The Reason: How I Discovered a Life Worth Living (15 page)

Voice Less

I had been in Flyleaf for seven years before I ever went to a voice doctor. They stuck a camera down my throat to prove to me that I had destroyed my vocal cords. The first time I saw Dr. Pertzog, we had a show that night in Pittsburgh.

She was shocked.

“You mean to tell me that you are in the middle of a tour?”

“Well,” I said, “we are almost done. We only have three more dates.”

“And you are supposed to play tonight?”

“Yeah, at Mr. Smalls Theatre,” I rasped.

“You think you are going to sing for an hour tonight?”

“Well, our set is around an hour, yeah.”

“Listen. I know you are saying that you have these shows booked, but I’m going to strongly recommend that you do not sing at all. Not at all. I have no idea how you have any voice left, but if you do not stop right now, you will lose your voice completely.”

“You mean I won’t be able to finish the tour?”

“I mean you won’t have a voice to sing your children to sleep with.”

My heart sank.

“At this point, you are going to have to stay completely silent for a good three months. The only other alternative is surgery. With surgery you risk losing your voice or at least dramatically changing it. My recommendation is that you go on voice rest.”

“So can I at least finish these last few shows?”

“Absolutely not.”

After three months of vocal rest and some therapy, my voice was closer to being normal, but it has never been the same.

Toward the end, my voice was one of the most stressful things about touring. I never knew if it would work or not. My only peace, besides praying and being sure I was supposed to be singing, was knowing that Rich was behind the soundboard. He knew me so well. After ten years of playing live shows together, he could tell when my voice was tired. He knew exactly which parts I struggled with. He knew just when I needed effects, or to be buried or pulled up in the mix. He knew the songs so well. Most of all, he knew my voice and understood how it worked better than I did.

He took the blame when my voice was shot. He would turn up the guitars so no one could hear that I sounded like a dying horse. He didn’t care if anyone commented on the mix being bad because they couldn’t hear the vocals. He had my back and always knew just how to cover for me. Because of this, many times Rich was the only reason the show could go on. I never thought I would have to play a show without Rich—he was the author of the Flyleaf live show sound. In
many ways, Rich was the person who gave me a voice to tour with.

The last time I saw Dr. Pertzog, we were finishing up what would turn out to be my last Flyleaf tour. I was five months pregnant and my voice was acting up again. She explained how pregnancy hormones affect the voice. Sometimes the effects are permanent, but most of the time they go away after nursing stops. She explained how I had lost some of my range, and she didn’t know if those notes would come back or not until my baby was born—maybe not until after I finished nursing.

Rich Less

Rich had taught our monitor engineer, Shawn, everything he could teach him about running the front of house soundboard. So Shawn was as close as we could get to Rich being behind the board. And tonight, Shawn was out there. But even though Shawn was good, he didn’t know my voice like Rich.

Shawn would have been fine on a good night, but this was not a good night. This night would be the most difficult show I would ever have to play. My thoughts overwhelmed me.

I can’t do this. I can’t
do this. It’s just not right. Nothing is right
anymore. I can’t do this.

I could barely breathe.

There was a room full of people out there waiting for us. They had all bought a ticket to the show so we could raise money for our tour manager, Katy, and her two-year-old son, Kirby. Katy was Rich’s wife—and now his widow.

Katy and Kirby’s lives would never be the same without Rich.

We were all aching deeply as we mourned with them.

Rich had given his whole life to Flyleaf. He had quit his big-money job—the one he went to college for—where he sat in a cubicle. He knew something was missing, like so many people do when they settle for less than the heights to which they’re called. But Rich knew how to live his life to the fullest:
by faith
.

Faith involves risk. Rich took a risk so he could pile into a 1988 Ford Club Wagon van with five kids and their instruments and tour the country with no guarantees. He believed in us. And more than believing in us, he believed in the impact and difference we could make. That was ten years ago, now. Over a million albums sold, many world tours, and thousands of letters from fans talking about how Flyleaf music saved their lives.

It turns out Rich made the right choice. Maybe it was Rich’s faith that brought us so far. He was definitely a place of creativity, peace, laughter, and perspective we all needed during those years.

Once we had the opportunity to travel to Afghanistan to play for the troops. Rich mentioned to me that his mother was terrified of him going into a war zone. He said, “Mom, all I can do in this life is go and do whatever God wants me to do.” He felt like God really wanted him to go. “If I’m supposed to die in Afghanistan,” he said to his mom, “then at least I can find comfort knowing that Afghanistan is where God wanted me to die.”

I think about what Rich said about this almost daily. So many men and women serving over there have left their families and carry such an emotional weight, risking their lives and missing their loved ones. We were honored to be invited
to play for them and serve them in this small way. We spent a week there, traveling from base to base.

One day they told us that the base we had visited the day before had been attacked and several men had died. I wept, wondering if I had said what God wanted me to say—if I had said what I
should
have said. That night we were all exhausted because of little sleep and bad jet lag. But there were two soldiers we talked to earlier who were asking Rich questions about God. When I went to bed Rich and the soldiers were still sitting in the back of an ATV, talking.

The next morning I awoke as the sun was rising. When I walked out of my cabin, Rich was still there with those guys, watching the sunrise and talking about God.

“You never know if today is going to be your last, or their last.
Memento
mori
, right?” he had said to me when I marveled at his sleepless night. His commitment to our message was humbling. He was living it out and challenging me with his love for others. He did this at our shows as well. While everyone was stressed and complaining, Rich worked to keep everyone positive and looking on the bright side.

Rich held so much of Flyleaf together that, on this night, preparing to play without him was too much. We were all a mess.

We hardly had any idea what to do. This show wasn’t going to be the same because Rich was the one who had always made it all happen. That was more apparent now than ever, now that he was missing when we went to load the trailer, load in the venue, set up our gear, and especially now that my voice, so unpredictable, had changed. We all needed him in order to do this well. It was painfully obvious. And we had been mourning about this, and so much more, all day.

I stood on the side stage as the crowd noise boiled into the room. It was time.

James, Pat, and Jared walked up the stairs. My stomach shot up into my throat and I crumpled into a heap. Sameer was behind me. He caught my arm as I went down. I started sobbing.

“I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Sameer wrapped me up in his arms and started sobbing with me. His sobs were deep and loud. We let ourselves fall apart a little more than we had all day in that moment.

“I love you, Sameer,” I said as I cried.

“I love you too,” he cried.

“I’m so sorry that I haven’t appreciated you like I should. I don’t feel like I’ve appreciated anyone like I should, especially Rich,” I said, still sobbing. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”

We just held each other. He squeezed me so tight. It was the way you squeeze someone when you’re not sure if you’ll ever see them again. That was our message, wasn’t it?
Memento mori.
Love like it may be your loved one’s last day. Hadn’t all this painted that message in living color? Weren’t we living out
memento mori
as we mourned our brother Rich and as we apologized to and loved on each other? What else could we do?

“I love you, Lacey,” Sameer said again.

“I love you too,” I repeated. “Thank you, Sameer.”

I meant it with everything in me. I was so thankful for my brother in that moment. I needed to hold someone and be held by someone who had been a part of our Flyleaf family—someone who understood why everything felt wrong about going on with our show without Rich.

Thank you for that moment, Sameer. I will never forget it.

We pulled away, wiped our faces, and put in our earbuds as we walked on stage.

Turning Leaves

The show wasn’t anything close to normal. There was a sweet encouragement and kindness between us all on stage. There was sensitivity among us with this being the first show after Rich’s death. My voice worked and then it wouldn’t. My memory worked and then it wouldn’t. My heart broke over and over until the last note played and I exhaled.