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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

Somewhere along the way to adulthood we seem to forget this simple truth. Children, on the other hand, know how to forgive, which is a very good thing.

If it is true that at their worst, kids can be just plain mean to each other, then siblings can be just plain hateful. Give a brother or sister the right opportunity and revenge can come both sweet and swift and at a level no regular friend would ever receive.

Such was the case many years ago as my brother, Jim, who was almost four years my elder, chased me through the yard. No one seems to remember exactly how it all began, but one thing was certain: he was raging mad. A well-placed head fake had somehow allowed me to escape his initial assault and enabled me to make a break towards our tree fort in the middle of the yard. I made it to the steps with seconds to spare and scrambled up to a level of safety that I knew would be fleeting.

I found my other brother, Randy, already in the fort. He was using it as a vantage from which to better watch the "leopard run down the gazelle." I begged him for help but he just wore a wry smile that indicated he was far more interested in watching the massacre about to ensue than rendering any assistance to his panicked little brother. Meanwhile, brother Jim reached the steps and began his ascent.

My mind raced. Faking him out in front of Randy like that had probably just increased my thrashing exponentially. I momentarily thought about jumping over the picket siding, but it was about eight feet to the ground, which is about five feet too many for a 6 year old. I looked around the fort for something to defend myself with. In the corner stood a "toy" rifle -- the old WWI variety with the heavy wood stock, steel barrel and dark green canvas strap. I suspect that it weighed even more than the original. I grabbed it by the barrel and held it over my head. Standing over the opening in the floor, I issued the first warning :

"COME UP THOSE STAIRS AND I'LL CLOBBER YA! L-L LEA-LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Randy was the first to speak. It was the rare voice of reason.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you -- it's just gonna make him madder -- besides, if you hit him with that thing it'll kill him." That was a gamble I was pretty much willing to take. I was scared. I reissued the threat.

"I'M NOT KIDDING -- C-C-COME UP HERE AND I'LL HIT YOU WITH THIS GUN -- I-I-I MEAN IT -- I WILL!"

I wasn't going to hit him with that gun and he knew it, or at least he thought he did. Jim raced up the steps and stuck his head up through the hatch. He muttered something about who was gonna kill who. It was all I needed. Down came the big wooden stock. I knew I didn't want to kill him, but I also knew I wanted him out of that tree house.

Suffice to say I hit him a little hard.

I was 6.

I thought it would kind of make him back down.

And it did.

Jim landed with a thud on the lose dirt beneath the fort. Randy and I looked over the edge of the hatch. It was all kind of matter of fact. I was immensely relieved having been freed from what I knew was going to be the beating of my life. Randy, however, wasn't so optimistic.

"I think you killed him," he said.

From what I had seen on TV, he was right. Jim lay motionless on the ground. His eyes were closed and for all I could tell he might not be breathing. Randy and I scrambled down the ladder. By the time we got to the bottom our worst fears subsided.

"If he's dead he wouldn't be moaning like that, would he"? I asked.

"Nope -- I don't guess so," Dr. Randolph responded not so authoritatively. He pondered the patient a moment longer and said, "I think we better get mom." It sounded like a good idea to me. I ran to the house not 100 feet away.

By the time I got back with mom she had heard my end of the story no less than 14 times. One thing was certainly clear: I had HARDLY touched him. Mom jogged briskly through the yard. We found Jim sitting up leaning against the ladder. He was bleeding pretty good. He looked at me and squinted his eyes. Between sniffs I was informed I had about 3 minutes to live. Getting mom HAD turned out to be the right thing to do. Protection for me if not medical attention for him.

Mom wouldn't hear the whole truth on this one for many years to come. Forgiveness, however, came much sooner. By night fall we were all playing again as brothers do and I don't know that the event was even thought of until many weeks later.

It was an unspoken forgiveness we gave each other as children. Stormy fights and altercations blew in and out of our world like squall lines crossing an otherwise sunny coast, but we no more hung on to our grudges in any long term sense than we would inflict pain on ourselves -- because somehow we knew by doing so, that we'd be doing just that. Good times could not come again unless all was forgotten.

It sure seems simple enough, but so often as adults our foolish pride blocks out even the faintest capacity for such childlike forgiveness. The results are painful and obvious. Deep seated angers and resentments manifest themselves in the regular presence of a negative and sour mood or in the painful silence that hangs heavily between loved ones like a dark memorial to matters long past. Either way they steal our very lives away.

Jesus Christ said that unless "we change and become like little children" we don't stand much of a chance of entering the kingdom of heaven.

Perhaps their capacity for such unconditional forgiveness has something to do with it.