drunk. Afraid he was having a crisis. Afraid to have to face it and talk him off whatever ledge he may be on. I silenced the ring and lay awake in the dark, knowing he'd leave no message. I lay there and listened to TJ breath and the neighbor's wind chimes jingle and imagined the worst.

In the morning I assumed he was dead. That was it. He'd called and needed me and I'd let him down. I silenced the plea because I was tired and afraid of his drama. What if he'd called to say goodbye? And now it was too late.

He called later that day around 5 p.m. He knew I got off work late and thought I'd still be up at 1:30 a.m., he'd wanted to say thanks for the card I'd sent him. I didn't tell him that he'd been dead to me all day, I was just waiting for the call. I said, "Dude, you don't call at 1:30 a.m. unless something's wrong." and he said, "You don't have to worry about me anymore."

And of course that's not true. I do have to worry.

Having a great time.

Scott was 3 when I was born, and we shared a room until I was 10. He was my best friend, my play mate. In a photo album is my favorite picture: I'm 1 and sitting in the upside down bench for our desk. Scotty is 4, and he's pushing me up and down the hallway in our "car." We're both laughing. We played in that bench until we were both too big to fit in it. He taught me how to play cars, LEGOs and Lincoln logs and we would have epic gun battles in the long hallways of our childhood home.

We used to hold trials — lining up all the chairs in the house in rows in the living room, filling our "jury box" with stuffed animals. On trial was always our Ernie puppet from Sesame Street. He was always guilty, sentenced to hang from the living room mantle.

He taught me how to ride my bike without training wheels. I taught him how to tie his shoes. We would wrap our arms around each others necks and sway back and forth, singing our own song, "Best buddies, beeeeest buddies."

We stopped being best friends when his mental illness gripped him around puberty. By then I had my own room and was grateful for the lock on the door. But even if he'd been horrible to me all day, I'd still let him in if he'd had a bad dream, and he'd curl up on the floor next to my bed and for a few minutes we were little again and finding comfort in each other's presence.

One night the summer I turned 13, something was wrong in our house. It was probably near 1 a.m. God was stirring my heart and I was uneasy. My eldest brother, Seneca, was on the front porch and I told him without knowing, "Something's in the backyard." From there, the memory becomes just still frames and emotion — overwhelming fear, chaos. Standing in the doorway of my parent's bedroom, light streaming through the open door into the backyard. Seneca and Dad, struggling. My hand clutching the phone receiver to my ear and telling the 911 operator, "My brother hung himself on the swing set."

Scotty died that night, for a moment. And then was alive. Is still alive. It wasn't the lowest point for him, or for me. But God kept him alive. Slowly in the 13 years since, we've rebuilt.

I think the whole family still lives in the shadow of that night. Part of us is still holding our collective breath — fearing that final call, praying it will never come. And somehow expecting it anyway.

So, I worry.

Lately, Scott's called me more and more, about once a week. He tells me about his week at work as a janitor at the school district. He tells me about his plans for his little one-room cabin. We talk more and more about his desire to be "normal," to not be an alcoholic, to not be crazy. And he asks me about God, and a few weeks ago he called to tell me he was going to give his life to Jesus. And I cried. And we prayed together for the first time.

He still has bad days. He calls me angry and wants to rant. And I take a deep breath and take those calls and try to tell him about Jesus and how He can help. Sometimes he doesn't want to hear it. But often he does, and I can hear the hopelessness in his voice and his desire to be filled by something meaningful.

At the end of the day, I know my brother's life is not my responsibility. I know that I am not my brother's keeper — I know that Jesus is. At the end of everything, Scott's life is in God's hands, and God has already shown us that He is willing to go to amazing lengths to preserve it until it's really his time to go Home.

So he's right, of course, I don't have to worry about him anymore. My job now is just to love him and pray it helps him see how much Jesus loves him, too.