On Being a Middle Child                                                                     November 10, 2019

 

The newspaper article was about the missing middle child. No, not kidnapped. But if you are an older brother or a younger sister you may wish your middle sibling had been kidnapped. 

 

The article said with most families today settling for only two children, what is missing is the middle child. The middle child learned early to be the peacemaker. He had to relate to both an older sibling, who usually would be bossy and a younger one who he had to help take care of. The middle child has learned how to adapt. They are more flexible to relate to all the rest of the family. Often they are the most outgoing of the children because they have to put effort in getting attention. The older child gets a lot of attention because he is first and the parents are excited about having a child. The youngest gets attention because he is the baby of the family. 

 

That got me thinking about my family  For awhile, I was the middle child.

 

Danny Frank was 18 months older than I was. Jerry Ralph was about four years younger. So, I was stuck in the middle for a few years.

 

Memory is an interesting thing. We have our own memories which have been adjusted by perception, emotion, understanding and other factors. Plus, they may be modified by someone else’s memories. For instance, I start telling a wonderful story about something that happened in our family. Then June would correct me. Now, I know my memory is correct but I also know her memory is correct, also. They can’t both be correct. So, what do I do. I think about it and incorporate her memory into mine. Now that doesn’t make the fish get smaller or the mountain less steep. It just means that there are some adjustments made that are included the next time I tell the tale.

 

Danny Frank was only in my life a few years when I was very young, so I don’t have many clear memories of him. Some I have probably have been modified by stories my mom and dad told about him. So I’ll tell their stories as if they were my memories.

 

Dad’s favorite was about Jerry being born.Danny had been anticipating the event for almost the total nine months. There was not a lot of talk about the birds and the bees back then. So, as carefully as they could to be truthful and circumspect, Mom and Pop sat down and explained that God was going to send a new child to be a part of our family. 

Danny immediately liked the idea. He immediately asked if he was going to have a brother or a sister. 

“We don’t know yet. It will be what God decides.” Pop replied.

 

Danny spent some time thinking about it. He thought how much fun it would be to have another brother so the three of us could play together. But, then, a sister would be fun also and would like different games and activities. Back and forth he went. One day he would announce his hope one way and it would change the next.

 

Until finally he came to the conclusion that another boy around the house would be the best. He told Mom and Pop with such finality it was like he had told the Lord what kind to deliver.

 

“But God has to decide,” Mom said.

 

“I know, but I think he will make me happiest by giving me a brother.” 

 

So it was settled for him.

 

It was while he was at church Danny got the word that the baby had been born. 

 

He was excited that it was a boy. He took off his shirt and swung it around his head as he ran down the left aisle under the stain glass windows yelling, “I’ve got a baby brother.” He continued across the front of the pews by the Lord’s Supper Table, to the other side of the church and back up the right aisle shouting the great news time and again. I can see him very clearly, even hearing his voice. I’m just not sure it is my memory or my dad’s.

 

For Mom, the memory she repeated about Danny was his music ability. The piano we had in our house was the one that Mom had purchased as a teenager. When she got married the piano went with her. 

 

Danny would stand next to the piano as Mom played. At the time he was two or  three years old. She would start playing a hymn and almost immediately he would start to sing the words to it. He didn’t do it for just a few songs but for almost every song she played. 

 

Danny started to church early like I did. I was born on a Sunday and the very next Sunday, Mom took me to church where Dad was pastor and she was pianist. 

 

We didn’t have the cute baby carriers you see everywhere now. Churches did not have well equipped and decorated nurseries. There was no idea of a cry room. If a baby cried, you just stepped outside for a few minutes. There were no trained staff to tenderly and compassionately provide a safe and teachable environment.  So she wrapped a blanket tightly around me and, while she played the piano, I lay on a pallet beside the piano. (Of course, that meant that I was picked up and loved on by every woman in the church.)

 

So it had been with Danny. Before he could walk or talk, he had the music of the hymns planted in his mind. He didn’t hear them just on Sunday but also during the week as Mom loved to play the piano. For her relaxation she would play the piano or the organ. Pop enjoyed her playing and would sing along. The piano bench would hold both and with Danny, it would often be all three. (Not only did we not have television, we didn’t need it.)

 

It is natural for the parents of an older child to have high expectations for him or her. As Mom would repeat these stories she revealed her hope and expectation for Danny becoming a great musician. He would sing along and even pick out some melodies on the piano. (Me? For some reason, the early music didn’t take for me. I think I was laying on the side of my brain that deals with art and music and missed out being a musician, in spite of Mom making me take piano lessons over many years.) 

 

One clear memory that is mine was Danny at church at about seven years old. He was with a young man named Cotton. He liked Cotton, an older teen, who would pick him up and swing him around or give him a piggyback ride, or best yet, toss him onto his shoulders where Danny was taller than anyone at church. 

 

Before the services would start, Danny would run up to Mom and ask, “May I sit with Cotton?”

 

She would never say no so I would watch him walk back, hand-in-hand with Cotton to sit four or five pews back while I had to sit in the front row by myself (middle child syndrome) until Mom finished playing the piano. 

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One Sunday as the invitation was given Danny went forward and took Pop’s hand. I had no idea what was said or why he did it. There was a very happy expression on my Dad’s face as he said something to the congregation about Danny making a profession of faith. Even with his explanation, I didn’t understand. In my heart, I thought, “Maybe someday I’ll get to sit with Cotton and go forward at the invitation.” 

 

A few Sunday evenings later I watched Pop and Danny in the baptistry which had a picture of a waterfall dropping into a mountain stream flowing into the baptistry. Pop covered Danny’s mouth, let him down under the water and baptized him “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” 

 

It was only a few weeks later Danny was not feeling well. Soon his fever shot up and he could hardly breath. The doctor came to the house and said he had pneumonia. With modern medicines it would not have been a problem. The doctors did not have the resources for Danny to survive the high fever and congested lungs. 

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I could not understand the sickness, the concern, and the tears. I saw and heard both parents kneel in prayer, asking God to heal Danny. I listened as they both earnestly sought God's healing.

 

Healing was not in God's plan for our family.

 

I heard Mom cry out with a loud moan. She shed an abundance of tears. Years later, Mom would say that she had not cried since that time. She said, “I shed all the tears I had then.” 

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Pop shed the abundance of tears but without the sobs. The force of the grief was such that he could not talk about Danny for years without choking up.

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The grief was compounded by early events in their marriage. They were anxious to have children however Mom had one miscarriage after another.  Finally Farris Von was born. Their excitement was short lived when he only survived 18 months 

 

There was a short time for grief because Mom soon became pregnant with Danny. All the hopes for Farris were transferred to Danny. Now he was gone also. Now a second child had been taken from them. The sadness was almost unbearable.

 

The wonderful people of the church and the college did their very best to comfort and aid Mom and Pop. People were constantly coming by the house with hugs and tears. Our plaid, oil-cloth table cover could hardly be seen for the many dishes brought in with love. The house smelled of flowers and casseroles. Some visitors talked, verbally expressing their grief. Some were quiet letting tears slowly roll down their cheeks as if the tragedy was beyond words. Some busied themselves with household tasks without even asking. I didn’t understand. I just knew it was sad. 

 

All I really knew was what I was told, “Danny had gone to be with Jesus in heaven. He won’t be with us now. We will get to be with him in heaven someday.” 

 

I’m sure Mom and Dad tried to explain it to me in ways that I might understand but I couldn’t. I don’t think I was sad except for being sad for my parents. I was overwhelmed with what was taking place. 

 

We had to drive diagonal across Arkansas to Browns Chapel Baptist Church outside of Peach Orchard. Leaving Malvern, I turned in the back seat to look out the small rectangle window of our black Chevy. Following us was a long line of cars with their headlights on. These were students and friends and church members, all concerned about us and sharing our grief.

 

As I looked, I thought, “We have a lot of friends. It is good to have friends.” I’m glad I learned that lesson early and have enjoyed having good friends all my life.

 

Browns Chapel was the little church where Mom grew up with her brothers and sisters. It was the church where she became the pianist. It was where Pop showed up to preach one Sunday and took one look at Mom at the piano and said to himself, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” And he did, not long after that.

 

A metal arch lettered with “Browns Chapel Cemetery” stood as an opening to the community graveyard. Through this arch Mom and Pop had entered grieving their first born, Farris Von about eight years before. It was through this arch we followed family members wearing white gloves slowly bearing the small light-grey casket of their second born. I watched as it was slowly lower beside the marker “Farris Von Duffer.”

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I missed having Danny around. I missed being able to play with him. Since we were close in age, we enjoyed the same activities. Yet, I looked up to him as an older brother and had a desire to be like him and to do the things he did.

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While his death had a slight emotional effect on me then, it had a deeper effect later. Mom and Dad continued to talk about Danny and how musical and smart he was. In my mind, I wanted to live up to what Danny might have been. For me, I had moved from middle child to eldest. 

 

My parents never pressured me to be like Danny but it was a desire in my mind to please them and be as good as Danny was. Of course, I couldn’t. I didn’t have the musical ability. I didn’t feel that I was as smart. I didn’t become the center of attention like he had. I never heard my parents compare me to him, but, nonetheless, I made the comparison and I could not measure up to what I thought they believed Danny would have been. 

 

Now as the eldest, I also felt a greater need to watch over my kid brother and take care of him. I didn’t want anything to happen to him that would cause my folks that kind of grief again.

 

I guess instead of needing to pay some psychiatrist enough to buy a Lamborghini to help me know who I am. I can just say that I’m glad I’ve been able throughout my life to sometimes be oldest child and  other times to be the middle. That’s really not bad at all. After all, you can’t let a newspaper tell you who you are! It is much better to just let God lead you and use you regardless of your birth order. You’re special to him.

 

Matthew 5:9 “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God.”