Letting it go

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Call your brother, don't lose touch. Those were the last words my mother said to me. I remember thinking that day years ago, standing by her bed, "He's my brother. Why on Earth wouldn't I call him?"I didn't know then what I know now. Recently we had a fight, my brother and I.When we were little, we often fought like rabid dogs, just to annoy our mother.This fight was not like that. It occurred a few weeks ago, long distance over the phone, when we're both big enough and old enough to have better sense.Odd, isn't it, how words can do more harm than fists? And the wounds are slower to heal.Actually, at the time, it did not occur to me that we were fighting. I thought we were merely having a civilized, if somewhat heated discussion, in which I tried to enlighten him on what I deemed to be a more intelligent point of view.Meaning, of course, mine. Never mind the bone between us. The short of it is this: I told him I thought he was making a mistake. And he told me what to do with my thoughts.Fine. So we didn't speak for three weeks. He didn't call me. I didn't call him. And in the meantime, he got married.I heard about it from our big sister. She's the one he usually fights with because she tries to tell him what's best for him. She can't help it. She inherited the role from our mother.I'm the one who usually keeps my mouth shut and lets him do as he pleases, because that's all he ever does anyhow.Wouldn't you think he could allow me one time, at least, to honestly have my say?No, when my brother makes up his mind, God and all his angels can't change it.He always was a stubborn little cuss. My mother claimed it was because he was born blind. He had to be bullheaded, she said, just to survive.I begged to differ. Even bulls change their minds on occasion.When we were growing up, he used to wake me up to describe for him the sunrise. If my words didn't fit the image in his head, he'd say, "No, that's not it, try again."I knew he'd been lonely in the three years since he lost his first wife to cancer. I was happy when he told me he had met someone new -- someone who makes him feel the way he thought he'd never feel again.All I said was, before getting married, maybe they ought to know each other longer than a month.Apparently those words did not fit the image in his head.Call your brother, said my mother, don't lose touch.Fine. So yesterday, I called. His new wife answered with a bright, cheery voice. "I've heard all about you!" she said.I welcomed her to the family, wished her all the best and said I looked forward to meeting her.Then, despite my plea just to give him the message, she took the phone to my brother. He was sitting out on the swing where he often goes to think."Hey, sister!" he said, as ever. "It's good to hear from you!"I didn't apologize, exactly. Nor did he. We just agreed to let it go, to let it pass, as he put it, "like water under a bridge."Then he told me all about his brand-new wife and the brand-new happiness they share.My brother will always be a stubborn little cuss. But his need to be happy, and our need to be close, is more important than my need to be right.All of that's to say this: Call your brother -- or sister or any other stubborn cuss you need to call. Let your differences slip away like water under a bridge.Don't wait to be called. Grace never waits. Sometimes being right can be wrong.(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com.)