A moment nobody expected — and the entire Dove Awards felt it. Carrie Underwood shocked the room when she stepped into the spotlight beside Ben Fuller, turning a quiet performance into a goosebump-level duet that’s now blowing up online. Their energy, their harmonies, their connection — it all hit like lightning.
Fans are calling it one of the most unforgettable highlights of the night, the kind of collaboration that feels once-in-a-decade. And now the full performance is getting a special encore broadcast this Friday, giving viewers one more chance to witness the magic.
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Whispers of Grace
The Bridgestone Arena in Nashville pulsed with the quiet reverence of a cathedral on the cusp of revelation. It was October 7, 2025, and the 56th Annual GMA Dove Awards had unfolded like a tapestry of testimonies—songs of redemption rising from stages slick with the sweat of salvation, spotlights carving halos from the haze. Over five thousand souls filled the seats: gospel choirs in starched collars, country faithful nursing Styrofoam cups of sweet tea, celebrities who traded red carpets for redemption arcs. The air hummed with the faint ozone of pyrotechnics and the deeper, earthier scent of polished oak floors, worn smooth by decades of hallelujahs. Outside, autumn rain pattered against the Cumberland River, but inside, the storm was one of spirit, brewing toward a moment no one could have scripted.
Ben Fuller stood alone under the lone spotlight, his silhouette lean and unassuming, like a young prophet in denim and boots. At 31, he was the rising son of contemporary Christian music, his voice a gravelly anchor forged in the fires of addiction and grace. Born in New Hampshire, Ben had clawed his way from street corners and sobriety circles to stages like this, his debut album A Voice from the Fire earning him a New Artist of the Year nod just two years prior. Tonight, he clutched a weathered acoustic guitar, fingers callused from both strumming chords and gripping the edge of recovery. The crowd leaned forward as he murmured into the mic, “This one’s been on my heart for years. It’s about surrender… about trusting the plan that’s bigger than ours.” A soft ripple of amens swept through the hall. The band—fiddle, piano, a restrained drum kit—eased into the opening riff of “If It Was Up to Me,” a track from his just-released sophomore album Walk Through Fire. Ben’s voice cracked the silence, raw and resonant: “I’ve been fightin’ shadows in the midnight hour… Tryin’ to steer this ship through the storm somehow…”
The lyrics hung heavy, drawn from the marrow of Ben’s own story. The song had gathered dust on a shelf for three and a half years, penned in the quiet desperation of relapse and revelation. “That song came out of a place where I realized—if it was up to me, I’d be dead right now,” he’d confessed on the red carpet earlier, eyes bright with the kind of honesty that doesn’t come cheap. His testimony was no polished sermon; it was the jagged edge of a man who’d lost everything to heroin, found it again in a halfway house bunk bed, and rebuilt with the unyielding grip of faith. The audience, many who’d walked similar valleys, nodded in silent kinship. Phones dimmed; breaths synced to the slow-building swell.
But as Ben reached the bridge, his verse giving way to the harmony that had haunted the studio sessions, he paused. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—boyish, conspiratorial. “Y’all, I’ve got someone special joinin’ me tonight,” he drawled, voice dropping to a hush. “She’s a force of nature, a sister in Christ, and if it wasn’t for her husband Mike puttin’ us in touch, this song might still be sittin’ idle. Ladies and gentlemen… Carrie Underwood.”
The arena inhaled sharply, then held. Carrie Underwood? The girl from American Idol’s hayseed heartland, now a eight-time Grammy winner with a voice that could shatter stained glass? The woman who’d headlined Vegas residencies, dropped gospel albums like My Savior that topped Billboard charts, and built an empire on unapologetic faith? Her name had floated in Dove whispers before—nominations for roots gospel, performances that blurred the lines between country twang and heavenly choir—but a surprise drop like this? Unheard of. The lights dipped lower, and from the wings, she emerged.
Carrie glided onstage in a strapless white gown that flowed like fresh-fallen snow, simple yet luminous, cinched at the waist with a silver belt that caught the beams like a halo’s edge. Her chestnut hair cascaded in loose waves, framing a face bare of excess makeup— just enough to highlight the Oklahoma fire in her eyes. At 42, she moved with the poise of someone who’d weathered tabloid tempests, motherhood’s chaos, and the quiet battles of belief, emerging sharper, surer. No entourage, no fanfare; just her, barefoot in spirit if not in those matching white heels, microphone in hand like a scepter of song. The crowd erupted—a tidal wave of cheers crashing against the rafters—but Carrie just smiled, that megawatt beam that said, We’re in this together. She clasped Ben’s hand briefly, a quick squeeze of solidarity, then turned to the sea of faces. “Ben’s song spoke to me the second I heard it,” she said softly, her voice carrying like a prayer. “It’s a reminder that God’s got the wheel. Let’s sing it out.”
The music surged back, fuller now, strings weaving in like threads of light. Ben started the duet’s refrain, his tenor rough-hewn: “If it was up to me, I’d rewrite the pain…” And then Carrie entered—not overpowering, but elevating. Her voice, that crystalline alto honed on church pews and arena anthems, layered over his like sunlight piercing clouds: “…But Your ways are higher, Your story’s the flame.” Their harmonies locked, electric and effortless, two rivers converging into a force that could carve canyons. Ben’s grit grounded the melody, raw as a backroads revival; Carrie’s clarity soared, piercing the heart like a dove’s wingbeat. The chemistry wasn’t showy—no choreographed spins or lingering gazes—but profound, a shared pulse of testimony. You could see it in the way Ben’s shoulders relaxed, as if her presence lightened the load he’d carried solo for so long; in how Carrie’s eyes closed during the bridge, lost in the lyrics’ truth.
The arena transformed. Strangers clasped hands across aisles; a woman in the third row, tears carving tracks through her mascara, mouthed every word, her story echoing in the echo. Up in the balcony, a cluster of youth group kids swayed, phones forgotten, captured by the unguarded joy on Ben’s face—the same kid who’d once busked for meals, now sharing a stage with a legend. Backstage, whispers flew: “Did you know?” “No, but praise God for it.” The song built to its crescendo—”I’d choose the easy road, but You’d choose the cross… Thank You for lovin’ me through the loss”—and the hall swelled with it, voices joining in a spontaneous chorus. Fiddles wept; the piano thundered like judgment day grace. When Carrie hit that final, soaring note, holding it until it fractured into silence, the room didn’t applaud at first. It wept. Quiet sobs, then a roar that shook the foundations—a standing ovation that lasted minutes, feet stomping like thunderous amens.
Ben and Carrie stood shoulder to shoulder, chests heaving, faces flushed with the afterglow of vulnerability. She leaned in, whispering something that made him laugh—a shared secret between warriors of the same war. Then, in unison, they pointed skyward, a simple gesture that silenced the cheers into reverence. “To Him,” Carrie said into the mic, voice thick. “Always.” The nomination for Bluegrass/Country/Roots Recorded Song of the Year hadn’t gone their way—that honor fell to Brandon Lake and Jelly Roll’s “Hard Fought Hallelujah”—but in that moment, trophies paled. They’d won the unmeasurable: souls stirred, doubts dismantled.
Word of the “jaw-dropping duet” ignited the digital firmament before the confetti settled. Clips from TBN’s broadcast flooded TikTok and Instagram, amassing millions of views overnight. On X, #UnderwoodFuller trended alongside #DoveAwards2025, fans dissecting the “electric chemistry” in threads that stretched into dawn: “Carrie’s voice + Ben’s story = chills for days,” one user posted, attaching a shaky fan video that captured the hush before the harmony. “This is what worship sounds like when legends collide,” another tweeted, racking up thousands of retweets. Whiskey Riff called it “beautiful,” iHeartCountry dubbed it “a surprise no one saw coming.” Even skeptics—those who’d dismissed Carrie’s pivot to gospel as a phase—conceded: this was power, pure and unfiltered.
Behind the magic, the collaboration was a quiet miracle. It started months earlier, in the sun-dappled studios of Hendersonville, Tennessee. Ben, fresh off a grueling tour, had played a rough cut for Mike Fisher, Carrie’s NHL-all-star husband and fellow faith-journeyer. Mike, ever the connector, texted Carrie: “You’ve gotta hear this brother’s heart.” She did, and the rest unfolded like providence. “Ben’s such a talented songwriter,” Carrie later shared in a statement, “and I love the joy he brings to singing about his faith, which we have in common. I was honored when he asked me to sing with him.” Ben echoed the sentiment: “I’m so grateful Carrie wanted to share her love for Jesus on this song. She was so kind in the studio—I smiled bigger than God that day.”
For Ben, it was validation after years of shadows. From foster homes to front porches, music had been his lifeline; Carrie, with her own scars—from Idol pressures to personal losses—mirrored that resilience. Their voices blended not just notes, but narratives: her polished power tempering his rugged redemption, creating something greater than solo acts.
By November, as leaves turned gold over Music City, the encore broadcast loomed like a beacon. Set for this Friday, October 17 at 7:30 p.m. ET (and a late-night repeat at 10:30 p.m.) on TBN, it promised the full Dove Awards splendor—plus this unmissable moment, edited with behind-the-scenes glimpses. Fans tuned in from living rooms to truck stops, rediscovering the song that had charted on Christian AC lists since its summer drop. “If It Was Up to Me” wasn’t just a hit; it was a hymn for the hurting, a duet that whispered, You’re not alone.
In the end, that October night at the Doves wasn’t about awards or viral metrics. It was a crack in the heavens, where two voices—unexpected, unbreakable—reminded a watching world that grace often arrives unannounced, electric as lightning, gentle as rain. Carrie and Ben didn’t just sing; they surrendered. And in that yielding, they mended more than melodies—they touched the divine in us all.
