Out of a passenger ship sinking came a beautiful worship song by a dad who lost his family on that fateful day.

Horatio Gates Spafford - The story behind the hymn "It is well with my soul" THE STORY OF THE “IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL”

Horatio Gates Spafford was born in New York, on 20th October 1828, but it was in Chicago that he became well-known for his clear Christian testimony. He and his wife Anna were active in their church, and their home was always open to visitors. They counted the world-famous evangelist, Dwight L. Moody, among their friends. They were blest with five children and considerable wealth. Horatio was a lawyer and owned a great deal of property in his home city.

Not unlike Job in the Old Testament of the Bible, tragedy came in great measure to this happy home. When four years old, their son, Horatio Jnr, died suddenly of scarlet fever. Then only a year later, in October 1871, a massive fire swept through downtown Chicago, devastating the city, including many properties owned by Horatio. That day, almost 300 people lost their lives, and around 100,000 were made homeless. Despite their own substantial financial loss, the Spaffords sought to demonstrate the love of Christ, by assisting those who were grief-stricken and in great need.

Two years later, in 1873, Spafford decided his family should take a holiday in England, knowing that his friend, the evangelist D. L. Moody, would be preaching there in the autumn. Horatio was delayed because of business, so he sent his family ahead: his wife and their four remaining children, all daughters, 11 year old Anna, 9 year old Margaret Lee, 5 year old Elizabeth, and 2 year old Tanetta.

ANOTHER TRAGEDY On 22nd November 1873, while crossing the Atlantic on the steamship, Ville du Havre, their vessel was struck by an iron sailing ship. Two hundred and twenty-six people lost their lives, as the Ville du Havre sank within only twelve minutes.

All four of Horatio Spafford’s daughters perished, but remarkably Anna Spafford survived the tragedy. Those rescued, including Anna, who was found unconscious, floating on a plank of wood, subsequently arrived in Cardiff, South Wales. Upon arrival there, Anna immediately sent a telegram to her husband, which included the words “Saved alone….”

Receiving Anna’s message, he set off at once to be reunited with his wife. One particular day, during the voyage, the captain summoned him to the bridge of the vessel. Pointing to his charts, he explained that they were then passing over the very spot where the Ville du Havre had sunk, and where his daughters had died. It is said that Spafford returned to his cabin and wrote the hymn “It is well with my soul” there and then, the first line of which is, “When peace like a river, attendeth my way..”

There are other accounts that say that it was written at a later date, but obviously, the voyage was one of deep suffering and is the clear inspiration of the moving and well-loved hymn. Horatio’s faith in God never faltered. He later wrote to Anna’s half-sister, “On Thursday last, we passed over the spot where she went down, in mid-ocean, the waters three miles deep. But I do not think of our dear ones there. They are safe….. dear lambs”.

After Anna was rescued, Pastor Nathaniel Weiss, one of the ministers traveling with the surviving group, remembered hearing Anna say, “God gave me four daughters. Now they have been taken from me. Someday I will understand why.”

Naturally, Anna was utterly devastated, but she testified that in her grief and despair, she had been conscious of a soft voice speaking to her, “You were saved for a purpose!” She remembered something a friend had once said, “It’s easy to be grateful and good when you have so much, but take care that you are not a fair-weather friend to God.”

Following this deep tragedy, Anna gave birth to three more children, but she and Horatio were not spared even more sadness, as on February 11th, 1880, their only son, Horatio (named after the brother who had died, and also after his father), he also died at the age of four.

FURTHER SERVICE In August 1881 the Spaffords left America with a number of other like-minded Christians and settled in Jerusalem. There they served the needy, helped the poor, and cared for the sick, and took in homeless children. Their desire was to show those living about them, the love of Jesus.

The original manuscript of Spafford’s hymn has only four verses, but later another verse was added. The music, which was written by Philip Bliss, was named after the ship on which Horatio and Anna’s daughters had died – Ville du Havre.

How great is our God~the story of Laminin , the molecular structure that shaped like the cross of Christ that holds our bodies together

It says in the word that we are uniquily and wonderfully made. When he made us our bodies were made of a molecular structure with the shape of the cross of Christ.How cool is that?

We must give our kids permission to cry after we lose someone very dear to us

Once upon a time, in a small town nestled among rolling hills, lived a young girl named Evelyn. She was just eight years old when her world shattered. Her beloved father, a firefighter, lost his life while saving others from a raging inferno. The flames consumed not only the building but also a piece of Evelyn’s heart.

The funeral was a blur of tear-streaked faces, somber hymns, and the scent of lilies. Evelyn clung to her mother’s hand, her small fingers trembling. But amidst the grief-stricken crowd, she felt lost.

Her father’s absence echoed in every corner of their home—the empty chair at the dinner table, the unworn coat hanging by the door, and the silence that enveloped their once lively living room. Evelyn yearned for stories, memories, anything to keep her father alive in her heart. But the house remained silent, and the photo frames collected dust.

Days turned into weeks, and Evelyn’s grief festered. She watched her classmates laugh, play, and share stories about their families. But she had no stories left to tell. Her father’s voice faded from her memory, replaced by an ache that settled deep within her chest.

She wondered if she was allowed to grieve, or if her mother’s silence meant she should forget.

In school, Evelyn’s grades plummeted. She couldn’t concentrate on math problems or history lessons. Instead, she doodled fire trucks and imagined her father riding one, his smile wide and proud.

The other children whispered behind her back, wondering why she was different. They didn’t understand that grief had wrapped its icy fingers around her heart, freezing her emotions.

One day, during recess, Evelyn sat alone on the swing. The wind tugged at her hair, and tears blurred her vision. A girl named Lily approached, her eyes filled with curiosity. “Why don’t you play with us?” Lily asked.

Evelyn hesitated. “I don’t know how.” Lily tilted her head. “How can you not know? Everyone plays.”

Evelyn’s voice trembled. “My dad died. I miss him.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She sat beside Evelyn. “My grandma died last year. It hurt a lot.”

Evelyn blinked. “Did you cry?” Lily nodded. “Yeah. But my mom said it’s okay to cry. It helps.”

Evelyn thought about her mother, who never shed a tear. She wondered if her grief was wrong somehow. “What if you can’t cry?”

Lily shrugged. “Maybe you need someone to help you.” And so, Evelyn and Lily became unlikely friends. Lily listened as Evelyn whispered stories about her father—the way he laughed, the bedtime tales he spun, and the warmth of his hugs.

Lily encouraged her to draw pictures, to write letters to her dad, and to visit his grave.

Slowly, Evelyn began to thaw. One rainy afternoon, Evelyn stood before her father’s tombstone. The raindrops mingled with her tears. “I miss you,” she whispered. “I wish you were here.”

And then, for the first time since the funeral, Evelyn felt a release. Her grief poured out, cleansing her soul.

She realized that grieving wasn’t a sign of weakness; it was a tribute to love. Margaret watched from a distance, her own tears hidden behind dark sunglasses. She saw her daughter finally grieve, and in that moment, she understood.

Evelyn needed permission—to cry, to remember, and to heal.

From then on, Margaret and Evelyn visited the cemetery together. They shared stories, laughter, and tears. And as the seasons changed, so did their hearts.

Evelyn learned that grief wasn’t a burden to bear alone—it was a bridge connecting her to her father’s memory.

And so, in that small town, amidst rolling hills and rain-kissed tombstones, Evelyn discovered that healing began with tears, and love endured even after loss.

🌿🌸 I crafted this story to explore the impact of traumatic losses on children who struggle to grieve. The characters and their journey represent the complexities of grief and the importance of allowing oneself to mourn.

In this story we discover the impact that losing a classmate has on them

Title: “Fading Sunflowers”

The sunflowers in Mrs. Thompson’s classroom wilted the day Emily died. Their vibrant yellow petals, once reaching for the sun, now drooped like heavy hearts. The fourth-grade class at Maplewood Elementary School was forever changed.

Emily was the quiet girl who sat in the corner, her eyes always downcast. She wore oversized sweaters that swallowed her thin frame, and her brown hair hung in a tangled curtain around her face. But beneath her shy exterior, there was a depth—an unspoken sadness that drew the other kids to her.

The news spread like wildfire. Emily had undergone hip surgery to correct a congenital issue. The procedure was supposed to be routine, but something went terribly wrong. The pain became unbearable, and the doctors prescribed opioids. Emily’s parents trusted the medical professionals—they had no reason not to.

But the pills took hold of their daughter, pulling her into a dark abyss.

In the days following Emily’s death, the classroom felt emptier. Her desk remained untouched, a silent reminder of her absence. The other students whispered about her—how she had been there one day, and the next, she was gone.

They didn’t understand the gravity of it all, but they sensed the heaviness in the air.

Liam, the class clown, stopped telling jokes. His laughter turned hollow, and he stared out the window during recess, lost in thoughts he couldn’t articulate. He wondered why Emily had to suffer, why the world could be so cruel.

Sophie, the bookworm, buried herself in novels. She read about magical lands and brave heroes, hoping to escape the reality that now haunted her dreams.

She wondered if Emily’s pain had been as sharp as the paper cuts she got from turning pages too quickly.

Ethan, the soccer star, kicked the ball harder during gym class. His anger spilled onto the field, and he scored goal after goal, as if each one could erase the ache in his chest. He wished he could kick away the pain for Emily too.

And then there was Ava, Emily’s closest friend. Ava had shared secrets with her during lunchtime—about crushes, fears, and dreams. Now, she sat alone at the lunch table, staring at the empty seat across from her.

The cafeteria buzzed with chatter, but Ava heard only silence. Mrs. Thompson tried to maintain normalcy. She taught math and science, wiped the chalkboard, and smiled at her students.

But her eyes held a sadness that no lesson plan could erase.

She wondered if she could have done more for Emily, if she should have noticed the signs.

The school held an assembly to talk about opioids and their dangers. Parents hugged their children a little tighter that evening, promising to protect them from anything that could harm.

But the damage was done—the sunflowers in Mrs. Thompson’s classroom would never bloom the same way again.

As the weeks turned into months, the classmates found solace in each other. They formed an unspoken pact—a promise to remember Emily, to fight against the darkness that had taken her.

They planted new sunflower seeds, hoping they would grow tall and strong, a testament to resilience. In the end, Emily’s legacy wasn’t just a wilted flower or an empty desk. It was the compassion that bloomed within her classmates—their determination to turn tragedy into hope.

And as the sunflowers swayed in the breeze, they whispered secrets of resilience, reminding everyone that even in loss, life could find a way to grow.

The connection between loss and physical and mental ailments.

We must never underestimate the impact that grief has on the human body.

Grief’s Silent Symphony

In the quiet chambers of the heart, grief weaves its intricate tapestry. It is a symphony of sorrow, a composition that resonates through every cell, sinew, and bone.

Let me tell you the tale of how grief affects the human body—a story of shadows and echoes. The lungs, those delicate bellows, struggle to find rhythm. Each breath carries the echo of a name unspoken.

Oxygen becomes scarce, and the body gasps for solace. Tears flow, washing away the salt of grief, leaving behind a residue of ache.

Act II: The Anatomy of Longing Grief infiltrates the nervous system, rewiring its pathways. Neurons fire erratically, sparking memories like distant constellations. The brain, once a symphony of joy and curiosity, now hums a mournful tune. It searches for answers in the dark corridors of loss.

The skin, our largest organ, tightens. It craves touch—the warmth of a hand, the brush of lips—but finds only emptiness. Nerve endings ache, yearning for connection. Sleep becomes elusive; dreams are haunted by fragmented conversations with the departed.

Act III: The Melancholy Melodies Deep within the marrow, grief composes its most intricate passages. Bone cells remember. They ache, not from physical strain, but from the weight of memory. The spine curves, burdened by the stories left untold. Vertebrae whisper secrets to one another, seeking solace.

The stomach, that pit of emotions, churns. It digests sorrow, turning it into knots of longing. Appetite wanes, and food loses its flavor. The body mourns not only the departed but also the taste of shared meals, the laughter around a table.

Finale: The Healing Overture And yet, amidst this symphony of sorrow, there lies resilience. The body, like a seasoned musician, adapts. It learns to carry grief as a companion, not an adversary. Muscles stretch, allowing space for both ache and hope. The heart, scarred but still beating, finds new rhythms.

Slowly, the symphony transforms. Grief becomes a bittersweet melody, a tribute to what was lost. It no longer paralyzes; instead, it propels. The body, once fractured, knits itself together with threads of acceptance.

And so, the curtain falls on our tale. Grief, the silent conductor, bows to the resilience of the human body. It fades into memory, leaving behind a symphony—a testament to love, loss, and the indomitable spirit that carries us forward. Note: This story is a work of fiction, inspired by the universal experience of grief.

How to survive the first 6 months after the loss of a child

In the quiet hours of dawn, when the world was still wrapped in a silvery haze, a young mother named Eliza cradled her newborn daughter in her arms. The room smelled of antiseptic and hope—a place where life and death danced on the edge of a fragile precipice.

The child, swaddled in soft blankets, had her father’s eyes—deep pools of curiosity and wonder. Eliza traced the delicate curve of her daughter’s cheek, marveling at the miracle of existence. She had dreamed of this moment for months, imagined the laughter, the sleepless nights, the first steps. But life has a way of weaving its own tapestry, and sometimes the threads fray and unravel.

The doctor had been solemn when he delivered the news. A rare congenital heart defect, he said. A fragile vessel that couldn’t withstand the demands of life outside the womb. Eliza’s heart shattered as she listened, her dreams slipping through her fingers like sand.

Days turned into weeks, and the hospital room became their cocoon. Eliza and her husband, James, took turns holding their daughter, whispering lullabies and promises. They named her Lily—a name that held both fragility and resilience.

Lily’s tiny chest rose and fell, her breaths like fragile butterflies. The nurses came and went, their footsteps hushed, their eyes filled with compassion. Eliza watched the monitors, willing the numbers to stabilize, to defy the odds. But the universe had other plans.

One night, as the moon painted silver streaks across the floor, Lily’s breathing grew labored. Eliza clung to her daughter, tears blurring her vision. James held her hand, his knuckles white with fear. They whispered love into the darkness, their voices a lifeline.

And then, in the quietest of moments, Lily slipped away. Her heart fluttered like a wounded bird, then stilled. Eliza’s grief was a tempest—a howling wind that threatened to tear her apart. She cradled her daughter’s lifeless form, her tears soaking the blankets.

In the days that followed, Eliza wandered through a fog. The world outside the hospital seemed distant and irrelevant. Friends and family offered condolences, but their words bounced off her like raindrops on a windowpane. She clung to Lily’s memory—the weight of her in her arms, the warmth of her breath against her skin.

James, too, grieved in his own way. He planted a tree in their backyard—a cherry blossom, delicate and fleeting. Its petals would bloom each spring, a reminder of their daughter’s brief existence. Eliza watched him dig the earth, his hands raw and determined. Together, they watered the tree, whispered secrets to its roots.

Life moved forward, as it always does. Eliza returned to work, her heart a scarred landscape. She saw other mothers with their healthy babies, their laughter like shards of glass. She wondered if Lily watched over them, a silent guardian from the other side.

And sometimes, in the quiet hours of dawn, Eliza would sit beneath the cherry blossom tree. Its petals would fall around her, like snowflakes caught in a gentle breeze. She would close her eyes and imagine Lily’s laughter, her tiny fingers reaching for the sky.

In the language of loss, Eliza learned to find beauty in the broken places. Lily’s memory became a fragile treasure—a star that still shone, even in the darkest nights. And as the seasons changed, so did Eliza. She carried her daughter’s spirit within her, a beacon of love that transcended time and space.

And so, beneath the cherry blossom tree, Eliza whispered her daughter’s name to the wind. Lily—the fragile heart that had touched their lives so briefly, yet left an indelible mark.

So, what does it mean to grieve for a child? Some thoughts.

Whispers of Remembrance

The air hung heavy with grief, as if the very fabric of the world had torn. The small room, once filled with laughter and the pitter-patter of little feet, now echoed with emptiness. The family sat together, their hearts stitched together by sorrow.

Evelyn, the mother, clutched a faded teddy bear to her chest. Its fur had lost its luster, just like her eyes. She traced the stitches on its paw, remembering how her son, Oliver, used to cuddle it during thunderstorms. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within her soul.

David, the father, sat by the window, staring at raindrops racing down the glass. His hands trembled as he clung to a crumpled drawing—a stick-figure family, complete with a little boy holding hands with his parents. Oliver’s masterpiece. The ink had blurred from tears.

Their friends, Anna and Michael, stood by their side. Anna, with her gentle touch, whispered, “We’re here for you.” Michael, the strong oak, held David’s shoulder, wordlessly sharing the weight of grief.

Days turned into weeks, and the house became a museum of memories. Oliver’s room remained untouched—the dinosaur posters, the half-finished puzzle, the soccer ball gathering dust.

Evelyn would tiptoe in, inhaling the scent of her son, hoping to find solace in the remnants of his existence. The neighbors brought casseroles and condolences. They hugged the family, their eyes filled with pity. But it was Anna who sat with Evelyn, sipping tea, and listened to her broken heart. Anna didn’t offer solutions; she simply held space for the pain.

Michael took David fishing. They sat by the lake, lines cast into the water, and talked about everything except loss. Sometimes, silence was the best balm. Michael knew that.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Anna suggested a ritual. They gathered in the backyard, each holding a paper lantern. The flames flickered, illuminating their tear-streaked faces. They whispered messages to Oliver, their words carried by the wind. Evelyn’s lantern bore the words, “You are loved, my sweet boy.” David’s read, “We’ll keep your memory alive.” Anna’s lantern danced with, “Fly high, little star.” And Michael’s, “We’re here, always.”

As the lanterns floated into the night, the family felt a strange mix of sorrow and release. Oliver’s spirit seemed to ride the currents, soaring beyond the clouds. Months passed, and the raw edges of grief softened. Anna and Michael continued to visit, not with answers, but with presence. They planted flowers in Oliver’s memory, tended to the garden, and shared stories of their own losses.

They knew that healing wasn’t linear, that sometimes it was a dance between laughter and tears. One day, Evelyn found a letter in the mailbox. It was from Oliver’s best friend, Lucas. He wrote about missing Oliver’s laughter, their secret hideout in the woods, and how he’d saved a seat for him at lunch. Evelyn cried, touched by Lucas’s words.

She invited Lucas over. The boy hesitated at the doorstep, clutching a soccer ball. “I thought we could play,” he said. And they did—kicking the ball, laughing, and remembering Oliver’s goofy goal celebrations.

The family learned that friends weren’t there to fix broken hearts. They were there to hold the pieces together, to create a mosaic of love and memories. And in that fragile beauty, they found hope.

Oliver’s light still flickered, guiding them through the darkness.

When will you know you’re recover from grief?

When you emerge from the depths of grief, it’s like finding a fragile bloom after a long, harsh winter.

The pain that once consumed you begins to recede, like the tide pulling away from the shore.

Here are some sensations that often accompany recovery from grief:

Lightness: The weight that pressed upon your chest starts to lift. It’s as if the leaden cloak of sorrow is gradually replaced by a gossamer shawl—a reminder of what was, but no longer suffocating.

Nostalgia: Memories of your loved one no longer pierce like shards of glass. Instead, they become tender, like old photographs yellowing at the edges. You can hold them without bleeding.

Resilience: You notice your own strength—the way your heart stitches itself back together, scar tissue forming over the raw wound. You become a testament to the human spirit’s capacity to heal.

Laughter: It arrives unexpectedly, like a shy visitor knocking on your door. You let it in, surprised by the sound of your own mirth. It doesn’t betray the love you still carry; rather, it honors it.

Acceptance: Grief no longer feels like a tempest raging within. Instead, it’s a gentle rain—an ache that nourishes the soil of your soul. You learn to dance in its rhythm. Hope: The horizon stretches out before you, and you glimpse the possibility of joy. It’s not a betrayal of your loss; it’s an affirmation that life continues, even after the darkest nights.

Remember, recovery from grief is not linear. It’s a winding path, sometimes obscured by mist, but it leads to a place where healing and remembering coexist.