We love God. We make music. I’m talking about my family—my parents and siblings, my husband and kids. If you know us, you know that these two attributes are true. It’s who we are. It’s what we do.

So, today, when a church friend heard about my upcoming thyroid surgery, she asked, “Will this affect your voice? Your singing?” I’ve known her a long time. She knows me as a singer, a praise team member, and a worship leader. What she didn’t know is …

“It could possibly have a temporary or permanent effect, but that’s not really an issue any more,” I told her. At her puzzled look, I said, “I don’t sing well anymore; I think God took my voice away.”

A number of years ago, I took a break from participating in a praise team. That was the first time I can remember in my life that I was not a soloist, or in a choir, a trio, on a praise team, or a part of any other music group. I wanted to make space into my life for some serious writing. But I missed it a lot, so when I had an opportunity to be involved in church services for a month, I felt that this opportunity had been placed before me by God. Then, on a sudden impulse, I tweaked it. I decided to rejoin a praise team so I knew how things worked under new musical leadership at church. “Good idea, right, God?”

At my tryout, I answered all the questions about why I was interested in singing with them, about how I felt about praising God with music. And I could honestly reply, “It is my passion.” But when it came time for vocalizing, I couldn’t sing. I didn’t recognize the sounds coming out of my mouth. I stopped singing, and with tears flowing, said, “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

Devastation. Who am I without singing? The emotional pain was incredible. I thought that singing was a part of my identity. Why would God take that away? Who am I without it?

It took years, and I am still learning. My identity does not come from my talents or accomplishments—my identity comes from God. I am not saying that I had not been worshiping God through music all my life. I had. But there was more depth waiting for me when I began to understand that my singing brought temptation with it—for pride. And that was a tangle I had not recognized or unraveled, until I couldn’t sing. The rug was pulled out from under me. I cried. I begged. I asked for my voice back.

I am a child of God who can lean into singing as a part of a congregation, with a freedom to get lost in conversation with and worship of God in a way I have never experienced before. When you are up front leading, a part of you is on techniques, on the worship plan, on the musicianship. It may have been only a small part of me that wasn’t engaged, but I found that without that barrier—one I didn’t even know existed—I could move into new depths of worship in song.

He didn’t take music away from me, just my up-front-in-a-mic voice. Thank you, Lord.

I still cry about it sometimes. Even though I can still carry a tune and harmonize, my range is limited and my voice cuts in and out. Tears are making it hard to see the words on my screen as I type. Music is still a big part of who I am. Part of my night-time devotions are singing the Psalms. Pick a tune, any tune, and sing a psalm to it. What is the repeatable chorus? Do the words warrant a minor or major key? The words speak so much more clearly to me when I sing them. Thank you, God.

Spiritual progress is often produced through pain, but arrested by affluence.

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth! Serve the Lord with gladness! Come into his presence with singing! (Psalm 100:1-2, ESV)

I am a child of God, adopted into His Circle of Love. That is my identity. That will never change, because God is unchangeable, and He claims me as His own.