Then Came the Morning: A Funeral, A Song, A Soul Remembered
Guy Penrod arrived quietly at Brandon Blackstock’s funeral, his tall frame moving with reverence as he approached the front of the chapel. The room, filled with muted sobs and the rustle of tissues, seemed to pause as he passed. His silver hair caught the light from the stained-glass windows, casting a soft halo around him—not of divinity, but of dignity. He did not speak. He did not need to. His presence was a promise.
Brandon’s casket lay at the front, draped in white lilies and a single photograph—one of him laughing, head tilted back, eyes crinkled with joy. It was a moment frozen in time, a stark contrast to the stillness that now enveloped the room. His wife, Kelly, sat in the front pew, her hands clenched around a folded handkerchief, her face unreadable. Their children sat beside her, too young to understand the full weight of absence, yet old enough to feel its chill.
When the first uplifting yet tender notes of “Then Came the Morning” rose into the still air, the room seemed to exhale a collective sigh. Guy’s voice, rich and resonant, filled the chapel like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The lyrics—written by William and Gloria Gaither—spoke of resurrection, of hope after despair, of a stone rolled away and a Savior risen. But in that moment, they spoke of Brandon.
“They all walked away, nothing to say, they’d just lost their dearest friend…”
The words hung in the air, trembling like candle flames. Guy sang not as a performer, but as a mourner. Each note was a prayer, each phrase a balm. The congregation leaned into the music, as if it could carry them somewhere beyond the grief, beyond the finality of death.
Brandon had not been a public figure, but he had been a man of quiet impact. A music manager by trade, he had spent his life behind the scenes, nurturing talent, protecting dreams. He was known for his integrity, his dry humor, and his unwavering loyalty. To those who knew him, he was a lighthouse—steady, unassuming, and always shining.
His death had come suddenly. A heart attack in the early hours of a Tuesday morning. No warning. No goodbye. The news had rippled through Nashville like a tremor, shaking those who had leaned on him for years. Kelly had found him, collapsed beside their bed, his phone still in hand. She had called 911, her voice breaking, her world unraveling.
Now, just days later, she sat in the chapel, listening to the song that Brandon had once called his favorite. “It’s not just about Jesus,” he had said once, “It’s about every dark night we survive. Every morning that comes after the pain.”
Guy’s voice swelled.
“Then came the morning, night turned into day…”
The chapel seemed to shift. The grief did not vanish, but it softened. Tears flowed freely, not just from sorrow, but from the strange beauty of the moment. It was as if Brandon’s spirit hovered in the rafters, nodding in approval, whispering, This is how I wanted to be remembered.
After the song ended, Guy stepped back, his head bowed. He did not speak. He did not need to. The silence that followed was sacred.
The pastor rose and spoke of resurrection, of the promise that death is not the end. He quoted 1 Thessalonians 4:14: “For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.” But it was Guy’s song that lingered in the hearts of the mourners. It had said what words could not.
Outside, the sun had begun to break through the clouds. Mourners filed out slowly, some stopping to touch the casket, others embracing Kelly with quiet reverence. Guy stood near the entrance, greeting no one, yet offering comfort simply by being there.
Kelly approached him, her eyes rimmed with red. She did not speak. She simply took his hand and held it. Guy nodded, his eyes glistening. “He loved that song,” she whispered.
“I know,” Guy said softly. “I sang it for him.”
They stood there for a moment, two souls bound by grief and grace. Then Kelly turned and walked toward the waiting car, her children beside her, the future uncertain but not without light.
As the hearse pulled away, the chapel doors closed, and the echoes of “Then Came the Morning” faded into memory. But for those who had heard it, the song remained—a reminder that even in death, there is music. Even in sorrow, there is hope. And even in the darkest night, morning comes.
