“You have a vocal nodule on your right vocal fold.”
That was the sentence I dreaded hearing from my ENT in November of 2010. Six weeks of vocal/singing rest were ordered. After that, a re-check to see whether I needed to see a surgeon at Emory. I was cautioned to limit my voice for talking and I was not to go beyond a normal inside, speaking voice.
The questions came fast.
What if I lose my ability to sing — or talk — because surgery goes poorly? Remember what happened to Julie Andrews? What if my church decides six weeks without me is six weeks too many? How did I let this happen in the first place?
I knew something had been wrong for most of 2010. I ignored it because it wasn’t consistent and I assumed it would just go away eventually. But the evidence was there. Certain parts of my mid-range simply voided when I tried to sing. I was raspy for a day after rehearsals and Sunday services. I told myself that if I just eased up, I could keep any real damage from happening.
By the time I finally got in to see the ENT, I instinctively knew what he’d find.
What I remember most from that room is the shame. How could I let this happen to me? I know better than to overuse my voice. I talk about vocal hygiene every day with my choir and my private voice students. I felt like a fraud.
But underneath the embarrassment was the real fear: that this might end my ministry.
Moses Had the Same Objection
When God called Moses out of the burning bush, Moses didn’t argue about the assignment. He argued about the equipment.
“Pardon your servant, Lord. I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue.” — Exodus 4:10 (NIV)
Moses looked at the calling, looked at his own mouth, and concluded the two didn’t match. And God’s answer is remarkable — not a pep talk, not a promise to fix his speech, but a question:
“Who gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, the Lord?” — Exodus 4:11 (NIV)
The tool belonged to God the whole time. Moses had mistaken his instrument for his qualification.
I had done exactly the same thing. Somewhere along the way I had stopped believing God called me and started believing God called my voice — and that if the voice went, the calling went with it. So when the ENT said “nodule,” what I heard was “disqualified.”
Even after all of that, Moses still ended up with Aaron speaking for him. God gave him the calling and then handed him a different tool than the one he expected to use. That detail took me years to appreciate.
What the Silence Did
I’d love to tell you I handled the vocal rest gracefully. I was a trooper for about three days. After that I melted into a self-deprecating, fearful, angry version of myself as the diagnosis and its possible futures settled in. I felt guilty for not being more careful. It was maddening.
New habits had to form fast. The hardest was figuring out how to communicate with our six-year-old twins and our two-year-old. Who parents three boys without raising their voice a dozen times a day?
Professionally, the hardest part was being banned from singing a single note. I led rehearsals and worship services while depending entirely on my team to carry every sound. I am still grateful for them.
One evening early in the healing process, I realized I hadn’t yet been willing to say to God: I wonder if He’s preparing me for a ministry outside of music.
I spent the next several days crying out in prayer. I told Him I was willing to be obedient however He wanted to use me — and I meant it. If I never sang another note, I would praise Him from the keyboard, or from a chair, or in some way I couldn’t yet imagine. My voice was His for the using.
In the days that followed, the fear melted. Not because I got a guarantee, but because I finally understood what Moses was told: music is a tool for ministry. It has never been the only way to serve. I became genuinely content with either outcome — a healed voice, or a new door.
Just before Christmas I went back for the follow-up scope. The nodule had shrunk completely.
My doctor reminded me that scar tissue is permanent, and that if I abused the voice again, the nodule would return. A good and necessary warning. I was overjoyed and thankful.
What Those Weeks Taught Me
1. I needed to invest in others more than I used my own gifts. I now deliberately try and minimize the number of times I sing alone in a year. Being intergenerational is a mind-set, not a method — and so is being a developer of people rather than a performer.
2. I need to protect my voice when leading, singing, and teaching. This remains the hardest one.
3. I don’t need to raise my voice to my children or the people I love. Ouch. Still a work in progress.
4. God loves me enough to remind me that everything I have is on loan. Everything. And all of it must be used for His glory.
To this day I have stretches where I can tell my voice needs rest. Rather than resent the scar tissue, I adjust how I’m speaking or singing — and I smile. It reminds me that the voice was a gift, that it was always on loan, and that I’ll use it until I can’t any longer.
It keeps me in check. I’m thankful.
“So I will go about Your altar, O Lord, that I may proclaim with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all Your wondrous works.” — Psalm 26:6b–7 (NKJV)
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