There’s a clothesline in my memory that I can still smell the sun-warmed cotton, a little bit of grass, seeing my grandma’s hands moving fast and sure over the pins. I was five, maybe six, standing beside her, passing up shirts and pillowcases, and she was singing and always singing. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” low and steady, like it wasn’t a performance at all, just something true she needed to say out loud while her hands were busy. That song became a personal prayer, a way to connect with God through her voice. Today, that is one of the songs that carried me closer to God.
At that age, I knew about friends, and I wanted Jesus to be my friend too. When she sang that song while we worked, it became a labor of love. Looking back, that is the first time that music led worship in my soul. Now, every time I hear that song, it transports me back to when my grandma was imparting her wisdom to me through her song.
Throughout the years, and to this day, music has been a source of comfort and reassurance for me. Music is something I can lean into. It puts me in a place where I can focus and feel God’s presence, especially during difficult times.
In 2023, my mother died after a brief and brutal battle with brain cancer. There is no clean way to write about that season so that I won’t try. What I can tell you is that in the months when I couldn’t find words for my own prayers, two songs found them for me. “Battle Belongs” by Phil Wickham became a spiritual anchor — not because it made the fight easier, but because it kept putting the fight in the right hands. The battle belongs to Jesus. I needed to hear that when I had no strength left to believe it on my own. And “I Can Only Imagine” by MercyMe did something I still can’t fully explain — it let me grieve and hope in the same three minutes, which is a thing I didn’t know a song could do until I needed it to.
Philippians 4:13 says, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I used to think of that verse as about accomplishment — pushing through a hard workout or a hard deadline. I understand it differently now. That year, it wasn’t about doing anything impressive. It was about getting through the day and getting through a phone call. And those songs were how that strength actually reached me — not as an abstract promise, but as something I could put in my ears and let carry me when I had nothing left to carry myself.
These days, I have grown into a near constant state of worship. Perhaps that’s why Grandma always sang hymns. I have a playlist on Amazon Music — hours of praise and worship — that plays while I work, while I fold my own laundry now, while I sit with my morning devotions. It’s not a dramatic soundtrack. It’s just there, underneath everything, the way my grandma’s voice used to be underneath the clothesline. The words settle into me even when I’m only half listening. Colossians 3:16 talks about letting the message of Christ dwell among us richly, teaching and admonishing one another through psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. I used to think that verse was about a worship service. Now I think it’s just as much about mornings at my desk with a playlist running — the message dwelling, quietly, richly, while I do ordinary things.
That’s the pattern I keep noticing, looking back: a hymn at a clothesline, two songs in a hospital season, a playlist behind an ordinary workday. Different volumes of grief and joy, but the same thing happening underneath — music doing what my own words couldn’t always manage, and God meeting me right there in it.
I don’t think you need a tragedy or a grandmother with a beautiful voice to have this happen to you. I think it’s already happening if you pay attention. Psalm 100:2 says, “Serve the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs.” That’s an invitation, not a requirement — gladness, not perfection. So this week, notice what’s already playing in your life. Notice which song makes you feel closer to God. You might find, like I did, that the music has already been praying for you.
Today’s post was written by Guest Author Jyll Stuart