Touching Another’s Soul Part 7

August 17, 2026

Between my brother Trevor and me, he was always the athlete.

He played tennis exceptionally well, and although we both played golf, his ability far exceeded anything I could manage. I, on the other hand, had always been the artist. From grammar school onward, I drew, painted, and made mosaics. During graduate school, I earned extra money by going from house to house, sketching the exteriors of people’s homes. Even now, I still love to draw.

Our mother was a gifted artist. She painted beautifully and came from a family of watercolorists in England. Her portraits of people and animals were especially fine. Her artistic gift seemed to flow naturally through our family, though for many years I assumed it had flowed primarily through me.

After my son Ben died, I entered a darkness for which there are no adequate words. Grief can hollow out a life. It can steal joy, energy, meaning, and sometimes even one’s sense of reality. The world continues moving, but the grieving person often feels left behind, stranded in a place no one else can fully see.

During that time, Trevor came from his home in Tennessee to spend a few days with us. For much of that visit, it was simply the two of us, as it had been when we were boys growing up in Mobile. We did not need to fill every silence. His presence itself was a gift. He had come not to fix my grief, explain it, or lead me out of it. He had come to be with me in it.

I could weep with Trevor, and he understood. More than that, he wept with me. At one point he said, “I have a present for you.”

“You didn’t need to bring me anything,” I told him. “You have already given me the best gift possible. You are here.”

“No,” he said. “I really do have something. I’ve been working on it for a while. It was meant for you, and I brought it with me.”

He explained that he had taken watercolor lessons and had painted a picture from a photograph of the old lighthouse in Mobile Bay.

I could hardly believe it. Trevor had always been active, athletic, and on the go. I could not easily imagine him sitting still long enough to take painting lessons. But our mother’s artistic gift had appeared in his beautiful daughters, and Trevor reasoned that perhaps it had not entirely passed him by.

So, he tried. I unwrapped a thin, wide package, and there before me was a remarkably beautiful watercolor of the lighthouse.

The painting moved me deeply. It was not merely an object he had purchased. It carried his time, his patience, his vulnerability, and his willingness to enter a world that had once seemed to belong more naturally to me. In giving me the painting, he had given me something of himself.

The lighthouse was an especially fitting image. It stood in the waters of our childhood, rooted in Mobile Bay, shining across distance and darkness. Perhaps that is what Trevor was doing for me during those days. He could not remove the storm of grief or calm the sea of loss, but he could stand near me and offer a small, steady light.

Yet even the watercolor was not the greatest gift he gave me. The greatest gift was his tears. There are times when touching another person’s soul requires no wisdom, no explanation, and no carefully chosen words. It requires only the courage to remain present before suffering and to allow another person’s grief to enter our own heart.

Trevor did not stand outside my sorrow. He stepped into it with me. His tears said, “Ben mattered; I loved him too.” They said, “Your pain is real.” They said, “You do not have to bear this alone.”

That is how souls are sometimes touched—not through answers, but through presence; not through strength alone, but through shared vulnerability; not by taking away another person’s grief, but by being willing to weep beside them.

My brother gave me a beautiful painting, and I treasure it still. But the gift that reached the deepest place within me was the gift of himself—his presence, his compassion, and his tears. For his sacred gifts, I will always be grateful.

Prayer

Dear God,

For the amazing man who is my brother, I give you thanks.

Amen