That Favourite Big Brother

When I was just a small boy, I had a favorite big brother. He was great to me. He'd put his big arms around me and we'd go scampering down some cool dirt path. At times like this I felt ten feet tall. He didn't seem to mind my tagging along one bit; and there was nothing I liked better.

I was so proud of him. When I was with him I felt like I was being stronger than the sun. He was good at everything. I never could seem to match the mountains he'd make out of sand. Mine would always seem to crumble and sag, but his would stand as firm as the Rocky Mountains.

Dad always tried not to show how proud he was of him -- he being the oldest and all, but his smile always seemed to beam a little brighter when my brother was around.

I felt my world had collapsed when he went on his mission. Dad and Mom both had to fight the tears back. He called up Dad regularly and let us know how much he loved us. He even told us how great his mission was, so Mom wouldn't worry.

The persecution was really bad there as the Church was just getting its start. But he never seemed to let himself get down, even though the people wouldn't believe his message. We'd all share in his joy when he'd get some new converts, but I didn't mind saying I was scared that the non-believers would do something to him. It even got to the point where men were plotting to take his life. But Dad never seemed to be worried, for some reason.

Then one day we received word that his mission had ended, but not as most men's do. I was struck by the terrifying news.

They finally got hold of my brother. The big brother I played with. The one that never seemed to be capable of doing anything wrong. My big brother that loved everyone he knew and who most everyone loved.

They beat him and mocked him. He suffered all they did to him without striking back. Why would anyone want to hurt my big brother? I couldn't understand.

A mob took him to a hill just outside of town and, spitting on him, they nailed him to a wooden cross. My soul moaned as I heard that he begged father to forgive them. Racked with unbearable pain, he gave up his life for what he believed.

My big brother, my King and my idol was dead. I cried throughout what seemed to me like the darkest day of my life. Where was my brother with whom I'd shaped mountains of sand? Why did he of all my brothers have to die like this?

I felt Dad's strong arm upon my shoulder and heard him say, "He did it for you, son -- for you and for his other brothers and sisters."

Time passed and I was called on my mission. Sometimes I forget what happened long ago, but every Sunday a small piece of bread and a cup of water remind me of my big brother and what he did for me and assures me that he yet lives.

-- Tim Hansen