My Aging Siblings

I can still remember the magnificence of those years when I was a child, and was cared for by my oldest sister, Rose. Even then she stood forth as one who had been born to be a mother. And then, years passed and she gave birth to her first child. It was a glorious event. Everyone was filled with pride and wonder. I wish there were words to express how lovingly she cared for her child, but if there are, I don't know them. I can only feel the love yet in my heart.

After a while, she gave birth to her second, and a third. You would think that her love might diminish with the added burden of more to care for, but it did not. It only grew—because she had been born to be a mother. Years passed, and she gave birth to a fourth, fifth, and a sixth. Each time, her love grew and her destiny shined forth for all to see—to be a mother. And then, came her seventh. Her final gift to the world.

What can I say about this woman, Rose, who was born to be a mother? She was my sister. But more than that, she was an extension of God's love to us. She made our lives better because she reflected those qualities that make us more than flesh and death. Goodness, patients, endurance, purpose, and love—these are the things she gave. Those are the things that will endure, not brick or mortar and stone, like castles in the sand. For as the Great One said, The Greatest of These is Love."

And what is love, but he gift of life? And who, but a mother knows more about life? So, in being what she was born to be—a mother—Rose fulfilled her life purpose. This shall we always remember.

The next to depart was my brother, Enos, fifth oldest. Enos was a farmer and never wanted to be anything else. He departed about four years ago, doing what he wanted to do—out on the farm—in his pickup, after driving around this farm and through the fields of grain. He loved to drive around his farm after he retired, and especially during his last ailing year on earth. It was his habit, in his last days, to arise early in the morning, get on a small three-wheeled vehicle parked just outside the house by the door, drive it to his pickup parked out in the machine shed, and then to drive around the farm for the better part of the day. He didn't want to die in a hospital bed. His wife found him one morning bent over in his pickup several hours after he had obviously departed. But, he wanted that way, out where he belonged, under the clear blue sky.

Like me, my brother Enos had a chronic lung disease; and like me, he had smoked all his life. As far as I know, he was still smoking the day he died. About 25 years ago he lost his voice because of cancer of the throat, but after an operation the cancer never came back. He did not, however, die directly from lung complications, but rather from a massive heart attack.

The next family member to depart during the recent past was my brother-in-law, Bud—like we all loved to call him— who was married to my other sister. Bud was also a farmer; and like me and brother Enos, he also had a chronic lung disease. Moreover, Bud had smoked for many years. Unlike me or Enos, though, Bud had stopped smoking some twenty-odd years before his departure. Unfortunately, he still developed a serious lung condition during his last year and a spot, which turned out to be cancerous, was detected on his lung about six months before his death.

Regardless of the reason why, my brother-in-law's death affected me greatly. For me, being there with Bud mere hours before his departure, watching him struggle desperately to awaken in order to be with his family—whom he had dearly loved and given his life to support and to nourish—was indeed a defining moment for me—a moment of truth. The reason Bud was unable to awaken and be with his family those last precious hours had nothing to do with his condition or Mother Nature. He was unable to awaken because he had been drugged by his doctor for the convenience of the health care system and for the doctor's convenience—against the wishes and instructions of the family.

This has not been a pleasant experience to write about. I would have much preferred to remember Bud only in the light of his remarkable steadfastness to a tradition that is rapidly becoming extinct in the present world of business and technology: The Family Farmer. Bud was truly a family farmer whose purpose, beliefs, dedication to family, community and friends extended over a life time. For Bud, Enos, and their kindred, I dedicate the following:

THE FAMILY FARM

by James Svoboda

Take a man

burn into his heart the desire to live

show him a piece of untamed earth

and there starts a farm.

Take a man

a sometimes fool in the eyes of the world

a strong pair of hands

a strong head for sense

and there's the beginning of a farm.

Find me a man