When Sorrows Like Sea Billows Roll

If you’ve been to a Christian, or even secular funeral in the past hundred years or so, chances are decent that you’ve heard “It Is Well,” a hymn written by Horatio Spafford in 1873 (music by Philip Bliss). If you don’t know it, take a listen here.

It’s a beloved hymn for funerals, because it manages to capture the enormity of grief, but also calmness, quiet, and hope.

“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’s words are Christian, but—like all great art—the message of that first verse transcends sect or religion.

It was played at my own father’s funeral, eight years ago next week.

A life raft

I want to stay on this hymn for a moment, because the story behind it is worth telling.

In 1870, Horatio Spafford had a full, rich life. He probably would have called it “blessed.” He had a family—a wife (Anna) and five children—a very successful law practice in Chicago, real estate investments, the respect of the community. Then, his young son died, and shortly after in October 1871, he lost most of his fortune in the Great Chicago Fire. Two years later, he was starting to rebuild his life, literally. His family had booked a trip to Europe, scheduled to sail on the SS Ville du Havre. Just before departure, Horatio was forced to stay behind to deal with the rezoning of his investments, and his family sailed without him. He was to join them a few days later.

Nearing England, the Ville du Havre was struck by another ship and sank in 12 minutes, killing 226 people, including all four of Horatio’s remaining children. His wife Anna sent him a telegram with only two words: “Saved alone.”

Horatio immediately sailed to join her, and on the long crossing, he wrote the words to “It Is Well.”

“When sorrows like sea billows roll.”

Can you imagine writing that? On the deck of a ship, watching the same waves that took almost your entire family. He must have pictured his daughters drowning over and over during that crossing.

The refrain of the hymn repeats, almost like a mantra:

“It is well (it is well),
with my soul (with my soul),
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

We hear it as peace, thanks to Bliss’s music. But I think it must have been written in agony, a father’s struggle to hold onto the faith that had sustained him thus far. Words repeated over and over, a tiny life raft in a monstrous storm.

The Beauty in death?

American culture doesn’t deal well with death. In our movies, people die quickly and painlessly, or they die brutally but as a glorious sacrifice.

The realities are kept tidily behind the closed doors of hospital rooms or nursing homes. The messy, horrible details…not only does no one want to hear them, very few people want to even acknowledge they exist.

We do our best to push it away, hide it, ignore it. But death is a Truth.

I’m thinking about this today, because it is very close to the anniversary of my dad’s death, and it was not quick or painless or glorious or sacrificial. That’s not how a slow-moving cancer works.

I can tell you about the horrors of a loved body as it breaks down, and maybe I should, because I believe our culture would be better if we collectively dealt with our horror and terror and squeamishness. But I’m not going to, at least not in this post. These are among the most private memories I have, the most precious, the most meaningful. Maybe I’ll talk about them in a later post someday, when I’m more used to public vulnerability and feeling more courageous, but not today.

Instead, I want to talk about one moment of Beauty that I experienced during that time. There were many, as incongruous as they were powerful.

My Dad was a proud, strong man. His work had always been physical, and he spent most of his life in the Army, the National Guard, and the Army Reserves. (The image for this post is of a coffin medallion designated for military service.)

He was a drill sergeant. for God’s sake. In his spare time he was an amateur mechanic and, near the end of his life, a stock car driver on a dirt track. He gave hugs awkwardly, and was never casual with a touch. He was a man who always helped others and never, never asked help for himself.

But there came a time when he needed it, just to shuffle from the bed to the bathroom.

I remember the weight of his arm around my shoulder. I remember the feel of his back, swollen and squishy with fluid, under my hand. My mom under his other arm, both of us quietly careful to make our support both rock-solid and completely gentle. Matching our steps to his and to each other’s, vigilant to anything that might cause additional pain. Loaning him our physical strength for a bit, when his own was depleted.

There was Beauty in that effort. There was Beauty in getting to touch my father when he was most vulnerable, in being allowed past the strength and the pride. There was Beauty in learning to work together with mom, collaborating with her, even conspiring with her against a stubborn man, to try and provide whatever comfort and ease we could. There was Beauty in how we were suddenly forced to communicate in new ways, deeper and Truer ways than we were used to.

Beautiful isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always golden flowers against a deep blue sky.

Sometimes it’s awful.

But it still catches our breath and imprints itself on us. It finds a way to swell our hearts and give us joy, even if that joy is all mixed up with fear and grief.

Maybe especially if it’s all mixed up.

“It is well, it is well, with my soul.”

P.S. I could dedicate an entire post to my mom. I had often heard people described as “a rock” during hard times, but I’ve only ever seen it the once, and now I know exactly why that metaphor is so apt. Her strength and stamina were (and continue to be) inspiring.