Little Wren Writes

There are a lot of voices in my head.

That sentence sounds slightly more concerning written down than it did when I thought of it. To clarify, I’m talking about the collection of voices I think most of us carry around.

Some are mine. Some belong to people I love. Some belong to people I haven’t spoken to in years. Some are probably an unhelpful combination of several people, a few unfortunate experiences, and my own anxiety wearing a trench coat.

But they’re there. Voices.

And I’ve been thinking lately about how much power they have. Not only what they say. But the volume I give them.

Some voices become loud because they were repeated. Others only had to speak once. That’s the strange thing. Someone can say a hundred kind things about us, and somehow the cruel sentence is the one our brain carefully laminates for future reference.

A father says: “You’re not good enough.”

A teacher says: “You’re never going to achieve much.”

Someone you look up to says: “You’re not cut out for this.”

Someone we love says: “You’re too much.”

Someone we trusted makes us feel foolish for something we were brave enough to share.

Someone dismisses something that mattered enormously.

And somehow their voice gets inside. Years later, they’re not even in the room anymore. But their voice is. Eventually, sometimes, it stops sounding like them. It starts sounding like me.

You’re not good enough.
You’re going to mess this up.
Everyone else can cope with this. Why can’t you?
You’re too emotional.
You’re too needy.
You should be doing more.
They’re probably getting sick of you.

And that’s when voices become particularly powerful. Because I stop recognising them as something somebody once told me. I just assume they’re true.

I’ve been learning to ask a question:

Whose voice is that?

It’s surprisingly useful. When a thought appears with enormous confidence:

You’re failing – whose voice is that?

You need to prove yourself – whose voice?

You should be coping better – whose voice?

Sometimes I can trace it. A person. A relationship. A season. A moment.

Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes the voice has been playing for so long that I’ve forgotten when I first pressed play.

But even noticing that it is a voice gives me some distance from it. Because not every voice deserves to be believed. And not every voice deserves the volume I’ve given it.

Thankfully, those aren’t the only voices I carry. There are others.

Voices that say:
I’m proud of you.
I believe in you.
That was really hard.
You can do this.
You don’t have to prove anything to me.
I’m here.
I love you.
You matter to me.

Those voices live inside me too. And I’m learning that I need to turn up their volume. Sometimes, on days when my own belief in myself is running low, I borrow theirs. I remember what someone trustworthy said. I replay the encouragement. I let myself believe that perhaps the people who love me and know me well might see something I can’t currently see.

There is something incredibly powerful about being given good words to carry.

Can I slightly tangent for a second to terms of endearment?

I am an absolute sucker for these!

Honestly, give me a (nice!) nickname and you’ve probably won.

There is something about someone I love calling me by something other than ‘Renee’ that makes my heart ridiculously happy.

When my uncle calls me ‘missy’ or a precious mum calls me ‘dear one’, Aunty Nay from little friends, or ‘pookie’ by a teenager…oh my heart!

Now obviously, context matters enormously. Someone calling me sweetie while explaining something I already understand? Dangerous territory.

Someone I love saying it gently? Apparently my heart is now a puddle. Because sometimes a name communicates far more than the word itself.

I know you.
You’re safe with me.
You belong here.
I love you.

And maybe that’s why voices matter so much. Words don’t just communicate information. They communicate relationship.

But even the kind voices aren’t automatically true. That’s important too. Someone can love me and be wrong. Someone can dislike me and be wrong. Someone can be proud of me without everything I do being right. Someone can be disappointed in me without everything I do being wrong.

I don’t want to simply replace ‘Listen to the critical people’ with ‘Only listen to people who say nice things about you’.

Sometimes the voice I least want to hear is telling me something I need to hear.

A good friend might say – That wasn’t okay.
A wise person might say – I think you need to reconsider this.
Someone who loves me might say – I’m worried about you.

Truth doesn’t always feel encouraging. And encouragement isn’t always truth. So perhaps the question isn’t: Which voices make me feel good?

It’s: Which voices are trustworthy?

Who gets volume? Not everyone should. Some people’s opinions need to be turned down. Possibly muted entirely. Others have earned the right to speak loudly. People who love me enough to encourage me and challenge me. People who don’t require me to perform for their affection. People who tell me the truth gently. People who have demonstrated wisdom. People who know enough of my story to speak into it. People who genuinely want my good rather than simply wanting me to do what suits them.

Those voices deserve volume. And even then, they don’t get the final word.

I love that the Bible begins with a voice.

“And God said…”

And light appears.

God speaks… and worlds exist. Stars burn. Oceans form. Land rises. Plants grow. Life begins.

I’ve probably read those words hundreds of times without stopping to think about how extraordinary they are. God speaks reality into existence. His voice doesn’t merely comment on what is true. His voice has authority.

And then, only a couple of chapters later, another voice enters the story. The serpent.

And his opening words are fascinating:

“Did God really say…?”

That’s where the distortion begins. Not – God isn’t real. Not even – Ignore God completely.

Just – Are you sure that’s what He said?

Are you sure He’s good?
Are you sure you can trust Him?
Are you sure He isn’t keeping something from you?

The serpent takes God’s words and bends them. Just enough.

And I think some of the most damaging voices in my life have worked like that too. Not always spectacular lies. Slight distortions.

Yes, God loves you…but surely He’d love you more if you were doing better.

Yes, grace is free…but you should probably make yourself useful enough to deserve your place.

Yes, your identity is secure in Christ…but wouldn’t you feel considerably safer if everybody also approved of you?

Yes, God is with you…but you should probably keep everything under control just in case.

Rude. And effective.

Maybe that’s why learning truth matters so much. Because lies are easy to identify when they’re ridiculous. It’s much harder when they’re wrapped around something true. I do make mistakes. I do sometimes need to change. People will sometimes be disappointed in me. I won’t always get things right.

But I made a mistake is different from I am a failure.

The distortion can be tiny. The impact can be enormous.

And Genesis reminds me that distorted voices have been asking humanity to question God’s words for a very long time.

Did God really say…?

There’s another conversation about voice and authority that I love.

Jesus standing before Pilate. Jesus has been arrested. He’s bound. His life appears to be completely in the hands of powerful people. And Pilate says:

“Don’t you realise I have power either to free you or to crucify you?”

That’s quite a voice. It’s not merely an opinion. Pilate genuinely has enormous earthly power. He can affect what happens to Jesus.

But Jesus answers:

“You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above.”

I find that extraordinary. Jesus isn’t pretending Pilate has no power. He knows exactly what Pilate can do. But Pilate’s power is not ultimate.

I think I need that distinction because people can have genuine influence over us. A parent’s words matter. A teacher’s words matter. A boss’s words matter. A partner’s words matter. People can encourage us enormously. And people can wound us deeply. Sometimes the person speaking really does hold some authority in our lives. But no human being gets ultimate authority to tell me who I am.

Those words can hurt. They can affect me. They may even shape circumstances in my life. But they do not have the authority to name reality.

That’s God’s territory.

And then there’s my own voice – which is sometimes wise and occasionally an absolute menace. My thoughts can speak with astonishing authority about things for which they have absolutely no evidence.

They’re annoyed with you.
Are they?
Definitely.
Evidence?
The text had a full stop.
Ah yes. Case closed.

My internal narrator can take one awkward interaction and produce a twelve-part documentary series explaining why everybody secretly dislikes me. I’m learning that my own voice doesn’t automatically deserve full volume either. Feelings matter. Thoughts matter. They tell me things worth listening to. But neither is infallible.

Sometimes I need to say – I hear you. But we’re checking that against something sturdier.

And for me, ultimately, that means the voice of God. The voice that said Let there be light. The voice whose authority Pilate’s could never rival. The voice that has been speaking truth long before any other voice spoke into my life.

And Jesus says something beautiful in John 10:
“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”

I love that image. Because sheep apparently learn the voice of their shepherd. Among other voices, they know – That’s him!

And maybe that’s what I want. Not some mysterious ability to hear an audible voice from heaven every time I have a decision to make. I want to know God well enough through Scripture that His voice becomes familiar.

I want to know His character. His promises. His commands. His grace. His holiness. His kindness. His correction. I want to know Jesus well enough that when another voice tells me something completely inconsistent with Him, I notice – ‘That doesn’t sound like my Shepherd.’

God’s voice isn’t simply the voice that tells me nice things. He corrects me. Convicts me. Calls me to repentance. Challenges the things in me that need to change. Sometimes His Word tells me exactly what I didn’t particularly want to hear.

But His correction sounds different from condemnation.

Condemnation says – You’re hopeless. Hide.

God’s conviction says – This is wrong. Come back.

Condemnation tells me my failure is my identity. God tells me the truth about my sin and then points me towards grace. The Shepherd’s voice doesn’t always tell me what I want to hear. But it is always the voice of the One who laid down His life for His sheep. That’s why I can trust it.

There will always be voices.

Mine. Theirs. Past. Present. Helpful. Hurtful. Wise. Spectacularly unhelpful.

Some will speak truth. Some will distort it. Some will speak out of their own wounds. Some will say things I carry for years. Some will make me laugh. Some will make me cry. Some will call me names I wish I could forget. And some will call me names so full of affection that I hope I remember exactly how they sounded forever.

I can’t control everything that has been spoken to me. I can’t erase every sentence I’ve carried. But I can become more intentional about the volume. Some voices need turning down. Some need challenging. Some need forgiving. Some need remembering. Some need turning up. And none of them deserve the authority that belongs to God.

The first voice in Scripture says:

Let there be light.

A few pages later, another asks:

Did God really say?

And perhaps the question underneath so much of my life is still the same.

Which voice will I trust?

The loudest? The most familiar? The one that hurt me first? The one that confirms what I’m already afraid is true? Or the Shepherd?

I’m still learning His voice. Still turning down some others. Still discovering that a sentence can feel familiar without being true. Still learning to receive kind words without arguing with them. Still learning that correction doesn’t equal rejection. Still occasionally allowing punctuation in text messages to become far more emotionally significant than any punctuation reasonably deserves.

But I know which voice I want to become loudest.

The One who spoke light into darkness. The One whose authority sits above every human opinion. The Shepherd who knows His sheep. The voice I can test all the others against.

And maybe the goal isn’t to silence every other voice.

Maybe it’s to know His so well that, amongst all the noise, I can recognise which one deserves the final word.

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” 
John 10:27