I Have A Voice? Or, Is It A Void?

“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice . . .”

Psalm 5:3a

“I will sing and make music to the Lord.”

Psalm 27:6b

I grew up in a musical family.
Manmie and Papi sang to us all the time.
My siblings and I sang as we worked on chores.
Singing was no more special than reading out loud or poetry reading.
It was simply one of many activities we did together like laughing, storytelling, and playing.

Well, at the beginning of my third week at L'Ecole Primaire Mixte Bethanie, my singing voice was discovered and singled out. There was to be a special Christmas program at the end of the trimester (October-December) and the kids in my class -- prompted by our teacher who was secretly auditioning us -- took turns singing one stanza from Il est né le divin enfant ("He Is Born the Holy Child”). Had it been announced as an audition, I probably would have kept quiet, so intense was my desire to remain invisible and unnoticed. Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to comply since refusing would have brought more eyes on me than I could have handled.

So, I sighed a quick Help me, Lord!, took a breath, and sang -- painstakingly fixing my eyes on the words in front of me. I dared not look up after finishing the stanza because I was afraid that I had, once again, embarrassed myself in front of my peers. I braced myself for the hysterical laughter that had, up to that point, met everything I did at school.

Silence!

The teacher said nothing.
The students stopped fidgeting.
There was no sound around me -- nothing.

I slowly looked up and all eyes were on me. There was this awed sense of wonder in the classroom as I looked around and saw a different, a new kind of expression on the faces of the other children. Then and there, I could tell my voice had miraculously cracked the shell of superiority in which they had heretofore cocooned themselves.

I looked at the teacher with pleading eyes, begging her to end the tense silence.

"Ou gen yon bèl vwa, ti gason!," said she in Haitian Creole, which meant, "You have a beautiful voice, little boy!"

Her breaking into Haitian Creole touched me a great deal because it meant that she was so moved by my singing that she forwent the official French language, preferring instead to respond in the language of her heart. That bold choice did not escape the attention of my peers either. They were clearly more accepting of me.

I was grateful.
I passed the test.
I made it into the inner circle.
I was one of the normal kids.

Within three weeks, I had gone from being trash to becoming treasure in the eyes of my classmates. The empowerment I experienced through the discovery of my singing voice was euphoric; it was like a drug to my system.

I sang.
I sang constantly.
I sang to young and old.
I sang until my siblings begged me to stop.

Everyone in the neighborhood came to recognize my voice. They talked to me. They talked to my parents about it. They talked to each other about it. I was noticed but not ridiculed. I was noticed and I was praised.

And I liked it.
I liked it a whole lot.

So, barely six years old, I discovered the thrill of human praise and it grew within me at an alarming rate. I soon found I craved human attention as intensely as I resented the bullying I endured. I felt like I no longer needed God. I suffered through the devotions held at home, went through the motions, but knew there were people who loved me because of my voice. That was enough for me.

Or, was it?

It did not take long for this access to power and recognition afforded me by my voice to become suffocating to me. There I was receiving human praise and feeling important, and yet there was this void inside of me. It dawned on me what I really wanted was real intimacy. It was then, as a mere little boy, this important truth was revealed to me -- all I ever want is to know and to be known.

I was grasping but it was all in the wrong direction.

The more I played the "voice" card, the more empty I became. I came to secretly despise my voice because it did not fulfill the deepest desire of my heart.

O God, how could I have failed to see You were using my voice as a means to show me only You can fill the void within me? As I continue to follow You, grant that I no longer seek to stuff myself with cheap filling. Instead, guide me to desire the fullness of Your presence for the remainder of my days. Amen!