No wound, no melody

Psalms 77:6

"I call to remembrance my song in the night: I commune with mine own heart: and my spirit made diligent search."

Sometimes I think about the way a flute works—hollow, carved, pierced with open spaces. Without those deliberate wounds in its body, it could never sing. It’s the very holes that allow breath to pass through, shaping sound into something beautiful, something alive.

And maybe my heart is the same. The breaks I’ve tried to cover, the fractures I’ve begged God to seal, the hollow places that feel like loss—they are not the end of me. They are where His breath moves through me. They are where the song begins.

If the flute were whole, unbroken, it would only be silent wood. No melody. No music. No offering. But with the cracks and the hollows, with the open spaces carved deep, it becomes an instrument of sound that can pierce through stillness and move souls.

So perhaps I should stop despising the holes in me. Perhaps they are the evidence that I am not finished, but being played by One greater than myself. Perhaps the melody of heaven only comes when I stop sealing every wound, when I dare to believe that even emptiness can be filled with breath—that the Spirit Himself can move through my hollow places and make music I could never create on my own.

I don’t want to waste my pain. I don’t want to silence the song that suffering carved into me. If the music of God comes best through broken places, then let my brokenness resound. Let it echo. Let it awaken hearts. Let it be a healing balm.

Because sometimes the break in your heart isn’t just a wound—it’s the opening where eternity breathes through you. It’s where the Spirit makes your life a song.