voice

I've lost my voice.

For a person who loves to talk and sing, this is incredibly difficult. 

It hurts to have a conversation. 

Literally. 

I have to be so near to the person with whom I'm speaking in order to be heard. 

My lack of voice fuels my fears. 

It makes me worry about how I will teach my students this week.  

Showing up to worship without being able to sing is so, so painful for me. I know the notes I want to sing, how my vocal cords feel to get a certain note out, the beautiful melodies and harmonies I long to create. But when I try, 

nothing. 

A squeak, perhaps. 

A (literally) rough reminder that right now, 

I just can't sing. 

Surrounded by others whose voices are awake and alive,

I sit here in in my pew, 

silent. 

Instead, 

my voice flows from my soul. 

Each blessed note, 

every chord, 

the beautiful music resonates in my mind. 

And God hears it. 

I cannot speak, 

but I can listen. 

I hear the voices around me, and I appreciate them all the more. 

I sing vicariously through the sweet sounds of those who can. 

Instead of doing, I am being.
I cannot speak, but I can be present.
I cannot be who I desire to be right now, but I can still be alive.
I cannot sing aloud, but I can sing with my heart.