Written Over the Wreckage

In November 1873, Horatio Spafford stood on a ship crossing the Atlantic, knowing that somewhere beneath those cold waters, his four daughters had drowned weeks before. The Ville du Havre had sunk in a collision. His wife Anna cabled him from Wales: "Saved alone. What shall I do?"

He came to her anyway.

Spafford had already buried a young son to scarlet fever, and the Great Chicago Fire had wiped out much of his wealth. Now this. As his ship passed near the place where his daughters went down, he wrote words that would outlast his grief by centuries:

When peace like a river attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll—

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

This was not denial. It was not easy theology. It was a man choosing to anchor his eyes on the faithfulness of God when everything visible screamed otherwise. He persevered not by pretending the storm wasn't real, but by declaring that the Most High was more real still.

The hymn It Is Well with My Soul was born not from comfort, but from ruins. That is where our deepest songs often come from. And that is where God meets us — not after the suffering ends, but in the middle of it.

Whatever you are carrying today, the invitation is the same: keep singing.