There are songs you choose for a memorial service.
And then there are songs that choose you.
In 2015, we lost our teenage son, Jacob, in a tragic accident. Three weeks before his death, he stood in our church and shared how God had worked in his heart at youth camp. He challenged adults not to give up on his generation. We had no idea that testimony would become one of the last times we would hear him speak publicly.
When it came time to plan his memorial service, everything felt unreal. Our older son was in critical condition from the same accident. Hospital rooms, medical updates, and the fog of shock swallowed our days. Friends from our church stepped in and lovingly created a slideshow of Jacob’s life because we simply could not.
One of the songs included in that slideshow was “I Am Yours” by Lauren Daigle.
I hadn’t heard of her at the time. I didn’t choose the song. In fact, I remember feeling a flicker of irritation that something had been added that we hadn’t personally selected. Christian grief does strange things to our sense and desire for control. When everything else has shattered, even small decisions can feel sacred.
But then the song played.
And a line about seeing God’s fingerprints — the evidence of His hands — pierced straight through the numbness.
In the middle of shock and chaos, those lyrics declared something my heart desperately needed but could not yet articulate: that God was still over the storm. That nothing was left to chance. That we were still His.
For those navigating faith after loss, this tension is familiar. We know the theology. We’ve sung the songs. But when the worst happens, belief and breath do not always move at the same pace.
I didn’t know it then, but something was being planted.
Years later, I would write GodPrints: Finding Evidence of God in the Shattered Pieces of Life. Only recently did I realize that one of the earliest seeds of that language may have been sown the day that song played at my son’s memorial.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no lightning-bolt revelation. Just a quiet impression that even in the wreckage, God’s fingerprints were still there.
Ten years later, I still see them.
Sometimes they are faint — a conversation that comes at the exact right moment. A memory that feels like mercy. A strength I know I do not manufacture on my own.
Sometimes they are unmistakable — the survival and healing of our older son. The ways Jacob’s testimony still echoes. The unexpected doors that opened for ministry and writing.
Music has a way of slipping past our defenses. It can carry truth into places our theology hasn’t caught up to yet. That song did that for me.
The artist who wrote and recorded it never knew my son. She didn’t know a grieving mother was sitting in a memorial service, bracing herself for a slideshow she wasn’t ready to see. She simply stewarded the gift God gave her. That obedience carried us in a moment when we could barely stand.
If you are walking through Christian grief right now — planning a memorial service, wrestling with questions, or simply trying to find God after loss — I want you to know this:
The fingerprints may not be obvious at first.
But they are there.
If this resonates with your story, I share more about tracing God’s presence in the shattered pieces of life in my book, GodPrints: Finding Evidence of God in the Shattered Pieces of Life. It was written for those who are learning to look for evidence of grace when everything feels broken.
You can learn more about the book here.
You may not have chosen this storm.
But you are still His.
And His fingerprints are closer than you think.
