When I was 17 years old, I wrote my first song.
I think it was called “Why Do I Run From You?” I played that song on a wonky keyboard and sang my first penned song in the school chapel service during my senior year of highschool, and except for an incredibly supportive English teacher who enthusiastically encouraged all of my endeavors at creative writing, no one said a word to me afterwards that I can remember. I could have died of embarrassment for exposing such a personal part of my heart. Actually, I might be dying of embarrassment right now with nothing but the memory of that day roaming free in the halls of my mind. I should file that memory in one of the filing cabinets in my brain that I keep locked up with 30 padlocks and big ropes of chains.
But, that was a big day for me because it was my first time to put an original song out into space for ears other than my own. I survived it (barely), and I realized that I really enjoyed the process of making a song. It was the one and only redemption of 8 years of excruciating piano lessons. I couldn’t read music as well as an 8 year student should have, but I had a decent ear and could chord out simple progressions and add words. I went back to the piano time after time putting my thoughts into melody and chords. The early songs were simple at best, corny at worst (<–usually the latter). But then I went to college. And there were soundproof rooms of pianos and creative writing classes and suddenly the world of self-expression opened up to me in a way that I have yet to tire from.
Crafting a song is still the most exhilarating and intimidating process. When I finish a song, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to write another. What if the muse simply disappears? What if I’ve used up all the words and chord progressions that my mind was allotted?
A long time ago, there was a young man who sat beside me in the piano rooms of my university and listened with a kind of attention that almost embarrassed me. The nakedness of opening up the song for someone else to see and hear it–it’s just unbearably hard at times. It’s a soul exposure that requires a level of trust with the listener. It took over a decade, but that man has recently pushed me to publish some of my own music on a solo album. He hired a producer and orchestrated a process that we’ve begun to get my most personal of songs into a space of hearing. He believes I have something to say and a way to say it that should be available. I’m thankful for the push because I might never have pursued it myself.
I sifted through 50 or more songs and settled on 6 for my EP length album. I think they are some of the strongest ones, but considering I have dozens of songs that I will NEVER allow to see the light of day, that’s not saying a whole lot.
The music of the last decade of my life has mostly centered around trust in my Maker. If Christ is who I follow (and He is), then He is worth staking my life on. Round and round we go in my prayers, in my journals, in my songs–do I trust Him? Do I trust Him enough? Do I trust Him at all? He proves Himself over and over to be the One unchangeable force, the One Solid Being who anchors me to Himself. I sink regularly, but He steadies me constantly. He is my anchoring place. Because everything He has ever said has been true and always will be. This theme of His steadying presence is the theme of my album and is reflected in nearly every song. I’m slowly moving away from my fear of failure and self doubts and toward excitement about the recording process. My husband worked on an album of our combined songs a couple years ago, but it was just a hobby he enjoyed and not a professionally mixed or mastered album. He worked hard, though, and here is the fruit of his efforts. Because he wanted more for my solo project, we are working with an experienced freelance producer.
We spent last week playing through all six songs with a click-track (which I knew would be hard for me as I’m pretty rhythmically challenged). But he was patient and showed me a few things he has in mind for my project. I came away from that session a little dazed and overwhelmed by the possibility of my music taking on a persona that I could never have imagined. The thrilling swell of strings filled the room as we talked through one of my songs titled “Every Sky.” I choked back tears as the music saturated the air.
And that’s the beauty of music and why I feel so grateful to have a tiny corner of it in my hands. It can evoke deep emotion in mere seconds. It pierces through hard exteriors and layers of cynicism. It sweeps you to the edge of what you didn’t think you felt and helps you to think about a concept in a different light simply because the words are set against a stage of tones that force you to engage both your mind and your heart. I love that.
I can say what I need to say and dress it in a melody that might help you to listen more closely than a casual conversation. I can take a thought and set it to a tune that makes it easy or hard to swallow, depending on my intent. Or I can express the hard places I’ve been through. Or pour out the Psalm I read that morning with a series of chords that rise and fall with the imagery of the psalmist’s words.
For me, there is not a whole lot that makes me happier.
For further inspiration, here’s a song I’m currently stuck on. Enjoy. 🙂
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.