At Brandon Blackstock’s funeral, the chapel was bathed in soft, golden light — the kind that made every tear shimmer like glass. Outside, the summer air pressed heavy against the stained-glass windows, but inside, time seemed to slow. The pews were filled shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bowed, hands clasped, grief palpable in the air.
From the side aisle, Guy Penrod stepped forward, his familiar silver hair catching the glow from the altar candles. In one hand, a well-worn Bible; in the other, a microphone held with reverent care. His boots made no sound against the carpet as he approached the casket, draped in a blanket of white roses so fresh their fragrance mingled with the air of the sanctuary.
He paused beside it, eyes closed for a moment of silent prayer, then began softly:
“Amazing love, how can it be…”
The baritone timbre of his voice filled the space, warm and steady, wrapping around the mourners like a gentle embrace. It was more than a performance — it was a testimony. Each note seemed to carry with it the weight of scripture, the comfort of promises spoken long before this day.
Without breaking the flow, Guy’s song shifted, almost imperceptibly, into “Word of God Speak.” The melody rose like a prayer, the words falling tenderly over the grieving family in the front row. His voice, rich and unwavering, felt like a bridge stretching from earth to heaven, as though he were guiding Brandon’s memory upward with each chord.
When the final note lingered and dissolved into silence, Guy stepped closer, resting his hand gently on the polished wood of the casket. His voice dropped to a whisper, meant for family but heard by all:
“He is with the Lord now.”
The silence that followed was thick and holy, broken only by quiet sobs and the sound of heads bowing in unison. No one moved to fill the stillness — because in that moment, stillness felt sacred.