"We are all capable of being spiritual sluggards; we do not want to mix with the rough and tumble of life as it is, our one object is to secure retirement... To live a remote, retired, secluded life is the antipodes of spirituality as Jesus Christ taught it. "
Now, my brother Kyle does enjoy retiring. After one of his usual swim practices his muscles are so tired they fall like wet noodles onto the big chair in the family room and he nods off to sleep with his hands just barely clasped over his middle. I like this image of him though, it does not make me think him a sluggard, for two reasons. First of all, he looks just the way our dad looks when he falls asleep in his big chair-- head back and mouth slung open in (sometimes) silent snoring, legs splayed out on the ottoman and hands resting on his midsection. Secondly, Kyle's retiring is out of a necessity for rest and not due to stereotypical teenage sleepaholism.
When Kyle was still a little guy, (though tall and slender even then), my mom explained to him the necessary after-school routine. Once she told him, and little more did she need to: "You can come home and have a little snack, but then you need to finish your homework before you go play."
I honestly do not remember a day of my teen years when my little brother did not come home and do just that. He would chow down on Cool Ranch Doritos, his dark eyelashes framing intently blue eyes, not talking, perhaps lingering a moment at the kitchen table, and then trudge off to his room with his blue backpack slapping against his knees. He would plop down at his desk, flip on the IKEA desk lamp, and complete his homework. Every day.
Kyle was stubborn as a mule, so ridiculously observant and so keen in the memory department that he drove my mother crazy.
"Kyle, you need to eat something healthy, nothing sweet until later."
"Mom, Doritos aren't sweet," he'd answer as he reached for the bag. She'd roll her eyes and have to explain the nuances of common speak, wondering why her girls never thought to throw these literal translations as arguments.
Truth be told, however, it was this keen observance and grasp of logic that has led him to so many smart decisions. When he was young he understood the concept of priorities and therefore honored Mom's suggestions. Nowadays, standing tall at six foot four, the blue backpack that used to slap his knees now fits him like a hamster on a horse's back and his lithe muscles have grown taut and strong with hours and hours in the pool. Unlike many of his cohorts, Mom's and Dad's suggestions still ring true for him and he has been saved the embarrassment and dishevelment so many high schoolers face because of it. He still gets his homework done on time, but even more impressively he doesn't squander his weekends on booze and cavorting but works doggedly to improve his swim times, get time with friends, and collapse on his bed Sunday night atop his finally finished homework.
When I visit my family in Florida I am never the first to stir. Being the mother of a toddler that is nigh impossible, but Jonathan's are not the first feet to pad across the floor. Kyle moves silently, and leaves into the dark of the morning nearly every day for swim practice. Two hours later we are all up with the sun, playing with Jonathan on the floor and sipping coffee in our pajamas. Dad is filling his coffee mug and straightening his tie and Kyle walks in, starch with chlorine and sagging as his muscles bear the burden of his exhaustive workout.
During the school year these workouts are followed by a full day of school, then another workout. He finally comes home around five thirty, opens his books and studies until dinner. After eating enough food to feed a family of six in order to provide his tired muscles with enough protein to recuperate for the next morning's regimen, he heads back to his books until his eyelids fall heavy on his cheeks and his chin sags to his chest. He pulls his full frame from the chair and plods upstairs to catch a few hours of sleep before starting over again.
When it came time to apply for college I was grateful in his stead, grateful that he could finally relax, take college at an even pace and quit swimming so that he could enjoy it. I mourned a bit the loss of his sport, realizing that I would no longer receive victorious texts from my parents after he shaved tenths of a second off his 100 meter races. Then UNC Chapel Hill told him they wanted him... and not just for his flawless GPA. They wanted him to swim, and I thought that was too bad, my little bro was going to take college for the joyride it could be.
A month or so later I was talking to Kyle about the prospect of swimming at university.
"Yeah, I'm gonna do it," he said casually, as if he were deciding between mowing the lawn or not on a Saturday.
"You're going to swim," I replied, and bit back saying, "Why?!"
I knew why. Kyle has observed a lot over the course of his lifetime-- more, in fact, than most people care to notice over the course of many more years than he's got. I knew that he had realized the value of hard work. He may not be a builder or a waiter or farmer, but Kyle has grit. He has stick-to-it, don't complain about it, get the job done grit. What our whole family knew, and the reason we didn't argue with his decision, is that Kyle has already observed the difference between just getting by and digging in your heels. He'll take the latter, and won't care to look back.
There was another side to his stubbornness as a child. He may have driven mom crazy, but then the nights his migraines hit we were all silently impressed, myself awed, by his indefatigable endurance. He would lay quietly and in immense pain until it was too much to bear and his body gave over to intense nausea. Ginny and I never knew of these nights because Kyle was so quiet and resolute. Without waking even Mom or Dad he would take himself to the bathroom and lay there through the pain. He wasn't trying to be a hero, he doesn't see the point in being showy, he just didn't need to wake everyone up so he didn't. The complaining would only worsen the pain, so he handled it.
I look forward to the day he graduates. I look forward to the day he gets his first job, has his first child, and handles his children's pain. I don't so much look forward to his face of victory or the way he will fist punch the air in jubilation, but rather the way he will smile crookedly and almost timidly raise his eyes to accept the cheers and clinking of glass. I look forward to looking back with him on all the things he has endured, for I know that for Kyle they will be many. He'll handle it.
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