What are you looking for?

Lloyd, Melvin, Metta, Philip, Eunice, Iola, Ralph. I think I’ve gotten that right. Pictured on the right is Aunt Iola. IOLA. As in eye-o-luh. Unfortunate, don’t you think? She was a towering imposition of a woman, scared Uncle John when he was little, she never married, and was always pestering my grandpa about being as likable and handsome as he was — she just called So a night on the floor on couch cushions made me feel like a brand new woman, especially after a cup of coffee brought to me at my low level and a good massage from mom upon waking. Sleeping on the floor without complaining brings all sorts of happy rewards. But really, I do like the floor. There’s something primitive about it, even though it is carpeted and it’s on the fifth floor of a concrete building. We all had breakfast together in the lobby and I sustained the usual teasing and beating from Big Cousin Wade. As I returned to the table and discovered that my full plate had been replaced with Wade’s empty plate, and then later when he threatened the borders of my half-waffle, I remarked that I felt like I was eight years old again. The difference is that now I get more tickled at him than plain mad. Later at dinner this evening, he would continue to plague me with little smart (funny) remarks and lemon rinds in my tortillas and hard pinches on the collarbone, but we all know that it’s all in love….rIght? We ended our evening with dinner at a moderately enjoyable Mexican restaurant. All I’ll say is that they’re on the map enough that they sell their salsa in grocery stores. And it is, hands way down, the saltiest salsa I’ve ever put in my mouth. Dad took a bite before I did and said “I guarantee that’s the saltiest salsa you’ve ever eaten.” And indeed, dad was right. I told him they should rename it ‘saltsa.’ As is obvious from my rambling, the night has gotten late without me noticing. It’s sleepytime. ‘Night.

Saturday afternoon, I joined a good-sized crowd at Davis Kidd Booksellers in the Green Hills mall here in Nashville to hear Andrew read from his novel, On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, book one in the Wingfeather Saga. They had about 30 chairs set up when I arrived, and by the time it started, they had had to pull out more chairs to seat those standing around and still didn’t have enough. After Andrew was introduced, Randall joined him to sing two songs from Slugs, Bugs, and Lullabies, the children’s album they recorded together last year. They sang “Bears” and “Piggy Little Toes”, and, while they were singing, I looked around and noticed more than one kid in the audience singing along. Before he started reading from his book, Andrew explained that he was always the kid in high school sitting at the back of the classroom drawing dragons in his notebook and getting beat up by the football players. So he thought it was great that he is now getting paid to do that, while none of the jocks are getting paid to play sports. He also explained where some of the creatures he came up with come from, like the Toothy Cows. Growing up, the default gift everyone gave his mom was cow-themed stuff, owing to one comment she happened to make at some point about liking cows, and he said he’d walk into the kitchen and find pictures of cows on platters and towels and salt and pepper shakers that were “dead behind the eyes.” He read the intros – A Brief Introduction to the World of Aerwiar, A Slightly Less Brief Introduction to the Land of Skree, and An Introduction to the Igiby Cottage (Very Brief) – inserting comments here and there, explaining the pronunciation of “The plains of Palen Jabh-J,” for instance. When I read the book, I thought the J at the end of Jabh-J was silent, since I didn’t know how else to pronounce it. But when Andrew read it, he always paused for a second after saying “jabh”, and then pronounced the hard J (followed by another pause to wait for the laughter to die down). He told us later that he is working on a pronunciation guide for the website to help those of us who don’t have a clue how some of his words should be pronounced. After reading Chapter One (“the scary chapter”), he read Chapter Eighteen, the chapter where Tink finds a map that leads the Igiby children on their adventures, and told us that the genesis of the book was him sitting down and drawing a map of the world the story inhabits, the original of which he brought with him to show us. At the end, after fielding questions from the audience for a little while, Andrew honored a request to sing another song by performing Little Boy Heart Alive, my favorite song of his about imagination and childlike wonder, a call to live instead of simply exist. Hopefully he’ll do a full book tour at some point, so those not lucky enough to live in Nashville can hear more of his stories and the stories behind his stories.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/LittleBoyHeartAlive.mp3 Feel the beat of a distant thunder It’s the sound of an ancient song This is the Kingdom calling Come now and tread the dawn Come to the father Come to the deeper well Drink of the water And come to live a tale to tell Pages are turning now This is abundant life The joy in the journey Is enough to make a grown man cry With a little boy heart alive

Another goodern from JC’s latest album, RCVRY. https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/DistressSignal.mp3 DISTRESS SIGNAL (major against minor / breaking the glass case / where are you?) words and music: Casella Brother I can’t do this anymore Your silence is killing me Hiding major against minor chords You disappear right in front of me And how am I supposed to take it? I’m already on my knees And suspended in the distance Between grace and gravity Overcome by shadows of ourselves Disguising our reflection We could take the time to find our way Across this disconnection Because how are we gonna make it If we both refuse to see That we can’t go on erasing over Every sad thing? I want to trust you but you’ve lost all control (Where are you?) Nobody holds you like the hand of God

Is it really only day three? We’ll see if I’m still saying that on day twelve. After a morning poolside, a little jaunt west on Central Avenue (also known as Route 66) took us into the Nob Hill district where there are lots of cool shops and restaurants. Not to mention all of the bygone-era signage all along Uncle John was reminiscing about the trips they used to take as a family when The next few days are going to be so interesting. I am eager to hear the cousins compare notes and share stories that maybe I’ve never heard before. We will pay a visit to Aunt Eunice down south in Los Lunas. She’s the only surviving Norberg of her generation. She is over 100, but I can’t recall how far past she is — I suppose I stopped counting after that. Her memory has mostly left her, but I’ll be really interested in seeing whether her long-term memory is as good as it was last time I saw her, which was about four years ago. She couldn’t remember where she was living at the time but she could remember, with unbelievable color and detail, the train she took when she was a young woman studying to be a nurse, apartments where she had lived in San Diego, friends she had known, and so many accompanying tales.

And so the Song of the Day comes back around to the B’s. Last time I chose a live version of a Ron Block song that Alison Krauss sang at one of the Behold the Lamb Christmas shows. This time it’s a pair of instrumental songs from his latest record Doorway. The first is called “Secret of the Woods” and the second is “I See Thee Nevermore”, both based on a passage from a George MacDonald book. This represents a gloriously unlikely convergence of two of my favorite–no, three of my favorite things: fantasy literature, great acoustic music, and the Gospel. The Rabbit Room exists for such a thing as this. From Ron’s website: Originally a 3-part instrumental, I cut off the first part because I didn’t like it. The story begins with Anodos running from the Ash tree in the woods. This section was the part I cut off, but it’s important to the tension and release in the instrumental. Great drops of rain began to patter on the leaves. Thunder began to mutter, then growl in the distance. I ran on. The rain fell heavier. At length the thick leaves could hold it up no longer; and, like a second firmament, they poured their torrents on the earth. I was soon drenched, but that was nothing. I came to a small swollen stream that rushed through the woods. I had a vague hope that if I crossed this stream, I should be in safety from my pursuer; but I soon found that my hope was as false as it was vague. I dashed across the stream, ascended a rising ground, and reached a more open space, where stood only great trees. Through them I directed my way, holding eastward as nearly as I could guess, but not at all certain that I was not moving in an opposite direction. My mind was just reviving a little from its extreme terror, when, suddenly, a flash of lightning, or rather a cataract of successive flashes, behind me, seemed to throw on the ground in front of me, but far more faintly than before, from the extent of the source of the light, the shadow of the same horrible hand. I sprang forward, stung to yet wilder speed; but had not run many steps before my foot slipped, and, vainly attempting to recover myself, I fell at the foot of one of the large trees. Half-stunned, I yet raised myself, and almost involuntarily looked back. All I saw was the hand within three feet of my face. But, at the same moment, I felt two large soft arms thrown round me from behind; and a voice like a woman’s said: “Do not fear the goblin; he dares not hurt you now.” With that, the hand was suddenly withdrawn as from a fire, and disappeared in the darkness and the rain. Overcome with the mingling of terror and joy, I lay for some time almost insensible. This is where the first part of the instrumental, “Secret of the Woods”, begins: The first thing I remember is the sound of a voice above me, full and low, and strangely reminding me of the sound of a gentle wind amidst the leaves of a great tree. It murmured over and over again: “I may love him, I may love him; for he is a man, and I am only a beech-tree.” I found I was seated on the ground, leaning against a human form, and supported still by the arms around me, which I knew to be those of a woman who must be rather above the human size, and largely proportioned. I turned my head, but without moving otherwise, for I feared lest the arms should untwine themselves; and clear, somewhat mournful eyes met mine. At least that is how they impressed me; but I could see very little of colour or outline as we sat in the dark and rainy shadow of the tree. The face seemed very lovely, and solemn from its stillness; with the aspect of one who is quite content, but waiting for something. I saw my conjecture from her arms was correct: she was above the human scale throughout, but not greatly. “Why do you call yourself a beech-tree?” I said. “Because I am one,” she replied, in the same low, musical, murmuring voice. “You are a woman,” I returned. “Do you think so? Am I very like a woman then?” “You are a very beautiful woman. Is it possible you should not know it?” “I am very glad you think so. I fancy I feel like a woman sometimes. I do so to-night — and always when the rain drips from my hair. For there is an old prophecy in our woods that one day we shall all be men and women like you. Do you know anything about it in your region? Shall I be very happy when I am a woman? I fear not, for it is always in nights like these that I feel like one. But I long to be a woman for all that.” I had let her talk on, for her voice was like a solution of all musical sounds. I now told her that I could hardly say whether women were happy or not. I knew one who had not been happy; and for my part, I had often longed for Fairy Land, as she now longed for the world of men. But then neither of us had lived long, and perhaps people grew happier as they grew older Only I doubted it. I could not help sighing. She felt the sigh, for her arms were still round me. She asked me how old I was. “Twenty-one,” said I. “Why, you baby!” said she, and kissed me with the sweetest kiss of winds and odours. There was a cool faithfulness in the kiss that revived my heart wonderfully. I felt that I feared the dreadful Ash no more. “What did the horrible Ash want with me?” I said. “I am not quite sure, but I think he wants to bury you at the foot of his tree. But he shall not touch you, my child.” “Are all the ash-trees as dreadful as he?” “Oh, no. They are all disagreeable selfish creatures — (what horrid men they will make, if it be true!) — but this one has a hole in his heart that nobody knows of but one or two; and he is always trying to fill it up, but he cannot. That must be what he wanted you for. I wonder if he will ever be a man. If he is, I hope they will kill him.” “How kind of you to save me from him!” “I will take care that he shall not come near you again. But there are some in the wood more like me, from whom, alas! I cannot protect you. Only if you see any of them very beautiful, try to walk round them.” “What then?” “I cannot tell you more. But now I must tie some of my hair about you, and then the Ash will not touch you. Here, cut some off. You men have strange cutting things about you.” She shook her long hair loose over me, never moving her arms. “I cannot cut your beautiful hair. It would be a shame.” “Not cut my hair! It will have grown long enough before any is wanted again in this wild forest. Perhaps it may never be of any use again — not till I am a woman.” And she sighed. As gently as I could, I cut with a knife a long tress of flowing, dark hair, she hanging her beautiful head over me. When I had finished, she shuddered and breathed deep, as one does when an acute pain, steadfastly endured without sign of suffering, is at length relaxed. She then took the hair and tied it round me, singing a strange, sweet song, which I could not understand, but which left in me a feeling like this — “I saw thee ne’er before; I see thee never more; But love, and help, and pain, beautiful one, Have made thee mine, till all my years are done.” I cannot put more of it into words. She closed her arms about me again, and went on singing. The rain in the leaves, and a light wind that had arisen, kept her song company. I was wrapt in a trance of still delight. It told me the secret of the woods, and the flowers, and the birds. At one time I felt as if I was wandering in childhood through sunny spring forests, over carpets of primroses, anemones, and little white starry things — I had almost said creatures, and finding new wonderful flowers at every turn. At another, I lay half dreaming in the hot summer noon, with a book of old tales beside me, beneath a great beech; or, in autumn, grew sad because I trod on the leaves that had sheltered me, and received their last blessing in the sweet odours of decay; or, in a winter evening, frozen still, looked up, as I went home to a warm fireside, through the netted boughs and twigs to the cold, snowy moon, with her opal zone around her. Part two of the instrumental, “I See Thee Nevermore,” begins here and leads Anodos on his journey:https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/SecretOfTheWoods.mp3 At last I had fallen asleep; for I know nothing more that passed till I found myself lying under a superb beech-tree, in the clear light of the morning, just before sunrise. Around me was a girdle of fresh beech-leaves. Alas! I brought nothing with me out of Fairy Land, but memories — memories. The great boughs of the beech hung drooping around me. At my head rose its smooth stem, with its great sweeps of curving surface that swelled like undeveloped limbs. The leaves and branches above kept on the song which had sung me asleep; only now, to my mind, it sounded like a farewell and a speedwell. I sat a long time, unwilling to go; but my unfinished story urged me on. I must act and wander. With the sun well risen, I rose, and put my arms as far as they would reach around the beech-tree, and kissed it, and said good-bye. A trembling went through the leaves; a few of the last drops of the night’s rain fell from off them at my feet; and as I walked slowly away, I seemed to hear in a whisper once more the words: “I may love him, I may love him; for he is a man, and I am only a beech-tree.”

Current time: 12:43pm (Mountain Time) Current song: “Paper Wings” by Gillian Welch Current snack: a bag of unusually fresh and crunchy CornNuts, Spicy Hot V8 Current state: New Mexico This morning mom and I compared overnight notes and came to the agreement that we each slept really well. I’m pretty sure I didn’t budge — woke up in the same position as when I fell asleep. I suppose that is owed partly to the fact that I was on a tight top bunk in the cabin and partly to the fact that we woke at 5am yesterday and I was quite sleepy. While we were loading the car we were listening to Robinella and the CC String Band. She sings a song called “Morning Dove” and in the chorus she imitates the sound of a turtle dove’s cooing with her warbly voice. At the very same time as she did this in the song, a real dove in the tree outside our cabin was doing the same. The real bird must have felt upstaged and I’m guessing she thought she needed to show that human broad how it’s really done. It was pretty sweet. Sweet and hilarious. We cleaned up, packed up, had thick coffee with cream and English muffins with sliced tomato (eggs and all other accoutrements went out the window when we woke a bit later than we ought’ve) and hit the road. I took the morning shift because I like early driving best. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and lead-footed. We just passed a billboard for a truck stop that boasted “Lotsa Rocks!” Really? People get off the interstate to buy rocks? Well now, this next billboard for the same place is also touting the fact that they have a “Flame Thrower!” and “Peanut Brittle!” there, so I suppose there are many unexplored virtues at the Flying C Ranch. Add “Agate Bookends!” to that growing list of goods. They’ve also got “Ample Parking For Your Big Rig!” Whew, that’s great news, because my big rig usually presents a problem. There is a long train snaking east to our right at the present. From where I sit, it looks like it’s going the wrong way, and fast. I think it’s carrying coal and oil, if I had to guess. Maybe some bananas and some immigrants. The bright yellow Union Pacific engine, painted with an undulating, ragged American flag, is making quick work of these red mesas and green valleys. Just one more snapshot of Americana. There are so many reasons why it’s called the Heartland, and I’ll add that mental image to my list. Signing off for now. I am itching to get to the end of the line, get out of this car and off my sore rear, and have a good long mind bending stretch. I can almost taste the pool. It tastes like a freshly laundered towel, sunscreen, the pages of my book and maybe a little nap. Oh, and a lot of chlorine. Yum. ADDENDUM: SUPPER #1. making the black bean ‘stew’ #2. frying four, count ’em, four, perfect eggs #3. ahhhh, sweet perfection: black bean, green chile ‘stew’ with leftover flank steak, cheddar cheese, fried eggs, tomatoes, and of course, the universal utensil, the chip

Twelve hours down, six to go. Mom and I hit the road this morning at 6:30 with strong coffee, kisses from dad and a full vehicle. I declare, if we don’t have it in that Ford, we don’t need it. We have landed safely at the quaint, really lovely little KOA in Elk City, Oklahoma. Oh, Oklahoma. What a BO-RING piece of our nation (my apologies to all native Oklahomans). I drove the second shift today which means I had the pleasure of honking the horn upon crossing the state line (a Coates family tradition) and then navigating the bulk of the state. The roads are abominable, the drivers are asinine, and the landscape less than inspiring. That is, until you get almost all the way across and close to the Texas line, then it starts to unfold and display red clay in the hills and scrubby sideways trees and dreamy windmills against the backdrop of even dreamier clouds. You know you’re entering the west when the clouds seem higher, firmer, and more defined, like cottony creatures. So we had a harmless little wager (‘harmless’ meaning absolutely nothing on the line except the satisfaction of being right) as to exactly what minute I’d be gliding up the exit ramp to this blip on the map. I bet 6:08, mom bet 6:15, At 6:09 on the dot, as the exit sped toward me, I found I was going a bit too fast (is 90 too fast?) and felt that I needed to ease it to a gentle stop, but the stop occurred about ten yards past the actual exit. Thankfully, no one was behind me so I put the thing in reverse then slid stealthily off the interstate. After a slightly exorbitant trip to the grocery for dinner and breakfast provisions, we drove into our little slice of heaven at the campsite. Now, mom and I love to ‘camp,’ but it usually involves a tidy little wooden cabin rather than a tent, clean, bleach-scented bathrooms rather than a tree, and fine, ingeniously concocted meals rather than weenies and marshmallows. (although we are certainly not above such.) Tonight we began with organizing/readying our ‘icebox,’ our ‘stove’ and our ‘pantry.’ Dinner was as follows (on blue speckled tinware, naturally): romaine lettuce, warm black beans with green chiles, sliced avocado, spiced flank steak, chips and salsa, fresh roasted corn on the cob, and cold beer. We had a slight crisis when I was taking the pie pan from the flame and some of the oil spilt over and caused a considerable fire, but I, thinking as quickly and efficiently as I do, grabbed the carton of salt and sprinkled it generously over the flames until there was nothing but a black smudge. We laughed nervously, clinked beer bottles and toasted to “twelve hours down and no burnt appendages.” After a walk down the lane to the restrooms, past all of the monstrous RVs and trailers, we returned refreshed and ready for a nightcap. We opened a really nice bottle of Spanish red, had just a tiny splash each, and now mom’s getting her pajamas on inside. She has just informed me in her best fake naggy-mother tone, “It’s after ten, Evie!” She makes me chuckle. She is a tireless nester. This means that, even though we will be residing in this little wooden abode for no more than twelve hours, she is in there, fluffing pillows, probably lighting candles, and making it ours. I got this trait from her, and it has served me well. I’m being dive-bombed by block-headed bugs of all sorts, my pajamas are still in the suitcase in the Ford, we’d like to arrive at the Albuquerque KOA tomorrow at a decent, plenty-of-time-for-lazing-by-the-pool time, so it will be early to rise (and boil water for our French press coffee and fry up a couple of eggs and slice tomatoes and toast some English muffins), and I had best close for the evening. The soft, constant hum of the semi trucks and the happy chirping of crickets and turtle doves will be our lullaby. Good night.

Last Friday afternoon, some friends and I drove over to Memphis for a Sara Groves concert. I think it was the third time I’ve seen her play, not counting the times she has played for Andrew Peterson’s Christmas show at the Ryman, or the couple showcases I caught last month during GMA week. She was playing at Hope Presbyterian, just outside of Memphis, for the opening concert in their summer concert series, along with another artist, and played for almost 90 minutes. Bruce Carroll, who recorded eight projects on Word Records during the 80’s and 90’s and has won multiple Dove and Grammy awards, is the “Director of Arts and Worship” there now, and he talked about Compassion International and their child sponsorship program for a couple minutes before the intermission. Sara played a good mix of songs from her albums, including one from her under-appreciated side project of songs for parents, Songs from a Station Wagon, that I had played for my friends on the drive over, and her current radio single, “It Might Be Hope,” my favorite song from her newest album, Tell Me What You Know. The line that jumped out at me this time, and that has stayed with me, is from the title song of her second album, Conversations: “The only thing that isn’t meaningless to me is Jesus Christ and the ways He sets me free.”* Growing up in church, the theme that Christ had set us free was constantly driven home (what we’d been saved from, never what we’d been saved for), but not, that I remember, the ways that Christ sets us free, in little and big ways every day. Listening to Sara sing that, I was drawn anew into thankfulness for the freedom that redemption brings and for the accomplished and yet ongoing work of Christ in my life. This week, Sara headed into a studio here in Nashville with producer Ben Shive (Andrew Peterson’s piano player/producer and newest member of the Square Peg Alliance), to lay down the tracks for her first Christmas record, due out later this year. Ben told me yesterday that some of the songs they’ll be recording are new settings that Sara has written of traditional Christmas carols. I love her setting of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” (He’s Always Been Faithful), so I’m looking forward to hearing what she comes up with. *I just listened to the album version of “Conversations”, and Sara does sing “the way He set me free” there, not “the ways He sets me free,” which is what I heard at the concert. So I’m assuming that, in the eight years since she recorded that, she has broadened the meaning of that line.

Welcome to a new series here in the Rabbit Room, where we will periodically peek into the lives of our contributors as well as other artists, musicians and writers in interview form. We believe that not only is it important to hear from those we appreciate so much but we also enjoy knowing about them as well. So in our first installment, it’s (finally) time for an update from our own Randall Goodgame: Rabbit Room (Matt): Your website hasn’t been updated since 2007. And I can’t seem to find much of anything anywhere on the latest with Randall Goodgame. So an obvious place to start is simply this – what’s happening? Randall Goodgame: For about a year, we’ve been making a record for our worship team at Midtown, which is the name of our church. It’s a record of all the songs we do at Midtown that were written by people at our church that have never been recorded anywhere else, except for one that Caedmon’s Call recorded of mine. You can get it on our website for ten bucks and can listen to some of the tracks. RR: What was the heart for the project? RG: The original inspiration for it was literally that we had no budget. So we thought, ‘Well, we’ve got lots of people who would donate time and give to the making of a record, so why don’t we try to do that and sell it for money.’ It just took forever to do, because you’re getting people to do stuff for free. We finally finished and now that’s finished, the main hope is that they are very useful songs. You know how you buy a CD and there are only two or three songs if you’re lucky that you can actually use in worship on Sunday. Or sometimes there’s only one! But on this, all the songs have been used in congregational worship a number of times, so they are all useful in that way. So it feels we’re making a contribution to the church at large. RR: How does that compare to other available offerings in today’s modern worship scene? RG: You’ll have to tell me. I don’t even know what’s available. I know a couple Chris Tomlin songs, but those are probably six years old now. RR: What’s happening with your own solo career now? RG: I have a new management company that I’m working with and they have just built a new website for me. RR: Does that go live soon because I noticed that hasn’t been updated for a while… RG: Probably in the next month or so. So we’re developing a lot of content for that. I’ve got an album’s worth of material ready to record, it’s just finding the time and money to do it. I’ll probably have something by October 1, even if it’s just an EP of sorts, it will be something new. RR: That’s the October release? RG: I think so.  I have been writing exclusively on the piano. I had always been a piano player before but as you grow in Nashville, carry your guitar around, meet with people and you write, it’s just easier to write on the guitar. We moved into Nashville and my piano was in the living room in our old house and here I put it in my office, so I get to play it all the time. It doesn’t bother people late at night. Also, I just committed to it. I’m a better piano player. I enjoy the things I get to do on it. I’m able to be a lot more expressive and feel at home. So it’ll be a bunch of funky piano tunes. RR: Does that bring out a different side of you – writing from the piano? RG: I think you’d probably say that it would, yes. My guitar playing comes from the different musicians I love and enjoyed growing up musically. They’re all folky people – Bob Dylan, James Taylor, Nancy Griffith, Patti Griffin – so what I play will sound like that. It will sound like my regurgitating or making it my own. But the piano… I’ve been playing it for so long that I feel I play like me. When I sit down to play the piano, I can just play. I can do that on the guitar, but it feels more like making music when I’m at the piano. So it’s just a lot more fun for me and actually for everybody. When I play the guitar, it’s mellow and folky and when I play the piano, it’s more bombastic. RR: A lot of the artists you are surrounded by seem to write thematically. Do you write in the same way? RG: Yeah, I’m writing a lot about friendship and freedom. Feathers. Fruit. [Laughs] RR: Freedom? As in spiritual freedom? RG: Spiritual freedom… you know what I mean when I say that and I will know what you mean, but you’re the pastor of a church. And I’m the worship pastor at a church. So I would say personal freedom, because anybody would know what that meant. And even if they didn’t know what what they knew was spiritual freedom, it would really be spiritual freedom. Because when the guy that has the yachts and all the girlfriends shoots himself in the head because he is lonely, it’s because he wasn’t free. He wouldn’t say that he’s free. So the old blind way of talking about freedom of just being able to do whatever you want… people have wised up to that. They haven’t in their behavior, maybe, because we can’t stop from our behavior being that way. But people are familiar with the language of that you can’t buy happiness. So the kind of freedom that people would understand when you quit a job you don’t like and you just feel free. Or you have a conversation with a friend that’s been weighing you down and making you distracted from everything else that you’d like to be focused on and you finally have it and feel free. So if you take the time to ask what you feel free from, that gets exciting. RR: Any collaborations on the new music? RG: Oh, yeah! There’s at least one of the songs I’ve been working on with [Andy] Osenga that he’s been super-helpful with. Most of them so far have been written by myself, but I’m always asking friends to help me with stuff. You know, anyone who’s around and available to give me their brain energy, I’ll take. RR: What’s the attitude of having to get your name out there? Is that fun or is that frustrating to have to do that work? RG: I’m not real gifted at the long-term view. As a result, I don’t get bothered by maybe what should bother me. I don’t get worried about things I probably should. Whatever blind spots I have don’t let me get troubled by what it takes to ramp up the Randall Goodgame machine. So it doesn’t bother me. I sort of feel like I still do the same things I’ve always done. I love working for my church. And I’m sure I will continue to do that and they’re real flexible with me. Part of my role there is to recognize and train leaders for the community while I’m gone, so that’s not a problem. Even though I will have two or three months at a time where I won’t do shows, I have this job part-time so I don’t need but just a few shows each month to make ends meet. Of course, part of ramping up is to do more shows than that. But I’ve been in a charmed season, continuing to be involved in my own work, my friend’s work, the children’s record and being able to be home all the time with my kids, who are 5 and 7… I’ve been around for these formative years and I’m still here. It’s just also been real rewarding writing for the church and being a part of this growing community in downtown Nashville.

Jonathan Rogers, one of the first people on board with the Rabbit Room last year, has written several books, three of which are a Young Adult series called The Wilderking Trilogy.  Jonathan describes these books as a fantasy tale told in an American accent, and the following song is a great example of that. (Sadly, we don’t have a recording of Jonathan singing it.) FEECHIE LOVE SONG My sweet feechie girl is the swamp’s finest pearl — A treasure, and man don’t I know it. And I really do think that she loves me too, Though she don’t always know how to show it. Her brown eyes are dark like a loblolly’s bark. Her skin is as smooth as a gator. The one time I kissed her, she knocked me cold, mister. But nothing could cause me to trade her. She smells just as sweet as a mud turtle’s feet. Her hair is as soft as a possum. Once I walked by her side, but she knocked me cross-eyed. It took me a week to un-cross ’em. Her voice is as pleasin’ as swamp lily season She talks kind of froggy and crickety. Once I give her a rose, and she busted my nose. My sweetie can be right persnickety. I’ll give you this warning: you mess with my darling, I’ll whop you a right, then a left. And if that ain’t enough, or if you’re extra tough, I might let her whup you herself.

This week, I saw two concerts in three days: the first was Andrew Peterson and the Captains Courageous and the other was Cyndi Lauper and the B 52s. But first, let me backtrack a bit. A while back for our 10th anniversary my wife and I decided to spend a weekend in Chicago – the city where we met – and enjoy some of the local culture before attending a retreat put on by Image: A Journal of The Arts & Religion. We scraped together $150 of activity money and our first adventure was to spend an evening at Second City – the comedy club that produced comedians like Dan Akroyd, Bill Murray, John Belushi and others. As we walked in we were greeted by a group of well-dressed men who shook our hands, graciously thanking us for attending the evening and ushering us down the line to the place where we would buy our tickets. We were asked if we had reserved seats and when we said no, the woman assured us there was still room and that we needn’t worry. “Good, in that case, we’ll take two tickets.” Our guide to Chicago nightlife listed Second City tickets at $8 a piece, so imagine our surprise when the woman presented us with our two tickets and said, “That’ll be $100, please.” It was then we discovered that this was a special event fundraiser hosted by Second City to benefit an AIDs hospice program. We looked at each other and counted the cost of how awkward it would be to walk back down the gauntlet of well dressed men who had just a moment ago so graciously expressed their gratitude to us. Hoping to avoid this embarrassment and realizing it was too late in the evening to do anything else, we blew 2/3 of our week’s worth of fun money, took our tickets, and walked in. And there we were, unwitting attendees of a predominantly homosexual gathering, perhaps the only heterosexual married couple in the room. We were pleased, however, to discover that it was a banquet with a good spread of appetizers and hor d’oeuvres. Whichever side of the line you fall on in regards to the issue of homosexuality, one cannot argue that they do have exquisite taste in food. And shoes. All told, it was a great night and one of our favorite memories. Fast forward 6 years and Taya and I found ourselves in a similar situation as we walked into the Target Center to attend the True Colors Tour with Cyndi Lauper and the B-52s. I saw the tickets go on sale in March and, knowing my wife’s love for all things 80’s, decided to be a good husband and order two. We made it a date night with dinner beforehand and a stay over at a lovely old fashioned Inn in the river city of Afton. After a good meal of fish and chips at Brit’s Pub in downtown Minneapolis, we made our way to the Target Center for our own little 80’s revival. As we walked in, we noticed there were a lot of gay couples in attendance that night. We looked at each other and joked, “Well it is an 80’s concert. And it is the B-52s…” As we made our way to our seats we ran into all manner of people decked out in flamboyant costumes, but we still had little idea what we had gotten ourselves into. The Cliks were the first opener, and I knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore when during a lull between songs someone close to us yelled out “Take your pants off!” Thankfully the lead singer didn’t oblige. When the emcee came out after their set, all the pieces started to fall into place: it was Carson Kressley from Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. A flamboyantly gay man, Kressley joked about the protesters outside who may or may not have been holding signs that read “God Hates Homosexuality” with the Levitical reference below it. “I like to tell them, ‘God hates shellfish, too, but you don’t see me protesting at Red Lobster!’” Ouch, that was a good zinger, I thought, and even laughed. (This joke reminded me of the book I’m reading right now about what it would look like if we followed every law outlined in the Bible. The author suspects that religious people are guilty of picking and choosing which biblical laws they embrace. But that’s another topic for a later post…) Kressley then asked, “How many homosexuals do we have in the audience tonight?!” and when the room erupted in hoots and applause, Taya and I realized that we were the sexual minority. I all of a sudden had a curious moment where I feared being outed as a heterosexual Christian man. Would I be considered the enemy? Would they gang up on me if it was discovered that I had once attended a George Bush rally? Thankfully, the emcee, who was genuinely very funny (not to mention very well-dressed), told all the gays to make any straights in the room feel welcome. I still couldn’t shake my uneasiness, though my unease was less homophobic than it was ideological. I’m sure I had no reason to be nervous, but something about being a Christian heterosexual man at a gathering of homosexuals – some of whom were pretty militant – was an experience I wasn’t prepared for. I was the religious, sexual, and ideological minority. I felt like I didn’t belong and I was afraid of getting busted. I wondered if this was how a homosexual would feel at a rally of religious conservatives. Or a Republican convention. I also wondered if this is how homosexuals feel much of the time in our culture – an outsider excluded from much of the American experience that heterosexuals take for granted. I also worried that we weren’t dressed stylish enough. As the evening went on, we slowly discovered that we were attending what was in essence a gay rally to raise awareness of homosexual related issues and encourage people to vote accordingly in the upcoming election year. I guess we would have been more prepared if we had gone to the website beforehand, where it says: “The goal of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender (GLBT) equality is at the heart of [the] True Colors [tour].” I wonder how many other unsuspecting heterosexuals were there that night. The next act was the Indigo Girls-like duo of Tegan & Sara, who had a good set of catchy 3 minute folk/pop songs, peppered with gay proclamations and crude banter between songs. Following the break, the emcee – after more homosexually charged humor – introduced Rosie O’Donell who gave us a 20 minute set of her observational comedy. She shared genuinely from her heart, but though she tried to humorize painful experiences like the death of her mother when she was young, challenges in her career, and her struggles with depression, most of the jokes came off as vulgar, angry, and sad. She also made some jokes, we felt, at the expense of her little boy. It was the most offensive and heartbreaking part of the evening for both Taya and me. Following O’Donell, the B-52s were introduced as the greatest party band in the world, and man, they still have it! Even though they are more or less an aging gimmick band, they do what they do well, and I will admit that it was fun to hear “Rock Lobster”, “Roam”, and the ultimate party song – “Love Shack” – live. Finally – 3 hours into the night – Cyndi Lauper was introduced, and as soon as she took the stage it was clear why she is… well… Cyndi Lauper. While my reasons for being there were to be a good husband, I genuinely enjoyed her set. She’s a consummate professional who has a real authority when she takes the stage. Because of her outrageous 80’s persona it’s easy to forget that she took some genuinely great songs to the top of the charts during her reign including “Time After Time” and “True Colors”. Listen to these songs again – seriously, they’re great! And she’s very likable. Like the singer/songwriter/storytellers we admire so much here in the Rabbit Room, she would pause in her set and casually tell stories to the arena audience. She connected and made us feel like old friends. She is obviously gifted and it was enjoyable to watch her in her element and be reminded of the theology of “common grace” that refers to those who operate in their God-given giftedness though they may not necessarily believe in God (whether she does or does not, I don’t know). Her set was also thankfully devoid of sexual jokes and references (other than what you might expect to hear from 80’s pop music). But to be honest, other than the few virtues I mentioned above, the night for the most part was often boring to me. There was little for me to connect with emotionally or musically. It’s not like most of the artists who were represented are writing songs that mine the ultimate questions of meaning and existence. And musically, there were very few moments that strayed too far from predictable pop conventions. At an event like this, you have to keep the hits rolling and there is little time for moments that let the music breathe and become something more than merely the canvas for catchy melodic hooks. Now, I know that girls just want to have fun, but I guess I was still hoping for something a little more. Maybe a part of what left me feeling cold, too, is that more than music the event felt like it was about sexuality. I don’t want to be guilty of bigotry, nor do I mean to be dismissive of homosexuals – we have enough friends who are homosexual to know that the issue is much more complicated than most religious conservatives take into account. But the whole evening was so laced with sex-soaked humor and bawdy talk that I kept thinking of Christian author Phillip Yancey who expressed to a gay friend that one of his main issues with homosexuals is the way many of them define themselves almost strictly by their sexuality. Almost every word from the stage, to my ears, conveyed an often militant homosexual agenda. And it pains me to say it, but many of the attendees we saw around us affirmed unfortunate gay stereotypes. Most of the people in our immediate vicinity seemed clearly troubled, confused, and broken. I suppose the relevant question is: was it their brokenness that led them to homosexuality? Or was their brokenness the result of being a homosexual in a world that often marginalizes – or worse, demonizes – people of varying sexual orientation? Hard to say. (In all fairness, I know intelligent and decent homosexuals who would have been as bothered as Taya and I were by some of the behavior we witnessed there. I suppose it’s akin to certain religious rallies that we hear about and then try to assure people that, “Not all Christians are like that.” Every group has its unruly adherents that must be apologized for.) All told, it was interesting to have the experience of being a minority. I’m not assigning a value of “good” or “bad” to our being there, except to say that I think it was useful to gain perspective of what it’s like to be a sexual minority as well as eavesdrop on what homosexuals think of the rest of us – especially religious conservatives. Say what you want about the issue, but I think it’s safe to say that evangelical Christianity as a whole has often failed to address homosexuality in either a loving or compelling manner. The church is more famous for drawing lines in the sand and shouting than engaging in a thoughtful and compassionate conversation. Speaking of compassion, the word literally means “to suffer with.” Christian author Frederick Buechner defines compassion as the “sometimes fatal capacity to know what it’s like to be in someone else’s shoes.” Our attendance of the True Colors tour gave us a chance to be a sexual minority and to experience what those shoes feel like. I choose to believe that we were there for a reason, and I hope that our experience will help us understand better how to show the love of Christ to a community of people who often feel exiled beyond the reach of Christian grace. At the very least, we came away with another great memory. The evening ended with Cyndi Lauper bringing everyone on stage as they all sang “True Colors.” In spite of ourselves, Taya and I were both profoundly moved as they all sang together in true 80’s fashion (think “We Are The World”) this beautiful anthem of love and acceptance. And it occurred to us both that this is all that every human being longs for – to be seen for who we truly are and to be loved and accepted anyway. “I see your true colors, and that’s why I love you…” I actually cried and found a moment that I could resonate with. At its heart, this thought is what the gospel is all about – being seen for who we truly are and being loved anyway. The gospel ultimately takes us one step further, though, going beyond mere acceptance to transformation. The homosexuality issue is such an explosive topic in the culture wars now that it dominates our political and religious conversations, obscuring nearly everything else. I don’t want that to be the case here, so I would like to put aside the sexuality issue and close with an altogether different observation. As you may have read in my earlier post, I attended Andrew Peterson’s concert just two nights before this one, and in the last analysis I guess one of the more disheartening issues with the True Colors tour is this: it cost us over a $100 for the cheap seats and there were thousands of people there. The music was mildly entertaining at best and never really touched or stirred the deeper places in me. It left me unchanged except for the weird hangover of culture shock that still lingers. Two nights previous, however, we attended a modest concert where a crowd of little more than a hundred people attended and the ticket price was $24 for the two of us. That night, I heard songs and stories of real life struggles with no easy answers, but a deep abiding hope that we all must answer to and which has miraculously survived centuries of doubt, fear, cultural shifts, mishandling and misrepresentation. The night was at once musical, stirring, and thought provoking. In the end, I left different than when I came – wanting to love better, to live more fully, and to be more engaged with my own life and the mystery of the God who I believe called it into existence. I left feeling more alive. My wife made the observation on our way home the day after the True Colors show that we live in a culture where people are more likely to pay $100 to be mildly entertained than we are to pay $24 to be changed.

The carnival has come to our little mid-western town and transformed our main street for Hay Days. I’m usually on the road for this annual event, but this is the first year I got to experience it. We headed down the street with our tickets and rode all the rides. Even 4 year old Gus got himself psyched up for it. “oh man” he slapped his forehead as we handed the carny man our tickets for the Gravitron, “I’m such a dork”. And then he bravely stepped in and rode his first carnival ride – but not his last. He did well and rode every other ride that day – the Ferris Wheel, Fun House, and the Tilt-a-Whirl (or hurl-a-whirl as we like to call it). I guess it goes with the territory of being the youngest, he has to prove himself to everyone else in the family. We also ate our fill of super corn dogs and cotton candy before going home. But that wasn’t the end of the excitement. The day before Gus sent everyone into a panic when he swallowed a water balloon. We called the nurse who told us we just needed to watch for it to show up when it came out the other end, which Jacob (our 11 year old) informed us that it did last night after the carnival when he was helping Gus, er, take care of business. The Gravitron must have forced it through since we weren’t expecting it for a couple more days. “Really?!” Taya exclaimed, “are you sure it came out, Jacob?” “For-shizzle” interjected Gus (yes, that’s what he said) “Yep, it was blue,” Jacob said. Well, that may be more information than you wanted about our family, but on a more professional note… CBN music just featured yours truly with a piece called “The Virtues Of Weakness” that sums up the heart of my ministry. Check it out here

Perhaps you have never heard of Irena Sendler. She kept names. Names were important to her. She died two weeks ago today. Yesterday evening, as a beautiful spring day was drawing to a close, my brother Gary, my nephew Caleb and i took a short walk through a hardwood bottom behind my house, Caleb, newly graduated from Auburn University with a degree in wildlife science, is a catalog of things that grow in the forest. It’s enjoyable and impressive to walk the woods with him, and to quiz him about Latin names of what most of us would simply call “a tree.” We came upon one plant that we didn’t recognize, a plant about 2 feet tall with a cluster of small white blooms on top of the stem. The three of us examined it closely in hopes 1) that its identity would become clear to us or 2) that we could remember enough detail about it to find it in one of my field guides at the house. The cluster of blooms was about 3 inches wide with individual flowers about a quarter to half inch across, flowers of symmetrical petals with purple centers. The leaves on the stem, Caleb observed, grow in a pattern called “decussate.” (i had to look it up too.) None of us could name the plant, nor find it in or field guides. This morning, i walked back to the bottom and found 2 other of the same plant. And i’ve a hunch that, each time i return to that section of the woods, i will pay special attention to them, as though they are new eccentric neighbors. Maybe it’s just me, but the pleasure of a walk in the woods is greatly enhanced by knowing the names and properties of the trees, flowers, and birds that inhabit the area. The generalized “forest” comes when i know that its residents are uniquely designed, capable of distinction, and intended to perpetuate their kind. Sawtooth oak, tulip poplar, white oak, river birch, sourwood, ironwood, beech… Those names, and the unique characteristics that each implies, communicate so much more than “tree” and i find myself, each time i take a stroll, wanting to know more about this locale in which i live. “Everything is a Fingerprint” comes to mind. There is a certain godliness in knowing and wanting to know names. Of the stars, in all their billions, scripture teaches that God “calls them each by name.” (Ps.147:4) And what of all those long lists and Old Testament genealogies that seem so pointless and unfamiliar, not to mention difficult to pronounce. There must be some good reason that they are imposed upon us by the writers of Scripture. Maybe we’re supposed to deduce something about the importance of names. Eugene Peterson observes that, “The personal name is the seed that germinates and grows into the personal story. In this way, story as a way of speech quietly insists that all truth is personal and relational. God deals with persons, named persons, not numbers or abstractions or goals or plans. Language at is best and purest turns on naming and names. Names are important. They save us from the swamps of undifferentiated generality. They protect us from the arid wastelands of abstraction. A name is a lifejacket that keeps us afloat in the ocean of anonymity.” Leap Over the Wall, p. 24, 104. It is one thing to ‘love’ Africa or to care about ‘people.’ It is altogether different to love an individual with a name, a street address, a shoe size. Wendell Berry, with typical eloquence, makes the point this way: “No matter how much one may love the world as a whole, one can live fully in it by living responsibly in some small part of it. Where we live and who we live there with define the terms of our relationship to the world and to humanity. We thus come again to the paradox that one can become whole only by the responsible acceptance of one’s partiality.” Art of the Commonplace, p. 118. In other words, we demonstrate our love of the whole, wide world by loving the ones nearest to us, the ones whose names we do know or should know. It rather begs the question, doesn’t it? Can i ‘love the world’ or ‘care about people’ or ‘walk the Jesus way’ if i don’t know or care to know the name of the lady at the local convenience store where i regularly buy my gasoline, or the bank teller where i transact business each week, or the man who puts the mail in my box each day at the post office? Seems highly unlikely. Names matter. Maybe you’re wondering about her name. Irena Sendler. The field guide description of her might read: “98 years old, barely 5 feet tall, resident of Warsaw, Poland; doughboy face, twinkling eyes. Died in 1944 and in 2008.” Irena Sendler was a Catholic Social worker during WWII and member of the Polish resistance in Warsaw, home to the most infamous Jewish ghetto that the Nazis maintained during the Holocaust years. Irena Sendler would enter the ghetto and, in flagrant but cautious violation of the law, took much-needed food and medicine to the Jewish people. When trains began to deport the Jewish people to concentration camps, Mrs. Sendler began to smuggle the children out of the ghetto however she could – in toolboxes, suitcases, coffins, bags, anything to save the children. When she got the children out of the ghetto, Mrs. Sendler would change the names of the children since conspicuously Jewish ones – Stein, Moskowitz, Levi – would mean re-arrest and probable execution. Names are important. But to make sure that the children would know their real identities and be reunited with their families after the war, she would write their real and their fictitious names on pieces of paper, put them in glass jar, bury them in a neighbor’s garden, and continue her work. In 1943, Irena Sendler was arrested by the Nazis and questioned about her suspected aid to the Jewish people. She refused to turn over the names of the children. The Nazis broke her arms and legs. She still refused to talk. She was sentenced to die, but still remained steadfast in her silence. Her execution was only averted by payment of a bribe to a German soldier by other members of the Resistence. The executioner entered on Nazi records that Irena Sendler had been executed in 1944. By war’s end, Mrs. Sendler and her friends had 2500 names in the garden, children they had saved one at a time. Many years later, in 1979, she was honored by the Pope, at which time she presented him with a small paper card that she had carried during the war. It read, “Jesus, I trust in Thee.” Names matter. A few nights ago, at a senior banquet for high school students and their parents, i shared the story of Irena Sendler and suggested that, in a sense, we each carry a jar through life, one that we get to fill with names – or not – as we have opportunity to help, encourage, sacrifice for and bless others. i ask myself, not for self-congratulation or sake of comparison, but merely to examine how i am spending my days, whose names are in my jar? How safe and cared for are they in my possession? Am i doing my part to know my neighborhood, and to love those in it? Do i call others by name? I’m soon to be home for 6 weeks during which time i hope, Lord willing, to finish a new recording of songs, write some new ones, eat tomatoes off the vine (on white bread with mayonnaise), and go to sleep at the same time every night. January through May have been 5 months of memorable work and pleasant life in the community. Thank you for the part you’ve played in making it possible. That plant? The one with the cluster of flowers on the top? White milkweed (Asclepias variegata) Called by name, Levi

I’m happy to present to you a song from Ben Shive’s upcoming The Ill-Tempered Klavier. The album is nearing completion, and “S” is next in line for the song of the day, so Ben agreed to let us post this one. It’s called ’97, a song about the year his older brother went away to college. Beautiful, sad, and melodic, oh my. 97 Words and Music by Ben Shive The year my brother went away The song got sad And I woke up one day Feeling so funny I forgot to laugh Like I was all up in my head With no way out And sad for nothing, just sad Every day was down It happened overnight The flier on the wall said: Do you feel nothing at all? And do you wonder if you’re even real? Well my feelings exactly ‘Cause where was the old me Who used to be happy Who used to think he was okay? It happened overnight And a little girl was taken We tied a ribbon around the tree And the search went on for ages While the search went on for me And I thought about her mother There was nothing she could do Cause she couldn’t go back and she couldn’t go on And God only knew where her baby had gone The year my brother went away And the song got sad Everything changed And we could never go back Yeah, everything changes, everything dies The year my brother went away It happened overnight

I got to see Andrew Peterson and the Captains Courageous (Andy Gullahorn & Ben Shive) this weekend when their adventuring brought them to Minnesota. They played in a good sized Lutheran Church in Lakeville with a row of peer-admirers sitting in the front. Taya and myself as well as Joel Hanson, Troy and Sara Groves, and a couple of my friends sat rapt with attention as the evening began. Despite a somewhat tepid audience who for the most part seemed too self-conscious to really let loose and laugh (or applaud with gusto, or sing along, or…), and in spite of some sound issues for the first third of the evening (poor Andrew’s voice had more low end than any other instrument on stage), the Captains Courageous soldiered on and put on a great show, with the Andys on guitars and the masterful Ben Shive on piano and keyboard. (As the night went on, they dialed in Andrew’s voice, too, and resolved most of the sound issues.) I wished I’d written a set list, but I wasn’t thinking of doing a review as much as I was just happy to get lost in some good music. But the evening began with four songs back to back as the fellas got a feel for the room and found their footing (lots of “f”s in that sentence). Andy P. introduced himself and a song by way of telling the story of growing up in Illinois in the skater culture of the 80’s and how he desperately wanted a pair of pink converse hightops. When he finally got them (and his brother a pair of purple ones, which they swapped a shoe so each of them had one pink and one purple – go Pete!), they ended up moving to a small town in North Florida. Andy P. and his new hightops now found themselves in redneck country where people hunted, only listened to country music, and beat up kids who wore pink (and purple) hightops. He went on to explain how he used to hate country music and would only listen to mock it, but slowly found himself staying longer on the dial than he expected as he discovered some of the great “country” like Lyle Lovett, Alison Krauss and Union Station, and Bill Monroe. He talked of how grateful he is that Bill and Chet Atkins weren’t preachers, because it forced them to preach with their music, and then he paid homage to their great preachments with a beautiful performance of “Let There Be Light”. After this, Andy P. introduced Andy Gullahorn who introduced himself by saying that he grew up in Texas and that he was the kid who beat up the other kids at school who wore pink hightops. He had the whole audience in the palm of his hands as he told us how he was raised to work with cows and was on a career path to mastering the art of artificially inseminating said cows. “If you don’t know what that means, let me just say that it involves a rubber glove that comes up to here,” he said as he pointed to his shoulder. “So I decided I wanted to be a songwriter.” He obliged my earlier backstage request and opened with “More Of A Man”. The audience never saw it coming as they laughed at the verses leading up to the emotional punch of the last chorus. I think he made some fans that night. He also played a new one about belief in spite of all we see that dares us to not believe. It was a great song that he tells me is on Jill Phillips’s (his wife’s) forthcoming record. Andrew came back and ended the first set with a couple songs from Slugs & Bugs. After a brief break, the second set started strong and Andy P. totally owned it, playing tried and true classics as well as a good number of songs from his forthcoming record, Resurrection Letters, and seasoned with great stories throughout. The stories and the on stage banter are why I go to concerts like these and they were great – giving depth, meaning, and often a good laugh, if not a tear. I was struck, too, by how road ready the new songs are. They were among the strongest of the night. At the end of the evening, they invited Troy Groves up to play percussion on Andrew’s new song “All Things New” and it was the musical highlight of the evening. The room was full of music. Afterwards I talked to Andrew about the evening and how invasive much of it was – but in the best way possible. I don’t know about you, but I often go through times when the tenets of Christian faith begin to seem so unlikely. I’ve been in a bit of a spiritual funk recently, wondering exactly what I believe, why I believe it, and taking stock of everything. Creedal confession was a theme throughout the evening as we were asked numerous times to join in a refrain of “I believe….” Even Andy Gullahorn’s song was like this. Lewis talks about fostering spiritual habits that turn into disciplines and how a child learns to become an adult by playing at being adult. I found that the more I was asked to sing “I believe…” throughout the evening, the more I did believe. It was invasive because at first he was obligating me by asking me to sing such significant words of great consequence – which I did even though my own conflicts were consciously registered. But by the end, through the sheer repetition of it, I found that I do indeed still believe, and was grateful to have been given an opportunity to say so. I told Andy that this was the gift he gave to me that night. As if all this weren’t enough, we were treated to a great hang as we all went over to the Groves’ house, ate pizza, cheese, and ice cream and sat down to play a game that Ben Shive and Andy Gullahorn created the previous night before their show in Green Bay, WI. They call it “Banderdash” and it’s a variation of Balderdash where we all looked at a picture of an unknown band and then had to write a name for the band that we hoped would dupe the others. Like the rest of their creative output, the game was brilliant and we all had a blast going late into the evening. Let’s hope for a version of it to be available in the Rabbit Room store soon!

Oh man, do I love this song. The big last chorus is so beautiful it’s made me cry (though according to my friends, that ain’t saying much). I’m pretty sure Andy Gullahorn wrote this one, but Jill’s voice just knocks it out of the park. THE DOOR (from the album Nobody’s Got It All Together) I come to you with my broken heart in my hands I come to you with my broken heart in my hands Since you brought dead ones to life I know you can do that with mine So I come to you with my broken heart in my hands I come to you with an anxious and troubled mind I come to you with an anxious and troubled mind Just like you did to the seas I know that you will bring peace So I come to you with an anxious and troubled mind I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock That the door will be opened I come to you with the burdens I can not bear I come to you with the burdens I can not bear Your yoke is easy so I Can trade them for one that is light So I come to you with the burdens I can not bear I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock I ask I seek and knock That the door will be opened the door will be opened the door will be opened I come to you with a life that I do not own I come to you with a life that I do not own The door to your kingdom is grace And you gave your own life away That the door will be opened

For all you Harry Potter fans, here’s a link to her recent commencement speech. I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but here’s a paragraph that stood out:

Do you ever feel like God’s punching bag? I do. I’ve felt like that for most of my life, now that I think about it. Whenever I step out on faith, I find holes in the floor. I’ve fallen so many times that standing at all sometimes feels like valor, much less taking another step. But I keep on, out of stubbornness sometimes more than anything as noble as faith or hope, thinking that somewhere down the line, somehow this is going to make sense. Somehow all these trips and falls and bloodied knuckles are going to achieve something one day, right? One day I’m going to follow where he leads me, and it’s going to be somewhere other than off a cliff, right? The past couple of months, a lot of things in my life seemed to turn around. I felt like for the first time in years, I could hear God’s voice loud and clear. The bruises of the past healed and I started walking by faith again, venturing into places I’d never gone before, doing things I’d never do on my own without the direction of the Holy Spirit. I took every step in prayer. Shut my eyes, Lord, so that I will not see the things I want. Place my feet, Lord, on the path you have set for me. And he did, and amazing things happened. I was happier than I have ever been. I was content, at peace, secure in the knowledge that my steps were not my own. Until, the path took me over the edge of the cliff again and unlike those kids in the Sigur Ros video, I didn’t fly.  Everything changed, without any reason or explanation, I fell. Now again, my legs shake when I try to stand. Why should I follow a God that seems to take pleasure in seeing me fail? The rational side of me says that there’s a reason for all this even though I can’t see it yet. But the emotional side of me just wants to scream and rage and curse the day I followed him at all. How are we supposed to learn when we can’t see the resolution? The only lesson I can ever seem to find is that it’s better not to trust at all. How many times can a person follow in faith when those steps so often lead to heartbreak. How do you maintain hope when all evidence suggests it’s folly? That’s the definition of hope, I’m aware, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t have any answers here. I just want to learn the lessons he’s trying to teach me. So why won’t he show me what the lesson is? I’m tired of falling. And I don’t want to be, but right now, I’m tired of following.

For those of you out there holding on for life.

The Bible is a collection of some of the greatest and earliest stories in human history. Love stories, dramas, action-adventures, romantic comedy, war epics, soap operas–you name it and there’s something to fit your bill. Given our love of Story here at the Rabbit Room, I thought it would be fun to hear what There is this strange story … actually it’s just a point within a story in Daniel that I find completely fascinating. Paul mentions that we don’t battle against flesh and blood and instead draws our attention to the spiritual battle taking place around us. In the book of Daniel, there’s a quick mention of an angel coming to attend to Daniel and he says to him something along the lines of “I would have gotten here sooner, but it took me twenty-one days to get to you because a spiritual evil force over the kingdom of Persia withstood me…” I just find that completely profound and absolutely interesting. The second story, and perhaps the one I can more readily make sense of and identify with (I wrote a song based on this on my 2001 album, Land of the Living) is the story, also starring Elisha, of the swimming iron in 2 Kings 6:1-7. In a congregationally-supported new sanctuary building campaign, several Hebrew men, having outgrown their current digs, meet at a point alongside the Jordan River and proceed to cut down some local trees from which they will begin construction of their new state-of-the-art, modern A/V, fully Power-Pointed, plush assembly hall. At one harried, hacking point, one of the tools suffers a manufacturer’s malfunction (made in China?), and the iron axehead falls off the wooden handle into the river below. Being made of iron, it, of course, sinks like a proverbial stone to the bottom of the murky creek. Being a poor man and having borrowed the tool in the first place, this gent probably suffers a bit of a conniption fit since he has no way of recompensing the man from whom he borrowed it. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, get over it, one might say in today’s non-prophetic world, but not in those non-potable times; not when there were real live God-ordained prophets roaming the sand-laden streets, handing out basketfuls of deliverance and omens seemingly left and right. These scared gentlemen request that Elisha saunter over and help them solve the poor man’s dilemma. Elisha, as to be expected, obliges. He asks them to point out where, exactly, the axehead fell into the river. They point, he picks up a twig, tosses it onto the river at that spot, and, like a Cheerio in milk, the iron swims to the surface. All is well with the world. Great thanks to Charles Spurgeon, I am vaguely able to make a little more sense of this OT snippet. At first glance, this appears to be a story of a miracle – a physical one. It is to my understanding that iron normally does not float on water. But I suspect that it is also the story of the underlying miracle that God – the same God of Elisha, Abraham, Moses, David, the father of Jesus – should daily care for the seemingly mundane, day-to-day occasions of our lives, that it is a miracle that ANYTHING should ever go right in this world, much less go wrong, and, to crown our oblong heads, that He finds us worthy of such mercy and attention. This is no small thing. David brings him in and restores everything he lost to him, except one thing– his independence. David vows to treat Mephibosheth as one of his own sons, and sets a place at the King’s table for him– which means for every meal, Mephibosheth must be carried to his place in the Kingdom and sit at the table of the one who took him from his land of desolation and restored his reputation from being a shameful figitive to an adopted son of the King. It is a hard and glorious picture of grace to be called by the One who holds all the cards and to have to remain in his presence when it would seem much easier if he would just give us independence from him so we could go and make something of ourselves. Part of Mephibosheth’s restoration is the requirement to live as a son of the King, not merely as his subject. The way I see it, either Jonah wrote Jonah, or he told the story and it was written later. Either way, this makes Jonah pretty amazing. I want to be just like the guy who tells this story about himself, the way it is told in scripture. With no self-pity, no sugar coating, and no concern for his reputation, Jonah reveals the depth of his ingratitude and the fathomless depths of God’s mercy. His prayer at the beginning of Chapter 2 is astounding for its dichotomous combination of poetic prophecy and immature sincerity. When I read that prayer, I believe that Jonah has been healed of his selfish ways. Then, only one chapter later, Jonah is revealed to be just like me – full of contradictions. Jonah is not afraid to question God, and God is patient with Jonah. And though Jonah’s personal story reveals God’s power, grace and mercy, there is a much bigger story being told that gives my own struggling journey of faith a proper context. God is always up to something much greater and more wonderful than we can imagine. And, since Jonah told this story sometime later, I draw encouragement from his transformation from a confused and self-centered prig into a selfless testifier of the Greatness of God. I love this book. I named my son Jonah Goodgame. It’s an up and down story, the paradox of a strong God using our weak humanity to accomplish His purposes. I’ve not heard many sermons on the divine use of sarcasm. “…All the families of the Earth will bless themselves in you and your descendants. Yes. I’ll stay with you, I’ll protect you wherever you go, and I’ll bring you back to this very ground. I’ll stick with you until I’ve done everything I promised you.” And so it goes with Jacob, he lies, he cheats, he steals and leaves in his wake a trail of broken and befuddled people. And yet God blesses him and continues to direct him surely down the path that was always set for him. Much later, Jacob encounters the Angel of The Lord Himself, and has the gall to wrestle with him and demand to be blessed yet again. He is blessed with a new name and a wound he would carry in his walk for the rest of his days, this wild horse of a man broken at last. It’s a mysterious story that has such a ring of truth to it because of how difficult it is to make a nice and tidy morality tale out of it. It reminds me that those who are broken and walk with more of a limp than a swagger have most likely met with God. It reminds me, too, that God’s will for my own life has less to do with my own virtues than I would like to think. That is both humbling and a relief. However they knew each other, Paul sent Onesimus back to Philemon to face the music. But he did more than that. He wrote Philemon a letter on behalf of Onesimus. He said, in effect, “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’m sending Onesimus back to you, and I hope you’ll find it in your heart to receive him, not as a slave, but as a brother. Receive Onesimus as you would receive me. And if he has wronged you, charge it to my account.” Here is the gospel at work–making brothers out of slaves and slavemasters. We don’t think of there being a lot of narrative in Paul’s epistles, but this particular one seems like part of an epistolary novel. I’d love to know what happened when (or if) Onesimus got back to Colossae.

Well, it’s Monday and here we are at the P’s. Technically, it’s Eric Peters’s turn at bat for the song of the day, but I’m in a Super 8 motel room in Wausau, Wisconsin and all of the EP music I own is on my home hard drive. Never fear, Eric Peters fans. Tomorrow is his day. I chose this song because we dusted it off and included it in our set this weekend in Wisconsin and Minnesota, reminding me of how much I love to play it, and why it was written. My friend Joel Caldwell flies around in Alaska, bringing much-needed encouragement to the many missionaries braving that fine country’s harsh-but-beautiful conditions. And when I say harsh, I don’t just mean the rugged landscape and the brutally long, cold winters. I’m also talking about the stoic, quiet, strong people who live there. Of course I don’t mean everybody, but during the week I spent in northern Alaska I encountered some of the toughest people I’ve ever met. Wonderful, warm, gracious people, but tough. This lyric is peppered with images and metaphors that I knew would be a little vague to the casual listener, and when I perform it I have a hard time not explaining the minutiae of each line, knowing that it’s too much for an audience to digest in one listen. I trust that the repetitive chorus is enough to latch on to, enough to help the listener fill in whatever blanks are left by the images flitting by. But I thought I’d tell you a little about what’s behind some of these lines, just for fun. ALL SHALL BE WELL Words and music by Andrew Peterson (Matthew 16:18, Matthew 5:16, Luke 15:20-24, Luke 15:4, Isaiah 40:8, Hebrews 12:1) We touched down on the sound (1) At the top of the world In the land of the midnight sun Where the frozen river melts away And breaks into a run (2) Into the sea, into the mighty waves That waited just to see it From a long way off that river thawed And the tide ran out to meet it “Welcome home, unfrozen river, welcome home” (3) ‘Cause all shall be well, all shall be well (3) Break the chains of the gates of Hell Still all manner of things will be well (4) See the quiet hearts of the children of The children of this land (5) They have stayed alive in the day-long night By the fires that warm their hands There is a wilderness inside them It is dark and thick and deep And beside the fire at the heart of that wood Is a precious missing sheep (6) So go on in, hold your torch, let it shine Cause all shall be well, all shall be well Break the chains of the gates of Hell Still all manner of things will be well All shall be well, all shall be well The Word of God will never fail And all manner of things will be well There’s a light in the darkness There’s an end to the night (7) I saw the sun go down on a frozen ocean As the man in the moon was rising (8) And he rode the night all full and bright With his face at the far horizon And the night can be so long, so long You think you’ll never get up again But listen now, it’s a mighty cloud of Witnesses around you (9) (They say) Hold on, just hold on Hold on to the end All shall be well, all shall be well Break the chains of the gates of Hell Still all manner of things will be well All shall be well, all shall be well The Word of God will never fail And all manner of things will be well ——————————————- The Norton Sound. The towns we visited were mostly coastal, the farthest north of which was Nome. Those of you who live in cold climates know about the “river going out”. I remember seeing in a town in Minnesota an old car parked on a frozen river where everyone could see it. The town held a yearly raffle to predict what day of the spring thaw the car would finally sink through the ice. Well, in Alaska there’s much speculation about which day of spring the ice on the rivers will break apart and pour into the ocean. It apparently all happens in one raucous moment, and we missed it by two days. It was the talk of the town. I couldn’t help thinking of the thawing of the heart of the prodigal son and his eventual return to the arms of his father. “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” –Julian of Norwich Which is to say, all Hell may break loose, but in the end things will be made right. Many of the Native Americans I met in Alaska were quiet, stoic, intimidating. But behind those fierce eyes was much kindness, and much that needed kindness, too. The landscape of that wild country was much like the inner terrain of that country’s people. Dark, dangerous, but with the bright, warm fire of a soul burning somewhere inside, a lost sheep waiting to be found and loved and carried home. This of course refers to the long night of winter. The occurrence of depression and suicide in Alaska is many times that of the lower states, which is part of why I wanted to write a song of encouragement. On the shore of the coastal village of Unalakleet I sat by a fire and watched the sun slide at a 45 degree angle into the sea while behind me a fat yellow moon lifted over the mountains. I thought about the mighty “cloud of witnesses” in Hebrews when I saw that moon surrounded by clouds on its long journey into the night.

This is the song that made me an Andrew Osenga fan.  It’s almost unbearably honest, so beautiful, so contrite. It expresses so eloquently the way I’ve felt in the wake of sin that I have more than once muttered this song as my best prayer for forgiveness and help.  On this note, have a great weekend and be thankful that you are loved. TOO FAR TO WALK  (from the album Photographs) Jesus, Jesus, Jesus I did what I planned to do And I feel like I knew I would feel Now I want to come back to You My mind is thick and it’s dirty My heart, it ran to hide My plans proved I don’t know what I’m doing Cause I used to feel alive [Chorus] There’s an angel on my left shoulder And ten devils on my right Jesus, you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk tonight Jesus, Jesus, Jesus How can I explain These promises scattered ‘Round the floor by the bed Like dinner clothes after a date I get scared that forgiveness Is for better people So I give up trying to fight Jesus, you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk tonight Jesus, Jesus, Jesus How precious is that name And while you’re forgiving I’m sorry I forget That you came for sinners to save [Chorus] There’s an angel on my left shoulder And ten devils on my right Jesus, you’ll have to come get me Cause it’s too far to walk tonight

One day, all dumbness will vanish from my life and my goofs will haunt me no more. Until then, I must reconcile myself to the fact that on some days my elevator doesn’t go to the top floor. In high school, I once drove my car to school–backwards. Then there was the time I gave a speech to a room full of people–with my fly down. And the time as a young adult when I put my foot in my mouth so far, I had to call Roto-Rooter. I once told a man who was dying of cancer that he looked great (he did), which would have been fine if I’d left it there. Unfortunately, I continued, “I can’t believe that everybody says you look so sick.” Yikes. Have you ever cringed so deeply that your whole body twisted? I can forgive myself for slips of the tongue though. In fact, it’s quite easy to forgive myself for situations in which I was forced to make a quick decision, but simply chose wrong. But when I engage in what I call premeditated dumb, well that is where I want to literally kick my own butt. On Friday of last week, I had one such day. It started on such a sweet, positive note. My wife bought me a new gas grill as an early Father’s Day present. In the last five or six years, I’ve developed the recreational hobby of cooking and it was a very thoughtful gift. We actually shopped together several days prior, something we don’t often have time to do. We visited four different stores, and settled on a unit with the best combination of features and sale price. Friday was the day I chose to transport it home. With a little forethought and wisdom, at this point I could have averted impending trouble, but it was on this day that had you wired my brain for sound, you might have heard an echo between my ears. After another errand, I stopped at Menard’s to pick up the new grill. The unit that was on sale was sold out, so I had to drive to the next closest store, which had several in stock. It was inconvenient, but these things happen. No problem. Despite the inconvenience, everything was going well until–like a fool–I tried to transport the grill home in my car. This is truly one of the downright dumbest things I’ve done in awhile. I ask the young man that helped me take the grill to the car if anybody had ever tried to fit a grill of this size into a car. Get this; He said, “No, except for one guy that opened the box and put the whole thing in by individual parts!” So at that point, I began to sense (hello, anybody in there?) that the odds were not stacked in my favor. I think statisticians call this scenario “low probability.” The grill was obviously too large for the car. Never one to be deterred by the obvious, I tried to force the issue. After twisting and turning the massive box like a fat lady trying on a pair of shoes two sizes too small, my assistant and I managed to squeeze the box into the passenger seat of the car. But there was one problem. The box hung out from the side of the car about six inches, nothing a little muscle power couldn’t fix! So with the raw strength of–oh, say two of the Three Stooges–we huffed and puffed until we heard a loud, POP!!! And with the POP!!! the grill easily slid in enough to close the door. Upon careful investigation, I noticed that my rear view mirror was hanging from my car roof by strands of wire, which control the auto dimming function of the rear view mirror. The rear view mirror had been unceremoniously ripped from the windshield, which in turn cracked the windshield in one of those star patterns. So because we have a high deductible on our insurance, I’ll be footing the bill for this one. The windshield replacement will probably cost more than the grill! One of “those” days? That’s positive spin. It was much worse than that, especially on my psyche. To add insult to injury, I discovered that I couldn’t shift into drive. So now, with part of the box stuck out of the passenger side window and part stuck out of the moon roof, I couldn’t drive because the box was wedged up against the automatic shifter. Finally, I muscled the box another two inches, enough to shift into drive. At that point, I was wedged in between the grill and driver’s side door, and I suddenly realized that my Diet Coke and peanuts–which I bought as a snack for the trip home–were in the back seat. Though my body was immobile, I confirmed the location of my snack by turning my neck. I just wanted to confirm that they were still there. Hey, I needed some cheering up at that point! But then I had another problem called visibility–or lack thereof. Not only did I not have the benefit of my rear view mirror, but I couldn’t see out of the right side of my car because–you guessed it–the grill was blocking my view. As this point, you may be thinking, “Why didn’t he just call his wife?” And if that’s what you are thinking, I’m quite sure you are female. Men think differently. I could have called my wife, of course. But I didn’t. Yes, I could have rented or borrowed a pick-up. And yes, I am stubborn like you wouldn’t believe. I got the thing in the car and wasn’t about to change my plan at that point. So, v-e-r-y carefully, I drove home. The worst part? Explaining the whole thing to my wife. And yes, she laughed, thankfully in a gentle way. Sometime I’ll tell you all about some of the other dumb things I’ve done in my life, but this one is enough humiliation for one day. As I type this, I keep hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. Unfortunately, tomorrow is the day that I assemble the grill.

From Gullahorn’s website: “I say this is the love song to my hat. It was also a way to complain about lazy music industry people – but that is not as endearing.” NOBODY WANTS TO WORK It took me ten good years to break in this old hat It has a black sweat ring and the bill is cracked It’s all frayed in the front and duct taped in the back There’s so much that this hat has been through In the window of the Abercrombie store There’s a product line I’m sure you’ve seen before Brand new baseball caps made to look already worn What is this world coming to Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it If it don’t come easy, it ain’t worth the wait Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it Welcome to the new old-fashioned way I love the music that I grew up on When the business was all about the song These days it’s just one throw up against the wall If you don’t stick, that’s it – you’re through Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it If it don’t come easy, it ain’t worth the wait Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it Welcome to the new old-fashioned way I see it all the time In the cardboard sign That says I won’t work for food But I’d be happy to take your dime Or the billboard for A quick and cheap divorce We don’t try to fix anything anymore Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it If it don’t come easy, it ain’t worth the wait Nobody wants to work Nobody wants to work for it Welcome to the new old-fashioned way

I spoke with Jason on the phone today and when I told him that he was next in line for the song of the day, he pleaded that I not post his song after Goodgame’s Peanuts goodness. But I have no choice, I told him. I’m posting the songs of the day in alphabetical order according to artist, and Gray comes after Goodgame. Besides, though his great humility may tell him otherwise, Jason has nothing to worry about. His songs are honest and well-crafted, not to mention excellently produced. Check this one out, for example, sung with his musical compadre Sara Groves: THE CUT Words: JG Music: JG & Matt Patrick Psalm 119:67-77 My heart is laid Under Your blade As you carve out Your image in me You cut to the core But still you want more As you carefully, tenderly ravage me And You peel back the bark And tear me apart To get to the heart Of what matters most I’m cold and I’m scared As your love lays me bare But in the shaping of my soul They say the cut makes me whole Mingling here Your blood and my tears As You whittle my kingdom away But I see that you suffer, too In making me new For the blade of Love, it cuts both ways And You peel back the bark And tear me apart To get to the heart Of what matters most I’m cold and I’m scared As your love lays me bare But in the shaping of my soul They say the cut makes me whole Hidden inside the grain Beneath the pride and pain Is the shape of the man You meant me to be Who with every cut now you try to set free CHORUS… …With everyday You strip more away And You peel back the bark And tear me apart To get to the heart Of what matters most I’m cold and I’m scared As your love lays me bare But in the shaping of my soul The blade must take it’s toll So God give me strength to know That the cut makes me whole