All I ever wanted was to sing. I didn’t want to sing in front of thousands. I simply wanted to sing about grace and hope amidst the messiness of life. I wanted to communicate love through song, to look in the eyes of those who listened and see them connect with the song.

My little-girl dreams were of singing. I never even dreamed I’d write. My love was centered on music, and specifically, lyrics. I wanted to be the one to impart words on a melody.

My grown-woman dreams morphed from singing to owning a stage. I wanted to hover above the altar and beckon women to be Beth Moore-style Christians. I did the studies…dozens of them…by Kay Arthur and Beth Moore and Priscilla Shirer and other popular, Christian-female authors. I knew the lingo. And I believed in the God they sold: the one who made miracles out of messes, who resurrected the dead, who always came through just when you thought it was too late. I wanted to sing about that God and how he’d worked wonders in my life.

Now? I’m not even sure God exists, especially not the one I believed in. I can’t reconcile in my heart a god who gives then takes away. Or a god who demands death so he can get the praise for resurrection. Or a god who drags people through messes just so he can concoct a triumphant miracle. Or a god who creates people with desires he never intends to fulfill. It’s all a little warped to me.

Before the Bible studies, before learning the Christian-woman language, before the desire to be somebody I’m not, I simply wanted to sing. I simply wanted to sing about how Jesus loves us all. I wanted to witness what took place when those words floated on a melody into people’s hearts.

These days, silence reigns. I don’t sing, and I don’t even know if Jesus loves me, much less anybody else. Maybe there’s really nothing to sing about anymore, after all.