Christmas Tour with Mark Schultz and Downhere

Two years ago I was on tour with the Robbie Seay Band and Chris Taylor, carrying a little boy in my belly! Since James was born, I have taken it easy and enjoyed some time at home, writing and being a mama. For the last few months though, I've been anxious to get back out on the road and I am so excited about my first tour back!

Starting December 2nd, I will be joining Mark Schultz and Downhere for the How Many Kings Christmas Tour. I feel like I have a new energy for music these days and can't wait to play these Christmas songs again. I hope you can make it out to a show!!

Why My Grandpa's Death Gives Me Hope

My grandfather had a smell. The kind of smell that made me smile hours after a hug from him. The kind of smell that makes me feel safe and loved and about 10 years old still, if I find it upon my nose.

He loved my long hair. I would cut it and then grow it out again and every time it was long enough for him to reach back and flip with his hand, he would smile gently and say "ah, your hair is long enough to flip!"

My grandpa would whisper in my ear as we parted… "be good". or "be a good girl". It was his trademark, one discussed at his funeral in length and remembered by many of those who had the privilege of knowing him. We knew he didn’t mean to tell us to get good grades, or go to a good college. He didn’t mean make lots of money or get a good job, or eat your greens.

He was a man of few words, especially in large groups, but his actions spoke loudly and we knew by the way he lived his life, what he meant by “be good”.

A few years ago we asked he and Grandma to reflect on their lives and tell us stories. We video taped it, and at his funeral we watched a teary Grandpa remind us...

“I have tried to do...what is right. And I didn’t always do that- but I knew the Lord would forgive me..... I am so satisfied with what we got. You can all see the good Lord’s been good to me.”

He says that and I tear up every time. He reminds me that life is worth all the trying. It is worth all of the getting out of bed in the morning, the fighting through the fog to believe.

My dad has been texting our family bible verses every day for the last few years. A couple fridays ago, the verse that showed up on our phone screens was this:

Matthew 12:33
Make a tree good and its fruit will be good, or make a tree bad and its fruit will be bad, for a tree is recognized by its fruit.

My grandfather leaned over and looked into the eyes of his wife of 61 years and said, “We bore good fruit.”

That night was the night he was taken to the hospital. His sudden decline was jarring and with the possibility that he may not recover, grandpa’s fruit: his family, made their way to his bedside. Four daughters and their spouses. 14 grandchildren and their spouses, and 20 great-grandchildren.

You should have seen the waiting room of the ICU, it was like a continuous church potluck as we gathered and prayed, told stories about Grandpa, and hoped for the best.

The best, it turned out, would come differently than we realized at the time.

Grandpa waited until all 14 grandchildren had their chance to say goodbye. And literally minutes after my last cousin got there, grandpa let go.

The patriarch of the family I have spent every childhood holiday with, the man who drew me birds and smiley faces into peanut butter crackers when I was sick, who has come with my grandma to every one of my concerts within driving distance, the man who has always been a source of stability and consistency in my life, was dying.

That night my brother Michael had brought his guitar, and a few of us grandkids passed it around in Grandpa’s room, singing songs that came to mind and calling upon the God who every single one of us believes in.

The God who held Grandpa as a young man, through word war II and through those years of loss and struggle. The God who pursued him all his life and gave him grace when he faltered. The God who blessed him with a beautiful family and 84 years to enjoy them. This Jesus, whom we worship, is the reason we could sing, with tears in our eyes, In Christ Alone, around Grandpa’s bed.

In Christ Alone

In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light my strength my song
This Cornerstone, this solid Ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled when strivings cease
My Comforter my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone - who took on flesh
Fullness of God in helpless babe
This Gift of love and righteousness
Scorned by the ones He came to save
Till on that cross as Jesus died
The wrath of God was satisfied –
For every sin on Him was laid:
Here in the death of Christ I live

The nurse came in to check on him...his heart monitor was beeping. She whispered to my mom it was because his heartbeat was so faint it wasn’t picking it up. We kept singing...

There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain
Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again
And as He stands in victory
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine –
Bought with the precious blood of Christ

my grandmother put her hand on his face and we witnessed 61 years of marriage.... coming to an end.

No guilt in life no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life's first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand
Till he returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I'll stand

The words were still lingering on our lips as we looked up to the monitor to see the straight red line indicating that his heart had stopped.

My grandpa was a dignified man, and he died a dignified death. That moment in the hospital, we experienced the peace that comes from righteousness in Christ. And so...we do not mourn as those who have no hope.

Grandpas death has been a powerful reminder that I will one day be the one in that hospital bed. The way I live my life matters, the choices I make affect generations to come, and I want to go out the way Grandpa did. With peace and faithfulness and complete trust in Jesus, to carry me from this life into the next.

1 of those 20 great-grand babies will be born later this week, and one was born the day after Grandpa died. I don’t know how it all works, but I like to think that he got up to heaven just in time to meet both of them before they came to earth.

What a legacy he has left.

"Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.
-1 Corinthians 15:55-58

All Your ?'s Answered Here! (maybe... :)

Many people have been asking me lately what I’ve been up to, how I spend my time, and what is in the future for me musically. So here is a short answer for those of you with limited attention spans (or kids), and then a longer answer if you have an extra 5 minutes and a dose of curiosity. It’s like a choose your own adventure blog. (that’s not a bad idea actually...hmmm....)

short form:
I write with other people 2 to 3 days a week and spend the rest of my time working on my own music and trying to be the best wife and mama I can be. Yes, I plan to release more records, yes I plan to tour again, and no, I haven’t dropped off the planet just yet.

long form:
I’ve been playing music in one form or another for the last 10 years. In fact, 10 years ago this summer I signed a record contract with a label here in Nashville, and after 2 years of traveling back and forth I moved here from Iowa in the spring of 2002. In these “Nashville years” I’ve written many (many) songs, recorded some of them including 1 record that never released from the label, 3 independent records, a live record, a few EP’s and side projects, and a Christmas record. I’ve toured solo, with my husband (who came into the picture in 2003, married in the beginning of 2005), and with several other artists and bands. I’ve slept in nice hotels, not so nice hotels, vans, tour buses, churches, host homes, and thank God, my own bed. I have loved these last 10 years and feel like this last year of becoming a mother has allowed me the space and emotional rawness to really look back over all I’ve experienced with new eyes. New eyes to see the lessons God has tried to teach me that I’ve been stubborn to learn. New eyes to see the future, with hopefully more courage and more humility.

(picture from a 2005 Shawn Mcdonald tour. look at that gorgeous Gibson guitar...sadly (very sadly) the gibson is in different hands now... so is that shirt. I liked that shirt...)

I have not been traveling much since James was born 15 months ago and I’ve loved this season of “normal” things. Like learning to cook, and waking up to the same landscape every day. Going to church, meeting friends for dinner, establishing routine, it has been a nice breather after the years of just the opposite.

I’m gearing up a bit this summer. I have been writing new songs of my own, revisiting old ones, collaborating with peers and friends, and finding the strength and inspiration to organize some ideas into action. What that basically means is that I hope to have some new songs out for download this fall, I’m working on some new tour dates for the coming months, and I even have a side project that I’ll tell you about soon enough.

thank you for sticking with me during this slower season. I am so thankful to everyone who has continued to listen to my music and supported me during these quieter months. If you haven’t already, you can download a few new (and otherwise unreleased) songs from noisetrade on the right side of this page, or here

and you can also hear a few songs that I have co-written on some records:

“Want To Be Real” with Chris August whose album comes out August 24th, you can hear a sampler, including a snippet of our song on his website. His voice is amazing!

“Change in the Making” with Jeff Pardo and Jenny Simmons from Addison Road. This is track 2 on their fabulous new record called Stories. Jenny and I wrote “What do I Know of Holy” on their last record. Love these guys!

“Love Reality” with Charmaine, it’s the title track on her debut record. She is so unique and inspiring, I really think you’ll love her music!

Thoughts on Community

There are many spanish speaking families in my neighborhood. One specific family a few doors down captures my attention on an almost daily basis. Of course, their many dogs might be the first reason for this, and our dog Oso is attune to the barking that echos up from their yard. He was, after all, born from Lucky, their black mix breed dog who sits on the front porch guarding her palace.

Most mornings around 7 am, the mothers of the couple families who live in the house go for a walk together. I only know the name of one, and she is a sweet soul. Though she can’t speak much english we exchange greetings often and she loves to check up on Oso and see how big he’s gotten. She wears jeans and walks with her chin up and a soft smile on her face. Sometimes I wish I could knock on the door at any time of the day and just watch the way they live. Watch the way they cook, the way they laugh together in the evenings, ask them what the secret is to their apparent ease.

We often joke with some close friends of ours about living in a commune together. Sharing a garden, a lawn mower, power tools... eating our meals together and raising our kids together. We joke, but we dream of it too.

I sneak up to the window and watch these woman walk past my house most every day. I find myself envying them. Their friendship, their community, their lightness.

Sometimes I get tangled in the web that wraps around the ladder of image. What would people think if we moved in to a house with friends? What would these woman think if I asked to walk with them in the mornings?

What would people think...? Such a meaningless question most of the time.

Defining musical moments...in no particular order.

“Listen to this” he said, with eyes sparkling. Someone was moving some recording equipment behind me and I looked to see if I was in the way.

“Seriously” he handed me the headphones, “put these on”.

I sat down on the couch and did what he asked. Latter Days by Over the Rhine started playing into my ears and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I had never heard anything quite like that before. Or felt anything like that from a song before.

“What a beautiful piece of heartache... this had all turned out to be... Lord knows we’ve learned the hard way...all about healthy apathy...”

* * * * *

I was young, eager, and clueless the day I saw Jennifer Knapp take the stage at a festival in the midwest.

My friends had gone to get some lunch and I was watching our spot in front of the main stage in a field of sweaty fans. Or maybe they were there next to me the whole time. Or maybe I was the only one in the crowd... the surroundings are blurry because when Jen stood up there by herself and started playing her guitar my brain stopped cataloguing anything but her music.

She was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, sunglasses and a ponytail. I stood up to listen.

She was more memorable, more confident, more inspiring than the 10 piece band before her, or the hip speaker that would follow her. And I thought to myself...

that is what I want to do.

Without taking my eyes off the stage I leaned over to the person next to me, “What did they say her name was?”

* * * * *

“Sit down here” she said motioning to a red couch near the window of her office on music row. “You haven’t heard anything of hers?”

I shook my head and stared at the street below. This was a long way from Iowa.

She pushed play.

Tony, was the first Patty Griffin song I ever listened to. The graphic lyrics about a teen suicide shook up the naive songwriter in me. Shook me up in the best way possible. I would never look at writing the same again.

* * * * *

I was in high school, a member of a club, and all of us were wearing blue t-shirts and sitting around tables in a cafeteria somewhere. I’m sure there was a program of some sort and I’m sure I was staring out the window dreaming about something until Enrique picked up his guitar.

Q, we call him, a musical mentor of mine and maybe the first person I ever knew who wrote songs, started playing that unforgettable guitar line that opens The Eye of the Hurricane by David Wilcox.

I was hooked instantly.

At a time when people didn’t always expect much out of us, Q played us a song that expected us to think, expected us to take life seriously and inspired us to believe there was a reason to do that.

Songs, as it turned out, are just stories set to music. And I thought maybe I had a few stories I could tell...

(a younger version of myself... :)

Memories

I don’t remember the big moments from childhood. I know they happened because I’ve heard the stories, seen the footage, memorized the pictures. But my actual memories are of moments much smaller and seemingly uneventful. I recall the way things felt and looked to me at the time, and when I dwell on them they play back like an indie film full of random scenes.

The scratch of my dads beard on my cheek. I giggle and turn my face.

my mom rinsing the shampoo out of my hair with a plastic cup, and the warm water runs over my head and face... her long fingernails gently scratching my back before bed. I feel safe.

My blue and green flannel nightgown that matched my moms. I would tuck my legs up under it in the winter time to keep warm.

rain falling on the windshield on the way home from gymnastics class on an autumn evening. My dad is asking me something and I am staring out the window watching the street lights overhead.

the taste of a watermelon jolly rancher at the swimming pool, I am standing in a towel dripping wet, and can hardly reach my hands over the counter to pay my 5 cents.
-
I think about these images more often as I care for James.

When he is in his 20’s he might not be able to tell you what it was like to say “truck” for the first time, he might not even remember his first day of school, or his first glimpse of the ocean. But I think...maybe one day when he is lonely or drifting his mind will default back to some foggy memory of a blankie scrunched up on his face, his own papa’s scratchy beard, the comforting feel of warm water down his back, the sound of my voice singing a lullaby... maybe.

My days are filled with such mundane, normal moments. Yet, it might be these very moments that he remembers.

Dear Guilt

Today I am dreaming. I am trying to decipher the Wants between the Shoulds. I filter every decision I make through what I think I should do, or what I think everyone else thinks I should do. And although a lot of the time I end up doing what I want to do regardless of whether it lines up with what I think everyone expects of me, I end up feeling guilty for not living up to their supposed expectations.

Guilt is like bitterness, it is not meant to stay in our hearts longer than the time it takes to say

I’m sorry

or

I forgive you.

So...this is addressed to the shadow named Guilt:

I’m sorry not to tell you this in person, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t know where you live. If you appeared to me plainly then I would address you to your face, but you are transient and incessant, a chameleon of a ghost that shows up in my words and actions, in my wake and my sleep, and I can’t detect you the way I can jealousy or sloth. You don’t follow me around like nostalgia or selfishness. You are the wall between me and my tomorrows, the widows clothes I should have taken off years ago, the childs blanket I am afraid of falling asleep without. So, dear guilt: this is me tearing you off like a band aid- please don’t come back next time I have a wound. There is a much better way to heal, and I choose grace.