“I wish you could have met my brother.” I heard these words many times growing up. My mother would smile for a moment as she would say them, then she would turn away as the smile drifted and her memories overwhelmed her countenance. Often realizing that I was observing, a different smile would overtake her, and she would reach down and hug me or ruffle my hair.
Growing up, she would often tell me stories about him and how close they were. From her tales, I gathered that he was quite a character, and some of my mannerisms resembled her sibling’s worldview. She and her younger brother were in the middle of five and were the tightest of the Holbrook children. He was the wild son that had charisma and smarts to get him out of most sticky situations. My mom would watch in awe as he worked his magic and then share the stories with my sister and me years later.
In the sixties, while attending school at Ohio State, he decided to take two quarters off to help pay for college. This move triggered a letter from the U.S. government. He was drafted and left for duty rather than return to college. Quickly he rose in ranks because of his ability to learn foreign languages. His letters home were always uplifting, and often he spoke of returning to civilian life after his time was up. He didn’t mind his service and liked his company but missed his family and looked forward to finishing his degree. He hadn’t met my dad and was also excited to get to know him.
It was a somber day when my grandma called my mom to inform her that her brother had passed. My mom was recently engaged, and she initially listened in disbelief. It wasn’t until the casket had arrived from overseas that she accepted the news. Her grief was crippling, and my parent’s wedding plans seemed inconsequential at this point. Her brother wasn’t at the wedding, but his presence was. He wasn’t there when she announced to her family that she was with child (me). He didn’t ever meet my dad, but my dad knew all about him.
My dad was dealing with a sinking ship, and I believe God gave him an epiphany. If my mother had a boy, I was to be named George Phillip Joseph III. My dad decided to name me after my uncle instead. He believed that my mom could have happier thoughts of hope rather than loss when his name would come up. In a stroke of irony, my dad was thankful not to name me George. He said he always hated the name and dreaded sticking his son with it. The idea worked, and my father’s decision assuaged my mother’s grief.
Douglas Holbrook died in Vietnam, and today we remember those who died in service of our country. I am thankful for the uncle that I knew but never met. I am grateful for the many thousands of others who sacrificed their lives to defend this nation. I am ever indebted to the ultimate cost of the defense of liberty.
firstflite
