No one had to remind Benjamin to smile for the camera. He is about as happy as he knows how to be, with his three older brothers, wearing Star Wars pajamas. They are immersed in all things Disney, riding the Matterhorn, and bumper cars, and Star Tours. There were probably loud sounds emitted. Ben got to build a BB Droid, not that I know what that entails. He rubbed elbows with Moana, and Mickey, and a member of the Resistance. 

 

It is the kind of story I could not have predicted, back when I was sorting four loads of laundry while refereeing the escalating conflict in the living room. Really? They took off work, flew across the country to laugh in the best playground ever invented for adults? 

 

Four brothers can mean wrestling with someone who is twenty pounds heavier, not to mention stronger, but not wanting to admit you are scared that he might snap you in half. It can also mean someone has your back if you are being pushed around on the playground. 

 

I loved my brother. He took care of me on long car trips, and let me hang around his cool friends. He didn't send the message that he was embarrassed to have a kid sister, which was a relief. 

 

Some people need to find their own brothers. Men's groups, and barbershop choruses come to mind. There is a group for dads that meets locally, led by the pastoral staff. I am not invited, but there are plenty who show up before breakfast or after work. It meets at both times, fortunately. 

 

The notion that we need to be rugged individualists is losing steam. That empty space makes room for laughing, and screaming, and being scared together.