A Memory from My Nyack College Years (2002)
There is an old pop song many of us remember from our school days—“You Are My Sunshine.” It tells the story of someone who realizes, only after a beloved has gone, how precious that love truly was. The song captures that aching tenderness in simple, unforgettable lines.
I have a reason for bringing this song into my writing. About eight months ago, our grandson Josiah was born, and ever since then, our daughter—now a new mother—has been singing this song constantly. Watching her, I began to understand the song’s longing and vulnerability in an entirely new way.
In early October, during a routine checkup, the doctor told us that Josiah had a mass behind his left eye. He said that in eight or nine cases out of ten, such a mass turns out to be cancer, and urged us to see a specialist immediately. The week between that appointment and the detailed examination felt like an eternity. Our whole family lived in a cloud of anxiety and dread. We knew all too well what a diagnosis of cancer would mean—immediate surgery, chemotherapy, and the long, hellish road that follows. We tried to remain composed, each of us suppressing our fear, but the strain was immense. I myself had already begun preparing my heart for the suffering that might lie ahead.
During that week, I heard “You Are My Sunshine” more times than I can count. Our daughter has always had a beautiful voice, and she sang the song with a desperation that pierced my heart every time. The tenderness in the lyrics—now sung by a mother who feared losing her child—cut through me like a knife. If I were to translate the song into the language of her heart during those days, it would sound something like this:
“My little one, you are my only sun—
the light that lifts my heart whenever shadows fall.
You will never know how desperately, how deeply, I love you.
O Lord, please do not take away
my sun, my precious child.”
By God’s grace, the detailed examination revealed that the mass was not cancerous. Our fears eased, but our daughter still sings this song to Josiah every day. Once you face the possibility of losing someone, that person becomes infinitely more precious. Even this morning, I heard her singing to him again.
We so easily forget that everything God gives us in this life is like this—fragile, undeserved, and immeasurably precious. Our spouse, our children, our health, our time… We treat them as though they are ours by right, but they are gifts—gifts that could be taken from us at any moment. If we lived each day with that awareness, how much richer, how much more meaningful would each day become?
