The Sweet Touch of a Small Hand
Orange flames licked the wooden structure of our home. Black smoke from the blaze spread over the snow, turning its glistening white surface to a dingy, lifeless gray.
Only moments before, my little brother, younger sister, and I had scurried through our routine of preparations for school.
Would we even have school? We pressed our noses against the window, the desire to extend our Christmas vacation burning in our hearts. Thanks to deep snow and sub-zero temperatures, we might get our wish to stay home another day.
The three wood-burning stoves that heated our comfortable home represented warmth and security—until the moment I saw flames and smoke spewing from the confines of the chimney. When I screamed for Mom, she raced into the room. Snapping the telephone receiver from its cradle with one hand, she motioned my sister and me outside with the other. We watched through the door in horror as Mom dropped the telephone and disappeared into billows of black smoke.
Despite her desperation, the searing heat and thick, acrid cloud forced her back. Somewhere on that second floor my five-year-old brother waited, innocent and vulnerable.
Dad had been chopping wood outside when our shrieks of panic focused his attention on the flames that erupted through the roof. The bulky clothing that encased his body, necessary to protect his skin against the below-zero weather, gave him enough protection to charge into the ruthless inferno. Even from where I stood outside, shivering with cold and terror, Dad’s deep voice echoed in my ears as he shouted Bobby’s name.
An eternity passed before Dad appeared with my baby brother cradled in his arms. Blistered, charred skin replaced Bobby’s once pink, soft cheeks. I watched in disbelief as Dad hurled my brother’s blackened body into a snow bank. Was he breathing?
Fire sirens wailed above the crackle of the greedy flames. A fireman asked Mom what she wanted snatched from the relentless flames if anything could be saved. A few moments later, several men maneuvered our huge grand piano out the door and across the frozen ground to safety.
“Where’s Bobby?” Mom wailed, her voice hoarse from the smoke that filled the entire yard. She frantically scoured the snowbanks for any sign of her wounded son.
“We moved him to one of the sheds where he’d be more protected,” a man responded.
Our neighbor, the local grocer, placed Bobby in his vehicle, and Mom accompanied them to the hospital. Before they left, the words I heard provoked more of a chill than the frigid temperatures. “The boy’s not going to make it. He’s too badly hurt.”
Someone grabbed my hand and led me away. Numb with cold and shock, I followed. Once inside the warmth of my neighbor’s house, I took up a vigil at the front window. For hours I sat there, resisting all efforts to pry me from that dreadful scene of devastation next door. Stunned into paralyzed silence, I watched my house burn to the ground.
We spent our first night without a home of our own with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. The two girls were the same age as my sister and me, and the four of us had stuck together through good times and bad. Their attempts to comfort me failed miserably. Two of my family members lay in hospital beds, fighting for their lives.
Dad had escaped serious burns but struggled for every breath due to smoke inhalation. Bobby teetered between life and death. He could croak out a few words, but couldn’t swallow even water. The hospital staff did all they could to ease my brother’s excruciating pain, but burn centers that provided specialized care did not exist then.
After a fitful, restless night, I woke to the sound of my aunt gagging in the bathroom. Was she sick? No, I had seen her stomach reject its contents in the past when something was terribly wrong. Her pale face and the grief in her eyes told me quicker than words that my worst nightmare had come true.
My baby brother was dead.
School that next day passed in a blur of unreality. My teacher hugged me. My classmates stared at me. The kids spoke in low tones, and conversation suspiciously stopped when I drew near. One small whisper spilled into my ears. “We’re not supposed to talk to her about it.”
Everyone in our sparsely populated Wisconsin town attended Bobby’s funeral. We’d lost everything, but neighbors came together and donated the material goods that met our needs. One man even loaned us his house. Kids brought toys and Christmas decorations since the holiday season was still in full swing.
The generosity and love of our small community failed to pierce my hardened heart. My brother’s death had etched a gaping hole in my life. Nothing would ever fill it.
Life resumed its ebb and flow for my family. Dad returned to his job on the lakes as an oarsman. Classes at school continued as if nothing had happened. For me, though, normal ceased to exist. I wrapped myself in a cocoon of anger, resentment, and pain. My ten-year-old heart rejected all the promises I’d been raised to believe about God.
What kind of God would let Bobby die like that? I hurled the bitter words toward heaven in a torrent of hateful protest against God’s injustice. I cried all the time. No explanation answered the question of why my brother had to leave us. Sunday school lessons fell on deaf ears and my faith left me empty inside.
Three months after my brother’s death, as I lay in my bed, hot tears collected in my eyes and streamed down my cheeks onto my pillow. My anger at God seethed in my broken heart. How could you be so mean to take Bobby away? I raged once again. I clenched my fists and stared into the vacant darkness.
Suddenly, a bright glow bathed the room. Gentle as the brush of a bird’s feather, a small hand curled into my palm. The soft, familiar fingers of my little brother intertwined with mine. Countless times in the past I had reached out to him, his small hand nestled in the protective grip of his older sister.
Immediately, I recognized his sweet touch.
“Why are you crying? I’m happy where I am.” Bobby’s words melted my embittered heart. “Everything is okay. Don’t cry for me anymore.”
Warmth settled on the top of my head and traveled the length of my body until it reached clear down to my toes.
I bolted straight up in my bed. Had my sister reached over and taken my hand? I glanced to her side of the room. No. Her back faced me and her even breath indicated that she was asleep.
God does care about me!
I carried that truth with me as I nestled under the covers and fell into the most peaceful sleep I had experienced since that terrible day of the fire.
The next morning, I crept downstairs and greeted Mom in the kitchen. “Mom, Bobby held my hand last night and told me he is okay.”
Would she believe me?
Mom blinked, and a smile spread across her face.
“Sit,” she urged. We settled ourselves at the kitchen table and she took my hand in hers.
“I was also visited last night.” Her eyes shone with joy.
“Bobby talked to you too?” I gasped.
She nodded. “I saw him laughing and playing with a bunch of other kids.” She wiped a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand. “He was running around and having a great time. He told me he was happy and there was nothing to worry about.”
My heart began to mend that day. Years passed before I learned what happened to my sister the same night my brother visited mom and me. Seven years old at the time, she cried out in the night. When Mom checked on her and asked why she was crying, she said, “I saw Bobby.”
Sixty years later, I still bear the scars of loss. The tears flow when I recall the horror of that fateful day. My throat tightens with sorrow when I talk about Bobby. Yet my heart glows with the undeniable knowledge that someday his hand will again nestle in mine.