by Ginny Owens
How often I’d wanted to say those words to so many of those kids. I fought back tears as I sang.
But the kids didn’t fight their tears—they flowed freely. They connected with the words and music I’d written about God’s love for them—and mine.
Over the next several days, word spread through my classes that I wrote songs, which resulted in me playing more of them. The words born out of my own hope and pain—and my desire to pour hope into their lives—connected. This led to many more students confiding in me about their loneliness and deep pain—hard times at home, broken relationships, too many days of dimming the darkness with drugs. Those stories opened the way for me to share some of my own personal struggles and encourage them with the hope that grounded me.
And it all started with one shared song.
I’d loved music since I was a baby, singing along to everything from the albums of an obscure children’s music artist named Marcy to every song my ears picked up from the car radio. After I boldly belted out the lyrics to the KC and the Sunshine Band hit “Shake Your Booty” in front of a group of family friends, my parents gently explained we would be taking a break from listening to pop radio. It was, in their words, “trash music.” I was so sad. “Trash music” had delivered the most delightful sounds my three-year-old ears had yet heard!
During the years when listening to pop music was banned, I played the songs I learned at church and school on the old piano that lived in the back corner of our dining room. After the millionth round of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” I started experimenting with my own melodies and lyrics.
One night after bath time when I was seven, I was inspired to compose my first full masterpiece:
Don’t forget the water,
Don’t forget the soap,
Don’t forget the bathtub,
Or you’ll have to give up hope.
Don’t forget Christ Jesus,
He who cleansed your soul,
’Cause He’s the only One
Who can make you whole.
I thought it was a brilliant imitation of the Amy Grant songs I’d been listening to. No one I played it for seemed to agree.
But as I sang about cleansing the body and soul, I was learning the feeling of a heavy heart. Divorce became a new word in my vocabulary when my parents explained, after a lengthy separation, that this was the next step. I knew they didn’t love me any less, but there was a certain weight to everything now that they weren’t together. At the same time, I was finding out how it felt to be bullied and excluded at school. Being the creative, thoughtful, shy type didn’t help matters, but I also had a physical challenge that seemed to invite unkindness.
I had lost my eyesight when I was three because of optic atrophy and several degenerative eye conditions. I couldn’t help wondering whether that was the reason for all the chaos in my life.
Having no answer, I turned to music for solace. When my dad took me on a father-daughter date to dinner and the Jackson, Mississippi, city auditorium to see a traveling Broadway production of Annie, I was instantly obsessed. My eight-year-old heart fell in love with every song that emerged from Annie’s delightfully dramatic life. I imagined all we had in common and willed myself to have red hair, a massive mansion, and a great group of friends from the orphanage. As I belted out the songs along with the soundtrack, I believed with Annie that tomorrow would be better.
When I wasn’t listening to Annie, I was lost in the tender, thoughtful ballads of Amy Grant’s early albums. Her gentle, vulnerable voice perfectly collided with her heartfelt lyrics as she sang about being hidden away from the chaos in God’s powerful, loving arms.
About the same time, our church bought me a hymnal in braille, a book roughly twelve inches thick. Picture the largest single-volume reference book you can imagine. I spent many hours flipping its pages and singing its contents, making up melodies for the lyrics of songs I didn’t know. One of my favorites was that of another blind girl, who had, a century ago, proclaimed her hope in the darkness:
Perfect submission, all is at rest;
I in my Savior am happy and blessed.
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior, all the day long.1
Though I was still too young to fully comprehend the ornate language, the depth of the message cut straight to my heart: I could praise, looking above, no matter what was going on around me.
My soul soaked in every lyric of these rich, eloquent hymns and songs of faith, but I also adored singing along with the hopeful and heartbroken artists on the radio when the ban was lifted. Some days I wondered why they seemed so melancholy, and some days I could completely relate. Music expressed feelings I could not yet articulate. And God regularly spoke to my heart through the songs on my lips.
As a singer-songwriter who has spent my adult life sharing my music with people through albums and at concerts, I have repeatedly witnessed the life-changing impact that songs have on the soul. I’ve heard stories of how lyrics have helped invite freedom from long-time struggles or moved listeners to accept their current circumstances with hope.
I’ve been blessed to help teens craft songs about living with cancer, and I’ve seen military veterans with PTSD find new hope by framing their difficult stories in melody and lyrics. I’ve watched children who have lost their parents gain strength through writing songs that express their pain, and I’ve taught the nuances of songwriting to college students ready to set the world on fire.
This book is called Singing in the Dark because it’s something I have been learning to do since those early years of voicing joy and sadness along with Amy and Annie in my bedroom. And it’s something I believe we can all do.
We all experience darkness. Perhaps the darkness has come in the form of a painful loss, a chronic or terminal illness, deep loneliness, addiction, or perpetual anxiety and sadness. Whether you resonate with one of these categories or not, because you’re a human being, you know what it is to do battle with darkness.
There’s the darkness that keeps us from clearly seeing the path ahead, the haze of uncertainty as we make our way through the world. And there’s the darkness that keeps us from face-to-face encounters with God this side of heaven, calling us to rely on faith (1 Cor. 13:12). But in any darkness we face, I am certain we can learn to sing of hope. True, deep, unshakable hope that comes from knowing that God broke into our darkness, conquering it once and for all.
This book is about more than just warbling a song—it’s about creating and practicing a mind-set, one that I am convinced is the only way to walk through this life with joy in every circumstance.
We all long for wholeness. For perfection. So we do our best to avoid the brokenness within and around us. We block it out, or we turn up the noise of our busy lives to distract ourselves. We pretend the darkness doesn’t exist. We choose not to sing.
But what if we did? What if we sang songs of hope in our darkness? Of lament in our pain and brokenness but also of the coming wholeness? What if we sang of both our suffering and our coming glory? What if we sang of the eternal joy that will outlast and ultimately triumph over our sorrow? Wouldn’t such songs give us the hope and joy to overcome the darkness now?
Ignoring the darkness doesn’t make it light. Avoiding brokenness doesn’t bring redemption. But singing in the dark can heal us and change us. When our songs are directed toward God, the giver of song and healing, they ultimately bring us hope and joy. It takes courage to sing in the dark, especially in the moments when our stories don’t make sense to us. When confusion and doubt overwhelm us. But this courage, it seems to me, grows as we sing.
In songwriting, I always draw deeply from personal experiences of the joy and brokenness in my own story. And as a C
hristian, I can sing because I have confidence about how things will turn out. Because God came to earth in Christ—living a perfect life and carrying our guilt to His death, experiencing utter human hopelessness before rising from the grave and ascending to heaven—we can rest in His finished work. Our lives on this planet are merely the beginning of our never-ending story—of God’s never-ending story. But how can that bring us hope in the here and now?
The great King David wrote beautiful songs in which he poured out the heaviness in his heart. In nearly every instance, as he sang of the God he knew, his songs of mourning became songs of joy. Leah—David’s humble, unattractive, unnoticed great-grandmother—sang songs of unfulfilled longing as she ached for her husband’s love. But finally her heart sang peace and praise when she recognized that God was the provider and protector whose love had surrounded her all along.
Centuries later, Paul the apostle, whose letters make up much of the New Testament, sang to his friends the Philippians from prison: “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation” (Phil. 4:12 NIV). What was Paul’s secret? How did Leah praise God when life seemed overwhelmingly lonely and unfair? What did David know about living with a song always in his heart?
David, Leah, Paul, and many others experienced profound hope in the midst of their darkness. In the unfolding of their stories, we see that hope and peace came as they sang—that is, as they voiced joy and sadness, praise and repentance, laughter and lament—to God. When we follow suit, not only do we hear the truth of our own hearts, but God, who sings over us (Zeph. 3:17), hears our songs too. And He works through them to draw us closer to Himself.
Many people view the Bible as a virtually inaccessible ancient book, with a few stories and psalms here and there that might be useful for comfort and guidance. Perhaps you have thought of the Bible in this way. I’ve had moments of treating it as such. But as I’ve plumbed its depths over the years, I’ve learned that this could not be any further from the truth.
My prayer, as we open the Scriptures together, is that we will be moved by the living, breathing Word of God, whose contents are relevant for every moment of our lives. The Bible is also our hymnal—our ultimate worship album—teaching us perfectly how to sing in the darkness of our circumstances.
I’d like us to explore several biblical passages to discover how, since the beginning of time, God’s people have been singing their way to eternity. Some of the songs are not literal songs but heart songs. In each chapter, we’ll explore one of these songs and link it with the bigger picture of God’s plan for the world. We’ll see how God’s people became hopeful by singing to Him, and how we can too. We’ll also memorize portions of these songs together so the profound richness of their truths can sing to us all day long.
To encourage you further, I’ll be telling my own story along the way, a personal testimony of the power of learning to sing in the dark. I’m also going to invite you to compose songs of your own—the prayers and cries of your heart.
If you’ve been singing your life’s songs in the darkness of sadness, physical suffering, self-doubt, or isolation, or if you simply want to learn to sing hope, no matter your circumstances, I invite you to join me as I share my story and we study the songs of Scripture. Together, we’ll embark on a journey that I pray and believe will help you experience the infinite hope and endless joy we’ve been promised in Christ.
Leah conceived, gave birth to a son, and named him Reuben, for she said, “The LORD has seen my affliction; surely my husband will love me now.”
She conceived again, gave birth to a son, and said, “The LORD heard that I am neglected and has given me this son also.” So she named him Simeon.
She conceived again, gave birth to a son, and said, “At last, my husband will become attached to me because I have borne three sons for him.” Therefore he was named Levi.
And she conceived again, gave birth to a son, and said, “This time I will praise the LORD.” Therefore she named him Judah. Then Leah stopped having children.
Genesis 29:32–35
Chapter 1
A Song of Undivided Praise
The Search for Satisfaction
I wish you could know my brother, John David (JD for short). Despite being a highfalutin Marine Corps captain, he is one of the most high-spirited, life-loving people you’ll ever meet.
When we were kids, JD lived by the mantra “My life would be perfect if I just had this one thing.”
It’s an idea most of us embrace, even as adults; JD just expressed it more boldly and more frequently than others. When he got his driver’s license, he inherited our mom’s old Ford Taurus. After installing a more powerful stereo, which made the speakers rattle constantly, even at a low volume, he put on huge rims and tires. It was the perfect car for a moment. But by Christmas, he was over it. The rattling speakers were annoying and shorted out often, and his gargantuan rims had gone out of style.
Soon JD was begging our parents to let him buy an old used black truck he’d found at a car dealership. When I went home for a monthlong break from college, it was all he could talk about. After several weeks of begging and wheeling and dealing, he finally got his new old truck. And for an instant, all was well. But the decrepit truck had little life left, and the love affair soon ended when the truck died for good. JD had to return to driving the Taurus with the big tires and rattly speakers, longing for a better set of wheels.
Like my brother, I tend to obsess over getting the things I’m sure will make life everything it should be. I play the piano but have always wanted to master the guitar. So I’m the proud owner of three guitars and two ukuleles—acquiring each in the hope that it would be easier on my piano-playing fingers and catapult me into guitar-playing success. I’ve bought kitchen appliances I was sure would inspire me to cook like a professional chef and exercise gear that would motivate me to work out. I’ve had lonely seasons as a single woman when I’ve been convinced that having a husband would make everything better. And the list goes on.
What would bring you satisfaction? For all of us, there is something—one thing at any given moment—that we think will make us happy. Maybe a glance in the mirror on a bad hair day and a new skin flaw motivate you to switch to fancy hair-care products and pricey anti-aging cream. Perhaps a look at your bank account makes you long for a better-paying job. Or after a day of chasing or carting around your kids, you fantasize about a month alone on a beach.
For most of us, the things we’d like to change go much deeper: A lonely marriage. A job that requires navigating difficult relationships. An unexpected and unwelcome diagnosis. A challenge that accompanies us everywhere. Whether the thing we’d like to change is a slight nuisance or a dead weight, we spend our days looking for hope. Most of us have in our minds one thing we think would make everything better—one thing that would satisfy us.
Many of us have grown up hearing that God alone is the One who brings peace and fulfills our every need. Yet we aren’t convinced. We’re pretty sure, in fact, that what we need from God is not God Himself but the things He can give us—if He just would.
So what do we do when satisfaction is just out of reach? How do we sing of hope and gratitude when God isn’t giving us what we want?
I’d like to explore with you the story of Leah, the granddaughter-in-law of Abraham and one of the first matriarchs we encounter in the Bible. Leah found herself in a miserable situation over which she had no control. And after years of longing for the one thing she thought would change everything, she found the One who truly did.
As we open Leah’s story together, I’ll also share a bit of my own story and how I, like Leah, found real, tangible hope and the satisfaction I had been longing for. My prayer is that Leah’s song and mine will guide you to sing your own song of true, deep, joyful satisfaction, no matter what circumstances you’re facing.
The Power of Desires
The story of Leah reminds me that, from the beginning of time, people have been faci
ng impossibly challenging circumstances and coming up with their own ways to cope. Leah’s plight as an unattractive older sister and the further struggles she faced because of her dysfunctional family have long captivated me. In her story we see how misplaced desires destroyed her family’s happiness and peace. But we also witness how Leah finally found hope, even when her world didn’t change for the better.
Let’s see how the stage is set for Leah’s grief. The story opens in Genesis 29 with Jacob, grandson of Abraham and younger son of Isaac, running for his life. Jacob had successfully tricked his aged, blind father into blessing him rather than his slightly older twin, Esau, and giving him the inheritance usually meant for the older son. Fearing his brother’s reaction, Jacob escaped to the eastern land of Paddan-aram to find his uncle Laban.
Upon arrival, Jacob met Laban’s beautiful daughter, Rachel, as she herded her father’s sheep. Instantly smitten by her beauty, he eagerly offered to work for Laban for seven years in exchange for Rachel’s hand in marriage. Jacob had yet to realize that he and his uncle were cut from the same cloth. Instead of promising him Rachel’s hand in marriage, Laban merely said, “Better that I give her to you than to some other man” (v. 19). But Jacob took that as a yes.
When Jacob neared the end of his seven years of labor, he went to Laban and insisted on a wedding to Rachel. Laban put on a great wedding celebration but tricked Jacob by giving him his older daughter, Leah, instead. We’re not told exactly how this took place without Jacob’s notice. However, because a bride would have been veiled throughout the wedding festivities, wine would have been freely flowing, and Jacob and Leah would have headed to their “honeymoon suite” when it was dark out, we can see how it could happen.
The next morning, after Jacob awakened to find he was married not to Rachel but to her older sister, he confronted his uncle turned father-in-law. In the end, Jacob agreed to another seven years of work in exchange for marrying Rachel too. Note that all this happened in Jacob’s first week of marriage to Leah.