Once upon a time, when cars were
only for rich people and life had fewer commodities than today, there
was a
young eight year old boy named John who, from birth, had lived with crippled
legs and feet. Unable to move about with much liberty, it was the task of his
elder brother Matthew to carry him for half-an-hour to school every day where
they studied together. Whether hot or cold, sunny or rainy, ten year old
Matthew
was always to be found with John on his shoulders.
Along the cobbled country lane which
Matthew strode to bring young John to class, there lived an elderly couple who
watched the two go by their cottage day by day. In summer they would give the
boys cool lemonade to drink and in the winter, a hot potato for them to put in
their trouser pockets so that their legs wouldn’t go numb with the bitter cold
on the way to school. As they left the couple’s cottage, Matthew and John
always remembered to say, “Thank you, sir. Thank you, miss.” Mrs. George was
particularly overwhelmed by their constant thankfulness and jovial spirit. For
her, the boys were like the grandchildren she had never had. “They don’t make
lads like that anymore, Jack,” she said to her husband.
Although the words shared amongst
the boys and the Georges tended to be sparse, on one snowy and dark December
morning, Matthew looked a little downcast. His sniffles and sneezes and watery
eyes showed that he had caught the cold. He blew his nose incessantly and at
times had to let John down off his back to take the hanky out of his hand-held
leather schoolbag.
Needless to say, the boys were
advancing slower than usual. As they passed the old couple’s house, Mr. and
Mrs. George offered the brothers a steaming cup of tea. But that day they had
to refuse. “No thank you, miss. Not today.” School started at quarter-past
seven. They had ten minutes to make a twenty minute journey. There would be
trouble with the professor and trouble back home.
Recalling that cold winter morning,
Mr. George felt compelled to ask Matthew a heart-to-heart question in the
mid-June summer when John had to stay home with a bad dose of fever.
“Why are you alone today, boy?” Mr.
George asked.
“It’s John, sir. He’s sick. He has
to stay with mum. But he’s going to be alright. The doctor says he’ll be as fit
as a fiddle next week,” replied Matthew.
“Boy, I’ve been meaning to ask you
something. You carry your younger brother around on your shoulders all year
round and I’ve never heard you utter so much as a word of complaint. At times,
is the burden not too heavy to carry? Do you ever get tired of having to take
care of him?”
“Sir,” answered Matthew, “John’s not
a burden. John’s my brother.”
“Very well, boy. Off you go, now.
Have a good day at school,” commented Mr. George.
As Matthew marched off into the
distance, tears welled up in old Jack’s eyes. His stoic appearance had been
overcome with floods of compassion and a tight knot in his throat. Mrs. George,
coming from the kitchen, found him with his head bowed in the living room.
“Jack, what is it?” she asked.
“He’s not a burden. He’s my
brother,” replied Mr. George, “He’s not a burden. He’s my brother.”
For some strange reason, Mrs. George
knew understood exactly what old Jack was referring to. She took her
husband’s tear-stained hands to her lips, saying, “Dear, you have never been a
burden for me. And I hope I have never been one for you. Where love is at work,
all burdens disappear and count as nothing.”
Will Graham
