Josh Akerberg
Whenever I sit down with my favorite writer’s fuel (sardines, saltines, and Moxie), I am always drawn to one of my favorite childhood memories. When I was a child, my parents faithfully took Ethan, myself and our five other siblings to church. In fact, one Tuesday a month my mother would don the denim skirt, put my sister’s hair in pigtails, and they would head out for the monthly Women’s Mission Fellowship meeting. I loved those Tuesday nights because dad would come home from work, and we would have a guy’s night. Mom would usually feed my brother Ethan and me dinner before she left. But we always loved it when Dad was in charge—he gave us the best snacks: sardines and saltines.
During my adolescent years, I did not get along well with my Ethan or my dad. But the good memories that I have, I hold precious. When we were little, Ethan and I were going to take the world by storm. We were the modern day Lewis and Clark. Every day after we finished, school we would hop into our camo fatigues, disappear beyond the ferns into the wilderness of our back yard, and stay outside till supper.
When we were cooped inside the house, we would play cowboys and Indians or Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie; more than once, he and I grinned down (teddy) bears in the living room closet. We would turn our bunk-beds into the Alamo and everything else in the room into Santa Anna’s army. We knew our history, so every time we fought the Alamo, we fought to the death.
Ethan was a good older brother; he taught me everything that he thought I needed to know. He even taught me when it was okay to talk to Mom and Dad.
One particular night on a Sunday in October of 1996 comes to mind. I was a horrible child that night, so my dad sent me to bed early, promising to punish me if he saw me again. As I was lying in my bottom bunk, thinking about what I had learned in church that morning, I knew that night I had done wrong, and I knew the consequences of my actions. I knew I was going to Hell. I asked Ethan if he knew how to be saved, and he told me to go talk to Dad. “No way!” I said, “He’ll spank me!” Ethan reassured me that my dad would not punish me, and after a little more of my brother’s convincing, I crept down the winding staircase. I accepted Christ as my Savior that night because my brother encouraged me to talk to Dad.
Growing up with Ethan, however, was not all fun and games. We, like all good brothers, also fought often. As Ethan grew up, he wanted nothing to do with my childish games. That was hard for me. He wanted to hang out with his older, teenage friends. In hindsight, I completely understand, but it was hard to accept then.
Ethan was four years older me, so he was always exiting the stage of life that I was just beginning. I looked up to him; I thought he was wise; I thought he knew what he was doing. He was popular, athletic, and smart. I wanted to be like him.
One day, however, that all changed. Mom and Dad called Ethan up to their room (always a sign of serious trouble) and talked to him for what seemed like hours. While they were talking, I crept up the stairs to hear what the conversation was about, and I could tell that he had done something awful. I overheard enough of their conversation to know exactly what had happened. At that moment I began to hate my brother. From that day on, I would never admit that I looked up to him. My older brother let me down and it took years for me to forgive him.
I’m not sure when that sentiment changed, but I know it has. Somewhere around his senior year of college and my freshman year, God worked in our hearts, especially mine. After Ethan graduated, he became an officer in the Marine Corps as a combat engineer. He leads his men well, and they respect him, just like his little brother does.
As I am preparing myself to follow his footsteps into the military after I graduate, I am no longer trying to shirk the stigma that I’m doing something because Ethan did. Ethan became an officer in the military, and it was a good idea. So I’m going to do it too.
The gravity of this decision, however, did not reach me until this evening. Before I sat down to write this, my sister forwarded me an email from my mother. In that email, Ethan passively mentioned that his vehicle was hit by an improvised explosive device (IED) recently. He and his men remained safe in the blast, but the blast shook them.
As I reflect on the fact that I almost lost my brother, I am forced to think of our childhood. As we are both taking steps to defend our country, we are no longer reenacting the Alamo in our bunk-bed. He is experience real combat with real men trying hard to kill him. He is scheduled to come back home by Christmas. If he makes it home, I will be sure to crack open a can of sardines with him, and let him know that no matter what, he’s still my brother.
