I recently found an essay that I wrote my freshman year of college. Reading it again was interesting to see how far I have come since then and was also a reminder of a moment when I felt a wave of God's love wash over me. Have you ever had a moment like this? I would encourage you to write it down and share it, if you feel so inspired. Tender mercies multiply the moment we begin looking for them, and you may soon come to see that God is in the details, orchestrating the best life possible for you. Little 18-year-old me had no idea all of the amazing and beautiful experiences Heavenly Father had in store for me. I know He will do the same for you. So without further ado, here is the essay...
For eighteen months, I have succumbed to silence—eighteen months of tears and wanting to scream out in pain and confusion, and eighteen months of pleas for understanding and healing. I sing, and I find great joy in it. When I was twelve years old, my sister gave me a recording box and microphone for Christmas, and ever since then, I’ve made vocal recordings. I’ve spent so many days in my “studio,” a vacant bedroom in my home where my melodies come to life. Hours pass like seconds when I’m recording and editing my vocals. I love layering my voice, singing first the melody, and then multiple harmonies. It's a timely process, but it’s an art as well, and that’s the part I love: the artistry, creativity, and freedom of song.
Most of my recordings were for my grandpa. He loved hearing me sing, and he asked for a CD of my songs. As his cancer grew progressively worse, singing the hymns to him became a great solace, and those were some of the best moments spent with my grandpa. I remember him resting on the couch in his fuzzy pajamas, eyes closed, listening to one song after another. Our song was "Nearer My God to Thee", and it was the last hymn I sang to him before he passed away. I’ve always strived to bring others to the Savior through my music. By the time I was fifteen, I had over twenty recordings. I wanted to share them beyond my family circle, so when my sister created a website for her music, I decided to do the same. Soon after, I began creating music videos to accompany my songs as well. However, this dream was crushed when I began experiencing vocal pain.
In August of 2015, I walked begrudgingly into the office of the ear, nose, and throat specialist, searching for the reason behind my pain. Back then the pain was minor and undiagnosed, just a bit of hoarseness every so often, so he recommended an allergy test. When I realized the test was full of pricks, I quickly declined (I’ve always despised needles). He then offered another procedure, to which I reluctantly obliged. The memory still makes me squirm… the cold squirt of mist in my nose to deaden its sensitivity, followed by the black, snake-like scope climbing up my nostril, until it slowly descended down my esophagus to capture the unseen world within. It was a simple scope of my vocal cords, but I still remember my apprehensive thoughts and quivering hands as I awaited the procedure.
The scope tickled as it brushed my skin, and its bright light slightly blinded my eyes as the nurse inched it toward my face. Even with the numbing mist at work, the sensation still made my skin crawl. However, when the procedure concluded and the doctor replayed the footage, I watched in wonder as I saw my vocal cords on screen, busily vibrating to create the sound of my voice. I sighed gratefully as the doctor assured me my cords were healthy. Nevertheless, he did suggest resting my voice until the hoarseness left, and he also recommended beginning vocal therapy to teach me proper vocal usage and damage prevention. Therapy did not seem necessary at the time, so we postponed it for a few months. However, the pain gradually increased until I couldn’t even speak without severe pain. Vocal rest was no longer enough; I needed therapy.
In January of 2016, I found myself in the BYU clinic undergoing yet another scope of my vocal cords. Gratefully, this was the last of the procedures; the specialist discovered the problem—muscle tension dysphonia—and treatment began right away. The sessions were held every Tuesday and Thursday, lasting fifty minutes each. Time flew as I underwent some of the oddest, yet most relieving, methods of treatment. One of them was to lay on the floor and roll my neck slowly from side to side. Another was to massage my neck and cheek bones, thus alleviating the building tension held there. The vocal training included singing descending trills, learning proper breathing techniques, and speaking sentences in a heightened pitch, thus avoiding the infamous “glottal fry” (a low, scratchy sound of speech). The doctor also prompted me to drink more water and to use a humidifier at night. As therapy continued, daydreams of healing and singing filled me with happiness and hope. I was optimistic I would be well in only a few short months.
As months passed, however, only silence remained. There was no more they could do for me, so treatment ended, and I walked away with feelings of dejection and confusion. Frustrated, I trudged to my studio and boxed up my recording set, hiding the microphone in the closet and shoving the box on a shelf. “That’s it,” I thought. “I’m done singing.”
Graduation came and went, and time merged into the summer months. I went to visit my sister in Washington, with the intent to move forward. However, she’s the one who got me into this recording hobby, so I should have seen this coming…
“How’s your voice?” she asked.
“Not good,” I gave in short response.
“Can you record a song for me?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t sung for so long, and my voice isn’t healed yet. It wouldn’t sound good anyway.”
“Come on, just one. We can take it slow. Please?”
I contemplated her question. Could I really do this? Could I really sing after so many months of silence? I wanted to record this song for her because it was one she’d written for me, but I’d given up on recording a long time ago, and with all these months of therapy trying to “fix” my voice, I’d become afraid of singing altogether. Nevertheless, even with all my reasoning, she insisted I try, so with one last ounce of hope, I whispered, “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Do you want to warm up?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Normally, I’d have her play scales on the piano for me to sing, but I didn’t want her to hear me warm up. Who knew what I would croak out?
I ran and hid in a room downstairs, shutting the door tightly so no one would hear. I feared my voice would sound scratchy and strained after so many months of disuse, but I knew my sister was right. It was time to try. I reached for my laptop and pulled up my folder of vocal techniques. I sang along to the therapeutic recordings, slowly increasing in volume and pitch as I sang. I waited in paranoia for the pain to come, but my throat just felt a bit dry—no pain—so I grabbed some water and continued warming up.
Even though no pain was present, my voice had changed. It sounded weaker and younger than it had before. Nevertheless, after finishing my warm ups, I knew I could stall no longer. As I returned upstairs, my sister met me with anticipation.
“Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I followed her in apprehension to the recording room, and hesitantly stepped up to the microphone. I was self-conscious and merely squeaked out the first few notes.
“You’re okay,” she said. “Let’s start again.”
As I began again, I focused intently on the words of the song. The lyrics are based on President Russell M. Nelson’s address, “Catch the Wave”. I had asked my sister to write a song with this emphasis of missionary work and bringing souls to Christ. It’s a beautiful composition.
As I sang, my voice became stronger and stronger, echoing the truths of the words: “It’s a wave of hope and joy, a witness of God’s love. It carries this message for all the world to see. I will catch this wave and make it part of me.”
Peace washed over me, “a wave of hope and joy, a witness of God’s love.” In that moment, I knew this song was meant for me. I felt my Savior’s love, and a sweet assurance came over me. I knew that He is aware of me and will not abandon me. Even though it’s hard, and I can’t see the path before me, my faith is overcoming my discouragement, and my testimony is growing stronger. I know that everything happens for a reason, so there’s purpose in my suffering. Even though these past eighteen months have broken me down, the Savior has lifted me up and carried me through.
For anyone who wants to hear the song, here is a link to the YouTube video. At this time in my life, my voice was not strong, but my testimony was burning bright. I am grateful for sacred music and its invitation to become more like Jesus Christ and for the Spirit I feel as I listen to these songs. Thank you for reading my post. It means the world to me! I hope you have a happy Sunday. You are so loved! Journey on strong. You got this.
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