I can’t sing. Really.

When I was in sixth grade, my grandmother made a gorgeous yellow dress for me to wear at our school’s Easter program. Then I learned that I was to be excluded from the Easter program because…I can’t sing. When the song leader saw the tears of disappointment weaving down my cheeks he said, “You come to the program. You wear that dress your grandmother made. You stand up on the stage with your class. You open and close your mouth. But don’t let any sound come out.”

So I wore my lovely yellow Easter dress and stood proudly on the stage opening and closing my mouth—doing my best not to let any noise escape. Years later in college, our drama professor’s wife, who held a doctorate in music, told me, “Stephanie, everyone can sing. I have never met anyone who can’t sing. I’ll work with you for one hour a day for the next week. You might not be good enough to get the lead in one of the musicals, but you can at least be in the chorus.”

On the first day, Mrs. Estes worked with me for thirty minutes. She stopped. She looked as confused as a blind dog in a sausage factory. “Stephanie,” she finally said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I can’t help you. You really can’t sing.”

And I still can’t sing. It’s one of the many splendid failures in my life. Splendid, because I am about to publish book number 41. If I had been able to sing—the count would never have reached even one. I would have been pouring myself into singing and performing the way I pour myself into writing. I would like to believe that God has allowed me to use the life experiences—joys, sorrows, disappointments, achievements—and weird, unusual things like getting tossed to the ground and bitten by a lion—to write books that entertain folks who my life would never have touched if I had lived my dream of singing.

“All things work together for good to those who love the Lord.” Romans 8:28.

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