It Is Well

Five years ago, I said I was going to get a personal tattoo when the time was right. I wanted to sit with the idea for a while, the words, and the motivation behind why. I knew there’d be a day when it would be a gift to myself.

The grief I’ve felt in 2020 has been similar to Decembers past with feelings of uncertainty, loss, isolation, and sadness at the forefront. Over the years the lyrics of two hymns - It Is Well and Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing - have brought comfort to me during difficult times. A line from one is on Michael’s headstone: “It Is Well With My Soul.”

So, this week I decided to take the words and “write it on my heart” (or the inside of my left forearm) as a remembrance of where I’ve come from and as a testimony to the promise of what I hold on to today... It is well.

Not lost on me was the personal tragedies suffered by the lyricist Horatio Spafford. He lost a young son to scarlet fever, followed by the loss his business to the Great Chicago Fire. In 1873, his four remaining children (ages 2-11) perished, and his wife was badly injured when their ship sunk while traveling overseas. He penned the words while on the ship traveling to be with his wife, through the same waters, after their unthinkable loss.

IT IS WELL (WITH MY SOUL)
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
It is well with my soul,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.