My voice is gone. Well to be completely truthful it is just different. Squeaky, reptilian and raspy. Fortunately I had asked a half dozen friends three weeks ago to appear ready to sing for church. We practiced last week and by 8:45 this morning we were all standing behind microphones. But then I had to explain the part about no voice. 

 

"Don't give me a mike," I whispered to the sound guy. 

 

"He should give you a mike and turn it up," John suggested. But no one needed my gravely voice distracting them as they hunkered down for a few familiar carols on Christmas Eve eve. 

 

The service came together well. I played guitar amidst the harmony of four women and three men whose timbre could melt butter. 

 

An interesting subplot was the chance to be carried along on the ribbon of their sound. I myself could not muster it so I was demoted to listening. But in that degree of separation I was more poignantly aware of the miracle. This is what it is like to be the middle bird in a flock headed for South America. My neighbors were carrying me on the updraft. 

 

I am stumped regarding both the presence or absence of melody to come flying out of my mouth when I open it. I know zip about vocal chords and the elongation of muscles that produces pitch.  Yet time and again I spread my lips and trust that words will fall out. Any annoyance I might have felt today as the marginally mute song leader of the contemporary service was supplanted by gratitude at how often my voice shows up. I am reminded afresh that music is an unearned gift. 

My voice will return. Of that I have no doubt. It will probably take a week or so, though I did know a man who lost his for over two months. I am ignorant about the fickle behavior of voices but if I drink orange juice and get enough sleep I will be cranking out songs in a jiffy. 

 

Sometimes marriage love disappears. Without fanfare it slips out the back door and leaves a raspy substitute instead. Folks may believe the illusion that it is gone for good, and throw up their hands as if they are merely the victims of a virus. Having not caused the love to flood in in the first place they are clueless about how to coax it back. The tragedy lies in the credence we afford the mirage.

 

Love gone. Not coming back. 

 

As someone who is mystified by the mechanics of sound production within the human larynx, an organ I would not recognize if it knocked on my back door, I boast no understanding of the intricacies of the heart. 

 

But I am certain that He who gave it freely to begin with will again bestow both speech and devotion to those who ask. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Joy Feerrar

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