I’ve never had to be my brother’s keeper. I don’t have one, at least not a biological one. Most of my best friends have brothers. I have 36 first cousins and all but five us have a brother. King Solomon knew a thing or two about brothers. In Proverbs 18:24 he wrote, “One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”
Since I don’t have a brother, let’s talk about sisters. No one will ever confuse me with Ol’ Solomon but I do know a thing or two about sisters. And one of mine is having a birthday today. Jennifer Anne. The Neb. Nebbie. Nebulon. Nebulous. She’s always had nicknames. Jennoochka as our dad called her. Jeffiner, was mom’s term of endearment. To me she was Jen. Jen became Ben. Then Jen-ben. After a subtle switcheroo, Neb was created (It’s just Ben backwards).
Shortly after her birth my parents decided to develop their inner farmer and we moved from the suburbs to the quiet and lonely countryside 30 miles outside of Detroit. We were the Clampetts in reverse, without the money. We had chickens, rabbits, ducks, and the meanest guinea hens you’ve ever seen. We had a pond that wasn’t made out of cement. Our neighbors were cows. Literally. My nearest school buddy was a 30-minute drive away. So Neb and I grew up playing together. We designed roads and cities in the sand box, went sledding in the winter, and built Lincoln Log forts for my legions of army men.
For someone who hates athletics, she was the perfect sport growing up. We created numerous games to occupy our time, most of which included either tackling her or hitting her with a ball. One such invention was called “Bean the Dude.” I would give her a head start and she would start running around the outside of our house. I would then take off chasing her and once she was in my crosshairs I would fire my Nerf football at her backside as she tried to scurry to safety around the next corner. It was great practice for hitting the downfield receiver in my school-yard football battles with the guys.
Eventually, we grew out of our childhood games and soon thereafter my admiration for her started taking off like our national debt. She deftly toned her knack for comedic timing. She started developing skills in drama, music, and art. By the time she was in high school I saw someone who had more talent in her pinky toe than I did in my whole body. You should see her impersonations. She’s a human juke-box when it comes to song lyrics. She’s the funniest person I know. She could put Conan, Letterman, and Leno to shame. Regis should be calling her to be his replacement.
By the time she was studying at UC Santa Barbara she was no longer the little kid I had to play with but the sister I couldn’t wait to visit. I relished our times to eat out in Isla Vista, walk State Street, or just catch a movie.
Then came the roommate years during which she miraculously didn’t kill me despite my numerous attempts to explain sports to her. With her back in Los Angeles for the last decade I’ve watched her grow from a college grad into a human resources guru. I’ve seen her shun grief like a would-be tackler and go on with her wedding only weeks after our mother’s death. I’ve marveled as she’s become a mom to a pair of beautiful children, raising them while working full-time and taking classes at night. Next month, she’ll begin a new adventure when she starts her nursing program. “Nurse Neb” has a nice ring, no?
I’ll never forget how my dad announced her birth to me. Still in my pajamas, I sat sleepily on the top step in our Grand Rapids home one cold January morning to find him bounding up on all fours to meet me at eye level. “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that mom had the baby last night. The bad news is that … it’s a girl.”
At five and half years old, I must have been wishing for a brother. That’s one wish I’m so glad didn’t come true. Even though I am very thankful for my many reliable friends, there is only one Neb who sticks closer than a brother.
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