This isn’t a charming, cutesy story; but it is a story that is essential to understanding who my grandmother was at the very center of her heart and soul. My Grandma Jean had a little brother named Bobby. He was a red haired, blue eyed little boy with a congenial disposition. He was referred to as quiet, sweet, intelligent and engaging. Jeannie adored him and he adored her. I believe he was four or five years her junior. As the only survivors of an attempt at a large family they were doted on by their parents, but not spoiled. Theirs was a conservative and Victorian family. Manners meant everything, much value being placed on attentiveness and obedience.

One late winter day Bobby was sledding with his friends. Pittsburgh being a hilly town, many of the streets were blocked off in the winter for the children to use for sledding. The sleds were made of wood with metal tracks kept waxed for speed, able to inflict serious injury if met with flesh. Bobby and a friend had a collision and fell off their sleds, Bobby’s sled cutting him deeply just above the eye. The other boy died quickly from his injuries and Bobby was taken to the hospital for treatment. Back in those days Penicillin wasn’t in use for infection and a staph bacteria developed in Bobby’s wound. After days in the hospital, touch and go, he succumbed to the infection and passed away. This was a complete heartbreak for the family, and being Victorian meant the parents closed their bedroom door, keeping Jeannie out, and mourned for days. This happened to coincide with Jeannie’s big 12th Birthday Party that she had been counting on, leaving her confused, sad and jealous of all the attention Bobby got. She remembers wishing he’d die so that she could have her party. When he cooperated she was sure she was the cause. She still remembered hearing a relative say “Too bad it had to happen to the sweet one”, giving her certainty that everyone wished it had been her. After that happened, and never having her parents acknowledge her loss of her little brother, she took to hitting her head against the bricks of the school building during recess on the playground. She so hated herself for what she’d caused that she wished it had been her that died.

My Grandma Jean told me this account frequently, leaving me with the impression that she’d never really forgiven herself for her evil, selfish thoughts when her brother was dying. She spent the rest of her life sacrificing her own desires for the desires of others. She put her parent’s needs before her own, and even before Grandpa Kirks wishes. She put our demands before her own needs. Grandma embarked from that event on a trip of repentance lasting her whole life. As light hearted and kind as she was, there was always an undertone of inability to forgive that she carried with her. That inability to forgive most likely played a role in bringing her to a place in her life where she became a Christian, turning that burden over to the cross.