While You Were Blooming

When I was a kid, sitting in the pew next to my grandma, I loved looking at the hymnal. I would watch the little black dots climb and descend as my eyes journeyed across the page, trying to decode this foreign language.

I never sang, though. Oh, Lord, no. I followed along as I listened to my grandma’s voice blending in with the congregation. But the second I dared to squeak out a tiny sound, I got spooked. Is that really what my voice sounds like?

It brought my attention to myself. I felt like I didn’t belong but stood out. Why couldn’t I blend in like my grandma did and feel like part of something?

That’s a feeling that’s shown up over and over in other areas throughout my life: I’m different. I don’t fit in. I don’t belong here, and everyone knows it. I don’t want to be rejected, so I’ll stay silent. I can’t have my voice be heard—it’s too much of a risk.

A lifetime later, music has become one of my favorite ways to bond with my daughter—even since before she was born. Every time I went to Mass while pregnant, I swear she would wiggle in the womb to the rhythm of the processional hymn.

In the final weeks of pregnancy, I decided to paint a flower a day as I waited for her arrival. I painted each one on a torn out page from an old Baptist hymnal, a physical reminder of those early experiences with music, community, and the awkward process of discovering my own voice.

Now, with my baby snoozing across my lap, I look at these pieces and see a prayer hidden deep in my heart.

My prayer is that she would always know the joy of lifting her voice freely and fearlessly. I pray that she will not live in trepid silence, but that her very life will be a song, resonating with wonder, joy, and love, reaching those who most need to hear it.

If this journey resonates with you, you can shop the original collection here.