Today is my little brother's birthday. He would have been 48 years old. The very last conversation I had with him was about Brett. I'm ashamed to admit that I made some insensitive, disparaging remark about the difficult reality of my yet to be born baby. My words saddened Craig. I remember exactly what he said: "Awwww Laurie. Don't say things like that...don't you know how much we're going to love him?"

But he didn't live to love him. Yet I know that if he had, he would have lavished love on him. Because that's who he was. He loved babies more than any man I've ever known. I love babies too, and I remember fighting once over who should get to hold our newborn niece. How many men do you know who love holding infants? And my Brett is like a giant infant, he still likes to be held and, at almost 10 years old, he's still dependent on us to meet his every need.

There were several occasions Craig thought he was losing me. When I was seven and he was five, there was a big snowfall and we couldn't wait to get out and play in it.  After bundling us up in snow suits, mittens and hats, my mom let us out.

Though it seemed like we'd trekked quite a distance, it was probably only a few houses down. I spotted some ice and decided to slide across it. I broke through the ice and was completely submerged. When I bobbed up, I screamed for Craig to help me. He did his best to try and pull me out, me screaming at him to pull harder and him crying and saying he was pulling his hardest, but he couldn't do it...he needed to get help.

I begged him not to leave me. He ran home sobbing hysterically, saying that I was drowning and that he couldn't help me.  My dad ran out in his bare feet and found me curled up beside the hole I had fallen through. Nothing but a guardian angel could have gotten me out of that water as weighed down as I was with all my snow clothing.

A few years later we were on our snowmobile. Craig and I were both too weak to pull the cord to start it, but we knew how to use a can of ether to get it going. I'm not even sure what ether is, I just knew if we sprayed enough of it, it would start the snowmobile.

I was driving and there were three of us on it. We had our friend's little girl with us. When I tried to slow down to make a turn, the throttle stuck and I froze as we headed straight for a fence at full speed. Craig managed to get off and pull the little girl off with him. But I stayed on and hit the fence full force. I was thrown over the fence and somehow split my head open (these were pre-helmet times).

Again, Craig ran home, sobbing hysterically, saying he couldn't get me, he couldn't save me. Again, my dad came running out to get me, carrying me home while pressing his hand firmly against the gash on my head.

I could fill pages with all the times guardian angels have stepped in and saved me. I managed to smash up everything my parents owned...anything with a motor anyway.

An angel didn't step in and save Craig on that fateful day, but it was a reward for Craig. I believe that with all my heart. Just a few weeks before his accident, Craig told us (eerily enough) that we'd better view his death as an event to be celebrated, because it would be well worth celebrating. He could sincerely say that because he lived believing that "to live is Christ and to die is gain" (Phil. 1:21).

When he was little, he used to sing an old song with his own twist on the words: "When those gates are open wide, I'm gonna shove my butt inside: I'm gonna sing, I'm gonna shout, praise the Lord!"

Those words are so entrenched in my mind that I can't recall the real words to that song. I miss his joyful, loving presence more than I can say, but I choose to be happy for him, because those gates were surely opened wide for him.