In the past several years I have struggled to find my voice in my writing. I hear the voice in my head, distinctive, yet it never comes through on paper. Instead I get stilted words and meaningless phrases. And what could be a thing of beauty becomes a tangled wreck. I cannot tell you how many times I have begun rewriting my novel, struggling to find the right place and voice to start it. Each time I get closer to what feels right, yet I cannot find peace in it. So I put in on the shelf while I let the Lord lead me further into this dark night of mine. My secret hope being that I will find my voice and will put to paper the beauty I see in my head.
Today, I read a book by an author with a strong voice. An author I particularly like for the dreamy quality of her works. When I finish one of her books it is like waking from a lullaby. With the cadence of her writing dictating the flow of my thinking, I began to think of the naming of things and then of voices. And I was shown, with sudden clarity, my voicelessness. Not just in writing, but in my life. Since I was a child I have seldom spoken for myself. I have floated through life, unspeaking. Unwilling to put voice to my needs or wants. Yet needing and wanting nonetheless. Going with the flow while making silent protest by wearing gaudy socks. Assimilating myself with the nearest person, soaking up their personality to the detriment of my own. And in these friendless years of desert wandering I have forgotten all those who came before. And I am stripped bare of voice, of personality. Nothing remains but half remembered glimpses of people I used to be. Yet who am I? Embarrassed by my lack of self, I hide. Voiceless, I listen to other voices that tell me I am nothing, until I am nothing. A snail, hiding in my shell.
But there is a flame, that draws me, calls me. And I peek my head out from under my wing to see if I am straying from the path, and I correct my course. I stumble and fall again and again, until I must keep my head up or fall to the side. And still that voice draws me out from myself, from my hiding place. And I feel exposed, raw, and new. Still wandering, but with greater purpose. Watching, waiting, hoping to see my self along the way. Yet what little remains of me continues to be stripped away and I panic. Clinging blindly to the shreds of me that remain, only to cast them off when I see how ugly and futile they are. But He is faithful, even when I am not. I have asked for His judgment, and He has judged me. He has shown me that my silence is pride. And my pride is fear. And my fear is sin.
He is faithful to forgive me. He heals my wounds and gives me strength. And I begin to see that my voice should be His. Until I surrender the desire for my voice, He cannot give me His. Lord, take the voice I cannot find and replace it with one of Your making. Let it be an instrument of your love, a mouthpiece for your justice. Infuse it with the power of Your Spirit and Truth. Let it be holy and pure. A light for a dark world.
2 comments:
How beautifully true. God's voice is the only voice that matters in the end, and we are simply left with doing our best to focus on His song, and trusting that what comes out when we try to capture some of the vibrancy and beauty will be to His glory. He promises to make up for all those inadequacies ... He'll use them for good also! What a great promise, that all things work together for good to those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. I keep reminding myself, that this means every mess I've made is redeemed by Him through His life-changing power. After all, if He can make some good out of MY life, then He's a pretty incredible God.
Do not listen to the voices that tell you you are nothing.
You are not nothing. You are you. And although God can make something out of "nothing," he prefers (I think) to use "you."
I have the opposite problem: running off at the mouth too much.
A beautiful and well-thought-out post, Debbie.
Bob Brague
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