I used to sing. Lots. Constantly in fact. Solo, harmony, choir, directing, supporting, leading, or listening. I was surrounded by music.
Over the years something changed. The happy songs became infrequent, and sad songs became standard until they too ceased.
Ceased. Like deceased. Dead. My song is dead.
For the last years the only songs that touch my soul are ones of redemption and future hope.
And then they too died.
I cannot even sing in church these days. The words stick in my throat. I can’t even hum. Its like trying to whistle after eating soda crackers.
I’m not sure if its permanent, but I definitely feel the Psalmist’s words in Ps 51:8.
Psa 51:8
Make me to hear joy and gladness;that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.
Rejoice… I haven’t done that either in a long time.
My ears can’t seem to hear laughter or singing, and of my own accord it is impossible.
But I am willing for Him to make me hear them again.
It’s been too long without hope, and thoughts of suicide keep coming back at the most inopportune times. Music helps, but I cannot even bear to listen to music right now.
And that is the sad part. It seems that I should be able to sing, that deliverance from bondage is enough.
And I am still free.
But it is hard to sing while surrounded by the destruction I wrought with my own hands.
CPH
Learning to Run 