After the Night
I’ve been overwhelmed this week, in the best way, by people.
Friends checking in. Family showing up. Our church surrounding us with prayers, meals, texts, and quiet presence. There’s something grounding about being carried when you don’t have the strength to carry yourself.
What has surprised me most, though, is where my comfort has come from.
It hasn’t been from the flash or volume of music. It hasn’t been from lyrics meant to stir adrenaline or confidence. In a moment where my body reminded me how fragile life really is, what my soul needed was truth. Steady truth. Anchoring truth.
I’ve found myself returning again and again to hymns.
Not because today’s worship music is wrong or unhelpful. It just serves a different purpose. When your heart has been interrupted in the middle of the night, phrases about roaring like a lion don’t land the same way. What brings comfort is not strength imagery, but assurance. Not hype, but hope.
One line that keeps echoing for me is from the old hymn His Eye Is on the Sparrow.
"Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows come?
Why should my heart be lonely And long for heav'n and home.
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He.
His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me."
Or the truth found in the hymn, "All Your Anxiety"
"Is there a heart o'erbound by sorrow? Is there a life weighed down by care?
Come to the cross each burden bearing All your anxiety leave it there.
All your anxiety, all your care Bring to the mercy seat- leave it there.
Never a burden He cannot bear, Never a friend like Jesus!"
Not noise. Not bravado. Just care. Attentive care.
Three songs in particular have ministered to me in a deep and personal way.
The first is Rejoice in the Lord, written by Ron Hamilton after his battle with cancer. Knowing the story behind the song gives weight to every word. This isn’t rejoicing that ignores pain. It’s rejoicing that looks suffering in the face and still trusts the character of God. That kind of faith doesn’t shout. It stands.
Another has been God Makes No Mistakes by Kim Morris. That title alone has been a sermon to my heart. In moments where nothing makes sense and control feels like an illusion, that simple declaration has reminded me that surprise does not mean chaos, and interruption does not mean abandonment.
But the song that has met me most consistently is Till the Storm Passes By, written by Mosie Lister. There’s a quiet honesty in that hymn. It doesn’t rush you out of the storm. It doesn’t pretend the storm isn’t real. It simply asks for shelter, for presence, for grace to endure until the clouds move on. That prayer feels very close to my own right now
"Many times Satan whispered, "There is no need to try,
For there's no end of sorrow - there's no hope by and by"
But I know Thou art with me, and tomorrow I'll rise
Where the storms never darken the skies.
Till the storm passes over, Till the thunder sounds no more,
Till the clouds roll forever from the sky
Hold me fast, let me stand in the hollow of Thy hand,
Keep me safe till the storm passes by.”
Scripture tells us that faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. These hymns are saturated with Scripture. They remind me who God is when emotions are unreliable and strength is limited. They preach when I don’t have the energy to preach to myself.
I’m deeply grateful for the people who have surrounded us, and I’m equally grateful for the songs of the church that have surrounded my heart. They have reminded me that comfort doesn’t always come in volume or victory language. Sometimes it comes in quiet, well-worn truths that have carried believers through valleys long before mine.
And once again, they’re carrying me too.
