James Stephen Davis was born on August 2, 1942.

Eleven years older than me, I used to kid him that he didn’t even know I existed until I was about 18. He swears it isn’t true, but I wouldn’t blame him if it was. By the time I arrived on the planet he was off to the teenage races, and I was, well, a baby.

Gregarious, good looking, and the life of the party, he played baseball, was a cheerleader, collected friends that are with him to this day, joined the cool dude fraternity on campus, and crammed four years of college into five because there was so much extracurricular learning to be had.

He could get away with things no one else could. Like calling our very proper, very short, very ample grandmother “Shorty”. He convinced our rather sophisticated, rather neat, rather stylish mom to crawl on her hands and knees across a large muddy field to flush a flock of geese on a cold and rainy family hunting trip. Which she did. Geese that turned out to be decoys. One time in Europe with his buddies he talked his way out of a ticket for jay-walking by speaking in pig latin, and probably took the policeman out for a beer afterwards.

After college he took off for California and built what would become a lifetime career in the insurance business. It was work that made perfect sense for this big hearted brother of mine. His priorities have been, are, and always will be people. He has a heart for others, and helping them take care of and protect themselves, their health, cars, homes, and families was a perfect way to do that.

He starts every day with coffee, Jesus, and prayer. It is his faith that orders his days and directs his steps. Life has thrown more than a few health curve balls his way, and his continued presence on the planet is not only a a miracle, but a gift to all who know and love him. Loyal as the day is long, ready to laugh at a moment’s notice, and a spirit that is as tender as it is tenacious, he simply will not let life get him down, and he raises the rest of us up in the process.

Ours was a family in which he only remembers the good. Any other way simply doesn’t make sense to him. Who has time for what could have been easier, better, or different? He is a glass-half-full kinda guy, and his gratitude for the life he has splashes over onto anyone in his presence.

BidaWeNestabon. For as long as I can remember, he has talked about this imaginary neighborhood where we will all live together.

BidaWeNestAbon. There is something about that crazy word that says it all. Can’t you just feel it?

BidaWeNestabon. We will abide together, our hearts held close in a nest woven of the sticks and twigs and bits of this and that which make up and hold a family together, come what may. It is a place that is right here, right now, and a place that awaits us on the other side.

Steve, our world and my heart are better because of you. Many Happy Returns.

BidaWeNestabon, forever and always. Amen.