Finding Our Voice

a poem from the water’s edge

Sometimes finding our voice sounds like silence. Listening. Reflecting rather than responding. Being more than doing. Curiosity the compass. Questions the map. Possibility the destination.

After months of speaking, emailing, and social media posting about the launch of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal, I needed a break. A chance to step back, breathe, and refine the message. Sharing about a new book is different once that book has been released into the world. Honestly, my voice felt a little shaky and unsure. And really tired.

As you read today’s Wednesdays at the Well, I am away on a little trip. This poem was born sitting by water on an unusually hot April day. The lake was calm and calming, even as the waves picked up, the first indication of the storm that was brewing. When I heard church bells chiming in the distance these words began to flow.

Take a read and take some time to consider your voice. When, where, how do you find it? Use it? Is it ever really lost? Or just temporarily silent?

Finding Our Voice
©Rebecca Wilson, April 2026

finding our voice
isn’t like looking for a sock lost in the laundry
an earring that came out while we slept
coins in the crack of the sofa

it isn’t really searching at all
it’s living
one breath at a time
syllables slowly becoming phrases
lines blending into measures
stanzas building symphonies
notes bursting on the page

it’s believing words matter
singing them
even off key has power
membership isn’t the only way to be part of the choir

sometimes our voice is found
by whistling
writing
wondering
wandering
walking
wrestling
witnessing
personifying stillness

silently sitting by the water
our heart beat softer and softer
a diminuendo
listening to the whispering winds

a bell tower chiming
recognizing the hymn
finally believing
our worth is not determined
by humming along

Tenderly, Rebecca

In the introduction to Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal I write about the hymns I hear daily from a church bell tower close to home. How they haunt me and guide me. How they remind me of my grandmother’s faith and influence the curious faith I’m composing. How they shape this new collection of poems.

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