In August of 2017, I stepped away from my role as a vocalist on the worship team at my church. I chose to stop singing publically because I needed rest, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I needed to step back into a space of full-time receiving. It had been two years since my last sabbatical, and I was ready for a break.

I confess that I didn’t miss it, not any of it. I mean, no one misses having to be up earlier than usual to arrive an hour early for setup and sound check, but I didn’t even miss the parts that usually brought me joy and ministered in deeply nourishing ways to my mind and soul.

Then one day, in April 2018, I did.

Standing in the service singing the harmonies I always do, engrossed in the swirling of the music and vocals all around me, I just . . . missed it. The preparation, soaking in the selected songs, blending vocals to bring the lyrics to life, the swirl of the music around me, the synergy of individual people and talents coming together to create a new, whole, living thing right there in the congregation—all of it. I missed it all, even arriving an hour early to prepare, to encourage one another within our team, and to engage in the camaraderie that draws you out of yourself and into community and communion.  Suddenly, the idea of returning to service awakened a sense of joy that had been missing for a long time.

Then, as I was contemplating my return to the worship team, I suddenly lost my singing voice. Now almost a year later, it still hasn’t returned.

I suspect the effect of that loss is more profound than even I am aware of yet, but one of the expressions of that loss was that I stopped listening to music. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but because God wrote my soul in story and song, when I hear music, everything else melts away and I am fully engrossed in it. I think subconsciously, I stopped listening to music because I knew that if I did listen, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from singing. I longed to protect my voice, and singing when you’ve lost your voice is a surefire way to damage your vocal cords. Subconsciously, since I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t listen either.

My therapist called me out on that last fall. She reminded me how deeply I need music, how deeply God ministers to me through it, and encouraged me to begin listening again. Even just one song a day, she said. I tried, but it was too painful. So I quickly gave it back up.

I don’t remember what prompted me to do it, but yesterday as I was driving to work (#nannylife means I work every Saturday evening!), I turned on my CD player. Jess Ray’s newest album, Parallels + Meridians, began to play. I’d had her song “Gallows” on repeat for months, but yesterday it wasn’t what I needed. So I turned off repeat and let it play through a few more songs. Then “Sunday Afternoon” began to play, and suddenly my car became a sacred space again.

Yes, I sang. I haven’t stopped singing with it, and surprisingly, my voice is responding better than it ever has in the last year. The significance of that is not lost on me. I need to be able to sing this, both to myself and back to Him.

But that’s not the real point this time.

This song is hitting something deep in me right now. Something about the pain, the uncertainty, the loss, and the questions the lyrics present her sitting in resonates deeply with me and the season I have been walking through over the last year. The images of “life tearing at the seams,” of “lying on a kitchen floor/reeling from a terrible report,” of nothing preparing her for certain news, and of God being by her side every time, coming to her and never going away, ministering exactly what she needs to be able to endure—that’s where I am. The circumstances are different, but their effect is similar, and on this Sunday afternoon, I feel him kneeling by my side, too, whispering to me that “everything will be okay,” reminding me that he came to me, that he never went away, and that love will keep me faithful, too.

So, I am sharing this song today, an act of worship this Sunday afternoon, a choice to Sabbath in the sacred place opened back up to me. Maybe it will create a sacred Sabbath space for you too, in the midst of your own circumstances—a space where you find Him kneeling by your side, sitting down with you in your pain and loss, reaching out to you, loving you, keeping you.

Sunday afternoon, I didn’t see this coming so soon
Nothing had prepared me for that news
When life is tearing at the seams and I don’t know what to believe
I just want someone to understand me

And she said that she saw you, kneeling by my side
You told her to be quiet “all she needs is love tonight,
Love it kept me hanging, hanging on a tree,
and love will keep her faithful, faithful to me.”

I saw you once before, I was laying on the kitchen floor,
Reeling from a terrible report
And I have had a few days I thought I’d die from heartbreak
But you came and never went away

And I think that I saw you, kneeling by my side
Heard you whisper to me, “Everything will be alright,
Love it kept me hanging, hanging on a tree,
and love will keep you faithful, faithful to me.”

In autumn of ‘16, on the darkest days I’d ever seen
You met me at the house down by the sea
And in the kindest way, you showed me that you’re not the same
That you came and you never went away
You came and you never went away

And I know that I saw you, sitting by my side,
So real I could have reached out and touched you if I tried
And you said, “Love it kept me hanging, hanging on a tree,
and love will keep you faithful, faithful to me.”