The front-facing window of our family room faces East. And not just East, but perfectly East. And so in the mid-morning, before the sun is at its highest point in the sky, its light pours in by the bushel.

That window, over the 6 years we’ve lived in this house, has become a bit of a holy place for me.

Before that window is Riley’s guard post, where he became the sentinel and protector of our family, his watchful eye and bark alarming us of any potential intruders. It is where Robert and Myles both took their first steps, on the worn-in hardwood beneath their wobbly and eager feet. It is our arena of card games, and magical lands we have built with blocks, lego blocks, and action figures.

And most recently, it is the very spot, I believe, that the brotherhood of the Tambe boys was established. It is there that Robert and Myles, 5 and 3, have stood, looking outward, their silhouettes radiant in the morning light.

In the window, side by side, facing easteward into the sun any rivalry they have has siblings is forgotten. All the fighting and the insults. All the screaming and the punches. All the jealousy and differences. All these things, have faded for now.

For now, they both there there, talking, staring out with wonder and inquiry about the comings and goings of the street. They observe and listen, both to the wind in the trees and to each other. Their world, for at least this moment, starts and ends with them and what they see through the threshold of the glass. They are gentle and peaceful, but also with a dynamism of connection between them.

This image of them, little shoulder to littler shoulder, hands up to the sill, noses to the pane, I know, is uneraseable from my memory. To see this is joy, and relief.

They, there, in the frame, convinces me that no matter what happens between them in their lives, no matter what difficulties ebb and flow between them, they can be grounded. They can be a team. Right now, what I see here before this window, is incontrovertible proof that they are bonded for life.

Before this window, they became brothers.

And soon enough, Emmett will be there with them and the fraternity they created, right there at the window, will grow. These three are becoming brothers.

What is most haunting, though, is the realization that one the most likely ways for their bond to be broken is because of me.

Rivalries, I know from education and experience, exist because of competition over common resources. Rival sports team compete for prestige. Rival kingdoms compete for land and power. Rival companies compete for customers. Rival nations compete for position in the international order.

And though I don’t understand their sibling dynamic from my own experience of having a sibling, I understand the one thing they might have to compete for is my love.

It is my duty then, part of my dharma even, to convince them that my love does not need to be fought over, to be won. I need to prove to them that my love need not be a source of their rivalry or a crack in the foundation of their brotherhood.

My love cannot be finite. The pressure on me as their father is to demonstrate beyond and shadow of a doubt, that my love for them is ever-widening and expanding. That it is a deep pool from which they can always draw, never running dry.

I need to make my heart big enough to support their brotherhood. But how? How can I do this in a world where children have lived through mass shootings on two separate campuses? How is this possible?

The secret, I think, maybe the love that is present in small things.

There is love, small love, in waving at a colleague in the hallways instead of letting them pass without acknowledgement, feeling as if they are an outcast. There is small love is in asking and answering “how are you” sincerely and truthfully. There is small love in allowing ourselves to laugh loud enough so others - and our own hearts - can believe that it’s okay to find humor in peculiar places.

There is small love in saying thank you. There is small love writing a little note or giving an unprompted hug. There is small love in remembering someone’s birthday or even just their name. There is small love making a new friend, or in letting yourself become a new friend. There is small love, if we deliberately create it, all around.

It is in these small things, and creating love in these small moments, that we see that love is possible, not just in grand seemingly-cinematic scenes but in every moment. Small love shows that it’s possible to expand our hearts in in every moment.

I think we can do this. Small love is not out of any of our reach. And the prize is immeasurable.

If we create love in small moments we can convince ourselves, our children, and those around us that life doesn’t have to be a game, but that it can be an expansive sort of thing. We can believe that love is a renewable resource, and that it need not be finite.

If I can grow my heart with small acts, I can prove to my sons that my heart is big enough and that my love is a deep enough pool for all of them. I can show them that they do not have to be rivals, they do not have to fight for my love, and that they can be brothers.

This is why I must create moments of small love. So they can be brothers.

And so to for us all, I believe at leastIf we can create enough love, even small love - whether with our families, our colleagues, or our neighbors - we can end this rivalry. And when we squash these beefs that are over nothing but love, can can form genuine and durable bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood. We can be brothers and sisters.