Reflection: “There Is a Room” — God in the Light, the Shadow, and the Song

The first time I heard “There Is a Room” by Sarah Brightman, something inside me paused. It was as if the song had found a hidden doorway in my heart, one I didn’t even know was there, and gently opened it. From the very first note, I felt carried somewhere beyond time—somewhere quiet, tender, and alive with both longing and peace. It was a place where grief and hope meet, where faith is fragile and yet unshakable, a room that floats “above the stars.”

For me, that room is where God meets me—not in grand gestures, not always in church, not even when I feel certain—but in the small, still moments of life: between breaths, between tears, between prayers. It is in that space I have wrestled with doubt, poured out my pain, and yet felt the gentle whisper that I am not alone.

This reflection is my attempt to step back into that room, to linger in the light of the song, and to let its words speak to my faith, my journey, and the God who has been with me through every twist, every shadow, and every moment of unexpected grace. Here, I want to share what it feels like to meet God in that quiet space, where music becomes prayer, and the soul finds its home.

When I first heard “There Is a Room” by Sarah Brightman, something in my soul paused — as though the song opened a door that had always been there, but I had never noticed. Its soft light, its sense of longing and peace, seemed to carry me somewhere beyond time, to a space where grief and faith touch — to a room “that floats above the stars.”

For me, that room is the place where God meets me. Not always in church, not even in moments of certainty, but in the quiet spaces of life — between breaths, between tears, between prayers. It is the same room where I’ve wrestled with faith, where I’ve cried out in pain, and where I’ve also felt the still, small voice whisper, “You are not alone.”

The song begins, “There is a room, it floats above the stars. This is my home.” Those words feel like Psalm 46:10 come alive — “Be still, and know that I am God.” When I am still, when the noise of the world fades, I begin to sense that my true home is not made of walls or earthly things, but of divine presence — the eternal light that never fades.

“It’s filled with twisted light.” That line resonates deeply with my understanding of how God works in my life. Light doesn’t always come in straight lines; it bends, it breaks through clouds, it dances in unexpected places. In the Old Testament, Moses encountered God in a burning bush — wild, uncontained, holy. (Exodus 3:2-5) Likewise, I’ve known God not only in the gentle moments but in the chaos — in illness, in loneliness, in the times I’ve questioned my worth or my calling. Yet even in the twisting, God’s light has always found me.

The words “Where I had lost you, but now I’ve found you” remind me of how faith ebbs and flows. There were seasons when God felt distant — when prayers seemed unanswered, when the world felt heavy. But just as in Luke 15, where Jesus speaks of the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine to find the one lost sheep, God came searching for me. Sometimes through music, sometimes through the kindness of others, sometimes through moments of silence that became sacred.

When the song says, “With only one word I reach you,” I think of the power of prayer — how one word can bridge the gap between heaven and earth. Sometimes all I’ve been able to pray is “Help.” Other times, it’s just “Thank You.” In Mark 5:34, when Jesus says to the woman who touched His garment, “Your faith has made you well,” I see that same truth: it isn’t the length or eloquence of our prayers that matter, but the depth of the heart behind them.

The haunting line, “How could I reach you when you had passed me by?” brings me back to moments of loss — those times when I’ve said goodbye to people I’ve loved, or watched plans fall apart, or felt like God was silent. In those moments, I’ve remembered Psalm 22, where the psalmist cries, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Even Jesus Himself spoke those words on the cross. Yet from that cry came redemption. The song’s mention of “the long night” reminds me that no darkness lasts forever — that the resurrection always follows the crucifixion.

“With all the brave hearts in opal sky, glowing Sunday.” That image of glowing light, of Sunday, speaks to resurrection — the dawn of new hope. It’s the morning of John 20, when Mary Magdalene stands at the empty tomb, weeping, and hears her name spoken by the risen Christ. That moment — when grief turns to recognition — is what faith feels like to me. It’s when the dark night of the soul breaks open into morning light, and I realise once again that God never left.

The song’s refrain, “Now I have found you, it’s time to say goodnight,” doesn’t feel like an ending to me. It feels like peace. Like the peace of John 14:27, where Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.” It’s not the peace of the world — not an absence of struggle — but the deep, abiding peace of knowing that I am held by something eternal.

“There Is a Room” reminds me that faith is not always loud or certain. It can be fragile, quiet, glowing softly like candlelight in a dark room. It reminds me that God is not just in the thunder or the grand miracle, but in the gentle touch, the whisper of grace, the music that stirs the soul.

When I reflect on this song, I see my own journey — my moments of pain and perseverance, my call to serve, my desire to love and to understand, even when the way isn’t clear. And I realise that the room above the stars — that space of divine presence — isn’t far away. It’s within me, within the love of Christ who said, “I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

So, I rest in that promise.I rest in that room. And I whisper, as the music fades — “Here you are, Lord. Here I am.”