Mom and Dad didn’t let me and my brothers fight when we were younger. The expectation was that we would get along and actually like each other. When we argued and verbally fought with each other, we got in trouble. I can’t even imagine what manner of wrath would have befallen us if any of our disagreements had come to physical blows. That was simply never an option in our house growing up. For my part, I was such a laid back older brother that not much bothered me and I was nice to my little bros. That turned out to be a smart move because my height and weight advantage quickly disappeared as we progressed through high school. Fortunately I’ve maintained my intellectual edge by a long shot.
It is definitely true that when high expectations are set, children will strive to meet those expectations. The expectation was that we would behave and not bicker, particularly in public. It seems simple, and conceptually it is simple. The difficulty is having the discipline as parents to continue to enforce the rule. Mom and dad were consistent in this, and we all benefited from it. Every time we went out to eat as a family mom and dad would get compliments about our behavior. Our house was a peaceful, safe place.
We four boys didn’t always get along perfectly though. Clay and Grant are less than 2 years apart, so they had a lot of the same interests at the same time. Mark was four years younger, so he got left out sometimes, as all little brothers do. We older boys complained to Mom one time about how much Mark was annoying us, and she explained that he was following us around because he loved us and he wanted to be like us. I remember that making sense, but I also remember that Mark was still annoying.
When Grant was around 5 years old I thought it was hilarious that his name rhymed with Santa Claus, so I started calling him Granta Claus. Even then, at the young age of 11, I had finely a honed sense of humor. I made it even funnier by turning it into a song, “Who’s got a big red cherry nose? Granta’s got a big red cherry nose. Must be Granta. Must be Granta. Must be Granta Granta Clause.” I’m not sure which of the 17 verses did it, but the little guy eventually broke down in tears. I got into a lot of trouble for that one. I’m pretty sure it was worth it.
One time when we 3 older boys were teenagers, Mom started fussing at all of us for name calling. Mark ate the last of the Doritos and Grant yelled at him in frustration, “Dork!” Clay bragged about a perfect score on his English exam and I said, “You’re a nerd.” Pretty much any action elicited a mocking “Idiot”, “Dork”, or “Nerd.” The constant barrage was too much negativity for Mom. She wanted us to use our words to build each other up, not to tear each other down. It got to the point where she and Dad outlawed the use of those specific words in the house. They were permanently censored. The problem was that it was already a habit with each of us. We couldn’t stop.
Words have power, negative words can hurt, and our words are a representation of who we are. That was the point of the ban. That is also why, despite 20 years in the military, I never heard Dad swear. He would utter exclamations of annoyance and frustration, but they were never profane. In fact, he replaced negative phrases with positive ones. He would stub his toe on the dining room table and we’d hear a loud, “Glory to God!!” The van wouldn’t start while we were on a family vacation and his first utterance was, “Thank you Jesus!” Those were his two favorite expletives, but he’d also throw in a “Hallelujah!” on occasion. It became a habit for him, much like our name calling had become a habit for us. It was a good habit though, because even if it was a reflexive response, it did help to center Dad’s focus onto God and away from whatever pain he was experiencing at the time.
I think this habitual shift in focus was part of why Dad’s optimism was unfazed by life’s circumstances. Even cancer couldn’t take that away from him.
As teenage boys we didn’t quite have that same discipline. We continued to get into trouble for calling each other names and using banned words in the house. In fairness, sometimes it is rewarding to call a spade a spade. To call it like you see it. We boys were all dorks and nerds, and we were all capable of dorky and nerdy behavior. Alas, those put-downs grated against Mom’s kind sensibilities, and we were constantly in the dog house. Finally, Grant came up with the perfect solution. He found a loophole in the rules and he barged through it with abandon. We got into an argument about what to watch on TV and Grant called me a “krod” right to my face. A little later someone cracked a joke that fell flat and Grant called him a “dren.” Mom surely heard Grant’s tone, but like an internet text filter she was only listening for key words, and these words did not match the filter settings. We quickly followed Grant’s lead and called each other drens and krods at every opportunity.
I was at Clay’s high school baseball game one time and he hit a weak grounder to 2nd base. Nothing unusual about that until he slipped on his way to 1st. As any supportive brother would, I watched him stagger into his run and yelled out, “Dren!!” Some friends of ours were at the game and were pretty confused by the unusual word. I wrote it into the dirt outside of the dugout to help explain it, but they were still lost. I had to spell it out for them, backwards, before the lights came on. What a bunch of krods.
As we grew up, the enforced peace between us matured into an unenforced friendship. We were brothers and we were friends. We played in a band together, all 4 of us. We even went on a couple of tours without killing each other. We all participated in each other’s weddings, and we stick up for each other. Shortly after college I was laid off from a job under questionable circumstances. Clay was working part-time at the same company and when he found out what happened to me he walked into the boss’s office and quit. When one of us goes through a tough time we can always talk to the other. We can count on a listening ear and hopefully some type of insult so we know that everything will be OK. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer we encouraged each other, and when he passed away we consoled each other.
The Bible says that “there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother” (Prov 18:24) but I have to disagree. There’s no person I’d trade for these 3 men who share my last name … even though they are a bunch of drens and krods.