No. 119 - Eric Clapton’s “Tears In Heaven” changed my life

What Rachelle Vinberg learned from her big-hearted big brother, Neil, in a white Jeep Cherokee

Dec 05, 2025

This Song Changed My Life is an independent music publication featuring weekly essays from people all around the world about the songs that mean the most to them. Created (and illustrated) by Grace Lilly.

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• 4 min read •

My brother Neil is three years and 10 months older than me. My Dad says that when Neil found out he was going to be having a little sister he wanted to name me Cinderella, and when that was rejected, his second suggestion was Godzilla. This was only a few months after the 1998 release, so it makes sense, and honestly, I think Godzilla was the more fitting choice.

Neil was always sweet. I mean, really, really sweet. Born sweet. My grandma used to say that a family always has one of them, an extra sweet one, and out of all twenty-six grandchildren of hers, it was him, my brother. I knew she was right, but was also partly jealous of it. I was a shy, mischievous kid who excelled in sports and often found my way of speaking through movement, points, and competition to compensate for my timidity off the field. People complimented my athleticism, but with Neil, people complimented his heart.

I’m serious. Everyone was always telling my parents how big of a heart he had. I always wondered how they knew that. His skin was covering it. How could they tell? This is the impression he gave off for as long as I could remember.

And he was always a good brother to me, even when I wasn’t good back.

Most older brothers aren’t so enthusiastic about letting their little sisters hang with them, especially with their friends over, but that was never Neil. He always included me, and when we walked to school every morning — it was about a two-mile walk — he spoke to me about the books he read in school or the fantastical ones he thought of on his own. He loved sharing stories, and I loved listening.

One especially snowy day, we were too cold to say anything. Our feet were numb, our faces were burning. Even my hair was frozen.

“Let’s run, it’ll be faster,” I suggested, unable to stand the cold.

“I can’t, I’m carrying too much,” he said.

Impatient me decided to run anyway, and I didn’t look back. He yelled my name, telling me to wait, but I ignored it, thinking that if he wanted to be cold, he could be cold alone. Harsh, huh?

About twenty minutes after I got to my classroom, there was a little tap at the door. My teacher opened it, and a bundled-up Neil stood behind, cheeks red, and out of breath. I heard him quietly ask if I was there. When told yes, he said he was just making sure I had gotten to school safely and walked away. He never told on me to our Dad. I still feel bad about leaving him.

Neil and I spent most of our childhood with our Dad in his white Jeep Cherokee. We were always going somewhere. There were sports events, go-karting (that I was never tall enough to do alone), and the movies. Dad always had the radio on, tuned to classic rock. He’d tap away at the steering wheel, Neil in the front seat, me in the back. I remember leaning against the cold window, and for some reason, we were always in our coats. That was the setup, every time.

One of these days the music was on, as usual, but this time I caught a glimpse of Neil wiping his face with his jacket. On his sleeve were what looked like tears. Was he crying? Dad noticed too and hit him with a “You alright, bud?”

He nodded, and said, with a shaky voice, “Yeah, this song is just so sad.”

My initial reaction was to laugh at him, because, like I said, I wasn’t always good back, but also because at seven years old, crying means you’re a baby. And I was the only girl on the football team. I had to be tough. How could a song make someone cry, anyway?

The song was “Tears In Heaven” by Eric Clapton.

Dad explained to us that the singer wrote the song about his son who had passed away in an accident. The boy was only a toddler when he fell out of their apartment window. We were stunned. That song came on a lot after that, or I remember it that way, and every time, Neil shed some tears for that little boy and his father. I never again laughed at a person crying.

It was that moment, that song, that reaction from Neil, that made me understand, for the first time, the true power of music (and the expression about big hearts). Before that, songs were just catchy melodies, but afterward, they became stories about real things happening to real people. Music became personal — something that came from the heart and was felt by other hearts.

After this, I spent a lot of time on the family desktop, looking up song lyrics and trying to figure out the story behind songs I liked. Was it a sad one? Was it a happy one? I’d wonder: what made this person write this song? What do other people think of when they hear it? What’s the story that goes through their head? There are a million different stories. And that moved me. This was my introduction to poetry, to words, and later, to writing.

As far as my brother Neil, I’m not sure what happened to us. Time has a way of separating people, even siblings. I haven’t seen him in a long time, and he doesn’t share much with me now. I really wish we were closer, but above all, I hope he keeps that sweet. People lose it sometimes. A lot of times. ◆

About Rachelle

Rachelle Vinberg is a skateboarder, filmmaker, and previously part of the all-girl skate collective Skate Kitchen. She enjoys shooting docu-style films that serve as reflections of her current life and travels. She also has a passion for running and all things outdoors.

Instagram @rachellevinberg

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