My Amazing Little Brother

In the spring of my senior year of high school, my youngest brother was born. He was my parents' ninth and final child; I was their first. Out of the nine of us, my father only chose the name for two---his oldest son, named after a priest, and his youngest son, named after St. Anthony. He had been praying to this beloved saint for years and had promised to name a son for him, but the previous three babies had been girls. St. Anthony finally sent his boy.

A week after my little brother was born, my mother was rushed to the hospital. Her lungs were filled with fluid, making it very difficult for her to breathe. The doctors discovered that the mitral valve in her heart was leaking, and she was placed on medication. It sustained her. She would sometimes struggle for a breath, and that often led to panic attacks. But for the most part, her life continued on as normal---well, as normal as the life of a mother with nine kids can be.

Within a few months, Anthony was given the nickname of Piper, a name that we continue to call him to this day. I'm absolutely certain that no baby was ever loved more. He had dark hair and big brown eyes, and his charm only grew more endearing with each passing day. It was a difficult time for my family. My father was burdened with financial struggles, my mother's health was frail and uncertain, and we were all squeezed into a small Cape Cod home in a new town. God knew exactly how much we needed that sweet little boy to bring joy and hope to our lives.

My mom was especially close to her baby. I think she had a sense that her life was fragile, and she clung to him, wanting to give him every ounce of love that she could. The feeling was mutual. He adored her. If the two were in a room together, her lap was his chair...for years and years. Theirs was a special bond borne out of suffering.

When Piper was nine years old, and my firstborn was nine weeks old, our mother died of heart failure. As incredibly difficult as it was to lose her, it was even more painful to watch my youngest siblings lose her, knowing they would have to grow up without a mother's love. We all did what we could for them, but of course, it could never be enough.

There was one particularly painful day for us siblings about a year after my mother had died. That night I lay with my ten-year-old brother as he tried to fall asleep. With innocence and sincerity, Piper said to me, "I'm glad that Mom died when she did, because now she is in Heaven and she doesn't have to suffer anymore. It's better for her." And I prayed, "Oh Lord, give me the faith and wisdom of this amazing little boy."

When I learned that the mother of Pope John Paul II had died when he himself was nine years old, it gave me hope for my brother. I asked our Holy Father to watch over and intercede for him, and I prayed that Mary would become a mother for him, as she had for Karol Wojtyla. If God could mold this saintly man out of such tragic loss, surely He could take care of our Anthony.

High school hit Piper hard. Searching for relief from the deep wounds of his childhood, he began to self-destruct and tried to escape from his life. Honestly, I'm not sure the extent of his behavior, but suffice it to say, it was definitely not good. His relationship with our father and stepmother was distant at best and hostile at worst. As he watched each of his siblings leave home to begin a new life, I'm sure it intensified his feelings of abandonment. He was traveling a downward spiral.

We watched and suffered helplessly and prayed with all of our might. Amazingly, throughout it all, he faithfully went to Mass and Confession. He did not give up on God.

And God did not give up on him.

Two days ago my beautiful brother sat at the center of our Thanksgiving table, across from my father and stepmother. He kept the children, all sitting at one end of the table, involved in the conversation with the adults, all sitting at the other end of the table. He was the bridge between generations. My dark haired, brown-eyed baby brother was charming and thoughtful and witty and kind. In two weeks, he will graduate from Ohio State with a bachelor's degree in a double major that he designed himself. For the past five years, he has worked full-time to pay his way through college. Although he is unsure of the specifics of his future, he is hopeful and confident.

So am I. And oh so grateful.

For great is His steadfast love toward us;
and the faithfulness of the LORD endures for ever.
Praise the LORD!
Psalm 117:2