I lay in guilty torment that night, worried what was ahead for wicked me. Wracked with anxiety, I feared eternal punishment for all those sins written on my soul. I had repeatedly asked Jesus to forgive me, to wash me whiter than snow, but that was not really sufficient to save me from eternal damnation, adults who knew about these procedures had told me. I must ask forgiveness from my fellow man as well, they instructed.
No one on earth had been more aggrieved by my evil treachery than little brother Steve. I had sat on him, lied to him, cheated him, stolen from him, broken his things and then denied doing it.Regrets hung heavy that dark night. Sleep would not come. My brother lay in the bunk beneath me. It was now or never, damn the embarrassment, I needed relief. So it had to be done. I broke the silence.
"Steve," I said, with great difficulty. "Will you forgive me for all the sins I have ever committed against you?"
A long, awkward silence fell over the dark room, as my brother weighed the unusual proposition. I awaited redemption.
"Ah. Well, I don't know," he finally hedged, apparently enjoying the leverage suddenly handed him by his older brother.
That tore it. I rolled over. I wasn't going to beg. I'd just take my chances in Hell.
-------------
It's 50 years later. The Russians didn't bomb us after all. Evangelicals still preach that the end times are near. The church still bargains with its sacraments. But as I get older, I work hard at reducing risk, increasing comfort.
So, Steve, today's your birthday and you must be feeling pretty generous right about now. Whadda ya say, ol' buddy?
