It Is Not Well With My Soul

Honestly Alert: I kind of hate the song "It is Well with My Soul." It's not the words (believe it or not) or the accompanying music that rubs me the wrong way these days. It's the way in which it is sung in our churches. Someone I respect noted recently that churches in America tend to view this song as an anthem- something to be sung victoriously. And sure, there is victory in surrender and acknowledgement of God's sovereignty in the midst of intense grief, fear, and/or pain, but this song was likely written in the darkest of places under the most painful of circumstances- the deaths of the lyricist's children.

Horatio Spafford's loss is undoubtedly one of the most tragic stories you'll ever hear. Of the eight children he and his wife, Anne, had together, only two survived to adulthood. As many may already know, four daughters drowned when a passenger ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean sunk- his wife was the only survivor in the family in that horrific accident. Most people are probably not aware that before this tragedy struck the Spafford family, a son was lost to Scarlett Fever. After the disaster at sea, Horatio and his wife had three more children: a boy and two girls. Their second son also died of Scarlett Fever- and I cannot imagine how defeating and terrifying it was to watch this happen to yet another of their children. Thankfully, their two remaining daughters survived to adulthood.

If anyone was feeling sorry for themselves before reading this (*clears throat and looks at oneself in mirror*), surely that feeling has now dissipated somewhat.

The point of recounting the lowlights of Horatio's life story is to remind people who sing "It is Well with My Soul" to think about what this man was grieving when he wrote those words. To borrow another man's lyrics out of context, "it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." And I have to be honest, I am not Horatio Spafford. I can't sing those words, even though my anxieties and grief are in preparation for a future that I can't predict and which could very well end in an otherwise healthy and full life for our son following a pretty rough first few years. There may come a day where I will feel ready to sing the words to that song and mean them from the depths of my spirit, but right now it feels like a lie of the worst kind- the kind we convince our friends and family is true when all the while we are grinding our teeth down to nubs in resistance.

People have commented that we're handling things so well in these last days and while we are fully functional and as prepared as we can be from a worldly standpoint, I want to disabuse you all of the idea that we are somehow superheroes from a spiritual standpoint. The lows are low, the anger and fear is real, and we are not perfect. I pray with irregularity. I surrender when I feel like it (i.e.: when I can't shoulder it anymore). I don't live in scripture. There is nothing beautiful in this confession unless you count the acknowledgment of the brokenness in which it is written.

I'd like to tell you that following this post, I'm going to sit and pray and surrender, but the truth is I'm going to go get ready for a Brandi Carlile concert and spend an evening enjoying time with my husband- the last date we'll have in a good long while. I don't believe that in order to be a good follower of Jesus you have to sit in a closet and get your shit together before going out into the world- on the contrary, I believe it happens one confession at a time, each time turning a bit more towards the One who heals, each time surrendering a bit more of oneself. It is more frequently a dance of one step forward and two steps back for me, but I'm hopeful that just like the Turtle in the fable "The Turtle and the Hare," I'll come out victorious in the end.