Lyrics

Prompt 13

I’m a sucker for one-liners. I like to hear people zing witty banter back and forth and I love hearing short, profound sentiments. I think that’s why I love music so much. Every day I listen to music, all day. I’d like to think I have a healthy appreciation for most genres, and consider myself a music aficionado. However, the reality is I just latch onto musicians that other people like and based on their lyrics and sound, love them or leave them.  That has been the case for my most recent musical obsessions. For example I found my love for Mumford and Sons and The Civil Wars based on (cower in shame) episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, and my love for Sara Bareilles based on this blog post.

I find so much satisfaction in listening to these artists sing sweet melodies and spill out poetic verses, hooks and bridges that seem to explain where I’m at so perfectly. It’s as if they stepped right into my mind and plucked out how I feel about Jesus, my relationships, and the direction of my life. Often the actual subject matter of the song has nothing to do with what I’m experiencing but somehow these artists use a few lines to sum up the pages and pages of my Moleskine that I’ve filled trying to decipher what I feel.

Won't somebody come on in and tug at my seams?/ Oh, send your armies in of robbers and thieves/ To steal the state I'm in I don't want it anymore

I know that she is singing about a man and pleading to get over him. She calls herself a basket case and gives examples of why she loves him. That couldn’t be farther from MY situation except for maybe the basket case part. I have a loving and faithful husband, but those lines are closer to home than I’d like to admit. I NEED to be moved out of the state I’m in; I’m pleading in a similar way to be pushed, pulled or dragged into a better state of mind. Truth is for months I’ve been struggling to mutter a prayer for myself other than, Please, Father be patient with me.

I’m balancing between a desire to dive deeper and thinly veiled apathy. I want to be robbed of fear and insecurity. I want shameful and painful memories to be stolen.

I hold on to worry so tight/ It's safe in here right next to my heart/ Who now shouts at the top of her voice/ Let me go, let me out, this is not my choice

I’d rather stop worrying and move forward in freedom. I want what I should believe to be what I really believe instead of cluttered with questions and doubt. I realize it’s all a bit dramatic but I’m okay with that. For now, I’ll sing along to popular songs and plead their melodic prayers until I feel closer to where I need to be. I'll rely on poetic verses and concise lyrics to say it better than I can because something is better than nothing. 

The Chronicles of ....

Prompt

I am convinced that the greatest relationships in life are the unexpected ones, the ones that metaphorically sweep you off your feet. In fact, the majority of the intimate relationships of my current state were quite unexpected. Take for example one of my closest friends. She and I met under the most random circumstances. It was a high school soccer game for one of our mutual friends. I came to watch on a whim (kind of). In hindsight it wasn’t nearly as whimsy as I thought. After all, I did drive four hours to watch a two hour soccer match. It was a big game and I had wanted to surprise my friend playing and another friend spectating. As I tip-toed through the bleachers I noticed a semi-familiar face, one I’d seen in pictures and heard countless stories about. As I got closer and prepared to surprise her companion, she glanced back…. Busted. Or at least I thought so until I put my finger on my lips and mouthed shhhhh. My new found co-conspirator played it perfect. She pursed her lips, crossed her arms and nodded confidently. Surprise success! I’ve never been a believer in “love at first sight” but that encounter comes pretty close. All it took after that to blossom our friendship was a common denominator and a two hour Anchorman quoting session.

I cannot count how many inside jokes we have compiled or how many times we’ve laughed until we almost puked. We even joke about the sustainability of our friendship and how it’s a good thing we live 6 hours apart. After all, the world might implode upon itself if we spent more than a few days in the same place. (Sometimes I don’t doubt the validity of that statement) Truth be told, aside from our extensive fits of laughter, our interactions can be quite volatile at times. For example we aren’t allowed to have serious conversations via Skype anymore. Believe it or not, sarcasm can be seriously misread over typed characters. There have been several times we’ve seriously hurt each other’s feelings, usually unintentionally, but hurt nevertheless. It’s bound to happen in close relationship. When you get real with someone, sometimes you say things you don’t mean, or things you do mean that just come out poorly. Sometimes you can’t help but step on each other’s toes.

One of the things I hate, and love most about her is her desire to step on my toes. She rarely tells me what I want to hear, which pisses me off to no end. I almost always take it personally, until I realize that she’s right, which pisses me off to no end. It’s a collision of the best kind, a beautiful impact if you will. She rubs the wrong way on purpose and pushes me into the uncomfortable. She’s forever altered the way I view friendship. She helps show me what it’s like to bear the banner of Christ in relationships. It’s beautiful and awfully messy; forceful and gentle.

We’ve made plans. Plans hashed out over the phone, 6 hours apart, each with Woodchuck in hand. Plans to run a coffee shop in a college town, with lots of books, and good tea, and ridiculousness. That plan might never happen but I’ve no doubt we’ll be making mischief for many years to come. It won’t be because we know how to sustain our friendship. It will be because the sustainability doesn’t rely upon our ability to make each other happy or walk on eggshells. If that were the case we’d have jumped ship long ago. She’s taught me that it has nothing to do with us, which makes it even sweeter. 

Track One

Whenever I get together with my “FCA” friends, it is always a joyous event. I call them my FCA friends because it kind of explains how we all know each other. Basically we’re a group of women spread all over the Midwest who love Jesus and each other. We are/were all athletes, most of us college athletes who at some point and time got involved with FCA. During college we would use any excuse to gather together for weekends of ridiculousness, sleepless nights, and worship. Since college our gatherings have gotten fewer and farther between but the quality is still unbeatable. There is still ridiculousness, like when I tipped on our night kayak session. We have all grown quite a bit fonder of sleep but there are still a few late night conversations and even though the nature of our time together has changed there has been one consistent event that occurs at least once when we gather. We worship. KP gets out her guitar and occasionally we throw in a djembe. We sing the usual songs, Come Thou Fount (in southern accent), We are Hungry, and a few others. Then, like clockwork, we harass KP to play her songs, the ones she wrote about life and her family. KP is always a little hesitant. Sometimes all it takes is a request and sometimes we need to slow clap to get her going but my favorite is when we all chant track one. Track one of our favorite playlist. Sure it only consists of three songs and they all have actual titles but we all affectionately remember track one.

The crew minus a few.

Track One has been our anthem of sorts. We sang it at the barn who knows how many times. We sang it the night we gave KK her book, at school street and in the parking lot of UNO. We sang it as we sat in California days before AP’s brain surgery, the day of her wedding. It was particularly poignant that day. As we sat there filled with joy and excitement and fear and anxiety we worshipped. When track one was requested there was no hesitation, smiles spread across all of our faces. KP started up and we sang with a capo so I could sing my comfortable tenor harmony (thanks for coming down an entire octave for me guys). SB made sure to point out that her favorite parts were coming up and we all laughed. I fought the lump in my throat the entire time. I needed track one that day. I needed some consistency, some sort of sign that everything was going to be okay. I needed to hold fast. I love track one and I love the people I sing it with. It is a perfect prayer for me and one that I pray for all of you.

He loves us and has set us free,

From our sins and has made us whole again.

His kingdom reigns on high,

And because of Him we will never die.

Hold fast to the fire in your heart,

Open the door and embrace My love for you,

Walk with Me in garments pure white,

You are worthy to be called a child of Mine.

Unprepared

I wasn’t ready for all of this you know. It was supposed to be about me, a summer of reform and revolution, but there you were. Instead of independence and self realization it was butterflies, phone calls and letters. It was so unfamiliar; not so much the mutual attraction but the mutual respect. I was shocked that someone wanted more from me than just instant gratification.

I wasn’t ready for commitment but there it was. I certainly wasn’t ready to be your wife. I don’t know how to function in this partnership of servitude. My arrogant selfish nature is debilitating and destructive. I’m supposed to help and support you not manipulate my agenda. I’m hopeless at best, but praise the One who sees infinitely more that my finite mind can perceive. He may not have sent prince charming but he did send perfect provision in the form of everything I’m not.

We far from have it all together but as long as we’re doing it together I don’t really care. We will take this organized chaos and slap the label love on it because that’s what it is and so much more. I'm sure we won't be ready the day we hold a baby in our arms and I can’t help but be excited to see the beauty that our helplessness will reveal. 

I love stumbling through life with you even though I'm terribly unprepared.

Untitled... for now.

She was beautiful. Her silver hair framed her face just right. She had deep lines around her face from years of laughter, her best feature in my opinion. Her laugh was deep and hearty, such a big surprise coming from such a small woman. I remember her laugh as if she were sitting next to me laughing right now. It revealed such a deep joy. She had big, strong hands and was proud of the ability to palm a basketball at the age of 70 (my hero.) She often wore pearls and always told me that you shouldn’t wait for a special occasion to wear them. I wore hers on my wedding day. She was the most kind and compassionate person I ever knew. She wasn’t supposed to have favorites but it was clear that I was hers. We were the best of friends. We spent nearly every Wednesday during summer exchanging candy between fits of laughter and mischief. She would bring me an apple pie, my favorite, and I would buy her some disgusting boston baked beans or burnt peanuts, her favorite. Amidst our laughter we had many conversations about life, faith, friendships and anything else. She shared all sorts of wisdom with me, like, never withhold a compliment, always be kinder than necessary to someone in need and always tell someone when you love them. I heard her say those three words more times than I could ever count and never once did I question her sincerity. I try to live up to those things as best as I can. I realize I remember only the best version of her. Mom says she swore like a sailor but I secretly like to chalk that up into my favorite things about her as well. Even when she had surgeries to fix her back and other things, I still thought she was invincible.

I walked into the kitchen one hot summer morning. I’d slept terrible and hadn’t bothered to change out of my oversized pajamas. Everyone was sitting around the kitchen table looking somber. It was obvious they all knew something I didn’t; either that or I was in trouble again. They had all known for awhile, since the night before when my entire extended family had been over mourning together, when I had obliviously retreated to my upstairs bedroom to play obnoxious music and be a moody teenager. No one could bear to come get me, fearing what my reaction would be. Mom refused to look at me, so I laughed at all of them and sarcastically remarked, “Who died?” Dad looked up and told me, his voice shaking and his eyes full of big sloppy tears. It felt like someone had emptied all the air out of my lungs and I gasped loudly between sobs as I beat my dad’s chest calling him a liar.  I cried until it felt like my tear ducts had dried up; until all I could do was sleep. It was the first time I ever felt broken, the first time that I couldn’t think of anything to do to mend myself and I mourned for a long time. I refused to acknowledge the reality and I haphazardly masked the pain I felt. It took a long time but I healed and eventually grasped on to reality and tried to start walking in direction that she so often instructed me.

On Christmas Eve we watched home movies. It wasn’t until I heard her laugh half-way through that I realized she had been filming. She was laughing at my hopeless attempt to steer a go kart around the kiddy track at Okoboji and cheering me on. Hearing her laugh on tape was the best gift this year. I’ve recalled it to mind often since then as I did this morning on my drive to work.  It brings forth stronger emotions than I’m sometimes ready for but I love it, it’s the best sound.