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My brothers Gene and Lester save me all the time. Basically, I have no understanding of motors, electrical wires, or plumbing, but they excel in handyman skills. Both must grimace and mumble when my name shows up on their caller ID.

"What's he messed up this time? The furnace? The air conditioner? Maybe he has tried to fix the low-beam headlight by changing the high-beam bulb again."

The amazing thing about those boys is that, despite my never-ending needs, they answer their phones and talk to me. But, of all those responses, I am particularly grateful for the time Gene saved my life without the aid of wrenches or screwdrivers.

Much like these past weeks, it was a winter of snow and confinement. I was five and Gene was four, and we were more than ready to play outside when permission was finally granted. The winds ceased, the sun came out, and our mom said it was okay to leave the trailer. She did not shove us out the door or tell us not to come back until spring. Instead, she covered the be-careful rules and made sure that we were properly dressed.

To say we were bundled up was an understatement. We wore two pair of pants. Scarves and gloves and buttoned-up coats shielded the cold, and both of us strutted proudly in our dad's boots. We did not have our own; but, even if we had, we would have asked for his. I cannot remember the pair I used, but the tops of Gene's black, rubber boots covered the entire legs of his pants.

The world looked new. The air was crisp and fresh, and everything was covered in white or ice glitter. In over-sized footwear Gene and I waded through the snow and quickly forgot our promises.

We went beyond the boundary lines that had been passionately established. At the far end of the trailer park, possibly fifty yards from home, the non-stop snow and rain had created a temporary lake where mud puddles had formed in the summer. It was deeper in the middle but appeared to be frozen all over. The edge seemed solid enough, and the smooth ice was a slippery delight. We skated as gracefully as two boys ever did with galoshes on. Each successful glide brought a temptation to move farther away from solid ground.

In the center a small log poked through and offered us a bench. I challenged Gene to race there but did not wait for him to be close enough for a fair start. I was twenty feet ahead when I reached the wooden seat and turned to celebrate the victory. In an instance the cheer turned to a choking gurgle as the ice broke, and I plunged into the frigid water.

With arms flailing I surfaced and struggled to hold on to whatever my hands hit. Chunks of ice continued to break, and I went under again and again. When I surfaced, Gene was shouting for help and giving advice. No one heard our screams, but his instructions still echo in my head.

"Flap your arms like a bird." He shouted it over and over and frantically demonstrated in case I had fluid in my ears.

I would guess that the water was a little deeper than I was tall. Because of the furious arm motion and the repeated jumps when my feet hit the bottom, my nose and head rose intermittently above the ice. I made grab after grab for something to hold on to. None too soon, I caught a section of ice that did not break. Gene extended his hand and helped pull my waterlogged body from the freezing fingers that had gripped me so fiercely.

When we were almost to the bank, the ice beneath me cracked again. I lunged forward but did not go under. One of my dad's boots, however, was off my foot and wedged in the hole. We could see the top of it above the ice. Valiantly Gene bent over and tugged as hard as he could. Instead of retrieving it, he lost his balance and plunged part way in. His head and torso were submerged in the water. Only his kicking legs were visible. They moved like he was sprinting even though he was going nowhere.

Somehow I pulled him out, and somehow the boot was in his hand. I put it back on, and we limped home as best as we could.

As our mother pulled off our clothes, we all cried. Her tears were for two boys who had skated on thin ice. Gene and I cried because we thought something was biting us. We did not understand frostbite or the dangers of getting that cold. We thought that fish had swum into our shirts and pants when we went under.

After an eternity in hot water, our wrinkled bodies were allowed to get out of the tub. The sporadic fish bites had ceased, but our ears were just beginning to hurt. They were chewed on long into the night.

God offered our family lot of grace that day, and the warmth of that memory still makes my younger brother larger than life and the cold of winters more bearable.

(Adapted from Nudge Me Gently)