When my wife came into our bedroom where I lay and told me we were pregnant, we cried and hugged each other, and we prayed. 

We thanked God for this life He was entrusting to us, and we gave that life back to Him. Life is full of bright clouds and dark clouds, and it’s not our job to worry about which we will encounter. 

Since none of us chose to be born, we don’t have the right to regret our birth.  

Since none of us chose our parents, we don’t have the right to brag about our heritage. 

Since none of us made ourselves, we can’t feel entitled to an easy life of health and prosperity. 

Since none of us govern the universe, we can’t claim we haven’t been treated justly. 

In this fallen world east of Eden, we can be sure that dark clouds will find us all, and ultimately, death may creep in before we actually stop existing. 

So we gave our baby to God, and took him back on loan, praying that God would give us a healthy and happy baby, if it would please Him. 

That was twelve months ago now. 

The day after James was born we found out he has a congenital heart defect that would require surgery. A day later it was clarified to us: open heart surgery. 

The mountaintop of James’s first day in the air of this earth was tainted by this ominous cloud. 

Last week’s column I wrote from my car. We were at the Children’s Hospital of Georgia in Augusta and due to COVID restrictions, I was relegated to the car for hours on end. 

The cloud descended, but sunlight peaked through.  

James had incredibly kind doctors and nurses, a whole community of people who specialize in healing what is broken.  

The surgery was successful and our James is doing better than ever. We have some challenges in the future, but nothing like what most people go through.  

A few days into our stay in Augusta, friends of ours lost their unborn twins. 

An dark cloud, again. 

I can’t count the amount of gift cards and sweet letters of encouragement we received. 

A bright cloud, again. 

I can’t tell you the joy that came when James looked at us again and smiled. 

Or when he giggled, for the first time ever, on the way home, through spells of pain-induced crying. 

Streams of sunlight! 

Whatever inspiration or joy you find here in this column, it comes from a place beyond me. Like my James, long ago I laid my own self down at the feet of God and asked Him to accept this limb-hit mess, and maybe, to make something of it. 

That day was the beginning of true freedom, of what has become a life larger than my dreams, stronger than my energy, and more beautiful than my eyes can perceive—free from my ability to stifle it. 

The valley is the place of greatest vision, and as Spurgeon said, we’ve learned to kiss the wave that slams us against the Rock of Ages. 

That’s what it means to have a relationship with God. He Himself is the answer, antidote, and remedy. 

Dark clouds will come. 

But what I learn, with every passing cloud that floats overhead, is that when our eyes are on Him, through it all, it is well with us.  

James, here’s to you, son.  

Let’s stay in the sunlight a while, huh?