He would lay there and burp non-stop. No matter how much pleading and asking him to leave, he wouldn't. It occurred at an early age of eight, that my older brother Bob, who is six years my senior, did not care about my feelings. While I dared not step one toe over the threshold of his bedroom for fear of instant death, he felt free to continually invade my bedroom whenever he desired. He would lay in the middle of the room making every disgusting boy noise imaginable. The non-stop belching was the worst, but to him it was a gift from God.

Because of his larger stature, there was no way possible to physically move him. He generally did this when my parents were out of the house so he would not get into trouble.

"Get out!" Raising my voice an octave higher each time made no difference to him. It had no impact. The only sure fire weapon was to leave and declare, "Fine! Then I will go into your room, and I am going to touch all of your stuff!"

Stomping as loud as possible so that he could hear me make my way down the stairs, I would go into his room and begin knocking items over to make it audible that all of his precious possessions were being destroyed. Nothing was being damaged, but the trick was to make it seem as if destruction was occurring. It wouldn't take him long to thunder down the stairs to threaten me within an inch of my life. Mission accomplished, I would return to the peace of my own room while he was preoccupied with putting all of his toys back in order.

It was no secret in our family of six children that Bob and I were sworn enemies. His purpose in life was to torment me every way he could think of and mine was to retaliate however I could. Many times while watching TV the back of my head would suddenly be soaking wet. He would stand behind me with a large syringe filled with water and spray. The syringe had the ability to shoot quite a distance, so if he placed himself far away, he could soak me and run. While in shock over being wet, the infamous snicker would be heard, and "Got ya!" to top off my frustration.

Every chance he got, he made sure to get the upper hand. In some attempts to claim victory, I would be sent to my room while he stood around the corner pointing and laughing silently to avoid punishment for himself. No matter how much I told my mother what he was doing, I was sent to my room for being disruptive. Between all that and his behind the scene pranks, a hatred was building in my heart toward my brother.

To make the situation more unbearable, he was a master at being charming. Gifted with the ability to play the drums, he could, and still can, replicate a sound musically with little effort. When friends would come over to play, they would swoon over the fact that he was a drummer. They acted like he was a rock star. They would be invited into the room where his drums were set up so that he could have an audience. Each girl was allowed to play on his drums for fun. Except for me. They would gush over him:

"Chris, your brother is so nice."

"I wish he was my brother."

"Your brother is so cool."

He appeared to be such a good brother, but the minute no one was around for him to impress, I would feel the sting of being slapped on the side of my head and called a mean name. If anyone would have asked, I would have adamantly and without remorse stated that I hated my brother. That was how I felt, but my true feelings surfaced one evening.

During dinner my mom announced that my brother and I would be washing and drying dishes. This was one competition I always won. When she made this declaration, I quickly shot up my right hand and said, "Dry!"

He hated to get his hands wet and loathed washing dishes. Water, in general, made him cringe. One time, my mother had ordered him into the bathroom to get into the tub. He obeyed, but when she went in to check on him, he was sitting outside of the tub with the faucets running. When I said I would dry, it was a small victory for me. Bob would have to endure the dishwater.

While the table was cleared, Bob engaged in his nightly routine of drumming so loud that the floor vibrated. She called for him to come up but her voice was drowned out by the beat. It seemed the more she called him, the louder he played as if to ward off the duty that he knew was coming. He had worked up a sweat that night from pounding so hard. When he came into the kitchen he said that he was dizzy. My mom ignored his comment and kept wiping off the stove. He huffed and puffed his way to the sink. Steam rose from the water in white clouds of smoke. He put a fingertip in to test the temperature. My mom fully believed in scalding water to kill every stray germ on each utensil. He put his head back as he tried to muster up the strength to stick his entire hand into the soapy sink. He continued to say that he didn't feel well.

My mom continued her stove scrubbing. Obviously she was not falling for his dramatics of trying to get out of washing dishes. He methodically washed one dish and began to mumble. He swayed side to side. His lips were moving as he shut his eyes. He gripped the edge of the sink as he almost fell backwards. I had to hold back a giggle. His acting job was hilarious. For some reason, he decided to try to leave the kitchen and stumbled for the living room. On his way out he wobbled and staggered. I really thought he was doing a great job trying to win the sympathy of my mom. My mom looked up when he bounced off the refrigerator. She yelled his name as we watched him fall at my feet. He was not joking.

I was told to get my dad as she continued to say his name loudly. Running from the living room to the bathroom, I found myself outside the sanctuary where my dad had gone in earlier with the evening paper in hand.

"Dad!" After so many years of kids bothering him while in the bathroom, he did not respond. It was like he was immune to my voice. Again, "Dad!" The newspaper crinkled. No response. Panic forming, I yelled his name a third time while pounding on the door.

"What!" came back the exasperated sound of a perturbed man. Now that I had his attention, the words would not form on my lips. My chest tightened to the point of not being able to breathe. My voice was no longer full; it was a mere squeak.

"Bob...Bob...Bob is dead!" Uncontrollable sobs surfaced. Newspaper pages were tossed and there was a lot of shuffling as he made himself decent to come out. He ran past me to where my mom was. I did not want to follow him to see the dead body of my brother so I stayed in the hall and didn't move. The only sound was quiet talking.

"Chris, Bob is not dead!" my dad called out. "He just fainted." Coming out of my hiding place I saw my brother sitting up blinking slowly and not saying anything. I stared at him wondering how I could care so much for someone whom I thought I had hated.

Deep down there was a love for my brother. I was relieved and disturbed by all of it. I discovered during that episode in my life that no matter what my brother had done or said to me, I still had a love for him in my heart. After all the teasing and mean actions displayed, I still found myself not wanting to lose him from my life. It shocked me to think that I wasn't wishing him dead but that I wanted him to live. It was the opposite of what I thought I had felt.

God's love for us is similar to that type of love. There are many times when we do not deserve His love in return for some of the unkind and cruel thoughts we have about others. Maybe our tongue has been working overtime and we find ourselves saying things that would not please our Heavenly Father. Yet, His love remains, and we find ourselves in a precarious spot in life. We pray, and discover that His answer comes to help us in our trouble. In Psalm 136 it reads,

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good!
His faithful love endures forever.

Have you ever pondered the word endure? Many times in our lives we have to "endure" a situation or a person such as the slow driver on the highway, the screaming child in the store, or a long wait in a line. This is nothing compared to the fact that God has to endure the entire earth and the inhabitants of it. Yet, this passage says that His love never runs out. He keeps on loving when we would have stopped a long time before.

When you open up your life to the Lord and ask Him to show you His love, you will be given the supernatural ability to love people whom you otherwise may not have been able to. The cranky neighbor suddenly is seen with new eyes because the Holy Spirit begins to reveal the truth to your heart about how he or she has been wounded. You begin to see people and circumstances from a new perspective and through the lens of a Creator who loves His creation no matter how ugly their behavior. There is a divine connection available between the believer and the Leader, that once established can enable you to do things otherwise impossible. He can override your feelings for someone and suddenly you find yourself doing something nice for a person whom you thought you never would have given any time to. His compassion begins to flow through you to reach out to others.

Valentine's cards, flowers and candy are nice gestures given at this time of year. However, the world struggles to define love. The cards get recycled, the flowers die and the candy mysteriously disappears. In contrast to that, God is the continual supply of love. His love is always at work penetrating the darkest places and bringing hope to those who have fallen into despair. By being in a relationship with Him, we find a resource of love that surpasses what the world can offer. We find His comfort in times of prayer, the answers we need and the ability to forgive a wound inflicted by another.

My brother and I continued to be at odds throughout our childhood years. He got married and moved from my parents' home. Shortly after, he accepted Jesus as His Savior. I believe he prayed a time or two for his unsaved sister Chris. Today, we laugh at our past behavior, and we are the best of friends. This is proof that God's love never fails.

Copyright © by Christine Prueher