Remembering Trent

Spoken by Tim at Trent's Celebration of Life - July 22, 2025

Seeing all of you here today—Trent’s family and friends—brings great comfort in the middle of this deep sorrow. It reminds me that we don’t walk through grief alone. We do it together. And oh, what a comfort that is.

I’ve had a week to reflect on our family’s loss and have come to realize that losing a sibling—especially one like Trent—is unlike any other kind of grief. It’s like losing a piece of yourself. Because a sibling isn't just someone you grow up with—they help form your very sense of who you are. Your shared history becomes the bedrock of your family identity. And boy, did Trent and the entire Sheets family create a lot of memories together. So many moments, so many stories, that over the years became a sort of oral tradition around the Sheets family table. I’m sure Lynn, Tammy, Todd and the entire family would agree—we’d tell those stories again and again until they became stitched into the fabric of who we are.

I was 8 years old when Trent was born. I remember him as a baby in Mom’s arms, a toddler getting into everything, a wide-eyed boy trailing behind us wanting to be a part of his big brothers’ lives, and later, a man with courage and deep faith. I had the unique privilege of knowing him not just as a brother, but as someone I watched grow up—literally from day one. That kind of lifelong bond leaves an ache when it’s torn.

The truth is, when you lose a sibling, you're not just grieving their life—you’re grieving the shared childhood, the inside jokes, the silent looks across the room at a family gathering, the part of your past that only they could fully understand. You're also grieving the future you thought you’d still have—more stories, more laughs, more time.

But even in the pain, I thank God for the gift of Trent. For the joy, the love, and the legacy he leaves behind. His story will live on, not only in heaven, but here too—in our hearts, in our memories, and yes, in those timeless family stories that we’ll keep telling. We’ll laugh and cry over them, and in doing so, we’ll keep Trent close.

I know Trent would’ve loved seeing this room full of people he cared about—maybe with that quiet grin of his, the one that always hinted he was about to say something both hilarious and profound. And let’s be honest, he usually did.

I’ve been wrestling with how to describe my youngest brother. Not because there’s too little to say—quite the opposite. There’s just so much packed into the life of one man. So much courage. So much heart. So much quiet strength.

Trent was a fighter—but not the loud, dramatic kind. He wasn’t swinging fists or shouting from rooftops. No, Trent fought in the steady, stubborn, dig-in-your-heels kind of way. The kind that endures. The kind that inspires.

When he was diagnosed with cancer at just 11 years old, I watched him face it with a strength that made no earthly sense. I mean, what grade schooler battles cancer and manages to smile at people like they need the encouragement? Trent did. He walked through suffering without losing his joy. He faced uncertainty without losing his peace. And he battled for his life without ever, ever losing his faith.

And that wasn’t just something that happened once. That became the way he lived. His courage didn’t just carry him—it anchored the rest of us. I know it anchored me.

His battle shaped my life in ways I’m still unpacking. At the time, I was a young college kid who’d prayed plenty of times before. But suddenly, prayer wasn’t just something I did before meals or tests. It became urgent. It became real. I watched my parents, Mom and Dad, pray with a kind of desperate faith that changed everything. They were on their knees every day, crying out to God for healing. And you know what? Their faith didn’t shrink in the storm—it grew.

And our home church, The First Brethren? They wrapped around us like the family of God is supposed to. They brought meals, gave rides, prayed with us, sat with us. It was the Church being the Church the way Jesus intended—sacrificial love, lived out. I’ll never forget that.

There were moments during that season that felt sacred. I remember when I witnessed the elders of the church anoint Trent with oil. They gathered around him, laid their hands on him, and prayed with everything they had. That wasn’t just a ceremony—that was holy ground. And I saw, with my own eyes, that miracles aren’t just stories in the Bible. They’re real. God did answer those prayers.

Now, did He answer exactly the way we pictured? Not always. But in the ways that matter most—yes. Trent was healed. Then, and again when he faced cancer at 38 years old. And again, even today, we can say with confidence: Trent is whole. Completely. Eternally.

His faith planted seeds in me. Big ones. So big, in fact, they grew into a career. I chose to go into healthcare, into pharmacy, because I wanted to help people the way I saw people help Trent. My first job was in a hospital working in the intensive care and cardiac care units. I wanted to be part of that special work—showing up when families are walking through the hardest moments of their lives.

And during Trent’s final days at IU Methodist Hospital, we saw that same kind of compassionate care from the team there. They treated our family with compassion, dignity and love. For that, we are forever grateful.

But Trent’s story didn’t just change me. It reached so many others too –- many of you. Our pastor at the time, Al Shifflett, later wrote a book called The Blue Jeans Theology of James—a practical, no-nonsense challenge to live out your faith with action. He dedicated the book to Trent. That says a lot. Pastor Al saw in Trent the very essence of James 2:17: “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.”

But Trent’s faith? It was very much alive. You could see it in how he treated people. In the hope he held onto. In how he trusted God—right to the end.

So yes, Trent’s time on earth may have been shorter than we wanted. But the ripples of his life will go on. His legacy is alive in me, his family… in many of you… and in every person who saw his faith in action.

And though I miss him—oh, how we all miss him—I also rejoice. Because I believe with everything in me that this isn’t the end of the story. Trent just turned the page a little before we did. And one day, we’ll be reunited. And I have a feeling when that happens, he’ll be there with that same grin, arms wide open, ready to welcome us home. And probably saying something like, “Well… took you long enough.”

Last Tuesday, at the hospital, when that final moment came, I leaned in close and whispered goodbye. I said the same words our dad said to each of us before he passed 8 years ago:

“See you on the other side.”

And I believe with all my heart… we will!

May 2024