A mom’s win: He ain’t heavy, he’s my little brother

By Dr. Heather Bozant Witcher
Young Adults

I’ve often thought that God had a sense of humor in blessing me with three boys. Of all people, I’ve wondered, why did I end up with not one, but three?

I was never a person who particularly enjoyed the great outdoors or rambunctious activity. I didn’t play sports – and I certainly never watched them for any sense of enjoyment, other than the social aspect of being with friends. Getting dirty is not my idea of a good time.

And yet, I’ve found myself building mud pits in the backyard, allotting sections of the garden for “excavation” and digging (we’ve found a lot of “dino bones” with our excavator and bulldozer toys), and spending more than just a few hours outdoors on trails with bikes or exploring the natural world to find bugs and other critters.

Just the other day, in fact, as I was trying to gather everyone into the car on the way to school, Ollie – my middle child – stopped short. I almost fell on top of him, as I asked what in the world was going on. He was crouched down on the ground, inspecting the concrete. I didn’t have time for this; the other kids needed to get buckled into car seats and we needed to go at least five minutes ago. But he was immovable: “It’s a June bug! It’s my friend.”

I suggested he help the bug to a safer place than in the pathway we needed to get to the car. He agreed, and when I turned around, I saw that he had decided to place the bug directly on the doormat. The same doormat that needed to be stepped on to exit the house. Immediately, one of the other children opened the door and almost squashed the bug – to Ollie’s sheer terror. Eyes wide open, he was speechless as the tears came.

Eventually, we were able to get everyone in the car and the bug safely placed in the grass. But I distinctly remember thinking, “Why, God? Why am I having to deal with bugs?”

That same afternoon, the kids began swim lessons again and my youngest, at age 3, was able to participate. It went well, and there were no tears until it came time for him to come out of the water and sit on the ledge. He was cold, and of all things in the world, he hates the cold (often, he’ll tell me: “I’m cold, mama; I want to be hot”).

Crying loudly and shivering, he looked miserable. And all the way across the pool, we heard Ollie: “It’s OK, Syd! Ollie’s here!” Waving and splashing to make himself seen, he was trying to comfort his baby brother.

And in those moments, I understand part of God’s plan.

My boys are some of the most empathetic and caring ones out there. Often, the teachers tell us that when another friend is hurt or upset, my sons ask if they need a hug. I frequently receive gifts – sometimes, yes, it will be a bug; but often, it’s “flowers” or weeds – that they’ve pulled from their trails. And every morning, I’m greeted with the biggest hugs and loudest exclamations of how much they love whatever it is that I’m wearing.

It’s all part of their age. But it’s definitely something that I hope they won’t lose as they grow up. Empathy, compassion, admiration and effusion.

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