The
first time I met my younger cousin, Rob Castor, he rushed up to the table
where my aunt had made breakfast for my dad and me . . . and, with a
big toddler grin, unleashed a spit-laden raspberry all over my toast.
He
ran off giggling, his plastic pants a blur.
Over
the ensuing 50-plus years, my contacts with Rob were better. Along
with his three younger brothers, they were the closest thing I had to
male siblings.
The
fun-loving kid grew into a sometimes wild, partying teen and young
man. He always had a smile, laughed at everything, seemed to love
everyone.
No
judgment from Rob, who was all too aware of his own foibles.
Like
many on the maternal, Scots-Irish side of my family, he had a weakness for, and
lifetime struggle with addictive behavior. It was a gene I, too, have
had to fight.
Alcohol.
Tobacco. Drugs. Food. Whatever would fill the gnawing hunger inside.
Rob
paid a heavy price, his health suffering as he grew older.
His
56th year, this year, would be his last. Just a
couple weeks after we had a wonderful, upbeat talk on the phone, he suddenly
passed away.
We had talked about growing up in our strange clan, the
good times, some of the bad. He was considering weight loss surgery,
something I had gone through a few years back. He was optimistic, motivated.
I
encouraged him. He shared his rekindled Christian faith with me.
He
never had the surgery. They say a complete renal shutdown did him in.
The
last thing I remember, now, is his laughter, and concern for my
parents. "I love them so much!" he said. "I'm praying for them."
Rob
died young. But he did not leave us before learning, and practicing, a lesson — perhaps The Lesson — many of us never embrace:
Loving and accepting each other, flaws and
all, is what it's all about.
I'm
proud of that about my cousin. And
in that love of life and others, without judging them, he will always
be my mentor.
God
bless, cuz.
I'll
see you again, soon enough.
I'll
just listen for that deep belly laugh, step into the Light and give you a bear hug.
