Four Months of Silence is A Long Time

As I sat crocheting tonight, listening to the worship playlist for tomorrow morning, my heart was heavy. Eight months ago I embarked on a journey to find my identity outside of my voice. I gave up singing for four months. I sang on Sundays during church, but that was it. I didn’t sing in my room, I didn’t go the chapel to sing by myself, and I certainly did not sing in public.

This journey was painful. It was hard, at first, to not have anyone realize my background in music. Sure, I could name stats and present my resume, but the Choir of the West and eight years of voice training mean nothing if people don’t ever hear you actually sing. My heart and soul were in agony because a part of my life was dying, and it was dying by my choice. I desperately wanted people to know that part of me, but I had to stop to ask myself why that was so important.

I realized that I wanted people to know I was good. When I heard people sing and/or talk about their past choir/worship/musical theater experiences, I wanted to one-up them with my stories from the last four years.  Realizing this about myself made me understand why I was called into this break. I knew that I would not sing again until my voice was for me and me only. For my love of music and for the enjoyment I find in making beauty with my voice. I would not sing until the reactions of other people did not matter.

Four months into this journey I began to feel a call out of my solitude. One of my friends here asked if I wanted to jam in the chapel late one night. I said yes. I played the piano while she strummed the guitar and sang. It took me a good 10 minutes to start lightly singing with her. By minutes 15-20 I sang with more voice, and easily by 25 minutes in, I felt freedom. I sang, and I sang boldly. I didn’t sing for approval; I sang for collaboration, for the love of music, and for the love of God. That night I started the second leg of my identity shift.

I spent the next four months singing alone in the chapel. I’d walk over late at night to play the piano and worship in solitude. A few times I brought friends with me, but it was for the purpose of worship. We sang together and we enjoyed the presence of God inhabiting our praises. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I invited a friend for the specific purpose of hearing me sing. I knew it was time to share my gift.

This night was particularly freeing in the sense that it grounded me in my new identity. That night I sang for my love of Jesus and my appreciation of the gift I’ve been given; I sang to share my heart with a dear friend; I sang to lead someone into the presence of God.

My life now is so different from my life eight months ago. Eight months ago I was still singing for perfection. I was still singing to be the best. I have known nothing different. Though I tried to change my motives, life circumstances always stopped me from taking the well-needed hiatus. My move to Princeton gave me that opportunity and it has been a success….Almost.

I am helping lead worship tomorrow morning. Just over a week ago I sang in public. I sang for a fairly large group of people at open mic night and I once again felt at peace with my transition back into singing. I then sang for chapel, to a new crowd of people, and tomorrow morning will be yet another crowd.

What I can’t figure out is why my heart is heavy concerning tomorrow. Part of me feels like I’m emotional because it is so personal. I have missed this form of worship so much it has caused me physical pain, but now that I am invited to return, I feel sad to leave my solitude. I feel sad to step out of the shadows and into the light. I have no answer as to why this is the case. There are no profound thoughts, merely honest ones.

Tomorrow morning my heart will be at home. Perhaps that is what scares me most. Returning to the thing I love not knowing whether I will be asked to give it up again. Though it was only for a time, and it has been very helpful, those four and then another four months were a very hard time in my life. My dream was always to sing onstage. I wanted to sing in operas; I wanted to sing at the Met. This leads me to asking myself, “Why do dreams die?” but that is a blog for another time. 

This has been a long awaited story, but it has been well worth the length of time I put into it, and the time that is yet to come.  I have now come to see my voice as a gift made for sharing. Not a gift for praise or perfection, a gift for honesty and beauty. My prayer for tomorrow, and all my future tomorrows, is that I will forever understand that I should give my best when I sing not because the compliments matter but because the people on the receiving end deserve my best. It is an offering. A small offering, but an offering nonetheless. Whoever I’m singing for, God, friends, strangers, or myself, we all deserve to hear the most my voice has to offer.

It is a gift. It should always be a gift. When it ceases to be a gift that is when I will need to give it up again. Until then, I guess I’m singing tomorrow.