Unspoken Goodbye: A Sibling’s Tribute

You deserved better.
More love.
More light.
More time.

The world wasn’t always kind to you.
I see that more clearly now than I wish I did.

I didn’t know it then but that call would mark me forever.
When the phone rings at night, my spirit flinches.

The road blurred through tears.
I kept pleading with God,
Why?! Why have you taken a third time?!
How much more can one heart hold?

It had only been three years since Mum left.
Only a year since Ivan.
And now, my baby brother.

This one cut different.

You weren’t just my brother.
You were my constant from the start.
My first best frenemy and partner in crime.

We weren’t the affectionate type.
If anything, we were “boys” and I just happened to wear a skirt.
We’d start off playing and somehow end in chaos
with one of us crying
or the other chasing with a knife.

It wasn’t graceful, but it was us.
Wild. Messy. Loyal in ways only siblings understand.

I remember the time I dropped a full tray of plates and tea.
Everything shattered.
You took the blame just because you were nearby.

In a household where “spare the rod” was gospel,
that wasn’t small.
That was love
loud and quiet all at once.

When I was overwhelmed with work,
you’d help out by sending my emails,
lightening my load.
When I was wedding planning,
stressed and needing my invites sealed with wax stamps before the day ended.
I asked you for help.
You said yes without hesitation.

But when I came back, I got frustrated
it wasn’t to the standard I had in my head.
Still, you didn’t get annoyed.
You just shrugged, tried again, and kept going.
That was you
steady, willing, unfazed by my antics.

When Jen came into your life,
you somehow started offloading your errands onto her too.
Poor girl.
I’d walk into the house and find her cleaning or doing things
I had told you to do.
To this day, I don’t know how you managed it,
but it makes me laugh every time I think about it.

She never complained either.
Just quietly loved you by stepping in.

I often think about how much of my story you’re tied into,
even the parts you probably never meant to shape.

You were the reason Ivan and I started talking properly.
You’d had a disagreement with Matt and went missing for a few hours.
We were all worried, driving the streets looking for you.
I messaged Ivan.
He was more your friend than mine at the time and he helped us search.

When we finally found you, I messaged him to let him know.
We were back home when he called me straight away.

That phone call changed everything.
I haven’t met anyone who could make me laugh the way I laughed that night.
And it all started because of you.

Losing a sibling isn’t like losing a parent,
who holds your foundation.
It’s not like losing a partner,
who holds your future.

It’s losing someone who holds pieces of you
that no one else does.
The ones who remember who you were
before the world told you who to be.
The ones who know your story
from the inside out.

In the weeks that followed your passing,
I wept until even the tears felt tired.
I prayed and pleaded for peace.
I asked God,
Please tell me, Simon’s ok.
Give me assurance he’s found rest.

And in His quiet mercy, He answered.
Not through my own dream,
but through Dad and Jen.

Both of them, on separate nights, dreamed of you.
You were smiling.
Calm. At peace.
You said you were with Mum.

And in one of those dreams, you said my name.
Before the moment faded, you said,
“Fea Nancy? Alofa ia Nancy.”
(Where’s Nancy? Love to Nancy.)

I didn’t dream up those visions.
I asked God for a sign,
and He surprised me,
using Dad and Jen’s dreams to bring me peace.

That’s how I know you’re safe now.
That’s how I know you’re home.

For the ones learning that love doesn’t end where life does

I know some of us have found it hard to be around family lately, maybe even friends.
When someone we love is gone
and the world keeps moving like nothing happened, it can feel unbearable.

You look around and think,
Does no one remember?
Why does it feel like I’m the only one still carrying him?

If that’s you, I want you to know:
Simon hasn’t been forgotten.
Not by God.
Not by me.
Not by the ones who truly loved him.

May I speak something soft over you?

You don’t have to hold all of it by yourself.
You don’t have to live in grief to honour the depth of your love.
Grief may have shaped you but it doesn’t have to house you.
Love doesn’t disappear when you let yourself breathe again.
Grief doesn’t lose meaning when joy returns.

Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting him.
It means letting God hold the parts of him we can’t anymore.

It means trusting that the love we shared with Simon hasn’t ended.
It’s just found a new way to exist.
In memories.
In laughter.
In the way we carry one another forward.

Simon didn’t need a platform to make an impact.
He touched lives in garages,
in conversations,
in quiet one-on-ones.
He knew the Word,
He reflected the faith quietly.
That’s the part that still humbles me.
Heaven saw what was overlooked.
And the ones he helped lead to faith will never forget it.

He is fully known.
Fully loved.
Fully whole.

To Jen

Thank you for loving my brother in ways that brought him joy.
For all the unseen ways you stood by him, especially when it wasn’t easy.
For showing up.

I know this grief has cut deep for you too.
You carried part of his heart.
And your dream brought me peace in a moment I desperately needed it.
It reminded me that God speaks through whomever He chooses
and in that moment,
He chose you.

Some people may mistake your strength for moving on.
But only those who’ve been there know,
it’s not moving on, it’s surviving.
Behind the camera, behind the smiles,
you’re still learning how to breathe,
how to function in a world that keeps going without him.

I see that.
I see you.
And I’ll always be here for you.

You may not have had a ring,
but to us, you’ll always be family.
We honour the love you shared,
and one day, should you choose (and the Lord allow) for love to visit your address,
our love for you will remain.
Nothing changes that.

The weight of losing him lives in many of us.
But I know he would’ve wanted you to live fully.
To laugh again.
To breathe again.
To love again.

And when the grief rises without warning (as it does),
I hope you feel the comfort of knowing
that Simon is held by the One who never lets go,
just as He holds you now.

To my brothers

Thank you for carrying this loss with me.
We may grieve differently, but I see you.
I love you.
And I’m proud of how we keep showing up
for Simon
and for each other.

Even in our silence,
even in the sting,
we’ve never stopped being a team.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain,
for the old order of things has passed away.”
— Revelation 21:4

Rest well, my dear brother.
One day, I’ll cash in that bear hug.
Until then,
I miss you deeply
with a love that never learned how to say goodbye.

A Prayer for the Grieving

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

If you’re reading this while carrying your own grief,
whether for a sibling, a parent, a partner, or a friend,
this is for you.

Heavenly Father
For every heart weighed down by loss, be near.
For every soul aching with questions, be gentle.
Wrap them in a comfort only You can give.

When memories rise and sorrow feels too heavy,
let Your peace rise higher.
Whisper reminders that love doesn’t end with goodbye.
And that You are always near to the brokenhearted.

In the quiet moments, be our peace.
In the heavy ones, our strength.
And when loneliness creeps in, remind us
we are not alone.

In Jesus name, Amen.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for holding space with me.
Loss can feel isolating,
but I hope this reminds you that your pain isn’t invisible.
That healing comes in slow, surprising ways.
That the God who met me in grief can meet you too,
even if you’re unsure how to ask.

Wherever you are in your journey:
in the quiet missing,
in the unexpected wave,
in the trying-to-hold-it-together,
I pray peace finds you.

And if nothing else,
may these words help carry your heart,
even for a moment.

With love,
Nancy