What Still Echoes
My son and I have a pretty solid Sunday morning routine.
Especially when we are home—but it carries with us when we’re in my hometown, too.
He has come to expect tacos on the way to church.
Some kids get donuts.
We get breakfast tacos.
This morning, though, we were on the road entirely too early. Not because the service started early—but because 9:30 is engrained into me. A time that lives in my body more than on a clock.
That 9:30 is still two hours later than the 7:30 setup time from when we launched Kingdom in 2018. Back when Sundays started in the dark. When folding chairs, sound checks, and extension cords were acts of obedience. When church meant trailers, early mornings, and faith that showed up before most people were awake.
That rhythm never left me.
So there we were—empty roads, half-awake light, tacos in hand—when the hymn came on.
I’ve sung it many times. In full rooms and half-empty ones. With harmony and without. Sometimes with conviction, sometimes simply because my mouth knew the words by heart.
But this morning it slowed me down.
Turn your eyes upon Jesus.
Look firm in His wonderful face.
Look firm.
Not glance.
Not check in and move on.
But steady your gaze. Anchor it.
And the words continued:
The things of this world will grow strangely dim
in the light of His fullness and grace.
They grow dim not because they disappear—but because something brighter has entered the frame.
His light is blinding. Holy. Awe-producing. It does not merely comfort; it reorients. The world doesn’t vanish—but it loses its sharpness when placed beside a glory that cannot be managed or rushed past.
We don’t look away from that light.
We are awestruck.
And I realized how fitting it was that this hymn—one that has echoed through generations—still finds its way into both impromptu worship sets and carefully planned services. Sung in packed rooms and in churches decades old, holding on by a thread. Often carried by the faithful few—elderly saints who keep showing up, voices steady not because life was easy, but because they learned where to place their eyes.
As church ended, the pastor told the story of It Is Well with My Soul.
Another hymn carried for more than 150 years. Written not from comfort, but from grief. Sung by generations who learned that peace is not the absence of trouble, but the presence of Christ.
Once again, it echoed.
And then—to end the day—I was on FaceTime with Granny.
Without urgency or embellishment, she said what a lifetime has taught her: that without the wisdom and guidance of Jesus Christ daily, we wouldn’t be anything at all. That people forget that. That it is by His grace, His wisdom, and putting Him first—daily—that anything good is accomplished.
No sermon.
Just settled truth.
And it struck me how seamlessly her words fit alongside the hymns that framed the day. The same truth sung in sanctuaries and spoken in living rooms. The same teaching echoed since Jesus said He is the way, the truth, and the life.
The day began with a hymn in the car.
It continued with songs that have endured centuries.
And it ended with a grandmother reminding me—again—that faith is not sustained by novelty, but by daily dependence.
Different voices.
Different moments.
The same echo.