Mostly cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms

On January 30, 1974, my first-born son died. Just three weeks old, having spent his entire life suffering in a NICU, Jonathan Isaac Warren lost his fight to come home with his parents and instead went into an eternity with the Father. His fight was over; my fight to understand was just beginning. I was 19.

The call came on a Wednesday morning before John and I were even awake. The night before had been full of hope....the doctors had told us for the first time in three weeks that they expected the little guy to pull through even though the fight was not over. Five short hours later, it was over.

John and I went to a part of San Diego where no one knew us, where we could walk the streets in anonymity and grieve together without having to give unbearably painful explanations before we were ready.

But it was Wednesday. It was our custom to attend our church's prayer meeting on Wednesday night. Our church had been a wonderful support to us during our ordeal and had loved us and cared for us though most of them hardly knew us. We felt drawn to be with them even on this first day of our life without our son. And so we made our way back to our church family that very night.

I told John I didn't want to arrive early. I wanted them to know we were there, since most of them would have already heard the news and would wonder how we were. But I didn't want to talk; I just wanted to be. So we made plans to arrive a minute or two late, hoping we could slip in quietly just as the service was beginning.

As we entered the sanctuary that Wednesday night, the night that was, to date, the hardest and most painful day of my short life, singing had already begun. And as I got close enough to hear, I recognized the hymn, "There is Sunshine in My Soul Today".

There is sunshine in my soul today,
More glorious and bright
Than glows in any earthly sky,
For Jesus is my Light.

O there’s sunshine, blessèd sunshine,
When the peaceful, happy moments roll;
When Jesus shows His smiling face,
There is sunshine in the soul.

There is music in my soul today,
A carol to my King,
And Jesus, listening, can hear
The songs I cannot sing.

There is springtime in my soul today,
For, when the Lord is near,
The dove of peace sings in my heart,
The flowers of grace appear.

There is gladness in my soul today,
And hope and praise and love,
For blessings which He gives me now,
For joys “laid up” above.

No God. I must be hearing this wrong. You wouldn't require this of me tonight. Not hearing it, and certainly not singing it.

I wasn't hearing it wrong. And something inside me knew that it would be part of my healing process, part of how I would look back on this day, to sing with my church family out of a joy that went far deeper than the tragedy of the day. No, I don't believe I heard God requiring this of me. I don't think He is a God who would demand that a 19 year old mother who has just lost her only son sing about gladness in her soul. But I gave it that night as a sacrifice of praise, one that I didn't feel like giving but chose to give anyway. I have never regretted my song that night. . .and though I could think of a dozen hymns that would have better spoken to my brokenness and pain, for some reason God did not choose any of those to be the one sung as I slid into the pew.

I have a friend who will greet tomorrow's Thanksgiving with the same heart. Her world has collapsed, her heart is broken, her future muddled with uncertainty. But because I know her and know of her trust in her God, I know that she will, through her tears, look to Him and thank Him for His goodness.

Many of us, perhaps to a lesser degree, face tomorrow with circumstances that make gratitude a "sacrifice of praise". My prayer is that, like my precious friend, we will all give thanks in faith for the goodness of a God who loves us perfectly even in the seasons where the clouds obscure the sunshine.