I talked a few days ago with Herb, a man who has reached the heights in his occupation and felt the respect of millions. It didn’t surprise me that after the usual courtesies the conversation moved to his brother, who spent most of his working years at Ecumen’s Augustana Homes in Litchfield, Minn, and today is a customer.

As we talked I remembered that somewhere in my wanderings I discovered a working definition of a word that has an appealing sound but is not easy to wrap our arms around. The word is humility, which comes up often in meetings of recovering men and women who have changed their lives from the destructive self-indulgence of an earlier time, and understand their vulnerability. It will come up in a discussion about how we react to success and achieving, and the hazards of pride  and arrogance that sometimes come with it.

And then someone will remind us that genuine humility does not mean thinking less of ourselves, but thinking of ourselves less.

Nearly 20 years ago I wrote a newspaper story whose headline read: “Bishop Proudly Bows to the Fame of his Brother, the Janitor.” The bishop was Herb Chilstrom, then the president of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and therefore the spokesman for 5 million Lutherans, a role which, the story drily noted, is never very easy nor particularly safe. We were friends, and had written a book together.  Herb Chilstrom was and is one of those approachable church hierarchs who talks without pretense and wears well in any setting. He had met with the heads of state on three continents, talked twice with the Pope and somewhere in the midst of all of that was invited to be the grand marshal of the big civic parade in Litchfield, his hometown in Minnesota. He had also dealt with tragedy in the loss of a son to suicide.

His brother, Dave, was born with a brain injury. As kids they played together and loved each other. Every small triumph for Dave was a triumph for Herb. Dave grew up with mental challenges, but none that affected his energy or his bouncing good will. He swept floors in a nursing home. He became a janitor, with a huge smile for every one he met, bringing the sun with him. When Herb the Bishop accepted the parade invitation he asked if his brother could ride beside him. And so he did. The crowds cheered and applauded and somebody yelled, “hey Dave, who’s that white haired guy with you.” And Herb hugged his brother, laughed and wept.

 He told a friend, “I don’t know a greater privilege than sitting next to my brother on a day like this.”

Dave, the retired janitor, lives in Litchfield, still bringing the sun with him everywhere. Herb, the retired bishop, lives in St. Peter and still serves his church whenever it asks.  They are separated by miles, but inseparable.

Ecumen blogger Jim Klobuchar is a former columnist for the Minneapolis Star Tribune, is author of several books and an adventure traveler.