An Overdue Update

I'm stunned and a bit embarrassed by the fact it's been THREE MONTHS since my last post. I have nothing to say for myself.

It isn't that I don't have things to write about. Life is busy, rich, and full. I could post every day. I just haven't figured out how to manage everything. Exercise and blogging are particularly difficult to fit into my daily schedule. But that has to change. Soon. The blogging part, anyway.

It's platform building time.

But first, let's catch you up.

THE PHANTOM NOVEL

Back in December, my daughter came down with mono. Poor girl had a go of it, and I clocked lots of hours in the recliner holding her. Needing an occupation, I pulled out the manuscript of my novel, which I hadn't touched since September 2015.

The novel you either forgot about or gave up on because I haven't mentioned it in forever.

As with this blog, I hadn't meant for so much time to pass before picking it up again. But between an attempt to make the one novel into two (per the recommendation of three readers) and the inherent life changes which come with being miraculously healed of an incurable disease, it slept sad and alone in the files of my laptop for over a year.

I fiddled with a revised plot outline for the "first" novel two or three days before I realized I had no heart for that story. None. I couldn't make myself care.

I remember God saying, "Well if you don't care about it, no one else will."

Touche.

So I abandoned the 80k word NaNoWriMo draft I crafted a year prior and began the task of making my original novel work as one cohesive story. On January 6th of this year, I submitted my manuscript to an editor. She returned it last weekend. I'm now ready to make one last round of revisions before I'm done. And that, my friends, will be the easiest part of what's left of the process before my book is in your hands.

AAAAALL THE DECISIONS

Like most authors, I prefer to write my stories and leave the business side of self-publishing to someone else. Unfortunately, that isn't the way it works. When you self-publish, you ARE the business. For better or for worse, you make all the decisions.

Book title. Artwork. Blurbs. Biographies. Dedications. Cover design. Internal formatting. ISBNs. Publishing company title. Logo design. Budgeting. Marketing. Platform. Web site design. Core value statement. Wordpress themes. Photography.

Oh, and apparently I have expensive taste. Yikes.

Once upon a time, I needed to breathe into a paper bag when contemplating these things. Now I remind myself God's got this and it will all fall into place in due time.

HOW YOU CAN HELP

The next step is clear. I need my own online domain.

Very soon, my blog will undergo a change of address. I would LOVE for you guys to make the move with me. I need to build a following on the new website so I will have an audience waiting when I release my novel this spring. Everyone who signs up for my newsletter will receive a FREE unpublished short story. So that's fun.

MISCELLANY

Book stuff doesn't monopolize all of my mental real estate, believe it or not.

Superman and I are looking into starting another business this year. In addition to our day jobs. Don't worry, I fully realize the insanity of starting two businesses the same year, but we aren't getting any younger. If not us, who? If not now, when?

God has laid out a fresh vision for local ministry over the past few weeks. I'm stepping into more of a leadership role in our Personal Prayer Ministry in Ruston. There's also a new sister ministry in the inception stage. My future role in the new ministry is hard to guess at this time, but I suspect it will eventually be a significant part of my life.

I continue to enjoy my work at Geneva Academy, where my children attend school. The longer I'm there, the more I love the heart, the vision, and the people. My friend Jarrod Richey would like me to return next year as a part-time music teacher, particularly if I'm able to attend a Kodály methodology training this summer in Moscow, Idaho. I haven't yet decided what I'll do.

After I release my novel, I will write my autobiography, which will focus on my illness and healing. God says it's time to tell the whole story--a story most people haven't heard. I plan to finish the book this summer and release it in the fall. There's a possible children's book in the works as well.

Next month, my family and I will travel to Austin, Texas to spend some extended time with my best friend and her family and to share my story with their church community group. I look forward to our time there.

IN CLOSING

Feel caught up now? You're not. Not even a little bit.

I could tell you story after story about how God is working in my life, the lives of family members, the lives of friends and the various communities I'm a part of. The first church experience is my new normal. I see people healed, delivered, saved, and encouraged on a regular basis.

Over the past 14 months, it has been my delight to discover that God still works today as He did in the book of Acts. The very same way. I'm not a special case. God is actually as generous with healing now as He was in Jesus' day, if not more so. Nothing has changed except our expectations.

But even sweeter than the miracles I've seen is God's abiding presence in my life. He is everything, and without Him, miracles would be meaningless.

Today, I enjoy the intimacy with God I dreamed about as a young teen. On one hand, I'm satisfied. I don't need a thing this world offers. If on the off-chance I become rich and famous, okay. Great. If I don't, who cares? On the other hand, I know there's more of God to be had so I have to have more. And more and more and more and more. Like any good addict. I love that I serve an infinite God. Anything less would fail to satisfy.

Whatever happens over the next few months, sink or swim, He is all I need. It was true when I was sick. It's true now that I'm healed. That's the joy of serving a God who doesn't change in a world that never stays the same.

Musical Healing-Part 2

This post is Part 2 of a two part series. To read Part 1, click here.

The Unlooked-For Thing

Not many days after my discussion with Brandon about the possibility of working at Geneva Academy, the Lord spoke to me. I was driving down the road, singing along to a favorite worship song on my way to pick up Micah from school.

Ask for the unlooked-for thing.

I understood "the unlooked-for thing" to be the answer to our family's financial needs and the question as to how to use my musical skills and education.

God's word to me was the echoed encouragement of my friend Rebecca, who had prophesied earlier that year that God would find a use for my degree, but it may look differently than I thought.

Immediately, I prayed, "Lord, give me the unlooked-for solution. I'm watching."

The next day, I ran into Jarrod Richey (my friend and the music teacher at Geneva; see Part 1 for history) when I picked up Micah from school.

His greeting would've been ominous if I didn't know him. "The time has come."

I smiled and waited for him to explain.

There were two open teaching assistant positions which needed to be filled for the following school year. One was for Pre-K. The other was for elementary music. Jarrod said he'd love to have my help in music class and suggested I speak with Ed, the headmaster of Geneva. I assured Jarrod I would talk to Ed. Just probably not that day.

But as things turned out, I had business in the office and when I finished, Ed appeared. I mentioned what Jarrod had told me, shared my reservations about assisting in Pre-K and expressed interest in assisting in music. We set up an interview for the following day.

I remember getting into the car thinking, "What did I just do?" But the expected fear didn't follow. Actually, I was kind of excited.

Facing My Fears

I left the interview the next day with a job and mixed emotions.

I'd work where my kids went to school...awesome! I would help my husband bear financial burdens which had been his alone for the past five years...yay! I'd just signed away my kid-free writing time for the following school year...oh. I would put that expensive and time-consuming music education degree to good use...woohoo! But I didn't know whether or not I still loved music or if I even liked it anymore...yikes. And was I still good with kids? My own are one thing. But with other people's kids?

Jubilate Deo

Over the summer, my mind was consumed with writing ministry training manuals for our Personal Prayer Ministry in Ruston—the prayer ministry which God used to bring spiritual, emotional and physical healing to me—preparations for my mission trip to Brazil and our family's return to The Island. I completely forgot about sign up for the annual Jubilate Deo Music Camp, which would take place the last week of July. Until Jarrod texted, asking why Micah wasn't signed up.

He graciously allowed me to sign up late, and then asked if I would be willing to help with the kindergarten and first grade class. I didn't think; I just said yes. Partly because I wanted to, but mostly because it terrified me. (I'm a strong believer in doing the thing that scares you.)

Would I be able to handle it physically? Would it reveal that I'd lost my touch with children? Would I realize that classroom music now bored me?

But I'd forgotten how Jarrod can scheme. He strategically placed me in the music classroom of Jo Kirk.

This woman, y'all...

I have no idea how old Jo is. I'm not going to guess in case she reads this post. What I will say is that she has more energy in her left thumb at her age than I have in my entire being. I'm sorry I don't have a video of her in action. She's amazing.

Do you see the rapt attention of these young children in the photos? She maintained that level of command for the duration of the camp. And we were in class for a minimum of two hours every day.

Jo masterfully managed the classroom. In her hands, the material was almost a living entity, which made all of us more alive. In a word, Jo Kirk is anointed to teach music, which is something more than simply being skillful. Before assisting her, I'd never seen the Holy Spirit so present in a classroom

Through Jo, God called me awake again. It happened the first day of camp. The music teacher within I'd buried long ago heard her name through layers of soil, tears of grief and withered dreams and climbed out of the casket.

My eyes filled with tears as I realized I was still fit for this. It was possible I'd been made for it.

Yes, I could do this. No one who felt so much passion for something could be entirely inept. Yes, I still loved teaching music. Yes, I still loved working with children. I gazed into their bright, captive faces, wiping away tears from my own before one of them caught me crying.

Back to the Music

About a month later, Micah, Sara and I arrived at Geneva for our first day of school. I knew that day God had led me to that particular job in that particular place for this particular time. I found that Jarrod was every bit as anointed to teach music as Jo. His manner is different but just as effective. I understood why my mom wept the day she'd observed him two years prior.

Jarrod possesses the balance of skill and passion I long for. He has a vision to shape students into skilled, joyful worshipers, and has the administrative support to be successful at it. His aim? Kingdom advancement.

This talented, visionary man is content to work in obscurity because he can do more for the Kingdom in a school like Geneva than he can in a more visible position at a university. And also because he loves children. I hope you let that melt you for a moment.

His program is what I dreamed of having as a student in college and realized I couldn't have when I student taught...at least not within the public school system. What I had desired and tried to do as a private music teacher, he's doing. Music is taught as a language. By the time they graduate, students speak, sing, read and write it fluently. The high-schoolers do things I struggled with in college.

In this environment, I find myself dreaming again. Dreaming and asking questions. What is the call upon my life? Does it include music long-term? Or am I here for a season to help Jarrod become more of who God has called him to be? Because this guy will produce his own curriculum, write his own children's songs and become a master teacher before it's over with.

In case I'm here long-term, should I go for that Level 1 Kodály certification this summer? How involved does God want me to be in the program? How does all of my gifting work together practically? I'm a wife, mother, writer and minister of the Gospel, too. Is it possible to have it all? Is that what's best? Is that what God wants?

For now, God remains silent, but I sense his amused smirk upon me. He has secrets yet to be revealed. I'm going to like them whatever they turn out to be because His plans are always good, but for now I must rest in the mystery of the in-between place.

Regardless of what the future looks like, my questions have been answered. My desires have been met. I still love music. I still love children. They like me okay, too. In a very real way, I'm leading worship because worship is a way of life. Worship is taking joy in all of God's good gifts. It's working heartily as unto the Lord. It's learning to sing in all circumstances, even when you don't feel like it, and discovering the emotion doesn't have to shape the doing but the doing can shape the emotion. When the Holy Spirit is in it, anyway. 

And yes...I can still teach. I began co-teaching with Jarrod this week in preparation for his absence on Thursday. I'll sub for him. So far, I've only spent a few minutes with each class, but I remember the motions. As Brandon told me months ago, I'll be fine. It's just like riding a bike.

I love it when he's right.

Look at me! I'm tuning fork official!

I know this is a long post, but may I just take a moment to mention what a humbling, marvelous year this has been? A year ago, God sent me to the Siegmund group who took me in as I was in my weary, broken state. They loved me, ministered to me and became my new family. (Here I go, getting all weepy about them again.) God used them to heal me—in body, soul and spirit.

The Lord renewed my intimacy with Him. He stretched and wrecked me and guided me into uncharted waters. He brought the dead places back to life. I was baptized and blessed by my Superman. I ate peanut butter again. Prophecies were fulfilled. Callings were answered. Friendships formed, renewed and developed. I wrote books! (Training manuals count.) God sent me to Brazil! I'm teaching music again!

And I deserve none of it.

It's all grace. Precious, reckless, limitless grace. Grace greater than sin, sickness, death and everything the devil threw at me to prevent this —abundant life.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you. All I am belongs to you. You've won me. Oh, how you've won me. Again and again and again. Whatever you ask, the answer is yes. YES! I will echo it back to you. "Yes and amen. Yes and amen. Yes and amen." Today, tomorrow and throughout eternity.

Musical Healing-Part 1

When I was a kid, my favorite game to play was "Teacher." Guess who always played the teacher.

*grin*

I took things pretty seriously. So seriously, in fact, the other kids stopped wanting to play with me. I may or may not have wanted them to do actual school work and pay attention to my lectures.

I also loved music. Listening, singing, performing. I played the piano for years. So even though I'd fallen in love with writing in high school and even declared English as my original university major, it was no surprise to anyone when I switched my focus to music education.

Not long after changing my major, I took a piano pedagogy class and established my own private studio. I began with six little girls and big dreams.

Around the same time, the leadership of our small Baptist church in Marion, Louisiana asked me to begin a children's choir. They wanted the kids to perform a musical at Christmas. The project wasn't my idea, but I threw all I had into it. We not only performed. I wrote my own productions. Plural. As in one at Christmas, another at Easter, and another at the beginning of summer.

 My first children's choir.

 Here, I'm modeling three of the props used in my original (and hilarious) children's production of Joshua and the Jericho Thugs—gold chains, plastic crowbars and kazoos. That's right. Kazoos.

After three productions, I decided I wanted the kids to learn to read music, so we worked during the summer using recorders. Because—obviously—I’m a glutton for punishment, but also because I didn't know a better way.

My students loved me, shortcomings and all. (I was pretty fond of them, too.) Most of my private students caught my passion for singing and acting. Carson Richman, the tall girl standing at my right in the photo below, has been involved in choir and theater since she was in my studio. She joined the LSU theater program this fall. Sarah Katherine McCallum, the little brunette on my left has also stayed involved in music and theater. She now takes lessons from one of my vocal instructors, Dr. Claire Vangelisti at ULM, is involved in the Strauss Youth Academy for the Arts in Monroe, and was the fourth runner up at the Miss America Outstanding Teen pageant this year. I can't take credit for how incredible she is now, but I can take credit for the seed. Almost all of the students who came through my studio still actively enjoy music. Which was half my goal.

Part of me knew there was more to give them, but I lacked the skill set to give it, I didn't know how to acquire the skill set, and I ran out of time to figure it out. I became happily distracted with the joys of motherhood in 2009 and scraped by until I became not so happily distracted with the grim realities of chronic disease in 2011. 

I kept hoping to get my disease under enough control to teach again, but after two years of frequent anaphylactic reactions, arthritis, carpal tunnel, fibromyalgia, brain fog, and necessary isolation followed by a diagnosis of Mast Cell Activation Syndrome—which is incurable—my hopes died and my inner music teacher with them. Like died died.

I laid her to rest in a locked box, buried her, mourned at the funeral, threw a few flowers on the grave and moved on. It hurt too much to dwell on the loss. Apparently, God wanted me to write. I wasn't supposed to teach music. I was never that great at it anyway, I told myself. So it was just as well. 

Meanwhile, my friend Jarrod Richey was doing some exciting things with music education. I met Jarrod in music school at Louisiana Tech. We sang in choir together and both earned our degrees in Music Education. 

He went on to earn his Master's in Choral Conducting at ULM and later his complete certification in Kodály methodology. A few years ago, he was hired as the music teacher at Geneva Christian Academy, a small Classical Christian school in Monroe, Louisiana.

Jarrod had been preaching the advantages of Classical Christian education since before Micah was born, so I became interested in the school. When the time came to make a decision about Micah's kindergarten year, I was too sick to investigate the school in person, so I sent my mom.

She reported the school would be an excellent choice based upon the educational approach alone. But when she observed Jarrod teach music to the little ones, she knew it was the right school. "I wept," she said. 

The summer before Micah started school, Jarrod put together a Christian music camp called Jubilate Deo. Excited about the opportunity, I enrolled Micah...who came down with viral tonsillitis the second day of camp and couldn't continue. But I heard great things. 

Micah began school at Geneva that fall. He would come home and absently sing the folk songs he learned in music class. I loved it. Because my Music Methods college professor was Kodály trained, I understood and appreciated what Jarrod was aiming to accomplish. Over the course of the year, Micah became a tuneful singer. I'd get papers every once in a while of dictated rhythms he'd copied down. Keep in mind—he was in kindergarten. 

Every now and then, I would run into Jarrod at the school. "When God heals you, you've got to come help me up here," he would say. 

I'd smile and think to myself, "That would be nice." 

The following summer, I sat in the back row of the Jubilate Deo Music Camp concert, my mask veiling my slack-jawed expression. I couldn't believe my ears. In five days—five days—Jarrod and his staff had put together an outstanding program. 

I, too, wept. 

And then about three months later, God began to heal my body. 

First, reactions to things I touched disappeared. Then my outdoor temperature reactions. Then my airborne triggers. Then my food reactions. Then my pain and arthritis. Then my energy returned. As much energy as can be expected of a 30-something mom of young kids, anyway. By April 2016, I lived like everyone else. Contrary to scientific explanation and medical prognosis. A miracle had taken place. 

God began bringing all of me back to life. I enjoyed renewed intimacy with Him. I was the healthiest I'd ever been. Everything that had died—my personality, my gifts, motherhood, friendship, community, ministry—wasn’t only coming back. It was coming back better.

Except for music. I was done with all of that. You can't be away from music for five years and expect to be any good at it. I didn't even know if I would like teaching music again. Besides, I was going to be a writer.

Sometimes, I think God gets his kicks by proving me wrong. 

This past spring, I was blindsided one night by an intense longing to lead others in worship. I'd never felt that before. What did it mean? 

My classically-trained, non-belting voice doesn't fit the current worship style of the Church. I sound more like a retro Disney princess than a pop star. Most worship choruses aren't even in a singable range for me. And I've always thought strong singers should be dispersed throughout the congregation to encourage and serve weaker singers. Because the congregation was never meant to be a crowd of spectators, but an army of worshipers. 

My call wasn't to the stage. I knew that much. But I couldn't make sense of it. 

Around the same time, I was wrestling with my future. I was well. There were expectations. What should I be doing? Writing, obviously. But I wasn't writing! Not anything that would make money anyway. And I was thinking more and more about music and what I was supposed to do with my gifting and education. A lot had been invested there.

One day, we were driving home from church and Brandon said something like, "Why don't you talk to Jarrod about the tuition discount for Geneva teachers and see what kind of deal they might make us?"

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but...I wigged. I totally wigged. 

"What are you talking about? I can't teach! I've been away from music for five years. Five YEARS!!!  I don't even like it anymore. I'm a writer. If you need me to work, I'll write!"

I was terrified. Terrified to give up my writing dream. Terrified of trying to resuscitate something that was long dead. Terrified I wouldn't love teaching or music or the classroom anymore. Terrified to fail. Terrified that working would pull me away from the ministries I was involved in and had grown to love. Terrified, I tell you.

Despite my overreaction, Brandon remained calm. "Well...if you plan to make money by writing...you probably need to actually...write."

*a series of tiny explosions in my brain*

*eye twitches*

I'm not going to admit my response to that. But in summary, the truth hurts and pain makes me angry. 

Even though our conversation didn't end well that day, I continued to wrestle privately. Because here's the thing—God often speaks through my husband, and I never want to tell God "no" again. Not about anything. Not even the small things only He and I know about. All I want to say for the rest of eternity is "Yes...yes...yes."

Here's what I knew—Brandon would like me to work part time to help pay for the kids' tuition. I needed an occupation while the kids were in school. I felt an inexplicable draw toward music and leading worship. But I wanted to write, and teaching would interfere with writing. And who knew if Jarrod had been serious anyway?

"Lord," I remember saying, "I don't know what to do or what you're doing. But I trust you. I'll do whatever you say. Just make things as clear as I need them so I can obey."

And you know...He did. 

To be continued...

A Breakup Letter to Fear

 

Original Image by Meagan via Flickr Creative Commons

This month, I taught a journaling class to the women of Project 41's Esther's Academy. I'm unlikely to forget the experience.

These girls are amazing--a visible testimony of the power of Jesus Christ to transform a life.

In the brief time I've known them, they've become my heroes. Though aware they're still deep in process, they continue to lean into Jesus day after day. In the face of failure, discouragement, and fear of the unknown, they continue to walk in victory.

You don't often encounter courage like theirs.

Almost from Day One, they allowed me to participate in their struggles, hangups, and hardships. Who does that?

Their vulnerability inspired my own. I committed myself to complete each assignment along with them and share a little of what I'd written at each class.

Two weeks ago, I asked them to write a letter. For therapeutic purposes.

They chose the recipient. The letter could be addressed to a friend or enemy--living or deceased. It could be to God or to a part of themselves--past, present, or future.

The chief requirement was honesty. Grit.

I think I struggled with my letter more than they did. I couldn't decide on who to write it to. Who I needed to write it to.

So I asked the Lord about it.

Over the course of the week, through various circumstances, He revealed a part of myself I thought we'd handled.

In a way, we had handled it. It no longer mastered me, but it was still there.

Fear. 

A year ago, I physically trembled every time I stepped outside. Back then, the whole world seemed out to get me. And it kind of was. Wasps, ants, heat, cold, random crop dusters loosing herbicides over nearby fields. So many things...

My case of "the shakes" ended several months ago. Then the Lord further dealt with my fear during my prayer session. But apparently, it left behind a few personal belongings in the nightstand drawer so we'd have an excuse to see each other again.

So I wrote Fear a breakup letter the morning before class. I'm good at breakup letters.

(Fun fact: I once wrote a breakup letter for a friend of mine. The recipient was my husband. We started dating six months later.)



Dear To Fear:

We've been together a long time, but you haven't been a very good friend. You've bullied me until I'm afraid of everything. Even things I used to enjoy.

I still can't relax when I go outside. I'm too busy thinking about where the wasps are. I want to go outside and not think about blankety-blank wasps!

I want to write without neurosis. To imagine teaching again without feeling nauseated. To speak when the Spirit leads without fear of being wrong. To obey God about leading worship without flashbacks to every musical mistake I've ever made. Without worrying that people won't like my voice because it's different than the current preferred style.

Thanks to you, I'm afraid to fail, afraid to succeed, afraid to be noticed, and afraid to be ignored. I am a hot, crazy mess.

I'm tired of trying to please you. You set impossible standards and never stop raising the bar. In short--you're a bitch, and I don't like you.

So go. We're done. I'm pretty committed to this whole God thing, in case you haven't noticed. I love Him. I'm in love. And He loves me--succeed or fail. He fulfilled every standard you've set. Neither performance nor popularity define me. I'm His. His is who I am.

Consider this my resistance. I'm already submitted to God. All that's left is for you to flee. I command you to go in Jesus' name.

Sincerely,
Melissa K.



Now, you may write this off as a silly exercise. But let me tell you what's happened since I wrote this thang:

• I'm writing again. Not my novel, but I'm writing.
• I've talked to my small group leader about leading worship. 
• I've reached out to a friend who's willing to teach me how to accompany praise and worship choruses. I hope to meet with her next week and start leading worship this summer.
• I feel easier about the idea of teaching music again if that's where God leads me.
• I'm not constantly looking for wasps when I go outside. Sometimes, I don't think of them at all.
• The chronic cold and sinus issues I've had for two months dried up the day I wrote that letter. 

Coincidence? Make of it what you will. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the extra drawer space. 

Missed Kicks, Flower-Pickers, and Dingbats

I was 17 years old when I "surrendered to the ministry." 

My reformed friends have no idea what I'm talking about.

This was a Baptist kid thing. And as a Baptist and a female, my options were limited. I could either be a missionary, a Sunday school teacher, or a minister of women. (Deaconesses and lady preachers are the unicorns of the Baptist church.)

I was under the impression you had to a be a professional Christian to really be used by God. I had yet to learn that God uses mothers and fathers, teachers and artists, plumbers and computer engineers, businessmen and farmers to advance his kingdom.

In my mind, you were either a star player or a flower-picker. There was no in-between.

A lot of us think this way, which is why us ordinary folk are content to stroll along the outskirts of the action. Leave the SportsCenter highlights to the pros. Am I right?

Don't answer. It was a rhetorical question.

Last Saturday, I watched my son play his first soccer game. I honestly thought he'd be a flower picker.

Just keeping it real. He's new to the sport and--like his mama--he kinda lives in his own little world most of the time. And well...doesn't he look like a flower picker to you?

Imagine my surprise when the whistle blew and I saw this...

I never thought I'd be that mom, but I was jumping up and down, clapping, and whooping. Not because he scored a goal. He didn't. And not because he got it all right. He didn't (see above photo). But because he threw himself into the fray.

I wasn't nearly as proud of Micah's success as I was his effort. His willingness to try. Did I care that he missed the ball on a couple of kicks? No! I had the time of my life watching him miss those kicks.

May I submit that God feels the same way about us? And that maybe he has a way of using our missed kicks?

As I mentioned before, I'm a flower-picker type. A frequent flyer to La-La Land. And don't ask me to multitask. More often than not, it goes wrong.

I know, I know...women are supposed to be phenomenal multitaskers. Blah, blah, blah. Yeah...no.

Last week, I attended Project 41's monthly Worship Night. It was an amazing night. I just love it when the Holy Spirit drops. There's a holy weight to the air. A sweetness in the atmosphere. It's good stuff.

Anyway, one of the worship leaders dedicated a song to "two very special ladies" and encouraged us all to sit back and soak it in. But as I closed my eyes and settled back onto the sofa, my friend nudged me and asked me to pray for her headache. I was happy to.

But I could only give the song a half ear at best. For whatever reason, the song I heard was "Just a Closer Walk with Thee."

My friend's headache improved, but hadn't completely gone away when we moved into a time of prayer. So I announced her headache to the group. (Beware of being my friend.)

She sat in the chair in the center of the room, and I took a front row seat from which I watched God love on her through the people around her.

In the midst of the outpouring, I had a vision of Jesus walking her through a garden, pointing out the flowers, showing her how beautiful they were. With the vision, he gave me a song to sing for her.

My pulse raced and heart pounded. I may be a singer, but this kind of thing always makes me nervous. So I asked everyone to join me as I sang, "In the Garden."

The following day, my friend thanked me for the song. She said, "When they sang it the first time, I wasn't sure it was for me. I thought they meant two other ladies. But when you sang it, God showed me it was for me."

I blinked. Wait, whaaaa????

I had no idea the worship leaders had already sung that song. At first, I argued with her. "They sang 'Just a Closer Walk with Thee,' not 'In the Garden.'"

A third friend and the worship leader who'd led the song confirmed it. With droll grins.

Nope. "In the Garden."

Awkward. All I could do was laugh. I can be such a dingbat. 

I'd committed the musical equivalent of a missed kick. (A difficult thing for a musician.) But that "missed kick" made my friend feel more loved than she would've felt otherwise.

There are a lot of ways to live surrendered to the ministry. 

 

The key is to live more surrendered to God than to self. To be more afraid of someone missing out on God's love than of looking like an idiot.

Some of us are star players who get paid to score goals and get kicked in the shins. Most of us...aren't. I'm not. But that doesn't mean I should leave all the work to the pros. We're a body. A team. There's a place for us all.

Which means there's a place for flower-pickers, too. Pick flowers to the glory of God! There's a time and a place for that ministry. I should know. Just be ready for the ball when God sends it your way.

Engage. Take risks. You may miss a few kicks, but God is an ever-proud papa. He cheers every effort in His name. You may be a dingbat, but His laughter is kind. And you can trust Him to turn even your failures for good.

The Power of Worship

Worship changes things.

The posture of a soul. The climate of a household. The complaints of the body. There's all kinds of healing to be found in turning from ourselves and the concerns of the moment to behold the beauty of God.

I used to have episodes. Spells, I called them. In the evenings, when I was tired, drained, and weary of discomfort, I'd still have to cook. Cooking seemed a monumental task in those moments. Impossible. Living felt impossible.

Arthritis made it difficult to peel vegetables. Phantom stakes drove into the fibromyalgia points in my neck and shoulders. Heat radiated from my skin, tender to the touch. A tension headache would form, unable to be helped by medication or essential oils. I was too sensitive. Still am. And the worst part was the dark cloud which hung over my head, weighing me down.

Either the pain isn't as bad now or I'm used to it. Maybe both. The cloud still visits me sometimes. 

But God (a lovely pair of words, don't you think?) is faithful. He speaks into the cloud. Through the storm of pain and discouragement, I feel Him. Nudging me, reminding me. I'm here. Reach for me.

I always begin with prayer. I ask for help with plain words, sometimes gasped, depending on the level of discomfort. But help doesn't always immediately come.

I move on to gratitude. I reflect on God's kindnesses. They're always there, even in the midst of the ashes. Eventually, with eyes to see and practice, you don't have to look very hard.

A couple of years ago, I thanked God for the strength to stand at the kitchen counter. Back then, I didn't take that strength for granted. Then, maybe I thanked Him for the squash in my hands, which would bring nourishment to me and my family. The infant clinging to my ankles. The little boy bouncing off the furniture. The husband on his way home from work. The messy house.

Gratitude penetrates the cloud, but it doesn't always chase it away.

So then I preach to my soul. Words hidden in my heart find their way to my tongue, sounding from my pulpit at the kitchen sink.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? Why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance." (Psalm 42:5)

"...If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" (Romans 8:31-32)

 Be bold. Be strong. The Lord your God is with you.

The cloud begins to lift.

But worship is the ace in the hole. It not only dissipates the cloud; it often relieves my physical discomfort. Or at least makes it less important.

Saturday night, I had a bad case of the ickies. You know what I'm talking about. I was all out of sorts, self-conscious about stupid things, and grumpy about having to figure out what to do with the pound of bison I'd thawed. My family was in a funk, too, and not the fun kind.

I remembered my ace, and decided to make it my first play.

Everyone was watching TV, so I grabbed my iPod, stuffed in my earbuds, and turned up a favorite worship album. I sang softly as I cooked and folded laundry, and you know what? I wasn't the only one helped. The atmosphere of our home shifted.

I've learned to expect that. Which is why worship has become my go to remedy for maladies of all kinds.

One night last week, Sara threw a major hissy fit right before bedtime. Girl's got a temper.

  I know you wouldn't believe it looking at this precious face.

But yeah...

I'm a firm believer in not going to bed angry, so I asked God how to help her. Silent prayers in the rocking chair weren't doing the trick, and she was too hysterical to pray herself. I sang a few of her favorite hymns. It helped, but she continued to thrash and cry, inconsolable.

I asked her to sing with me. We sang her current favorite, "At the Name of Jesus." Then she calmed enough to look up at me and say, "I wanna sing 'Jesus on da Cross.'"

I combed my fingers through her downy curls. "I don't know that one, Love. Will you teach it to me?"

Sara sang the following words to a simple melody which made the former music teacher in me proud. She made me repeat the phrases, which helped me to remember the lyrics long enough to copy them down in my journal:

Jesus on da cross...
His name is glorious...
He won da victory for us...
He died on da cross...
So He could save us...

Not a bad little song. And in the process of singing it, her anger evaporated. I tucked her into bed peaceful and content.

Now I wonder how many of my own passions I can reprocess into worship. Fan of experiments that I am, I'll be trying it out in the weeks to come.

In the meantime, what about you? Have you experienced the healing power of worship? Post your story in the comments below so we can all marvel at the healing weapon God has given us.

"Make a joyful shout to God, all the earth!
Sing out the honor of His name;
Make His praise glorious.
Say to God,
'How awesome are Your works!..."
(Psalm 66:1-3)

 

What Nine Years Have Wrought (A Health Update)

Nine years ago, I was beautiful, vibrant, healthy, relatively allergy-free, and making peace with every foreseeable outcome of my upcoming marriage. I wore the ring of a man whose body was at war with him. Brandon was pale, thin and soon to undergo a bowel resection. I understood that marrying a man with Crohn's disease may bring about a future full of all night vigils by hospital beds and years of nursing at home. I determined to earn my degree before we had children to serve as a fallback in case he ever became too sick to work. It even occurred to me that I could be widowed in the prime of life, and would somehow have to raise and provide for a family alone. To these possible futures, I agreed.

Over a year into this debilitating illness, the shock has not worn off. I had planned to be Wonder Woman, yet I find myself less capable than Lois Lane. While I manage to cook a meal most nights and tend to my children's basic needs in the morning, I am largely dependent on the help of others. I spend a significant portion of the day in bed although I would much rather be with my kids and busy about my home. In my wildest daydreams, I did not imagine this life.

I did not imagine the dulling of my mind either. My mind used to work like this:

I had an amazing memory. Several things could be rolling around in my brain at once. Connections were contsantly being made. One by one, those 2,000 something tabs have closed down until I am doing well to remain on a single train of thought for any length of time. Sometimes, my brain goes into "sleep mode," an odd phenomenon. I can be lost in thought one moment and lost in oblivion the next. This problem has made everything from prayer to getting dressed challenging. Writing is miraculous. Brain farting is humbling.

When I consider how my situation continues to deteriorate, I am tempted to feel a little frightened. I am afraid to lose any more of my mind. My mind has always been a comforting retreat for me, full of stories, big thoughts and possibilities. I don't want to lose any more weight or hair or strength. I am afraid of becoming an invalid.

On my hardest days, I am tempted to fear the future. The prognosis for flouroquinolone toxicity is dismal. Patients who have an instant reaction to the drug are usually ill 6-7 years. Patients, like me, who slowly decline over a period of weeks and/or months are said to never recover.

I grieve the enormous difficulty that has befallen my family and myself. I daily wrestle to make peace with my reality as I did with the various futures I envisioned nine years ago. I present my health to the Lord, an offering to Him to bring Him glory. I fight the fear and lean hard into Jesus, trusting Him implicitly knowing full well He allowed this catastrophe--for good, always for good. And yet....

I CANNOT AND DO NOT ACCEPT MY PROGNOSIS.

I absolutely need a miracle, and I absolutely believe I am going to get one. One day on this side of eternity, I believe I will be well. On that day, I will have many people to thank--doctors, family members, friends who have labored in prayer, commiserated with us, and shown us generosity--but it will be God who does the healing because He is the only One who can. All of you precious people who invest yourselves in our family by reading, praying, encouraging and serving will get to witness a miracle. I am not supposed to get better, but I will. By stating this, I'm not trying to inspire others with positive thinking propaganda. Positive thinking has its place, but I honestly couldn't care less about giving people the warm fuzzies. The weight of this trial is far too heavy to be limited to doling out warm fuzzies. But if witnessing a true blue miracle strengthens your faith and causes you to more earnestly seek the Lord Jesus, well then--hallelujah!

In the meantime, I continue to seek treatment as the Lord directs. Neither my doctors nor my most devoted prayer warriors were comfortable with the experimental NAD IV treatments. Dr. Yakaboski (my local natural doctor) along with Dr. Kuplesky (Dr. Yakaboski's M.D. partner), Dr. Armine (MTHFR specialist), Dr. Mestayer (the psychiatrist who performs the NAD treatments) and a compounding pharmacist in South Louisiana are working to get it in an encapsulated form for me to take under Dr. Yakaboski's strict supervision. It could be ready as early as the beginning of next week. The idea is to start small and observe my response. My future with the treatment completely depends upon how I respond to the capsules. Dr. Yakaboski has also been busy conferring with two other doctors and the author of the blog Surviving Cipro in order to open up treatment options for me. One of the doctors is a specialist who will help me with my IgE, IgG and leaky gut issues. The other is a doctor who specializes in homeopathics. This doctor believes her sulfur homeopathic will help my body open up my transulfuration pathways (methylation). I have successfully used homeopathics in the past, and feel hopeful that this one will help me.

However, I have to approach homeopathics with a little caution now. I had an anaphylactic reaction to preservative alcohol last week. Preservative alcohol (usually derived from grains) is found in many things (including homeopathics) given to sensitive patients. Grain alcohol also preserves my Acute Rescue drops (my preferred rescue remedy for anaphylactic reactions) and the B12 (dibencozide) drops I need to treat my methylation issues. Dr. Yakaboski made a special house call on Saturday to clear my alcohol allergy. The clearing held, but I will continue to avoid preservative alcohols when possible so I can use the Acute Rescue drops when needed. Cleared allergies occasionally resurface after awhile. To be safe, I evaporate the alcohol out of the B12 every night before taking it. I plan to do the same with the sulfur homeopathic.

I have explored and muscle tested the safety of several possible "quick healing" treatments said to help floxy patients. I am not currently a candidate for any of them because of my extreme sensitivities. I don't really know what we are going to do or how long recovery will take. I don't know if it will be a treatment, a combination of treatments, time, an instantaneous touch from the Lord or all of the above that will cure me. So for now, we pray. We listen. We wait. And I protect my psyche.

I avoid negative information concerning floxy patients. It isn't helpful, and I don't think it applies. I avoid the news, and rely on my Facebook friends to let me know when something major happens. I avoid Facebook when it stresses me out although it makes up almost all of my social interaction outside of the immediate family members who help me. I distract myself, and work hard to "find my happy." I began a gratitude list in late March, which now has 122 items. I copy them in my journal, thanking God for each gift from His hand. The photos below represent a few.

 Micah is cooking a squash he helped plant, watched grow, and harvested. I did the knife work, but he seasoned and stirred until it was perfectly golden brown. We had so much fun!

 He was proud of himself. He even ate the squash--no coaxing required!

 One morning's haul...

 A dance party with baby girl. She likes to shake that booty!

 Clothing....it's overrated.

 Is there anything cuter than a naked baby in the garden?

 I'm thankful for those thighs, too. Scrumptious!

I joined Eric Whitacre's Virtual Choir 4.0. I'm still learning my part. I hope to record my video soon. The piece will be premiered for the Queen at Buckinham Palace in July. It will be my first chance to be part of a worldwide musical event. I am very excited!

Distraction is like cheap numbing medication. It shields me from some of the pain for short intervals, while gratitude provides little sunbursts throughout the day. Gratitude reminds me that God still loves me and life is still worth living. 

To further help me along, I have been reminded of Jenny's words--"God has been too good to me for me to play the victim anymore." God does all things well. My illness is not an exception. My illness is a mercy. It's a severe mercy (as Jonathan Edwards would say), but a mercy nonetheless, for it is bringing not only me but my entire family into deeper relationship and greater conformity with Christ. Too many days, I have dwelled on the length of time I spend in the bed when I would rather be doing things. Too often, I have focused on the bad, missing the good. To counteract my Polly Pessimist tendencies, I am training myself to respond to those who ask about my day with a list of my victories rather than my struggles. 

Allow me to practice: 

Yesterday, I enjoyed a quiet morning with Sara. We cuddled, watched Mickey Mouse and read nursery rhymes. I washed dishes, and listened to a Timothy Keller sermon. Thanks to my grandmother, I was able to rest in a quiet house all afternoon. When I woke, I cooked a simple dinner and had a phone conversation with a friend. I was able to eat three meals! I kissed my boy's freckled nose, and rocked my baby to sleep as I sang hymns. I ended my day with a long, relaxing bath and a special word from the Lord. It was a good day.

While reciting my victories is all well and good, it will only carry me so far. We frail humans are tempted to measure all things by the measure of ourselves. I cannot afford this mindset. For the average person, measuring life in such a way cheapens it, reducing it to a feeble shadow of what life should be. For me, making myself the measure of anything is suicidal. My victories will not sustain my hope, even on the good days. And the days when victories are few or obsolete? I shudder at the thought.

Thus, I must look outside of myself--to my God, to His victories. 

"Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised;

And His greatness is unsearchable.

One generation shall praise Your works to another,

And shall declare Your mightly acts.

I will meditate on the glorious spendor of your majesty,

And on Your wondrous works.

Men shall speak of the might of Your awesome acts,

And I will declare Your greatness."

-Psalm 145:3-6

When I consider the God who created the heavens and the earth in a day, the God who conceptualized everything from Mount Everest to the butterfly, the God who calmed the wind and waves with a word, the God who had the power to lay down His life and take it up again, the God who formed me in my inmost being--faulty mitochondria, poor methylation, quirky personality, brown eyes, crazy hair and all--living through these difficult days with my faith, hope, joy and peace intact doesn't seem so impossible. And neither does a miracle.

Nine years ago, I never considered that I would be the one critically ill while Brandon bore the burden of a sick mate. We are mercifully spared from knowing what is coming for us around the corner. Nine years ago, I knew so little of the God who so loved me. In spite of the difficulty, I cannot regret what these nine years have wrought. Knowing God is worth it all.

Who knows what the next nine years may hold? A miracle, certainly. 

As for the rest, only time will tell.

Fields of Gold

Here's the reality--tons of writers romanticize everything. It's part of the job description. I don't place myself under their banner yet, but I hope to one day. Until I achieve something a little loftier than winning a local writing contest at the age of ten, and being published in poetry anthologies for which the published must pay, I'm still an apprentice.

I think I'm learning the ropes pretty well. I know that the topic of baking cookies with Micah is acceptable reading material, but no one really cares about the pile of dishes left in the sink afterward. Everyone likes a nice blog about the joys of summer when the season first begins, but no one wants to read about a Louisiana August, in which all of the vegetation has been obliterated by the cruel sun, in which the triple digit heat index overstays its welcome, and how the simplest tasks, even indoors, make you wonder if the shower was even worth it. If Summer had overextended its visit for one day longer, I would have rebelled. I felt so bullied by that triple digit heat index that I came "this close" to exchanging romanticism for---squeal!---realism. I would have pummeled you like a hungover John Steinbeck. Thankfully for you all, while I was involved in Curtains, something magical happened--Sir Summer surrendered to the gentler climate and richer palette of Fair Fall.

Autumn's entrance in the South is rarely distinct or official. She drifts in with a sense of serenity, and an undercurrent of humility. She has no need to announce herself. Why should she? We all know when she walks into the room. Her presence is obvious, breathtaking. She is a little frustrating in that she ambles in and out, bullied around by Sir Summer who can't seem to relinquish his rights to the year. It's no wonder that I'm not sure exactly when she was ushered in by cooler breezes and that dank, smoky smell the fallen leaves take on, but she's here now. Hopefully, she will prop up her feet, and stay awhile. I'm sorry I missed the moment the doors between one season and another flew open, but I was distracted by other good things.

Although Curtains was the dominate activity for the past 8 weeks, I was also busy with mothering, wifery, housekeeping and teaching. I know that you don't care about dirty toddler diapers, mildew growing in the shower, or that I was making dinners around the same time I made lunch every day, so I thought I would limit myself to the highlights.

I will begin with my new music discovery--Mumford and Sons. This British group creates a genius combination of folk, bluegrass, rock and piercing lyrics. I couldn't decide which song I liked best, so I thought I would share one that is pretty iconic of their work, which you can listen to on the playlist provided below if you are at a computer with speakers and no workplace firewall to block your fun.


I began teaching piano and voice lessons the last week of August, and managed to hang on by my fingernails as Curtains entered into technical rehearsals, then performances. It's always amazing to me how children grow, mature and develop over the short course of a summer. The little girls I taught last year are looking more like little women, and students who couldn't sit still for half an hour last spring are doing brilliantly in hour long lessons this fall. Brandon and I also began teaching Sunday School again at Crossroads. We are glad to be back with our class from last year, just one year older, a few inches taller and a few vocabulary words wiser!

During the weeks I was involved with the show, I worked on Micah's baby book in my precious spare time. I used Shutterfly.com to upload my images, design my book and publish it. They did a beautiful job, and I'm very pleased with the product! Shutterfly photo books are user friendly, quick, painless and reasonably priced. It provides the perfect approach to documenting memories at this time in my life. What mom doesn't like fast, cheap and awesome?

The front cover

My letter to Micah and first photo

Probably my favorite page

Back cover

One Saturday, I came home from either a rehearsal or a performance--I forget because it all runs together in my mind--to find our living space painted and redecorated . . . man's man style. You may remember the battle of wills that waged until I chose to give in, realizing that I never give in, even to the person I claim to love. I will admit that although it isn't to my taste, that it isn't the nightmare I had imagined, either. Several people have really liked it. Everyone else has found some level of appreciation for it. I just have to ignore the creep factor of having the heads of dead animals protruding from my walls. (Too much realism for you? Me, too.)

How am I doing? I'm . . . coping.

I think that pretty much says it all.

Sandwiched in between the two weekend runs of Curtains were two very important events--my first time conducting a choir in 2 years and Brandon's 31st birthday. I conducted a joint choir, which included members from Crossroads in Ruston, Christ Community Church and John Knox Presbyterian Church, for the World Communion Sunday service at John Knox. It worked out surprisingly well, but I'm not sure how much of the success can be attributed to me. I was so nervous that I was freezing for the entire service, convulsing with nervous chills and uncontrollable nervous yawning until the song was complete. I also began the piece too fast. Fortunately, the organist was very good, and followed me right into a slower tempo.

Brandon turned 31 on September 21st. His birthday was on a Tuesday. He worked all day long, and just wanted to come home and relax. He had also been working really hard for the past 4 months so I could get some stage time. Almost every day, he would come home from work, pick up Micah from the grandparent on duty, feed him dinner, bathe him, and put him to bed. That is a lot to put on a guy whose job entails holding human life in his hands on a daily basis. So, I wanted to make the evening special for him.

I cooked one of his favorite dinners . . .
went to great lengths to bake him a real, glutenous,
highly-poisonous-to-myself birthday cake . . .

bought him a video game, allowing him to unwind by mass murdering the villains . . .

and made sure he was rewarded by lots of birthday kisses,
both captured and not captured on camera.

This tightly packed bushel of events hit me line a ton of bricks. Until my third 10 hour night of sleep, I was asking questions like, "Where am I?," "What am I supposed to be doing?," "What's my name again?" because I have been so TIRED after all that has gone on. On the other hand, I had been feeling like I had missed out on quite enough Micah time. So . . . for the past few days, I have aligned my schedule with his, and basked in the sunshine, the crisp air and the glow of his tiny soul.

I remember heading outside with him the first day we were able to share alone. I wanted to etch the happiness of the moment in my memory. I knew the only way I could do it was if I provided a soundtrack to our outdoor play. I brought out my Ipod, strapped it on (no headphones, just a light buzz from the small speakers), and selected the only song that made sense to me in that moment. The breeze blew into our faces gently. Golden rays peeked down at us from the tree tops, dancing in and around Micah's curls. The smell of autumn wafted from the woods to the tips of our noses, and just like that, those precious, slow moments with my son were forever burned into my memory with the help of Eva Cassidy's "Fields of Gold." What a perfect soundtrack to that hour . . . Micah felicitously discovering the world around him, teaching me how to once again marvel at the various sizes and shapes of sticks, the indigo vastness of the sky, and the joy of holding a katydid in the palm of my hand. His squeals of delight and his baby songs of contentment are sealed in my mind and heart. I remember sighing with pleasure as I drank in creation, watching him toddle about the yard and knowing that I was living in those fields of gold.

Welcome, Fair Fall, and all of your lovely fields.

I have worn a million hats thus far this fall, but the MOM hat? It fits just right.

"Peek-a-boo, Mama!"

And I didn't even tell you that I soured three loads of laundry this week by forgetting they were in the washer. How's that for romanticism?

Where am I, again? What am I supposed to be doing?

Show People

Disorganized. Messy. Slapdash. Exhausting. Exhilarating. Arduous. Sensational. Funny. Memorable. Joyous. Nostalgic. Sad. All of these adjectives come to mind when I reflect on the past few weeks. They have passed by in a whirlwind. A disorganized, messy, slapdash, exhausting, exhilarating, arduous, sensational, funny, memorable, joyous, nostalgic, sad whirlwind. Now that the winds have died, the debris has landed and the dust has settled, I want to write about it. I won't write about everything, but I will write what I don't mind being read.

The most consuming activity of the past several weeks was Curtains, the musical comedy whodunit. Seriously. This play ate two months of my life. I'm mostly okay with that, but there will be no more plays for quite awhile. I had the privilege and delight of bringing the character of Nikki Harris to life. Nikki is about as airheaded as they come, but somehow manages to make dumb and kind of annoying come across as charm. I don't know how she does it. Maybe it's the red hair.When I auditioned for this show, I was sure I had the Lord's blessing. When I was cast as a principle, I was exultant. I loved the story. I loved the music. I loved the character. But the price I paid to perform this show was extremely high. If I had been handed a slip of paper that detailed all that would befall me throughout the rehearsal process and the performances, I would have thrown it back, and asked, "Are you kidding me?" I am quite sure that I wouldn't have done the show. I am also quite sure that I'm glad I was handed no such slip of paper.

Had I been, it would have read something like this:

Blood. Yes, literally. (However, the spilling of my own blood probably had less to do with the show and more to do with my mishap magnetism, dismal depth perception and general lack of respect for very solid set pieces.)
Sweat. (Dude. The choreography was intense. If I never have to high kick again, it may be too soon.)
Tears.
Time away from husband and son. (Lots of time away from them.)
Pain.
Uncomfortable conversations.
Hurt feelings.
Betrayal. (Not mine and not my fault, but I was still a participant.)
An array of miscellany. (The boring, the mundane and the too private to talk about on a public blog.)

I don't really want to delve into this list because the point of this post isn't how bad things were while being involved with this show. It's really about why, in light of all of that happened, I'm still glad I did the show.

Easily, the number one reason I'm glad I did this show is because I caught a glimpse of my own frailty. Odd reason, I know. However, anytime a Christian has to face their frailty, it causes them to seek strength from the Lord. For weeks, I was absolutely at the end of myself, and I am quite sure that if I hadn't had supernatural help, I wouldn't have made it. I immersed myself in God's word and prayer. I listened to sermons and worship music during the car rides to and from rehearsal. I got a taste of what it is to walk in the Spirit, and that is a very, very good thing. Regrettably, I did not keep it up as I should have. There was a moment when I subconsciously decided that things had improved enough that I could handle them on my own. Why am I so stupid? Why can't I learn? But for a few weeks there, I experienced the Lord in a way that I had not before. And you know what? I'll never be satisfied with a mediocre walk with the Lord again because I know what it can be.

The second reason I'm glad I did this show is because I was able to spend so much time with some dear and dearly missed friends from my college days. I was also able to make new ones! Elizabeth, it was so good to work with you again. You keep impressing me with your growing talents. Madonna, we are sisters from different misters. I love you so much . . . even though something ridiculous happens almost every time we are together. I am so happy that we got one more show together.The third reason I'm so happy I did this show is because I had the opportunity to work with a truly great choreographer. Greg Baccarini is one of the best teachers I've ever had because he taught me to do things I've always wanted to be able to do and never thought I would learn. The choreography was hard for everyone, but I managed to do it--believably. He taught this tense, clumsy, control-freak of a woman to relax, surrender, trust and be led by a man without the influence of alcohol. Hard to believe, I know! Greg, if you read this, know that I'm so very grateful.

The fourth reason I'm happy I did this show is because of this show, this story, this music, this character. If you aren't familiar with the plot, music and characters of Curtains, you are missing out. I love the way it was written, the music is really special and the characters and relationships are funny, interesting and have surprising depth. It's extraordinary, really.

The fifth and final reason I'm glad I was in this show is because I'm a show person. There are few thrills equal to performing on stage for me. When I'm up there, I have so. much. fun! I hunger for this kind of thing, and feel a little starved when I'm not doing it. I can't really explain it any better than that, so I'm going to get a little help from one of the showstopper numbers from the score:

"We're a special kind of people
known as show people.
We live in a world of our own.
Our days are tied to curtains,
they rise and they fall.
We're born every night
at half hour call.
We can't picture being anything
but show people.
Civilians find the whole thing quite bizarre.
But that hop in our hearts
when the overture starts
lets us know how lucky we are.
It's an honor and a joy to be in show business.
I feel that spotlight hit me and I'm gone.
At the last curtain call,
I'm the envy of all
so I know that the show must . . .
go on . . .
show thrilling, we're show people;
and on . . .
so willing, we're show people;
and on . . .
so thrilling, the show must go on!"

I'm not sure any words on earth could describe the feeling better than those.

As much as I love the stage, I feel the need to take a good, long break from it. I'm exchanging the extreme highs and lows for something in the middle, something good for the soul. The experience of playing Nikki in this show was wonderful, but I will never play a role more important or exhilarating as those of wife and mother. It is in these roles that I find myself complete and centered. I may never get applause for playing these parts well, but that's okay. Every smile I win from my Little Red and every look in Brandon's eyes that tells me that he is happy I'm his is confirmation enough. If I can play these parts well, I will have done the best work of my life.

Babies don't wait to turn into little boys, and you stop being friends with your spouse if you stop spending time together. After some rest and focus, for however long I need it, I know that the stage will still be there . . . waiting. In the meantime, I get to enjoy lots of this . . .

And that is a very, very good thing.

Stay tuned for non-theater related recent happenings and general goings-on.

Recommended viewing:

A Summer State of Mind

Walking outside is like wading through bath water. It's every bit as hot, and the humidity adds resistance to the air. The heat almost has a smell, or maybe that's just the grass baking in the summer sun. I can hear the locust chorus singing from inside my living room, and no doors or windows are open. Fireflies are blinking their hellos to me as I look through the windows of my french doors into the dusky woods. It's the time of year when heat lightening can be seen almost every evening out here on Lake D'Arbonne, and the gathering clouds bring a welcome drop in temperature and a gentle breeze to kiss perspiring faces.

My refrigerator is overflowing with summer squash, crisp cucumbers, fresh peaches and juicy blackberries. Soon, there will be more watermelon available than I can eat. Oh, how I love watermelon! My grandfather and father-in-law both take an interest in summer crops, so there are more than enough delicious and non glutenous things to eat for at least three months out of the year.

Summer holds more nostalgia for me than any other season. I don't know why that is. I have an asthma attack whenever I'm near a freshly mowed lawn. My blood sugar becomes uncontrollable if I spend too much time out in the swoon inducing heat. I sometimes break out in hives if I eat too much watermelon. So, why do I love it so? I'm not sure, but I think it's because when I was a child, my entire household relaxed out of its school year tension when summer came. My dad was a school teacher, and while he's always liked his job, he's always found it a bit stressful. But each year when the school doors closed, light shone into our home, and the only thing on the agenda was to have as much fun as possible until mid August. And boy, did Dad know how to show us all--Mom included--a good time! We would go out for snow cones and play in the park. He would set up a sprinkler or a slip n slide which would provide hours of cool, wet fun. We went to the zoo, summer art camps, and Vacation Bible School. I loved staying up late watching movies, and waking up late to the comforting smells of coffee and bacon. We always took at least one vacation a year together. For several years in a row, summer wasn't complete until we had gone to a Texas Rangers baseball game, eaten one of the stadium hot dogs and spent the following day at the big waterpark in Arlington, Texas. And don't even get me started on the year we began planning an annual trip to the Florida coast! I became a beach bum for life before I was legal to drive. It's a good thing I married a fellow beach bum because that could have been a deal breaker.

The fact is . . . I love, love, love summer. I love summer so much, in fact, that one of my primary reasons for choosing to get a degree in education is because of summer vacation. It's just lucky happenstance that I like children and that I'm a gifted teacher. Here's the strange thing--I teach private piano and voice lessons, and I'm not taking the summer off. I'm primarily a stay-at-home mother of a toddler, which means seasons aren't as significant as they once were, and I am still caught up in the intoxicating nostalgia of summer. I cannot help myself. The heat is miserable, and my Eustachian tubes won't quit itching (which is super annoying because you can't scratch your Eustachian tubes), and I know I'm gonna have to cut myself off and/or down a couple of Benadryl after a slice or two of watermelon, but I am absolutely, irrevocably in L-O-V-E with summer.

Honey, it's summertime, and the livin' is easy. I have kicked up my heels, let down my hair and let the summer high take me away into the D'Arbonne sunset (which happens to be spectacular, by the way). Inspired by one of my new favorite blogs, I have compiled a summer "to-do" list. Some of these items have been checked off once, but it's summer! I'm not limited to one check!

1. Audition for a show. Check.

I auditioned for Peter Pan at Strauss Theater in Monroe, and was offered the role of Mrs. Darling. It's a perfect role, really. It's different from anything I've done before. It's small, so I don't have to give up my summer late nights with my main man. I get to sing a little and show off my British accent. I couldn't ask for more.

2. Buffalo River canoe trip. Check. I even caught a couple of nice bass.


3. Spend time with seldom seen friends. Check, but more of that to come . . .

4. Finger painting with Micah on a hot afternoon. Check.




5. "Swimming" in the backyard with Micah. Check. (But there's not much actual swimming going on. He won't even sit in the water.)




6. Cook more. Half a check. I can cook more because I'm not teaching evening lessons. I like to cook more now that I'm not teaching evening lessons. Sometimes Micah and I cook together. Sometimes, I cook, and he adds the whine. And sometimes, Brandon watches Micah while I cook, and I get to listen to awesome music on my Ipod Touch as I stir, season and create.

7. Discover great, new music through ITunes. Check! See previous post.

8. Eat more vegetables. Fruit is too easy. Check!

9. Do more yoga. Check!

Now, on to the things left undone . . .

10. A family swim in a real pool.

11. A family vacation to the beach (minus the oil-slick). To make this one happen, it will be in combo with the remainder of number 3.

12. Sing more.

13. Read more non-fiction.

14. Seriously work on the novel.

15. Make at least 3 library story hours with the little guy.

16. Rent a canoe from D'Arbonne State Park, and float around with my boys as the sun sets. Like I said, D'Arbonne sunsets are something to be seen.

17. More bass fishing. Brandon and I leave for Arkansas next weekend to make this one happen!

18. Share a popsicle with a curly red.

19. Read more fiction.

20. Take another trip out to where Grandmommy grew up, where she lived and where she died.

21. Eat figs fresh off the tree at Grandmommy's old place. Watch Micah's face as he tries one.

22. Figure out the proper amount of bug spray required to keep the horsefly hordes from attacking me so that I can play outside with my child in peace.

23. Share all of my favorite summer foods with Micah.

24. Drink a homemade cinnamon dulce daily.

25. Lay out in the sun as often as I can for as long as I can stand it or until I smell like man.

26. Watch several summer storms.

27. Take afternoon naps.

28. Finish sewing our curtains.

29. Go on a movie date with Brandon at least twice a month.

30. Go on an unplanned adventure.

31. And as I do all of these things, taking as much pleasure in life as is humanly possible, I will remember from whom all blessings flow. I will revel in His many gifts with joy and gratitude. He was the one who was clever enough to imagine and create summer, after all.

So raise your paper cup of Country Time lemonade purchased from your neighbor's five year old daughter. To summer!

Serendipity

I love antique shops, which probably means that I'm getting old. I love digging through old junk that at one time had been important to someone, junk that can only hope to be important to you so that it won't sit in a musty old shop for ages and ages or end up in a landfill. I like the smell of old books even though it makes me sneeze.I like pilfering through those old books until I find one that's rare, beautiful or an absolute must-read. I love finding something unique and whimsical to add to my decor or jewelry collection. Okay, I really dig antique shops. You get the picture.

So, when dad asked if Brandon and I would like to do some antique shopping on the way home from Ponca, Arkansas a couple of Fridays ago, I couldn't help but follow. We drove the winding, always sickening road from Ponca to the little town of Jasper, nestled neatly on both sides of the Buffalo River. By the time we stopped, I was wondering if anything we could find would be worth the nausea I felt. I stumbled out of Brandon's giant GMC truck into the mild Ozark heat, and crossed the street to join my parents. Brandon brought Micah, and together we entered a little shop with a very promising title, "Emma's Museum of Junk." That title is promising for three reasons. One, I've always liked the name Emma, and if I ever have a little girl, she may very well bear the name. Two, that is one of Jane Austen's best books. And three, the sign says "junk," which means we should be safe from the outlandish prices of more pretentious old junk stores. No "Emma's Fine Antiques" here. We found a junk museum. Right on, Dad.



One step over the threshold, and I immediately liked the place. The inside looked like a general store from the turn of the century.(That would be the 20th century.) The walls, ceiling and floor were all made from beautiful, grooved wood given character by time and business. The merchandise was in organized disarray. The faint smell of must delivered by the books and antique clothing and the sound of classical music set the perfect tone as I shopped. It also helped to settle my stomach. I was right. The prices were good. There was a lot to look at, and I took my time. I found a lovely necklace made from silver beads and a newer copy of the The Secret Life of Bees. As I continued thumbing through the stacks of books and magazines, the music changed.

A voice I had never heard, but had always wanted to hear drifted out of the speakers. The voice was perfect--clear, pure, poignant and beautiful. The songs were from several different genres, but all comfortable and familiar even if I didn't really know them. I found myself looking over the store's contents again so that I could listen to more of the music. I wasn't the only one who noticed and appreciated the beauty of the voice. Others in our group were whispering, "Is that Sarah McLachlan?" I answered them, "Definitely not."

When it was obvious that my group was finished shopping and wanted to leave, I approached the register to make my purchases. Behind the counter stood a woman who obviously enjoyed her work. She was talking with a man who was likely a local friend. He stood on my side of the counter. They both had an aura about them that whispered, "mountain hippy." I liked them both immediately. I've always liked hippies. Before I even handed her my items, I spat out, "Who is the singer?" She grinned at me, and shot a knowing look to her friend.

"Her name is Eva Cassidy," she said, "and everyone asks about her."

She told me a little about the singer. After my own research, I must say here that much of her information was inaccurate, but the part I took away with me was that Cassidy had died in her early 30's of cancer, and she never "made it" before her death. Her music has been promoted posthumously by her family. That information cut at me because here was my idea of the perfect voice, and she would never know on this earth how much it could have been appreciated. I branded the singer's name to my memory, mentally vowed I would buy the album I had heard in the store and paid for my finds which now seemed minuscule in light of my musical find. The man, the owner's friend, said to me, "It's rare when someone young like you appreciates good music." I smiled and said, "I'm not that young. I turned 26 yesterday. But I have been trained to appreciate good music." He invited me to his son's music gig later that night. I had to decline as I was leaving town. I smiled at both of them and took my leave.

As soon as I was home, I researched the singer. I discovered that she had done several recordings, but did not promote them because she never cared for fame. Eva Cassidy is described as having been introverted. She would play for family, friends and small gatherings, but did not have the makings of the international star her voice could have helped her become. She died at the age of 33 of melanoma, and sang her final song in public only weeks before her death.

I wax overly philosophical now because I listened to her album, "Songbird," last night while I cooked fajitas. It's weird to say an album has the power to change a life, but if it's possible, this album has changed mine. It's that good. I wept as I chopped last night, and it wasn't the onions. It's because of her knack for selecting good music to sing, her stirring interpretations of familiar songs and the passion laced into her vocals. So, I had to write about it and let you all know about this treasure that I found in a junk museum. You may laugh, but I believe that destiny led me to this singer. Those of you who know me, know that I believe that the Lord Jesus Christ is the Father of all destiny.

"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow or turning." James 1:17

As I mentioned, my birthday was the day before I found out about this great singer. Because I had also been given enough Itunes gift cards to buy all of her albums, this ordained discovery is truly a gift that will keep on giving.

And I call that serendipity.

Understanding The Creative Process

A friend of mine posted this to her Posterous blog. It resonated so deeply within me that I had to share it. Every creative spirit can relate, and those who are not can understand us better. But understand this, I acknowledge that higher fount of creativity to be the Most High God, not fairies or the universe. Enjoy!

Micah's Modern Fantasia

Micah has much potential in the arena of modern composition. This is cutting edge stuff!

Things I Love In No Particular Order

Being greeted by a toothless, grinning, red-headed baby boy every morning (I will miss it when any one of these adjectives change.)

The sound a hardback book makes when you open it for the first time

The smell of ink on paper (of any age--new is my favorite)

Reading and studying the Bible with no time pressures

The tingle of warm sunshine on my skin, and the way it lasts even after I go back inside

Music

The scents of Fall--spices, dank earth, hints of wood smoke in the air

The weight and feel of a book in my hands (What? I like books.)

Halloween

New school supplies

Daisy, my rat terrier

Chocolate

A strong cup of Community Coffee with a dash of Hershey's Chocolate Caramel creamer by International Delight

Holding a sleeping baby

Being able to eat a gluten-free doughnut every morning without getting fat (This will change when I stop breastfeeding.)

Writing

The rush of adrenaline during exciting books (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, check out The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, a book I want to help make the New York Times bestseller list. Then, read her sequel Catching Fire.)

The feel of my husband's strong, welcoming arms and firm chest after a hard day; his smell

Teaching whatever; a student's success

Alliteration

Listening to my Aunt Mary tell stories about her childhood

Performing on stage

My church

Making new friends; visiting old ones

Talking to Mom in person or over the phone

Exchanging dry humor with my dad

Finding common ground with my sister

Reminiscing good times

My friends and family

Grace, Redemption, Mercy

The Lord Jesus Christ

Growing old with the love of my life. Happy birthday, Brandon.

A Question, An Idea and A Consideration

Question--Who reads this thing anyway? Will you leave your name and location in the comment section? This thing's aimed mainly at friends and family, but I'm curious if anyone who doesn't know me is reading. I know it's narcissistic to ask, but really--everything about a blog is narcissistic.

Idea--I want to post something about my piano students in a few weeks, but I'll have to ask their permission. Then they'll want to read my blog. Then I'll have to be careful about some of the things I post. Is it worth it? They are so interesting as a group, and so unique as individuals. It would make a great post . . . I think.

Consideration--I'm considering posting the first chapter of my novel. My purpose would be to see if it interests anyone other than my family or even people who don't know me and my family (if there are even any readers who don't know me). I would like to know if it grabs you from the beginning, if you want to read more when you're done. The first chapter of a book is pretty important as it has to set the tone, interest the reader and establish some themes. If you readers think it's a good idea to post a rough draft of the chapter, let me know. If not, tell me that. If you don't think it's a good idea to post it where anyone and his or her mother can read it and steal it if they wish, give me your email address, and I'll email you. (It occurs to me that the previous sentence could possibly be a run-on. It felt like one, anyway.

Comments, please! (If you have difficulty posting to my blog, you can contact me on Facebook under the name "Melissa Chapman Keaster.")

The Happiest Six Months Ever

Micah will be six months tomorrow (August 19). I can't believe how the weeks have flown by. Here is a montage of the happiest six months of my life.