My brother lived with kidney and heart problems for about five years from the time of the diagnosis. Throughout those years, I earnestly prayed for his recovery. My wife and I also supported him and his household financially and remained open to requests whenever they came, always trying to do our part, however little we could offer at any particular time. We did these things because they seemed both naturally right and consistent with what Scripture teaches us about caring for one another. In many ways, therefore, I could look at the situation and reassure myself that I was doing what was expected of me: I was praying, believing God, supporting him and standing with his family.

During those five years, there were occasions when he had to be admitted to hospital, but I never seriously entertained the thought that he might not return home. I trusted God for his recovery. Then came another hospital admission in the fifth year. Once again, we prayed and remained in regular communication with him. He appeared to be responding to treatment, and there seemed to be every reason to continue believing that he would recover as he had before. But then he went into a coma. Even that did not immediately change my expectation. Stories of people who had recovered from comas competed in my mind with stories of those who had not, but I deliberately refused to allow fear to lead me. I continued believing that God would come through for us.

Yet something was different this time: I had no peace. I kept praying for God to preserve his life, but the more I prayed, the more conscious I became that something was missing. At the time, I was in hospital with my wife, who had given birth to our baby less than twenty-four hours earlier. She was still recovering, doctors and nurses were coming and going, and I was answering many of the questions and helping wherever I could. I could not simply leave my wife and newborn baby alone to find somewhere private to pray. So I prayed continually in my heart, asking God to heal my brother and preserve his life.

The thought of death kept entering my mind, but I resisted it. At times, I wondered whether the devil was simply trying to frighten me, so I rejected the thought and continued praying against death. At other times, I thought perhaps the reason I had no peace was that I needed a private place where I could vocalise my prayers, pour out my heart and spend what I considered more “quality” time with God. Yet even that explanation troubled me because I was convinced God knew exactly where I was. He knew that my wife had just given birth and that I could not leave her and our baby. And surely the God who knows our thoughts can hear a silent prayer in our heart. So why, despite all my praying, could I not find peace?

A few days after my brother entered the coma, the news came that he had died. It hit me with extraordinary force. It literally felt like a rapid, violent avalanche started by an explosive that unexpectedly detonated. Just the day before, it had been congratulations for the arrival of our baby; suddenly, while we were still in hospital awaiting the final examinations and paperwork before going home, I was grieving the death of my brother. I broke down and cried openly. But as painful as the reality of losing a sibling was, there was another thought that intensified the grief almost beyond what I could bear: What if he did not make it to Heaven?

Questions began racing through my mind. What had been the state of his heart before he entered the coma? Was he at peace with God? Had something happened that caused him to hold anger or unforgiveness? Had the severity of his pain affected his relationship with God? I knew that we had shared the same Christian upbringing. I knew him as a calm and humble person who avoided trouble, and I knew that he had remained active in church until his illness and death. Those thoughts gave me moments of comfort, but at that stage they could not completely silence the questions raging inside me.

Then another thought became particularly painful: I had spent those final days intensely praying for his body, but had I been equally attentive to his soul? I began blaming myself. I wondered whether the absence of peace I had experienced was something I had misunderstood — whether, instead of simply increasing the intensity of the prayer for his recovery, I should have stopped and asked God what He wanted me to pray about. Was the absence of peace a sign that I should have stopped to pray for his soul to be right with God and rest eternally with Him, if perhaps he didn’t return from the coma? I felt as though I had been diligent for years praying for my family, and somehow missed the most important bit at the very end. The thought was devastating because death made everything feel final. There was no opportunity to return to that moment and do it differently.

For several days afterwards, I wrestled intensely with God. I prayed, questioned, made my case, listened and gradually allowed the Holy Spirit to confront not only my grief but also the conclusions I was drawing from it. Truths about human limitation, self, flesh, works, grace, mercy, salvation and God’s sovereignty began to settle differently in my heart. I had to recognise an important boundary: I was my brother’s brother; I was not his Saviour. I could pray for him, love him, support him, encourage him and fulfil whatever responsibility God entrusted to me, but his salvation did not rest upon the perfection of my intercession. Salvation belongs to God, and His knowledge of a person’s heart reaches places mine never could.

That distinction became crucial to my healing. I cannot say that God showed me that my brother’s eternal destiny depended upon a prayer I failed to pray. He did not. Neither can I claim knowledge of everything that transpired between my brother and God in moments I could not see. What I can say is that, through those painful days, God used the experience to confront me. The question gradually changed from “What did I fail to do for my brother?” to “What is God teaching me about how I listen to Him?”

And there the Holy Spirit revealed the lesson that has remained with me ever since. We pray every day about genuinely important things: our health, children, marriages, work, businesses, finances, protection, provision and future. There is nothing inherently wrong with bringing any of these things before God. But that experience left me with another important question, which the Holy Spirit posed to my heart: While I am praying about something good and legitimate, am I still listening? Have I already decided what matters most in a particular moment, or am I allowing God to direct my attention?

The encounter with God also changed the way I think about eternity, and certain Scriptures started coming alive personally and deeply. Scripture says that the day of the Lord will come “like a thief in the night” (1 Thessalonians 5:2). Jesus compared His coming with the days of Noah, when people continued with the ordinary activities of life until the flood came unexpectedly (Matthew 24:37–39). Those passages became much more personal to me. Life can be filled with legitimate responsibilities and still leave us spiritually inattentive. The question is not simply whether what occupies us is good or bad, but whether, amid everything demanding our attention, we remain conscious of God and ready to hear Him.

The account of Martha and Mary also took on new meaning for me. Martha was not doing something evil; she was serving. Yet while she was “worried and upset about many things,” Jesus said that Mary had recognised the thing that was needed at that moment (Luke 10:38–42). That distinction now stays with me: many things may be important, but not everything important is the most important thing in every moment.

Over time, God restored peace to my heart. Grief did not disappear, and occasional accusing thoughts still tried to return, but they no longer had the final word. God’s Word did. What began as agonising questions about my brother ultimately became a continuing lesson about my own walk with God, everyday living, and readiness for eternity — to pray and study Scriptures, certainly; to work, provide, love and fulfil my responsibilities, absolutely; but through all of it, to remain attentive to the Holy Spirit rather than assuming that my understanding of what is needed must always be God’s priority for that moment.

Perhaps that is why this story still speaks to me. Sometimes the greatest danger is not choosing something evil over something good. Sometimes it is becoming so occupied with something genuinely good that we fail to notice when God is drawing our attention to something greater.