Dexter

Someone recently left a comment asking if I would please give an update on my homeless friend, Dexter. First of all, I am admittedly too lazy right now to go back and find out your name, but to you who asked, thank you. I care deeply for Dexter; I am honored that you would care for him as well; and I believe you sparked a small miracle.

I hadn't seen Dexter since the fall. I saw him quite a bit last summer, but then he started showing up less and less. He told me he couldn't handle my neighborhood because, "too many rich ladies stop and try to take care of me." I love that answer. It still makes me smile; it reminds me that at our core, we humans are still kind and empathetic and not nearly as oblivious and selfish as we sometimes claim to be.

Anyways, early fall, Dexter went away and didn't come back. For weeks I drove the parking lots looking for him. And when I hopped on the tour bus for our two month tour, I asked my friends Becca and Sara to keep an eye out for him. Sara called a few times, thinking she had spotted him, but as she described the man, I knew it wasn't my Dexter. In November I began searching for him. Calling homeless shelters. Trying to track down someone at the dialysis clinic that could give me information on him. No one could help me because it broke confidentiality rules. And I understood that. Still- I just needed to know if he had died.

December began a tumultuous soul-searching time for Ryan and I. Dexter went to the background- and though my eyes were always scanning for him- I sort of gave up. In my heart, I knew I needed to let go. I tried calling around to the Salvation Army shelters a few more times in the late spring and then called it quits.

You, blog-friend-commenter, brought him back to my mind. As soon as I read his name, my heart started burning again. I wanted so badly to find him. Mind you- not because I can fix any of his problems- I can't- but because I told him he was my friend and I meant it.

I can't fix him, but I can sit with him in the parking lot and let him watch Annie smile and laugh and get him food and be good company.  I thought about Dexter all day after reading your inquiry. (I suppose maybe my soul was praying for an encounter though I was not even aware that I was in a state of prayer.) And then, that afternoon when I least expected it (because I was tired and I had a million things to do and I had a fussy Annie in the back seat)...

there he was, in the chick-fil-a parking lot.

The same place I met him the very first day. There he was. This time, not slouched over like the many times before, but sitting up a bit more straight in his chair. Sipping on water. Looking more like life than death.

I got Annie and Dexter some food and made my way back to him. I did not realize, until I looked into his eyes, how worried I had been for him. And then it came spewing out.

"DEXTER!!! Where have you been? You can't just leave like that and not tell me. I have been searching for you for nearly a year. I thought you were dead. You can't just do that. You can't just disappear like that and not call me. I'm really mad at you."

By this time I've got my arms around him in a bear hug, tears running down my face and he's just laughing.

"It's not funny. I gave you my number for a reason. If you are going to disappear for 9 months you have to tell me. I thought you were freaking dead. I've been calling the shelters and clinics trying to track you down."

He stopped me with his gentle voice, "How's Annie?"

My heart caught in my throat.

He remembered her name.

The first few times we met, he was always very ill. I would go to him and shake him, calling his name, trying to make sure he was alive. I would always have to reintroduce myself. "Dexter, this is Jenny. Hey. How are you feeling? Dexter? Can you hear me? Can I get you something? Have you taken your medicine?" He was always more dead than alive.

This time he knew my name. He knew Annie's name. And maybe that should not be a moment of immense joy- excited that a really dirty, sick, homeless man remembers my daughter's name and wants to see her- but I pulled her out of that car and brought her right up next to him like he was Santa Clause and she was the best kid in the world.

Dexter looks better than ever. I don't know the in's and out's of his illness, but I know that he cannot be on the transplant list because his blood work never stabilizes enough for him to qualify. One of his blood counts is always too low. I suspect being a dirty, sick, homeless man has something to do with it too. So he does dialysis twice a week. He will always be on dialysis. He sleeps at the Dallas Salvation Army. And he takes the bus up to MacArthur in North Irving to get away from the "thugs" in the downtown area.

I left him with my cell phone number like I do every time and I told him, "Call me. If you are in the hospital. If you are sick. If you need a place to sleep. Call. Please. We're here. And don't you dare go missing for nine months again making me think you're dead- I will kick your butt- I don't care how sick you are!"

He always says, "Your husband is gonna kill you," when I hand him my number. Like he knows what most wise husbands and dads would say to their wife or little girl who is hugging the scary looking man in the parking lot. But- I like that he says that. He knows the truth. He knows his plot. He is not dumb. Not drunk. Not stupid. Not dangerous.

He is sick.

He lost his job. His health. His family. His ability to crawl out of the hole of poverty. But he did not lose his humanity. And he still worries that I am going to get in trouble with Ryan for associating myself with a dirty, sick, homeless man. He is still a man- chivalrous in a way- concerned that I am going to get myself in trouble and wanting to protect me from that.

He feels. He hears. He knows.

I worry I am not doing enough; others worry I am doing too much.

At the end of the day though, I am just doing what I can do. It's not life-saving. It's not huge. It's not getting him off the streets and into a home where he can be cared for- that's what I wish I could do. But I'm not doing nothing. And I will forever be an advocate for that.

We can all do something. And little somethings add up...

I know that for sure... because Dexter remembers Annie's name; and she makes a man smile who I once thought was dead.

little somethings. they really do add up.

post script:

To all the IBC members who read this blog, can I just say how proud I was that day in the chick-fil-a parking lot? It was right after Panda Mania vacation bible school let out, and during the course of my visit with Dexter, four different mini-vans of green t-shirt, Panda Lovin', moms drove up to offer him food or help. He asked me, "What's with all the green shirt ladies around here, they won't stop bringing me food..." He was being attacked by Irving Bible Church pandamaniacs and it made my heart happy. I am honored to be in a church community filled with people who are living missionaly.

Road Trip

Oreos...

bad decision.

Watching Monsters Inc...

apparently my child is afraid of monsters.

Quick, staring contest. You win, Monkey.

You always do.

Are two-year-olds supposed to be this happy on a 12 hour road trip?

maybe it's the monkey whom she named "Daddy Monkey"...

As I document our trip from the front seat (No, I wasn't driving. Well, at least for most of the pictures.) Annie shuts her eyes and says, "No Mommy! No more pictures of me! I serious!"

Kitchen Floor Horror Stories

Thanks for all the amazing, in-depth questions about the music industry! I had no idea there would be so much interest in this subject and I can't wait to keep shedding light on the inner workings of my tiny sliver of the industry! The next installment will be Monday. Now....

May I please tell you a story about my child?

The Nickel

She was sucking on a nickel when I found her on the kitchen floor.

Rolling it around in her mouth, over her tongue, and then sucking on it.

I've asked her not to eat money before, but she insists.

She loves her 'monies'.

For her birthday, my mother in law's best friend, Sallie Baker, bought Annie a wallet. She printed a picture of Annie, cut it to size and it put in the I.D. slot. She then printed a picture of Ryan and I and put it in the picture section. She attached a pair of real house keys. I'm not sure whose house they open, but they are real, and that is all that matters to Annie. Finally, and most importantly, Mrs. Sallie filled the wallet with coins.

Do you need a present for a litlte girl under the age of 4?

Save your money and get the girl the gift she will adore the most:

Her very own big girl wallet with her very own 'monies.'

Trust me, she got a big girl bed, a tricycle, a toy piano, a wind up chicken, and enough art supplies to open her own gallery... but her favorite present two months later?

"Let's go ANNIE!" I yell from the front door.

"SORRY Mommy! Gotta get my WALLET! Gonna need my MONIES! I go-in shopping too!'

Who knew the ultimate present was under $5? (Mrs. Sallie Baker of course. Martha Stewart has nothing on this lady.)

Kitchen Floor Horror Stories

Back to the girl's monies.

She's eating her nickels, which I have repeatedly asked her not to do, when I find her in the kitchen, kicked back against the dishwasher staring at her own image in the oven.

Narcissism and curiousty hit early in life, don't they?

Frustrated that she is so money hungry, I attempt to do what every good fire and brimstone pastor does... put the fear of the Lord in her and all but force her to turn from her wicked ways.

"Annie!", I got on my knees next to her, "What have I told you about eating your monies?"

"I gotta nickel mommy," she snickers like this is a time for jokes.

"It's not funny Annie. I know you have a nickel and nickels are dangerous. Did you know that? DID you? "

Yeah. In that moment I was convinced that she ought to have thought through the whole 'nickels are dangerous' scenario. As every responsible two-year-old should.

"Well they are. They are dangerous. And if you swallowed a nickel it would hurt your throat and it would burn all the day down and when it got in your tummy it would get lost. And stuck. And your body would start getting sick. And then, we'd have to go to the hospital. Did you know that? Did you? That we'd have to go to the hospital?

"Yeah," she said sweetly and with a strange look of excitement in her eyes.

"Well, we would we'd have to go to the hospital. We'd have to see a doctor and do you know what that doctor would do to you? Do you? Listen to me, the doctor would..."

And just as I was- honest to God- about to explain to her that the doctor would give her a shot that would make her 'spizzy' and then he would take a knife and cut her stomach wide open and she would bleed and all her food would come out and she would have to have stitches and stay in her bed for at least a week... literally, just as the word knife is dangling off my tongue in the air, Annie said, with a face full of pensive, serious thought...

"Mommy I would need a band aide and a sucker."

She looked at me with those big, baby blue doe eyes,

"I would have an owie mommy."

I stopped dead in my tracks.

I want Annie to be safe, no doubt. I want her to have a healthy fear of things like strangers and snakes and not running out into the road. As her mom, I have to teach her boundaries and rules, I have to protect her. But that little girl taught me a huge lesson yesterday morning.

Fear Not?

Putting the 'fear of the Lord' in her, as in, "I will scare you so bad you will never want to do that again,"

isn't necessary.

A band aide would have sufficed.

Mongering Monster

In recent years, much has been made about "fear mongering." We see it in politics, religion, school systems, and environmental battles.

I often find myself wondering how you have a healthy respect for safety without using the fear of the Lord (or of anarchy, communism, hell, grannies being put to death by the government, or a universal chocolate shortage) to incite, manipulate, or persuade people.

And within our churches as we decide how to draw people to Jesus, if there is no better way to draw someone to Jesus, than by simply waving around the threatening fear of Hell?

Annie didn't need me to give her the worst, most horrific possible outcome. But there I was, prepared to tell my precious two-year-old that if she didn't "obey me" she would have a knife ripping into her stomach and her guts splayed on the table and she would be confined to bed for an entire week.

Really?

Instead, she stopped me with her simple words and simple heart.

If she had to see a doctor because she swallowed a nickle, well, he would have to give her a band-aide and she would have an owie. And that was enough for her.

She took the nickle out of her mouth and went on to the next toy.

My almost slip made me wonder, how often do I use fear tactics without even thinking? When are they appropriate? And how much fear is necessary? Or is fear necessary at all? I mean, this world is full of things that we become afraid of, is it really my job to go around instilling even more fear?

When she said she would need a band-aide, I felt silly.

Here I was about to scar the pour thing for life- and she graciously kept me from being a fear mongerer. She understood that doctors meant owies and bandaides. She didn't need me to terrify her with knife, blood, and guts.

I simply needed to make her aware, and even she, a two-year-old, was able to make her very own decision without the gory details of my knife to the gut story.

Fear.

or

Fear not?

Everything you EVER wanted to Know

*This is the first in a series of blogs I will be doing throughout the summer to dispel common myths about the Christian music industry as experienced through my eyes*

Artists get a bad rap.

There are the horror stories. "We only eat green m&m's" or "We do not want any volunteers or crew members asking us for autographs" or "We need pink furniture, a green room with shag carpet, twelve lava lamps, and an ample supply of weed" or "We need organic laki-laki root from the base of the Himalayan Mountains brought in by a native, riding a yak, on a plate made from the bones of the cousin of the laki-laki."

I don't know what a Laki-Laki is. I just made it up. But you get my point.

We actually did an interview at XM Sirius Radio in New York city where staff members told us about a huge mainstream, multi-platinum band who recently visited for a live show. Their manager wrote ahead of time to inform the employees at the sprawling high-rise studio that "If anyone made direct eye contact with band members, they would immediately leave," so please, "Instruct employees to look at the ground as they pass band members. No one is to engage in conversation or direct eye contact with any of the artists."

I'm not making that up. And no, I will not tell you what band it was!

It's understandable then, that when the average person hears about an artist's "demands" they cringe and right the artist off as greedy, rich, petty, and way too demanding.

The sad truth is, there is always someone who ruins it for everyone! So yes, some artists- both in the mainstream market and in the Christian market- can be quite difficult to work with.

This acknowledgement aside, I believe the general population has quite a few misconceptions about artists, record labels, radio, contracts, and those little things called "riders" that present our terrible demands!

Over the summer- I'd like to create some space to dis-spell some of those myths based on my own experience within the industry. So, if you have questions, I welcome them! Otherwise, I will dis-spell the common misconceptions that I overhear the average-non industry- person talking about.

Starving Musicians

When we first signed our record deal, five years ago, my dad was completely confused. Being the supportive dad that he is, he wanted to know every single detail. Every person, every contract, every percentage, every rider, every radio station... he wanted to know it all. Who did what, where did money come from, how contracts were formed and how they were enforced. I spent weeks drawing diagrams out on paper explaining the complex web of managers, booking agents, lawyers, publicists, publishers, distribution companies, a&r reps, label reps, radio team reps, radio station programmers, radio station managers, radio d.j.'s, billboard charts, ac format, chr format, producers, album sales, co-writes, and royalties. Well- and a few other things.

We both learned early on why the phrase "starving musician" existed: because there are so many people who get a piece of you! Sometimes it's hard to keep it all straight. But let's just say, that even with a song like Hope Now on the radio, after paying small percentages to the record label, the publisher, the distributor, the managers, and the individual writer of the song... there is very little left over.

With that being said, the industry is tricky and complicated. And both mainstream markets and christian markets are financially suffering right now.

When I say "mainstream" I refer to pop, rock, oldies, country, r&b, classical, and other genres of mainstream music. Christian music is just another genre. Music inspired by faith. There are "Christian" record labels, concerts, radio stations, etc. The industry- artistically- has grown leaps and bounds over the past decade. But financially, it has nearly crashed and burned.

In my five years on a label, I have sold 100,000 records (that's a combination of two different albums).

Taylor Swift's album, Speak Now, sold 1,004,700 million in the first week.

So perhaps the first myth to tackle is the fact that most Christian artists- barring the likes of TobyMac, Jeremy Camp, Natalie Grant, etc. do not make a lot of money. Even the artist's listed do not make millions like mainstream artists do, I am only saying they do not struggle to pay their bills each month- whereas many Christian artist's do. We do not possess the equity that the mainstream market does- nor do we appeal to the "mainstream"- this is most noticeably on display when you compare the number of cd's sold and paychecks earned between the artist's in the two different markets.

We go in with eyes wide open. We have not been duped and in no way feel sorry for ourselves. We work hard, play hard, and love what we have chosen to do with our lives. For me, nothing is better that pouring love and hope into people. Nothing is more fulfilling than writing songs, creating music, and leading people to a place where they can worship or relax or just find peace in the midst of all the chaos. I willingly live in an itty bitty apartment and drive my old clunker to do what I do. I love it. I could do nothing else.

I know many Christian artists. Some of us make more money than others. Some of us squek by. Others live comfortably. Still, others live very comfortably. Some sell a million albums, but most just hope to hit 75,000 these days.

But we all do it because we love it. We feel called to it. No one forces us and for the average Christian artist- though money is sparse- we continue to live this crazy type of life because we can do no other. We love art. We love music. We love God. We love people. And that has all collided into this industry known as "Christian music."

On the Road Again

So how do you "make money"? If you are the writer of a song, you get a small amount of money every time your song is played on the radio. When an album sells on itunes or amazon the money goes to the record label. They function like a bank. They upfront the money for your albums, your radio budget, your producer, etc. But everything a label pays for is "re-coupable" which means you have to pay it all back!!!! So when albums sell, the money goes to the record label. When the record label has been completely paid back, then, any money that comes in is split between the label and the artist. And it's not a 50/50 split! The label has the upper hand- that's just the business of it- they have to make money too.

The label- at least the Christian labels I am familiar with- does not give the artist money to live off of. They simply pay for the album and the promotion of the album.

The artist lives off of concerts. We hit the road over 150 days a year to perform. We count on contracts from promoters and merchandise sales. The more shows you do, the more money you bring in. Conversely, the better your record label does promoting you to radio stations and convincing stations to play your music- the more shows you can book- because the more people know your music and want to see you in concert.

Complicated, huh?

So we count on shows. We rent a bus or a van or jump in an airplane and hope that the money we make covers the cost of travel, food, lodging, AND that we make enough money in merch to pay a small salary to each band member after all of that is said and done.

Imagine then- why a rider is important. It's the artist's way of saying to the promoter- "Hey, we live off of a bus! We have been traveling for over 100 days with our two year old! When we get to your city we really need some grilled chicken instead of another fast food meal or pizza! We really need a nice hotel because we've been sleeping in bunk beds! We really need a green room with privacy because we are a bit exhausted! We really want to give our best on stage and to every person we meet... so help us by making us feel at home. And serve people in the audience by making sure the gear, sound, lights, etc. are adequate, safe, and fully functioning."

While a contract is legal- as Christian artists- it's more than a contract to us... it's an agreement to minister together and for both parties to be integritous and excellent.

This Weekend

Imagine then, how frustrating it was to arrive at a show this weekend where the festival owners told me an hour before the show that the $4500 which they legally agreed to pay us did not exist. Neither did the money exist for any of the other bands.

The volunteers kept saying, "God will provide," and "This is what God planned." They looked at me as if to say, "You're on the radio. You're a Christian with a lot of money. You understand. You can shoulder the blow. You should do the right thing for "God" and take it quietly. The festival owners meant well. And that should be enough for you big time, famous artists with money to spare." One lady even prayed over us that we would be "blessed in other ways" and would "be brought to understand the predicament and trust God to take care of it all."

Problem is, that doesn't pay my bills this morning. And quite honestly, I'm not sure how I will pay them.

The festival said they had a "dream" and they were just doing what "God told them to do" by creating and legally signing numerous contracts, in the $75,000 range, which they never intended to pay, because the money never existed in the first place.

I believe God to be faithful, I have seen his faithfulness in my life over and over. And if you read my blog and know anything about me, you know I am abundant in grace and deeply in love with Jesus. I believe we have a creator who is faithful.

But I would never rely on God's faithfulness at the expense of deceiving people into believing there was funding- when there never was. That's not faith. That is illegal.

Thing is, we paid $4,000 to buy five plane tickets from Nasvhille and Dallas to Northern California. We used some of that to pay very small salaries to the musicians who played- and as I usually do- I didn't take a salary- because I wait until after the show and see what's left over.

The Assumption

So the assumption that artists have money just because they are on the radio is the first misconception I want to tackle.  Some of them do, to be sure, some Christian artists make a really great living- and they use much of their money to bless other people through amazing organizations they have created- like Stephen and Mary Beth Chapman with orphans. Jars of Clay with clean water in Africa. Natalie Grant and safe houses for abused girls. Audio Adrenaline and supporting a particular orphanage. These people do amazing things with the money they earn in the industry.

But the rest of us are just everyday people, balancing bills and trying to make wise financial decisions.

We have heart. We have passion. We have calling. And we make it work- show by show.

To think otherwise makes us bigger than we actually are. Larger than life. Glamorous and other than. And- it hurts us as artists. Because people do what they did to us this weekend and think that it's ok, because, we can take the blow. We're on the radio.

Well, we can't take the blow.

It's a sad testament to the world that one would use the name of "God" to support their misguided dreams and in turn believe the misconception that a band can get back on their feet easily after being cheated out of $4,500.

Misconception # One:

The majority of Christian artists live in modest homes. Drive modest cars. Make a modest income. And rely on the integrity of concert promoters and the contracts that they sign in order to pay our bills.

Being on the radio does not equal being rich.

Do you have questions about how things work in the "industry"?

I'd love to answer your burning questions and maybe help dispel a few myths along the way!

Mom Week in Pictures

the art class

the zoo

Annie desperately wants the gorilla to kiss her. She gives the whole lot of them as many kisses as her lips allow. God only knows what kind of germs got into her mouth while she smooched the glass and hoped for contact.

the tent town

the- "my eyes burn" -sunglasses

She wore them every morning while watching Yo Gabba Gabba. She asked for them after she rubbed her eyes, slapped her eyes, pulled her eyelids, and- quite brilliantly- tried putting spit in her eyes. Maybe I should've given her eyedrops or closed the curtains, but it was way too entertaining to watch.  So, after all her other attempts failed- she asked for her sunglasses. Brilliant little bugger.

the mom moments

Well, ok. That moment was just for me. But at the end of a long summer week, every mom needs this kind of moment.

(And husbands, if you can't find one of those for her, I am sure a pedicure, night out, glass of wine, or a "Honey, why don't you go to Barnes and Noble and read for a few hours" would totally suffice.)

What are you doing with your kids this summer?