When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll—
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to know
It is well, it is well with my soul.
This old hymn rings inside me. It is both as grand as an operatic tenor in full voice, and as minuscule as the flutter of one wing of one tiny lady bug making her way slowly across the carpet going nowhere or other.
I am supposed to prepare myself for the somber season of Lent. I am supposed to notice transfigurations. And yet what seizes my soul is sound— voices and sounds all around me‚ all within me, some timid and hushed and some booming with rage and frustration. I listen to all these voices. I hear the sounds of silence, my late first husband’s favorite song. I sorrow his tears, my heart cries too.
The lyricist of this old hymn, Horatio Spafford, lost all his real estate investments in the Chicago fire of 1871. His toddler son died of scarlet fever, and his four daughters died in a collision at sea while crossing the Atlantic. His wife survived and wrote to her husband, “Saved alone. What shall I do?” Horatio set sail to go to her and, while crossing, the ship’s captain told him they were just passing over the spot where the shipwreck had occurred.
These words flooded Spafford’s soul. Mine too, the tears and fears of all the years.
When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll—
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to know
It is well, it is well with my soul.
