I think my youngest son hit the nail on the head when he said he lost his
‘best friend and worst enemy’ when Logan died. I have witnessed our boys
try to kill each other. When they were younger, I could pull them apart
and send them different directions. Once they grew bigger than me, I
used the almighty power of groundation to stop their battles. In the
end, they grew smarter than me; they knew enough to fight their battles
out of my sight. Often, the only way I knew they had fought was by the
injuries they sported when they sat down for supper. Through the years,
as I would deal with the aftermath, cleaning up their blood and
bandaging their injuries, fixing busted furniture, twisted glasses, and
broken glass, the boys would sit together and laugh as if the war had
never happened and they had always been trusted allies.
I wonder about the emotional battle that must rage on in the hearts of my sons since Logan left. They had wished each other dead, or at the very least, maimed over the years. They had shared toys, beds and secrets. They fought as hard for each other as they had fought against one another. What is it like to lose such a brother? One instant he was
there and the next he was gone. No chance for goodbyes. No final battle
royale. No lasting truce. Brotherhood, I believe, knows what words could
never say anyway. Though they spent many an hour plotting to do the other in, I have no doubt that if Jesus said, "Who shall go?" Logan quietly got to his feet, nodded his head, and said, "Take me."
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