For Alexander John, Who Grew Tall but Never Outgrew My Heart

A tribute to my nephew Alexander John—a gentle giant I helped raise.

I knew you before you grew into your broad shoulders, before the stretcher, the sirens, and the calm hands that now bring strangers back from the edge.

Back when pampers were your armor, and my arms your safest hold. I help fed you, ran races and reset PlayStation battles, because that was the kind of care they asked from me with no warning, no plan, just bags packed overnight and a flight that said, “go help.”

You were a son I hadn’t prayed for, but once I held you, I never wanted to let go. Even when exhaustion pinned my body like a wet towel and kindness in the house was rationed like rice, you were the laugh, the little boy with the soft voice asking me for snacks, for playtime, for attention I barely had left but gave anyway.

I gave all of me. And know, from the first day to now, I do not regret it.

You’ve grown now, the soft is still there beneath the muscle, but so is fire. I’ve seen it, the flash in your eyes when wrong appears. You hold restraint like a man raised by women who knew what it meant to pour strength silently.

When I was broken by someone I trusted, you almost lost your cool for me. But your mother held out to your peace, and you gave it. Not because you were weak, but because you knew strength listens.

Remember when you stood by Tim, not just because he’s your cousin, but because brotherhood was built in laughter, loyalty, and sleepless play. Even when others tried to pull you apart, you chose love with clarity, remembering what your mama taught you: girlfriends don’t outrank family, not unless they’ve earned the title of wife.

You shield your sisters, Katrina, Vinalynn, and Jerae as if you were born into battle for them. I've heard the stories--how you sized up the boys at school with silent warnings, and how you cracked jokes to lift their hearts, but turned into thunder if they were hurt.

We call you the gentle giant, because the same hands that carried toy swords are now the ones calming pulse-racing emergencies, lifting gurneys, and listening with the kind of love that never had to say “I’m here”- because you always were.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading. This piece holds decades of memory and emotion. It’s dedicated to those who’ve cared without question, protected with love, and grown into people their younger selves would be proud of. I welcome your reflections—especially if it reminds you of someone you’ve helped raise or someone who’s stood by you.