How I Learned Compassion

I was asked a question on twitter last week: How did you learn compassion?

This is my full answer. 

When I was a little girl, I loved to play frisbee with my grandpa.

He and grandma had three acres of land on the outskirts of Ellisville, Mississippi where my grandpa taught calculus, trigonometry, and electronics at the local junior college. He was the kind of professor who had the students over for a cook-out at the end of each semester.

Most weekends during my early childhood you could find me at their house, looking through Grandpa's voluminous collection of Readers Digest, watching Shirley Temple movies, raking leaves with garden gloves that swallowed my elbows, and playing frisbee with my mom, sister, and grandpa.

I wish I could paint a picture of my grandpa for you. Though it is not particularly pertinent to the story, he is a part of me. His laugh and his smile are the first things I think of. Followed by the distinct, South Dakota/second generation German accent, that most noticeably rings out when he is arguing with a political pundent on TV. He served two terms in Vietnam and retired from the Air Force, never completing the doctorate he worked so hard to almost, never finish. He is smart. Very smart. And yet he never felt rough or stoic or distant, like some men in the military do. He is soft around the edges. But opinionated. Loud when he's passionate. Funny when something tickles him. And most importantly, he's the kind of guy that can be every man's friend.

Did I mention he played for the Red Sox's farm league (later known as minor leagues) before he was drafted?

His tightly curled hair has been on his head for as long as I can remember. I didn't know that picks, the kind you use in your hair, were owned by any one other than Grandpa's. With his curly head of hair, knee-high socks, and shorts left over from the heyday of the 70's- he taught me how to play frisbee.

At night, I loved to sit at the table and hear him talk back to the news anchors. Somebody in Washington was always screwing up something. Then- someone on Wheel of Fortune was always stupid. "My God Jennifer. What are they teaching you kids? Can you believe this man- how does he not know the answer to the seven letter word?" He would laugh and sigh, almost simultaneously. When I was older and living three states away, I often had to call him for help with my math, and I could feel the same sigh. "What do you mean they haven't taught you how to divide fractions? How the hell are you supposed to graduate high school if you can't divide fractions? This education system has to be fixed Jennifer. Unbelievable. Really. Ok- well, tell me what you do know."

It was never much. What I did know. Still, he sat on the phone and taught me until he literally could not handle my stupidity anymore. He never called me stupid and I never felt that way. But I could hear his disappointment in public education every time another idiot drove the wrong way, passed the wrong bill in congress, or failed at dividing fractions.

I got the feeling that if he were in charge of things- well- we'd all be less stupid as a result from it.

***

With that in mind, 25 years later, I am even more struck by the beauty of what he did with his free time- for as long as I can remember.

Grandpa would go down to the Howard Industries plant in Laurel, Mississippi every week and teach grown men to read and write. To do basic math. To balance their check books. He never missed. And he always picked up extra volunteer shifts if a colleague couldn't make it. It was important to him- and he honored the men with his time for years and years and years.

To the uneducated factory worker- he became friend. Teacher. Mentor. And most importantly, advocate. He taught them as grown men should be taught. With dignity. Privacy. And respect.

I would venture to say that not a single man who spent time as a student under my grandpa ever felt less than. I would say they felt empowered. Stronger. Smarter. More capable. And accepted.

This man who yelled at the idiots on T.V. and constantly worried about the state of public education, did more than rant against the problems he saw in the world. He was- instead- a man of compassion. 

He saw a problem. Over 1,000 grown men and fathers down the street couldn't read. The problem stirred something deep within him. And he acted upon it- hoping to play a small role in bringing about change.

And this is my first memory of seeing compassion.

***

Merriam-Webster says compassion is the sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it.

Wikipedia defines it as a virtue — one in which the emotional capacities of empathy and sympathy (for the suffering of others) are regarded as a part of love itself.

The Christian Bible records Jesus telling several stories in which a person showing compassion to another, is a reflection of God's own character. An act of love that trumps social mores or even what one deserves- compassion- is said by Christ himself to be the way to inherit eternal life. (Luke 10:25-37; Luke 15: 20-32; 1 Corinthians 13:13)

***

Compassion.

I know it deep within me better than I know myself; I understand it more clearly than I understand my closest friends, my husband, my own daughter. When I have failed at everything else, stained my conscience, lost my way, or absorbed myself in utter selfishness- compassion still seems to be there, at work inside of me. Despite me. A rusty compass, sometimes covered up under heaps of dirt, but still working, still pointing to true north; compassion has been my ever constant companion. With me since I was a little girl.

***

It did not come through osmosis. I was not born compassionate. I did not take a class that taught me to deeply empathize and act on behalf of someone else who was suffering.

No.

I learned compassion, by watching compassion. 

Through my grandpa. My mom. My dad. My papaw. People in the church and people outside of the church. I could write a book on the acts of compassion I have seen during my life time. And the book would be at least 1,000 pages long.

***

I see it everyday with Annie. She says something that completely surprises me. Like, "Mom, when I grow up. Someday I'm gonna drive a car. And I'm gonna drive fast." Or, "Mom, I'm a nice doctor, you don't have to worry, but you do have to obey." Or, "Mom, was I a good friend to him, because I tried to be a good friend?"

I find myself asking Annie nearly everyday, "WHO TAUGHT YOU THAT?!?"

She absorbs everything. And I am a firm believer that what you absorb, you become- or at least become to a degree. Somebody is teaching Annie the way that somebody taught me. We are all being taught. And we are all teachers.

And I believe that somewhere in the process of seeing compassion lived out- we learn it. And it lingers within us.

So be it compassion, grace, forgiveness, anger, hate, idolatry, laziness, etc. we are all learning from one another. We either teach one another love and beauty or we teach one another hate and selfishness.

I am grateful to have watched- and learned- compassion from so many, many people.

***

As I began thinking about this entry, I tried to remember the first time I saw compassion in my life. My grandpa came to my mind first. And my second memory of seeing compassion was with him too.

As my sister and I would play frisbee with grandpa, I would inevitably step in a huge antbed and be covered within seconds. And he would inevitably scream at my grandma, "Dammit Ellie the ants got Jennifer again, I need the gas can!" and at that my grandma magically appeared with an old rusty can of gasoline and a new sweat band for grandpa. We stopped the game and he would go on a hunt for new antbeds that needed to be destroyed. I sat on the swing with mom and rested. Grandma fixed us drinks. But my sister Melissa- with every ounce of angst in her body, threw herself at the antbeds to protect them from the gasoline.

When that didn't work- she stuck sticks in and let the ants crawl all the way up the sticks to her fingers and moved them to a new home. No ants were going to be poisoned to death on her watch. And I watched her thinking- she is so weird. 

Now, when I think about "compassion" I smile as I remember that "weird" sister.

I didn't know it then, but she was teaching me what compassion looks like.

Even if it was with ants.

Africa to Amarillo

I took Annie to West Virginia. We drove through windy roads overshadowed by trees that must have seemed enormous through her two-year-old eyes.

“Momma! The jungle!” she squealed.

“Yeah baby! The jungle!”

You forget that a two-year-old resident of North Texas has rarely seen trees en masse. Why wouldn’t it be the jungle? Of course it was the jungle!

I didn’t have the heart to tell her they were just trees.

And it was just West Virginia.

***

My friend and I decided to road trip from Glorieta, New Mexico back home to Dallas, Texas. We decided to do so with my two-year-old. We are adventurous like that. Ok, some call it stupid. But we decided to call it an adventure. As we drove through the flat plains of the Texas panhandle Annie looked out over the dry, tree-less land and squealed,

“Momma! It’s Africa!”

“Yeah baby! Oh my goodness! It’s Africa!”

You forget that a two-year-old resident of a busy city can’t really distinguish one dry piece of earth from another. Why wouldn’t the outskirts of Amarillo or Tucumcari be the dusty ground that lions and giraffes and elephants roam?

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was just an oil field.

And it was just the Panhandle.

***

Last year, when we were out on tour and living on a bus with Matt Maher and his band, Annie- who was then, one-and-half- had a phobia of Kemi. Kemi is a first generation African American and one of the coolest guys (not to mention one of the best bass players) that I’ve met. It was Annie’s first significant amount of time to be with somebody that had a different color skin than hers... and she was scared. The running joke became that I was raising a racist baby. Which could not be further from the truth! Still, Kemi walked in and Annie freaked out every time. So I started showing her Mr. Kemi’s ears and nose and eyes. I would point to my nose and then Mr. Kemi's nose. I would laugh and then I would have him laugh. I would ask Annie to find his toes and touch his nose. Pretty soon, she realized we were exactly the same and Kemi became her favorite person on the bus.

When we got home from tour she would often ask, “Momma, when is Mr. Kemi going to come back home?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that this little apartment was home.

Not a bus with 13 people who all woke up and gathered in our PJ’s in the front lounge to share coffee and dreams we had in our sleep and terribly unhealthy breakfast foods.

She missed her little family.

One day while we were snuggling on the couch, she looked up and squealed, “MOMMA!!! Mr. Kemi!!!” She jumped out of my arms, “Yay, yay, yay... Mr. Kemi!!!”

I had no idea what she was talking about. That is, until I followed her eyes to a framed album cover on our living room wall.

Miles Davis.

I didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't Mr. Kemi.

***

Poor kid. She can’t quite distinguish between faces or places; reality or fiction; Africa or the dusty plains of Amarillo. Miles Davis or Kemi. The jungle or West Virginia.

She is caught somewhere between big dreams and concepts- trying to grasp reality, but so far from it.

Oh- how I wish I could keep her right here. God, please keep her here. Not quite ever knowing the full extent of reality. Living in the joyful, ignorant bliss of believing a clump of trees is the rainforest. Squealing with delight at the sight of a dusty field that is probably Africa. It must be Africa. It is Africa!

***

Yesterday we painted a pumpkin with glue. Annie carefully picked out eyeballs and stuck them all over the pumpkin's face. Then, with both tiny hands, she picked up a wide bottle of white, shimmery glitter and poured it all over the pumpkin.

Squealing with joy.

She collapsed next to the pumpkin.

“Now cover me, Momma.”

“Annie, I can’t put a blanket down right here. It will get covered in glitter. If you’re cold lets get some warmer clothes on.”

“No mom. Cover me up with glitter so I can be like the pumpkin!”

In a move that was hard for even a free-spirited, messy mom, I began to sing Christmas carols and poured glitter- an entire economy sized glitter bottle- all over her legs and arms and hair and we sang Jingle Bells at the top of our lungs.

She was beaming. “It’s raining sprinkles on us, Pumpkin! Look it’s raining sprinkles!”

I didn’t have the heart to make the sprinkle rain go away.

To tell her that the glitter falling on her, manufactured in some cheap factory in China, was probably full of toxins and was definitely going to aggravate her father and would be stuck in the carpet for  years to come. The carpet didn’t seem to matter.

***

Yesterday we went to the hospital.

“Momma, this is so much fun!” Annie squealed as we walked through the children’s ward, stopping to play in their magic tree house and on their gigantic worm. Making our way to the carousel with the animals she would climb on and then to the cupcake shop where she would pick the cupcake with the most frosting and the carrot on top.

“Is this a field trip Momma?” she asked with so much joy that it made my pain hurt more deeply than I could imagine.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that this is where people come when their bodies are sick.

This is where people are born... and this is where people die.

She pressed the buttons on the elevator and asked me, “Momma, am I going to get sick too? Can I someday come here too?”

Tears settled into my eyes and her little life played out in front of me so quickly I could hardly contain it. Kindergarten. School. Junior high. Puberty. Prom. College. Marriage. Babies. Grand babies. Career. Heartbreak. Love. And mixed in there, with all the possibilities, the possibility that yes- she might have to come here one day too. The true answer to her question.

Yes, baby, one day you might get sick too.

***

Of course we don’t live that way, in fear of broken-world realities.  At least we try not to. But the truth is it lingers there, underneath the surface.

Am I going to get sick too, Daddy? 

I feel like I ask God that question a little more often these days. Being in ministry- I see it everyday. I see it at every concert. I see it in the emails that come into my inbox on a daily basis... people get sick. Lots of people get sick. Young. Old. And in between.

Tragedy is not rare. What is rare are the people who have not yet had to face it.

So you prepare yourself for it. Not as one who lives with a fatalistic soul with no hope, but as one who is aware of the precious gift each day is.

But... some days I wish I could be in that in between place again. The place between reality and childhood ignorance and bliss. The place between Africa and Amarillo where rain showers drop sparkly glitter all over your body.

The kind of ignorant bliss that allows you to believe the trip to the hospital is a field trip.

***

My friend has cancer. The friend who traveled on the road with me for years- who loves history and the founding fathers with the same kind of dorky passion that I do- who loves the military because that’s all her daddy has ever known- who makes ghetto crafts and has no shame in it- who let me be in her beautiful hill country wedding- who told me, after the bus fire, “Jenny, your life IS insane. But you get to be a part of God’s story and that’s more important than whether your baby is on a schedule or not or whether you lose all you own in a fire or not." That friend who inspired me to write my new album, who loves hard, hurts deeply, and bares her soul to the world and makes it more beautiful-

she has cancer.

Monday- she didn’t have cancer. And she didn’t live on the 9th floor of the hospital. And she wasn’t sick.

But Tuesday it all changed.

And as Annie and I stepped off the hospital elevator and I told her that our friend was sick- but that she was with the best doctors and nurses in the world and they would work very, very hard to make her better as soon as possible- and that we were just there to give her hugs and kisses...

Annie said, “And I can give her a band-aide Momma!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that chemo was the only band-aide that would work.

I could only say, “A band-aide would be perfect Annie.”

***

There is no answer to the heart ache of suffering.

There is only hope.

There is only the chance, for those of us raising or influencing children, to protect these years where their souls soar, their hearts dream, and they know no difference between Africa and Amarillo.

And as the adult bearers of sadness and tragedy-  we can only take moments to stop and let the rain shower us with sparkly glitter.

We can stop and allow ourselves to be wrapped up in beauty.

And we can stop and ask God to fill us with hope and fight and enough innocence that the 9th floor isn’t the end of living...

it is only the beginning of believing.

Beginning of The Becoming

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My water broke in a parking garage.

I was on a band trip.  About to play a really important show. The guys were unloading gear from the van, but I could feel the baby- heavy inside of me- and my water broke.

Ryan was frustrated. Really? We traveled all this way for a show and your water breaks before we get a chance to play? Can you just hold it in, Jen? The other guys were indifferent. They kept unloading gear like nothing had even happened. Like they didn’t notice I was standing in a puddle of water.

But they did notice, they just didn’t care. It was almost like- yeah, your water broke. But you live long enough lady and everyone has their water break. I’ve had mine break. 

They kept doing what they were doing and I was puzzled. Didn’t they see what was happening? Didn’t they understand? The baby is coming. 

In that moment, something happened in my heart that I had never experienced. I felt like I was in my own world. One laced with more beauty, excitement, hope, and anticipation than I had ever known before. I felt myself glowing. There was a deep joy oozing out of me that I had never known. I could feel it in my fingertips and my toes and deep in my belly.

No one else existed. Just us. I had never wanted to give birth so bad in my life.

Hours later I was at the hospital. Pushing. Sweating. In so much freaking pain that I think I was biting Ryan’s arm.

***

And then I woke up.

Covered in sweat. Heart pounding. Body sore. As if I had really been pushing. Ryan laying next to me, sound asleep. Annie down the hall.

I woke up in my quiet, peaceful home. I could hear the clock ticking in the living room. The hum of the air conditioner. The birds outside my window. It was dawn. And I was deeply aware that there was nothing in my belly.

I wasn’t in labor. I wasn’t even pregnant. And what was worse, the dream ended before I delivered. I didn’t even get to find out if it was a boy or a girl.

Tears began to steam down my face. I felt such loss and sorrow. What a cruel trick. Why did I have to wake up mid-labor? I laid there and desperately wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl.  Couldn’t I have that much?

Blue or pink. Football or ballet. Bloody knees or bloody drama. Why let a girl dream that kind of dream and not get to see the end?

Ryan woke up to my whimpers.

“What’s wrong baby? Are you ok?”

“I just almost had a baby. I mean like really almost had the baby in my dreams. I’m covered in sweat and my stomach hurts from pushing. And you didn’t want my water to break and the guys didn’t care. And I was in the hospital biting you and screaming in pain,” and then the tears really came, “I- I- I- didn’t even get to have the baby. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl,” I was sobbing. In a little ball in my bed- at 6:00 a.m.- mourning the baby I didn’t give birth to in my dreams.

This is how every man wants to be woken up in the morning.

“But Jen- you don’t even want to have another baby.”

“I know, I didn’t think I wanted another baby. But what if we are supposed to? I mean, what if the dream was a sign? I don’t know. It really seemed like I was having a baby...”

“Ryan- I was so happy in the dream. Something was beaming deep inside of me. There was this deep deep joy. I can’t explain it. But I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life. It made me want to have a million babies. I knew that what was happening was holy. Waking up and it not being real- not even knowing if I had the baby- whether it was a boy or girl- I don’t know. I feel heart broken.”

“It was just a dream Jen. It’s ok. We don’t need to decide whether we should have another baby at 6:00 a.m. after a bad dream. You should get up. Have coffee and read before Annie wakes up. Clear your head.”

This sounded like a good idea. But all I could think about was the fact that coffee is really bad for the baby. You know- the baby I wasn’t actually pregnant with.

***

This is about the time I would encourage most people to go see a therapist. Lord knows I’ve seen my share of them.

My soul was frazzled. Not just by the dream, but by the season in life that seemed to churn me up and spit me out three counties over, mangled, in a river I didn’t know.

So I decided to go talk to someone. I needed some serious soul therapy. Except this time, instead of seeing a therapist, I decided I wanted to see a spiritual director. My mom had been seeing a spiritual director for years and had always encouraged me to go, but I always turned her down, because- what the heck is a spiritual director?!? 

Sounded like some sort of voodoo doctor to me.

But for some reason, after the dream, I knew something deep was going on and I needed more than coping mechanisms that a therapist would teach me; I needed someone to help me examine my soul. So I called him.

A spiritual director, I have now come to understand, is not a voodoo doctor at all. Having a spiritual director is like having a guide. Someone who sits with you, listens to you, asks you questions and helps you to see how God has generally spoken to you in the past so that you can better understand how God might be speaking and moving within you in the present. Basically- a person that helps you define God’s voice and prompting in your life.

I’ve always felt a sense of nakedness when sitting with a counselor or therapist. Being with a spiritual director made me feel a little more naked than I ever imagined I could feel. You’re not just bearing your bad habits, family feuds, or strange voices in your head... you’re telling someone how the invisible, omni-present, creator of the universe talks to you. And that’s just weird.

“So,” he said, “What has God been speaking to you lately?”

I couldn’t think of anything. Not one single thing.

“How has he spoken to you in the past? Through music? Being outside? Reading scripture? When do you remember really hearing his voice or feeling God’s presence?”

Nothing. I had felt dry for so long, I was having a hard time remembering. And, I was basically convinced that God wasn’t talking to me anymore, anyways. I was in his access of evil.

“What are you dreaming about Jenny? At night. What have your dreams been about?”

***

“My dreams? Who told you I was dreaming? How did you know?”

I sat there, thumbing the coffee cup in my hand not wanting to tell him- not wanting to know what he might make of it. Not wanting to sound too crazy.

“I’ve been having crazy dreams. For a few weeks now. Nearly every night, I wake up midway through labor. Heartbroken that I have not had a baby. But I don’t want another baby. In the dream I am deliriously happy though. I cannot wait to give birth to this child.  And then?  Nothing. I wake up covered in sweat, with cramps in my stomach, as if I am contracting, and I realize I am not in labor at all. Nothing is coming out of my body. And I’m laying there with tears rolling down my face wondering why the baby I don’t want isn’t coming. I guess I am supposed to have another baby? Only- I really thought I was done.”

***

He let my words settle in the air. And we sat in silence.

"Jenny, has it ever occurred to you that God might be trying to talk to you in your dreams? That he might be giving you a name for this season in your life?"

"Here’s what I see. A girl who is going through major life changes. A girl who is transitioning from what always was into unchartered territory. A girl who, perhaps, must have a season of gestation- a season of waiting- while new things grow. Jenny, what if you are not supposed to have a baby at all? What if these dreams are there to show you that you are in labor? About to give birth to something new? And you wake up heartbroken because, in the dream, you don’t know how it ends yet. You want to see whether it’s a boy or a girl. But it’s not time yet. You are not ready to deliver yet. But you are pregnant. That’s the important part. You are pregnant with something new, and beautiful, and kicking and tossing and turning... you’re just not ready to give birth yet. Your water hasn't broken yet.

***

It was a moment where the words of truth are spoken and an explosion of life and clarity come rushing back into your soul after a long winter of silence.

***

We spent the next hour talking about what it was like to be nine months pregnant.

It was miserable as a matter of fact.

I was so fat I could barely feel my fingertips or my toes. I tossed and turned in my sleep. And with every movement Annie made in my belly, I was convinced that this must be the beginning of labor. I would wait, with nervous anticipation for the contractions to start. Hours later I would be disappointed and frustrated to find out that it was just gas.

Nine months pregnant is the longest waiting game ever.

And, it’s a lonesome waiting game. As much as your partner wants to be there for you, there are places he can’t be. He didn’t feel Annie’s fingers tickling the inside of him. He couldn’t feel her toes, wiggling around; her legs kicking, fighting for more space. He didn't feel the hiccups or know when she woke up and when she went to sleep. So he couldn't fully understand the rise and fall of my heart every time I thought my little person was coming.

Waiting games can be so lonely.

You can’t rush it. You can’t make it happen any sooner than it’s going to happen. You are convinced that the thing you want to happen so badly is going to happen any second. And yet the minutes tick by. The hours tick by. The days tick by. You busy yourself and try to not think about the thing that you so desperately want to see. You try and give it space. You try and live like you are not living in-between. Like you are not becoming. Because you are tired of becoming already! You are ready to be becomed!

You have endured a long season of complete change and you are so close to answers. You are so close to seeing the end, so close to giving birth to something new, so close to the next chapter of life...

and yet you are still, so friggin’ pregnant.

***

This is how I came to realize that I was in the in between.

This was the beginning ofthe becoming.

Needless to say- I spent months seeing so many pregnant things that it almost became funny. Outside my apartment window a bird made a nest and laid four eggs. This only became humorous after I had the lightbulb moment that I myself was nesting something in my soul. Annie and I went searching for other birds nest's because I found it rather strange that a bird would camp out by my bedroom window to have babies. We didn’t find a single nest in our whole apartment complex! And day after day- I would dream about being pregnant at night and wake up hoping the darn birds had hatched already; as if their hatching would be the gateway to mine. 

(Ryan was really worried the birds would hatch and then be eaten by a dog or thrown around by a neighbor kid. He would always say, “Jen, you know a lot of birds don’t make it after they’re born. I just want you to be prepared for that. If these birds die, that doesn’t mean you are going to give birth to something that dies too. It just means- well you know- birds die.”)

My world became inundated with writings, people, scripture, movies, even critters who were pregnant with new; but not yet laboring. As if God were out to prove some master lesson that all things must endure being nine-months-pregnant before laboring and giving birth to something new. 

My soul was nine months pregnant. My life was nine months pregnant. My future was nine months pregnant.

Waiting for labor to begin.

Waiting to give life to something new.

Waiting.

The Becoming

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5:49 a.m.

I am wide awake.

Keenly aware of the fact that I feel lost. Like driftwood. Churned up by the storms and spit out in a different county, mangled, in a river I’ve never known.

Truth is, it all hit at once.

I’ve walked through seasons of change, seasons of feeling lost before- but they were never so real or so deep as they are now.

5:55 a.m.

I am contemplating who I am. And how does that make any sense? And what am I to do with that? And who do I want to be? Not what do I want to do with my life- though it seems summing it up with a simple answer like that would make this process a lot easier- so not that. But who do I want to be? Who was I made to be? And do I have to be that? Or can I just kind of be that?  And who was that person anyways? I mean... the person I was made to be? Am I that person? Or a version of her? What’s left of her? Or is she being completely reinvented?

[I should insert here that I do not have multiple personalities. You know. Just in case you were starting to get concerned.]

These are the things you think you have figured out. You think you know yourself. And I suppose there are loads of well meaning people in the world who live simple lives never contemplating this stuff, never doing anything risky enough to feel lost, never sitting on the couch at 6:01 a.m. staring their demons in the face. But I am not that person.

I am a nearly 31 year old artist, wife and mom who feels like driftwood. Churned up by the storms and spit out in a different county, mangled, in a river I’ve never known.

Being all mangledy-bangledy is a good thing. At least that’s what preachers always say. Storms grow you up. Get rid of all the bad stuff in you. Refine you with their fire and hurricane-in-the-sky powers. You come out refined. And shinier. And stronger. And I agree, this can happen. But what of the in between time? Where you’re mangledy-bangledy.

Sometimes we skip that part. Instead, the image I often get is this: I walk into a trying season in my life as “Jenny” and I come out shortly there after on the other side as a smokin’ hot “Jenny 4.0” who has, somehow, become infinitely more beautiful, happy, mature, rich, and demon-free.

The In-Between

But what of the transformation period? Surely it does not simply occur because the season of hardship is behind you. So poof! Hardships have made you a more rich person.

It's messier than that. It’s a longer journey than the just enduring part. It’s the becoming part that leaves you stranded on the couch, morning after morning, 6:30 a.m. feeling keenly aware that you are in the in between. Not the girl I started out as- nor the better version- but somewhere in between. Trying to find my way home.

So that’s where I have been. Some of you have asked. And that‘s the only answer I can give.

I am in the in between. We are in the in between.

Not in a storm, but not the new shinier 4.0 version of myself either. Just somewhere in between... becoming. And the becoming process sucks. I don’t like change. And I don’t like living in the unknown. And I don’t like feeling so unsettled. Seems like by now I should have it all figured out. But I don’t.

And the truth is- I think that is exactly where I am supposed to be right now. Living in the unknown. The driftwood that’s been spit out three counties over- trying to get my bearings and wondering- what next?

With that being said...

I am working on a new album and writing songs that I’ve always wanted to write. Saying things I’ve always wanted to say. Writing with writers who are challenging me to go places I’ve never gone before with my music.

Ryan is no longer traveling with me. And that is the biggest of changes. He has taken a 8-5 job in Dallas that he loves- he was ready for something new- and yet he still believes in what I do and wants me to follow where it leads. Still, after 11 years of making music together and living side by side, 24 hours a day, traveling the world, there is a loneliness in doing what we have done together for so long, by myself.

We are trying to figure out what that looks like for Addison Road and what that means for our family. For now it means performing on weekends- taking Annie with me sometimes- or leaving her with her grandparents for the weekend so Ryan can recover from the work week. Sometimes Ryan will be with me, but mostly, he is getting used to his new world too- and apparently you working-world-folk live for the weekends. I don’t think Ryan or I had any concept of a “weekend” until the last five months.

We are realizing, that for most of the working world, scheduling a “date” night becomes one of the only ways to ensure that you have any amount of quality time together. Who knew? Who knew that weekends were for laundry, going to the park, and fixing things around the house? Who knew that cooking dinner every single night would almost make  eating undesirable? Who knew that getting your clothes starched at the cleaners- every week- could cost so much money (Did I mention that before Ryan took this new job, we didn’t even own an iron or ironing board? We have refused to buy a real board. We got a small fold up board that does absolutely no good. Still, it feels less domesticated and that makes us feel better about owning our very own iron.) Who knew that being a stay at home mom during the weeks would require so much energy, patience, wisdom, and mental stability- which I am severely lacking in?!?

These are the sorts of things you face in the in-between. In the becoming something new. One day you are ready to take on the new world. The next day you are begging for the old world. The next you are simply convinced that you were never convinced of anything in the world to begin with. It is a season marked by the unknown. Curiosity abounds. Excitement fights to shine through. Fear and self-doubt dominate. The kind of self-doubt that hits you over the head at the beginning of puberty, leaving you rattled and insecure and lost and overwhelmed with the possibilities of giving birth to a new person. A new version. If nothing else, the in between seasons are great reminders to hold life lightly. Hang on too tight- to your own version- and you are bound to be heartbroken.

Because there will, inevitably, always be a season of becoming.   

Aisle 7 and the Evil Spaghetti

My biggest break down during this season of in-between living was on Aisle 7 at Kroger.

I sat there staring at spaghetti. Some horrible 1980‘s Phil Collins song came on. I stared at the spaghetti longer. Harder. What do I cook for dinner? What do people cook for dinner? I had no idea. Being on tour for two years straight, I hadn’t cooked for my family. Not only had I not cooked, 99% of the time, I didn’t even have a choice over what I would eat. I showed up at a venue and the food was there. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. I didn’t do any of it. I had no idea what to cook for dinner. I didn’t even know where to begin. The spaghetti started calling me names. And before I knew it, all the spaghetti boxes were talking, hovering over me, telling me that I had failed- as a mom, a wife, a musician, a cook- you name it and the spaghetti was screaming it at me.

And right there, on Aisle 7, between noodles and tomato sauce I began to sob and grieve the becoming. The in between.

Like driftwood. Churned up by the storms and spit out in a different county, mangled, in a river I’d never known. I was in the eye of the storm.

God love the old lady who said, “Sweetie are you ok?”

“I just don’t even know what to cook for dinner. I don’t even know what to buy,” I said through sobs- massive sobs- on Aisle 7.

“Well, sweetie, you should just do take-out. Leave the buggy right here. Go get in your car. And do take-out. You do not need to cook a thing tonight. You just leave this buggy right here. It will take care of itself.”

“Ok. Ok. You’re right. Pizza will work won’t it? I just. I just don’t even know what to put on the noodles. You know? I just can’t believe this,” I left the basket in a daze, sobbing, shoulders shaking, Phil Collins singing something about love in the background.

Poor lady.

Sometimes you just need the permission to be broken down. To not know what to cook. To leave the buggy, full of perishables, right in the middle of Aisle 7. She was there to give me permission. Permission to be afraid. Permission to cry. Permission to feel lost. Permission to go home- let it fall like rain onto my pillow- and then rise, ready to start over again. And you do start over again. I am starting over again.

Inevitably, the hope and excitement of the unknown shines through the clouds. And eventually, the clouds roll away all together.

Me

So this is me. This is Ryan and I. This is us. We have weathered storms- and found ourselves in a season of complete change. To put a bow on it for you and wrap it up nicely would be to deny that we are walking through the much needed- albeit much dreaded season- of becoming. So I can’t do that. No cliche’ quotes or scripture verses about not worrying or about faith in God’s plan or the future... though it is there, the faith. It is there. But the truth is, we are still living in the uncertainty- and I hate it. I am working through my lostness, and no amount of faith takes away the fear and loneliness that accompanies drifting down a river, trying to find your way home... to your new home. Becoming something different and refined along the way.

A bit of holy fear and loneliness during the becoming is good for my soul- whether I like it or not.

This isn’t about Addison Road. I really believe the songs we are writing for the next Addison Road album are the best we’ve ever written. This isn’t about Ryan and his desire for a new career.  This is bigger than a job. Bigger than paychecks or talents and skills.

This is about going from storms- to mangledy bangledy- to coming out on the other side, bottom of the river- looking different than ever before.

This is the in between season. Of growing into my skin. Of redefining. Of growing up. Of becoming.

*Thank you to Paul Allen for encouraging me to write this blog. To Karen Briseno for enduring with me during the silent in-between. And for the rest of you who still come here to share life with me.*