Sunday Afternoon Musings
It Stayed with Me
This morning I played the organ at church.
The closing hymn was It Is Well with My Soul.
I practiced it early this morning before anyone arrived in the building, and each time I played, I couldn’t get through it without tears.
There is something so honest about that hymn. It doesn’t promise a life without sorrow or heartache. It doesn’t pretend that faith erases grief. It simply speaks of trusting God in the middle of life’s storms.
Today was the missionary farewell of a wonderful young man in our ward. The chapel, overflow, and gym were filled nearly to capacity with family, friends, and ward members who had come to support him.
Before the meeting began, I quietly prayed.
I told Heavenly Father that today wasn’t about me. I asked for the strength to play this hymn without drawing attention to myself.
Then I leaned over and told the chorister, “If I stop playing, it will be because I can’t see the music. Just keep singing. I’ll catch up.”
She smiled and hugged me.
The meeting was wonderful. The young man bore a pure and heartfelt testimony. He is one of my favorites. He has the best smile… and the best hair. I will miss seeing him each Sunday.
When I sat back down at the organ after the talks, I rubbed my hands together and placed them on the keys.
Then I played the opening chords.
Something changed.
The organ was full and strong, every pipe open. My hands felt steadier than they had all morning. As the congregation sang, I felt joy rise above the tenderness I had carried for weeks. I found myself moving with the music—not performing, simply feeling every word and every note.
This year marks forty years since my first husband, Martin, died.
These are the countdown days—the days between before and after.
My tears have come quickly this year. But I don’t fight them, and I am not ashamed of them. They are simply part of remembering a life that forever changed the course of my own.
After the closing prayer, I turned the organ to a softer setting and played It Is Well with My Soul again as the postlude. I rarely repeat the closing hymn, but today it stayed with me.
As people quietly left the chapel, the tears came, and I could no longer see the music clearly.
They weren’t tears of despair.
They weren’t tears of sadness.
Just quiet tears that come when your heart recognizes something your words cannot fully explain.
Tears of gratitude.
And I knew, once again, that God had reached me through music.
Sometimes His answers come in scripture.
Sometimes they come in prayer.
And sometimes they come through the quiet assurance of a familiar hymn that reminds me I have never been asked to walk alone.
— Charlene