Three Weeks With My Brother Read Free

for the frame, thinking of the sacrifice she’d just made.
    No, she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of me leaving for three weeks. Nor was she thrilled that I wouldn’t be around to help with our five children; instead, she’d shoulder the load while I traveled the world.
    Why then, had she said yes?
    As I’ve said, my wife understands me better than anyone, and knew my urgent desire to go had less to do with the trip itself than spending time with my brother.
    This, then, is a story about brotherhood.
    It’s the story of Micah and me, and the story of our family. It’s a story of tragedy and joy, hope and support. It’s the story of how he and I have matured and changed and taken different paths in life, but somehow grown even closer. It is, in other words, the story of two journeys; one journey that took my brother and me to exotic places around the world, and another, a lifetime in the making, that has led us to become the best of friends.

C HAPTER 1

    M any stories begin with a simple lesson learned, and our family’s story is no exception. For brevity’s sake, I’ll summarize.
    In the beginning, we children were conceived. And the lesson learned—at least according to my Catholic mother—goes like this:
    “Always remember,” she told me, “that no matter what the church tells you, the rhythm method doesn’t work.”
    I looked up at her, twelve years old at the time. “You mean to say that we were all accidents ?”
    “Yep. Each and every one of you.”
    “But good accidents, right?”
    She smiled. “The very best kind.”
    Still, after hearing this story, I wasn’t sure quite what to think. On one hand, it was obvious that my mom didn’t regret having us. On the other hand, it wasn’t good for my ego to think of myself as an accident, or to wonder whether my sudden appearance in the world came about because of one too many glasses of champagne. Still, it did serve to clear things up for me, for I’d always wondered why our parents hadn’t waited before having children. They certainly weren’t ready for us, but then, I’m not exactly sure they’d been ready for marriage either.
    Both my parents were born in 1942, and with World War II in its early stages, both my grandfathers served in the military. My paternal grandfather was a career officer; my dad, Patrick Michael Sparks, spent his childhood moving from one military base to the next, and growing up largely in the care of his mother. He was the oldest of five siblings, highly intelligent, and attended boarding school in England before his acceptance at Creighton University in Omaha, Nebraska. It was there that he met my mom, Jill Emma Marie Thoene.
    Like my dad, my mom was the oldest child in her family. She had three younger brothers and sisters, and was mostly raised in Nebraska where she developed a lifelong love of horses. Her father was an entrepreneur who ran a number of different businesses in the course of his life. When my mom was a teenager, he owned a movie theater in Lyons, a tiny town of a few hundred people nestled just off the highway in the midst of farmland. According to my mom, the theater was part of the reason she’d attended boarding school as well. Supposedly, she’d been sent away because she’d been caught kissing a boy, though when I asked about it, my grandmother adamantly denied it. “Your mother always was a storyteller,” my grandmother informed me. “She used to make up the darnedest things, just to get a reaction from you kids.”
    “So why did you ship her off to boarding school?”
    “Because of all the murders,” my grandmother said. “Lots of young girls were getting killed in Lyons back then.”
    I see.
    Anyway, after boarding school, my mother headed off to Creighton University just like my dad, and I suppose it was the similarities between my parents’ lives that first sparked their interest in each other. Whatever the reason, they began dating as sophomores, and gradually fell in love. They