The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor marked time in the dim NICU room like a morbid metronome. Akua traced the translucent blue veins visible beneath her newborn’s paper-thin skin, her finger hovering just above the tangle of wires and tubes that kept his tiny body alive.
“Micah,” she whispered, testing the weight of the name they’d chosen months ago“Who is like God?” It had seemed prophetic during her easy pregnancy. Now it tasted like ash.
Her husband Mark slumped in the plastic chair beside her, his steel-toed construction boots leaving gritty trails of drywall dust on the sterile floor. The scent of sawdust still clung to his work shirt, though he’d rushed straight from the jobsite when she called about the emergency C-section.
“Tetralogy of Fallot with pulmonary atresia,” the cardiologist had explained in calm, measured tones that didn’t match the terrifying diagrams. “We’ll need to stabilize him before surgery. Survival rates…”
Akua hadn’t let him finish. She knew the numbers. Had researched every congenital heart defect when the 20-week ultrasound showed abnormalities.
A rustling at the door interrupted her thoughts. A nurse—her badge read “Chrissy” adjusted Micah’s IV line before taping a pastel-colored Scripture card to the incubator:
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4)
Akua’s vision blurred. With trembling fingers, she peeled off the card and ripped it in half.
3:17 AM glowed red on the NICU clock. Akua startled awake in the recliner to an unfamiliar sound cutting through the usual hospital hum, a rich, resonant baritone singing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.”
She followed the melody down the darkened hallway to the hospital chapel. There, an elderly Black janitor pushed his mop in time to the hymn, his worn work boots squeaking on the linoleum. His name tag read “Richard Washington”
“You’re here early,” Akua croaked, her voice raw from crying.
Richard didn’t miss a beat. “Best time to worship, sister. Nobody complains about my off-key hallelujahs at this hour.” His warm brown eyes flicked to her hospital bracelet. “Peds cardiac? My grandson was in that unit last Christmas.”
Akua’s breath hitched. “Did he…?”
Richards’s chuckle filled the small chapel as he wrung out his mop. “That boy? He’s home driving his mama crazy. But even if he hadn’t made it”, He tapped his chest over his faded “God is Love” t-shirt. “This joy? Ain’t got nothing to do with circumstances.”
He gestured to the piano in the corner. “Used to play for Gr8r Baptist back in the day. Hands don’t work right no more, but the Lord still gave me these pipes.”
Dawn painted the NICU windows pink when Akua returned to Micah’s incubator. Mark snored lightly in the chair, his work-hardened hands still clutching the tiny striped beanie they’d brought for Micah’s first photos.
The cardiac monitor’s erratic spikes mirrored Akua’s racing thoughts. She studied her son’s perfect button nose, the way his miniature fingers curled around her pinky with surprising strength.
Then she did the hardest, most irrational thing she’d ever done.
She sang.
“Amazing grace…” Her voice cracked on the second syllable, barely audible over the ventilator’s whoosh.
Down the hall, the squeak of Richard’s mop bucket paused. Then came the deep rumble of his voice joining in from the nurses’ station.
A tired-looking resident glanced up from charts and added a soft harmony. Nurse Chrissy hummed along as she checked another baby’s stats.
By the third verse, Mark’s rough, off-key baritone joined the impromptu choir, his tears leaving salty streaks on the incubator’s plastic shell.
Five years later, Akua stood in the same hospital chapel watching her miracle boy, his chest bearing the scars of three successful surgeries sitting beside Richard at the piano. The old janitor’s hands now trembled with Parkinson’s, but his voice remained steady as he taught Micah to sing “This Little Light of Mine.”
The scent of lemon disinfectant mixed with the floral perfume of a young couple who wandered in, drawn by the music. The woman’s red-rimmed eyes and NICU bracelet told Akua everything.
She pressed a coffee into the new mother’s hands. “They told us Micah had a 40% chance,” Akua said softly. “But joy isn’t the prize at the end, it’s the light that gets you through.”
Across the room, Richard caught Akua’s eye and winked as Micah belted out the chorus with all the gusto of a healthy five-year-old. The same Scripture card now laminated and worn peeked from Richard’s shirt pocket:
“Rejoice in the Lord always.”
This time, Akua could finally say Amen.
Joy isn’t the absence of suffering, it’s the defiant song we sing in its midst.
Heavenly Father, I lift up the reader to you today
May the joy of the Lord be their strength today. Let it rise above their circumstances and steady their heart.
Fill them with gratitude in all things and teach them contentment whether in plenty or in need
Guard their heart with Your peace that surpasses all understanding
Grant them the Grace to choose joy. Grant them the Grace to receive Your strength. Grant them the Grace to trust You in every season. In Jesus Name, Amen.
