We’ve had this album and this album on repeat for weeks. We’re all singing it under our breath, or out loud.
The shower is my singing place.
Our house is small, and we share a tiny bathroom with the five of us, and I’m sure my family laughs as they hear my voice rising from it’s echos. My imperfections and my tunes off-key and my made-up lyrics.
Sometimes that nightly shower is the first time since the morning quiet that I’ve been able to stop. The place where, finally, I don’t have an audience of children, and I don’t have to hold it together. The mask falls with that hot water, and that which I’ve held in can be released.
It’s a private place to cry.
When the tears turn to praises and the turmoil turns to trust, and it all happens in the shower, as the praise rises with the steam and the tears rise with them because I know He hears and bottles each one.
And there is a synchronicity that comes in the midst of doing both.
Because He promises supernatural help, and as we sing in the midst of the battle, that deliverance comes.
My natural isn’t enough. In fact my natural often makes a mess of things, but as this Psalm promises, by His mighty hand miracles will manifest through his saving strength.
Do we really know His saving strength?
What do you do when it falls apart?
Do we sing a song of trust? A trust that God will give you every desire of your heart and carry out your every plan as you go to battle.
It’s right there in this Psalm. It’s a promise.
Whatever battle we’re facing, He’ll bring victory.
And sometimes the weapon we need to pick up is our song.
Singing, for me, is a vulnerability. It’s one thing to hide my voice in a sea of them, but when it’s my voice alone standing up, reaching out without even an echo—that feels risky.
But in those battle seasons I’m learning to voice my prayers, my sorries, my thoughts, even if they’re met at first with silence.
Even if the shower is the only place I have to cry.
Even when the lyrics don’t rise to my lips in victory, I know that as I sing, as I speak, as I share, as I fill the silence, that the victory comes.
As King David sang this Psalm, His song of trust, I’ll sing too:
May we find connection in our isolation.
May He remember us as He paints the moon, and let us see Him in the dancing sunshine through our kitchen windows.
May he quieten us in our frazzled and worried doing, and busy trying.
May we know the God who fights for us, and feel the courage of that knowing settle in our bones, so we don’t rush frantic to fix what only He can.
May we see the manifestation of miracles, however small, in our every day.