I Will Rise

There’s a peace I’ve come to know—one that doesn’t make sense on paper, one that defies logic and circumstance. It’s not the kind of peace that comes from everything going right or from a life free of pain. It’s deeper than that—stronger, quieter, steadier. It’s the peace that comes when you’ve faced the hardest parts of life and discovered that you’re not facing them alone. It’s the peace that whispers in the middle of the night when the world feels heavy: “You can rest now. I’m still here.”

Though my heart and flesh may fail—and they often do—there is still an anchor for my soul. Something that holds me fast when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. I’ve learned that the anchor isn’t found in control, or in answers, or even in understanding. It’s found in Jesus—the One who has overcome. The One who sits in the storm with me, who doesn’t always calm the wind immediately, but who steadies me so I can stand.

There are moments in life that strip away everything you thought was secure—illness, loss, fear, uncertainty. When Tim collapsed and the seizures began, our lives changed forever. I remember the shock, the panic, the ache of watching someone you love lose control of their own body. I remember wondering if we’d ever find our footing again. I remember the long nights when the fear sat heavy in the room, when my prayers felt too small and my strength too thin.

But even in that valley, even in the chaos, I found peace—not because the situation made sense, but because His presence never left. When the world felt too unstable, His grace became my ground. When I was too weak to pray, He prayed through the silence. When I couldn’t see the way forward, He became the light that guided the next step.

That’s what this song captures so beautifully. “Jesus has overcome, and the grave is overwhelmed.” Those words remind me that the worst thing is never the last thing. That every fear, every sorrow, every loss has already met its match in the resurrection. The grave—the symbol of finality, of defeat—is overwhelmed by His victory.

There’s so much comfort in knowing that death itself couldn’t hold Him. That means neither can despair hold me. Neither can anxiety hold Tim. Neither can fear hold our future. Because when Jesus rose, He didn’t just rise for Himself—He rose for every one of us who would one day walk through our own versions of Good Friday, waiting for resurrection to come.

Sometimes faith feels like holding your breath in that in-between space—between what’s broken and what’s promised. Between pain and healing. Between sorrow and joy. But the promise is still true: “I will rise when He calls my name.”One day, every burden will fall away. Every ache will ease. Every unanswered prayer will find its meaning. One day, I’ll see the full picture—the reason for every tear, the purpose behind every storm.

And on that day, there will be no more sorrow. No more pain. No more fear of what tomorrow might bring. The weight that I carry now will lift, and I’ll stand whole before the One who carried me through it all.

But even now—here, in this fragile, imperfect world—I get glimpses of that rising. Every time Tim finds peace in the middle of a seizure, every time I feel joy in the middle of exhaustion, every time hope flickers again when I thought it had burned out—I see resurrection life unfolding right here on earth.

The words “I will rise on eagles’ wings” bring such an image of freedom. Eagles don’t fight the wind—they ride it. They don’t resist the storm—they soar higher through it. Maybe that’s what faith is like. It doesn’t mean we avoid the storms, but that we learn to rise through them—lifted by the very winds that once threatened to break us.

There’s something sacred about the image of falling on our knees before God. It’s a posture of surrender, but it’s also one of strength. Because when you’ve walked through enough of life’s pain, you realize that falling before Him isn’t defeat—it’s homecoming. It’s where peace begins again. It’s where every fear finally quiets.

I think about the moments I’ve knelt in prayer, not with eloquent words, but with tears. The moments I’ve said, “I can’t do this anymore,” and somehow, that’s when His strength filled in the gaps of my weakness. I’ve learned that faith doesn’t require the absence of pain; it simply requires trust in the midst of it.

And so I can say, “It is well.” Not because everything is well right now, but because I know it will be. Because even when my heart breaks, it breaks in the hands of a God who can heal. Because even when I walk through shadows, I know who walks beside me. Because even when I fail, His grace doesn’t.

When the time comes—whether that’s the end of a hard season or the end of this life—I know there will be a rising. There will be a moment when all of this struggle gives way to glory. When every unanswered question finds its resolution in His presence. When every piece of my weary heart finally understands the love that’s been holding it all along.

But until that day, I’ll keep rising here—little by little, one moment at a time. Rising above fear, rising above despair, rising above the temptation to give up. Because I know He’s already won.

Every sunrise reminds me of resurrection—that darkness only ever gets temporary permission. Every act of kindness reminds me that love still rules this world. Every time I hear Tim laugh, despite everything, I’m reminded that joy can still exist in the middle of pain. Those are all small risings—tiny previews of the eternity we’re moving toward.

There’s peace in that. Deep, soul-anchoring peace. The kind that doesn’t come from circumstance but from knowing who holds tomorrow. The kind that allows me to whisper, even through tears, “It is well with my soul.”

And when I finally stand before Him—when all the worry and waiting and wondering are over—I imagine I’ll fall to my knees, not out of fear, but out of awe. Because I’ll see Him as He is—the Light that never left, the Love that never gave up, the Savior who carried every burden I thought I bore alone.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll look back on all of it—the storms, the pain, the waiting—and finally understand that even in the darkest moments, I was rising all along.

Because Jesus has overcome.
The grave is overwhelmed.
The victory is won.

And until the day I rise for good, I will keep rising in faith. One step. One prayer. One act of love at a time.