Chapter 2: Why I Won’t Recommend Fluffy Books (Or the Time my Brother Became a Dad)

Because I’m an avid reader, people often ask me for recommendations about good books. And I’m always slightly flabbergasted when someone asks me to suggest a book that is happy and has nothing upsetting in it. First of all, those books are fluff and I’m incredibly snotty about the books I read and definitely avoid anything remotely fluffy. Second, in my experience, a story is only as good as the conflict within it. Life is not fluff. Life is hard and beautiful and difficult and joyous and terrible and lovely. What engrosses me in a story, fiction or nonfiction, is its ability to grab my heart and help me to glimpse someone else’s experience of this crazy ride we call life. And mostly, I want a story to tell me about love. Not the love that exists in fairy tales or romantic comedies but real, honest-to-goodness love. The kind that makes you literally ache. The kind that reaches into your soul and sometimes leaves you gasping for breath. Those stories get me every time—especially when it’s my own story.

My baby brother became a dad this week. Although my brother is only two and half years younger than I am, I still mostly think he is ten years old. I still enjoy giving him sage advice and telling him what I think he should do. I still get irritated with him at any given moment and tell him he is annoying. He still reminds me that I’m incredibly bossy and that most of our childhood consisted of me making him play games where I made up all the rules. But we’ve come a long way and I consider him to be one of my very best friends. So watching him become a dad this week has been one of the most profound experiences of my life. I could go on and on about my new nephew (who is the most beautiful baby on the planet), and I probably will in many chapters of this very book. But to understand my love for my nephew you must first understand my love for my baby brother (and I will continue to call him that despite him being 31 and a father).

When you are a big sister, you have several jobs. The aforementioned advice-giving and bossiness is certainly part of the deal, but you are also responsible for being a protector. I am fiercely protective of my brother. If someone tried to hurt him, I would be forced to defend him at all costs. If someone told me he was in trouble and I had to walk across hot coals and eat fire to save him, I would do it without asking questions. For me, being a big sister means that he can come to me (and he has) about all the big and small moments of his life. Sometimes it means we have big fights and yell at each other. Other times it means making fun of each other and laughing with each other. And sometimes it means being vulnerable with one another. And that is maybe the hardest part of being a big sister—watching your little brother feel any sort of hurt or pain.

When my nephew was born this week, I cannot express the amount of joy I felt. Not only is he the cutest, but it also brought my family together in this really beautiful way. Everyone was just so happy. And then a really scary thing happened. My sweet nephew had to go to the NICU for tests. Good news—he is perfectly healthy and all is well. Not so good news—it was the longest week of my family’s life. If you know anything about babies going to the neonatal intensive care unit, you know that the doctors and nurses are amazing and take great care of their patients and families. You also know that babies only go there for serious medical concerns. So when my nephew ended up there, I can honestly say I felt a fear I had never experienced before. We did not know if this precious baby was facing something really serious, and even considering that possibility made for several days where breathing was difficult.

When I visited the NICU the first time and saw my brother, he burst into tears, and in that moment the only thing I wanted to do was fix everything. All of it. I wanted to make him okay. Make his baby okay. Make all of it better. And I couldn’t. There was literally nothing I could do but hug him and let him cry. I think my entire family would agree that those days were a wake-up call about how fragile life really is and that the most beautiful moments can also be the most awful. It was a dark time, and yet I’m struck by the light I saw in the midst of it. Watching my brother and his wife support one another and witnessing to the incredible marriage they share was inspiring to me. Seeing my parents do whatever they could for their children and grandson reminded me of their incredible strength and generosity. Experiencing the love and prayers of friends and coworkers reminded me that when life hands the worst, people step up and show immense compassion. Isn’t it amazing that often the darkest time brings the most light?

But perhaps the most light came from my little brother and his wife. Their love for their child and their courage to walk through a scary parenting moment (and on only day 4 of their new parenting gig) reminded me of those stories I love to read. When they cried or shared their fears or held their baby, all I could think of is how messy and beautiful love is. Love at its very core is not rainbows and butterflies and sunshine. It is hard and scary and vulnerable. It means being brave even when you don’t think it’s possible. It means trusting that things will be okay even when it feels like they won’t. It means cherishing the silly and ordinary moments in life so that when the big scary ones come, you don’t feel so afraid. Love is knowing that you can’t make your baby brother’s pain and fear disappear but you can sit quietly with him and offer him hope and care. Love is helpless and daunting and overwhelming. And my God, it’s the most beautiful thing we humans get to experience.

I won’t recommend fluffy, superficial books because I want stories that are real. I want stories about sisters trying to protect their brothers and parents loving their kids in the midst of their fears. I want stories about people who have to work hard at love and who realize that to love someone requires work and energy. I want stories about families that laugh in great times and hold each other when the shit hits the fan. I want stories about life and death and healing and illness and hope and fear. I want these stories because it’s in these stories where loves sneaks in and grabs hold.

My baby brother is a dad. His heart is breaking open in new ways and he will be vulnerable to all the love and pain and joy and fear that being a parent holds. He gets the privilege of walking through life guiding his son to be the best man he can be. And I get to watch him do it. Is that an amazing story or what?