A story about a brother who took the blame.
We were four. My oldest brother, Albert, was born on my Daddy’s birthday. Then came Jeffery, then Julie (me), and finally, Shannon, the baby, was born. In those days, four was a big family. We lived on three acres in Watson, Louisiana, surrounded by trees, canals, hunting dogs and love.
In those days, Mama hollered out the back door for dinner time and we kids walked together to the store to get our Popsicle. Neighbors spanked naughty children if they needed it. Real disobedience was dealt with by the closest adult and again by Mama and Daddy.
My father lined us all up, belt in hand, to find out who committed an offense. I do not remember what the misdeed was. I just remember that there was a guilty party. It was me.
Daddy was determined. Someone had to be punished. Someone was going to admit it and get it or everyone was going to get it. The guilty child was commanded to step forward and get the belt.
Long scary wait.
Then an amazing thing happened. My oldest brother, Albert, stepped forward. My mouth dropped open. I was guilty but I never spoke. I was too afraid of the punishment. My brother never said a word but he took the whipping.
He never said a word but we both knew he was not guilty. He never said a word during or after about the offense or the whipping. He did not try to get out of that punishment. Instead he took it for me without ever rebuking me though he and I both knew I was guilty.
Wow. Is it any wonder I accepted Jesus as my Savior when they explained to me what he did? I understood what they were saying. He took my punishment and he never said a word.
Thanks, Albert. You were a good big brother then, You are a good big brother now. Love, Julie
Now all[a] these things happened to them as examples, and they were written for our admonition, upon whom the ends of the ages have come. 1 Corinthians 10:11