When the Body Sings First

When my children were young, I was unsure of my faith. Not hostile to it. Not opposed. Just unconvinced.

So I did not teach them to grow within it.

I spoke of faith and religion the way one speaks of geography or temperament—some people believe this—hoping that one day they would arrive at their own conclusions, the way I assumed I would eventually arrive at mine. I wanted their beliefs to be chosen, not inherited. I wanted openness more than certainty.

Now my children are teenagers.

And now, I am fully invested in my faith.

They watch me sing at church—hands lifted, eyes closed, voice unguarded. They watch me praise the Lord with my whole body. And I can feel it: the mild embarrassment, the sideways glances, the quiet amusement that says, "We love Mom's weirdness."

I suspect they think I am a little silly.

And I cannot discount that, in their place, I would have thought the same.

When the Voice Tightens

There are days when I try to sing and my throat closes. Not because I don’t know the words. Not because I don’t believe them. But because my body knows something my mind hasn’t finished naming yet.

The voice tightens when emotion arrives before permission.

We like to think worship comes from confidence—clear notes, steady breath, lifted hands. But sometimes worship comes from a body that is holding grief, fear, gratitude, or longing all at once. Sometimes the voice doesn’t rise because it is already heavy with truth.

I used to think the tightness meant I was doing it wrong.

Now I think it means I am close.

The Body Keeps the Prayer

When emotion surfaces, the body responds first. The chest constricts. The breath shortens. The throat narrows, as if to protect what is tender.

This is not resistance. It is wisdom.

Before words were language, breath was prayer. Before melody, sound. Before sound, presence. The body remembers this order even when we forget it.

So when my voice tightens, I stop trying to sing through it.

I breathe. I hum. I soften.

I let worship be quieter than I planned.

Lower. Softer. Slower.

There is a strange permission that comes from singing lower and softer than feels impressive. It strips away performance and leaves only offering.

When I sing this way, my voice may shake. It may crack. It may barely rise above a whisper.

But it is honest.

And honesty, I am learning, is not a lesser form of worship—it is a deeper one.

When Tears Appear

Tears used to feel like interruption .Now they feel like accompaniment.

If tears come, I no longer stop immediately. I stay with the breath. I stay with the hum. I let the sound tremble instead of forcing it steady.

This teaches the body something sacred: Emotion does not require silence. Vulnerability does not require control.

Sometimes the most faithful sound is an unfinished note.

Enough Is Enough (in the best way)

When I finish—whether it was one line or one breath—I place my hand on my chest and remind myself:

That was enough.

Not because it was polished. Not because it was complete. But because it was real.

🌱 Good Beet Reflection

Where does your body hold prayer before your words can speak it? What happens if you let worship be quieter, slower, or unfinished today?