Stories to Tell

Oh, how I have missed blogging on a regular basis these past few months. My stories are piling up and if I am not careful, they will evaporate. So to that end, here’s to catching up.

Three days ago I had an accident in the Target parking lot. And I’m not talking traffic accident.

Someone in my family, who shall remain anonymous, frequently urinates on herself. As a child this warranted my empathy. As a teenager this provoked my emberrasement. As a young adult this drove me to prayer. “Lord, please, don’t let me grow up to pee on myself.”

I mean, who does that? How does that happen? Do you not know you gotta go? Are there no restrooms? Are you in a forest? A desert? Running a marathon? Are you in a third world country? How does such a thing happen? I mean really woman, there aren’t any warning signs hitting you?

I promised myself I would never, ever allow this to become my fate. Never.

And yet there I am, bending down to pick up Annie in her car seat in the Target parking lot when, I swear, out of no where, I feel a catastrophic, unstoppable urge to urinate. And in that moment I thought, “Oh Lord, this is the beginning of the end. It’s hereditary. I am my mother.”

I cursed my body. “Body you are rude.” It’s rude to decide you are going to give me no warning. You can’t just do that to someone. It’s tacky. Especially since I just spent an entire year desperately trying to pee in a cup every time I went to see the baby doctor. No matter how much water I had, or how snuggly Annie buried herself onto my bladder, Dr. Waldrep would give me the cup and my body would store water like a hibernating bear. Do bears store water? Point being, when I needed it to flow, it did not flow. And when I so desperately wanted it to retreat it stuck it’s tongue out and smirked at me.

There was, of course, nothing I could do. I knew it was a matter of seconds. Nanoseconds. I knew there was no time to get in the building. There was barely time to get Annie into the car. I knew there was no place to hide. Nothing to wipe down with. No alternatives to the humiliating event that was about to occur. It was as if my bladder became possessed and all the kegal excercises in the world couldn’t prevent the rogue bladder. I knew what was about to happen in t-minus no seconds.

And as I scurried to the driver’s side of the car, the most hidden place I could find, I checked out of planet earth and pretended to be somewhere else. Slightly amused I thought, “This is what it feels like, huh?”

AHHHHH. This is AMAZING.

If you realize you’re about to lose it… embrace it. Once I embraced what was happening, it was actually quite amazing. No leg twitching. Hopping around like you got an anteater in your pants. No frantic public runs to the bathroom or desperate plea’s to the ladies in front of you to let you cut. No trying not to laugh too hard just in case. No stomach aches and toe curls and horrible facial expressions as you sit in conversation and wonder how much longer you can make it. Nope. Once you are past the point of no return, forget all of those things, and just embrace it.

It’s kind of nice to pee all over yourself in the Target parking lot if you need to. Completely freeing. A little cold. But, complete freedom.

Whatever. I blame it on having a baby. I figure the first year I can blame anything on her…right? Yep, it is totally her fault.

I thought I saw Santa Clause in the mall parking lot this weekend. Since I refuse to pay for Annie to take her picture with the expensive Santa and I don’t have the patience to wait in line with all those little snot-nose kids for the free Santa, I figured this was a perfect time to snag a picture. Catch Santa on the way to his car. Brilliant.

This Santa was an older man with a hefty belly, big white fluffy beard, flowing silver hair, and a green and red sweat suit on. He was walking towards his truck where his wife was waiting. He was perfect and I was ready to go in for the kill but Ryan stopped me. The kind of stop where I couldn’t really smile my way out of it and do it anyways. It was a real stop. “No. You can’t just ask this strange man if he is Santa, and if so, could our daughter have her picture with you? You can’t do that Jen.”

Ryan looked at me like I was an alien. And like a scolded child, I began sulking.

“Why can’t I? Look at him? He’d love to do it, I can tell.”

Ryan said it was offensive. He said that the man was not in a Santa costume and would not want to be affronted by a mom and her baby who assumed that because he was fat, and had a big white beard, that he was Santa.

I disagreed.

Listen old men of the world: if you have a round belly, don a big beard and long flowing Santa hair, and wear red and green sweats during Christmas, you are simply asking for it. Never mind that you are smoking a cig and are Hispanic (I am from a Hispanic family, still, I have never seen Hispanic elves, have you?)… you are the spitting image of the old man. And if I want my baby to take a picture with you, I will ask. And if you are offended, don’t come out all fat and bearded and jolly and in red and green sweat pants looking like the Clause himself. Wear purple. Or a cowboy hat.

But be warned, as long as you keep the beard, belly, and red sweats, you are fair game for all the cheap, busy mother’s in the world who need their kids picture taken for posterity sake.

We did our first Christmas tour this year. And I use the word “tour” lightly. What was supposed to be a multi-city-baby Jesus-reindeer loving tour ended up consisting of four shows. One show was in Uvalde, Texas in a 100 year old Methodist sanctuary adorned with an abundant amount of stained glass. There were about twenty students. A handful of younger couples. A few families. And then a lot of old people. We were told that the old people weren’t too excited about having us at their annual Christmas party. And that’s always what you want to hear before you go on stage.

And so there we were, all the house lights on, red carpet, pews, little lady eyeballs staring at us, twenty teenagers trying to figure out if they should clap or jump or even stand up at all and I just wanted to crawl in a hole with some eggnog and call it a night. Singing All That Matters to a group of 70-year-old’s who were hoping to play bingo and listen to Bing Crosby for the night was hardly what I had anticipated for this “Christmas Tour.”

The Addison Road Acoustic Christmas Tour for “small churches and communities who could not normally afford a band and all the production that goes a long with a major concert,” was our idea, our way of giving back and affirming the local church. We wanted to create an experience they wouldn’t normally be able to have. We wanted something intimate and meaningful; fun and beautiful; we wanted to start our own Christmas tradition… we asked for this.

That’s what I told myself on stage as the old lady eyeballs looked at me with beady irritation throughout the night.

We asked for this. We asked for this. We asked for this.

I felt a twinge of shame. Was everyone feeling as awkward as I was? Will this concert ever be over? Is that old man breathing? Why are they just staring at me?

Make it go faster… please Lord…put me out of my misery…

Finally, we reached the last song. We ended with an upbeat, funky rendition of “Angels We Have Heard on High.” As Travis strummed away on his banjo, I handed out shakers and bells to the audience and told the rest of the people to get their car keys out and get ready to jingle with us. On other nights this was a really fun cacophony of rhythmically challenged people jingling away. I wasn’t so sure it was going to go that well at this place…

But lo and behold the row of old ladies with the beady eyes who I was convinced hated me for ruining their Christmas party, took out their car keys and began to shake away. Little smiles crept over their faces and their bare boned arms dangled in the air. They giggled and faced each other as they sang along. They looked happy. Really happy.

After the cowbells and all the craziness of the song ended we began to sing, “Oh Come let us Adore Him.”

The five ladies grabbed each other’s hands. One of the elderly ladies rested her head on her friends shoulder. And one of the ladies had tears in her eyes and running down her face. Was she missing someone? Was she thinking it might be her last Christmas? Was she overwhelmed with joy? Did she feel God himself next to her, holding her hand? I’m not sure. But as I watched these ladies I thought, yes, this is why we’re here.

This is exactly what we asked for. Exactly.

View from Above

Mt. Hood

The Rocky Mountains

Just finished playing a show for an amazing missions organization, Delta Ministries, in Portland. And this is where I put the plug in and say what an amazing mission statement this organization has and how much we believe in them (and then ask you to go check out what they are doing in people's lives).

The flight in was breathtaking. At least I thought it was. (This could be because I was baby free and I could actually breath for a minute.) Ryan was embarrassed that I was so picture happy. I think he thought people were staring at me and wondering who the weird girl compulsively taking (what would probably be really bad) pictures out of her airplane window was.

The thing is, I don't care if people think I'm crazy for taking 47 pictures of the snow-covered Rocky Mountains. I think they are crazy. We are flying over an endless sea of marshmallow mountain tops, Mt. Hood, and then floating the rest of the way on a bed of clouds that are perfectly billowing as far as the eye can see... and they aren't taking pictures.

What's wrong with them?

It was just a little reminder to me how important it is to keep our awe and wonder alive. What are we if a baby doesn't make us stop and smile? A homeless person doesn't cause us to stop and feel some sort of empathy? A worship service doesn't create a pause which prompts us to fall to our knees (literally or figuratively) in worship? A butterfly doesn't capture a minute of our time? An elderly person's story doesn't make us stop and envision the past? A mountain or ocean or puffy cloud or a simple leaf falling to the ground doesn't stir a little something in our soul?

I'm not saying I gotta walk around everyday wide-eyed, mouth gaping, like Will Ferrell in the movie ELF, where he walks into the coffee shop that says, 'World's Best Coffee'.

"You did it! Congratulations! You made the best cup of coffee in the entire world!" he screams. And people look at him like he is an idiot.

OK, I'm not saying we got to take it that far. But really, what does it say about us as people if we lose our ability to be in awe and wonder? If we lose our ability to be impressed, humbled, overwhelmed, and delighted in the presence of something grand, beautiful, or simple... like the laugh of a little kid. What does it say about our culture, our entertainment, the effect technology and marketing have taken in our global economy, and our want-for-nothing mentality?

At best we are often not phased by such simple pleasures anymore; at worst we are annoyed and angered by the slow pace of life it requires to stop and experience such simple moments of joy.

And that's what I thought about as my husband pointed out that I was the only one taking an obsessive amount of pictures. I was the only taking any pictures for that matter. Even as the pilot pointed out that we were flying over the Rocky Mountains and then Mt. Hood, most people just stopped long enough to look slightly annoyed that he was interrupting the audio on their movie.

I think Ryan wanted me to stop so that I didn't look like Will Ferrell in the movie ELF.

But me?

I wanted to get on the little loud speaker and say, "Hello. Human beings. Dear Friends. Passengers. If you have eyeballs please divert them to your nearest window. It's freaking beautiful outside. You are floating on top of a mountain. There is snow everywhere. As far as your eyes can see there is breathtaking beauty. Enjoy it for a minute. Or two. Your movie will still be there when you come back. Your nap can continue. Your book will save your spot. But we will only be on top of this mountain for a few more minutes. A mountain. We are suspended 35, 000 feet in the air hovering over a mountain. Isn't it amazing?"

It's amazing. Don't miss it.

Wet My Whistle Wednesday

Thanksgiving is my second favorite day of the year behind Christmas Eve Day. Parades, turkey, family boardgames, more turkey, dressing, pumpkin pie, gravy, sweet potatoes, beautiful fall weather, Dallas Cowboy's football, and the official countdown for Christmas beginning, makes this the best day ever.

A lot of you remember (and have graciously reminded me at our shows throughout the year!) that last year was, in fact, my most accomplished Thanksgiving Day due in large part to the amazing miracle of wearing maternity pants for the big day. And truly, you can put away a ton of food when you have an elastic top attached to your britches. Lord don't ever let me sit through Thanksgiving without maternity pants again.

For me, holidays revolve around food. I love my family. I really do. But even if I were to be stranded in an airport or a different country away from my blood relatives; if I could simply be served a platter of turkey, dressing, gravy, pie, and a pair of maternity pants to change into, I am quite sure I'd still be the happiest person alive.

(That is, of course, after I placed a call in to the relatives).

To that end, this year I am happy for food. Thankful for good restaurants. Grateful for new cities where local artists create bliss in their kitchens! And happy that I get to eat a little bite here... a little bite there... and a few more bites in between. So for those of you who have fed me delicious meals this year, thank you. And for those of you who will feed me in the future...I love you. I really do.

These are a few of my favorite finds from 2009:

Cindi's, Dallas (Must try the homemade Chicken-N-Dumplings.)

Quartino's, Chicago (They import their cheese from Italy and make all their pastas in-house. Hands down the best restaurant we found all year!)

Maria's Pancake House, Warsaw, Indiana (The biggest 5 egg omelet in the country. I promise. Oh, and it comes with 3 pancakes. Can you say, heart attack?)

Flying Star, Albuquerque (Handmade pastries, New Mexico wines, organic salads, all nestled at the base of the mountains. Beautiful. You can sit there for hours.)

Crema, Nashville (The best espresso drink and quiche in the city.)

Tao, Las Vegas (Go with friends, dress cute, and eat some of the best Asian food served in the country.)

Andy's Frozen Custard, Branson Missouri (Pumpkin concrete custard. Heaven in a cup. Enough said.)

The Dripolator, Black Mountain North Carolina (Amazing drip coffee. And even better muffins. We sat at this coffee shop every single morning for a week straight.)

Beechers Handmade Cheese Company, Seattle (You can watch the cheese being made at this waterfront store located next door to the original Starbucks. The macaroni and cheese might be the best thing you ever eat in your life. I wanted to swim in it after we finished eating a bowl, yep, I wanted to swim in their macaroni and cheese.)

Mikes Pastry Shop, Boston (I have written about this place before, and I will write about it until every person that loves pastries has visited. Cream puffs. Canoli. Best. Thing. Ever).

Song Discussion

We recently came across a blogger who was addressing our song, What Do I Know of Holy. While we don't usually comment on people's personal site in regards to our music, this one intrigued us. You can find Mark's take on the song at his ambitious and creative blog: revivelutheranhymns.blogspot.com. Our base player, Travis, responded first and Mark has written back with a few more questions on his blog. I am answering the second round of questions, but my answer is way too long to fit in the comment section of his blog, so I am posting it here.

We appreciate Mark and what he is endeavoring to do with music and hymns. And, as always, we love interacting with Christians who think, offer opinions and criticism, and choose to enter into open dialogue with intelligence and respect. Thank you Mark. If you have thoughts to contribute, please leave comments on either of our blogs!

Hi Mark,

I hope you don’t mind, but I would love to join the conversation, as I am one of the writers of the song What Do I Know of Holy. We appreciate open dialogue and love the chance to explore lyrics with other believers, so thanks for allowing us to join in your community to do so.

You ask how we go deeper with Christ and how the words of this particular song encourage this? Let me address the latter part of that question.

This song is completely confessional in nature.

It is not meant to encourage people or to give them guidance on how to deepen their relationship with our Lord. If anything, what I hope people would hear in this song is a very weak girl, who often doubts, sometimes professes things that have not truly penetrated my heart, and realizes she has spent a long time paying lip service without having a clue of the true holiness God possesses. If anything, this song should give people the freedom to be honest.

As a girl who was raised in the church with two ordained parents who have doctorates in theology and ministry, listened to nothing but Christian music, and now travels the country leading other believers in worship; I was shocked to have the blinders removed from my eyes (after being touched by the reading of Isaiah 6) and to realize that after all my exposure to God, I had never grasped the holiness of the Lord the way Isaiah did in the passage.

I represent a generation that has come up with, “Jesus is my homeboy” and other slang phrases that reduce Jesus to a trendy, cool guy. God used Isaiah 6 in particular to say to me, “No Jenny, I am the Lord God. I am not anyone’s homeboy. I am Holy.”

And this song was born.

I am guilty of making God too small, too worldly. As if God was a kind grandpa who thinks I'm adorable; a best friend who only wants to tell me good things; a dad who thinks I am perfect; a mom who just wants to hold me and give me kisses.

And while I believe the Lord interacts with me in those nurturing ways; I realize that I have spent much of my life within the walls of a church (universal) that has turned the creator of the universe into pizza parties, program's, and trite worship songs. I found myself guilty of forgetting God's holiness in the midst of all that. So the answer to your question is that this song is not really meant to encourage, in any practical way, a believer in God to go deeper (though I believe that it does encourage in some mysterious way). Rather, it is my confession to the Lord.

Second question

“In what way is the fact or the message that Christ is “mighty to save” empty according to how the singer means it?”

Great question. In the same way that I can apologize to my husband but not really mean it or care. In the same way I can sing a worship song but not actually be communing with the Lord. In the same way I can participate in communion and be thinking about what I will fix for lunch and if I can slip out and beat the other moms to the nursery. In the same way I can study a passage of scripture and know the history, context, Greek, and commentaries on it, yet not apply it to my life.

God’s words are not empty. Scripture is God’s story of redemption. It is beautiful and true. And in its pages, if your eyes are open, you catch a glimpse of a very holy God. We cannot know God completely through scripture, nature, revelation, worship, etc… but I believe He allows us to get oh so close; as close as this side of heaven will allow for. And God absolutely uses the words of scripture to accomplish this.

Problem is, we lose sight of God amidst our busy, materialistic, simple-minded, “Jesus is my homeboy” sugary American church culture and we start doing what we humans do best: pretending. And that is when the words of scripture become empty inside of us.

The words themselves are not empty, but the person receiving the words is.

Scripture can become mere writing on a page that goes in one ear and out the other if our hearts aren't actively engaged.

Is God mighty to save? Absolutely.

Can those words ring hollow, empty, and untrue inside of me? Unfortunately, yes. I have found that tradition can be deadly for the soul.

When I came face to face with God through the Isaiah 6 passage, it was unlike anything I had ever imagined and far from who I thought I was worshipping. Like Isaiah experienced, I was in the presence of this holy, bright, wise, powerful, loving, majestic God whom the angels worshipped with passion. My words failed me as my eyes were opened to a God I had never known. And I fell to my knees in that worship service and thought...

Oh my gosh. What do I know of Holy?

Is he fire? Is he fury? Is he sacred? Is he beautiful? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course He is.

And did I miss this? Yes. I have spent my entire life in church and somehow, I missed the depth of God's holiness. And just a taste of his glory has changed everything for me.

This song simply reflects my journey of showing up at God’s front door and being invited in. And then, much like this blog, my childlike, desperate, rambling confessions to the Lord began… including, “Lord, I’m sorry for thinking that I figured you out. I am sorry for allowing your words to be empty words on a page. I’m sorry I never worshipped you the way you are worthy to be worshipped... I'm sorry.”

And that is, from the writer's perspective, the meaning behind this song.

She's my Friend.

We led worship at our church this past Sunday. Afterwords, a girl came up excited that "we were the band that plays Hope Now." She couldn't believe we went to the same church. She told me that this had become her personal song as she has gone through a terrible divorce this year and now works full time to take care of her two, beautiful little girls. She said life was hard. She was new to the city and felt so alone... I guess when you are playing single mom, breadwinner, and you move to a new city with no family, lonely becomes your normal.

As she finished talking, I just started smiling. I am sure I seemed neurotic, but I was so excited, I knew I wanted to be her first friend here. Before I even told her how sorry I was, or how glad I was that our music had inspired her, I just straight up invited her to my birthday party.

Yes... I am throwing myself a birthday party. A, last-year-to-turn-twenty-something, pink, all girl, all chocolate and cupcake-happy birthday party. I have a friend coming to do free makeovers and I have bought all the guests presents and everyone gets to wear plastic rings and boas and if I could afford it, I would have new pajamas for everyone so we could really get comfortable and feel cute. This is the first time I have been home on my actual birthday in years... so I'm doing it right.

The girl looked at me, "Your birthday party? Are you serious?"

"Well yeah, I mean I know that's a weird thing to ask and all since we just met two seconds ago, but I'd love to hang out and then you can meet more girls and moms and my other quirky friends... I mean you don't have to at all. Sorry. That was probably weird to ask."

"Oh my gosh, yes, I would love to."

The next day I got an email from her that simply said, "I cannot believe your kindness towards me. You don't even know me. Thank you."

The Other Me

I met a another new girl this week. I instantly loved her. Let's call her Mary. Mary and I are working together on some mutual business stuff, well, fun business stuff. I've just been around her a few times but I started thinking how fun it would be to have her out on the road. How good she would be with Annie. How much fun it would be to have her help me with my make-up, talk about the books we're reading, go to coffee shops in new cities. I loved her excitement and passion. Her humor and charm. I mainly love that she has a desire to help each person she comes in contact with to see something beautiful in themselves.

She is happy, but not annoying. She is wise, but not pushy or overbearing. She is Godly, but not spiritually pretentious. She is so much fun, but she has other sides to her as well. She is a girl who is not looking to validate herself by measuring up against any other person, so this truly frees her to be, well... nice. She's the kind of girl that the rest of us girls want as a friend. Real. Genuine. And not competitive. Ah, it feels good to say that last line. Not competitive.

I was so excited about the idea of her coming out with us in the spring to help with Annie. I was so excited about the idea of becoming her friend. I had our entire friend future planned out. And of course, I instantly invited her to my birthday party.

But then, as we worked together for a photo shoot a few nights ago, Mary told me she was going through a bad divorce. Mary told me that for eight years her husband, a guy she met at church, beat her. Choked her. Put her head through walls. Told her that she was disgusting. That no one would have sex with her. He hit her. And then, he went to church on Sundays.

I don't understand how abuse works, but I know that the victim usually feels trapped and unable to get out. I know Mary felt trapped and she didn't know how to get out. It didn't help that she had Christians telling her to stay in the marriage either. But now, here she is, emerging from 8 years of hell, and I have invited her to care for my child. I have invited her to my birthday party. I have planned out our entire friend future.

My stomach dropped. Can you un-invite someone to your birthday party?

(This birthday bit is starting to make me sound like I am five years old).

All of a sudden, this girl who I instantly loved for all the right reasons, felt like a burden. I was afraid of her. I was afraid of her past. I was afraid of her baggage. I was mad at myself for being so befriending. I felt guilty for feeling all of these things about her, but still, I felt them. I wanted out.

Truth

It's like this.

Annie was constipated last week. I'm not sure if you've ever been around a constipated baby, but screams come out of these little baby bodies that put horror movie sountracks to shame. It's like a worm trying to squeeze out of an elephant. An ant trying to give birth to a gopher. A cricket trying to pass a gall stone. It's awful.

They scream and cry. You scream and cry. I'm holding her just saying, "push baby, push." Ryan is on his phone looking at babycenter.com to try and figure out what to do when your baby is constipated. Annie is screaming. Ryan says to stick my finger in. But there is something poking out. I am not sticking my finger in. Ryan says to rub it. I try rubbing it. Ryan says to do my fingers up and down her spine. I run my fingers up and down her spine. Annie screams and now she is sweating. And that green thing is stuck there staring at me; half way in this world, half way in that one.

I call my mother-n-law. It's 7:30 a.m. on a Friday morning and she thinks all hell has broken loose. There is a frenzied baby and a freaked out mom and a husband saying, "get off the phone and do something."

Do what? What do you want me to do? What do you do to a piece of poo...

Stick her in the tub my mother-n-law says. We turn on the warm water, put a towel down for her head, and rush her in like we are rushing into emergency heart surgery. I remember to lose my pajama pants but forget to take off my sweatshirt as I jump into the tub with her. I will not let her do this alone. I have a big soggy sweatshirt on now and a hysterical baby and I am rubbing her little booty in the water and telling her to breathe and push and making all kinds of promises to the Lord about what a patient and kind mother I will be if he will please, please just make this green blob sticking half way out of my hysterical daughters booty come out.

Ten minutes later it appeared to me as a piece of heavenly gold, shot out of her buttocks, across the bathtub, and into my hand. A little green log.

It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

You know, you never think when you are 16 or 21 or in some other younger, naive prime of your life that you will one day be siting in a bathtub, in a soggy sweatshirt, massaging some little person's booty, crying with them, catching their poop in your hand and swearing it is the best thing that has ever happened to you. But for those of you who are still there, in your prime... brace yourselves.

The moment will come and you will wonder, what has become of me?

For the Love

You stay in the tub with your hysterical baby because of love.

It's not what you want to do at 7:30 a.m. on Friday morning, but you do it, because hey... once the poop is half way out, it's half-way out. There's no turning back.

And that's how it is with people. Not the poop, but the no turning back part.

As a believer in a God who tells me to love, there is no turning back on people.

There is no addendum or clause that says, "Love, except when you are afraid. Except if you are scared. Except when it is inconvenient. Except the homeless, the beggars, the wild neighborhood children, the alcoholic mom, the emotionally needy friend, the overbearing parent, the dysfunctional sibling, the absent father, the really amazing girl who was beat for 8 years and is just beginning the recovery process... Love, until these people come along. Then you are excused from loving, because they are hard.

Love is hard.

As I drove home with the fears swirling in my head about this new girl that I befriended and then became afraid of, God spoke:

It is for the broken that I came.

And Jenny, you my dear are broken.

So congratulations, you and Mary are perfect for each other. Both a part of this broken world. Both in need of grace. Both in need of a savior. Both in the process of being made new. You are in her shoes simply because you are human. You are the same. You both have baggage. Do not be afraid of her past; I am writing her future.

And Jenny, don't cut her off, you don't get to pick and choose between my children. Love or don't love. But when you choose to love like I do, you choose to go all the way with people, all people. No turning back.

So get in the bath tub, jump in with your sweatshirt on, and prepare yourself for the work of love. It's the most painfully beautiful hard work in the world.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

I will be 29 years old tomorrow. Mary is coming to my birthday party. Mary is my friend.