Steve …

My brother Steve died two weeks ago.  He was more than a brother; he was my best friend, my hero, and yes when we were children, my tormentor.   

Steve was seven years older than me.  After my Father died, Steve was the male role model in my life.  He gave me my first and last plug of chewing tobacco.  He told me it was candy, and I swallowed it.  Then I un-swallowed it all over the Jeep.   

He taught me how to stand up to the school bully, how to saddle a horse, and how to sharpen a pocketknife.  When I was six, he taught me how to drive the old Jeep, which had a manual transmission.  Might as well learn the hard way.   

Once, when we were riding after school, my one-eyed Shetland pony ran away with me, headed back to the barn.  Steve rode up to me on a mare we called “Ginger.”  “Jump,” he said, “like John Wayne in the movies.  Jump on the back of my horse.”  I let go of the reins, leaped toward his horse, … and missed.  I tumbled into the dirt while Steve corralled my horse and led him to the barn.  I went to the house.  He came and got me, telling me, “Even if your horse throws you, you still go to the barn and unsaddle him.”  That is the cowboy code and is pretty good advice for life. 

He was a generous man.  He gave me every gun I own, mostly because he had plenty to share.  When he deemed my pocketknife inadequate, he bought me a new one.   If the check was laid down on the table, his hand reached for it first. 

More than me, Steve lived in the shadow of our Father.  Our Father was the football hero, the rodeo champion, the announcer of horse shows and rodeos, the friend of everyone.  He even had the epic nickname of “King Kong.”  He told me once when Daddy died; people said to him, “You are the man of the house now.”  That is a heavy burden when you are eight-and-a-half years old.  Steve did not inherit our Father’s athleticism, but he inherited his gift of friendship.  If you needed help, you just had to call.  He would be there, day or night, rain or shine.   

He could strike up a conversation with anyone.  Once, when he was repairing a phone, he was talking to the man of the house.  The man looked at him funny, saying, “You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”  “Who was that?” Steve replied.  The man answered, “Kong Smith.”  Steve swelled up with pride and said, “He was my Daddy.”  “Is that so?” the man replied.  He continued, “We were in a juke joint at the County Line, and me and your Daddy got into a fight.  He knocked out this eye (pointing to his left eye) out of its socket and then put some sand in it and put it back in.  I have not seen out of it since.”  Steve, for once, didn’t know what to say, and then the man said, “I miss ol’ Kong.”  By the time Steve left the man’s house, he had a new friend. 

When our stepfather got sick, Steve took over the family ranch.  He loved that ranch.  Nothing made him happier than riding out over the pasture, gathering cows, working them in the pens.  He was in his element, doing what he was born to do. 

My sister passed away nine months ago.  Now, I have lost my brother.  I am thankful I still have my stepsister and stepbrother.  But I think about my original family.  I was the surprise third child.  When they brought me home from the hospital to that old frame house that my great-grandfather built, Kong and Sissie’s family of four became a family of five.  Now I am the only one left from that house.  I am surprised at how lonely it feels.  As a friend of mine said, “When you lose your last sibling, there is no one who remembers your childhood.”  I kick myself for not writing down the stories Clemie Jo and Steve told me about Daddy, for not recording the tales of our childhood.   

I will miss the phone buzzing, identifying a call from Steve.  He would call just to check in, or to tell me something that was going on at the ranch, or to give a friendly male insult about going bald.  You need a big brother to do those things. 

Twenty years ago, on a Sunday, Steve and his family came to look over the new church building.  Sundays are hectic days for me; three services, people needing prayer, trying to speak to first-time guests.  But to my dying day, I will remember Steve catching me in the lobby by the arm, making me stop.  He looked up to the stained glass light that hangs down and said, “Clay, Daddy would be so proud.”  He knew I hungered for those words all my life.  Daddy was not there to say them, but Steve was.   

Proverbs 18:24 says, “…there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.”  In my life, my friend that stuck closer than a brother was my brother. He was a gift to me, a gift I did not always appreciate, but a treasure, nonetheless.   

My Aunt Jean is fond of saying, “Life goes on.”  It does.  I know I am not alone.  Jesus promises to walk with me.  My wife and children have been so wonderful and supportive.  But the road ahead will be different.  I miss my brother, and I always will.