For Anyone Who’s Been Told to Be Something They’re Not

To anyone who’s worked in an image-obsessed industry, tried to climb its ladders only to learn on the third rung that in order to climb to the fourth or higher, you must change your tune, your angle, your brush, your personality, your face or your entire system of belief and being.

To anyone who loves Jesus but has, by virtue of being human, disappointed Him and other human Jesus-lovers who believe one must look, act, dress, or think a certain way – their way – lest one be damned to an eternity of hellfire.

To anyone who’s been told or pressured or otherwise forced to be something you simply are not.

I have a song for you.

It’s called “Shiver.”

And thanks to the music mongrels at Microsoft Windows, you can download it for FREE right now.

But first, let me tell you why I wrote it and why you might appreciate it.

As a singer/songwriter whose songs and themes don’t tuck very well into either the mainstream or Christian markets, and whose audience is too eclectic and motley to nail down for advertising or marketing purposes…

As an artist who is as passionate about social justice, political idealism, and theological Truth as she is about music itself, and sees music as more of a tool to effectively and poetically present beliefs and ideas (rather than letting music being an end or goal in itself) …

As a person who has never quite belonged anywhere but been fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on your you see it) enough to at least find comfortable pockets in numerous corners…

As a woman who wants to love God, love others, be a good wife, and a good step mom, and still write songs that mean something; who wants to be a captivating performer without having to sacrifice artistry or shed clothing, and hopefully do it well enough, often enough, and powerfully enough to contribute to her family’s financial well-being…

As a Christian who has explored and for a time even engaged and adopted both fundamentalism and progression, legalism and liberation, reformed and emergent theology…

And as a Christ-follower who has done her best to decipher the line between Truth and lies, tolerance and narrow-mindedness, grace and justice, love and righteousness, and has yet to find anything but various shades of gray in the midst of and clouding it all…

From this, I wrote “Shiver.”

I wrote it as one who is tired of the game and all its arbitrary rules.

I wrote it about my own decision to press on and determine to do what I do, whether or not the cowboys with their big guns call me a trailblazer; whether or not the church – or the unchurched – agree with me, or even hear or care about what I have to say.

It’s about awareness…knowing I am clumsy and imperfect, and will never be a statuesque model for either the Christian or mainstream music industries. My eyes will always be crooked. My teeth un-braced. And I will never have a perfect 6-pack, or an hourglass figure, no matter how many trainers run me into the ground or how many makeup artists re-make my face. I will always be a little too merciful to the undeserving and a little too judgmental of the holy. I will always be slightly obnoxious. A breath of fresh air to some, and an unpleasant smell to others.
But I am who I am.

And I’ve quite come to like it.

It’s not about me anyway. It’s about calling and purpose and passion, and refusing to be stifled or tamed by humanity and its rules.

It’s about living in authentic belief, and standing firm. Recognizing the manipulation for what it is, and acknowledging that what I think I want, and what others say I (we) should want – really, what “everyone wants” – is really not all that desirable when it comes right down to it.

We are who we are, as God made us to be.

And “Shiver” is, simply, about being unashamedly and fearlessly His…and no one else’s.

“SHIVER” (Click to Download for FREE)
(c) & (p) 2008 Amalia Musica (SESAC)

You want to make me something else
It’s hard enough to be me
You want to wrap me up in bows
And put me on parade

But I’m not what you think
I’ll lose your rings
I’ll toss your string of pearls
I’m not your girl

(CHORUS)
And I thought you had everything I’d ever wanted
But I’m not for sale
And I won’t let you wrap me around your little finger
Pull your guns out, stroke the trigger
You won’t see me shake and shiver

There’s more to life than what you think
And there’s more to thinking
Than to doll up
For the prince of these

But you can’t hide your scars and bruises
You can’t just pretend the things you chose
Don’t own you know

(CHORUS)

You want to pull me into a fight
To prove I need you more than
I need to breathe

(CHORUS)

Pull your guns out and watch me
Pull your guns out and watch me closely
Pull your guns out, stroke the trigger
You won’t see me shake and shiver

70 Miles, 98 Degrees, and a Pair of Leggings Later…

At a scorching ninety-eight degrees tempered by a maniacal 70% humidity (or so I guess), in which I drove from the south side of Nashville to the northwest side of Nashville, twice, sans air conditioning, and that only after having run five miles and sweated what I thought was every drop of hydration my body could squeeze out of itself and learning, instead, that there is in fact a deep well of reserved perspiration available for pore-leaking only during such drives as these (in a strange, but typical, bit of irony)…well, you can imagine it was not a particularly comfortable start to what would become one of the worst afternoons of my life.

I was heading to Northwest Nashville to visit Gina in prison (she’s there for another six months – but that story is best saved for another rantablog) for my second time. I hadn’t seen her in two weeks and hadn’t been able to get a letter to her in as much time, and I had promised her during my last visit that I would be there to see her on both Saturday and Sunday. Prison sucks; visitors are really the only thing that keeps you going sometimes, so I wasn’t about to flake, despite my exhaustion and the heat.

I realized just two miles away from my destination, though, that I left my driver’s license with Paul who’d been holding onto it for me at Friday night’s Fleetwood Mac concert. I called him in a fit, and he confirmed that he did indeed have my ID. But because it was already 1:20pm, and visitors are not allowed in between 1:30 & 2:30, I knew I didn’t have time to go all the way home and get back in time to visit for a couple hours. So I tried my luck and went to the prison anyway, hoping that I could get in without ID since they did require a recent professional photo attached to all visitation applications, and thus, presumably, had my picture on file (which they could easily match to the person standing in front of them). But alas, the guard said she couldn’t allow it. She said ID was absolutely and unconditionally required of all visitors.

Funnily enough, as I walked out of the building, head hung low but intent on getting home and returning with my ID before the 3:00pm official daily visitation cut-off (“No visitors allowed in after 3:00pm; Visitation hours are over at 3:30pm”), she allowed a woman and her son/grandson into the visitation area without much more than a “hey, how’s it going? Good to see you made it today…” I.e., she didn’t have to show ID.

Anyway, I let it go, rushed home, pocketed my license and hurried back to the prison wanting not to waste one of those precious 60 minutes I’d have with Gina. When I arrived for the second time that day, the guard was all smiles, welcoming me back with a condescending grin and eye-roll, holding me off for “just a second” as she rounded the desk to remove the “closed until 2:30″ sign from the door…

At which point she “realized” I was wearing a t-shirt and long black yoga leggings.

Which are not allowed.

Our conversation went as follows:

Guard: “Oh, honey, why’d you have to change your clothes? Leggin’s aren’t allowed here, you know that!”

Me: “You have GOT to be kidding me. I didn’t change my clothes. I’m wearing the exact thing I was wearing an hour ago, when you said I couldn’t enter without an ID. I didn’t change. Perhaps the sweat-soaked discoloration of the shirt is what’s confusing?”

Guard: “Hold on, I’ll check.” [Calls boss guard man.] “Nope, they’re not allowed.”

Me: HUGE, obvious, discernible sigh, as a glint of tear fills my exhausted eye.

Guard: “Boy, you’re not having a very good day now, are you honey!?”

At this point, all I really wanted to do was punch her in the face and say, “No, in fact, it’s been a horrible day. Maybe you’d like to give me a bit of a break? Or maybe, if not me, you’d like to give your prisoner a bit of a break, since I am here to encourage her, pray with her, and otherwise help make her life better and thus easier for YOU to deal with?”

Instead, I simply said, “No, no I’m not having a very good day.”

She offered me a rulebook before I left for the day. And I swear she was wearing a smirk as I walked away.

Poor Paul got MORE than a few earfuls as I drove home that day. And when Sunday rolled around, it took every second of that 30 minute drive to determine and will myself to follow their arbitrary rules without argument, be kind and courteous to the guards who I’ve come to believe are just as miserable – if not more – than the prisoners my taxpayer dollars are paying them to watch (and by the way, I really wish there were some kind of “Citizen’s Fire” sister rule to the whole “Citizen’s Arrest” thing), and do whatever it took just to get through the locked doors in to see Gina.

And it was good and right that I’d willed myself into that mindset (or, rather, that God graciously granted me the patience to deal with them) because they were neither kind nor helpful in the least when I came in for the third time in two days.

But ten minutes later, when Gina finally came through the prisoner door into the big visitation room with a roaring smile on her face and wearing the tangible excitement of having her first visitor in over two weeks…

Well, if she can handle daily life in prison with these people, I will handle a few minutes with them each Saturday and Sunday.

Here’s the Thing about Jon and Kate…

I won’t lie: I’m a bit of a gossip rag addict. My favorite families to babysit for are the ones in which the mom has a weekly subscription to BOTH People and Us Weekly. They give me my fill of all things trashy in the celebrity realms. There is no explanation for my fascination, but neither can I deny it nor pretend I’m not addicted. Paul would out me in a second.

Anyway, so if you’re with me on this (and I know a lot more of you are gossip rag whores than will admit, and to you I say, “admission is the first step to recovery” if, indeed, recovery is what you’re after. I, personally, am not…), you’ve seen all the nonsense about Jon & Kate Plus 8. Jon’s cheating. Kate’s overbearing. Jon’s a kid. Kate’s too much of a crazy mother. Blah blah blah.

Part of me feels bad for them having to live this out in the public eye. Part of me says they’re lying in the bed they made. Part of me says, “Jon, you’re a douche bag for even being seen with another woman, whatever your excuses may be.” The other part says “Well, I wouldn’t want to spend my life with Kate either.” Part of me feels bad for Jon, who – according to most accounts and his own comments on the show – hasn’t really ever wanted to do this show, but went along with it, while Kate ate up the fame and fortune. And God knows I don’t want my marriage to fall under that kind of peril. I don’t want it to fall apart in public. Much less on television, as cameras catch our kids’ reaction to the whole situation.

This morning, though, I read on some news source (a legitimate one – CBS News) that a big announcement is coming in one of the next episodes. Something about “life-changes” and “finding peace” and “a family in turmoil.” Speculation is that they’re at their breaking point. It’s headed for divorce. Maybe the decision’s been made and it’s a matter of announcements.

What I don’t want to hear, though, is that it’s all about irreconcilable differences. I don’t want to hear “there’s just too much to mend” or some crap like that.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand the gravity of a broken relationship. I understand the heaviness of wading through a mess that’s gotten that big. I understand that some problems are bigger than the two people involved, and more powerful than all their efforts put together. For heaven’s sake, I married a divorcee! I understand that divorce happens. It is a fact of this life.

But after witnessing, first hand over the last eighteen months alone, three of my close friends go through the agony of infidelity (sometimes repeated infidelity) and choose to plow through it to a place of peace  within the storm and despite the storm, I’ve come to a point of truly believing that if you want your marriage to work, you’ll work it out. I’ve come to believe that if you count your marriage – and your spouse – as truly more important than yourself, you will do what it takes to preserve the marriage and your spouse, no matter the great personal cost. That’s “living as Christ.”

I think it’s counter-intuitive in a lot of ways. It’s certainly counter-culture, both socially and religiously, to stay in a marriage marred by infidelity, especially when “Jesus Himself gave the out!” And all three of my friends have been encouraged – at times, even pressured – by Christian and non-Christian friends alike to leave their marriages. To admit defeat and walk away with a little dignity intact. Some have been accused of choosing to live as a victim or called “weak and stupid” for their decisions. Some have been flat out un-friended for choosing to stay with an adulterous partner.

But I applaud my friends. I admire their courage. I envy their determination and their simple but steadfast commitment to their fatally flawed husbands. Because they aren’t fighting for their spouses, for their marriages, or for themselves. They’re fighting for and in the strength of something much bigger and much more significant. There have been times in my own marriage when I’ve thought, “This is total crap. I’m giving and giving and giving while Paul is walking all over me.” And some of the best advice I ever received was to suck it up and let him. Because yelling at him, fighting him, and wasting myself in trying to do the impossible – change him on my terms – was futile, and that the best thing I could do is be the wife I was called to be regardless of whether or not he’s being the husband he committed to be. Heeding that advice changed me as often as it changed my husband or our circumstances. (Reminds me of camp when we used to tell petulant crybaby campers, “Suck it up, Wussy! Jesus DIED for you!” Ha!)

And one of my dear friends affirmed that whole thought process when she told me, “This isn’t about me or how I’ve been hurt anymore, Amy. It’s not about [my husband]. It’s not about our kids. This is about the simple fact that whether or not he’s being a godly husband, I have responded to the call to be a godly wife. And at this point, my only peace comes in determining to follow the voice of the Lord, who has not freed me to leave him but has called me to be Hosea to this Gomer of a man.”(If you’re wondering who or what Hosea and Gomer are, simply read the book of Hosea, one of Scripture’s minor prophets.)

People think she’s crazy. People think she’s a bad mother. People think she’s setting herself up for another disaster.

I think she’s beautiful. I think that she would sit comfortably well in the company of some of Christian History’s finest women. I think Mary and Rahab and Ruth and Tamar would applaud her. I think Christ would commend her.

I know she’d hear, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

I know these are only three stories among hundreds of thousands. And it may be said that they are the rare exception to the rule.

But I disagree. I believe these women set the standard, and that theirs is a Higher rule. And I know, having now watched them and their situations change, their husbands grow and become and morph into men their wives never thought to hope for, and having watched their marriages grow (or begin growing) into towering trees from a pile of rotten roots, that their decisions have been right all along and that their reward isn’t a special place in Heaven, but the glory of God shining bright and clear through their marriages. I think they are hope.

So I don’t know about Jon and Kate. I don’t know anything more about their situation than the rags tell me. I’m certainly not here to pass judgment on anyone who’s been divorced or is in the middle of one because, hey, thanks to a grim divorce, I’m now the wife of an amazing, incredible, wonderful man. And yes, these women are not the exception to the rule but are living according to a different rule altogether.

But I attribute our blessings in marriage to the fact that God is capable of making good of anything.

Anything.

And I think that’s the point: no marriage is dead unless we neglect it long enough and choose to let it die anymore than a spirit is dead unless we actively choose it. There’s never a point where we’ll be forced to choose death. I believe God is as much the God of restoration as He is the God of reconciliation.

And remember? He’s the God of resurrection, who brings dead things back to life.

It’s true. I’ve watched it happen!

ps: I’m not encouraging anyone who’s in a violent or abusive marriage to stay with their partner physically. If you or your kids are being abused, beaten, raped or otherwise harmed, get out, seek help, and don’t return home until true change has turned the tide! But don’t give up on your spouse either. The best thing you can do is be for him or her. Sometimes that means walking away for good, but not always. Love begets love.

The Good

I don’t know about you, but it’s really easy for me to spiral from one not-totally-optimistic thought down into a pit of pessimism. I sometimes wonder if that’s my spiritual gift: the ability to see the dark side of anything. I think I get it from my mom. My dad would tell her, “you’re such a pessimist!” and she’d respond saying, “No, I’m a realist.”

For the record, I think she was a bit of a pessimistic realist. Or, in other common words we all understand: a cynic.

I inherited that glory. Or maybe I just adopted it because it came so naturally. Either way, I have a particularly advanced skill for finding something to complain about anything. If I play a really great show, I’ll dwell on the one less-than perfect song. Or the size of the non-crowd.

If I make a sizable deposit into the bank account one day and have to pay for a vandalized car window the next, instead of thanking God for His provision I find myself cynically nodding along, thinking “of course I made that deposit just in time to spend it on something stupid.”

When my husband generously and very deliberately does something he knows I’ll appreciate (like pull weeds and clear our entire “courtyard” of unruly greenery), I’m more prone to wondering why he didn’t empty the dishwasher too.

It’s true. I’m a bad wife.

But here’s what I’m learning. Joy – true, unadulterated and impenetrable joy – is in the small things. In having a husband who appreciates my dark and light.One who knows what I appreciate and makes the effort to do it, even though he doesn’t have to.

It’s in having the most perfect dog in the universe. No, seriously. Of all the crazy, mean, biting, angry, out-of-control abandoned canines we could have taken in, we got the one everybody else is jealous of. The one who cuddles, hugs, doesn’t bark, and came to us completely potty trained and house-ready.

It’s in having a guitar that makes beautiful sounds, even though its player isn’t as good as she would be if she practiced a little more.

In having the time to read books and enjoy the story.

It’s in having a car at all.

It’s in playing songs that five people appreciate and relate to. Writing songs that people “get”…that people actually take in and enjoy, because for whatever reason, they find hope in the melody and lyric. And that creates a relationship, a bond. And in the community that creates.

It’s in knowing that I know that I know that what I’m doing – whether it’s being a wife, or a stepmom, or a babysitter, or a musician, or a dreamer – is what I was created to do. And that, even when I’m discouraged by the “progress” others are making in my industry while I stand by wondering what I’m missing…

…Even when I’m disillusioned by the back-to-high-school popularity contest inherent in it all…

…Even when I’m broken down and tired, wondering when or if my time will come….

…I am doing something no one else can do, simply because these songs, these words, these melodies – they’re the outflow of my heart and my soul and my perspectives.

That doesn’t make them special or particularly wonderful, or worthy of being heard. It just makes them unique. They’re mine and no one else’s.

And I’m reminded that each of us – me, included – have a very specific and unique purpose during the few short years we live. And if I am living and doing as I was designed to live and do, then I am becoming what I am meant to be.

And it’s in a really good, strong, perfectly flavored cup of piping hot coffee.

See.

It’s the small things. The good in the mud that makes it worth playing in.

The Heights of Success

Yesterday morning, as I ate some cereal, drank some (delicious) coffee, and perused Little Rock’s local-yokel magazine, Soiree, reading about “women to watch” in the area, I got to thinking about success.

I suppose it was a natural progression of thought springing from the definitions given by the watchable women, most of whom agreed success was tied either to greater levels of wealth or power in the ever-changing, dangerous organism that is capitalism at work.

And perhaps it had a little to do with the fact that I was waking up from a two day stint in Little Rock, where I gave two of what I’d consider my best concerts ever.

Neither was particularly “well attended.” One was a private concert for the men and women served by Little Rock’s Union Rescue Mission, and followed a couple hours of serving them dinner and hearing some incredible life stories. Including the kiddos, there may have been fifty people hanging out on the lawn in the balmy evening heat to listen to me sing and talk. The second concert was   open to the public but predominantly attended by young people ranging from 13 to 16 in age. Again, when all was said and done, numbers counted and all, there were probably about 50 of us hanging out for the evening.

But wow. As I drove away this morning, I felt pretty successful.

After the concert on the lawn for the URM, one woman wrote and passed me a note about her experience. She said she couldn’t explain it in a conversation, because she’d end up crying her way through. But in her note, she spoke of the lost years she lived as a prostitute and drug addict, which were odd juxtaposed to her upbringing under a Baptist minister. She appreciated what she called “fearless” songs; songs that look at the darker, harsher, deeper sides of life – sides so many people can’t relate to, much less discuss, much less publically. She appreciated the “real”ness of it. And while thanking me for being usable in Lord’s hands, I was quietly thanking God for affirming me and my passion. And what a gift it was to go back to the Dorcas House today and spend a bit more time with those women who spend their days overcoming.

The second concert was equally encouraging, though in different ways. Like I said, it was for youth. Teenagers who don’t have a lot of money to either buy CDs or join Mocha Club. Teenagers who typically don’t appreciate the deeper things as much as we old soul’s do. Teenagers who might have been humoring their youth pastor by sitting quietly through my concert. But these guys…they were fun. They were generous. And they gave of themselves. They came and served with me at the URM. And after the concert, they gave up their money for bigger things. Many of them joined Mocha Club, and set the age of selflessness just a couple years younger. Many wanted to buy CDs and purchase jewelry or bags created by women rescued from sex slavery, but only having the money for one, chose to be part of the rescue efforts. And a few of them even let me sign their arms…and thought THEY got away with the best end of the deal.

Yeah.

As I look back over the last couple days, I feel lucky. I feel affirmed. I feel hopeful. I feel an overwhelming sense of awe as leaves take form on the branches of trees that were mere seeds in my palm just a few years ago. And I know I’m moving in the right direction and tilling the right soil when I am part of the passing out of Hope to people who know to grab hold of it, or am able to facilitate – or just watch! – young people stepping into the role of giver while most of their peers remain content simply to receive.

Indeed, money or no money, tour bus or no tour bus, arena or no arena, fame or no fame…Tonight, I am satisfied in my soul and in want of nothing.