04 July 2009

REBORN ON THE 4TH OF JULY


MY BROTHER CHRIS WAS A ROYAL PAIN when I was growing up. He and his friends taunted me incessantly when I was little, and as the next sibling above me in the Miller food chain, he made sure I knew that he was the boss.

I could go on and on about the childhood traumas: he pushed me in a pile of dog manure; he broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball — and then blamed me; and once, he even poked me in the eye with a stick. When my Mom brought me home from the hospital, Chris tried to tell me how cool I looked with a patch over my eye, to avoid getting in any further trouble.

“You look like a PIRATE,” he exclaimed with all of the thespian might he could muster.

“The patch is WHITE,” I replied angrily. “Have you ever seen a pirate with a WHITE eye patch?”

He just smiled.

Chris knew that his bullying had to end soon, but he persisted for as long as he could. He had an eerie knack for stopping his evil acts just before being caught-in-the-act by mom. By the time she walked around the corner, his little devil-face would magically transform — and his cherubic demeanor would miraculously re-appear.

God, I hated that.

By the time I was 13, however, I was growing — rapidly. I had developed a far more athletic build than Chris, and suddenly, we were the same size.

The era of being the taunted sibling had come to a close.

CHRIS’ LAST ACT OF CHICANERY came on July 4, 1969 when he stole my brand new outfit: a pair of black bell-bottom pants and a new striped pullover shirt. As I prepared to leave for the Independence Day fireworks at Lakewood Park outside of Cleveland, I noticed that my sweet new clothes were missing.

Chris had somehow slipped into my clothes, slipped out of the door and was long gone.

I’m sure I cursed at him under my breath — and I know for certain that I created quite a stir with my Mom about the injustice of it all — but the bottom line was that I would have to leave for the fireworks without my spiffy new outfit. So I stopped by a friend’s house and we began our walk to Lakewood Park a few miles away.

TEENAGE ANGST AND ALL, my friend Robin and I were looking forward to the fireworks. Lakewood had developed into a huge inner-ring suburb and was full of kids — and the 4th of July fireworks were always spectacular. It had been a picturesque day and we were really looking forward to the evening.

When we were about five minutes from Lakewood Park, the sky turned from beautiful sunshine to jet-black — in less than two minutes’ time. Without notice, Robin and I were suddenly caught in the grip of the most furious storm either of us had ever experienced. Make no mistake, we were scared to death. Trees were snapping all around us. Huge tree limbs were being flung with unfathomable force. So much rain drenched us that we were shivering, and the temperature felt like it had dropped by twenty degrees in just a few minutes time.

And then there were the power lines. . .live electrical power lines that buzzed and danced in the flooded streets.

It was the storm that changed everything.

It took about an hour to get home, as Robin and I made our way through a jungle of downed trees and flooded roads in the darkness. Lakewood — and indeed all of Cleveland was without electrical power. We saw dozens of cars smashed by trees, windows blown out of businesses and even a few people injured by flying debris.

When I finally walked in the door, my Mom and Dad gave me the look of joy and relief that only a parent can truly understand. The living room of our humble home was lit by flickering candles, but it was easy to see how grateful my parents were to see me. The transistor radio was on — and was reporting the bad news: 100 mph winds had slammed into Cleveland and Lakewood with brutal force; people had died, including some who had been electrocuted by power lines like the ones Robin and I had dodged. Scores were injured; hundreds were missing on Lake Erie — and the hospitals, all on emergency power, were under a terrible strain.

As I began to recount my saga to my family, the phone rang.

It was Lakewood Hospital—my brother Chris was in the emergency room. My parents rushed to the car and somehow made it to the hospital, despite the trees and the power lines and the flooded streets. When they phoned a few hours later they told us point blank: “Chris is in critical condition — a priest has given him his last rites — and and it doesn’t look like he is going to make it.”

Sobbing uncontrollably, I ran to the darkness of my bedroom and began to pray. . .and pray. . .and pray. “If you let him live, Lord,” I said, “I will never fight with him again. I-WILL-NEVER-FIGHT-WITH-HIM-AGAIN.” I repeated this mantra hundreds of times, begging and pleading and crying all the while.

Over the coming hours and days we learned that a tree that was over four feet in diameter had hit Chris, and discovered that the very same tree that had struck my brother so violently had killed the sister of one of my classmates.

We learned of the heroism of volunteers and emergency workers who risked their own safety to free my brother — who had been trapped in the middle of the tree after it splintered around him. And we learned that once Chris had been freed from the clutches of the tree how the volunteers and ER workers carried him to a makeshift triage in a garage nearby the Park in an attempt to save his life.

Today is the 40th anniversary of that day.

On the 30th Anniversary I drove to Lakewood Park before all of the festivities began — and just sat quietly. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

I told the person on the other end that thirty years prior I had made a promise to God—that if he would spare the life of my brother that I would not fight with him—ever again.

“It’s been thirty years,” I said. “And do you realize that we’ve never had so much as a disagreement?”

On the other end of the phone, my brother Chris sobbed. Since the accident, his life has been one of unbelievable twists and turns — of challenges and faith — and of real-life drama.

But forty years later I am happy to report that God did indeed answer my prayers — on that night when the storm changed everything.

And that’s what the 4th of July means to me.

7 Comments:

Blogger Scott Crawford said...

Thank you, my friend. Happy fourth to you and to Chris and to all the Millers. Thanks for your kindness and gratitude, and your generosity in sharing.

11:48 AM EDT  
Anonymous ZenMommy said...

this is not only touches me to the point of tears (which your writing is getting into the habit of doing...) but your story is so suspensful ~ so well written, it has the makings of a movie or a book of short stories stamped all over it.

so much to learn from the life experiences you and your brother shared in your early lives; how challenge and love and faith have the power to transform us and our relationships. will you do me a favor and give chris an extra hug next time you see him and consider it a hug from me to you as well?

thank you for helping the 4th live in this special way for me this rainy day in st. louis.
blessings,
suzanne

12:03 PM EDT  
Blogger Randal said...

WOW - Love you, WOW - What a reality experience of life. God Bless both of you. Cherish this day always... I remember July 4, 1969 well, all too well.
Randal Miller

6:29 PM EDT  
Blogger Kevin P. Miller said...

There are MANY more comments over at www.KevinMiller.com. Thanks for adding yours!

11:44 PM EDT  
Blogger perpetuawhimsica said...

Kevin. You have one of the craziest lives i have ever read about. I am happy you and your brother have made peace. I am happy that he did survive. A blessed fourth to you and yours.

5:46 PM EDT  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Kevin,
Boy that brings back memories, I still remember catching lightning bugs and you coming in soaking wet, hard to believe so much time has come and passed.
Much Love,
B

11:33 PM EDT  
Anonymous Jeff Grover said...

Honestly, I thought that this story would not have a happy ending. Indeed, it has. We take things for granted. Humans do that sort of thing. That is until we wake up one day and realize that our dear one is gone, or hear news about someone whom we knew who died a valiant death. Yet, where were we? It seems, Kevin, as if your fourth of July was a true independence day, and a chance to gain the freedom of prayer and belief at a younger age than most. The lessons of "if I had only known, or if I had done something perhaps...." came true to you much earlier than most. Pray that the lessons are appreciated and applied by all of us, even some of us who have had the chance to "come of age."

4:47 PM EDT  

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