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My Story (211) Oh, my voice!

 

This year, summer arrived far too early, and it swept in with an unbroken wave of fierce, suffocating heat. Only when the rain began a few days ago did the heat finally loosen its heavy grip, allowing me to breathe a little easier. Yet during those harsh days, my vocal cords were strangely damaged, and even now my voice has not fully recovered. Speaking brings a sharp sting, and singing feels as though a small wound is reopening.

 

For someone whose life is woven through teaching and preaching, this frailty of the voice comes as a quiet sorrow. Since childhood, I have taken subtle pride in my strong, resonant voice. When I taught Taekwondo in my younger years, I could shout commands for hours in the training hall—or on the military parade ground—without my voice tiring, and I took that strength for granted. Even in seminary classrooms, I could lecture passionately for three hours without ever sitting down, and my voice remained perfectly fine. Now, however, I cannot sing freely in worship, and each time I record an online lecture, discomfort reminds me that something has changed. It feels as though I have lost a part of myself.

 

The one small mercy is that I no longer teach in a physical classroom; I teach online, and therefore I do not need to project my voice loudly. Most problems come with solutions, but this one is simply the natural process of aging. What can I do? I can only accept it and live with it. All that comes out is a sigh.

 

Yet even here, grace quietly seeps in. The long-held desire to stand in the pulpit—even when I had no pastoral charge—has now faded away. Letting go of that longing has made my heart lighter. I no longer feel compelled to instruct others unnecessarily, and I have learned to remain silent when silence serves better. This change, too, is a small gift.

 

It feels as though God is whispering to me through this humbling:

 

“Jintae, do not strive to push yourself forward anymore. 

Close your mouth for a while and 

Open your ears wide. 

Speak only when the moment truly calls for it— and 

When you do, speak gently and softly.”