In April 1918 his eldest¹ son, Roy, died of wounds at Estaires after the battle of the Lys. Loss after loss of boys and trusted colleagues had grieved and distressed² him; now came this culminating blow. There had been the closest understanding between father and son; Roy had left engineering to become a master at the Royal Naval³ College, Osborne, which Sanderson had helped to reconstruct, and more and more had the father looked to his boy as his chosen disciple⁴ and possible successor.  
On the Whitsunday following Sanderson preached a sermon on the text: 'I will not leave you desolate⁵, I will come unto you.' The notes of the sermon were untidy, and have had to be carefully pieced together, but I think they rise to a very high level of poetry. And when I copy them out I think how the dear sturdy man in his[Pg 102] academic gown must have stood up and clung to his desk, after his manner, full of grief and sorrowful memories of the one 'gentle soul,' in particular, and of many other gentle souls, he had lost—clinging to his desk with both hands as he clung to his faith and speaking stoutly⁶.
 
Whitsunday—White Sunday—white, pure, untainted—day of consolation—day of inspiration—perhaps the most joyous⁷ time of all the year. Spring in its power, life, Spirit of Peace, joy. Everywhere joy—sanctified, subdued⁸. Joy, and peace, and new life in the music, the harmonies and discords⁹, of Nature—here, in the country. The singing of the birds, their twittering, chattering¹⁰, calling; their excitement; their restful chirping¹¹, abandon of joy, peace without alloy—they are friends of the soul. The atmosphere too—the gentleness of it, the life within it and soft warmth of it: freedom, imagination, inspiration are in the air; the wind bloweth where it listeth. Joy, innocent, white, pure, and happy. Happiness too. Life steeped in the sunshine of happiness. The spring, the elasticity¹², the eutrophy of life: life-creating life; life-giving life. Happiness on every hand mystic, elusive¹³ as the[Pg 103] forces of Nature. "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the voice thereof, but cannot tell whence it cometh, nor whither it goeth." Happiness! Not freedom from care, or from sorrow, or from sleepless¹⁴ anguish¹⁵; not freedom from abasement^{16............}