In the first days of our stay at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I wandered through every garden on the visitor’s map, searching for something to bring tranquility to a situation that I lacked control of. I couldn’t find the elusive Koi Pond at first, but when I finally did, it became my sanctuary. I returned to it again and again, sitting in the quiet, letting the still water and graceful fish bring me the peace I so deeply needed. Just being in nature was rejuvenating.
Near the end of our time there, my husband learned about the great statue of Jesus in the administrative building. Together we went in search of Him, and when we found Him, I was awestruck. The statue’s size and presence were magnificent, but even more, it seemed to hold a quiet strength that reached out and steadied me in a different way than the pond had. It was a gift to experience this Jesus with my husband, just as we had The David Statue in Florence, Italy years ago.
Now that we’ve returned to Johns Hopkins, I make it a point to visit Jesus every day. It has become a ritual of comfort and grounding, a reminder that even in difficult places, harmony and strength can be found when we seek them.
As a child, I often found church services long and tedious. Sitting still in a pew, listening to the sermon, I felt time stretch endlessly. It was no surprise that children had their own shorter service, we weren’t made for long stretches of silence and stillness. And yet, even in the midst of restlessness, there were parts of the liturgy that held me. I especially loved the pieces I had memorized, like the Doxology that always followed the Lord’s Prayer and came before the presentation of the alms. That rhythm was steady, almost ritualistic, and gave me a sense of security.
But more than anything, it was the music that gave the service its magic. Hymns filled the sanctuary with a force greater than words alone. The sound of so many voices joined together seemed to lift us all into another realm. Even as a child, I could sense that something larger was happening, something beyond the ordinary.
My favorite hymn was Onward, Christian Soldiers. I knew every word by heart. Whenever it was sung, I felt not only joy but also a sense of belonging, as if I had a part to play in something important. The words stirred me, urging me toward kindness, courage, and faith. To my child’s mind, it was not just a hymn but a call, to do good work for God, to try to live as a better person, to march through life with purpose.
As I grew older, I began to realize that this hymn carried meaning far beyond the walls of my childhood church. Onward, Christian Soldiers had accompanied moments of history. It was sung at a special service when Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt met before the United States entered World War II, a time when the world stood on the brink of immense change. Later, in 1969, it was sung at the funeral of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, a man remembered for his leadership in war and in peace. Each of these occasions layered new weight onto the words I had sung so innocently as a child.
The most personal moment came in 1972, when the hymn was sung at my father’s funeral. The familiar melody that had once been a source of childhood inspiration suddenly became a bridge between memory and grief. Hearing it in that setting bound me forever to its message, not only as a song of faith but as a thread that wove together history, family, and personal loss. What began as a child’s favorite tune had become, by then, a hymn of legacy.
I’ve come to see that music is where faith takes its deepest root. It bypasses intellect and goes straight to the heart. The hymns of my childhood still live in me, carrying echoes of pews too long to endure, moments of restlessness softened by melody, and flashes of wonder when voices rose together. They carry also the memory of my father, of great leaders, and of times when faith steadied people through uncertainty.
For me, church was never simply about doctrine or ritual. It was about the way music could transform an ordinary Sunday into something transcendent. It was about the way a child could be inspired to live kindly and with purpose simply by singing words with a congregation. And it was about how those same words, carried across years and history, could bring comfort and courage in the face of loss.
Faith, I have learned, is often remembered not in sermons or lessons, but in song. It lives quietly in the rhythm of life, in the stillness of a hospital garden, in the hush of morning light, in the places where our hearts are most tender.
For me, faith took shape in a quiet school of fish gliding through the Koi Pond, their movement steady and unhurried, a reminder to breathe and trust. It deepened again in the presence of the great statue of Jesus, standing tall and radiant, arms open as if to gather all the worry and weariness from those who came to Him.
Between the garden filled with hostas and the still gaze of Jesus, I found what words and lessons in church, could not give me an understanding that faith is not something we learn, but something we remember when the world falls silent around us.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
