National Cupcakes, Sprinkles, and Other Happy Things Week!

Well friends I'd like to declare it National Cupcakes, Sprinkles, and Other Happy  Things week! I know it's been a while since you've heard from me and I'd like to attribute that to being half-dead. I think a lot of what we do in life is trial and error; figuring out our limits and our boundaries. This fall I figured out some of mine. 52 shows in 70 days is honestly more than I can handle. Living on a bus for two months is about one month too long. Wearing the same outfit for three days makes me feel homeless. And not going to church in over three months is bad for my soul.

The Light Meets the Dark Tour was an amazing group of talented, insightful, kind, funny, and passionate artists journeying across America to be about the work of reminding people that there IS light in the darkness. For the gift of being on that tour, with those people, I am truly grateful and humbled. For the gift of meeting so many amazing and unique Christ followers around the country at each show, I am truly grateful. For the gift of sharing a gift with so many others, I am grateful. For the invitation to be a part of people's lives, the brutally painful moments and the beautiful ones, I count myself profoundly blessed... and I am grateful.

But for living on a bus for two, almost three months, I say, "Good Riddance Bus! I hate your stinking guts! Your bunk bed has surely given me arthritis! Your bathroom floor with the urine stains of so many men has warped the bottoms of my feet! Your putrid man smell gives me the heebie-jeebies! Your ice-cold chambers with no windows made my soul feel trapped in a long, dark, blustery, Michigan winter. And your sink, which was smaller than the size of my butt, made it impossible for me to truly brush my teeth for the last two months!"

I anticipate the coming days when I can brush my teeth in a sink that hasn't been used by ten people before me. The days when I will not refer to a "good night's sleep" as a night that didn't have any sudden slamming on of the breaks that lurched me out of my bunk bed and onto the floor. Yes. A good nights sleep will have nothing to do with sleeping in a moving vehicle, with a rumbling engine under my belly, in a narrow hallway with twelve tightly packed bunk beds.

Unless you're five years old and you have a solar system of glow stars above your head; a small tent made out of sheets; and a bag of cookies hidden under your pillow... bunk beds and "a good nights sleep" don't belong in the same sentence.

I anticipate the days that I get my privacy back. The days where I do not shimmy out of my concert clothes and try, like a twisty yoga instructor, to get my pj's on in my 2 by 8 foot bunk bed without hitting my head or otherwise injuring my body. The days where I can poop in my own house. In my own bathroom. On my own toilet. There I said it. I gave away the secret that every artist wants to keep quiet. You can't do that on the bus people, it's just wrong!!! And it's wrong for days to come because remember, buses aren't plugged in to plumbing. It's basically like using a porta-potty. And people who go number two in a porta-potty should be personally responsible for cleaning the things... it's just wrong.

You get to the venue in the morning and the quest is on. Where can you poop in privacy? And let me tell you... I am quite happy to not be doing that anymore. Thank-you-very-much.

I anticipate the days ahead, yet I already miss my tour family and I find myself wondering... where do I fit in now? I feel like I need to hold a village meeting or send up smoke circles to let people know that I am home... and that I am lonely.

While living on a bus for two months is not ideal, there is something pretty rare and special about waking up to the same people everyday. Sharing a pot of coffee. Knowing that some friends like to be quiet in the morning while others, like my friend Kristen who was on the bus, greets you with a big smile and wants to know how you slept. There is something enchanting about sitting around in your PJ's at night with 12 other people discussing the news, theology, politics; eating some popcorn; sharing a bottle of wine; venting; and knowing that the person right next to you is in it with you. They get it. They get the calling. They understand the madness. They share the passion. And they hate the bathroom as much as I do.

I miss my bus mates.

So does Annie.

Last night as she was falling asleep in my arms her little synapses' started firing off words while her eyes bobbled around trying to fight off the sleep. "Mommy. Daddy. Buggers (thanks alot dad, that was a really classy word to teach her. I espcially like the part where she sticks her finger in her mouth after she says that and pretends to be eating buggers. Awesome). Puppies," and then, "Guitars (pronounced key-tars), Matt. Kemmy, Greggers, Josh (yosh), Travis, Lalalalalalalala (for Lauren, the nanny). Sorry Richard, she still can't say your name.

My heart melted. This little girl knows nothing but love. And she loves so many people. There she is falling asleep and her mind reminds her of "keytars" and Mr. Matt (as in Matt Maher) and her friend Kemmy the bass player who gives her kisses on her head. And she fell asleep.

I love that her little mind just lets her remember the good.  Not so much the part where she slept in a moving vehicle for two months and ate Taco Bell on more than one occasion, and that her mommy was really tired, and then, by the end of it all, starting to get ugly around the edges. I like that she didn't go to bed spouting off all the things that burdened her over the past few months, like a few of the churches who seemed pretty self-indulgent and lost in their own wealth and pride, or the handful of promoters who fed us out of plastic buckets- food that no one in their right mind would want to eat- or the "fans" who would get angry when we cut the autograph line off after an hour and a half- or any of those other things that it's easy to get all bent-out-of-shape over. No- in her little 18 month-old-mind... all that matters at the end of the day are the people. And she fell asleep saying their names.

Matt. Kemmy. Mommy. Greggers. Yosh. Daddy. Puppies. LALALALALALALALA.

As I put her to bed last night, I thought, "God, let me fall asleep the same way. Not holding grudges against promoters or venues who maybe didn't treat us like they would their own family, or bemoaning the part where I lived on a bus for two months, or the little inconveniences that I sacrificed along the way. Let me remember the people. The faces. The names. The stories. Your children."

And I woke up this morning feeling alive again. Wanting to write again. Wanting to remember, wanting to record every story I can remember from this tour. Wanting to find myself in light. Wanting to be light. Wanting to say thank you to sooooo many of you who showed up- my faithful blog readers- my new found friends- my family and a home away from HOME- to so many of you who loved Ryan, Annie, and I along the way... I want to say thank you. By pouring into me and being my family, I was able to hopefully pour into so many. Because of so many of you- today I remember so many of them. The faces and people I met along the way. The stories. The prayers shared. The journey shared. I remember that today.

And like I said in the beginning... I am giving myself my own birthday present!  I turn 30 on Wednesday and I thought, what better way to celebrate than to declare my own kind of week. National Cupcakes, Sprinkles, and Other Happy Things Week!

This week I invite you to join me in being happy. Letting go of the grudges, life's little inconveniences, and the temptation to short-change the world around you of grace. Instead I invite you, my friends, to indulge on the things that bring light and joy and happiness into the world.

Like cupcakes.

And sprinkles.

And some other things that I will talk about tomorrow.

Until then, remember the people. That's what it's all about.

We Fancy Ourselves Explorers

I fancy myself an explorer. Granted, I am exploring from a dirty airplane window that measures about 1 foot by 1 foot.  And, I am exploring behind layers of plexi glass from the safety of a seat that comes with a three course dinner and free wine.

It is the trapped person’s version of exploring.

Still, I explore like I am Christopher Columbus looking for a land called plentiful. I explore like a botanist scouring the hillside for all things yellow; like a paleontologist devours the land for bones; like an astrologist scans the heavens for stars that shine brighter than the average ball of fire blazing in the loneliness of space.

Where else can you see winter’s first powder on the top of the highest mountains? Where else can you trace the tiny blood vessels, streaks of red, pulsing through the Great Salt Lake? Where else can you see a quilt of land, square by square, and name it after every childhood friend that you had? Where else can you count the clouds and follow a river that cuts through a valley far away from any road or house or alley? Where else can you look and see nothing but baby blue for hundreds- thousands- millions of miles in front of you?

In a world where gravity ties my feet to a dirty ground and my eyes don’t often have the time or vantage point to scour the earth for treasures, I take my job as explorer of the heavens from seat 3E, American Airlines, Seattle to Dallas, very seriously.

From where I sit, every beautiful thing in the world belongs to me. Every mountain peak covered in snow. Every billowing cloud. Every city grid. Every river weaving through a land of plenty. Every plot of earth measured into perfection. First brown. Then green. Then the color of fall. Not quite dead. But not fully alive.

***

When I was a little girl you could almost always win a trip to NASA space camp in Huntsville, Alabama by being on some sort of game show on Nickelodeon.

I considered it the biggest failure of fourth grade that I did not secure myself a spot on the kid’s game show, Double Dare. Gone were my hopes of winning a trip to space camp. Gone were the visions that I would shoot into outer space with my sleeping bag, New Kids on the Block slap bracelets, and Lisa Frank notebook in hand, where I would faithfully document all my findings on the moon.

I had this dream of what it must be like to circle the earth and stare at the stars. To sink my feet into moon boots and feel the powder kick up around me as I went on my exploration for moon rocks and small critters that I would most certainly sneak back down to earth and give to my sisters as pets.

My dreams of exploring were not just moon based.

I found myself rummaging through my Mamaw and Papaw’s attic for lost family heirlooms (and I found them, the complete original series of Nancy Drew books), roaming through the woods in search of snake skins and dead animals (what explorer doesn’t poke around a dead carcass to figure out the precise cause of death?), and I desperately longed to explore my dad’s underwear drawer (keep reading, otherwise I’ve crossed over into creepy).

My mom was chaotic, unorganized, and disheveled. I followed in her footsteps, stuffing- and ultimately forgetting about- dirty clothes and plates of food under my bed in order to pass the “clean room” test.

My dad however was methodical, organized, and not nearly as lost in the world as my mom was.

And that made him a mystery.

Mom could never find scissors and scotch tape when it was time to wrap a present. But dad always could. He always knew where they were. So one day I followed him and I saw him sneak it out of his top dresser drawer where I knew he kept his whitey tighties.

From that moment on, I knew my dad was brilliant in a way that my mom and I would never be. And this made me curious. What other resourceful utensils does he have in his underwear arsenal?

Though I was terribly afraid of being caught and punished, the explorer got the best of me; I needed to discover the inner workings of my dad’s dresser drawers.

***

As I got older, the exploration changed.

I was on a quest to figure out life. I needed to explore love and lust and passion.  Meaning and purpose. Pain and suffering. And I needed to know once and for all what God had to do with any of it. Whether believing in Jesus or Buddha or the Dalai Lama, really made a difference.

Moon rocks were so much easier to explore.

So was my dad’s underwear drawer.

Life was so much less complicated then. When the thrust of my explorations were secret attics, the woods behind my house, and imaginary trips to the far side of the ocean where treasure troves awaited me.

Somedays I long to be that little girl again.

And somedays I am...

Sitting in seat 3E.

Naming the mountains.

Counting the clouds.

Discovering a marbled lake that I am sure no other human has ever seen with the naked eye.

***

I choose to be an explorer in moments like these because I need to explore beautiful things in the midst of a life that is often laced with dark caverns I never planned on falling into.

Forced exploration is the worst.

I bet the people on the ground during Apollo 13 would agree with me.  Or maybe the team coming up with the escape plan for the recently freed Chilean miners know what I am talking about.

Exploring under duress is no exploration at all; it is forced survival.

Cancer. Chemo. Death. Dying. Pain. Betrayal. Longing. Unmet desires. Unfulfilled dreams. Questions of faith that sometimes seem to have no solid answers. Money. Guilt. Wearily raising children. Fighting for your marriage. A world that runs off of the constant ticking of a clock (did you know that Americans can give you the time, within ten minutes, whether they have looked at a clock in the past two hours or not? That’s how attuned we are to the seconds ticking away).

In the midst of this life, with our feet on the dirty ground, there are many times we find ourselves simply surviving.

So when we get the chance to be more than survivors...

when we get the chance to explore...

the laugh of someone we love. the smile on a child’s face. the way the new mattress cradles our body. the sound of our mother’s laugh. the way our dad pillages scotch tape away.  the way it feels to hold someone’s hand. the smell of fall. the touch of grass on the bottoms of our feet. the giddiness of playing in the leaves. the excitement of a new book. the easiness of a day spent on the couch watching football. a warm bath. a few minutes to sit on a bench and study the ants marching by. or taking 118 pictures of the world passing by under our nose in seat 3E...

We fancy ourselves explorers.

Because we get to.

Because we need to.

Because life is about more than simply surviving.

The dream

A few weeks ago someone close to me said something that really made me angry. It made me angry because it was such an awkward comment laced with self-pity that it made everyone who heard it terribly uncomfortable. Me included. It was the kind of comment that is so socially inappropriate and bitter that it catches you off guard and takes you a few minutes to realize that it was actually spoken out loud.

After the words settled down on everyone I found myself thinking, 'Wow, with one comment you just completely sucked the joy out of the air and made a lot of good people feel like crap. How selfish. Thanks a lot.'

I was frustrated and I couldn't stop replaying the comment in my mind. Do you ever do that?

I decided I wanted to talk to the person. To tell them I loved them- BUT- and we all know the "but" negates any "I love you's."

But you make people feel bad when you say those kinds of things. You sorta suck the air outta balloons and have the ability to stop super fast Amtrak's and take all the fizz out of the champagne just by opening your mouth. That kind of thing.

Confrontation is not my favorite thing to do in the world.

But they needed to know, right? I needed to tell them, right? It was my responsibility to settle this thing once and for all, right?

This time I couldn't let the comment go- it was just the icing on a twelve layer cake full of other comments.

At the same time, I couldn't bring myself to have the conversation either.

I prayed for clarity.

And that night I had a dream.

I had a dream

It was night time and I just got through with a show. Afterwords Ryan had a car waiting for me backstage and quietly spoke much dreaded words into my ear, "Jen, something bad has happened, we need to go to the hospital sweetie."

I got in the car and someone drove, I'm sure they did, I just don't remember who. With tears streaming down my face, I watched the moon the entire drive. I felt numb. I felt fear crawl all over me. This can't be happening. Please God, don't let this be happening. Where are you? Where are you Lord?

I got to the hospital and Ryan sent me in alone. There was no one in the hospital. The rooms were all dark and empty. It felt like it existed just for me. It was warm. It felt like an orphanage during the winter. Too hot for the babies' good, but it was the only option, uncomfortably warm or no warmth at all. The hallway was dimly lit, as if there were a roaring fire behind the next corner and the only light came from the lamp in the room at the end of the hall. And it was so clean. I wonder why I remember that? The halls of the hospital were so clean.

There was one nurse, but she never talked or looked up, I'm pretty sure she was just a prop. She may not have been real. But there she sat, serenely in a corner as if she had no obligations, no sadness.

And then there was the room. The one room with light in the dimly lit hallway. I could hear the quiet click of the IV drip and the hum of the machines. I started to see the body through the window. Just the outline. Hooked up and mangled and so still. So quiet.

And those machines kept buzzing and humming, keeping their own account of time.

And as I got closer my heart raced and my stomach churned. My stomach churned and my knees felt weak. My knees felt weak and my soul was gasping for air.

Please don't make me go in this room.

And that's when he stepped out.

I didn't know his face but I knew him immediately. I knew it was him. I knew him. No question about it. He had been waiting for me. Reading a book into the silence of the room. I wish I knew what book he was reading her.

I don't much remember what he looked like. I just remember how he felt. He felt warm. Empathetic. And gracious. He felt kind and strong and gentle. He looked at me and caught me in my trembling with just the look of love in his eyes.

I wasn't ready for the moment. For the picture in front of me. I wasn't ready to say good-bye. I wasn't ready for that room.

He knew all of this. But he brought me there for a reason.

And in a way that only someone who deeply knows and loves you can do, he spoke to my arrogance and desire for justice.

In that room God spoke without really speaking.

He took my hand as I walked over the threshold. He held me while I trembled. And then, he looked deep into my eyes, "Welcome. I've been watching her for you. We've been waiting. Go ahead, I know there were some things you were wanting to talk to her about, right?"

My eyes fell on the person in the bed hooked up to all the machines.

I ran to the bed and fell over my friend, tears streaming down my face.

i'm so sorry, i'm sorry sweetie, i love you so much,

i love you so so much...

Waking up

I woke up with tears running down my face.

My pillow a sponge for my shame.

And as I write this nearly a week later, the dream and the way it has haunted me, is still bringing me to tears of humility.

When will I learn that my desire for personal justice is so arrogant?

When will I learn what grace is all about?

When will I learn to love the way that my Jesus did?

How many dreams do I have to have before I surrender to grace?

How many times will God have to meet me in that hospital room to remind me what is important and what is not?

How many mornings do I have to wake up with the tears of my own shame before me?

Thank you God for perfect perspective.

Thank you God for your gentle and tough love, for growing us up, for growing me up.

Thank you God that I can relinquish justice into your hands and trust that you alone bring about a changed heart, that you alone deal justly in this world, that you alone convict souls...

in others

but most importantly, in me.

Especially me.

Usually me.

I feel like I'm always saying...

thank you.

But just in case I haven't said it enough this week... thank you.

porter's call

To everyone who bid on Dallas Diva Day or any other item in the Porter's Call artist auction fundraiser! Dallas Diva Day went for $620! Tennessee Christmas with Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith went for $6,250! (And no, I did not win the auction. And yes, I am currently praying that I will not have anger or bitterness towards whoever it is that will be sitting fireside with little Michael singing Christmas songs around the fireplace with his very own parents. While they are sitting there enjoying "fellowship" I will be holding my own evening of Smitty's greatest hits reenactment dances in my living room. I'll charge $10 a head to come watch and that way, next time my dreams are up for sale... I will have the money to pay for them).

Most importantly, the auction raised $31,189.90 to help our dear friends at Porter's Call as they minister to the artist community. This blows my mind. Thank you to fans all across the country for placing such incredibly generous bids!

To MacKenzie who decided to help me start off my soul vacation by sending me a half dozen Gigi's Cupcakes!!! Girl, that one totally caught me off guard. Thank you so much! Can you believe I met you when you were just a little squeaker in 10th grade? Wow. Watching you grow up has been a complete joy. Thank you for being so thoughtful. Hopefully I can share these cupcakes with you over a good cup of coffee.

And finally to Kayla Vance! Whoever you are! Wherever you are! Kayla left a bag of goodies on our bus at a recent show in Jefferson City, Missouri. Pond's face wipes (after reading that my butt was bigger than the sink on this bus and how I can't possibly wash my face in that), the cutest scarf ever (girl- I wore it at the Oklahoma State Fair in front of 5,000 people and it was a HUGE hit! So cute!). I mean, a three page sweet letter, best eyeshadow mascara combo I've ever used, cookies, the list goes on and on. Thank you Kayla.

I wanted to meet you so badly so Lauren and I (our nanny extraordinaire) made signs and taped them on the bus window to try and find you! As people left, I sat up front with my PJ's on and I cannot tell you how many people stopped to read our signs :) It made me smile to see how many fake Kayla Vance's there were. Alas, we never met you. But I thought you should know that we tried. And that the guys loved your cookies. And that the gold and charcoal eyeshadow is the greatest ever and if I ever inherit some sort of endowment I will send every girl I know that exact eyeshadow and the Burt's bees lip gloss you sent. Wowie.

Overwhelmed

I am often overwhelmed with people's kindness to Ryan, Annie, and I.

I start thinking, "Who am I to be loved so well? To be blessed so richly? To be taken care of so beautifully?"

I tinker with guilt. I tinker with shame. I tinker with the thought that everyone in the world must feel sorry for me or worry about me. I sometimes allow myself to believe that I have become a burden. Or that I am a perpetual beggar. Ugh. That's the last thing I want to be known as.

It amazes me how hard it is to simply fall into the kindness of another.

It amazes me how quickly I take a pure gift and taint it with my own guilt or shame or worry.

It amazes me that someone can say, "Here are six cupcakes because I love you," and I start to wonder, "Does she think I'm cracking up? Do people think I'm crazy? They think I need to go to the looney bin don't they? Soul vacation' equals 'we all know she needs to be in a mental institute on a private island somewhere'!!!!!

Argh. My mind runs rampant.

I am given gifts out of love yet somehow I find a way to distort them in my mind. My tendency is to make it an act of sympathy. A hand out. Blood money.

Dirty cupcakes.

It's hard to accept something just because, isn't it? To say thank you? To gladly receive a gift? To believe that I have blessed another person and now they are blessing me and the circle just continues?

Nope. It's much easier to believe you have all started a facebook group together called, "Save Jenny" and have connived to bake cookies and send cupcakes.

What warped thinking.

Blessings are undeserved, to be sure. Gifts are acts of kindness. Most of them are given out of love. The rest of them are bought the day before Christmas from Walgreens. But as we cultivate a life that seeks to give to others, odds are, we are going to be blessed in return. Sometimes cupcakes. Sometimes eye shadow. Sometimes a hug. A letter. Or just a feeling inside of us that what we did that day mattered to someone else.

Al Andrews, our porter at Porter's Call, included this at the end of his "thank you" email yesterday. He says it best I think.

"When thinking of you, I'm reminded of the writings of St. Benedict, from whom we got the name for Porter's Call. When writing about the call of the porter (the welcome he gave to the sojourners at the monastery door), he says that the porter issued two "calls." The first was "Thanks be to God," with gratitude to the God who brought about their meeting. The second call was "Your blessing please" which was the acknowledgement that blessings are always mutual. "If we bless you" says the porter, "you will surely bless us too."

Al has a healthy understanding of the fact that he has used the gifts he's been given to bless us and to pour into our lives. In return, he is now experiencing our blessings. And he acknowledges that that circle will continue.

Blessings are mutual.

Today I am grateful for mutual blessings and I pray that God would protect me from ever warping one by thinking of it as "guilty charity."

May you experience the beauty of blessing others and being blessed in return today.