My brother Oliver died of pneumonia in my mother's arms 41 years ago. Bathed him on the bed with a sponge for 32 years, fed him with a spoon for 32 years, and pulled the shade down every morning so that the rising sun did not burn his delicate skin. Oliver swallowed his last breath, and his mother whispered, "Goodbye My angel."

When I was a boy, my job was to give Oliver dinner: a raw egg, baby cereal, sugar, and a mashed banana in a red ceramic bowl. My father received a plum full of plums on Christmas Day. Pudding gift. I never needed a watch because I had an instinctive feeling that it was time to feed Oliver, I never missed it. If I play baseball on the front lawn in summer, or slide down a sled from my neighbor’s mountain in winter, I will suddenly shout: "Go! Go and feed Oliver!" I will give up my position at third base or grab mine. The sled rushed home.

Oliver is blind. Once I suspected that he could not see, thinking he might be pretending, so I sneaked up to him and waved to his face. He never blinks.

Oliver could not speak, read or sing. After many tests, the doctors convinced my parents that Oliver had no intelligence and was unable to learn anything because of his severe brain damage before birth.

My brother has been lying in his bed for 32 years. His bed was against the yellow wall, and my father built a wide revolving door on the other side so that Oliver would not roll out. He has never moved. He rolls back and forth and takes a bath every day. He has never had bedsores.

We never know how the sadness of the past will affect our future. When Oliver was born, my parents were very sad. As the days passed, they became more and more aware of Oliver's pain: unable to lift his head, unable to chew, unable to walk, or grow up to become the President of the United States. So instead, they just chose to call Oliver their son, and they chose to love him.

Because of that single decision, I got a guardian angel, which I didn't realize until many years later.

I like to see how my father gently shaves Oliver and combs his hair. I like to help my sister carry Oliver into the bathtub. I like to put my hand behind his head to support Oliver. I gently touched the edge of the glass to his lips and watched him slowly drink cold milk.

Oliver learned to do two things: raise his bent arms up and down and laugh. that's it. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I can hear his belly laugh echoing in the hall. My grandmother used to say that Oliver was laughing with the angels.

Usually, when I feel tired after a long day, I rub my face and then think of Oliver's deep brown eyes. When I poured a bowl of oatmeal before work in the morning, I often thought of Oliver's red bowl, which I always brought to his room when I was young.

Remember that fascinating movie "Perfect", Melvin played by Jack Nicholson said to the waitress Carol played by Helen Hunt: "You made me want to be a better person"?

Oliver made me a better person. I have been a father, teacher and writer all my life. Through my brother's helplessness, he taught me how to help children in need. Through his silence, he pointed out how to become a poet. Through Oliver's hunger, he showed me like Merlin how to mix life in a red bowl. Oliver is my guardian angel.

Islamic tradition speaks of raqib, the observer, an angel who protects mankind throughout our lives. Buddhist lamas teach that gods are angelic and ethereal beings. They applaud our kindness, rejoice when we are healthy, and rain for us when we struggle throughout our lives.

In Judaism, the angel Lailah protects pregnant women at night and acts as the guardian angel for everyone in their lives, guiding their souls to heaven.

Christians believe that, as Pope Francis said in 2014, “No one walks alone, and none of us thinks he is alone.” He admits that the voice of our guardian angel is always in our hearts and in us. Whispering wisdom and comfort when in distress.

I hope the world can rub the sponge on Oliver's tender skin, feed him from the depths of the red bowl, and give him milk. I hope we can stand at the door of his bedroom together as civilized people at midnight, in these moments of crisis, and hear Oliver's laughter.

On the tombstone of my brother at the Benedictine Abbey in Weston, Vermont, my mother wrote: "Blessed are the pure-hearted, because they will see God." May your guardian angel help you see God, Allah, Buddha, Abraham, Christ. May we all sleep peacefully and laugh at midnight.

George Eliot wrote in her novel Silas Marner: “In the past, angels came to take people’s hands and take them away from the city of destruction. We can’t see whiteness now. Winged angel."

Maybe Oliver can lead us all out of the city of destruction this Christmas. I hope I can take Oliver to Bethlehem, to Mecca, to the Wailing Wall, to the Buddha, to the temples, mosques and churches, and let the world touch Oliver's hands.

Christopher de Vinck's 14th book "Mr. Nicholas" (Mr. Nicholas) has just been published by Paraclete Press, and his book "The Power of the Powerless" by Crossroad Books publishing.

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