When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea-billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to know;
It is well, it is well with my soul.Horatio Spafford
You may or may not have heard this hymn, but if you have, perhaps you have wrestled with its meaning and suggestion (as I have) – “how am I to say ‘It is well’ when I feel anything but well? Things are NOT well. I am NOT well.”
If you read my second post earlier this year, “02. Over It,” you know that this has been an extremely trying year for me and my family. If you know me personally, you know that since that post, even more things have continued to beat us over the head, including the loss of my sweet, beloved grandmother just one month ago. She was taken from us in a way that was eerily similar to how my mother-in-law was taken just a few short months earlier: a sudden, late-term cancer diagnosis. So sudden, in fact, that on a Sunday afternoon, we were meeting with her doctors to discuss a game plan to get her well enough for surgery, then sometime in the sleepless hours between Sunday night and Monday morning, I was grasping her hand and frantically holding her gaze as monitors all around us blared warnings – nurses scurrying to collect supplies and preparing for life-saving measures. The following two and a half days, which feel like a month in my memory, held us all in a balance of trying to help each other get enough sleep but not wanting to leave her side – hours of sitting next to her, holding her soft, loving hand as she rested under the effects of the morphine. I played her songs that I knew were special to her, talked to her about the kids, told her how much I loved her and how much I was going to miss her, wept, and longed to have her speak to me once more before she left this world. The hurried and desperate goodbyes we exchanged in the terror-stricken chaos of Sunday night will never be enough. I can’t remember the last conversation I had with her. Several things I wanted to talk to her about, I set aside, waiting for her to be well enough to go home. The last embrace I remember sharing with her was a rushed side-hug at some point a week or two earlier as I wrangled my children out the door to take them home. We didn’t know it would be our last.
I know pretty much everyone who loses someone they love has regrets about what they would have done differently, and I know that’s not really being fair to yourself. I loved her the best I knew how whenever I was able. Things were not perfect. Sometimes they were hard, but she was the dearest person to my heart next to my husband and children. I feel sick when I think about having to go through the rest of my life without her. She was the pillar of strength that our family relied on and enjoyed so deeply. I can physically feel the pit in myself that has been carved out by her absence. I am not well. I don’t know how I will be well again.
But in this grief and despair, the Lord has been near and tender. He has given me new understanding of these words that have troubled me for so many years. A quick search for the author of this hymn, Horatio Spafford, will result in a Job-like story of a life wrought with loss and grief. The story of how he wrote this hymn is inspiring but daunting. I fail to look grief in the face and say, “It is well.” And this is where, in His loving tenderness, the Lord has been speaking softly to my heart that it can be well with my soul even when it is not well with my world. I know my Meme is with Jesus forevermore, no pain or sadness. I know Who holds my tomorrows, and even though my day-to-day feels like I may never escape the crashing waves of despair, my hope is in Him.
Tho’ Satan should buffet, tho’ trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed his own blood for my soul.My sin – oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin – not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to His cross and I bear it no more;
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, oh my soul.And, Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll,
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend
A song in the night, oh my soul!Horatio Spafford
Spicy Soul Survival 