He Ain't Heavy

It was a little before my time, I think.  1969 it was, when the Hollies recorded and performed their hit single, He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother.  Neil Diamond sang it again a year later in 1970.

The road is long
With many a winding turns
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where

But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

So on we go
His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there

For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

My brother and I weren't born until 1973.

I don't spend enough time thinking about my siblings, probably for the mere fact that thinking about them reminds me that I am on the other side of the planet; and that can be a painful thing at times.  And if there is one thing that humans are good at, it's avoiding pain.  Whether through denial, or falsehood, or just plain ignoring it, pain isn't forgotten, it's just pushed to the side.  But the problem is, when I don't think about the pain, I don't think about the amazing relationship I've always had with my brother, Ryan.

We were born five minutes apart.  After a short wrestling match, I won the opportunity to exit my mother's womb first - well, that's  not entirely true; we both allowed my sister to go first as good brothers and gentlemen do, but as soon as she was out, it was on.  I don't remember the wrestling match, but I assumed that I won because I was born one ounce heavier.  He ain't heavy, I am.  When you only weigh four and half pounds when you are born, that ounce makes a big difference.

As the song goes, "The road is long with many a winding turns that leads us to who knows where who knows where..."

I never imagined that I would have lived this far apart from him.  For most of our growing up years, we shared a room.  Bunk beds - every few months we'd swap bottom for top to that the one on the bottom bunk could kick the one on the top to annoy him.  We had identical desks, identical lamps, identical boxes, identical toys.  You name it, it was identical.  I think most people, when they give gifts to identical twins, they don't want to short one of them, for instance it would be a bad idea giving one of them an Atari 2600 for Christmas and the other one a brand new latchhook.  Fortunately, this didn't happen.  For our birthday, it was a race to see who could open their present the fastest because once Ryan opened his, I already knew what I was getting.  Not First World Problems: Identical Twin Problems.

In my case, there were never any difficulties in being an identical twin.  We shared everything: clothes, books, basketball.  Everything, that is, unless it was emotions.  We never really had to talk about things, issues, etc. because I already knew what he was thinking before he said it.  Some call it ESP; I would call it normal.  Strangely enough, we never fought.  I can only think of the one time when I hit Ryan in the middle of the back because he tried to pull a plastic bag over my head to see what would happen to me, but other than that...

Sometimes when I really miss him, I'll call my own phone and leave a message like this:  "Hey bro, I miss you.  Things are going really well here in the States, wish you could be here, but I know that God's got an excellent plan for you."  Then, after I hang up, I'll listen to the message because we have identical voices and my recorded voice sounds so much like his.  I should leave more messages on his phone too.

Through our growing up years, we were like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in almost everything: I was the quarterback, he was the receiver; I was the pitcher, he was the catcher; I was the tenor, he was the bass.  But even in those years of being opposite sides of a magnet, we always looked like each other.  Some people at church used to check our ears because my brother had a small mole on one, and even then, they couldn't remember which one actually had the mole on the ear so they would call both of us Reid/Ryan. 

Mrs. Hagedorn, our third grade teacher, had a difficult time after a test when we switched desks and names.  We would have gotten away with it if Vikki hadn't said something.  It didn't matter, we got the same grade anyway.

Our high school band teacher, Ms. Tuecke, always grew a little frustrated with our antics because we could play multiple instruments.  Sometimes she'd stand there with hands on her hips, baton twitching with flustration, saying 'OK you two, I don't know which one you are, but get back to your correct section."

Even when we moved to college, the opportunities for an identical twin continued.  If any one of our friends called us by the wrong name, they would have to chug their glass of beer.  I never mixed us up though, thankfully.

Now that we are older and have families of our own, the times that we have connected have been fewer and far between.  Even when we both lived in the States only a couple hours apart, we didn't take enough time to simply drive over for a night; perhaps it was the heaviness of separation that all twins have to go through, that kept us from going there.  That heaviness manifests itself when one has to leave, like a weight dropping on your shoulders with that last question, "When am I going to see him again."

But he ain't heavy, he's my brother. 

But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

So on we go
His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there

For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

 

I'm strong enough to carry him; he's had to carry me through various trials and struggles; it's like piggy backing your self.  But when I carried him, I found that the simple act of being useful to the other half of the egg caused me to actually feel lighter.  His welfare has always been my concern and even now, as the days, months and years pass between being physically present, and the encumbering feeling of getting lost in the daily rut and being ground down to nothing by the grinding stone of life, I find a sense of lightness that God created my brother for my own good.  God created all people for our good.

 

The last time I saw him was December 29.  We were at my Uncle Neil's house for the Matthias Christmas party.  All our relatives were there, but I was aware of my brother's presence all night, because each of us, and probably many there knew we wouldn't see each other again for probably eighteen months.  At the end of the evening, as everyone was leaving, I couldn't find any more words.  They'd all been spoken and I found myself a little kid again, at the other side of the room we always shared, not needing to speak, but simply a hug and a turn away.  He came outside to see us off and for the first time in many a year, I saw a tear run down from the middle of his right eye.  A diamond.  He didn't wipe it away, I liked that.  He wasn't embarrassed that he was sad, and I wasn't either.

 

His pain was not heavy; he's my brother.

 

I should leave myself a voice message today.