Last night, my dear husband and his age-mellowed guitar took it upon themselves to help me begin to learn to sing a song. A single song. ONE.
We aren't going for "teaching me to sing." No. This is going to be like those beauty pageant contestants who create the illusion of vast talent by pouring tens of thousands of practice hours into three minutes. At least that's what Mike says. It can be done.
I have no idea what can be done. I don't even know what my real singing voice is because it's always throttled by fear. I do best when I'm surrounded by deep, true voices in church, voices that I can lean on and hide behind. Singing on my own is like being lost in a vast, foreign city---I can't read the signs, I only know I've made a wrong turn somewhere, and everyone is politely looking away from the panic in my eyes.
The song is Kasey Chamber's "If I Were You." The occasion is that I'm forty-nine today. Don't you think forty-nine is a fine age to finally learn to sing one song?
Fingers shift on frets
you easily hold my gaze
I am deaf to fear
to sing louder and longer
than each year before
I wish each of you love today, and a reason to sing.