Preacher Voice

I've been thinking about how spent the better part of two hours of a recent Sunday morning sulking. See, I had been priding myself on how calm I was behind the pulpit, and how well I was reading things, and how natural this all felt, and how with my calmed heart came a slower pace of speech. I really thought that I had begun to luxuriate in the words I was saying, letting them take their time as they travelled from my eyes to my brain to my vocal cords and out of my mouth, the sound waves propagating away from me with appropriate weight and purpose. I was paying attention and I was sure that my speaking speed was appropriate, for what may be the first time in my life. I allowed myself to think that I'd finally tricked my brain into a sense of peace and out of that peace arose a clear voice annunciating well-timed words.

Then the end of the service came, and the pastor and I shook hands with everyone who came past us, and a lady walked up to me, and reluctantly accepted my handshake, and, after she took her hand back, said, "Now, I know you're new."

My pulse shot up but my smile stayed on, still genuine and cheerful.

"But you really have got to--"

My face froze.

"...slow down when you're speaking into the microphone."

For a tenth of a second, I'm seven again, crying into my mother's pants leg while she talks on the phone with my first grade teacher. I had been too loud during center time and the whole group at my center had lost a strip, this teacher's elementary school way of monitoring behavior, and the fact that I was now a disappointment to my teacher and my parents was too much for my little heart to bear. I couldn't stop my tears enough to explain what had happened and so my mother had to call the school, thinking I'd been bullied or had an accident or who knows what else, and, well, come to find that the only problem is that her daughter just can't handle the consequences of her actions. I had thought I was so good. It was devastating.

Then, as the remainder of the second ticks by, I'm twenty-six, reading the feedback form where a teacher calls me hateful. I'm eleven, looking at the one problem I missed on a hundred-question multiplication test. I'm eight, looking at my barely-passing score on the writing test. I'm twenty-five, listening to a friend tell me all the signs I missed. I'm fourteen and my drama teacher is telling me I've got to slow down. I'm twenty and my boss at the planetarium is telling me I've got to slow down. I'm twenty-two and the worship leader is telling me that I've got to slow down. I'm twenty-three and a teacher is telling me that I've got to slow down. I'm twenty-eight and my dad is telling me that I should slow down. I'm twenty-four and I'm trying not to cry because my grandmother never told me to slow down and now she's gone and she spent the last decade of her life without understanding a single word I said because I was too comfortable with my stupid racecar of a brain to think that someone else might need me to be different.

In the present, the lady has more to say. "If you listen to the pacing--" (and here she gestures at the pastor beside me) "you'll hear that there's a speed you've got to use. And like I said, I know you're new, but you've just got to think about these things."

"Of course," I say. Some kind of accent comes out of my mouth. "I know I talk a mile a minute, so it's always good to be reminded that I still need to work on that. You're absolutely right. Growth opportunity."

"Especially when you talk into the microphone," she continues. "It echoes."

"Yes ma'am, I should have noticed that. I'll keep that in mind."

"Well."

There's someone else in line after her but I don't really have anything to say to them, because now I'm the shy girl who doesn't want to talk because of her lisp and the shy girl who doesn't want to sit with anyone because she won't know what to say and the shy girl who knows everyone will just mispronounce her name and so it's better to just not be noticed at all. I smile and shake hands with the next person, and make quiet polite conversation with the next, and when the whole line is gone, I go and sit in the choir loft and stare up and to the left, up and to the left, urging the saline to stay in my eyes and off of my cheeks.

Of course, five minutes to myself and I'm on an even keel again. I'm defensive, but I've committed myself to my planetarium voice, which I know is as close to slow as I'll ever get. I train my breathing, I relax my shoulder blades, I fix my posture. I'm fine. After the second service, I only hear compliments about how well I read the liturgy. At coffee hour, someone asks me if I want to be a pastor and insists that I'll be fantastic at it, despite having only met me twice. I'm full of an aggressive, vindictive pride. 

I hate that. I hate that I have an Achilles' heel and I hate that hitting it brings out the worst parts of me. I hate that how I deal with it is anger and self-reassertion. I hate how I can feel the stone creeping back into the muscle of my heart. I hate how I can't find any generosity in my heart for this woman who wanted to make my ministry better with her intentional, direct, and accurate comment. I hate how whiny and pathetic and real this pain is. I hate how it took me out of worship. I hate that I gave it that power. 

I know my value. I know that I shouldn't get hung up on this. I know that I will forever be working on this. I know I'll get better. God willing, I'll look back at this in ten years and smile and shake my head. It'll be fine. I shouldn't let it bother me. 

Well, woulda, shoulda, coulda.