LIGHT THE WAY

My brother and I have always had one of those relationships that doesn’t need much explaining.

We’ve never been overly affectionate people. We don’t constantly say “I love you.” We aren’t the kind of siblings who hug every time we walk into a room. We don’t need to.

We just know.

And honestly, it’s always been kind of hilarious.

There are times when we’re all together—family dinner, Sunday meals, kids arguing, chaos and laughter in the background. And when it was time for me to leave, I’d say goodbye.

I’d tell my sister I loved her.

I’d tell my son I loved him.

I’d tell whoever else was there, “Love you, see you soon.”

Then I’d look at my brother and say, “Alright, I’m leaving.”

And he’d respond like a man who had already mentally left the conversation ten minutes ago:

“Okay.”

So I’d say:

“I love you.”

And he’d say:

“Okay.”

And every single time, it made me laugh.

Because it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant.

It was just us.

Love without performance. Loyalty without constant reassurance. Family without conditions.

And it reminded me of something scripture has always quietly confirmed:

Because love doesn’t always show up in poetry.

Sometimes it shows up in presence.

Recently, I went through something hard.

Not the kind of hard you post about.

Not the kind of hard you casually mention.

The kind of hard that changes you. The kind of hard that forces you to sit with yourself in silence just to survive it.

And if you’re anything like me, you don’t always talk right away. You don’t always know how to explain what happened until you’ve processed it, sorted it, survived it, and prayed your way through the fog.

I held it in.

Not because I didn’t have people.

But because I needed time to make sense of what I was carrying.

Eventually, I finally told my sister.

And she listened the way sisters do—like a witness to your life, like someone who has known your heart since before you even knew how to name it.

After I told her, she said something simple:

“You should tell our brother.”

And I laughed a little, because… our brother?

She said,

“He might not have much to say. But he’ll understand.”

And she was right.

Because sometimes the people who love you the most don’t give you a speech.

They just make room for your truth.

So I told him.

I told him what happened. I told him what I had been carrying. I told him what I hadn’t said out loud to almost anyone.

And he did exactly what my sister predicted.

He listened quietly.

No dramatic reaction.

No long conversation.

No emotional monologue.

Just stillness. Attention. Presence.

Then, at the end of it, I said:

“You’re the second person I’ve told. Our sister was the first. And she told me I should talk to you.”

And I added,

“She said you probably wouldn’t say much, but you’d understand.”

And my brother just laughed.

That same laugh we’ve always shared.

That laugh that says, yeah… you know me.

And in that moment, I realized how rare it is to have a family connection like that.

A connection where you don’t have to prove your pain.

A connection where your silence is safe.

A connection where you can fall apart without being judged.

And it reminded me of scripture again:

A brother is born for adversity.

Not for convenience.

Not for surface-level family gatherings.

But for the moments when you’re hanging on by a thread.

After everything I shared, after everything he listened to, after everything he absorbed without needing to “fix” it…

He looked at me and asked something that caught me off guard.

He said:

“Do you need a hug?”

And I froze.

Because that’s not our language.

And I said:

“Do you want to give me a hug?”

And he said:

“Do you want me to give you a hug?”

And then we both just sat there, awkwardly, like two emotionally constipated adults who love each other deeply but don’t know how to translate it into physical affection.

And I didn’t hug him.

And the second he left… I regretted it.

Because hugs don’t always come back around.

Moments like that aren’t guaranteed.

And even though I know he loves me…

Even though I know I love him…

Even though we’ve spent our entire lives proving it through loyalty and presence…

I realized something:

Sometimes love still deserves to be expressed out loud.

Not because it’s required.

But because it’s a gift.

Because tomorrow is not promised.

Because there are people we assume will always be there…

until one day they’re not.

Scripture warns us of that reality more than we like to admit:

A mist.

A breath.

A blink.

That’s all this is.

A few days later, I texted him.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is follow up when your pride wants you to pretend you didn’t feel anything.

I said:

“I regret not hugging you when I had the chance. When I see you next, can I hug you?”

He said:

“sure.”

And even though he didn’t respond with a dramatic paragraph…

I know my brother.

I know what his silence means.

I know what his “okay” means.

And I know it matters.

Because love isn’t measured by how emotional someone sounds.

Love is measured by how safe you feel around them.

And I’m thankful—deeply thankful—that my brother and my sister are the kind of people who hold space instead of demanding explanations.

Some people carry burdens with hugs.

Some carry burdens with silence.

But the point is…

They carry them.

If you have someone you love—someone who has shown up for you quietly, consistently, faithfully…

Don’t let the moment pass.

Hug them.

Text them.

Say the thing.

Even if it feels awkward.

Even if it feels unnecessary.

Even if your relationship has never worked that way before.

Because love doesn’t always need words…

but sometimes words are holy.

Sometimes hugs are healing.

Sometimes the smallest gesture becomes the moment someone remembers forever.

And maybe that’s why scripture tells us:

Encouragement isn’t always a speech.

Sometimes encouragement is simply making someone feel seen.

This is your reminder today:

Don’t assume people know. Show them anyway.

If you have someone in your life who has held you down through adversity—quietly, consistently, faithfully—reach out.

Even if your love language is silence.

Even if your affection feels clumsy.

Even if you’re not used to it.

Because you never know when your next chance will come.

God,

Thank You for the people You place in our lives who love us in ways that don’t always look traditional, but are steady and true.

Thank You for siblings, family, and friends who don’t need the perfect words to show up with the right heart.

Lord, help me to never take love for granted.

Help me not to be so guarded that I miss the moments You are offering me—moments that could heal me, soften me, and remind me that I’m not alone.

Teach me to express love while I still have time.

Give me the courage to hug the people who matter, to say the words I’ve been holding back, and to choose connection over pride.

Let my relationships be protected by Your hand.

And let my family be strengthened in unity, forgiveness, and peace.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

Some love doesn’t show up in long speeches.

Sometimes it shows up in a quiet laugh.

Sometimes it shows up in an “okay.”

Sometimes it shows up in a hug that almost happened.

But the lesson is this:

Don’t miss your moment.

If you love someone… hold them while you can.

Because life moves fast, and we don’t always get a second chance to say what we meant to say.

Or to hug who we meant to hug.

In solidarity,
Lyndsay LaBrier
Merchant Ship Collective – Light the Way