The Soundtrack of My Soul

I don’t remember a time I didn’t love to sing.

I was raised in a house where music was as common as breakfast—maybe more so. My dad greeted each day with a song, often before the sun came up. And not quietly, either—much to the irritation of his wife and children.

More often than not, it was “Rise and shine, give God the glory, glory…” or “Oh, How I Love Jesus,” at full volume from somewhere down the hall. Occasionally, if he was feeling especially dramatic, it was “Rise Again.” (Sensing a theme?) Not because anyone asked for it—but because he was awake, and that meant it was time for everyone else to “rise,” too.

We’d groan. Roll over. Pull pillows over our heads. And Mom—without missing a beat—would yell, half-laughing, “Jim, shut it!” But we heard him. And honestly? We loved it. (Just not before 7 a.m.) We inevitably got out of bed laughing.

We sang in the car, around the house, in the yard, on the mower, and definitely in the church pew—or on stage. My family sang because it was how we lived. Singing was just… what you did.

At one point, Dad even took voice lessons during grad school. I was just a tiny thing, but I remember watching him stand in front of the mirror, practicing. Hands swinging - he was also learning to direct music. Shoulders back. Singing scales like he was auditioning for something important. It was hilarious. But also? He was really good. And we were proud.

I didn’t realize how much I loved music—or that I could really sing all that well—until about sixth grade. My voice was lower than most of the girls around me, so I wasn’t sure what to do with it when I couldn’t hit the soprano notes. One day, while we were preparing for choir competition, Mrs. Janocka stopped and said, “I think you’re an alto, Tami. I love it!”

That was all it took. I picked it up and ran with it.

I started to learn the part, and pretty quickly, I realized it felt like home. Not center stage, not on the melody, but right there—underneath, beside, in between. Supporting. Strengthening. Harmonizing. That’s where I found my voice.

I’ve always played piano by ear, learning to pick out melodies and match what I heard. Singing became the same way. I could read alto notes well enough, but what I really loved was finding the open space—hearing where the harmony was needed and slipping into it.

That’s probably why I fell so hard for gospel music. It makes room for that kind of instinct. That kind of depth. That kind of soul.

If you really want to know where I feel most like myself, it’s in a room full of strong voices, locked in harmony, worshiping like we mean it with all our hearts… because we do.

These days, I mostly sing in the church pew—or when I’m by myself, in the car, or around the house—where the volume’s just for me. (My husband, who grew up in a deaf household, isn’t quite the belt-it-out type… but he does have a beautiful voice!)

Some of my best concerts happen in the car. Sandi Patty riding shotgun, CeCe Winans in the backseat—both of them on full blast. Sandi starts in with No One Ever Cared for Me Like Jesus, and I’m harmonizing like it’s my job. But when CeCe sings Alabaster Box? That one gets me every time.

When I do sing, wherever I am, it’s still all there. The comfort. The joy. The worship.

Music has carried me through every season of my life. It’s my go-to when I’m happy. My comfort when I’m hurting. My prayer when I don’t have words.

As long as I live, I’ll never forget the afternoon we gathered to sing over my mother. She was just 60, on her deathbed, and wanted nothing more than to worship Jesus in song. So we did. For hours.

At one point, I’m told there were seventy people gathered in her hospice suite—voices raised, doctors and nurses wiping tears. That room, my friend, was holy ground.

I’ve thought a lot about that day. About what made it so sacred. And I’ve realized it wasn’t just the music.

It was the unity. The harmony. The way we all showed up—not to perform, but to worship our great God. Together.

If someone were to ask me what I hope they hear when I sing, I’d keep it simple:
I hope they hear that I love Jesus. I hope the music speaks to their heart the way it speaks to mine. And I hope, even if just for a moment, they find comfort there.

Because the truth is, the most powerful worship doesn’t always come from the stage. It comes from the heart. From a hospital room packed with people singing over someone they love. From a quiet kitchen where Spotify plays your favorite hymn and your hands are busy with dishes. From the passenger seat of a car with the windows down and tears in your eyes.

Some of the holiest moments happen in harmony. And some of the sweetest songs are the ones no one else hears.

So I’ll keep singing. Even if it’s just around the house. Even if the only ones listening are me and Jesus.

I know this piece has been mostly about my story, and honestly, that makes me a little uncomfortable. I don’t love putting myself front and center. But if sharing it helps someone else remember a moment… or find their own voice again… then maybe it’s worth it.

So let me ask you:

What’s the soundtrack of your soul?
What song carries you when you can’t carry anything else?

And if you haven’t sung it in a while… maybe today’s a good day to start.