This Is My Story, I Testify

This is my story, and I testify—not because my life has been easy, but because God has been faithful. When I look back over the winding road behind me, I don’t see a neat, polished testimony wrapped in certainty and confidence. I see a journey marked by struggle and surrender, by moments where I could barely lift my head, and moments where joy felt almost too big for my heart to hold. Yet woven through every season, from the quiet mornings to the longest nights, there is one undeniable truth: blessings on blessings have been poured over my life in ways I could never have earned, planned, or imagined.

When I start remembering how good God has been, something shifts inside me. Fear loses its grip. The worries that once screamed the loudest begin to quiet, and in their place rises worship. Tears that once fell from exhaustion or heartbreak slowly turn into tears of praise. Not because the pain never existed, but because it no longer has the final word. Memory becomes a holy act—an intentional turning of my heart toward all the times God showed up when I didn’t know how I would survive. And in that remembering, I discover that gratitude is a powerful weapon against despair.

There were seasons when depression wrapped itself around me like chains, heavy and unrelenting. Days blurred together, and hope felt like a foreign language I once knew but had forgotten how to speak. I smiled when I needed to, carried on when I had to, but inside I felt stuck—trapped in a fog that refused to lift. Yet even there, Grace found me. Not with condemnation or impatience, but with a steady, gentle presence that whispered, “You are not alone.” Chain by chain, those weights began to fall—not because I was strong enough, but because Grace was. And when the chains broke, I realized it wasn’t just survival God was offering me—it was freedom.

When I start remembering how good He’s been, I also remember the battles I thought I would lose. The moments when the enemy’s weapons seemed carefully aimed at my weakest places—fear, doubt, exhaustion, shame. But again and again, those weapons fell useless to the ground. What I thought would destroy me instead became proof of God’s protection. I didn’t always see the armies of heaven surrounding me, but they were there all along—guarding, defending, and fighting battles I never even knew were happening. Looking back now, I can see how many times I was carried when I thought I was walking on my own.

One of the most powerful truths of my story is this: God carried my cross when I could not. He called me by name when I felt invisible. He loved me exactly as I was—messy, broken, unsure—but He loved me too much to leave me that way. That kind of love changes you. It confronts you and comforts you at the same time. It doesn’t shame your wounds, but it also refuses to let you settle into them as your identity. His love reached me in my weakness and said, “There is more for you than this.”

There was a time when I was spiritually numb, going through the motions without feeling truly alive. I knew the words of faith, but my heart felt distant. I was breathing, but not fully living. And yet, God was still at work. Slowly, quietly, He began to restore what I thought was lost. What was dead came back to life. What was broken began to heal. What was empty started to fill. That is what He did—not because I earned it, but because resurrection is part of His nature.

From morning to night, through the lows and the highs, God has been present in ways that only hindsight fully reveals. In the lows, He was my refuge. In the highs, He was my joy. In moments of clarity, He was my guide. In moments of confusion, He was my anchor. Even when I couldn’t feel Him, He was still faithful. Even when my prayers were nothing more than whispered pleas or exhausted sighs, He listened. And when I look back on my life and all that I see, I can say with honesty and awe that He has been so, so, so, so, so, so good to me.

My story is not one of perfection. It is a story of perseverance, of learning to trust again after disappointment, of choosing faith when fear felt easier. It is a story of learning that worship doesn’t always look like singing—it sometimes looks like getting out of bed, choosing kindness when you’re tired, or holding on when you want to let go. God met me in those ordinary acts of faithfulness and turned them into sacred moments. Nothing was wasted. Not the tears. Not the waiting. Not the heartbreak.

There were times when I questioned the path I was on, wondering if the promises I believed in were still true. But every time I began to remember—really remember—how God had already carried me through, my doubts softened. The past became evidence of His goodness. Each memory was like a stone of remembrance, reminding me that if He was faithful then, He would be faithful again. Remembering didn’t erase my struggles, but it reframed them. It reminded me that I was never fighting alone.

This testimony is not just about what God did once—it’s about what He continues to do. He is still pouring blessings, still breaking chains, still turning fear into worship and tears into praise. He is still calling my name, still carrying what I cannot, still loving me forward into growth and healing. My story is ongoing, still being written by a God who specializes in redemption and restoration.

So I testify. I testify that Grace is real and powerful. I testify that healing is possible, even when it feels slow. I testify that remembering God’s goodness can transform the present moment. I testify that no matter how dark the night has been, morning always comes. I testify that the enemy does not get the final say. And above all, I testify that God has been unbelievably good to me.

This is my story—not because it is extraordinary, but because God is. And as long as I have breath, I will keep remembering, keep praising, and keep testifying to the goodness that has followed me all the days of my life.

Glory to His Name

There are moments when words fall short, when all the noise of the world fades and what remains is something sacred—something beyond understanding, beyond reason, beyond time. That’s what the cross is. It’s not just a symbol hanging on church walls or shining from steeples; it’s the heartbeat of love itself. It’s where heaven met earth, where mercy met justice, where God met us right in the middle of our brokenness. Every time I think about it, really think about it, I’m undone. Because there on that cross was everything I never deserved—and everything I’ll ever need.

Glory to His name. Those words aren’t just a lyric; they’re a surrender. They’re the whisper that escapes when language fails. They’re the quiet, trembling acknowledgment that the blood that ran down that rugged wood changed everything—my story, your story, the story of the entire world.

It’s easy to forget what that cross really means. We see it everywhere—on necklaces, in art, on bumper stickers—and sometimes it loses its weight. But if you stop long enough to really see it, not as a decoration but as an altar, it will change you. Because that cross wasn’t polished. It wasn’t clean. It was splintered, stained, brutal. It was the place where perfection was pierced for imperfection. The place where sin met its end and grace began.

I imagine that hill on that day—Golgotha, the Place of the Skull. The sky darkened, the earth trembled, and hope hung by nails. Those standing nearby probably thought it was the end. His followers were shattered, His mother’s heart was breaking, and even the soldiers didn’t know they were part of the most sacred moment in history. It must have looked like defeat, like finality. But heaven knew better. Heaven knew it was victory.

There on that cross, the blood of Christ didn’t just mark death—it marked deliverance. Every drop that fell was a declaration: You are loved. You are forgiven. You are mine. That’s what makes me fall to my knees every time I sing “Glory to His name.” Because the One who deserved glory chose humility. The One who spoke stars into existence chose to be nailed to wood He created. The One who had every right to condemn chose instead to redeem.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross. That line hits differently when you’ve walked through enough pain to understand the cost of love. Cherishing the cross isn’t about glorifying suffering; it’s about recognizing what that suffering accomplished. It’s about realizing that every ounce of pain He endured was willingly taken for you, for me, for all of us who would never be able to pay that price ourselves.

Sometimes, when life feels heavy—when I’m watching Tim struggle with his seizures, when fear whispers that the future is uncertain—I think about that cross. I think about how love hung there and refused to let go. I think about how, even in His final breath, Jesus was still saving others—still promising paradise to a thief, still forgiving those who crucified Him. That’s the kind of love I can’t comprehend, but I can rest in.

Because of that love, we don’t have to carry our sin, our shame, our failures anymore. Because of that love, even death doesn’t get the last word. The cross is proof that the worst thing is never the last thing. That even in the darkest hour, there’s resurrection on the horizon.

Till my trophies at last I lay down. There’s something so humbling about those words. We spend so much of our lives striving—chasing achievements, recognition, stability. We try to build lives that feel safe, lives that look successful. But in the end, all of it—every accolade, every possession, every plan—will fade. None of it will matter next to the glory of the One who gave everything for us. The only thing worth carrying into eternity is love.

I think of the things I’ve held onto so tightly—the need for control, the fear of loss, the worry about tomorrow. The cross gently reminds me to let go. To lay it all down. To stop clinging to the temporary and hold fast to the eternal. Because when it all comes to an end, it won’t be the trophies that matter. It will be the scars of love—the ones He bore for us, and the ones we carried for others.

I will cling to the old rugged cross. That’s what faith really is: clinging. Holding on when life doesn’t make sense, when prayers seem unanswered, when suffering lingers longer than we think we can bear. It’s choosing to trust that the same God who conquered death is still working redemption in our story, even when all we see is pain.

For me, clinging to the cross has looked like whispering prayers in hospital rooms. It’s looked like staying beside Tim during his seizures, feeling helpless yet knowing we’re not hopeless. It’s looked like crying out in the night and finding peace I can’t explain. Because the cross isn’t just something that happened two thousand years ago—it’s something that still happens in the heart of every believer every day. It’s where our pain meets His promise.

The cross is where despair meets deliverance. It’s where endings become beginnings. It’s where love does what logic never could—it saves. And when I think about how much was accomplished in that one moment—how sin lost its power, how death lost its sting—I can’t help but worship.

And exchange it someday… for a crown. Those words bring tears every time. Because one day, all the pain, all the tears, all the battles will end. One day, the weight of this life will fall away, and we’ll stand in glory, not because we earned it, but because grace carried us there. One day, all the clinging will turn into rejoicing. The faith that felt fragile will turn into sight.

We’ll see Him—the One who bore our pain, who wore our shame, who turned a cross into a crown. We’ll finally understand what our hearts could only glimpse here: that every moment of struggle was not wasted, every tear was remembered, and every act of love was eternal.

When I picture that moment—standing before Him, crown in hand—I know I won’t be able to hold it for long. I’ll lay it right back down, because there’s only One worthy of wearing it. The same One who traded His crown of glory for a crown of thorns. The same One who looked at humanity at its worst and still called us worthy of His best.

Glory to His name.

There’s something profoundly beautiful about those four words. They carry the weight of history, the fullness of grace, the echo of eternity. They remind us that no matter what this life brings—joy or sorrow, triumph or defeat—it all finds meaning in Him.

When I say Glory to His name, I’m not ignoring the pain. I’m acknowledging the power that stands above it. I’m recognizing that even in the brokenness of this world, He is still worthy of praise. Because the cross didn’t just save us from death; it gave us a reason to live.

And so, I’ll keep cherishing that old rugged cross. I’ll keep clinging to it through every unknown. I’ll keep trusting that one day, when all is said and done, I’ll exchange every tear, every burden, every fear for something eternal—peace, joy, and the presence of the One who made it all possible.

The world may look at the cross and see tragedy. I look at it and see triumph. They may see suffering; I see salvation. They may see defeat; I see the deepest love ever shown.

Glory to His name—for every sunrise that follows a sleepless night, for every breath when fear gives way to peace, for every soul redeemed, for every broken heart made whole. Glory to His name for the mercy that meets us in the mess, for the grace that lifts us from the dust, for the promise that no matter how dark the night, the light of love will always rise again.

One day, when all of this fades away—when pain is no more and faith becomes sight—I’ll see that cross not as a symbol of sorrow, but as the doorway to eternal joy. I’ll see the One who hung there, not in agony, but in glory. And I’ll finally understand that it was all worth it—all the waiting, all the clinging, all the tears.

Until then, I’ll keep walking, keep believing, keep whispering through it all: Glory to His name.

Because there on that cross—on that rugged, sacred cross—love wrote the ending of my story before it even began. And that ending will always, always be victory.

You Never Let Go

There are moments in life when the road ahead feels heavy with shadows—times when the world seems quieter, darker, and lonelier than it used to be. The kind of seasons where it feels like you’re walking straight through the valley of the shadow of death, and every step echoes with uncertainty. You can’t see the other side, and you’re not sure when—or if—the light will return. But even there, in that valley, there’s a presence that never leaves. There’s a love that holds tighter than fear, a peace that outlasts the storm.

The words of this song echo that truth: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Your perfect love is casting out fear.” It’s a reminder that fear and love can’t occupy the same space. When the love of God moves in, fear loses its grip. His love doesn’t erase the valley, but it transforms how we walk through it. It steadies trembling hearts. It whispers courage into the dark places. It reminds us that no matter how heavy the night feels, we are never walking it alone.

And even when the storms of life rise around us—when the waves crash and the winds howl, when plans crumble and peace feels like a distant dream—we can still stand firm. Not because we’re strong, but because we know Who is near. “Even when I’m caught in the middle of the storms of this life, I won’t turn back, I know You are near.” Those words hold the heartbeat of faith. They remind us that faith isn’t pretending the storm doesn’t exist—it’s choosing to trust that God is still in control in the middle of it.

We will fear no evil, not because evil disappears, but because God’s presence is greater. “For my God is with me, and if my God is with me, whom then shall I fear?” There’s power in those words. Fear thrives on the illusion of being alone—on convincing us that the valley has swallowed us whole. But when we remember that God walks beside us, fear loses its strength. We don’t walk alone. We never have.

The refrain of the song is both declaration and comfort: “Oh no, You never let go—through the calm and through the storm.” It’s such a simple phrase, but it carries a depth that only those who’ve faced real pain can fully understand. Whether life feels peaceful or chaotic, easy or impossible, He doesn’t let go. His grip doesn’t loosen when we falter, when our faith wavers, or when we fall apart. In every high and every low, His hands still hold us, steady and sure.

Sometimes, when we’re in the calm, it’s easy to feel His presence—to see blessings clearly, to feel gratitude flowing freely. But when the storm hits, when the world shakes and prayers go unanswered, that same presence can feel distant. Yet, even when we can’t sense Him, He’s still there—working quietly in the background, anchoring us when we can’t find our own footing. The same God who stands with us on mountaintops walks beside us in the valley. The same love that shines in our laughter steadies us in our tears.

“Lord, You never let go of me.” That’s not just a lyric—it’s a lifeline. It’s the truth that keeps hearts beating when the world falls apart. It’s the reminder that we are held by a love stronger than our failures, greater than our fears, and deeper than our despair.

There’s something profoundly freeing in knowing that we don’t have to hold it all together, because God is holding us. We don’t have to have all the answers, because He’s already walked the path ahead. We don’t have to be fearless, because His perfect love is already driving out our fear.

Every one of us will walk through valleys. Every one of us will face storms. But those moments don’t define us—they refine us. They teach us where our true security lies. They strip away the illusion of control and reveal the unshakable truth that God is faithful.

So when the night grows long, and the storm feels endless, remember: the One who commands the wind and the waves has not let go of you. When fear whispers that you’re alone, remember: He walks beside you, His perfect love surrounding you. When the road feels uncertain, remember: you are still in His hands.

Through the calm and through the storm, through joy and through sorrow, through every high and every low—He never lets go. Not for a second. Not for a heartbeat. Not even when you feel like you’re slipping.

And maybe that’s the miracle we overlook most often—not that the storm stops, but that we’re carried safely through it. Not that the valley disappears, but that we’re never abandoned in it.

Even here, even now, even when it hurts—He is with you. His love is casting out fear. His peace is stronger than the chaos. His hand is still holding yours.

He never lets go.
He never has.
He never will.

Do a Little Good

The older I get, the more I realize how complicated people are—and how simple goodness really is. We spend so much time trying to figure each other out, searching for motives, predicting behavior, trying to understand what makes people tick. Somewhere along the way, we start to believe that everyone is mostly out for themselves, that kindness is rare, and that the world has hardened beyond repair.

But then, something small happens—someone holds the door a little longer than they had to, buys coffee for a stranger, or stops to listen when they could have kept walking—and suddenly, that cynical armor cracks just a bit. Because no matter how jaded we become, goodness still catches us off guard.

The song “Do a Little Good” captures that perfectly. It begins with the voice of someone who’s lost faith in people, who’s convinced that selfishness runs the show. And honestly, who can’t relate to that? We’ve all had moments where we’ve seen too much pain, too much greed, too much injustice, and thought, What’s the point? We watch the news, scroll through social media, and wonder if the world has forgotten how to care.

But then, the lyrics take a turn. The cynic—the one who believed everyone was beyond saving—gets proven wrong. Because even the hardest heart can change when faced with grace. Even the most self-centered person can choose compassion. And that’s the miracle of it all: goodness is not just something we witness—it’s something we decide to create.

“So can we do a little good? Maybe give a little more? Work a little harder than we did the day before?”

It sounds so simple, but there’s power in those words. The world doesn’t need more grand gestures or perfect people—it needs ordinary people who are willing to do small, consistent good. People who wake up and decide, I may not be able to fix everything, but I can make something better.

It’s not about changing the world overnight. It’s about changing your world, one act of kindness at a time. Because every small act creates ripples that reach farther than we’ll ever see.

Doing a little good doesn’t require perfection. In fact, it assumes you’ll stumble along the way. The lyrics say it plainly: “It’s an everyday decision, two steps forward, one step back.” That’s the truth of it. Becoming a better person isn’t about never failing—it’s about not giving up when you do.

It’s about showing up again and again, even when the results aren’t instant. It’s about choosing grace when it would be easier to choose indifference.

The beautiful thing about this kind of good is that it’s contagious. One kind act inspires another. One heart opened gives courage to someone else who’s been holding theirs shut.

And before long, those small moments start to add up.

Imagine what would happen if we all decided to do just a little more good today than we did yesterday. Not in a flashy, performative way, but quietly, intentionally. A smile to the cashier who’s had a long day. A message to a friend who’s been quiet lately. A little more patience, a little less judgment.

You see, goodness doesn’t need to be complicated—it just needs to be chosen.

We live in a time where cynicism feels almost fashionable, where distrust feels safer than hope. But the truth is, hope takes courage. Believing in good takes strength. And choosing to be the good takes even more.

It’s easy to stand on the sidelines, analyzing what’s wrong with the world. It’s harder—and holier—to get up and do something about it. Even something small. Even something that might not be noticed.

Because at the end of the day, the world doesn’t need more critics—it needs participants. It needs people who believe that light still matters, that kindness still heals, that compassion still transforms.

The song reminds us that no one is beyond redemption. “Even if you lost your way, you don’t have to stay a lost cause.”

Those words hit deep because we’ve all been lost at some point. We’ve all failed to show up, all fallen short, all chosen the easier path when we should’ve chosen the right one. But that’s the beauty of grace—it doesn’t just forgive, it invites us to begin again.

And maybe that’s what this song is really about—not just doing good, but becoming good. Allowing our hearts to soften again. Allowing our faith in others, and in ourselves, to be restored.

Because the truth is, you don’t have to change the whole world—you just have to change the part you touch.

You can be the reason someone feels seen. You can be the calm in someone’s storm. You can be the light that reminds someone else the darkness isn’t permanent.

Every day, we have that choice. Every day, we can decide whether we’ll add to the bitterness or to the beauty.

It won’t always be easy. Some days, doing good feels thankless. Some days, it feels like shouting into the wind. But even then, it matters. Even then, it shifts something unseen.

Because goodness is never wasted.

It’s like planting seeds—you might never see them bloom, but the world becomes more beautiful because you believed enough to plant them.

And if you’re reading this and thinking, What difference could I really make?—let me tell you this: your small kindness might be the miracle someone else has been praying for.

The extra patience you show. The forgiveness you extend. The love you give even when you don’t have much left. Those things might not make headlines, but they make history in the hearts they touch.

So, yes—be the one who does a little good.

Be the one who chooses gentleness in a world that rewards aggression. Be the one who believes that kindness isn’t weakness, it’s strength. Be the one who keeps showing up, even when it feels like no one notices.

Because someone always notices.

Maybe it’s the person on the receiving end. Maybe it’s someone watching quietly, being reminded that good still exists. Maybe it’s you, rediscovering that doing good feels better than giving up.

The truth is, goodness changes not only the world—but also the heart of the one who gives it.

So today, and every day after, take the chance to do a little good. Give a little more than you did yesterday. Forgive a little faster. Listen a little longer. Love a little stronger.

It won’t be perfect. It won’t be easy. But it will always be worth it.

Because goodness isn’t just what we do—it’s who we become.

And if we all decided to “do a little good,” this tired world of ours might just start to heal in ways we never imagined.

It Is Well Even Now

There are seasons in life that steal your breath—not because of beauty, but because of the ache that settles so deep inside you’re not sure you’ll ever find your way out of it. Seasons where loneliness doesn’t feel like a moment but a companion. Seasons where your heart breaks in places you didn’t know could fracture. Seasons where the storm refuses to pass, no matter how many times you look to the horizon for the smallest hint of clearing. And in those moments, when everything feels fragile and uncertain, there rises a quiet, trembling prayer from somewhere deep within: Make it well with my soul… please, Lord. Make it well with my soul.

Those words aren’t a declaration of strength. They are an admission of need—an honest confession that we cannot hold ourselves together, not this time. They are the whispered plea of a heart that knows it’s not okay, and yet longs to be. They are the soft cry of a soul desperate for peace, the kind only heaven knows how to give. And perhaps that is where the miracle begins—not in the fixing of circumstances, but in the invitation to Jesus to sit with us in the middle of the mess.

Don’t let me face this loneliness alone.

It’s one of the most honest prayers a human heart can pray. Because loneliness isn’t always the absence of people. Sometimes it’s the absence of hope, the absence of direction, the absence of answers. Sometimes you can be surrounded by an entire world and still feel like you are walking through your valley alone. But the cry of the believer—especially the weary believer—is this: Lord, stay with me. Please don’t leave me here by myself.

What makes these words so sacred is that they aren’t prayed from a mountaintop. They rise from the valley—the valley of fear, of heartbreak, of uncertainty, of exhaustion. They rise from the place where tears fall freely and questions pile up. They rise from the quiet, wordless sobbing that happens when night settles in and the world goes still, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your fears, and your longing for relief.

And yet, Scripture tells us over and over again that Jesus is near to the brokenhearted. Not near the strong, the successful, the put-together, the ones who already know what to do. No—He draws closest to the crushed in spirit, the drained, the bruised, the ones who feel like they’ve been holding their breath for months. He doesn’t avoid our sorrow; He enters it. He doesn’t pull away from pain; He wraps Himself around it. This is not a distant Savior. This is the God who sits and weeps with those who weep. This is the One who kneels beside us, whispering strength into the cracks.

Jesus, could You please just sit and cry with me?

There is something indescribably healing about that prayer. It acknowledges a truth we often forget: we weren’t made to suffer alone. We weren’t designed to carry every burden on our backs. We weren’t created to hold ourselves up by sheer force of will. No—a thousand times no. We were created for companionship with the One who understands us at our core. We were created for the kind of nearness that doesn’t require words, only presence. And sometimes the holiest moment of all is when God Himself sits with us in our sadness.

Because here is the breathtaking truth: He does not rush us. He is not impatient. He doesn’t demand that we pull ourselves together or pretend to be okay. He sits. He stays. He cries. And in those tears—divine tears mingling with human sorrow—something inside us softens. Something inside begins to heal. Not because the storm is gone, but because we are no longer weathering it alone.

When the storm is raging, please don’t let me go.

Storms have a way of making us feel forgotten. The winds howl, the waves rise, and suddenly the promise that God is near feels thin, almost distant. But the voice that calms the sea hasn’t lost its authority. The power that spoke “Peace, be still” still whispers into our chaos today. It may not always silence the waves immediately, but it has a way of silencing the fear inside our chest. It has a way of steadying trembling hands and reminding the heart of a truth stronger than the storm: You are held.

Oh, voice that calms the sea—keep whispering to me.

Until my heartbeat steadies.

Until my tears slow.

Until my soul remembers what my mind forgets.

Until I can breathe again.

Until I can sing again.

Until the words It is well don’t feel like a lie, but a lifeline.

Because that’s the thing: “It is well with my soul” isn’t a sentence born of ease. It’s born of trust. It’s born of choosing to believe that God is still God when life feels unbearable. It’s born of surrendering the need to understand in exchange for the freedom to rest. It’s born of holding the hand of Jesus and saying, “I don’t like this. I don’t want this. I don’t understand this. But whatever my lot, You are still my God.”

And that declaration—that quiet, steady truth—is what begins to settle the soul.

When the world falls apart around you.

When relationships fracture.

When diagnoses arrive.

When finances thin.

When exhaustion becomes a second skin.

When grief feels like a weight you’re dragging through your days.

When night after night offers no rest.

When you feel left behind, unseen, unheard, or overwhelmed…

You can still whisper, “It is well.”

Not because the circumstances deserve it.

But because your God does.

He is still God when your heart aches.

He is still God when your prayers feel unanswered.

He is still God when you sit in the dark and wonder where hope has gone.

He is still God when your strength gives out.

He is still God when the future feels uncertain.

He is still God when your soul trembles.

And because He is still God, you can rest—even in the storm.

There is no pain too deep for Him to enter.

No night too long for Him to endure with you.

No burden too heavy for Him to lift.

No fear too loud for Him to hush.

No brokenness too severe for Him to heal.

No loneliness too profound for Him to fill.

This is the God who makes it well.

Not by erasing the storm, but by joining you in it.

Not by silencing the thunder, but by speaking softer than the lightning strikes.

Not by removing the valley, but by walking beside you through every shadow.

Not by preventing the tears, but by catching every single one.

The peace you seek—the peace heaven knows—that is the peace He offers.

A peace that seeps into the cracks.

A peace that holds you together when life pulls you apart.

A peace that whispers, “You are not alone.”

A peace that reminds you that even here, even now, even this…

He is still God.

And so, when the night feels too long and the tears come without warning, breathe this truth:

Lord, make it well with my soul.

When fear rises like a tide,

Make it well with my soul.

When loneliness settles in the corners of your heart,

Make it well with my soul.

When the journey ahead feels impossible,

Make it well with my soul.

When grief weighs heavy,

Make it well with my soul.

When hope feels fragile,

Make it well with my soul.

And He will.

Not all at once, not always in the way you expect, but steadily, faithfully, gently.

Because the One who calms the sea can calm the soul.

The One who holds the universe can hold your heart.

The One who hears the cries of the broken can hear the cry you whisper in the dark.

And in time—in His time—you’ll find that your trembling prayer becomes a confident declaration.

Not because life has become perfect, but because you have become anchored.

Anchored to the God who stays.

Anchored to the Savior who whispers peace.

Anchored to the One who is faithful even when the storm rages.

Until at last, with quiet conviction, your heart will sing:

It is well with my soul.