My Throat Hurts

Yesterday afternoon, I drove one of my little sisters, Olivia, to a friend’s house. We had stopped for Starbucks on the way, having our Sister Time. Olivia is 8 years old-- an age that, for many little girls, welcomes newness of thought, and unexpected depth. The questions this little lady comes up with boggle me. And the sweetness and innocence of her thoughts are so precious.

As she sipped her shimmering Starbucks Izzie soda, I turned on the radio. Now, I love the radio, as I covered in my last blog. But, when I have the younger kids in the car, I try to settle my wracking desire to rock out with Akon and Jay Sean, to turn on KLOVE, the Christian station in my area. I wouldn’t exactly be proud of myself for helping my 3 year old baby sister sing, “doncha wish yo girlfriend was hot like me,” or my 10 year old brother screaming, “good girls go bad!” So KLOVE it was.

As I turned on the radio, Olivia asked me to turn it up. A song I wasn’t too familiar with went from whispers hushed beneath the lull of the arrogant engine inside Clifford, to a song loud enough for Olivia to sing with. I asked her if she knew the song, to which she replied she did. I loved just listening to her pretty little voice sing. We were passing a grocery store as Liv began talking to me again. Clifford selfishly did not cooperate and hush himself, so I had to turn down the music to hear her better.

“I like when the music is a little louder and I can hear it, because I really like to sing with it.” She told me. I voiced my approving agreement, and asked her,

“So you really like to sing, huh?” Even though she had told me countless times she loves to sing.

“Yes. I keep liking it more and more,” She told me from the first of four rows in that big van. I told her how much I love to sing too, and after a moment turned the music up again.

As we continued on, I could her voice faintly match the words, “Oh no, You never let go, through the calm and through the storm.” I added my own voice to the mix as well. Every few minutes I asked Liv another question or two. It was my last little outing with her before I went back to school, and she loves it when we get to do things together. I twisted the volume knob again as she began to talk to me again, Clifford relentless in his desire to be heard.

“Sometimes,” the meek little voice started, “when I sing low, my throat hurts.” She told me. I was curious where she might be getting to with her declaration, so I turned the music even lower, and asked her to repeat herself. “Sometimes, if I don’t sing loud, my throat hurts because I want to sing.” She continued. This struck me as oddly profound, and shockingly precious, regardless of her blissfully adolescent thoughts. I pressed her to tell me more. I asked her a few questions of clarification of what she was trying to tell me. “If I sing soft, or low,” she paused as she took a breath. “I can’t hear myself sing, and it hurts until I sing loud enough.” I listened intently, hearing the legitimacy and pure truth to what she was describing.

Olivia was telling me about something I have tried to figure out myself. This inescapable need, this inexpressible desire that cannot be lulled back to sleep unless it is uncaged. A burden even more relentless than Clifford, who was now mimicking the sound of my own inner musing at these thoughts it took an 8 year old girl to bring to the surface of my own thoughts. There is something unhushable within us. There is a burden unable to be taken off the way we can shed a heavy backpack or pass around a heavy youngster unwilling to be put down. It’s such a desperate desire. It’s something that feels like pain if we imprison it. So, what is it? And why do we feel it? And how come my little 8-year-old sister can meet me on this same terrain? Is it just something we “older people” can understand and relate to? I’m in college… I’m certifiably “older” now. But, I’m thinking that is not so—this “something” is not designated to an age. Although, I must say, the older we get, the more this realization feels like a brick slug at us, hitting us square in the jaw, saliva spewed out, chin knocked the wrong way, head flying backwards like someone yanked our hair from behind, and all in slow motion, hammering in the affect. It hits hard! Because it’s so simple.

I know we’re on a somewhat drawn out ride to get to the bottom of this seemingly simple concept, which all started from driving my littler sister to her friend’s house. But don’t give up on me. We’re about to get to the light bulb.

In Luke chapter 19, Jesus told the Pharisees that even the rocks would cry out in praise if we don’t. Crap… even the inanimate objects will act more alive than we are if we don’t do what we’re wired to do. All of the earth is quaking at what is inexpressible, and entirely untouchable… the praise that is due our Creator. The desire that Olivia expressed as her throat hurting if she didn’t sing loudly, I don’t think is left over from the cold she may have had a few weeks ago. In fact, if that were so, I hardly think singing louder would cause any more comfort in the situation. My gut would plead just the opposite actually.

I think Olivia loves to sing. Eye-roller… Yes, I know this thought has been collected over and over. I also think I love to sing. Ahh, you’re all convinced I’m smart and everything now, huh? So, Olivia and I are two of the same. We have a similar passion. But here’s what I’m getting at. We both have a similar unyielding fury to unleash the passion. We cannot keep quiet. We must sing! She is 8 years old. She must sing. I am 19 years old. No matter, I must sing. We love to sing.

Now, what about the kids that love to paint? There is no substance that can dilute the need—they must paint. And how about those who need to get that ball in the goal. They crave it. It is unquenchable. They must play. They must run. They must sing. They must paint. They must speak. They must write. They must work. They must… praise.

We are fearfully and wonderfully made. And all that we are is a reflection. All the good in us, is only reflected from the one who IS good. The one who made the concept of “good” existent. And we are made to display His glory. We cannot escape it. If we were to creep under the radar and refuse to show the glory of the Lord in our own existence, we’d need to cease to exist. But we were not made to stop at just breathing, and pulsing, and possibly blinking. We are made with a desire to praise, a desire to worship—to worship our King.

So what I think, is, we all have different passions. Some of us have drives so solid they could literally petrify water, maybe even silence my van, as if he were a real dog. But, I think we all literally quake to glorify the Lord. The rocks would take over if we refused. The whole earth already screams His majesty. But how much more should we, as the crowns of His creation, quake to display His glory and His majesty? How much more does this desire hurt if we don’t do it? How much more do we deflate as if we’re hollow within, requiring air to fill us, if we lock it up? How much more do we suffer when we can’t do what we feel lines every nerve, over every muscle, around every organ, within every speck of skin. But, isn’t this right? Shouldn’t it hurt? God is so incredible… we all have such different, unique ways we desire to praise Him. And I know for myself, if I cease to sing, I hope it hurts. I hope it hurts really badly. I hope it hurts so badly, I cannot take the pain.

So I’m gonna conclude by saying… my throat hurts. And I hope it always does.