NoiseTrade Widget

THE Blog: The Africa that Changed Me

This has been such a difficult blog to write. I want so much to share everything about Gulu and the Acholi people, but feel a need to give you the brightest highlights and keep the rest to myself until it rises to the surface of circumstance. Not because it’s not worth sharing, but because I fear in sharing it without context, it might lose power. I don’t know, but I don’t yet want to take the risk. I am certain, though, that as time moves us forward, stories will be shared as they relate to circumstances and my experience will prove itself something beyond time.

Grace - a Women of Hope - with me after the meeting.

For now, I’ll share the part that changed me at my core.

God began something early on that I knew would break me by week’s end. Traveling with a team of artists and musicians whose experience and notoriety far exceeds my own, I confess the desire to prove myself equal. Though my stage and audience are considerably smaller, I wanted to clarify that “I’m just as good.” Quite shameful on its own, even more in light of where we were and why.

So on Sunday, after an indescribable morning church service attended by 150+ Acholi from distances as far as 50 miles, we went to the Home of Love to spend the afternoon sharing music, playing our own guitar-based American songs as the kids giggled with delight, and watching them sing and dance to their own rhythms and melodies. It was both beautiful and terrible, mostly because after sharing my own song and declaring it utterly suckful, I sunk into myself and allowed pride to overwhelm me.

That evening as I prayed and scoured the Word for some kind of encouragement or affirmation, a promise from God that I am, indeed, good enough for both my team and the Acholi, God slapped me across the face saying, “Who exactly do you think you are? Why on earth would your songs matter more here than mine, and why should I share my glory and honor and approval with you? Have you learned nothing of these people? Do you still not realize that they recognize and crave what’s eternal, and the only eternal thing you can offer them is Me and whatever comes from Me? I brought you here to love them with My love, to serve them, to give of yourself without condition and for My glory, that they may see Christ. And here, still, you seek an ego massage.”

I cried myself to sleep that night, overwhelmed but determined to put myself away. There really was no other choice. God is right: whatever I give, in song or deed, if not for and to Him is utterly without and will waste away and be forgotten. And so I would spend the rest of my time seeking only to be a tool. Whether He spoke to or through or around or about me didn’t matter, so long as I was surrendered to Him and lifting Him up. Even if that meant just shutting up.

Monday was a new day. We went back to the school to share songs with the kids and paint their handprints on a mural, and as we sang together and taught the kids American praise songs with all the motions, I felt a clean wave of liberty wash over me. What mattered was that I engaged. Whether or not my vocal or guitar playing abilities were up to par wasn’t the point. They loved that I was there, and so I was ALL there.

And on Tuesday – our last day – Missy, Genevieve, and I had the extreme honor of attending the Women of Hope meeting and sharing songs and the Word with 200+ women living with HIV/AIDS who meet weekly to hear Scripture and to love, encourage, and comfort one another. They sang their welcoming song when we arrived, and I was immediately asked to sing a couple songs, which I did with relish. They applauded, but I think by the end of the second they were ready for the Word. My English songs may have sounded pretty, but still unintelligible to a group of women who don’t speak my language.

So, after being asked to “give the message,” Missy and Genevieve each read to the women from the Psalms. What’s beautiful about these people is that when they ask for the Word of God, they aren’t asking for a sermon. They believe the Word speaks for Himself, so they read the Word together and applaud and celebrate God for His goodness in teaching them. They don’t need all our hoopla of exegesis and application.

When Missy and Genevieve finished, I was invited back up. I wasn’t sure if they wanted more songs or more of the Bible, so I asked. And, to my good humiliation, they made abundantly clear they did not, in fact, want more music, but more of the Word.

So, having just been over this with God, I said, “Sounds good.” And I began to read from Isaiah 54. I’m not sure why I chose that passage, and I admit I was unsure whether it would mean anything to them. But the day we arrived I remember reading it and thinking, “this is for these people.” For a people who’ve been torn by war for 23 years, ravaged by disease and poverty, homeless and so often hopeless.

So I read to the women.

“Sing, O barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” says the LORD. “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities. Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood. For your Maker is your husband—the LORD Almighty is his name—the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; 
he is called the God of all the earth. The LORD will call you back as if you were a wife deserted and distressed in spirit—a wife who married young, only to be rejected,” says your God. “For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with deep compassion I will bring you back. In a surge of anger I hid my face from you for a moment, but with everlasting kindness 
I will have compassion on you,” says the LORD your Redeemer. “To me this is like the days of Noah, when I swore that the waters of Noah would never again cover the earth. So now I have sworn not to be angry with you, never to rebuke you again. Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,” says the LORD, who has compassion on you. “O afflicted city, lashed by storms and not comforted, I will build you with stones of turquoise, your foundations with sapphires. I will make your battlements of rubies, your gates of sparkling jewels, and all your walls of precious stones. All your sons will be taught by the LORD, and great will be your children’s peace. In righteousness you will be established: Tyranny will be far from you; you will have nothing to fear. Terror will be far removed; it will not come near you. If anyone does attack you, it will not be my doing; whoever attacks you will surrender to you. See, it is I who created the blacksmith who fans the coals into flame and forges a weapon fit for its work. And it is I who have created the destroyer to work havoc; no weapon forged against you will prevail, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and this is their vindication from me,” declares the LORD.”

As they heard the chapter in their own language, I watched something amazing happen. Throughout the reading, women cheered and hollered and shouted their “Hallelujah!”s and “AMEN!”s. One woman in the front kept looking at me with tearful eyes, smiling and giving a thumbs-up, apparently pleased with the passage.

And afterwards, when the women gathered to hug us Mzungus (white people) and introduce themselves, many explained their cheers. They are barren women, sick with HIV/AIDS and unable to conceive, abandoned by their husbands and scorned by society, riddled with worry about their children’s futures. They said these verses were indeed from God, a gift for them. They celebrate and revel in the promise of an Eternal Husband, a Redeemer who re-purposes the sick woman’s life, who Fathers her children and establishes them in peace and righteousness, protecting them from danger, terror, and even death.

I was moved to tears, overcome with gratitude to God for letting me deliver good news that day. It was as if clouds opened up and He pointed down and said, “See! I told you!”

I was even more moved when, in thanks to me (for what?), the Women of Hope gave me a new Acholi name.

“Amaro-Rwot.”

Which means,

“I love God.”

Repentance and Refreshment

“Therefore repent and return, so that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord…” (Acts 3:19)

“Jesus answered them, ‘It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’” (Luke 5:31)

“Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.” (1 Corinthians 7:10)

There are things I do, sins I commit on a regular – some might say habitual – basis that burden me. I often find myself in a perpetual state of repentance.

For flipping the bird at unsuspecting fellow drivers who are committing some of my personal favorite road sins, but because it’s them doing it and not me, it’s bird-worthy.

For thinking ugly, mean thoughts about other people and their situations; thoughts born of jealousy and insecurity, and which have no basis in reality.

For being human, and often choosing to embrace my fallen humanity rather than to “excell still more” and “press on toward the lofty goal” of righteousness.

There are little things. There are big things.

There are things I do which I know hurt God, but which I deliberately do anyway.

There are things I wouldn’t even think to confess and repent of without God’s willingness to discipline me by bringing them out.

And sometimes, when He does, I have to repent for cussing Him out about it. Because I don’t want to know how sinful I am. I really don’t enjoy the humiliation. And I don’t want to believe – as true as I know it is – that He draws it out like poison from a wound to save me, not to harm or humiliate me.

Sometimes I fight Him, but He is perfectly consistent and faithful in His refusal to let me go. He will draw me to repentance because in the humility of brokenness, I will find comfort and mending in His limitless long-suffering and kindness.

Which is what He wants in the first place: for me to repent and find peace and rest, beside Him.

It really is that simple.

Repent, and be forgiven, so that refreshment may come. Repent so that forgiveness can be received. Repent so that freedom can be enjoyed to its fullest.

I’m grateful God deals in mercy. And that by His great mercy, I am able to enter His presence, fully aware of (and humbled by) my great unworthiness, and find a King willing to have me anyway.

I believe that’s what repentance is for: to keep us ever mindful of our great need and His infinite capacity to meet it.

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” (Galatians 5:1)

I’M FINALLY GOING TO AFRICA!!!

HALLELUJAH!

I’m so excited to report flights are booked, schedules are being finalized, and I’m finally, Finally, FINALLY (!!) heading to Gulu, Uganda (Africa) September 22 – October 3 to Mocha Club’s Child Mother’s Village of Hope. As many of you know, I’ve been longing to visit Gulu for the last four years, and am convinced that God has saved me for this trip specifically, as I’ll not be going “just to go,” but will be joining the people I and many of you have been supporting and gathering support for in the Village of Hope over the last two years through my artist partnership with Mocha Club. It seems that what began as a small seed planted by Mercy’s tragic story and my never-quite-enough involvement with Invisible Children has grown inconceivably bigger. This isn’t just about taking a missions trip; it’s about traveling to the other side of the world to meet my heart-family and gather up a piece of myself I didn’t ever know had been planted in Africa long ago. I’m leaping for joy over this opportunity! (If you want to know more about the lead-up to this trip and my “history” with Africa, check out this blog!



ABOUT GULU.

Gulu, Uganda is replete with people who have lived in fear for over 20 years. The Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), a rebel paramilitary group in Northern Uganda, has terrorized villages, raiding homes, stealing children either to add to their army (boys as young as 5 years old) or use as sex slaves (women and young girls), killing villagers, and destroying the village. While LRA leader Joseph Kony denies it all, the women of Gulu, aptly named “Child Mothers,” tell a different story of abduction, soldier training, and sexual slavery to rebel soldiers in the LRA. Now that they’ve escaped or been excused as expendable, the community at large rejects them and their children. But through The “Village of Hope” in Gulu, over 500 of these child mothers live in a safe community with shelter, job training, a medical facility, and a school for their children. And they have “The Butterfly Center” a refugee center where receive love, acceptance, support, Christian counseling, and a safe haven.

OUR TEAM.

Thanks to our artist leadership team at Mocha Club, a group of seven passionate artists (including yours truly) from across the U.S. will be traveling together. Once we reach the Village of Hope, we’ll be spending our days painting murals in the Village’s various facilities, teaching the kids how to paint/sing/dance, worshiping and leading Bible studies with the men, women and children, and doing whatever else may be helpful to the ever-growing ministry in Gulu. We pray this trip will be a foundational one on which we’ll build a lasting partnership with Ugandans and the leadership at The Village of Hope!

I NEED HELP!

As always, I need your help to get there and back! In the next few short weeks leading up to September 22, I need to raise $3500 to cover travel expenses, room & board, and to purchase supplies we’ll need while we’re in The Village of Hope. There are a number of ways to offer financial support:

>> Send in some cash (well, more accurately, a check or money order) to the address below, or send a quick donation online via Mocha Club’s parent organization, African Leadership. Simply scroll to the bottom, select the “Other” option, enter your amount and put “Amy Courts – Mocha Club Uganda Trip” in the ‘note’ field, and they’ll make sure it goes to the right place. It’s quick and easy, and helps a LOT!

>> Sponsor me in the USAF Half Marathon I’ll be running on September 20 in Dayton, OH! You can sponsor a mile for an amount of your choosing (which will inspire me to RUN the full race!), pledge a specific amount per mile run under 9:00, 9:30, or 10:00, or pledge a specific amount based on my finish time (i.e. $100 if I finish under 2:00:00; $75 if I finish under 2:05:00, etc)…and invite your friends to do the same. It’s an easy way to support me and keep me healthy and fast! If this is your method of choice, shoot me an email and I’ll send you the forms.

>> Buy Amy Courts Merchandise! We’re past the 6-month marker for 2009, so buy some stuff – CDs, tshirts, stickers, posters, etc. – from my online merch store to give away as Christmas, Birthday, or “I Like You” gifts.

>> Make up your own method – host a garage sale; form a kazoo band and play for tips on street corners and send in whatever you earn. Feel free to get creative about it; I know I am!

Of equal importance, I’ll need ground support – your prayers on a daily basis while I’m abroad. We’ll be facing more than just your typical speed bumps, as this journey will take us to places that are incredibly dark, where evil is often a palpable, physical thing. As Jesus once prayed, our prayer is not to be removed from the world but protected from the evil one. We’ll need constant prayer, for each individual and for the team as a whole: for health, strength, unity, clarity, and simple steadfastness of spirit. I’ll keep you posted as much as possible on specific prayer needs!

I hope you’ll prayerfully consider how you might be part of my team. It is overwhelmingly exciting to be finally making this journey, and I am humbled by how dependent I must be on God and His people to provide. But I’ve never been more confident of His wondrous will, and am resting peacefully in His ability to provide in abundance! And I so look forward to sharing the stories of hope, redemption, reconciliation, and resurrection I’ll undoubtedly bring back from my ten days in Africa!

With Love and Increasing Excitement,
Amy

All contributions are tax-deductible. If donating online, please choose the “other” option and specify “Amy Courts – Mocha Club Uganda Trip” in the note. If donating by check/money order, please make checks payable to Mocha Club, with “Amy Courts – MC Uganda” in the memo. They may be mailed to:
MOCHA CLUB | 233 WILSON PIKE CIRCLE, STE 2A | BRENTWOOD, TN 37027

Reaping and Counting the Blessings

The Basics:

Thirty (30) new Mocha Club sign-ups today alone, at Crossroads Community Church in Vancouver, WA, and sold out of all but two remaining Not For Sale bags. This performance wasn’t on our schedule until two weeks ago. Tonight’s event with the young adults of The Bridge wasn’t on our schedule until 2:00pm today.

Forty-Eight (48) total new Mocha Club sign-ups for the last three weeks. Provision for basic necessities. Countless new host homes full of families who never knew us but welcomed us in nonetheless. We haven’t yet had to shake the dust off our feet.

The Depth:

Two older women (mid-60’s) shared their stories today of passion for the Jewish women of Israel and Palestine, and for the young people of the slums in India. They may not have joined Mocha Club, but they’re doing their part. One of these women recently brought a neighbor into her home at 7:00am after finding the neighbor wandering around the neighborhood looking for an open door or a turned-on light…a place to escape the brutal beating she’d received from the bar hound she’d picked up and brought home the night before.

One woman’s story of love and compassion for Mercy and Dusty. It hit home for her, as she recently took in her own niece after learning that her sister’s boyfriend was molesting the 11-year-old child. The girl joined Mocha Club this morning. The aunt also took in another nephew. She’s their safe house.

A college student this evening talked about how she’s had four opportunities now to join Mocha Club, and has felt pulled to the organization every time, but found some financial excuse not to join up until tonight. But upon hearing Mercy’s story, she couldn’t not join. Her words. She had to do something.

One man who’s been in a band for quite some time, but can’t find the right venue or audience for their hardcore christian music. Simply giving him a few contact names brightened his evening and spun the wheels. He left a little more hopeful.

Five women this morning purchased bags made by former sex slaves because they’d personally known or been close to similarly abused women in their own lives, and saw the difference that simple gift of purchase gives. They’re not giving hand-outs, but supporting a livelihood. And wearing it on their arms.

And that’s just today.

But maybe two of the most significant stories from this tour are the following.

Last weekend, in San Jose (Milpitas), at another show that hadn’t made our schedule until a week or so into touring, I recounted Mercy’s story, inviting people to join Mocha Club and be part of the redemption efforts on behalf of abused women and children and their abusers. The seven-year-old daughter of Prince’s (yeah, THE Prince) former saxaphonist (I even remembered him from the old mtv videos) spent fifteen minutes with me afterward asking about Mercy and other girls like her, how they’re living now, if their needs are being met, and if they’re being protected from the monsters. She said Mercy was so much like her, she felt bad she got to live in America, and wished she could trade places with Mercy. But instead, she settled for my promise to send her a picture of Mercy with Mark, so that she could pray for her every day, “and maybe someday go and meet her.” This, from a seven-year-old.

And last Monday, after I shared my two girls’ stories at our concert in Reno, NV, recounting how my neighbor growing up ended up pregnant with her own father’s child at age 13 and likely aborted it, one 14-year-old student approached me, visibly agitated and struggling. She said, “My mom told me that abortion is wrong. But if that girl’s daddy is the one who did it to her, he’s wrong too. So which one is worse?” It both broke and lifted my heart to tell her simply, “It’s a sick, ugly cycle of sin. And to our God, sin is sin is sin, and there is only One cure. And that’s what we’re doing here: we’re giving people the medicine for their sickness. Because all of them are wholly innocent and wholly guilty.” The girl simply replied, “Well, at least Jesus loves them all and can save them.” Indeed, young friend, indeed. And Lord bless her for asking the hard questions!

I feel like we’re beginning to reap the blessings of a tour marked by simple if clumsy and occasionally foolish faith.

But I’m learning there is no such thing as foolhardy faith when it is faith in God.

He has taken what little we had at the start and multiplied it on behalf of thousands of people in Africa, around the world, and right here in the States. On our behalf, even. And I feel utterly small and overwhelmed by His magnificent grace seeping through every seam and filling every crack.

I am in awe.

To Walk: To Crawl: To Fly

To walk is to crawl is to fly. That’s what I’m learning.

This month-long tour along the West Coast has been a hard one. As of now – our first day off – we’ve played 15 shows in 11 days. Thank God, my voice is holding up!

Still, it’s been financially rough. Not bringing in much (if any) income…probably not enough to break even. It’s had Mariah and I worried aplenty. As we’ve told people, it’s been a walk of faith which at times has felt like a free fall off a cliff and we’re not quite sure where the bottom is or if it’s soft.

I think I knew going in that we might not break even. We might lose some cash. Expenses might exceed income. And it seems foolish in many ways. To knowingly walk straight into financial loss.

But at the same time…

We’ve sold out of Not For Sale TN’s bird whistles, and are nearly sold out of the burlap bags, which were all handmade by former sex slaves, and for which 100% of proceeds go back to the creatively free women.

So far, 16 people have signed up for Mocha Club, which means 16 Africans have clean water, or two Africans have malaria treatment or mosquito nets. It means kids can go to school in clothing and shoes, farmers have jobs and supplies. It means more jobs in South Africa. It means women and children in Gulu, Uganda don’t have to live as sex slaves or boy soldiers. It means hope.

We’ve played dancing games and music and face painting and bouncing castle with Iraqi and Nepali refugees in Tucson, given melodic hope and respiration to dozens of young men living out their current lives in jail, and are looking forward to spending this Friday morning worshiping with the women of Portland’s Union Gospel Mission and much of next week with young and old prisoners all over the Seattle area.

And if I’d been told at the start that we’d make no money but rather come out in the red, and that the best we could hope for was  water and medicine and jobs and safety for those Africans, more raised money to keep former sex slaves out of slavery, and the opportunity to lift the spirits of some of the most downcast souls among us…

Well, I know God is the God of upside-down things. Financial worry is very trendy and apropos. Freedom from that worry is backwards, especially when it means giving up safety and security for the undeserving.

And bottom line is, if I knew at the start what I know now, I wouldn’t have cancelled or changed a thing. It’s a matter of purpose, not money.

How many of you have been let down by God or someone who believed in Him?

It was the first thing I asked the eighteen 16- to 18-year-old boys today at the Pinal County Juvenile Detention in Florence, AZ. And not surprisingly, every single boy raised his hand.

I went on to sing “Barely Breathing,” “Where Are You Now,” “In You,” and “Free” for them, while some amazing women from Living Word Bible Church here in Mesa, AZ talked to them about forgiveness and freedom, about leaving the past in the past and letting today be the beginning of reality. We talked to them about being angry with God about circumstances; about feeling lost and stifled; about loving and being loved.

We talked about how they are the church within these walls, and have the power to give people Jesus.

And, just like when I left the Dorcas House in Little Rock a few weeks ago, I walked out of the room with those boys feeling overwhelmed with joy and purpose and direction.

My soul was deeply satisfied at the evidence of Christ’s work among the lost and the least. They were teenage boys whom many would say are already lost causes. Boys who’ve done everything from stealing to murder. Boys who know about God but maybe haven’t really grasped their great worth and value God has planted in them.

I got to tell them and show them a little bit. I got to tell them they are significant and intended for greatness. That no matter where they’ve been or what they’ve done, it’s not the end of the story but one small paragraph. I got to be the pretty girl who made them feel like a worthy boy.

While I can’t read minds, and am not particularly good at reading faces, I know I was living for the right thing today. I honestly did leave going, “Yes, yes. This is what I’m meant for. These people are who I’m meant to serve.” The lost and the least within my reach. They get the darkness of my songs, and they take hold of the hope creeping in through the notes. Maybe better than anyone else.

And with them, I begin to understand that my songs weren’t given to me just for my hope or benefit, but for these as well.

I am pleased. Overjoyed! Exuberant!

I am alive today, with these Beloved of God.

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.