For a number of years, Peter and I shared a quiet ritual with our dear friends, Stephen and his late wife Wendy. We each brought a song — something that spoke to us in that season of life — and took turns playing them, sitting together in conversation, letting the lyrics lead us to places our own words might not. It was a gentle and meaningful tradition, one that anchored us in each other’s stories and in the bigger questions life brings.

Since Wendy’s passing, that tradition has quietly slipped into the past. Life moved on, as it does, yet I miss it — more than I realised.

Today, after a full day of catching up with family and ticking off errands, I returned to my favourite sanctuary: my kitchen. The house was empty, but not lonely. Baking while home alone is something I cherish — it’s where my mind and soul find a soft landing. I asked Alexa to play some music, and without warning, the very first song pulled me still.

Elvis Presley and Glen Campbell’s voices filled the kitchen with “We Call On Him”. I must have listened ten times over, the song playing like a prayer I didn’t know I needed to say. The words stirred me as much as I was stirring my cake batter, reaching down deep into that part of me that believes in quiet faith and unseen grace.

“We call on Him whenever storm clouds gather, We call on Him to light our darkest day. Why must it be that only when we’re lonely and hopes are dim, we call on Him?”

There’s something tender and true in those lines. How easily we forget, in our busyness and comfort, to call on the One who walks with us through it all. And how quickly we remember when shadows fall.

“We call on Him when no-one else will answer, We ask of Him a reason to go on, When our cup of joy becomes a cup of sorrow, Filled to the brim, we call on Him”.

I don’t know why my body has faced health challenge after health challenge these past twenty years, but what I do know is how quickly I turn to Him in desperation — what I long for now is to remember Him just as naturally in times of ease, when the sun is shining and my spirit is light.

It made me think of our old song-sharing circle — how those songs gave us room to speak of what mattered, what hurt, what healed. I miss that sacred space. I miss Wendy’s warmth. And I miss the way music used to open doors for us to be still and real together.

“Why don’t we call on Him before we lose our way – to count our blessings and thank Him while we may?”

Today, I did just that. In my quiet kitchen, with cake in the oven and music in the air, I called on Him — not out of desperation, but gratitude. And in doing so, I felt held. Not fixed or answered, but gently held — as if reminded that I am never walking alone, even when the house is silent.

Maybe it’s time to bring the songs back — to let them speak for us when our own words fall short, to reconnect with the sacred in the ordinary.

If you have an Alexa tucked in a corner of your room, why don’t you ask it to play We Call on Him for you? Let the words wash over you. Let them remind you, too, that no moment is too small, no heart too quiet, to reach out — and be met.