Eight or nine years ago, I was invited to speak at a Memorial Day Ceremony in Nocona. Nocona is the small town where my brother and I were born. I was both honored and humbled by the invitation.
Truth be told, receiving the invitation created some anxiety on my part. I used to have a fear of public speaking. I've pretty much worked through that. However, I had never spoken at a Memorial Day Ceremony before and I had no idea even where to begin. I wanted to get it right.
Ronnie and I were born at Major Clinic Hospital in Nocona. That was longer ago than I care to remember. I know the name of the hospital only because it is written on my birth certificate.
My cousin who lives in Nocona sent me a note a three-or-four days before Memorial Day. She wanted to let me know that an announcement of the event was in the newspaper. Apparently, there wasn't much news to report. The article was on the front page. The headline in bold letters said: "Twin Brother of MIA To Speak…" That raised my anxiety even more.
It's true, my drawing card for the invitation was linked to my brother's story. That made perfect sense. The invitation extended me, provided both a sense of privilege and humility. Yet, it was not just Ronnie's story I was sharing. It was our story.
As twins, the fabric of our lives were so closely interwoven that we shared blended identities. With a tear or two in my eyes, I took seriously the responsibility to get it right.
The top of my Facebook page includes a picture of me and Ronnie along with our younger brother. The picture was taken about the time Ronnie and I started to elementary school. At least, that's my best guess.
Most people probably thought were cute kids when we were little. During adolescence, my twin told me more than once that I was ugly. I always thought that was funny because he was a mirror image. He also playfully added that I was adopted.
It was all a part of the playful banter that went back and forth between us. We were close. We were also competitive. We looked identical, but in many respects, we were as different as night and day.
On 27 December 1972, the playful banter between us stopped. The A-6 Intruder aircraft in which Ronnie was flying left the military base in Nam Phong, Thailand for a night mission over North Vietnam. When the aircraft failed to return to the base at the anticipated hour, efforts were made to locate the downed plane but to no avail. At least that is what the report provided us by the military said. In recent years we learned that no reconnaissance efforts were employed. His status was changed to MIA.
As probably all of you are aware, our family was notified this past December that my brother's remains had been identified. His crash site was excavated in the spring of 2023. I honestly had reached the place that I no longer allowed myself to hope that we'd ever have more information. Receiving the news was clearly an answer to prayers that had been prayed years ago.
So, after 51 years of not knowing if my brother was dead or alive, I finally had confidence that he was more alive than he's ever been because he has been in the presence of Jesus all these years. It was as though a weight I'd been carrying for a very long time was finally lifted.
Yet, even amid a life-long struggle of uncertainty, at no time was I a stranger to God's grace. For over five decades, I experienced and re-experienced every possible range of emotion. Through it all, I never experienced it in isolation.
The promises of God provided comfort and hope.
I was honored to speak at church yesterday in our pastor's absence. The message had to do with the importance of trusting God. The narrative I've just shared is my introduction.
I asked my son-in-law Kevin if he would video the message. I wanted to post it in memory of my brother.
All My Best!
Don
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