On my birthday in 1995, I followed the medical transport that carried my brother Paul to his last home, a hospice for people living with HIV or AIDS. The transport might as well have run over my heart.

He lived at Grace House for four months. In a letter to friends, he wrote, “How am I? I am happier than I’ve ever been. It’s hard to explain, but I love my life now, much more than ever before. I am learning how to receive and (shockingly) how to relax.”

I made dinner there once while he was alive, and then for the next sixteen years—first with my mother, then my husband—I cooked for four residents one Sunday per month.

At first, there were residents that I was happier to see than others.

Paul had embraced everyone and everything at Grace House. While there, he left to see a Minnesota Orchestra concert version of Verdi’s “Ottello” that he called “stupendous.” Days later, I found him side by side with another resident, a biker, watching a country western music show.

“Now I see why Reba McEntire is so popular!” Paul said.

Slowly I realized what Paul had done. He simply loved everyone, musical preferences aside.

It took a while for me to understand that was what I had been called there to do, too. Be open.

“I do not consider myself terminally ill,” my brother wrote, “but I love living here.”

I want others in need to have that.

I want them to heal, body and soul.

I am still working toward having my brother’s open heart.