I Thought They Ruined My Career | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: I Thought They Ruined My Career | Previous Challenge Entry
By Tammy Ortung
03/03/20
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Several aunts and uncles sat down on the hearth, others grabbed chairs, and we positioned ourselves on the floor in a semi-circle around Pap excited to begin the family tradition that to me had become as essential as breathing—the music. Every major holiday, more than a dozen family members sat for hours in front this huge stone fireplace singing old country gospel songs like “Daddy Sang Bass” and “I Saw the Light,” as the fire crackled in perfect tune to our harmonies.

“Okay class, stand up,” Miss Sherman, my fourth-grade music teacher said. “I’m going to teach you a new tune.” As she started playing the piano, I recognized the song immediately. It was one my family had been singing since before I was born.

“Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters. Put your hand in the hand of the man who calmed the sea.” I sang, my voice booming above all the other kid’s. Miss Sherman’s gaze spun in my direction and with a broad smile she nodded encouragingly. That was all the approval I needed. If possible, I belted out the lyrics even louder.

Consequently, Miss Sherman selected me to sing the song during our Spring choir recital. When it came time to perform, I cautiously stepped down from the bleachers and positioned myself on the foul line of the basketball court next to the piano. On the first note, I closed my eyes, clenched my fists at my sides and started singing, my voice loud and clear even without a microphone.

The reviews were mixed. My friends were complimentary, always asking me to sing at slumber parties or in the back of Shannon’s dad’s cream-sickle pickup truck on the way to Dairy Queen after winning a softball game. Yet some of the kids made fun of me. Many of the boys walked around squeezing their eyes and fists shut, mocking my performance stance.

Miss Sherman was so impressed that she had me sing the exact same song the following year. I’m not sure she did me any favors with that decision. In sixth grade, she broke from tradition and selected a rendition of “Say Has Anybody Seem My Sweet Gypsy Rose.” I grew to love performing in front of others and had dreams of stardom.

During this time, a family of singers who had attended our church for years, sold their home, bought an RV, and left to perform all over the region. A while later they stopped in for a visit and performed all the old country gospel songs I’d grown up singing. They’d heard me sing many times over the years and invited me to do a few songs with them. I felt like Tanya Tucker, destined for great things.

“We’d love to have Tammy travel with us on the weekends,” they said to my parents before hitting the road again. “What do you think about that?”

“No,” Dad said, making it clear that as far as he was concerned the conversation was over.

“Pleeeaasse,” I begged, practically jumping up and down in my excitement. I looked beseechingly at my mother, convinced I was about to become a famous gospel singer.

“Maybe when you get older,” Mom said.

I looked at them with as much hatred as an eleven-year-old could muster. “You’re ruining my career,” I said.

In junior high I stopped singing in the school choir—it just wasn’t cool—though Miss Sherman tried to convince me otherwise. I continued singing the occasional solo or duet in church and joined the worship team as a young adult. I never gave up my dreams of fame.

In my mid-thirties, I learned how to play guitar and started recording my own music, all the while performing in coffee houses and assisted living facilities. Time and maturity eventually changed my ambition of becoming the latest YouTube sensation to something more eternal. I realized I didn’t want to be considered famous by the world’s standards.

The Bible says to “Take delight in the Lord and he will give the desires of your heart. Commit your ways to him…” (Psalm 37:4-5a NIV). As I grew in my relationship with Jesus, I realized I’d rather be celebrated for using my God-given talents to minister to others. Now, instead of longing for worldly infamy, I crave the day when I will hear the words, “Well done my good and faithful servant.”

This is non-fiction.

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