This is a slight departure from the shoreline, per se. But some stories just need to be told.

In the past, we would have said the younger of my two younger brothers, Tim, is mentally retarded. In these enlightened times, we’re more likely to say he’s intellectually disadvantaged, synaptically challenged, or something equally nebulous to ensure our political correctness. All such linguistic prestidigitation is merely euphemistic bet-hedging. What we’re trying not to acknowledge is that Tim’s “challenges” make him in some ways more perceptive and in many ways more imaginative than we are. An example:

One evening, after a phone conversation with Tim, I wrote these notes to myself:

Tonight Tim told me he and some friends from his group home were going to Europe for a vacation. At first, I disbelieved him. But when he said they were going to “Spain, Germany, and all those other French countries down there” — and that they would also visit Arkansas — I was ashamed of myself for doubting. This is not a matter of geographic facility. It’s a question of imagination. Tim’s is better than mine. That’s why I’m the writer.

He’s also far more patient, abidingly caring, and capable of tending his convictions without doubt than we are. Someone once told me that the measure of a practical joker is that one need not witness the payoff of his jokes. Likewise, the measure of a sense of karma is that one need not witness the turning of the wheel to know what’s right, to know what deserves constancy. Another example:

Every visit to the house Tim shares with two roommates (under 24/7 supervision) requires a visit to his room. An avid collector of model airplanes, CDs, professional wrestling DVDs, and radio scanners, Tim’s always eager to share his new prize possessions. On one such visit recently, I was looking up at the new planes that hung on fishing line from Tim’s ceiling. Puffs of cotton clouds, also suspended on fishing line, floated among them. Interspersed between the planes and the clouds, glow-in-the-dark stars twinkled in the dimming light of early evening. As I was gazing, Tim said, “What do I do with that?”

I looked down. “That” turned out to be a vinyl, 13-gallon trashcan, filled to the brim with aluminum tabs from soda and beer cans. As I tried to fathom the time and diligence required to amass such a collection, I could only think to ask, “Why did you save all those?”

Tim said, “Frank told me to.”

Frank was a cousin of my mother. He passed away in May of 1996. Apparently, at one of Frank’s traditional Christmas Eve parties, tending bar as he always did, Frank told Tim that if he saved the tabs from aluminum cans, some charitable organization could redeem them and use the funds to help someone. Tim neither forgot nor waivered.

I said, “I have no idea.”

In June, I received a call from a woman at the organization that manages Tim’s living arrangements. She called to ask me, since I’m Tim’s guardian, for permission to give his name to the Shriners of Connecticut because they wanted to write Tim a letter. It seemed that through some connections he’d made, Tim found a way to donate the tabs to the Shriners, who redeemed them and used the proceeds for their Burn Hospital. The Shriners were so moved by how many tabs Tim had collected, at how long he’d stayed his course, they wanted to write him a letter and send him a plaque.

The next time you visit Tim’s room, you’ll see that plaque proudly displayed on his wall. Tim was lucky enough to see the wheel turn. But he didn’t need to. And he won’t need to see it turn again, even though it surely will. While you’re there, you’ll also see that trashcan is nearly full again. And if you believe in karma, you’ll become one of the many friends and family members who now save tabs and send them to Tim from all over the country.

In the midst of all the world’s talk about making a difference, Tim says nothing. He just stays his course. Instant karma? Tim doesn’t need it. In the midst of his ostensible challenges, he’s content with imagination, a full heart, a just reward, and continuing his mission.

Frank told him to.

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