I’ve written before about singing, here—and I’ve already confessed that I’m no singer. I mean, I sing at church and around the house and some Christmas carols and such…but I’m not the person whom others recognize as “a singer.” And honestly, I’m mostly at peace with that. I am pretty pleased to simply be afforded the chance to sing in this life at all, especially because the whole diversion is a pretty recent venture and not something I ever envisioned myself doing—in other words, it's been a really nice surprise.
The problem is that I have a pretty good ear. I can hear when another person is singing right in key, can detect a nasally delivery within a measure or two, can even pick out the sharp or flat voice among a gathering of voices. I know it’s not just my egotistical imagination, because I was the unofficial “tuner” for my classmates all those years in band. My ear has been proven.
And therein lies the problem. I can read the music, even imagine the way it should sound by rehearsing it in my head sometimes… but when the sound issues forth from my lungs, it’s far inferior to that pretty preview that existed in my mind. Because I have the ear, I can clearly hear that I usually don’t have the voice. I am fully aware that my range is quite limited, that I sometimes sound foggy and strained. I know that I am vocally mediocre, possibly even challenged. And every now and then, I have a little pity party about it. (Don’t pretend you don’t do that too sometimes. ; )
I was singing in the car recently (don’t worry, I dropped the kid at preschool first so he wouldn’t be punished) and as I struggled to hit some notes, I was pondering—with a little bit of relief, and a touch of sadness—that I will likely never be asked to sing a solo. Anywhere. For any reason. (Karaoke doesn't count.) And a thought came into my head quickly and with certainty. It didn’t feel like my own thought, and here it is: “You sing best when you sing to Me. And each time you sing to Me, it’s a solo. No matter what’s going on around you. A solo for man is just that.”
And it’s true, that thought—it made me feel so much better. If I crave the approval of man, in any setting and for any reason, then I’ll get it—and that’s likely all I’ll get. But when I sing to that audience of One, I become a chorus of one as well. I can speak, and sing, only for myself—and that is all I need do. It’s been a very comforting thought for me, in light of some of what I suspect are politically-fueled weirdnesses in my church home. It’s nice to realize that I don’t need to be hindered by any of that, just like I never need to worry about not having a “solo.” He knows my every thought, He hears my every note—and if my purpose is genuine, then it's a sweet sound.
So, while my musical ear reveals my vocal shortcomings, it provides me with that true standard that I can work toward attaining; I know what I want to sound like. It’s kind of like the Holy Spirit in us. We need that “good ear,” that moral compass, because even while we fall short daily, we still know how our lives should look—we are fully aware of the potential for achievement. And every time we do something unto God, even something humble or small or seemingly unimportant, we sing a little solo of praise.
Sing to him, sing praise to Him; tell of all His wonderful acts.
-Psalm 105:2
Sing the glory of His name; make His praise glorious!
-Psalm 66:2
Showing posts with label sing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sing. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Earthly voices
I am not a singer. I’ve never been. Often, my mom has reminisced about singing as a tiny girl, singing with her siblings, even singing on the radio; we've always known she has a pretty alto voice. In high school, my best friend had a lovely voice, too; she fronted the jazz band while I honked away on my giant tenor saxophone—not nearly as intriguing as sultry vocals, I well knew, but it was the best I could do. A couple of people in college told me I was a decent singer, encouraged me to try…but I was so busy being unrestrained and unscheduled at that point in my life, I just didn’t have time to seek out any real singing opportunities, and then I was finished with my degree and all those golden chances had drifted out of reach.
Fast-forward many years, through several embarrassing karaoke attempts and the growing realization that this was not a talent of mine. All that time, I sang in the car, in the shower, to myself. I sang when I knew I wouldn’t offend anyone. I had pretty much abandoned the whole idea, yet in my head was hidden the musical knowledge I’d stored there: piano lessons as a child, 8 long years of band geekery, adoration of symphony and its many instruments, all rolled into a safe corner of my brain to remain intact but unused.
And then, we found our church and began attending regularly.
I won’t lie: the reason I came back after that first week was because of the music. It was just wonderful, inspiring, soul-touching stuff. Sunday after Sunday, I drank it in, and slowly, the dream came alive again. I refused to acknowledge the re-emergence of the dream for many months; the choir was too good, and I could never hang with them. It was enough just to hear the music and add my quiet, dubious voice to the beauty.
And then, one day, it wasn’t enough. I thought to myself, what have I to lose? I can try, right? If I stink, I can live with that—at least I will have given it a shot, and I'll know with certainty. I worked up my nerve and finally called the church to inquire. But. They weren’t currently accepting applicants. I had to wait. They would call me back during open season. (I didn’t like the sound of that at all—open season?!) I bided my time. I figured they’d lose my name, would change their mind, perhaps disband; I almost forgot about the whole thing… Almost.
Months later, they called. I set up a tryout, terrified even as I wrote it in the calendar. The day rolled around and I was literally short of breath. What had I been thinking? I had no right singing with these people. None. The worship leader would immediately label me the sham that I am, order me from the rehearsal room, warn me never to return. I’d be unable to show my face in church ever again.
I reported for my tryout, and lo and behold, the worship leader was very personable and gentle. He asked me what part I thought I should be, and I made my best guess. Then he made me sing “Amazing Grace” while he played along on the piano; I stank up the room, voice quavering, face twitching, plagued by uncertainty and shame.
And then. Grace was exemplified and the kind-hearted, foolish fellow invited me to join choir. I accepted, with much trepidation and insecurity; when rehearsals began in the fall, I sat slumped in my seat, surrounded by seasoned singers. But wait! We began to work our way through a song, and I heard wonderful voices, but also mediocre voices, and even an off-key voice. Some people could read music, but many could not. A few of them could hit every note on the page, but most of them were just like me—with a limited repertoire of tuneful sounds. Why, they were normal people! They were not, as I’d suspected, musical geniuses. These people were everyday people, some of whom could sing amazingly well…and others who really could not sing any better than me. Even more amazing was that as weeks passed, slowly but surely that stash of musical notes, terminology, and symbols began to creep back into my awareness. Now, four years into it, I feel more at ease about my contribution to this wonderful team of voices. And I hear, with amazement and joy every time, how the combined effect of all those varied sounds creates a wonderful sound. Flaws are camouflaged, strengths are heightened; we all become one voice, be it hushed, sweet, jubilant, or victorious—but always grateful.
And it’s a funny thing: when I try to sing in the car, with the radio, along with contemporary music, I still am quite weak. My voice cracks, I can’t hit notes, I make myself hoarse. It’s ugly. But when I’m singing for church, I can sing better. Honestly, I can—it’s not my imagination. When I use my voice for that purpose, to glorify God, my voice is stronger, a little bit more true. I’m still not great, but I can say with certainty that I am my best singing self when I’m belting it out for that awesome audience of One. I wonder if my song-mates have had the same experience. I wonder if they, too, are most melodious while worshipping God through song—when the pressure's off to sound perfect, when it's sufficient to be humble and sincere.
It makes me ponder what other undiscovered abilities we might unleash in ourselves if we could travel beyond our own preconceived notions and just step out in faith. I hope to discover more possibilities, in me and in everyone around me.
Fast-forward many years, through several embarrassing karaoke attempts and the growing realization that this was not a talent of mine. All that time, I sang in the car, in the shower, to myself. I sang when I knew I wouldn’t offend anyone. I had pretty much abandoned the whole idea, yet in my head was hidden the musical knowledge I’d stored there: piano lessons as a child, 8 long years of band geekery, adoration of symphony and its many instruments, all rolled into a safe corner of my brain to remain intact but unused.
And then, we found our church and began attending regularly.
I won’t lie: the reason I came back after that first week was because of the music. It was just wonderful, inspiring, soul-touching stuff. Sunday after Sunday, I drank it in, and slowly, the dream came alive again. I refused to acknowledge the re-emergence of the dream for many months; the choir was too good, and I could never hang with them. It was enough just to hear the music and add my quiet, dubious voice to the beauty.
And then, one day, it wasn’t enough. I thought to myself, what have I to lose? I can try, right? If I stink, I can live with that—at least I will have given it a shot, and I'll know with certainty. I worked up my nerve and finally called the church to inquire. But. They weren’t currently accepting applicants. I had to wait. They would call me back during open season. (I didn’t like the sound of that at all—open season?!) I bided my time. I figured they’d lose my name, would change their mind, perhaps disband; I almost forgot about the whole thing… Almost.
Months later, they called. I set up a tryout, terrified even as I wrote it in the calendar. The day rolled around and I was literally short of breath. What had I been thinking? I had no right singing with these people. None. The worship leader would immediately label me the sham that I am, order me from the rehearsal room, warn me never to return. I’d be unable to show my face in church ever again.
I reported for my tryout, and lo and behold, the worship leader was very personable and gentle. He asked me what part I thought I should be, and I made my best guess. Then he made me sing “Amazing Grace” while he played along on the piano; I stank up the room, voice quavering, face twitching, plagued by uncertainty and shame.
And then. Grace was exemplified and the kind-hearted, foolish fellow invited me to join choir. I accepted, with much trepidation and insecurity; when rehearsals began in the fall, I sat slumped in my seat, surrounded by seasoned singers. But wait! We began to work our way through a song, and I heard wonderful voices, but also mediocre voices, and even an off-key voice. Some people could read music, but many could not. A few of them could hit every note on the page, but most of them were just like me—with a limited repertoire of tuneful sounds. Why, they were normal people! They were not, as I’d suspected, musical geniuses. These people were everyday people, some of whom could sing amazingly well…and others who really could not sing any better than me. Even more amazing was that as weeks passed, slowly but surely that stash of musical notes, terminology, and symbols began to creep back into my awareness. Now, four years into it, I feel more at ease about my contribution to this wonderful team of voices. And I hear, with amazement and joy every time, how the combined effect of all those varied sounds creates a wonderful sound. Flaws are camouflaged, strengths are heightened; we all become one voice, be it hushed, sweet, jubilant, or victorious—but always grateful.
And it’s a funny thing: when I try to sing in the car, with the radio, along with contemporary music, I still am quite weak. My voice cracks, I can’t hit notes, I make myself hoarse. It’s ugly. But when I’m singing for church, I can sing better. Honestly, I can—it’s not my imagination. When I use my voice for that purpose, to glorify God, my voice is stronger, a little bit more true. I’m still not great, but I can say with certainty that I am my best singing self when I’m belting it out for that awesome audience of One. I wonder if my song-mates have had the same experience. I wonder if they, too, are most melodious while worshipping God through song—when the pressure's off to sound perfect, when it's sufficient to be humble and sincere.
It makes me ponder what other undiscovered abilities we might unleash in ourselves if we could travel beyond our own preconceived notions and just step out in faith. I hope to discover more possibilities, in me and in everyone around me.
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