Okay, let’s rewind.
I blaze by the golf course (in my dreams). “Hi, Alex.”
Teenager looks up. “I’m Adam.”
Blast! Wrong again.
Now we’re all caught up.
Mixing up names troubles me. When I call an older brother by the younger’s name, the confusion troubles me more. So last week, when I mixed up names, I did the double-trouble trick.
Tricky trouble one. Wrong name. Bad.
Tricky trouble two. Called older brother by younger brother’s name. Really bad.
I’m the eldest of six—four boys, two girls. I didn’t especially enjoy being called by any of my younger brothers’ names. It was worse when Mom would get really exasperated, because in her frustration, often the best she could manage would be “Tah-Way-Rah—oh, whichever one you are!” That usually meant one of us, Tom, Wayne, or Roger, (or all three) was in deep do-do. Gulp!
One exception to a mix-up in names, though, comes to my mind and brings great pleasure. And it’s not based on confusion at all.
Though I’m the eldest of Joe Tarver’s kids, I have an older brother through my adopted family. In fact, my oldest brother paid the adoption fee in full. And our Father gives me everything, and I do mean everything, that by rights belongs to the ONE who paid for my adoption.
I love my older brother. I want to be called by his name.
“What you did reminds me of Jesus.”
“Thank you. He’s my older brother.”
“Jesus loves it when you share.”
“I agree. Did you know he’s my older brother?”
“I seem to be lost. Can you tell me how to get HOME?”
“Sure. Just follow my older brother, Jesus. He’s the Way HOME.”
Question: Are we related?