Finding Your Voice

A New Song in the Wind

“From whom the whole body, joined and knit together by what every joint supplies, according to the effective working by which every part does its share, causes growth of the body for the edifying of itself in love.” (Eph. 4:16)

Dearest Daughters,

Today I’m going to take a little different route with my letter.

It’s nearly Christmas time, and during this season we remember all kinds of stories that have made it special for us, not just stories of this season, but the relationships that have made us who we are. Those relationships often come together again at Christmas, like a tapestry—threads returning, crossing over and under, making the fabric of our lives complete.

Today I’m thinking of one that shaped me, and I want to share one with you.

The fair was over, and a blasting cold front charged through Texas with the zeal and strength of a soldier. The last pecan leaves shook free from the limbs shading our yard, leaving us exposed to the low winter sun and the strong northern wind. You older children tumbled and played in the yard.

This fair had been different than some of the previous ones. Some of you came down with the flu during the fair, and I rushed back and forth between music, my booth, and tending to you over at Grandma’s house next door to the fairgrounds, where you lay shivering and feverish.

One of you cried, “Mommy, I can’t be here. I’ve got to be at the fair!”

I cried with you. After months of waiting, of sanding wooden spoons and preparing, you were missing your favorite time of year—and worse, you weren’t getting to sing in the choir.

Music was the highlight of our family life. Singing together, especially with Daddy, was a joy. Daddy and I first got to know each other through music, singing together on my parents’ front porch or gathered around his parents’ living room piano. Josiah, Uncle Philip, Daddy, and I began singing together when I was sixteen. We never knew where that journey would take us, but I loved to sing.

I had never been more honored than the day Josiah asked me to join his little band. It had been him, Daddy, and Philip, and he wanted Philip to play the piano and me to be part of the vocal group. We sang in various places—first just for fun, then for relatives, friends, nursing homes, senior groups. It grew and grew.

We all ended up getting married. More joined the group. Life moved on. I married your dad, and that common ground of music grew into a shared life of love, relationships, and children.

As the years went by, Regina joined our music group. I knew right away that she was more gifted than I was. I marveled at her voice, but clung fiercely to my own place as well. She was an alto; I was a soprano. That should have worked. I didn’t need to be jealous.

But voices aren’t that neatly divided. There was overlap.

I loved Regina, so it was hard to feel anything but admiration for her. When she sang, it melted my heart. Still, over time, some of the songs I sang became songs Regina sang. No one could deny it—she did them better. And yet, in my heart, I always thought, With a little more practice, a little more time, I could have gotten it right. It wouldn’t have sounded like her, but it would have had its own touch.

Those silent battles went on in my mind more often than I like to admit.

You see, while I had a nice voice, I had a problem: I did not have natural rhythm. While Regina could throw herself into the feeling of a song, I was counting measures. Tapping my toe. Watching for cues. I did fine in orchestra and choir where there was direction, but solos often filled me with tension.

So I worked harder. Practiced more. Labored over music, trying to overcome what didn’t come naturally, hoping there wouldn’t be a need for someone else to take my place.

But the one place music was always free was with my children. I sang to you every night. We sang at bedtime, during family devotion, when Daddy played guitar, and later when some of you played the piano. Music there was joy, not striving.

The fair ended. You recovered. And then the sickness hit me.

I lay tossing and turning with fever, headache, and that wretched winter cough. It was just three weeks until our Christmas concert. Part of my responsibility was helping plan the songs. I lay in the recliner scratching titles onto paper, wondering if I would even be able to sing Go Tell It on the Mountain or O Come, O Come, Emmanuel as planned.

That night, the house was quiet. Daddy slept. The baby rested in his cradle. Outside, the wind howled, and I could hear sheep bleating in the distance.

Suddenly words formed in my mind—stronger than thought, weightier than effort.

You shepherds, be still. You sheep on the hill…how the wind blows—

From where; no one knows. Like a long captive dream, a faint melody

I felt as if I were standing on a hill the night angels announced Christ’s birth. I lowered the footrest, stepped into the living room, and looked out at the wind whipping leaves through the darkness. I grabbed a pen and paper and began to write.

There’s a new song in the wind tonight,

Oh Jerusalem, rise up and sing…

Line after line poured out, and I scrawled them out as fast as I could. At last, I crawled back into bed and waited for morning.

Daddy felt something in the words, too. When my fever broke, I called Uncle Philip. He played, I listened, and suddenly there was a song. More than that, he worked with me to sing it. And for once, my rhythm wasn’t too bad.

I was proud. I couldn’t wait to share it.

But when I sang it for Daddy and Josiah, the power I had felt in the night wasn’t there. When I finished, they looked at each other. They didn’t say anything, but I knew that look.

I practiced more. I prayed more. I adjusted. I tried again the next night.

Still the same look.

“Maybe next year,” Josiah said doubtfully.

On the way home, Daddy asked, “What would you think about Regina trying it?”

The question landed hard. I had written the song. I wanted my voice in it. But I went home and prayed, and God was there. I knew those words were His, not mine. And if Regina could express them better, love required that I step aside.

I called her. “Would you try my song?” I asked.

When I heard her sing, I knew. This was right. More than right—it was God. I didn’t feel jealous. I almost wept with gratitude. I felt as though my voice had expanded, as though her lungs had become mine. I was singing through her mouth, or rather, God was singing through us both, together. What I had tried to give expression to, she released.

When Daddy and Josiah heard it, they loved it.

And on the night of the concert, as the hall filled and Regina stepped forward to sing—

There’s a new song in the wind tonight…

Her head thrown back with abandon, her arm outstretched.

—we rose to sing with her.

And not only that, but the audience rose to cheer—not just for the voice they heard, but for the voice in the wind, for a new song, a song of unity, of God’s voice singing through His people.

So bid the violence to cease, now dawns the kingdom of peace.

Earth and heaven rejoice at the sound of a mighty rushing wind, because there was a new song in the wind that night—

A song of peace, unity, and harmony. A song where no one quite knew where one gift ended and another began among the people called to be Zion.

And this, my dearest daughters, is what I want you to understand about finding your voice. We do not find it by competing. We do not find it by guarding our gifts. We do not find it by insisting that our sound be heard above others.

We find our voice through love—through relationship—through yielding ourselves to something larger than our own expression.

Sometimes your voice will come through your own mouth.

And sometimes it will come through the voice of another.

When love is present, there is no loss—only multiplication. What is given is not diminished; it is enlarged.

That night, as Regina sang, I did not disappear. I was gathered in. My voice had found its place—not by being louder, but by being joined.

This is how the body grows, joined and knit together by what every part supplies. This is how love builds itself up.

This is how Zion sings.

And this is how you will find your voice. So let us give voice to the Child born in a manger, Who gave up His throne to give us a place in His song.

With all my love,

Mom