Songwriter's Retreat, Tuesday (Day 1): bringing our seed-songs

We began our morning slowly, quietly, with breakfast and some time spread throughout the house, alone with our journals and prayers. Today's journal entry for me is so different from my last - pleading and crying out for friends back in Memphis who are in the throws of addiction. [Lord, have mercy.]


But this morning, I sat on Lake Pickwick, watching the land around us rise up just a bit, like they are saying to the Smokies, "When I grow up, I want to be just like you!" A good space for writing.

We came together mid-morning for Family prayer, then we split off into groups to write songs together, which was wildly and excitedly successful! Matthew, Eric, and I headed downstairs with two sets of phrases in our hands and a baby of a melody swirling around... a seed-song.* By the time we re-emerged to the top of the stairs, Katie and Matt were on their second song.




We then took some time to teach each other; our tunes were vastly different. Then throughout the day, we took our little seed-songs and watched something beautiful grow from it. We've been adding harmonies and layers and having fun. It's long work to record, but here in the lakehouse, we're finding much joy in it. To write and record songs in less than 12 hours is such a treasure. How did we get here, away from our regular jobs and commitments? A gift from God, we know this is true.




Then there's all the laughter - at the dinner table, during recording (exactly when you are NOT supposed to laugh, of course).




I can still hear the harmonies, the many voices of Family, ringing in my ears...


*I owe the use of this word, "seed-song," to Sara Groves.
**All photos taken by Eric Papp

Songwriter's Retreat, Monday eve: arrival to the Bear Cub Cabin

We've made it; 9pm, and I am the last one to barrel through those doors, arms full of excitement, song lyrics, and weariness from the workday and the nighttime drive. But yes, we're all here.

Although 3 people had to back out at the last minutes (flu, snow, wisdom teeth), I can't help but sensing that those here in the Bear Cub Cabin are going to become a Family nonetheless, we who escaped the wrath of winter storms and viruses. We've changed the guitar strings, setup the recording equipment, and bought enough food to keep us fed for several days.


This was born out of a desire to know what it's like to give our songs over to our friends, and maybe even to those we'd just met. All of us in that cabin had written something of value (isn't all writing of value, in some way?) - songs, journal entries, long letters - but we'd always written alone. One individual's thoughts getting down on the piece of paper or computer screen in front of us.


And we'd known Community in our living rooms, on the stage leading worship, in the throws of grief, but still we'd not really submitted ourselves and our melodies to the larger group, our Family.

What do we expect? What are we doing here? What is worship anyway? These are the questions we raised and gave over to the voice of Community this week. And what we do know is this: we will write; we will pray; we will listen; we will sing.

And now we will rest, for the hour is late.

*all pictures taken by Eric Papp

Songwriter's Retreat: the beginning

What is a Songwriter's Retreat? Who put this together for you? Where are you going? And what are you doing again? (And why do you need a whole week to... write?)

These were some great questions we received in the weeks leading up to our getaway to the tippy-toes of the Appalachian Mountains. These questions led us into some great conversations about why we write songs, why it's good to write together and especially how this week would be much more than just writing. We would write, sing, record, and above all that, pray, listen, and worship together. We decided to stop settling for, "Wouldn't it be so great if we holed ourselves up in a cabin for a week and wrote songs?"

This time, we did it.

And over the next several days, you can step back into last week with us and catch a glimpse of what it was all about, living in the Bear Cub Cabin, cooking meals, singing songs, reading Scripture, and laughing at Matthew's ridiculous clapping routines.

We hope you'll share the journey with us!

Advent: arrival of the Light

We stood in the middle of the bare apartment, with only the streams of light from the parking lot sneaking in through the worn out blinds. There were 5 of us, including the "wee one". It was a desperate evening. Half-truths were told. Promises made. Breaths held. Hope clinging on by its fingernails. Terribly sincere prayers were prayed. We are waiting for an advent.

Advent, which I've recently learned means, literally, "arrival," is fitting. We are awaiting the arrival of many things, but mostly for the rescue of these dear friends.

I've tried to intentionally be a much more expectant, patient participant in the Advent season, something that not many others around have helped me to be. But of course, we are all products of culture that doesn't allow for waiting. We are always connected (cell phone email, Twitter, laptop), always informed (24 hr. news channels, the world wide web), and always on the move (new city, new house, get to this appointment, rush to this event).

We rarely have to wait.

But tonight, tomorrow, in that dark apartment, there is nothing but waiting. The control was never - is never - ours. We have nothing but our hopes and expectancy, that Light will come and dispel the darkness, the darkness in which we sometimes feel suffocated. We hope for the Rescue and Redemption from One promised to us.

O come, you who are Light!

The fashion obsession: learning from Benedictine sisters

My husband likes to shop for new clothing; it's just true. It isn't uncommon for me to see him emerge from the bedroom, dressed for the day, in something completely new, something I've not yet seen. Then with a, "When'd you get that?" he grins softly and proceeds to tell me when, where, and what a good sale it was. Or he'll tell me he's been looking for a shirt just like this one for so long... and I give him a hard time.

But as much grief as I give him, I, too, would love to buy new clothes all the time. I find myself lusting over the latest styles (especially this new hipster-phase we're currently in) and wanting to look put-together, good, fashionable.

Fashion changes frequently for a reason - because people buy into it, because we like to please each other. We'll take the newest fashions because we like them... or because the world tells us to like them. I'm not sure which is true.

Today, however, I'm learning something from the perspective of the many different Benedictine sisters (that's right, they're not all alike!) around the world. Apparently, there was a point in the past few decades when the sisters were "freed" from having to wear the cumbersome, long, black habit (think, tent-like dress), and you can imagine that many abandoned it with gladness. (*For more on this, read the chapter entitled "Women and the habit: a not-so-glorious dilemma" in Kathleen Norris', The Cloister Walk)

Yet, despite this freedom, this chapter highlights glimpses of the more pure reasons for the habit, at least some form of the habit, and the many good things it stands for, the things it helps the sisters reject. See this:

"...some sisters feel that to express themselves as women, they need to wear bright colors, make-up, and jewelry, but I have a hard time with this. Even if we're not spending much money, the fact that our nice clothes are hand-me-downs from the second-hand store isn't obvious to others. I wonder if we've bought too much into what society holds up to us as beautiful and acceptable in a women." (p.325)

Or consider this symbol of the habit, and beyond that, how it practically leads a sister (and this applies to monks, as well) in the choices she makes about fashion:

"I am most interested in monastic dress as a form of renunciation, a sign that one is not preoccupied with fashion and possessions." (p.327, emphasis mine)

And finally, something I'm keeping before me all day, these words from the perspective of the author, who isn't a lifelong sister, but has spent much time in short-term residences with the Benedictines:

"'Thank God for the things I do not own,' said Teresa of Avila.

I could suddently grasp that not ever having to think about what to wear was freedom, that a drastic stripping down to essentials in one's dress might also be a drastic enrichment of one's ability to focus on more important things." (p.328, emphasis mine)

Thank God for the voice of the Benedictines.

Paradox of the Psalms: an excerpt

An excerpt from Kathleen Norris', The Cloister Walk, the chapter entitled 'The Paradox of the Psalms:

"I learned that when you go to church several times a day, every day,

there is no way you can 'do it right.' You are not always going to sit up straight,

let alone think holy thoughts. You're not going to wear your best clothes, but whatever

isn't in the dirty clothes basket. You come to the Bible's great 'book of praises' through

all the moods and conditions of life, and while you may feel like hell, you sing anyway.

To your surprise, you find that the psalms do not deny your true feelings

but allow you to reflect on them, right in front of God and everyone." (emphasis mine)

clothespin liturgy

It takes three clothespins to hang up a bath towel; two for hand towels; one for a cloth napkin.

And of those six clothespins, there are many stories. One may have water spots (or mildew) on it from being left on the line in the rain. Another looks almost new, perhaps being left in the bottom of the bag most times, hardly even given the chance to see sunlight. All of them, though, were used for many years, clipped onto bedsheets, towels, and my grandpa's socks.

My Nana's hands used these clothespins for as long as I can remember, where sometimes my brother's or my hands helped pin the bedsheets onto the line. We all knew there was nothing like the fresh scent of sun-dried bedsheets. We'd sometimes send these same pins flying off the clothesline as we ran through the sheets, occasionally bringing them down on top of us.

On this day, as I take the towels and sheets down from the clothesline, I think, "Gosh, maybe I should supplement these clothespins with some new ones, some fresh ones." And they would get the job done.

But then I think of all the stories I'd miss out on remembering each time I walk outside with a hamper full of wet sheets. I think of how long it takes to carefully hang things up to dry, which in turn offers much time to feel the wind, to see the cat creeping after a critter in the back yard.

And it makes me think that it's a little like liturgy. We come up with new things - songs, responsive readings, and the like - and they "get the job done". But when I turn to page 12 in the United Methodist Hymnal; pray the Lord's prayer; recite the Apostles' Creed with a room full of people I may or may not know personally; I think of those who have gone before.

I remember the disciples asking Jesus, "teach us how to pray". And I pray with them.

When doubt is creeping in, I say the Apostles' Creed and remember the millions who believe this with (and for) me. And I say it with them.

Today, I "recited" the clothespin liturgy, remembering those who have gone before in my family, roads walked, stories told, children running through the fresh sheets as they blew in the wind. I need these stories just as I need the clothespins to keep my garments on the line.

This is my clothespin liturgy.