In the Morning of Joy

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more. 

—Revelation 21:4

Today would have been the birthday of a dear friend who has passed away. Remembering him brings both gratitude for his life and sorrow for his absence. Birthdays of those we’ve lost remind us of how deeply they touched our lives, and they also stir reflection on all the others who are no longer with us—our family, our friends, and whole generations taken too soon.

I had been very close to this friend. He was the first person I felt I could tell anything to without fear of judgment. He encouraged me to be braver and more outgoing. I am still reserved by nature, but whenever I do put myself out there, I can still hear his encouragement in my ears. When he died, it nearly broke me. My friend Susan was a huge help in those days, but in the immediate aftermath, one of the things that truly sustained me was the hymn “In the Morning of Joy.” I clung to the hope that one day we would meet again in heaven—that he and my grandmama might be waiting for me. I’m not sure that’s exactly how heaven works, but that thought got me up in the mornings, carried me through the day, and helped me fall asleep through the tears at night.

But my grief also connects to something larger. A friend told me of a conversation with his uncle, who is my age. His uncle had seen a TikTok where a young gay man asked, “Where were all these hot gay DILFs when I was growing up?” The uncle replied, “Our generation is seeing gay men age for the first time ever, because 1) we are able to be out of the closet, so people are aware of our sexuality, and 2) the AIDS crisis is not taking us at 30 years old anymore.” That truth is staggering. We are the first generation to live openly enough, and long enough, to see ourselves grow older. But this gift is shadowed by the memory of those we lost—an entire generation of gay men taken too soon. To remember them is to carry both grief and gratitude: grief for lives cut short, and gratitude that their memory is not forgotten.

Scripture tells us, “The memory of the righteous is a blessing” (Proverbs 10:7). Those we have lost—friends, grandparents, lovers, mentors—leave us not just with sorrow but with blessings: their courage, their laughter, their wisdom, and their love. We carry them with us, and in that carrying, their light does not go out. The psalmist adds, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints” (Psalm 116:15). Death feels like a thief to us, but to God, it is the moment of welcoming His beloved children home. In God’s sight, even lives that seem unfinished are held in honor. And Jesus himself comforts us, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4). To mourn is to love deeply, and God meets us in our mourning, not always removing the pain, but walking with us through it.

And so we hold fast to the promise in Revelation: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more.” (Revelation 21:4). For those of us who remember friends gone too young, grandparents who shaped us, or brothers lost in the plague years, this is not just poetry—it is hope. It tells us that death does not have the last word, and that the separation we feel today will one day be healed.

This is why the refrain of “In the Morning of Joy” has always meant so much to me: “We’ll be gathered to glory, in the morning of joy.” That promise reminds me that there will be a day when we are reunited with our loved ones—that friends, family, and even the generation of gay men lost to the AIDS epidemic live eternally, and that in Christ, we will be gathered together again.

As we honor the birthdays of those who have passed, and as we remember both our personal losses and the staggering loss of a generation, may we hold fast to this truth: though absent now, one day we will be gathered together in glory, in the morning of joy.