When the Smartest Person I Knew Went Silent: A Brother’s Testimony After Veteran Suicide
Surviving sibling loss, holding on to faith, and learning to breathe again after October 28, 2020
(Disclaimer: there were many held back tears while typing this article)
Here’s the truth…I’ve been putting this off for a while.
It’s been sitting in my drafts for 4 months. Why? I don’t want to bring up the memories again.
But, grief is random. It comes when you least expect it. Especially at times when you want it to go away. And, writing seems to be a healthy outlet for me.
It was just a random Wednesday night. Nothing out of the ordinary. I didn’t expect my world to be flipped upside down….but it did. A memory that will always stick with me. A hole in my heart that will never mend. What am I talking about?
Sibling Loss. But not just sibling loss. Suicide loss.
There’s no polite way to talk about losing a sibling to suicide—especially when that sibling is the one you always thought would outlive everybody because he just knew stuff. My brother Brian wasn’t just smart; the man was basically a walking Google search bar. Ask him about cars, history, mechanical engineering, which bolt should go where, or what country had the best coffee—he’d have an answer before you finished the question.
And then one day… silence.
This is getting really hard to type….bear with me please.
What I am about to share with you is my testimony of surviving sibling loss to suicide, navigating the kind of grief that doesn’t sit politely in the corner, and clinging to faith when faith was the only thing left standing.
If you read this far….please…check on your siblings. I beg you. Even if you aren’t on good terms with them. Make amends and forgive.
I don’t say this to make anyone feel guilty but to warn them: time is short and you never know the last time you will speak to your brother/sister/step sibling.
Related Article
Brian: The Adventurous Navy Engineer With a Laugh You Couldn’t Ignore
Brian served in the United States Navy as a mechanical engineer. He traveled the world—literally. Half the time I didn’t know what continent he was on, but I remember him sending pictures of mountains, boats, sunsets, or some tiny street vendor you’d only find if you got lost… which he was good at doing.
He loved muscle cars… the louder the better. He loved kayaking and anything that involved being outside where the rest of us were complaining about the heat, bugs, or humidity. Not him. He’d just laugh and say something sarcastic like, “Nature builds character.”
He was hilarious. Sharp. Quick. The kind of guy that could make a funeral director laugh. And he didn’t just know things—he understood them. Veteran life. Engineering. People. Life. You could hand him a broken engine or a broken moment and he’d figure it out.
Which is why October 28, 2020 never made sense.
The Day Everything Changed
Surviving a sibling’s suicide is like having the ground snatched from under you and being expected to keep walking. You don’t get to prepare and its devastating.
Veteran suicide is a wound that hits differently. You know they carried things silently. I don’t have a clue what my brother was holding and I never will.
You know the military trains them to “push through,” and they fight battles long after coming home. But knowing doesn’t soften anything.
I don’t even remember the full conversation of that day. I just remember the weight. The kind that sits on your chest and dares you to breathe.
I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. My wife, Kali, was cooking when I received the phone call from my Father.
“Hey Mark, please come to the hospital. Your brother shot himself and he’s not going to make it.”
I’ll never forget that. I didn’t even know what to say to my Father. I was in such shock and denial.
“I’m on my way Dad!” I quickly exclaimed to him. I bolted to the kitchen and informed my wife what happened. I quickly ran out of the house. I hopped in my truck and peeled out of the drive way.
Looking back now, I didn’t really know what to think in that moment other than hurry up and get to the hospital.
I was in denial. I didn’t want to accept what had just happened.
“Brian? Really? He would never do that,” I thought to myself.
But humans have this tendency to try and block things when something extremely traumatic has just dropped on them.
At The Hospital
My family and I waited in a holding room adjacent to the ER at our local hospital.
I’ll never forget when the doctors walked in. They spoke to my parents directly, “what you’re about to see is not normal.”
Not normal? What did they mean by that?
My father…immediately wept. But not like an adult crying. He cried like a child. I didn’t see my father anymore. I saw a hurt little boy who needed comfort.
One of the doctors laid a hand on his shoulder and escorted him and my Mother to the ICU.
I didn’t like this. Not at all.
In The Room
Eventually, the doctors came for me and my younger siblings. The walk was long…..too long. I was nervous more than anything. What was I about to see?
As we approached the door I became extremely anxious. I didn’t know what to expect.
We walked in…and I saw everything.
My brother was lifeless. Only kept alive by machines pumping air into his lungs. He was brain dead. His body just barely hanging on. The compression from the gun shot made his head swell like a balloon. A towel was draped over him so it would be less gruesome.
Like my father, I wept immediately.
I kept crying, “my brother, my brother, my brother.” That’s all I could get out. I knew he was gone. Forever. Never to return.
The nurse informed us that he would only be alive for hours. So, my family and I waited. We sat there and held his hand, prayed, kissed his forehead, and whispered our love to him.
Eventually he became cold to the touch and we knew the time was near.
The machines started buzzing like crazy and his blood pressure spiked. We knew this was it.
We all watched as my brother took his final breath. And that was that. His chest didn’t move anymore. He was still. Lifeless.
My brother was dead.
We all walked up to him, kissed his forehead, and said our goodbyes.
That was the last day I saw my brother. October 28, 2020.
Walking Through Grief When the Road Doesn’t Make Sense
People talk about “healing” like it’s a straight line. Spoiler: it’s not. It’s more like a Kentucky back road—unexpected turns, bumps, potholes, and one random chicken crossing for no reason.
Some days, the memories feel like warm sunlight. Other days, they hit like a wave you didn’t see coming.
Losing a veteran sibling to suicide brings layers most people don’t understand:
The guilt you can’t explain
The questions you can’t answer
The “what ifs” that try to move in like unwanted roommates
The tension between honoring their service and grieving their pain
But faith kept showing up. Just real steady—like a quiet hand on your shoulder reminding you that grief is real, but God is still God.
The Faith That Carried Us
There’s a verse people quote a lot in grief:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…”
But when your heart is actually broken, that hits different.
We held on to faith because we didn’t have anything else.
Just faith.
And maybe that’s the point.
We learned this:
God does His best work in the space where we admit we have nothing left to bring. Grief didn’t push God away—it pulled Him closer. Tears became prayers. Silence became worship. Confusion became surrender.
And slowly—even if awkwardly—hope came back.
Why I Share This Story
Surviving the suicide of a sibling is lonely. Losing a veteran brother adds a whole different ache. And yet, I know there’s someone reading this who’s standing exactly where I stood the day the world spun off its hinges.
So hear me clearly:
You are not weird for hurting this long.
Or weak for missing them this much.
You are not faithless for asking God questions.
And you are not alone.
My brother Brian is more than his last day.
Your loved one is too.
Veteran suicide awareness matters because behind every uniform is a soul carrying weight we can’t always see. Sharing our testimonies matters because they remind someone else, “Hey, you’re going to get through this—even if right now you don’t believe it.”
Dear Reader If You Made It This Far…..
You’re probably wondering something a lot of people are scared to say out loud:
“Do people who die by suicide go to Heaven?”
I used to wrestle with that question too. It’s the kind of thought that sits in the back of your mind like a weight you don’t want to pick up… but you carry it anyway.
Here’s what I can tell you.
When my brother died, he had a Bible beside him. Right there next to him. And I can’t tell you what prayers he whispered or what battles he was fighting in those final moments… but I can tell you this:
Anyone who genuinely reaches for Jesus—even in their weakest, darkest, most desperate moment—is not turned away.
Jesus doesn’t say, “Come to Me… but only if you’re doing well.”
He doesn’t say, “I’ll save you… unless you’re struggling.”
He says:
“Whoever comes to Me I will never cast out.”
That verse hits differently when you’re grieving someone you love.
So if you’re sitting there with that question beating around in your chest, take comfort in something Jesus Himself taught:
Didn’t He leave the ninety-nine for the one?
Think about that.
He didn’t wait for the lost sheep to fix itself.
He went after it.
He carried it home.
If Jesus chases ordinary sinners like us, why wouldn’t He run after someone who was hurting so deeply they couldn’t see a way forward?
I believe Jesus met my brother in that moment of desperation.
I believe grace is bigger than the battles we can’t see.
And I believe the Shepherd doesn’t stop being a Shepherd just because the valley is dark.
So if you’re wondering about your loved one… take heart.
Let Jesus handle the part you can’t. He’s far more merciful, patient, and tender than we usually give Him credit for.
I have hope.
You should too.
Rest In Peace Brian. I Miss You Dearly.
There are no words. But thank you for sharing. Thank you for opening your heart and offering such vulnerable insight into the grief and pain that comes with this kind of unimaginable loss. Praying for you and your family. This kind of healing, I think, can only come when we meet our Maker face to face. When he wipes away our tears and brings us the promise of eternity without suffering. Your brother Brian is in his loving and merciful hands.