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!!!

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...

Entitlement, Narcissism, and Other Ugly Things...

The world is not all bad. Hear me say that. There is a lot of good.

But, seriously, something nasty must've crept into the spring water this year cause people are not at their best right now.

In fact, my dad recently said, "Jenny, the world is full of freaking crazy people... and most of them are in church," and y'all, this is the most true thing I've heard in a long time!

Examples of the Crazy

I sit down in first class for my two hour flight home this week. I buy cheap tickets, I promise. But I fly so often that I get free upgrades. Thus, in first class. Sitting next to a man who sort of looks like George Clooney on a million dollar budget. Snake skin boots. Three separate rings on with diamond studs. Thick cologne. And a dead give away of self-indulgence: perfectly manicured nails.

I'm sorry men, but if you have perfectly manicured nails you have just given yourself away. You care way too much about appearance. Double standard, I know. No one would ever say that to a woman! And it may not even be true for men... but it is my prejudice.

Dudes with perfect fingernails have either too much money or too much free time and definitely too much thought going into their hands.

Anyways, first thing outta this guys mouth?

"This sucks."

He said this with a disdain, snobbery, and anger that really took me off guard.

"I am supposed to be in 5b. Do I look like I want to sit in a bulkhead seat? But, one of those stupid married couples asked to switch seats and practically did it before I could say no. This. Just. Sucks. Life sucks."

No, actually, life is pretty dang good, maybe your life just sucks.

That's what I said to him in my head.

He spent the first fifteen minutes on the plane telling me about himself. 2.4 million American Airline miles. 5 million Hilton Honors points (for those of us in the travel world who live and breath our reward points, this man has us drooling. He is the pinnacle). A hotel room in Dallas that he never even checks out of. And a third wife in a New York brownstone, but he prefers to travel alone if "you know what I mean."

Oh my gosh... this guy is a word I am going to refrain from using. He is oozing with anger, arrogance, and attitude and he is messing up my positive energy field!

I turned my body towards the window. Wrapped myself up in about three blankets and tried to look for stars the entire flight. He made me sad. My heart felt sad.

***

Freaking rich people in first class. But this is not a money issue. This is an everybody issue.

We were recently unloading a cramped minivan in front of a restaurant at lunch time. We were, admittedly, right in front of the door. But, there was plenty of room to drive around us. And, we are not talking a busy Dallas restaurant. We were in a smaller town in Indiana and there was no lunch rush. The parking lot was rather empty. Still, we are being dropped off and trying to get six adults, backpacks, and Annie out of the minivan because we are going to be at this place a while.

A lady pulls up behind and waits impatiently. I motion for her to go around and she just glares at me while thumping her fingers against her steering wheel. It's pretty obvious that we are going to be just a few minutes but she refuses to go around. She starts to honk. Of course, this scares Annie and she practically jumps out of my arms. We go inside to get a table and while they are getting it together for us this lady walks in. "Oh great. Now the whole world gets to wait on you and your baby again, huh?"

I'd love to say this is where we, Addison Road, turned the other cheek like Jesus would do. But my husband, ever the protector and particularly tired of rude people on that day, shot back, "You need to stop. There was plenty of room to get around us and we were going as fast as we could to get everyone out. We have a baby."

Y'all, this lady flings her sunglasses off and gets in Ryan's face!!! It's 11:00 a.m. in the morning and I swear we are on Maury Povich or Judge Judy or wherever those staged nasty horrible cat fights happen. I'm holding Annie, trying to walk away, but I am stunned. This woman starts dropping all kinds of profanity and threats and looks like she might hit Ryan at any second. And ends by yelling, "The world doesn't revolve around you and your ________ baby. I could've just hit you with my car. Then what happens to your baby!?!?!" And she storms off to the bar.

I mean, my heart is pumping. Blood racing. Hands shaking. I am so angry. The guys are white in the face. What just happened?

We just had a can of crazy opened on us! That's what happened!

And can I honestly say, I cannot think of a time in my life where I have wanted to take someone outside. But everything in me wanted to hand Annie to someone and say, "Excuse me, you need to walk outside. Because I am not afraid of you and you just scared my baby you CRAZY PSYCHO WOMAN."

It was one of those days where you go before the Lord and have to hang your head because you were less than holy and had less than holy thoughts and did not respond to life in a way that brought goodness into the world... and I'm making it sound really pretty... it was one of those days where I had to honestly look at myself and say, "Wow, I have a lot of venom in me. Maybe as much as her."

The guys stayed angry for a good long time. All through lunch. Fuming. Replaying the whole thing. Coming up with things that they should've said. And everyone was imaging Ryan or I taking her on outside like we were on some dirty reality talk show. This at least gave us something to laugh about.

The guys were riled up, but I was sad. I was crushed Annie had heard that lady. And I was crushed she saw us even respond- mild though it was- and crushed that she could probably feel the anger flowing through my veins. I was sad that Annie saw the face of anger. I wish I could've protected her from it for a little bit longer. I was sad for the lady. There has to be a terrible thing happening in someone's heart for them to get to that level. I was sad for Ryan and I that we stooped to the level of responding to this lady. I was just sad for everyone involved.

It's not supposed to be like this, is it?

There's a lot of ugly out there.

Are people getting meaner? Are we so consumed with ourselves and so hell bent on our own rights, privileges, and agendas that other people no longer matter? And more importantly, what deserves our anger, wrath, and simple annoyance?

A parking spot? Someone who cuts us off on the highway? A loud talker at Starbucks? The person on the other end of the phone line doling out bills? The person walking too slow in front of you? Or too close behind you? Or the co-walker who doesn't do their fair share? The person that updates Facebook too often? Or the friends that take extravagant vacations? The neighbor's kids who seem to be lawless? Or the lady at church that has five prayer requests every single Sunday? The Internet that doesn't go fast enough? Or the decision you don't agree with?

Are these things worth fighting for? Do they really deserve anger, wrath, and all-consuming annoyance? Or are these the complaints of an over-indulgent, self-centered, narcissistic society that has lost touch with what it means to be human?

One of our pastors asked us a few weeks ago, "Do you really think the elevator is going to go any faster by pushing the inanimate button several times, sighing, and getting angry with it?" I laughed and thought, "I hate it when people do that!"

Next day I was at the airport with Annie, outside in the hot sun, and waiting for the elevator. I pressed the button three times and grumbled out loud, "Good Lord. This is the slowest elevator in the world....uggggghhhh."

And then I heard my pastor's voice... "Church, we are an impatient people. And it's not ok."

We are an impatient people. I am impatient.

The world is full of orphans, disease, injustice, corrupt governments, human trafficking, lack of clean water and sanitation... and we are hacked because our Starbucks drink took too long to be made?

Something is gravely wrong.

Tough Topic Tuesday...

What's wrong with us? And when does it end? After fists have been drawn or bullets have been blown? After we have wounded someone with our snide comments? After we have driven people out of our churches? Or haunted someone with our piercing gaze and stolen a bit of their humanity?

Impatience leads to anger. Impatience screams that we are so important, so entitled, that the world should operate on our watch, on our terms. Impatience says that we have not found peace... that there is something missing.

There is a pervasive selfishness in the world right now that is literally stealing our souls away from us.

The thing is, religion is on the rise. Islam and Christianity are exploding around the world. Spirituality is on the rise. The practices of yoga, meditation, and the reading of sacred texts from all different religions is on the rise People are getting progressively more entangled with God, spirituality, and religion... so shouldn't we be looking more and more like the God that we say we worship?

I'll end with this quote from CNN's, July 12th, belief blog written by professor Richard T. Hughes,

"Let me be frank from the outset: A great cultural divide is ripping the heart from this nation and Christians are partly responsible. I say that because 83% of the American people claim to be Christians. If those Christians lived as they are taught to live by the teacher they claim to follow, the American public square would be a very different kind of place."

Endeavoring to live a life today that is not so little. So focused on myself. So impatient. So easily angered.

Attempting to be a good human to every other human I interact with...

Attempting to be filled by real love that overflows onto the world around me...

attempting...

What if They Were Angels...

Last night a friend told me that he ended up reading my blogs at the same bar in Houston every week and has, at several points, begun to cry. He worries the bartenders are going to think he is creepy. I agree Gregg- this should be a legitimate concern. He asked me if I think through what I am about to write or if it is just a word dump?

I think he meant word vomit, he was just being sweet though.

So am I calculating every twist and turn of the story in order to elicit your tears, anger, and laughter... or do I innocently sit down and write a story- start to finish- in a furry of emotion, passion, and word dumpetry?

99% of the time, it's word dumpetry. These entries are lightly censored, rarely edited, and often written faster than it takes me to fill out the paperwork at the doctor's office.

1% of it is storytelling. Or, maybe 5% of it is. OK, 10% at the most.

But usually, the honest truth is, I sit down and it flows out.

The same thing happens on stage.

If you were to follow a musician around on tour, odds are, he or she will say nearly the same thing each night. In the context of the church, this gets a little strange and can possibly derail genuine worship when a pastor or worship leader relies on the same prayer three services in a row. Or, when a band decides on a "tour message" and rarely deviates from the stories they tell or the emotions they convey each night of the tour.

It's a hard call. You want excellence in programming; you want the flow and connectivity between songs or messages to fit; you want the words on the screen to match with the words you are speaking; you need some sort of concrete direction. It can't just be a free for all. But, it's way too easy, in protecting the perfection of programming and services that must flow like clock-work in order to herd people in and out of the doors before the next cattle call; to lose a free flowing, genuine spirit that comes new into God's presence. I guess I've always been afraid that I would fear the clock, the schedule, and the pre-set direction so much that I would become it's slave.

So, I decided a long time ago, to err on the side of letting things flow freely and naturally.

Get to the Point

I am pretty sure my dad let Ryan in on a secret before we were married. The conversation went something like:

"Now Jenny talks a lot."

"Lord, don't I know."

"So you just got to tell her: get to the point Jenny. For the love of all that's holy, get to the friggin point of your story."

"OK, sir."

"And that's all we ask. Debbie and I give you our blessing. Just don't let her beat around the bush. Look, you let her do it once, she'll do it a million times. Trust me. I'm married to her mother. You understand?"

"Yes sir."

"She'll start telling you one story and before you know it, mark my words, she will have you back in kindergarten with her and then talking about some man she met at a gas station and then talking to you about the gas station her and her sister crashed the car into and then she'll be talking about her sister... and then... and I'm telling you Ryan it won't end. And you can't act like you like hearing these stories cause your young and stupid and in love. Don't let her get a foot hold or you'll never hear the end of her... you gotta promise... nip it in the butt. Make her get to the point."

"Yes sir."

I am pretty sure that conversation happened. A sort of man support group for any man who married me or my sisters.

The point of my story is this:

Sometimes I open my mouth on stage and I have no idea what has just come out. I didn't plan it. I didn't rehearse it. It may not have even crossed my mind that day. But there I am, mouth open, telling some random story and there is a little voice in my head forcefully protesting, "What the heck are you talking about? Why are you even talking? You are being paid to sing. Not talk. " I try not to get nervous in that moment when the mean voices of criticism come out in my head. I try not to listen to the demons. I try not to think. I try to avoid being logical, structured, or afraid. I try to just keep my mouth open and keep going. No thinking. No stopping. No analyzing. No reality. Just keep letting it flow Jenny. Just let it flow.

And this week, I just wanted you to know, it paid off.

My mouth is open and I am telling 1300 students and adults the story about the little boy in the restaurant who threw his rock and made the whole restaurant stop and gasp. At a pivotal point in the worship service, I have stopped to tell this story, about a dad who picks up his little boy and holds him and kisses him and whispers in his ear and how this little boy fights against it, but the dad keeps hugging, keeps whispering, keeps kissing. And before I know it, the room is silent, and people are crying in every corner of the room. It's one of those moments where I feel like God has actually used me.

There are a lot of tough kids at this camp. I know. I have spent my week talking to them. They are here, at a church camp, because somebody paid for them to come and that meant their parents, for those whose parents hadn't kicked them out already, had a week off. They knew it. They were only there so their parents didn't have to deal with them. Thanks mom. Thanks dad. There were a lot of tough kids at camp this past week.

I've met kids with stories this week that would rip your heart out. They did mine. One night right before worship I talked to a girl who was raped by her student pastor. For two years. She has not gone to the police. He has since divorced and will re-marry a girl who has no idea what happened. And the response of her church, parents, and community? They call her a whore. Her dad calls her a bitch. Her mom won't talk to her because of the "affair" she had with her student pastor. No adult has stepped in to be an adult. No one has told her that she was seduced by a predator, that she was a victim. No one has wanted to put this guy in jail. No one has given her a chance to start over again. Instead, at a recent concert, she ran into a group of students from her old church and they spit on her.

I talked to this girl all week. Now, I am making plans to drive to her hometown to go to the police station with her because no one else will. She's just one of many, many tough kids I met this week. She can tell the story, show me the emails, the text messages that she saved as evidence... she can do it all without crying. Her eyes are glazed over. My heart breaks for her.

Imagine a room full of students with similar stories. Two girls this week had been kicked out of their homes. They are bisexual and living together in an abandoned motor home. Their churches want to talk about fixing their sexual preferences. That's it... forget the fact that they have both been sexually abused, abandoned, and have no understanding of Jesus Christ, those issues aren't on the table. Just fixing their sexual preference... My heart breaks for them.

I meet a girl whose dad has been trafficking her. I mean, I'm still stunned this even happens. A beautiful, young girl... Tia. You would never know by looking at her that her own daddy sells her body out. I told her about a girl I met in another state, Charissa, and without Charissa even knowing, her story of healing changes Tia's life.

Still... how crazy is it that I have now met two girls in the last six months, in the context of a church setting, who have spent half of their lives being used as prostitutes by their own dad's? My heart breaks for them.

The stories go on and on. From simple stories to horrific stories... and this week I found my self a bit stunned. I wish this were storytelling 101. I wish this were some sort of sick imagination. I wish these stories were not real. But they are real. And with each knew story I hear, the more sick to my stomach I feel. I don't even know what to say. I just cry and hug and listen. And I feel like the air has been knocked out of me.

These are tough kids. My stomach churns before worship.

Welcome! Worship with me for all the good things the Lord has done! Easier said for me than for the girl whose dad has sold her soul for fifty bucks...

It's in these moments that I am so grateful there is no set plan. No certain prayer or replicated story. I am quite sure those pre-prepared words would sound phony and stilted in light of the reality of the stories in the room. I am grateful there is no agenda on my end and grateful there isn't a certain scripture I have to read like, "rejoice in the Lord!" But, while I am grateful for the freedom of the moment, I am also terrified. "Lord, I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do next. No. Clue. What do I say? How do I lead worship?"

I feel desperate for help. For direction. I feel like the scrawny kid on the playground trying to lead the bullies in red rover. I am in over my head. I have no idea what their lives are like. I cannot even begin to relate. And, what's worse, I can't make it better. I cannot fix.

I open my mouth, songs flow out, and stories take shape.

It's in these moments I am grateful for word vomit.

Word Vomit

This week the word vomit came in the form of the blog entry I had previously written, A Human Touch. I tell 1300 students from stage that the mom is frustrated and the poor kid is ADD and how it sounds like a machine gun is going off in the restaurant and I get a few good laughs. I get to the part about the dad holding the boy. And- what I believe to be the Spirit of God- takes over. I tell them that the Lord holds them the same way that dad scooped up and held his little boy. The tough kids who have been beat down by this world. Who have been hurt. Abused. Spit upon. The ones who are full of rage and anger. Who have shut down. That tonight they need to be reminded that no matter what they do or how hard they try and escape... a true dad holds you while you are kicking and screaming and kisses your cheek, whispers your name, tells you that he loves you.

The self doubt begins to settle in. Where did this story come from? Why am I telling it at the end of a worship service? And even more frightening, I'm getting emotional. I have a strict policy about intertwining emotion with worship... especially when vulnerable students are involved. I refuse to manipulate on behalf of God. He does not need me to twist anyone's arm. He does not need tears and lame promises to make Himself known. He is God. To emotionally intimidate people into knowing Him is a terrible offense. It's an insult and I want nothing to do with it. But here I am, almost in a whisper telling these kids that the God of the Bible promises to be like this dad in the story. That Psalms 139 says that God does not let go of us. Ever. Whether we are in dark or light. He just holds on. He just keeps loving. He remains constant. Good. Untouched by the pain of this world. Whispering in our ear...

A lady came up to me before leaving camp to tell me about R. R is an orphan from the Czech Republic. She has been suicidal and has felt utterly alone. Her adoptive parents got her as a third round pick. And she knew it. She was a mistake. She couldn't believe anything good about herself. "But that story," the lady said through tears, "That story saved her life. It did. I watched her as she realized she was being held by something bigger than herself. As she realized God was holding her. You could feel it. We all could. She fell to her knees and wept and said that it was the first time she had felt love..."

An 18 year old guy came and said the same thing. "That story saved my life, thank you."

Another guy came up, he was 16. Then Tia... this story pushed her over the edge. She finally decided to believe in God's love for her. And they kept coming, kept telling me what that story had done for them. Who knows how many people felt God's love for the first time. I have no idea. I just know that this week I was reminded that sometimes our word vomit ends up not even being our own words. Sometimes it's just Holy Spirit vomit. We open our mouths and it comes out. Flows out. Pours out. Gushes out. Pukes out. Whatever you want to call it.

God is faithful. When we are willing. When we are available. When we say no to the clock, the schedule, the boundaries, the etiquette, the fear of free-falling... when we put our logic, pride, confidence, and security aside for something that ebbs and flows with a reckless inability to control what happens next... sometimes the Holy Spirit shows up and does something amazing. Sometimes the Holy Spirit uses us.

The lady who came up in tears said something peculiar, "We've been praying for this girl for over a year. She's been suicidal and has tried several times to take her life. Nothing has gotten through to her. Nothing. But this story... I've just been thinking, maybe that family in the restaurant, maybe they were angels."

I shivered.

Angels? Do I even believe in angels roaming the earth? Coming to restaurants? Sitting by hospital beds? Her comment totally took me off guard.

"Maybe you saw angels. Maybe God sent them so you could see what it looks like for God to scoop us up and hold us in his lap. So you could tell us that today. These kids Jenny. Today they needed to be held. That family, what if they were angels? Just so you could tell people what you saw? I think you saw angels. "

Practically Speaking...

Be impractical.

Structure stifles spirit. Caution curbs creativity. Fear fosters faithlessness.

Don't be afraid of word vomit. It won't always be life-changing. And most of the times you might mess up or say something pretty simple or mundane. But sometimes, every once in a while, when we leave enough space...

our words are not our own.

sometimes there are moments of brilliance

sometimes there are angels

and sometimes the Holy Spirit says something we would never think to say...

sometimes He says something perfect through us.

Today, I am grateful for that. That God knows what to say when I don't.

I know dad, I should've skipped the story and just said that :)

A Human Touch

A mom, dad, and two little boys sit down at the table next to me.

The dad is kind of serious looking. Dark hair, tall, broad shoulders, scanning the room with an empty stare, completely unaware of the breakfast discussion that is happening right next to him.

Mom is feisty. She has the rough and tough mannerisms of a mom who is raising two boys and has been away from the female race long enough to lose joy in picking out the perfect muffin. "Whadya want to eat? Come on? It's not that hard... just pick something." She points to something in the pastry case for herself and orders without truly looking.

The little boys, probably eleven and nine, are dirty and sweaty, fidgety and totally bored. It's Saturday morning and although they aren't sporting a baseball uniform, I'm quite sure she has just scraped them up from some park and put them in the car against their will. I think she's put the husband in the car against his will for that matter too. And there they sit, distracted and totally uninterested in pastries, muffins, and one another. Their faces say, "Saturday is for sports, for hobbies, for guy stuff... not these stupid muffins and family talk time."

Three men. Three islands.

Any minute I expect her to stand up, slam her hands on the table, grab the attention of the men in her life and say (with a fiercely threatening voice that makes you think she might not cook ever again or that she might pull her girl card and cry right there in front of God and everyone), "WE will enjoy this *&*$%^* breakfast as a FAMILY whether you want to or not!"

But she weathers the silence with grace and patience and somehow she draws everyone in with a series of questions and jokes.

Suddenly they are talking. The three islands are talking. This woman is amazing.

I think to myself... if I had been her I would've spewed my venom at them for their lack of interest and for making me do all the emotional, conversational work. I might have clamped my lips shut in a passive aggressive protest of their little care and concern for me and my family breakfast plans.

"Poor me. My boys won't talk to me. I'll show them." And then, as only a woman can do, I would make them endure my brutal silence as punishment for not loving me well. But she didn't do any of those things. She didn't get her feelings hurt. She didn't retreat. She didn't punish them with her silence. She fought for her children's words. She won a small victory.

an aside:

This mom showed me that no matter what your child is: boy/girl, shy/personable, angry/happy, interested/uninterested; a diligent effort to emotionally engage your children, will, more than likely, pay off.

Now, the conversation is marked by the laughter of these two little boys and the dad's full attention.

And me?

Well, I am the creep sitting at the next table watching them... but in my defense I am a very happy creep who just witnessed a mom being a really good mom. And I am relishing in the moment of this ladies victory.

Of Course...

This is all ruined when the nine year old kid, who, by the looks of his wild impulsive eyes suffers from some form of attention deficit, grabs a rock from the fountain behind him and throws it.

I'm not sure what it hit, but it ricocheted, it's path of destruction eternally long and it was loud enough that the entire restaurant stopped and took a collective breathe.

The morning was, yet again, ruined.

The dad instinctively grabbed the son by the leg in anger. The mom shot straight in, "What are you doing? What are you doing? Why would you do that?" People's eyes bore into them. All four of them. The dad's grip tightened. His stern look was debilitating even for me.

It stemmed from embarrassment of course. That's what I'm learning. A lot of times we parents are reactionary. What deserves a normal- don't do that- turns into a swift and militant response when the kid is 'doing that' in front of lots of people and we find ourselves cringing.

Inevitably this response, though, leaves the child embarrassed. And this nine year old followed protocol.

He looked down at his legs and his eyes burned with tears that he kept sucking back. I watched his whole body sink and deflate as his little brother stared at him. In his mind, I guess the whole world was staring at him. He kept his head down like a dog who had been scolded and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. He went to his own universe. And they to theirs.

Mom acted like nothing happened, but the tension came all the way over to the creepy girl's table and I was as stressed as she was.

The mom did as many moms do. She tried to make it better. Tried to talk to the little boy and ask him questions from across the table. But he wasn't buying, he wouldn't raise his eyes above table level. Dad tried to smooth things over by talking to mom, laughing about something terribly not-funny; he was keeping the pep in the deflated family breakfast trip, but he was failing miserably too.

I had written the rest of the story in my mind. They will leave. Mom frustrated- which always leads to tears. Dad frustrated- which sometimes leads to throwing the towel in and making the rest of the day a "personal day" as Ryan calls it. Big brother either smugly satisfied that the blame could all lie on his counterpart or angry that that his counterpart ruined the morning. And little guy... hurt and angry, embarrassed, would spend his Saturday sulking.

I was all torn up. It was like watching my own reality show except no one won any money and they all ended up going back home empty handed. I freaking hate reality shows. I scolded myself. Why do I watch them? They came so close. I stopped watching and went back to writing my book.

The Touch

And then it happened. A human touch.

Something came over the father's face. His countenance changed.

He turned his body towards his son who was sitting one bench over. He put one arm around his shoulder, another under his knees, and with one big swoop he lifted the little boy up, put him directly on his lap, wrapped his arms around his chest, and bear hugged him. He whispered into his ear and kissed his cheek. He held him there. Not letting go. And there they sat. In the middle of a busy restaurant. A shamed nine year old boy. In his dad's lap. A grown man. Putting himself aside. A human touch.

It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen a dad do. Ever.

And, in one moment, that human touch redeemed the entire morning.

The boy, of course, fought it in the beginning. Still sulking. Head down. A little scowl. But the longer the dad held on. The longer he hugged. The more this big, strong, grown man whispered into his little boys ear... you could visibly see it, the wall of shame and defense began to crumble. The embarrassment was left on the other bench. The little boy let go of the anger, came out of hiding, and felt safe again. Loved. Liked, even.

I no longer felt creepy. I felt honored. I found myself with tears burning my eyes as I watched what grace looks like. Grace with skin on it. And I found myself, in that busy restaurant, sitting in my own father's lap as he hugged me, told me I was beautiful, told me to forget about what happened, told me he loved me. I fought it, of course. I wasn't even sure that I had done anything to make me feel like I needed to be lovingly taken back into the family (like throwing a rock that made a whole restaurant stop and gape) ... still, I had an overwhelming sense that I needed it. Right then. Right there.

I squirmed a bit and felt way too grown up for what was happening. I suppose I'd much rather be left alone to sulk. I tried to get my shoulders free. But that whisper. Leave me alone, I'm the one who screwed up and everybody knows it. But that kiss. A feeling of annoyance. Please just stop. But that gentle squeeze. A denial. But that acceptance. A rejection. But that hug... the one I didn't want... right there in the middle of the restaurant...

intimately, strongly, lovingly I was swooped up unto my father's lap

before I knew it, I was smiling

I am loved.