If “I Call Him Dad Now” was the boldness, this piece is the stillness in between. Both are part of the same journey, one that’s still unfolding.
This piece is written in the same spirit as The Deeper Series but this one stands on its own.
I wasn’t expecting it, just another drive, another day.
Head full of noise, heart weighed down in the quiet.
Then a song came on the radio, one I’d heard a thousand times.
But this time, I really listened.
“It is well with my soul.”
And something in me came undone.
I’ve heard the song my whole life,
but this time it cracked something open in me.
Tears came without permission,
without warning.
A quiet undoing that felt strangely holy.
I didn’t always know this kind of peace.
I grew up around the Christian faith,
but not the kind that brings rest.
It was more rules than relationship.
So when my world first fell apart,
I didn’t even know where to look.
But in the quiet wreckage of grief,
where certainty failed and the formulas didn’t work,
I found Jesus waiting.
Not with answers,
but with presence.
Later that day,
I looked up the story behind the song.
The words that had broken me open
were written by a man who had lost everything.
Horatio Spafford.
A man who lived over a century ago.
He buried his young son,
lost most of his business in the Great Chicago Fire,
and then watched his four daughters drown at sea
after sending them ahead on a ship to Europe.
His wife survived.
He boarded the next boat to be with her.
And somewhere over that same stretch of water, he penned these words:
“When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.”
How does someone say that after all that?
That line stayed with me.
Not because I understood it
but because I didn’t.
You don’t have to believe everything I do
to know what it feels like to be broken.
Or to want something more,
a peace that holds
when everything else falls apart.
Maybe you’ve never prayed.
Maybe you gave up long ago.
Still, if you’re here,
reading this,
I believe it’s for a reason.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Job either.
The man in the Bible
who lost it all.
His family,
his health,
his wealth.
His friends tried to explain it away.
His wife told him to curse God and die.
But Job didn’t try to clean up his grief.
He asked the hard questions.
He wept.
He wrestled.
And still,
in all his pain,
God didn’t abandon him,
He met him.
The story of Job isn’t just for the religious.
It’s for the grieving.
The ones who’ve lost everything.
Who’ve asked,
“Why me?”
“Where is God in this?”
Job didn’t get neat answers.
But he found something better.
The presence of God in the ash heap.
I relate to that more than I ever thought I would.
Sometimes peace doesn’t arrive with explanation.
It arrives like that,
in the silence,
in the middle of wreckage,
with no answers,
but enough grace to breathe again.
I still have days where I can’t say “It is well” out loud.
But I’m learning it doesn’t have to mean
“I’m okay”
or
“This doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Sometimes it simply means,
“I’m still here.
God is still with me.
And somehow,
that’s enough.”
I know not everyone reading this
believes what I believe.
That’s okay.
I’m not here to convince you.
I’m just here to share
what I’ve lived.
And maybe,
if you’re searching for peace too,
this might be the breadcrumb
that leads you home.
Because healing,
real healing,
doesn’t mean forgetting what you’ve lost.
It means learning to carry it differently.
And peace,
it isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it whispers,
“Even this, even here,
you are not alone.”
So wherever this finds you,
in the ache,
the doubt,
the quiet wondering,
I pray you feel this truth settle deep.
Peace isn’t the absence of pain.
It’s the presence of God
in the middle of it.
Not a quick fix.
Not a bandaid.
But a peace that holds
when nothing else does.
You don’t have to earn it.
You don’t have to understand it.
You only have to receive it.
Even if your faith feels small.
Even if you’re not sure what you believe anymore
you are still seen.
Still loved.
Still invited into something deeper.
Something steady.
Something sacred.
Something that can say “It is well”
even when it’s not.
And so I leave you with this promise:
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
If you’re still reading, thank you.
Not every story needs a clear ending, and not every heart needs fixing.
Sometimes, we just need to know we’re not alone in the ache.
May peace whisper through the cracks.
And may it find you, even here.
Prayerfully yours,
Nancy
Eden & Ashes 