I just finished reading my brother’s memoir. And let me tell you, it hit me in places I didn’t even know I had tucked away. I’ve written a lot. Read more. Helped coach countless people through writing their stories. But this one? This one brought me to my knees, not because of the words themselves, but because I lived in the shadows of the life behind them. And now, I’ve seen it through my brother’s eyes.
I was the oldest of four boys. The rock. The steady one. The glue. I was the one who kept the family from falling apart, for as long as I could. My brother, the one who wrote the book, was next to the youngest. He was a kid when I left. Still wet behind the ears when I set out to start my ministry, build my own family, and make sense of the mess we came from.
Back then, I didn’t know what was about to come crashing down behind me. I didn’t know the cost of leaving would be so high for the ones I left behind. But I had no choice. Sometimes, you have to get out to survive.
You see, after my mother remarried a man named Steve, a man who quietly stole things from me and sold them behind my back, there came a moment when I knew I had to walk away. There was one betrayal too many, and it became the straw that broke the camel’s back. So I left. Without knowing the wolves were circling my brothers. Without knowing that my leaving would leave them exposed.
Now, reading my brother’s account, I realize the wolves weren’t just circling. They were feeding. And though he writes with grace and restraint, I know the real story is far darker than what he put on those pages. He lived it. He survived it. And the fact that he lived to write about it at all? That’s a miracle.
The part that really got me, the part that shattered my heart and healed it in the same breath, was the story of the family who took him in. At his lowest point, when he was homeless and living in a tent, a family, like something out of a fairytale, welcomed him into their home. No judgment. No pretense. Just love.
That love, that safety, that one act of radical kindness, became the springboard for the man he is today. He didn’t just survive; he rose, experienced a miraculous transformation. He thrived. He created a life, embracing his life’s purpose. A legacy. And I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life.
But as I write this, I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Did I abandon them? Did I leave my brothers to fend for themselves in a warzone I narrowly escaped? At the time, I thought I was doing what I had to do. And maybe I was. But now, I see that our choices don’t just affect us. They echo through generations.
We talk about legacy a lot in my work. But maybe the truest legacy we leave isn’t in the lives we build, but in the stories others will one day tell about us.
And that brings me to another complicated thread in this matrix: my stepfather.
To me, he was “Dad,” a decent man trying to find his way, flawed, human, and capable of both good and not so good. Yes, he gave us stability for a time. Meals at the table. A roof. We were able to maintain the same friends, go to the same school. A few years where life felt almost normal. And for that, I thank him.
Later in life, he and I reconnected. I worked for him. He worked for me. Following that reconnection period, he participated in a deep betrayal against me that I thought I would never forgive, but I did. After 20 years of silence, I chose to let go and open my heart again. And I’m glad I did.
The irony? My brother barely mentions him in his book. And sadly, there’s not much to say about their relationship.
This man, his biological father, the one whose shadow loomed large in my early life, was nearly invisible in the memoir. And yet, in the end, it was my brother and I who sat with him as he passed. Two sons, shaped by different truths, saying goodbye to the same man.
That’s life, isn’t it? Messy. Unscripted. Full of holes and heartbreak and healing.
And here’s the twist: Even though I’m known as a powerful book coach, my brother didn’t ask for my help writing his memoir. He didn’t need to. Like everything else in his life, he carved his own path. And maybe that’s what makes the book so raw. So real. So powerful.
He wrote it courageously, without pretense, without permission.
Just the truth.
I’m telling you this today because I believe we should all be a little more aware of the stories others will one day tell about us. We should live in a way that invites grace into those future retellings. And if you’re brave enough, check out my brother’s book.
You might find pieces of yourself in there. I know I did.
The Boy in the Backyard by Tim Madding
And to my brother, if you’re reading this, I love you. I’m proud of you. And thank you… for surviving. For writing it out. For reminding me that even in the darkest chapters, light can break through.
And to the rest of us? Let’s live lives worth writing about.