Soul Vacation- Part Two

Sometimes it's so little. The things that keep our souls alive.

For me, it's taking pictures. Not because I am a great photographer. I'm not. (In fact, I'm ashamed to say I still haven't used the new camera Ryan bought me because the iPhone happens to always be in my hand.)

But taking a picture, a frivolous, un-important, may never see the light of day picture of a cloud or a grasshopper or a flower or a little girl who grows light years every single time I turn back to look at her... taking these pictures reminds me that I am free.

I am free to take a picture of a flower.

I am free to waste my time looking at fields of brush and weeds.

I am free to let my daughter nap in her stroller while I lay next to her in a damp field in Indiana getting my jeans dirty, looking at clouds, listening to the birds and wind.

I am free.

I am free to diddle daddle or piddle paddle or widdle waddle with this or that.

I am free to breathe. To slow down. To dawdle. To not have a single thought in my head or care on my plate.

I am free to do a whole lot of nothing which adds up to everything.

The freedom to do nothing means you have everything.

Today, I'm grateful for that.

So with that, here are a few pictures from a place called Soul Vacation...

or Anderson, Indiana.

Soul Vacation

I have been on soul vacation.

Well, at least I am beginning to take a soul vacation. I am dreaming about what a soul vacation looks like. And I am trying to figure out how to pack my soul-suitcase and go lay out by the beach with a coconut drink in one hand and a good book in another.

In the midst of 55 shows. From New York to Seattle and everywhere in between. In the midst of living on a bus. With my baby. And husband. And eleven other adults. And one tiny bathroom.

Yep, during the next two months in the midst of all that I am trying to go on soul vacation, because, as Nita Andrews from Porter’s Call once told me, “You can’t be everything for everybody. Your soul needs rest. And if you don’t find a way to give yourself rest in the midst of what you do, you will end up a recluse, in a cottage, far away from society, bitter at the world. God doesn’t need you to be a martyr Jenny; a depleted, useless, martyr. Your soul needs rest.”

Burn Out

My soul is a bit burned out.

One too many girls this summer dealing with abuse, one too many preachers with hidden agendas, one too many student pastors with good intentions who end up making my faith feel cheap, one too many online comments written with anonymity and so little respect or personal responsibility, one too many plane rides, one too many books saturating my brain, one too many hugs, one too many autographs, one too many...

So I met my pastor Jackie for lunch recently to get some things off my chest.

I told her that I felt off. I’ve been so tired this summer that I’ve convinced myself I was pregnant... twice. Yikes! I stopped eating healthy and I've taken to eating ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream. I avoid text messages and phone calls like the plague. And worst of all, I told her, I don’t feel anything when I worship. It just seems fake. And I find myself looking at people who are worshipping like they are foreign aliens.

Crazy. Foreign. Aliens.

I feel removed. I have found myself wondering time and time again, “Is God even real?”

Unbeliever?

“I don’t think I believe in God anymore,” I said in defeat, “And I really don’t like church people they are all giving me the heebie jeebies. And I mean, I have nothing against God. Other people can believe in God but I’m too tired too. I just want to live on an island and work at a coffee shop and play in the ocean.”

She smiled and shook her head. My friend Krista came in to the restaurant and ordered us wine.

“What’s up?”

“Jenny doesn’t believe in God anymore.”

“Oh cool. I’ve done that before,” she smiled.

Jackie looked at me with the most tender eyes “Well, my friend, if you end up a Buddhist or a recluse living by the ocean who doesn’t believe in God, I will still love you. But seriously, I am not going to have that conversation with you today. I think you and Jesus are closer than you care to be at times. But I think your soul is so burned out that you don’t even know how to go home to Him. It’s not that you don’t believe in God, it’s that you need to take a soul vacation. You need to spend some time processing the intensity of this past year with a counselor. You need to shut down for a while. You need to play. You need to not think. You need to go on soul vacation friend.”

Burn out? Soul vacation?

Hearing someone give me permission to take a soul vacation brought me to tears.

Nothing has ever sounded better. I was ready to vacate all responsibility right then and there for an immediate leave of absence.

Her words rung deep and true and I knew without a shadow of a doubt... I needed a break.

So...

That’s where I have been. Taking a break. Defining boundaries for my soul. My family. My time. My life.

I have been on soul vacation. And to be honest, I need to be on soul vacation for quite a bit longer. And once this tour is over, I am going to take time off. Maybe a month. Maybe a year. I’m not sure yet. All I know is that I have started on my soul vacation and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it is exactly where I need to be.

I haven’t read books. Haven’t engaged in anything political or controversial or even slightly related to Obama or healthcare or tea parties or crazy Koran burning pastors. I have not gone there. I have not done anything for anybody. Whew. Let me say that one more time: I have not done anything for anybody, for at least a week or so now, and oh my gosh, it’s been the best feeling ever. No reading the news. No volunteering. No blogging. I really haven’t been a good friend either. No returned text messages. No calling. No emailing. Nothing really. And the thing is...I’m ok with that for right now.

The people who love me the most are ok with it too.

What do you even do on S.V.? I’ve been playing with Annie. Watching her. Taking joy in the smallest things that she does. I’ve been looking at what actress wore what dress to the Emmy’s (I’ve literally never done that before in my life). I’ve traded in my Christian books for magazines about how to make the perfect cupcake and how to help my daughter, Annie, poop better. I’ve taken guilt-free naps and fallen in love with Ellen. Did you know she dances on every single show??? And almost always gives away presents to people? And I promise you that lady owns every cool pair of shoes ever created!

I can’t believe it.

Me, the girl who only watches TV if I am on my death bed. I’ve been watching Ellen and Access Hollywood for fun.

And I love it!!!

I love that everyone in my life has simply let me be. No quoting scripture or looks of disappointment. No one trying to fix me. But just friends being friends. Parents being good parents. Sisters being good sisters. Counselors being good counselors. Pastors being good pastors. And all of them saying.

Soul vacation.

Porter's Call...

The only way I can see a counselor during times like this is because of a really amazing ministry called Porter’s Call.

Al and Nita Andrews realized years ago that Christian artists are often sent out on the road to love on and minister to people, at a break-neck pace, with little pay, and much strain to their relationships back home. They realized artists needed a safe haven. A place to vent. To grow. To heal. To dream. And then to be sent back out again to bring God’s message of hope to people through art.

Al and Nita single-handedly created a place for your favorite artists- and I’m telling you, I don’t know many people in the business who have not been to them for therapy- to receive counseling services free of charge and in untraditional settings and times. Like 8 pm at a coffee shop. Or in their artist retreat center. Or first thing in the morning with your husband or bandmates at their office. You name it, they are there for us and they have single-handedly guided artists through the roughest spots in our marriages, ministries, and band relationships. Free of charge.

They make it possible for someone like me to get the support I need when I have found myself face to face with a desperate need for SOUL VACATION.

This week we are raising money for Porter’s Call through a huge online Ebay auction!!! It is my hope that there are some fans out there who would love to spend a day drinking coffee, eating cupcakes, mexican food, and going shopping with one girl who is officially on SOUL VACATION!

If you want to join me for an ultimate day of pampering and support an amazing ministry that keeps your favorite artists spiritually and emotionally together... please, please, please consider placing your bid first thing tomorrow morning for Dallas Diva Day with yours truly!

A true soul vacation!!!

Sleuth or Worm Farmer... or just plain ole' singer?

It is 5:34 a.m. and I am sitting at IHOP. The International House of Pancakes- for my international readers who may not be familiar with this is amazing 24 hour a day establishment of pancakery bliss.

I have not been able to sleep a wink. At 1:57 I woke up with a million thoughts streaming through my mind. I tried everything to shoo them away. Counting sheep. Counting backwards. Breathing deeply. Relaxing all the muscles in my body. Reciting the sinners prayer, “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.” And I even tried sleeping in my closet. When that didn’t work, I took out my computer, in the closet, and planned out our set list for the fall tour. It ends with an acoustic jam session and an impromptu choir wearing white robes that have sunshines painted all over them coming on stage with candles, handing out cupcakes to the audience while singing “This Little Light of Mine” with the band.

You’re welcome Addison Road.

Obviously my best moments of creative brilliance comes somewhere between two and three a.m.

Did I mention I’m at IHOP now and my waiter is singing the words to the 80’s power ballad, “Can’t we try just a little bit harder...” I’m trying not to smile, but seeing a guy with dreads and a gold tooth sing this song is really making my groggy morning quite delightful.

Montana One

I have spent the last two weekends in Montana. The first weekend was for a show that didn’t happen. It fell a part in a million pieces and the promoter wasn’t able to honor the contract and pay us. We lost thousands of dollars on the airlines tickets we paid for and the anticipated income that never came in. Am I allowed to tell you that? Well, I just did.

Sometimes people ask how we stay “grounded” and “humble.” That’s when we say, “You remember that time we paid $2,000 to fly to Montana and no one showed up and the promoter didn’t pay us and the ‘chicken dinner’ was a partly-deboned rotisserie chicken with a butcher knife stuck into it and no plates to eat off of?”

It happens to every one in our industry and it’s cheaper not to fight it legally. And, truly, the promoter doesn’t have the money. How can you force a brother or sister to give you what they do not have? Grace must abound. Even in business. At least that is what I keep repeating to myself.

There was some good that weekend though, because I met my first real live worm farmer. Well, he was a worm farmer. Now he’s just a worm poop farmer. He realized that once he and his buddies invested into a worm farm, the grass and makeshift gardens around their land started growing exponentially. It took him a while to figure out it was the worm poop, but when it occurred to him, he started to save the stuff and sent it to a lab to be tested. Sure enough, a little dime bag of his worm poop was more potent than three bags of miracle grow. And so, there he was, at the not-so-music-festival in a tent sifting through worm poop that he would try and sell for four dollars a bag. A fantastic bargain if you ask me.

“Feel of it. I tell you Jenny, just feel the stuff, feel of it, it feels like silk.” I tried to just look with big eyes and say, “Wow, that does look soft!”

“No, really, just run your fingers through it.” He picked up a mound of silky poop in his dry, cracked hands and poured it all over my hands. I had no choice. I was feeling this dude’s worm poop whether I wanted to or not.

So, as a storm blew in and the guys took cover in a dingy, un-air-conditioned RV, I sat and talked to worm farmers. And I felt so much smarter. Like a green, energy efficient, organic scientist that is against all corporate farming; just chatting it up with the other fellas about the evils of mass production, harsh chemicals, and the lack of good worm poop in the world. I looked out over a vast expanse of beautiful land and thought, “What in the world am I doing here?”

What a strange life.

We passed on the sort-of chicken dinner and went down the road to an old green building with no windows and cracked paint. The door was thickly padded, like a football player might want to practice running into it. And an old sign hanging above the door said, “Bar. Food.” So we went in. Two sisters were running the joint. We sat in a room with dear heads and box fans. At a picnic table. And I watched as one sister stirred away at three different pots on a normal white stove in plain site of the dinning room. It was truly bizarre. A bizarre weekend from start to finish. Started with Tiger the day before and ended with worm poop farmers and dear heads in a dark bar on Saturday.

proof

Montana Two

This past weekend we were in Great Falls, Montana and it was quite the redemptive Montana experience.

High of 67, low of 43. I went straight to Ross and bought a jacket. No sales tax in Montana. Gotta love it. Our hotel was in an old downtown area and on Saturday morning they had a farmers market and a crepe-mobile. How cute is that? Quaint stores and a beautiful river. A huge turn-out for the festival and a paycheck in hand before we even played! I was in love with Great Falls, Montana. The people were amazing, the show felt special, and the trip was undramatic. Always a plus in my book these days.

Yes, I was in love with all those things, but to be perfectly honest, I was mostly in love with my mission while I was there.

My mission? I’m glad you asked. My personal mission was to find the escaped Arizona convicts.

Seriously.

They were last spotted in Billings, Montana and I knew they were still in the area. I could feel it. Our hotel was by a homeless shelter, a bus stop, and the river... there were lots of suspicious characters. So, I went to the river one morning. By myself. With a picture of the fugitives pulled up on my phone. And as people slept under the morning sun, I inched up as close as I could to examine their identity. Every car that passed by got a complete stare down. I even found myself on stage that day scanning the audience for persons of interest...

Y’all, I read one too many Nancy Drew books as a kid.

I really believed in my little heart that I would crack the case while I was in Montana. I was being so vigilant. While everyone else went about their normal day, they had no idea I was there for one reason and one reason alone: a citizens arrest.

When I woke up this morning at 1:57 a.m., after reciting the Sinner’s Prayer and trying to count backwards from 100, I crept into my closet and read the news. The Arizona convicts were apprehended.

All kinds of things are plaguing the world this morning. Flooding and a massive humanitarian emergency in Pakistan. A debate over whether our President is a Muslim or not. The indictment of Roger Clemens, the baseball star who may have lied about drug use. North Korea threatening the United States with unseen retaliation. Iran and Israel perhaps blowing each other to smithereens. All kinds of craziness in the world that usually stirs my heart to prayer or urges me to write a congressman about signing off on this or that bit of legislation....

But today I am just eating my whole grain harvest pancakes at IHOP and mourning the fact that I was not the one to find the escaped convicts while they were traipsing around Montana.

I really thought that case was going to be my big detective break. I would make Nancy and Bess and George so proud. But maybe I should pay more attention to my music career. Or worm farming.

Worm farming seems pretty promising.

I Hugged Meggan Schwirtz.

shared with written and verbal consent from author...

Sunday July 11, 2010

Dear Jenny Simmons -

I struggled a lot with how to start this email. The top three starting choices were: 1. I don't know if you realize this, but we are the very best of friends. 2. I am without a doubt your biggest fan. OR 3. Crazy people do exist. However, I promise I am not one of them.

I just couldn't decide so I thought I would share all 3.

I am a 25 year old youth pastor's wife living in Pine River, Minnesota where pine trees & lakes can be found abundantly! My husband Trevor & I have been serving the Lord in full-time ministry for four years now. We have a passion to see our youth come to know the Lord early on in life & make a difference in the community around them. And this week, on Thursday July 15, 2010 Trevor & I are packing up our awesome group to come to Sonshine Music Festival in Wilmar, Minnesota to see our favorite band, Addison Road.

I first became a fan of your music when the song "Hope Now" was released back in 2008. I was enduring the storms of life at that time, since my little sister Bridgett, at the young age of 19, lost her life in a head-on car accident. To say I was devastated would be putting it mildly. My sister knew the Lord & seeked to serve Him as a young child. She had a beautiful, compassionate heart to love on the kids in her high school who others made fun of. The Lord used her in many ways to help teens with eating disorders, cutting, suicidal thoughts, and depression come to know the freedom & joy that belongs to those who have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Bridgett left for college with a full academic scholarship to become a pediatrician, when she was killed in the car accident.

For the longest time, I wrestled with my doubts towards God. Why her? It just didn't seem to make any sense. She had so much to give this world. During that painful time, I not only heard the lyrics of your song, I felt them with my own hands. "I've been carried by You, All my life.....When my life is like a storm, Rising waters all I want is the shore. You say I'll be ok and Make it through the rain, You are my shelter from the storm. And everything rides on hope now...."

Your song became my battle cry. The song I listened to when little made sense. When I ached for healing. Knowing that I was being held. That the Lord was my shelter. And that I would make it through this storm. It somehow made me understand that our suffering was not in vain. That God had plans to use Bridgett's death for more than I ever could have imagined.

Her funeral was attended by thousands, some waiting in line for hours just to pay their respects to Bridgett & tell our family of how she had personally impacted their life. During the ceremony, dozens gave their hearts to Jesus for the first time, including our own Dad. We are also now miraculously meeting Bridgett's organ donors, witnessing the precious gift of life first hand, and seeing them one by one come to know of the True Love offered by Bridgett's Lord & Savior.

To see so much good come from something so tragic, helps me know that the Lord uses all things for His purpose & glory.

After hearing your song on the radio, I went to your website to order the cd. This is when I stumbled upon your blog & realized that we were of course long lost best friends. I have been reading your thoughts & hilarious musings for years now, always thankful for the "word vomit" that God gives you to reach us, your loyal followers. I think of your blog posts almost like a new episode of a favorite television show. The kind of show you break out a big buttered bowl of popcorn for & must have absolute silence to watch what will happen next. My husband used to hate the constant "Shush!" 'ing that occured as I was reading about your latest adventures, until I got him hooked on your blog as well :) To read of all the battles Addison Road has faced this past year with the RV fire, stolen vehicles, and weather storms has just affirmed to me that God uses the toughest of times to make our faith grow in ways we never thought possible.

I also wanted to tell you for the record that the single "Fight Another Day" was released at God's most perfect timing! I was 2 weeks overdue with my first baby when the lyrics came out to remind me to press through the swollen fingers, back aches, weird cravings, and mood swings until I could finally meet my beautiful daughter, Addison Bridgett Schwirtz.

So I guess Jenny, I mostly just wanted to say thank you. For your example. For your beautiful words. For being willing. And for actually reading my email. You have blessed my life. And if I never get to meet you, please know that I thank the Lord for you. And that He's using you, in big ways & small, to restore hope to many who have somehow lost it.

I am hoping we will meet this week at Sonshine & that I might be able to say thank you in person. And give you a hug.

Keep Writing. Keep Singing. Keep Loving. Keep Going.

We love you Jenny!!

Lots of Love & Thanks - Meggan Schwirtz

This email blessed me immensely and I wanted to share Meggan's story with you. Meggan, thanks for letting me share a small part of your story here.

You can leave her a comment on the blog if you'd like.

I got to hug Meggan Schwirtz.

We spent a whole hour together.

And it was truly my honor...

Reality Please...

So I think my mom has gotten me another year long subscription to Women's Day magazine.

Thanks mom.

I'm serious, thank you. I find myself needing mindless entertainment for just a few brief moments today, and Women's Day is doing the trick. Not that it's mindless, but it certainly doesn't require much from my heart and soul.

So I'm saying thank you in the same way that my gallbladder says thank you when I eat a salad and not a steak.

Make sense?

Anyways, here I am reading my women's day magazine and the very first ad in the July issue shows a beautiful, baby blue, infinity pool spilling over into a perfect, oil-free ocean. The pool is edged by khaki lounge chairs, yellow striped beach towels, and mahogany poolside tables. I can practically hear the seagulls and feel the wind blowing right off the page. And the ad says this, "If you want to be here...

Stop right there. Yes. I want to be there. I want to be there so badly I might jump in my car and not turn around. I want to stick my feet in the water and look over the ocean. I want to smell the salty sea instead of the stinky diapers. I want to feel the sand instead of the spaghetti that invariably ends up in my hair after Annie's dinner. I want to sleep with the wind and the seagulls. I want to be in the sun, in a bikini, with a pool of gorgeous water waiting to envelop me at the first sign of sweat. Yes, I want to be there. Are you going to take me?

"If you want to be here... (next page) Smell Here,"

And a picture of a Glade wall plug-in hovers obtrusively over the water with a "rub to activate" caption below it.

I am royally disappointed.

Really? Bring me to Fiji on the first page and then leave me with a consolation prize of Glade air freshener scratch and sniff and the daunting reality of life on the next? What kind of ad exec thinks that up? That's just mean.

As if to prove a point, my phone vibrates while I am being mad at Glade for leading me on and one of the guys from the band has sent a picture and this text message, "Guys... I've never been so excited about deodorant before in my life. Old Spice has a new line out. It's called Denali. 'Smells like Wilderness, Open Air, and Freedom' and it does!"

There's a picture of old spice staring me in the face.

Promising me 'wilderness, open air, and freedom.' I tell my friend I am happy he's found underarm freedom. He writes back and says there's one called Fiji that he bets I would like. I write back and say, "Will it physically deliver me to Fiji? If so, I will take it." He writes back and says, "Yeah, just close your eyes and sniff your pits." I write back and say, "I so needed to smile today. Y'all will find me in my closet wearing a bikini, listening to Bob Marley, drinking from a coconut, Fiji deodorant in one hand and my Glade room freshener in another... and I'll probably be high on fumes... but hey, I will have finally made it to Fiji." At one point, he writes back to say he's praying for me.

Praying for me? Do I sound like a woman who needs prayers??? I just want to go to the real Fiji and don't want to go there through sniffing deodorant fumes and reading mean magazines in my house... is that too much to freaking ask for???

He's gonna pray for me... ha.

And then, in a final twist of fate, I get an email update from Southwest Airlines.

"Wanna get away?"

Reality People, Reality.

Reality is this. I just flew home two nights ago from a week of camp. Annie's first night back home she woke up screaming every hour on the hour. The next morning, Ryan blew his back out and he's been on heavy drugs ever since. My house is covered in a layer of dust from being gone for so long, but I only have 48 hours, and I have to choose: do the laundry before the next trip and clean the strange ring out of the toilet or dust. Option A wins.

Reality is this. I have to get Annie from the church daycare in 13 minutes and I still have 200 new emails in my inbox that I didn't get to, and I feel perpetually guilty lately for being a bad friend. I feel a bit lonely and disconnected from my sisters, friends, and my church today. I could really use a girl night. Some coffee. A cupcake. A good laugh. A night out. But all those require a babysitter... and babysitters require money... and I suppose real money comes from a real job. And of course it requires time, which I have very little of today. I have very little of until sometime in July.

And this is not a pity party. It's not even to say that reality stinks. It's just to say. This is reality.

And I'm so tired of picking up magazines and tubes of deodorant and hearing about all the ways that all the products can help me escape reality.

Is that really the answer? Glade? Old Spice? Fiji?

I just want someone to tell me the truth.

Instead of products, people, movies, and songs that encourage me to escape reality, why doesn't someone say, "Here, use this deodorant. It smells good. And while it won't do the dishes, mow the yard, or raise your child for you... you'll smell pretty dang good while you suck it up and be an adult and do the things you have to do anyways."

That's what I want to hear.

"Here, use Glade. You won't be in Fiji and the dust won't disappear and we can't help the strange ring in your toilet and we are really sorry you are tired and only home for 48 hours, but at least the house will smell good."

"Here, drink our soda. It won't give you time with your friends, but you'll feel so fricking hyper that it won't matter."

"Here, use our sugar scrub. It won't actually deliver you to a Thai Massage Parlor, but if you close your eyes and turn up the music loud enough, then maybe, just maybe, you will have a few minutes of peace and quiet in your busy life."

I'd rather here the truth than buy into the lies.

The lies tell me that the answers to my problems lie in people, places, and things. Las Vegas. Wine Country. The Spa. The mall. The ocean. The cruise. New York. Europe. The pool. The deodorant. The glade plug-in.

Truth is, the answer lies within myself and my ability to own my responsibilities, to find joy in my current situation, and to be content with my little apartment far, far away from Fiji.

Yeah, we all need a break from time to time. Everyone can use a vacation. But when I spend my life wrapped up in all the places I want to escape to, I forget that the toil and sweat of each day, the reality of my day to day life... well, I forget that that is reality.

So, I was supposed to pick Annie up six minutes ago and now I am "that mom" who comes late. But that's ok. Today I'm praying for an extra dose of reality. I want to be happy where I'm at. And if I ever find myself lusting over a Glade ad again... I hope Annie will throw up on me and snap me out of it.

Why would I want to be in Fiji when I could be loving on a sweet baby girl who has just puked on me?

Reality trumps make-believe. It has to.