Art After Dark: Join us this Saturday!

When I looked The Strand Theater on Google, I quickly learned these are all over the country - the first result was in Louisiana - including New Jersey, Massachusetts and Ohio. How have I never heard of these? I'm familiar with the Orpheum, also all over the country; and I feel there are others slipping my mind.

But never have I know The Strand.

That's all changing now that we are a part of the fundraising event for the historic Strand Theater in Louisville, Miss., where we'll join other artists this Saturday, September 29 from 6-9pm, showcasing the fruit of our art-making.

Susan Clark, the amazing-and-artistic mom of our housemate Matthew Clark, is one of the primary organizers of this event, to raise money to support the Strand, which according to Wikipedia is now an art and music venue in this small, southern town of well under 10,000 people. She, along with her son Sam, will be two of the artists displaying their work, which includes a pottery demonstration.

I love Mississippi, the arts and Susan Clark, so come on out this Saturday! There is an admission fee of $20, but if you eat dinner in The Market Cafe, host of the event, your admission is included with your dinner receipt.

Hope to see you there!

One Memory Leads to Another

"I remember every name and every face

and every roadtrip that we ever made..."

("Who I Am" by Abbye West Pates)

There's a small town somewhere in Louisiana with a church named Bedico - Bedico Baptist Church. And in my memory, I see this church, the guitars we pulled out of our cases, the brownies we ate, the face of the friends who graciously brought me along on the journey.

I was 18, a freshman in college. Though I played guitar and had a full collection of youth group worship songs, I didn't call myself a worship leader. But I did tag along, guitar in tow. It was the blue one, the guitar my parents bought as my Christmas present just a year before.

And they let me sing; I loved to sing.

Jeremy was the worship leader. I sang some harmonies and strummed along, unimpressively I'm sure. It was a good weekend, this I remember. I was so young, too inexperienced to have contributed in any significant way, I think.

Why is the memory so vivid tonight?

___________________________________

I threw this baseball tee on tonight: "Follow Jesus," it says, Bedico Baptist Student Ministry on the back. A church fellowship hall (or "family life center," if you're Baptist) came to mind, pieces of memory.

But wait - this church isn't Bedico; I know this one. I hopped in a different car, ready for another adventure. This time with friends more familiar, those summer friends who ushered me out of high school, into adulthood.

Yes, on that trip I didn't pull out my guitar; I just watched, sang along. And I  knew why I tagged along this time: a boy. There's a picture to prove it, on the stage, practicing before the show. I'm standing with him, leaning into him.

It's so obvious I liked him; maybe I loved him. In the picture, I'm wearing his sweatshirt. Swooning, I'm sure.

Funny, this one shirt I'm wearing, tucked away for the Summer, reappearing for Autumn, has swept me back there, back to 18 years old. The memories - they're all smashing together. But they remind me of life; indeed, of life well lived.

___________________________________

On the other side of the neighborhood, that blue guitar is sitting in the corner of my best friend's house. It was time for a new one, time to grow up into one that could carry me strong from the stage.

I'm secretly glad that I still get to see that guitar, reminder of every person, every living room, every song that came from it.

This shirt, that guitar - I'm reminded of one reason why I write: to remember.

"I remember every name and every face

and every roadtrip that we ever made.

And I count every single one as my blessing

'cause I know my life never went unlived."

("Who I Am" by Abbye West Pates)

The Church: my story.

Today: freshly cut grass. Gardens that struggle to grow. Hollywood and girl's return to the Deep South. Recovery of cursive handwriting. Grief and loss. Anger at "the Church" and what that means for how we look at "it" - an organization - or how we view humans, people, individuals that make up this Church.

I remember my own story.

It only seemed logical to me that every church [of this certain denomination] must look exactly like mine. We don't really like to change things. We never let the service go longer than one hour. We don't use guitars (unless a very special "youth occasion"). And we chew up our pastors and spit them out.

So, I left for college and set out to find any church - of any denomination besides my own, please - that was exactly NOT the church I grew up in. (It's important to mention here that my faith journey was largely shaped by the faithfulness of certain people in this Church, but there's more to come on that later.)

fellow youth group-ers, of growing up years

The youth of Heritage UMC, Hattiesburg

I did find other churches. They had great college programs, cool music, small groups and fun outings. Oh, and really cute guys (one who I went on to marry). They were so good, in fact, that I couldn't decide at which one I should stay, so I visited them all! I hopped around, sticking one for about a year, but moving on after that.

Then during my senior year, I found one that seemed to call me home. We sang the hymns of my growing up; received the bread and grape juice on our knees or in processional; and kept close to the Church calendar, the seasons of Advent and Lent that help us remember our place a great Story. Our pastors were vibrant, quirky and loved deeply by us.

And the sign out front bore the same last name as the church from which I'd run so far.

Bruce, pastor of the Church that called me home.

Toris (aka T-love)

This new church home of mine had a tough history; they almost closed their doors for good. They were located in a part of this Mississippi college town where realtors didn't regularly take potential residents: "Haven't you heard of our newest development out west, where the schools are so good?" So, people moved away, money ran out and what follows many in our denomination almost followed us.

Then one sweet, yet resilient lady got in her van and picked up kids to come to Wednesday night dinner. And we built a Habitat home for one of our own. And we gathered in the little chapel after dinner to read the Scriptures together.

Later in years, thing got tough again for the Church I loved. But those other ones I was so non-committal with in college had their own tough times - disagreements that split the Church, new visions for ministry (and desire for bigger buildings) that caused sharp conflict, and leaving behind the city for the suburbs, breaking hearts with their move.

And so it goes. 

What I know now is that people are unfaithful; and people are what make up the Church.

Isn't this why we need a faithful God? Isn't this why we come together anyway, to try to live together and sing songs that [at least most of us] like? And if we don't like them, we sing them anyway, because we need to sing together, to believe together, to look outward at this mess of a world and see God's work in it - together?

Running from the Church won't save us from unfaithful people. And I confess - I have not been faithful. But we keep seeking to be faithful; we help each other be faithful; and we stay. 

We stay because otherwise we are among the masses who leave because working it out is too difficult and frustrating; singing unfamiliar songs is too uncomfortable; sitting next to someone at dinner who can't pay his way isn't what we signed up for.

__________________________

The church of my growing up years taught me a lot about faithfulness. I saw many people - my own parents, included - stay, no matter the circumstances. When the same group of people complained about the new pastor, only to see him out and send us into another transition... they stayed. When the proposed changes to music in worship were shot down again... they stayed. 

And without even realizing it, I learned how to live with imperfect, unfaithful people - and they learned to live with me.

__________________________

"Loving a person just the way they are, that's no small thing;

that's the whole thing... it takes some time."

(Sara Groves)

Assumptions and 'Beasts of the Southern Wild"

Hushpuppy and Wink. Daughter and father. One moment their relationship speaks of loyalty; in the next, it shouts of out-of-control anger. When at once you think he's thankful to have Hushpuppy as daughter, minutes later you wonder if he wishes to be rid of her. Still, throughout, it speaks of love.

Within the first minutes of 'Beasts of the Southern Wild', I was thrust into a trailer on stilts, with a wild-haired little girl whose clothes were filthy; whose dad was reckless and intoxicated; who mostly, though probably not often enough, knew she was loved.

And within these same first minutes, I'd already made my assumptions. 

What kind of father is that? What kind of town is this? Too much alcohol; too much dirt. Not enough order; not enough love.

But there was another group of people in this movie who made assumptions. They were clean and put together and sanitary and rescued the residents of Bathtub right out of that filthy bayou. This is for your own good. It's clean here. There are hospital beds. And other children to play with. And four safe walls to keep you safe.

What Hushpuppy and her neighbors see, though, is that their choices have been stripped away. They didn't choose to leave; they were forced to leave.

So, now, clean and beds and children and walls communicate suffocation and oppression and... boredom.

What I saw in 'Beasts...' was the danger of assumptions - that this poor, unresourced community couldn't take care of themselves. That life was bad.

It made me think of my own community, my own neighbors, some of whom don't have the same things I have: two-parent homes, jobs, cars, etc. What are my assumptions? What is good for them? Will I give them time to let me know what they need - if anything - from me, or will I assume I know what it is before I've even learned their name?

Our starting place can never be assumptions, or we've not met the person in front of us; we've only met the person we've been taught to think they are.

time goes by

The teasing of the past several days' Autumn-like weather doesn't have me fooled - summer isn't quite over - but it does remind me that August is well on its way to becoming September, and I've been a serious slacker when it comes to blogging.

But I'm back!

The okra is growing like crazy, school is back in session, and our album will be in our hands in a matter of weeks - so, maybe summer is mostly over. We're busy trying to book some shows (anyone in Mississippi want to host us?), throw baby showers for best friends, write new songs and figure out how to get the tomatoes to actually grow.

And today I'm letting you know that I will be writing more. Don't stop reading!

music: where are we going?

As we (Jeff and I) near the completion of our first album, we get a lot of questions about where we're going from here. Will we do this full-time? Order physical copies or just sell online? Travel and play? Play more locally? What are our goals?

These are great questions, ones we're exploring as we go. But if you're reading (and listening to the music), it's probably helpful to keep you in the loop as we go along!

We should have the album in our hands - hopefully! - no later than September 1. We will order physical copies (I'm still a purchaser of CDs!), and there will be full lyrics.

Beyond that we are looking into playing in living rooms in Hattiesburg, Miss. and Vermont; coffee shops in Minneapolis; universities in Georgia and churches in Mobile, Ala. and Jackson, Miss.

I'm also a storyteller, once who is not always graceful in delivery; I'll work on that. I'll be crafting my stories in a way that are more accessible, easier to listen to, more clearly communicated.

And I'll be writing. 

If there's one thing the album process has done, it's helped me find my voice, find my style, my rhythm. Matthew calls album-making, at least in my case, "closing the chapter," getting these songs out there so I clear the way for new songs and stories.

This is where we are. We do want to travel more; we do want to grow.

We're on the way; join us!

(Another thing we want down the road is a good website! This will have to do for now: www.abbyewestpates.com.)

gifts of other artists: a thank you

I am sitting at the stage, maybe two rows in, and Sara or Andrew or Don start this story, the one about growing up as a preacher's kid with rebellion in his heart or what it felt like to sit at mom's side in the hospital, just before death visited. There isn't another voice in this room; every ear is listening. Their stories become ours for a moment. We are in that sanctuary with the boombox and the piano when the flash of grace comes, in that white-walled room when everyone is praying, but everyone knows hows it ends.

And I wonder can I hold such sorrow in my heart!

Then we are taken into their marriages, their children's imaginations, their awakenings. We hear when love washed over a multitude of things gone wrong, when promises were kept. We're allowed to see what beauty struck them when this song became a song, when thought turned into lyric turned into melody.

And I wonder can I hold such joy in my heart!

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with gratitutde at the gifts of these artists, whose work matters so much. I want to look them in the eyes, write them a letter, somehow let them know.

So, here is my thank you to a few of my favorites, for letting us in...

To you, Sara Groves, thank you for the simplicity and depth of your songs, for making your music accessible to all of us, with college degrees, with difficult pasts, with happy marriages, with failing ones. Thank you for following that call years ago from full-time, "sure of a paycheck" work - valuable teaching work -  into work that is giving us these gifts of word and song. I met your music in 2003 and never turned back.

To Andrew Peterson, thank you for that concert last night, in that beautiful North Carolina valley of Lake Junaluska. Thanks for giving yourself to us; you are a gifted storyteller. You made us laugh and cry. You introduced yourself to my family for the first time... and it was a good meeting. You are so very real and approachable; we feel human when we're listening to you.

To Don and Lori Chaffer (Waterdeep). Thank you for writing about everything - grief, loss, and how hard it is to love anybody down here. For making us laugh from the stage. For reading poetry. For being so vulnerable. For getting married. I, too, met your music in 2003, alongside Sara Groves and have been supporting and purchasing your work ever since. Your albums, both together and solo, have stirred me at the core of my being. Oh, and your music is the best canning-tomatoes, chopping-vegetables, all-around-kitchen music.

Thank you.