I am your typical first child in a family.

I am fastidious, because, by default I was taught to be. 

I am sensitive to my parents and their desires and wishes; they wouldn’t want it any other way.

I know, I know, any child not born first is going to raise the cry of ‘not true’ at what I say next.

My parents tried their best to get it right when they trained me.  Their discipline to me was straightforward and consistent.

Today, when I look at my younger brother, I don’t see it that way for him.  

He definitely gets more advantages than I did.

At least, that’s how I see it. 

And, I’m okay with it.  Mostly.  I know what is required of me, and I can give it in a way that is satisfactory to my folks.

I  know that in the end, me being the oldest, I’ll get first dibs on whatever it is my folks have to give when they choose to.

Knowing this, I recently entered into a partnership with my folks on the farm.  I’m interested in its legacy, and I’ll do what I can to see it through to the next generation.

*****

My little brother is a different sort entirely. 

I have yet to see any resemblance of responsibility shown by him. 

I don’t get it.  He is up late in the morning, and to bed way later than the rest of us.  You can pretty much guess how he faces each day living that kind of schedule.  The way I figure, he puts in a half day of work most days.  And then I still must go redo his work most of the time.

So, it came as a bit of relief one day when he approached our folks and told them he was interested in joining a trade school in a nearby town.  He said farming just wasn’t his thing. 

On our farm, we boys don’t get wages as such.  We get a pittance wage in return with the promise that when folks retire, the farm cedes to us.  In the meantime, our basic needs are met by folks. 

My folks listened attentively to my little brother, and I was amazed to hear my dad say he’d cover the first semester of trade school, and then he expected my little brother to pay his own way with afterhours work.

That first semester fee was more than the sum total of my wages I have received to date. 

My jaw dropped and stayed unhinged for quite some time after hearing those words, and it’s probably good it did, because if it had worked, I’m sure I would have said something I would have later regreted.

*****

Little bro was soon off to trade school.  Honestly, I didn’t notice much added to my workload.  Which proved my earlier suspicion; he really hadn’t pulled his share of the load anyway.

Well, the first semester came to an end, and we got word that jobs were scarce in the city, and, could the next semester be paid from home?  He would try his best to get a job and pay back the loan as quickly as he could.

I was okay with this, per se.  I encouraged folks to start a schedule of repayment for his loan.  I didn’t want any of that cash slipping out and gone for good.  We were running a slim enough margin that not much could go unaccounted for. 

We got busy on the farm then, and it seemed like just a few days, and the second semester was over.  I asked folks if their loan had been repaid.  Their answer stunned me. 

They said nothing had been paid back.

And they felt so badly, they said, that they advanced my brother more cash. 

They assured me it would be okay; they had confidence it would all come back. 

But it didn’t.

It wasn’t long, and I saw dad quietly selling some unused equipment.  Soon, he traded off more essential equipment, and purchased older, and smaller equipment to take its place.  What once had been a farm anyone could have been proud of started going to shambles.

I burned with fury.  It was obvious folks had overextended themselves.  Dad and I slaved day and part of the night with that older, high maintenance equipment, just trying to eek out enough to make it to the next year.

The livestock went next.  I was heartbroken.  I loved the cattle, they were my friends.

The years slipped by and with frugal living and careful farming methods, we began to slowly gain. 

Enough so, that one day we were able to buy a good-looking heifer that was bred with good bloodlines.  We figured if her calf was a bull, we were set, as it looked like by then we might have enough to purchase a small heifer calf to pair with it.  And we did.  We got that heifer calf, and if all went well, in a few months we planned to turn her in with the bull. 

My hopes begin to rise, ever so slightly.

I even dared to hope that I might be able to get married, which was something I didn’t feel like was possible with the estate the farm was in, even though my folks encouraged me to take the step in faith; that it all would work out if I did.

One day I was out planting.  It looked like the seed was going into good moisture, and there was a chance of rain that night.  If I put in a few extra hours, I knew I could finish and then we’d see if that rain came or not.

I was about finished when I happened to glance toward the house. 

My heart froze. 

Every light was on.  Had there been an accident?  I saw vehicles filled the yard and spilled out onto the road.

I picked up and ran for all I was worth in that direction.  I came even with the corrals and my heart sank.  I saw a blood trail leave it and go towards the house, but I was still clueless as to what had happened.

And then suddenly I knew. 

I just felt it, I guess.

My little brother was home.

I tasted the bitter, acrid taste of the most conflicting emotion I have ever known.

I was stunned.  Speechless.

Not only had my little brother drained the farm and us of all we had, but rumor had also filtered back that the life he was living never was a life at school. 

He had turned our good family name into a travesty.

Now, here he was, back home, and from the looks of things, all the stops had been pulled out and a huge celebration was in the makings.

All for an imbecile, who just happened to be my little brother.

And then, I must have gone berserk. 

I really don’t remember much of what happened next. 

I was standing near one of the outbuildings of the place, and, I must have lost it.

“NO!”  I screamed.

“NO!  NO!  NO!  You suffering fool!”

“NO!”  And I slammed my fist into the wall of the shed. 

I continued screaming and hitting the building until, spent and bloodied, I sat down against the wall facing away from the house.

And then, I started sobbing.  Deep, horrific sobs that are the loneliest thing a man can ever endure.  I cried in anger, rage, and frustration. 

Finally, my sobs lost some of their force, and I sat there, quietly crying, in the deepest sadness I had ever known. 

And then I realized someone was sitting beside me. 

I don’t know how long he had been there. 

He waited for my crying to cease, and, then, sat in silence with me for a few minutes before asking, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

I told him everything. 

It came out in a torrent of words that I couldn’t have stopped if I tried.  At one point, my language got so vile, I stopped, appalled at what he must be thinking.

“Go on,” he said, in the kindest of tones.

When I finished, we sat there, in silence, and I waited for the blow to fall. 

I was sure he would chastise me, lay some harsh words down on me.

But he didn’t. 

“I get it,” he said. 

And, we sat in silence again, for a spell.

“You have every reason to feel the way you are feeling,” he said, after a while.

“You worked so hard, and I’m sure your father noticed that, and appreciated it.”

I began to sob again.

He draped a kind, loving arm across my shoulders and continued.

“You did everything right.  You worked so hard.  You had the long view in mind, which is always good. 

You were, in a sense, everything your brother wasn’t.”

It was such a relief to hear those words.

“But you need to be in the house,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes.  You need to be in the house.  Together with them.”

“No.  No, there is no way I could be.  Not after everything that has happened.”

“You belong in the house.”

“Obviously not.  Look at the fuss they are making over my brother.  And after all he did. 

No.  They don’t want me there.”

“It’s in the house you’ll find yourself,” he continued, seeming somehow to understand what I was feeling, and yet urging me on to something I did not yet understand.

“You did it right, and your father has every reason to be proud of you.  You saved the farm, more than you’ll ever know.”

He paused.

“But it’s been lonely, hasn’t it.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“It’s just been you and your work, all these years.”

“Yes.”

“A person, living in your situation, has the tendency to become a law unto himself, or self-right.  I wouldn’t blame you if it happened to you.  It can happen to anyone.

You tend to start doing things the way you think they ought to be done, and it soon becomes the only way they are done.  It’s sort of like you live your life by good works, and, really, you have done quite well in that.”

“But my brother . . . “

“Ah, yes.  He’s on the other side of the coin, isn’t he.  You could say that in a way, his life was one for plumbing the depths of grace, while yours has been one for plumbing the depths of good works.  Every day, your brother got farther and farther away, in your mind, because you were isolating yourself from him and hedging yourself around with the good work you did.  You sort of removed yourself from all of life, for that matter. You had become an island unto yourself. 

Meanwhile, as his circumstances got more and more desperate, and the grace so freely extended to your brother was finally siphoned away to what seemed nothing, your brother became just as isolated; his isolation was terrible.  There seemed to be no hope for him.”

We sat silent for a while, and then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to me. 

I blew my nose and wiped the tear streaks away. 

“Keep it,” he said, when I handed it back to him.  “I want you to have something from me to remember our time with.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then, I got my first really good look at him.

“Your brother was at his end; hopeless.  Total despair.  He knew he had squandered every drop of grace, or so it seemed.

But there’s always grace.  Not for him in the huge amounts like it was when he started out, but enough to warm him to the thought of what it must be like in his father’s house.

And he got himself there; and surprisingly for you, he used some of the same effort you have used these last few years.

Grace alone couldn’t do it for him.  Good works alone can’t do it for you.”

The light began to dawn on me, and I suddenly realized what a fool I had been.

“The farm can wait,” he said.

“You need to be in my house.

They are waiting for you there.”