familia, generation III

Abby: My only sister who “took all the guinea pig shots” before me. Yep, it’s true. My sister is the second best mother I know. I just sort of stand in amazement at what she does. Her and her husband, Jason, have five children—all of which are ages 8 and under, and I don’t know how she manages all of it. She’s a woman of incredible order and grace. She’s talented creatively and artistically far beyond what she would ever admit to, but that is her way—never drawing too much attention to herself. She moves with compassion, helping others in any way, at any time. Her opinions aren’t loud and forceful; they’re internal, strong convictions that hold through life’s changes. She’s a fighter, too. She’s been in battles where she didn’t know if she was going to make it giving birth to her twin sons, and faces less life-threatening battles of raising children every day. Her sense of humor is priceless and I love watching her laugh really, really hard when we all get together for unofficial story time at the Thanksgiving or Christmas table. She’s the best sister I know, and I’ve learned a lot from watching the way she lives her daily life.

Jason: Being my brother-in-law, I know him the least. But all I need to see is how he takes care of my sister to know his character. Jason is a man of incredible intelligence. He supports his family of seven and has gone back to school and obtained a Master’s degree while raising a family. His hard work is evidenced in the work ethic his kids are already starting to have. His natural talents and abilities in the world of business and finance are something that I respect greatly. He’s a quiet but strong leader for his entire family.

Bill: My only big brother. For most of my early years as a young tomboy, I wanted to be a lot like my older brother. God gifted him with great athletic abilities since he was young, and as soon as I found out that I had athletic abilities as well, I sort of followed him. I remember trekking along in my baseball hats with my dad to all his summer little league games, learning how to keep track of the score at wrestling matches, and fall football soon became one of my favorite sports to watch. I admired him because he was tough, he was a fighter like many of the Ties men before him. He always gave everything he had to what he was involved in, whether in a game, a classroom, or singing in choir. He’s also been gifted with a lot of intelligence. He understands things that I don’t about business and politics and he has a knack for speaking clearly yet persuasively on just about any subject. What I love about him is that he’s such a big, tough guy on the outside, but he’s got a heart of gold-a big teddy bear if you will. He’s compassionate, and he’s a giver, the guy with the story that our family will laugh about until we cry. He’s a big brother in every sense, looking out for me and surely telling me if I’m doing something stupid. I’ve learned a lot from my older brother and am proud of him.

Bo: My little brother. Whenever I talk about my “little brother” people typically wonder how old he is. Then they take a look at his beard and are even more surprised that he’s only 21 months younger than I am. My little brother is a great guy. He is so gentle. There is a great story that illustrates the differences in our personalities that I’ve told to my friends, and it goes something like this. One day when we were young, maybe 8 and 6 or something like that, we were playing in Bo’s bedroom. We started arguing about something and soon enough we started pushing each other and I pushed him right off the bed. He proceeded to hit the wall, fall on a lamp, rip the cord out of the wall, and the hot prongs seared a mark into his skin his side right below his ribs. Very quickly we were summoned by my dad’s voice upstairs. Walking together up the stairs, I was brainstorming all of the ways I could blame it on Bo, and before my dad even started talking, I was giving him reason upon reason as to why I wasn’t guilty. I think I got off the hook. All I remember is Bo sitting there silently while my dad talked, and after we walked back down to his room to play he said really earnestly, “I shouldn’t have made you mad.” He apologized even though it was completely my fault. I’ll never forget it. He’s pretty humble. He’s also a beyond- amazing musician, and I’ve always loved that in him, even in the younger days when I probably said some mean things about piano just because I was jealous I couldn’t do it. He used to have this (what we considered) really cool modern piano book with the likes of Sarah McLachlan, Alanis Morrisette, Celine Dion, and Elton John. I would beg him to play those songs over and over so I could stand there singing, feeling like a rock star. His joy in the whole gig was the Celine Dion song where there was a note that was ridiculously high. He would start smirking on the chords leading up to it, and I would try to hit the note nonetheless, and every time it was met with my shrieking and cracking voice. I couldn’t hit that note if my life depended on it. Then we would fall to pieces laughing. Only my little brother would know the significance of Dutch Apple Dessert, Worth Light Cigarettes, the Purple Poking Ghost, and how the leg jumps with every move in Super Mario Brothers. He’s a young man with quiet, but strong passions that I believe are going to get bigger and louder. He’s consistent—the first one who helped me get my head on straight when I got robbed—because he looks out for me. He’s a great little brother and I’m proud of him.