[I wrote this in the airport yesterday. It is quite long, and I would understand if you don’t want to read all of it. The most important parts are probably the beginning and the end. It was mostly for me, but I wanted to share what’s going on.]

Last Wednesday night, I was driving home from Polyvalent practice at about 10:30pm when I listened to a voicemail from my parents. My dad’s solemn voice told me that my four-year-old nephew, Braden, had been attacked by a dog, that he was in Vanderbilt hospital, and that it was serious. I immediately called my mom, and she wept while explaining to me that the neighbor’s dog had attacked Braden, and bitten him repeatedly in the face. He had been rushed to Summit Hospital and then upon seeing the severity of the damage, he was rushed to Vanderbilt. My mom went to pick up my niece, Tori, who had witnessed the whole thing. My mom saw Braden just prior to him being taken away. She said there was so much blood that she couldn’t tell what the damage was.

I immediately felt anger. I don’t know why that was the first emotion. I didn’t know what kind of dog it was or whom it belonged to, but I hated the dog. I hated its owners. I imagined what the dog looked like and imagined punching it over and over again. I imagined yelling at his negligent, imaginary owners. I wanted someone to blame, but there was no one. I was home by the time I got off the phone. Brandy could tell something was wrong. I told Brandy what happened and she hugged me as we sat on the couch. I shouted, “LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE!”  But I don’t know who I was saying it to.

The next morning they prepped Braden for surgery, and I got the first flight to Nashville that I could. My best friend, Bryan, picked me up and took me to my parents’ house. They were waiting outside for me when we pulled up. When my mom saw me she immediately started crying. My dad was not feeling well but he was waiting, too. Tori had spent the night with my parents and stayed home from school. Tori bombarded me with hugs as soon as I stepped out of the car.

Braden was still in surgery. We didn’t know what was going to happen at that point, but things went about as well as they could. The dog had bitten through Braden’s cheek in several places and also bitten his eye. They had to stitch his cheeks as best as they could and assess the damage to his eye. The bite had destroyed one of his tear ducts, which they repaired, and it had basically destroyed his eyelid. They did their best to repair it, but there was muscle missing from it, and they will probably have to repair more of the damage later. The good news is that they don’t think his vision will be affected. His eye is still swollen shut at this point, so we don’t know for sure.

A few hours after the surgery, they released Braden and he went home. Mom, Tori, and I went to my brother, Brad’s house. Mom and I teared up when we walked in the living room. Little Braden was lying on the couch next to Brad, and he looked every bit as bad as you would fear. I was nervous to see him. I thought I might be grossed out or something. When I saw him, my heart was just filled with compassion. He didn’t talk very much, and he kept a pacifier in his mouth because it was so sore. He looked pitiful. My brother started crying and kept saying, “I just can’t believe this happened.”  Amanda, his seven-month-pregnant wife, rubbed his arm. She said they had taken turns being strong. They had been awake all night in the hospital and no one came to sit with them.

While we were there, the next-door neighbor came over. She was holding an infant and her five-year-old daughter tagged along behind her. The little girl is one of Braden’s playmates. She gave Braden some toys and a card, and she also cried as soon as she saw him. I didn’t know who she was, but I could tell that Brad and Amanda were good friends with her. Over the course of conversation I realized that she was the owner of the dog who had bitten Braden. She had called animal control and they had euthanized the dog that morning.

I expected Brad and Amanda to be cold and angry toward this woman, but they weren’t. She looked nothing like the soulless owner’s that I had conjured up in my mind. She was a very real, very heartbroken single mother who hated what her dog did every bit as much as we did. My brother and his wife were bigger than I was. I just wanted to blame someone.

Brad and Amanda had to give Braden antibiotics, apply ointment to his wounds, and put a patch over his eye before he went to bed. He was so scared and hurt that he started screaming if they even approached him. My mom tried to sit on the couch next to him and comfort him, but he freaked out. When Brad came toward him with the ointment he started punching and kicking and screaming. He pushed my mom down on the ground and she fell into a chair, bruising her ribs. Amanda and I struggled to help her up, and Braden never stopped screaming. It was horrible. There are no words for the range of emotions I felt. Tori was sitting there on the couch freaking out and adding to the chaos. I told her to go up to her room, and mom and I went in the kitchen where we couldn’t see Braden. But we still heard everything. Horrible. Horrible.

The next afternoon, Brandy flew in and I picked her up. We went to see Braden again, and this time he seemed a bit more like himself. He was talking a little bit, but he didn’t want to leave Brad’s side. Tori went home with us to spend the night, and she was very excited that Brandy was there.


At this point, it may be good to explain how many things were going on while we were in Nashville. On top of Braden’s injuries, Amanda, his mom is pregnant. Tori saw the dog attack, and she was the only one who could tell us what happened. She was turning 11 the following Monday. My dad has very advanced cancer, and his health keeps declining. It has gotten so bad that my parents just bought a condo on a different side of town. They are moving there so that my mom won’t have to keep up with a yard and home repairs. I was coming to help my brother, to see my nephew, to celebrate my niece’s birthday, to visit my sick father, and to tell my childhood home goodbye.

Saturday, Brandy and I took Tori out for her birthday to give her parents and my parents a break. We took her to a place called Strike and Spare that has bowling, skating, bumper cars, bungee trampolines, and a bunch of other stuff. We did all of it. Brandy and Tori beat me at bowling. All three of us did back flips on the bungee trampoline. We laughed a lot, and for a bit, we forgot about all the bad stuff. We took Tori to McDonald’s, her pick, and then we took her to a cupcake shop to pick out cupcakes for everybody. That night we ordered pizza, sat around and watched a movie, while Tori stayed glued to her Nintendo DS.

The next day, Brandy and I started packing things. For weeks, I’ve been offering to fly up and help my mom pack. She has told me that I don’t need to worry about it, that she has been working on things little by little and there were plenty of people to help. I was shocked to find that the house looked very much like it always has. Not a lot was gone. We spent the next several days going through rooms, deciding what to keep and what to get rid of. Boxing up things that were moving. Boxing up things that were going to Goodwill. Boxing up things to give to other people.

The more time I spent going through old photos, old books, old record, old trinkets, the more the memories flooded back—the more it hit me what was going on. We came to Nashville to help my brother’s family, and we did. But we were there maybe even more to help my parents. My mom has been bearing so much on her own. She keeps the grandkids, she takes care of Dad, she cooks, she cleans, she packs, she gives, she gives, she gives. But no one is taking care of her. I can’t imagine how physically and emotionally exhausted she must be.

I felt frustrated that there was so little packed for the move. But the more time I spent there, the more I understood. There was so much to do that she didn’t know where to start. And honestly, this isn’t a fun move to an exciting new place. It’s a necessary move that marks the end of a very long chapter in my parents’ lives. It is the huge, tangible reminder that my dad is sick.

We moved into that house when I was one. All my memories of home and family are in that house. I thought I would feel sad leaving it. But honestly, there was so much to do, and so much meaning behind what had to be done, that I could hardly think about the house itself. I just want my parents to get out of that house and into their new condo so that they can rest. So that the stress of what to do will be behind them. So my dad can be at peace. He’s been selling the few assets they have acquired: stock he got from working for the railroad for over 40 years, the five acres they had bought in the 80s in hopes that they would some day build a home in the country. He has bought grave plots for he and mom and paid for his funeral arrangements. He is setting his affairs in order for mom and Brad and me. The condo is one of the final steps. And then what?

I mowed the grass one last time. We have a very big front and back yard. During my entire adolescence and early college years, I mowed the grass almost every single week. It takes a couple of hours on a riding lawn mower and then an hour or so doing trim work with a push mower. It’s hard work, but it’s cathartic. I found that I enjoyed it more now than I did when I was a kid. Maybe because I wanted to help my parents so much. Maybe because there is a theological significance to bringing order to the grass, the thorns, and the thistles that I was unaware of when I was younger.

At first, I didn’t think about anything in particular. The first laps, you focus on the pattern you’re making: dodging the tool shed, the fence, and the fig tree. After that, you don’t have to think a lot about where you’re going. So, you just think. I thought about school, songs, Braden. And then, I thought about all the times I had mowed the grass before.

I found my ragged, adolescent voice on that lawn mower. I used to sing at the top of my lungs—mostly Nirvana and Pearl Jam songs. It was so loud on the mower that I thought no one could hear me. After doing that for months, maybe years, my parents informed me that they could hear me from the house. So, I stopped singing on the mower. But I still wrote songs in my head. I can’t even remember how many Cool Hand Luke songs were worked out while I was mowing the grass.

I started to feel the old feeling of wanting to do a good job because I thought Dad might be watching. I was so scared of screwing something up when I was young. So scared that I would see Dad walk out and correct me or tell me a better way to do things. My dad and I haven’t always had the greatest relationship. He has always been a good father, and he loved and provided for us very well. But he had a way he wanted things done. It was often hard for me to know what that way was. And it was very hard for him when we didn’t get it right. In recent years, Dad has apologized more times than I can remember for being hard on Brad and me growing up. He laments not being more supportive and not letting us have more freedom. I’ve forgiven him for all of that, and I consider him a very good friend and mentor. But I guess the scars are still there. I was never scared that my dad would beat me or anything like that. I just knew he would correct me if it wasn’t the right way. I wanted him to be proud.  I felt that again, but this time I knew he wouldn’t scold me or correct me. I just wanted to do a good job so that my dad could have peace.

I know that the hardest part of all of this for my dad isn’t his aching bones or his bloated stomach. It’s the fact that he can’t do what he has always done—what he was created to do. He had me to mow his entire garden down. You just can’t understand what that symbolized. My whole life, my dad spent hours working in his garden every single day. In the summer, my parents have always eaten almost entirely food that they grow. Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, okra, asparagus, beans, corn, melons, peppers, rosemary, thyme, lemon balm, mint, cilantro. Slowly, my dad’s health has declined and rendered him unable to do the work of gardening. That’s his passion. And I was mowing it down. He will never sow in that garden again. Even if my parents weren’t moving, he just can’t do it.

He gave me specific instructions on how he wanted it done. Raise the blade to 6 on the turnips, lower it to 2 on the edges. Don’t go over the asparagus because they’re still good. He stood and watched as I destroyed in minutes what he had spent 34 years perfecting. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I mean, he probably does this every spring—starts over. But he won’t be starting again. At the condo, he can only grow tomatoes if they’re in a pot.

Brandy and I stayed very busy for three days straight. I went through the books and scraps of paper hidden in the old piano bench and found songs notated and lyrics scribbled. I found the original post it that I had written the beginning of Cinematic on. I pinged the detuned keys of that old upright piano, and then we put it on Craig’s List. We laughed at old pictures with my sullen expressions and bad hair. We found old drawings of Voltron I had done on the back of church bulletins. Sometimes, I’m glad Mom is a pack rat. We let a lot go, though. Moving will do that to you.

We kept busy, and I kept from processing too much of it at a time. I kept focused on the next thing. Wash the car, go to the store, load the boxes, unload the boxes. I worked until I was exhausted. My good friend Jessie found out that her mother has breast cancer, so we prayed for them a lot. My friend Adam’s family is sick. My friend Danny’s family is sick. My friend Steve’s son is sick. I prayed for them all. I kept busy. I kept focused on other people. Then, last night—my last night home, when I was utterly fatigued—it all hit me as I lay down. I heard Brandy’s breathing slow down and become regular, and I stared at the wall of my old bedroom. I lay there, and I thought, and I worried. I was home almost a whole week. I had missed school, I had missed leading worship at church, I had missed classes, I hadn’t gotten work done for my Old Testament exegesis paper. I hadn’t done the work for Polyvalent’s Kickstarter that I needed to. I hadn’t figured out what classes I’m taking this summer.

Then, I thought about Dad. And I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried. All night long until I heard the birds singing. As I lay there praying for my family, I was overcome with thankfulness for my wife. She puts up with so much, and I take her for granted. She loves me the way my mom loves my dad. She worries the same. She bears the load the same. She had put down work and clients and life, to be by my side—to help my family. I thanked God for her, and I asked that He would help me to remember what I was learning.

The more I thought about my dad, the harder I cried. Finally, Brandy woke up and held me. I told her I don’t know who to be when I’m home now. It’s my home, but I’m not home. I want to help, but I don’t know what to do. I want to either be a kid or an adult, but I don’t feel like either. It really hit me that my dad is dying. He is setting things in order so that he can leave. My dad is in so much pain. It hurts him to even lie down and not even the morphine helps now. His hip hurts so bad he can hardly walk, and he winces just to cross his ankles.

My dad got really sick right after Brandy and I moved to Florida for seminary. I have wanted Mom and Dad to be able to fly down and see us—to see our life and our friends and our cat and where we live and the seminary and the gardens and the restaurants and the farmers market and the gators. I want him to see our life, and most of all, I want him to be proud of me. It breaks my heart to think that he may never be well enough to do that. It breaks my heart to think that he may never get to hold our children.

I told Brandy, I don’t want him to hurt anymore, but I’m not ready to let him go. I just want him to feel better and be able to enjoy their new condo. I want him to be able to walk down to the community garden and pick tomatoes. I want him to play with Brad’s little baby boy when he’s born. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to do those things.

I’ve been studying theology for two years now. People sometimes say that theology is cold and academic, that it has no basis in real life. But today, I’m so thankful for my theology. I’ve been mad this week, but I haven’t been mad at God. I know that all of this pain and hurt is part of the curse that we all live under as a result of sin. I know that death and pain and suffering are unnatural, and they are not part of God’s final plan. I know that Christ, the Redeemer, is going to come and make all things new. He will give us new bodies that are incorruptible, and he will wipe the tears from our eyes. Lord, haste the day. I don’t know that I’ve ever longed for redemption so badly.

I am almost done with my third semester of seminary (which is to say half way through the Master of Divinity program) at Reformed Theological Seminary in Orlando, Florida. I’d like to tell you more about that, and perhaps I will at some point, but for now I want to focus on music. Cool Hand Luke played its final show in June of 2011, and in July of 2011 Brandy and I made the move from Nashville to Orlando. I started class in August. I thought that I would be able to “turn off” my music side and “turn on” my student side, as if I were flipping a switch. I thought that school would simply displace music.

In a sense it did. I had no idea how time consuming and academically rigorous my program would be. I thought seminary would be one of the things that I do. Instead, it became my whole life. I thought I would keep playing music in my free time, but I immediately found that I had no free time. At any moment, there were four or five things that I “needed” to be working on, and if I chose to work on music I felt guilty.

Finally, I realized that God was teaching me there is more to what He calls us to than sacrifice. I could say a lot about this, but for now I will say that, I believe God created me to create music, among other things. I am not saying that I will be a famous musician and make a living playing music. I’m simply saying that music is a part of what God uniquely wove into my character in order to bring glory to Himself and His Son. We all have things like that, and I hope that you are aware of what some of those things are in your life. I really believe that it is more virtuous to use our gifts and passions than to sacrifice them. There is nothing inherently virtuous about sacrifice—a misconception I have carried for a long time.

All that to say, I have committed to make music a priority in my life again. It isn’t the top priority, but it is a priority. God is radically reorienting my life, and I am learning to value Him and my marriage more than I ever have. I am committed not to let anything trump either of those things again. (Because I definitely have let my priorities become confused in the past.) Now, I set aside one night a week to write music. There’s the prologue.

I listen to a broad spectrum of music. My wife tells me I’m a music snob, but I don’t limit my snobbery to one type of music. Cool Hand Luke changed a lot over the years, but it was a gradual change with boundaries. There were only certain types of music that I was allowed to incorporate into Cool Hand Luke. Now that I am not writing Cool Hand Luke songs, the boundaries are lifted. This is both freeing and crippling at times. I have a bucket full of songs that I have written or started on piano that sound like what you would expect another Cool Hand Luke record to sound like. I have very intentionally set those songs aside for now. I am focusing on songs that are more guitar-driven, more immediate, and for the most part, faster.

I have been writing with my friend Robbie Williamson. I met Robbie from touring with his band, Quiet Science. Robbie and Nathan from QS played with me on several tracks from “Of Man”. I like their musical sensibility, and we have fun together. Initially, I had planned on writing with both Nathan and Robbie, but Nathan and I have had opposite schedules so that it just didn’t work out that way.

So, Robbie and I have been working on lots and lots of songs. I’m really excited about the shape that they are taking. The music sounds different from Cool Hand Luke, but I think it still sounds like me. I’m drawn to darkness and dynamics, musically speaking, and these are still very present. Of course, my voice and my drumming will sound familiar, too. I specifically wanted to write with Robbie because of what he brings musically. He is bolder than me at times, so it pushes me to dare to try things that I was afraid to before.

It is very life-giving to get to write music again. I think I appreciate it more than I ever have now that I’ve experienced life without it. I don’t get to play as much as I’d like, but it makes the nights that Robbie and I play that much better. I am able to let go of the control a bit and just enjoy the process.

So, Robbie and I are Polyvalent. More on that soon.

My parents have lived in Nashville, TN in the same house since I was one. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. It’s still what I think of as home. In fact, if you were to call “Home” on my cell phone, you would get my parents’ landline. I’m sitting in my parents’ house right now, and it’s 12:30am. Brandy and I have been here for our Spring Break visiting my family, and we fly back tomorrow. I can’t sleep because I just had one of the most bizarre conversations I’ve ever had.
 
If you don’t know, Brandy and I moved to Orlando, FL last July so that I could start the M. Div program at Reformed Theological Seminary. Shortly after we moved, my dad got pretty sick. He has had prostate cancer for a long time, but it got worse back in the summer. This past January he was in the hospital for about a week. They discovered that he also has cancer in his bladder and there are traces of cancer in a lot of other places. It’s spreading.

To be honest, none of this has been very real to me because I haven’t been here to see it. I don’t know what your dad is like, but my dad is the kind of guy who just knows about things. If something needs to be built, fixed, planted, or taken care of, my dad is the first person I go to for help. He has always been strong, hard working, and active. In light of this, it hasn’t seemed possible that anything very bad could happen to my dad.
 
It got harder when we got to Nashville on Monday. My dad is very skinny and he doesn’t have much energy. He told me he just doesn’t feel well anymore, and he can’t tell he’s getting any better even though the doctors tell him he is. My poor mom is the family cheerleader. She always puts on a smile and tells me not to worry and just to focus on studying. I can tell she is taking all of this really hard.
 
Tonight, Dad got out deeds to their property. He inherited some land in Dickson, where he grew up, when his father died. He and my mom had bought some land out in the country twenty years ago thinking maybe they’d build on it someday. Now, we’re talking about how to sell the land. We’re talking about how to get rid of things so there is less to deal with.
 
We were talking about how we will have to go through all my mom’s antiques and all my dad’s old tools and “get rid” of stuff. We’ll have to do this so that my parents can move into a smaller place—a place where there is less house to clean and no yard to worry about. A place for my mom—in case something happens to my dad.
 
It just doesn’t seem real to me that I’m having this conversation with my dad. My dad isn’t old. Dads are supposed to be granddads and great granddads and die when they are 90.  They’re supposed to go when they’re so old and out of it that it’s really not even that sad because they’ve lived such a long, full life.
 
Well, my dad is not going yet, and I hope and pray that he won’t go for many years. (I know that some of you pray the same thing, and I am very grateful for that.) I pray that he will play with my kids long before he goes to be with Jesus. But, we just don’t know what’s going to happen.
 
I was talking to an old friend from South Carolina today. He was telling me that he has realized that Christian songwriters don’t have to write songs with a happy, redemptive ending every time. Sometimes life is messy and there are some loose ends, and it would do no one any good to put a smile on and ignore the pain of it all. I think that’s where I am tonight. I don’t know what this all means or what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never bought or sold land, and I definitely don’t want to be the one responsible for selling my parents’ land. I don’t want to think about losing my dad, let alone have a conversation with my parents about it.
 
We can’t escape the fall. It hurts so badly. No amount of security, insurance, money, medicine or anything else can get us past the results of our fallen condition. I don’t know what to say redemption looks like in this story, but I know that the Redeemer of my dad is the Redeemer of us all. I know this makes sense that I’m just not able to see. I know that we are being woven into one amazing redemptive story, and that thought is about the only thing that keeps me from being bitter and cynical sometimes.

1. I’m getting old.

2. Being in a band all this time has kept me from growing up. It’s good in some ways, but very bad in other ways.

3. I don’t know how to do anything but be in a band. That is to say, I have no marketable skills outside of music. This, honestly, scares me to death.

4. Most guys my age have at least some athletic ability and desire to play sports for fun. I don’t have that, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’m no good, so I don’t want to play with people who are. That then starts a spiral—I don’t play because I’m not good but I’m no good because I don’t play. This is a source of insecurity for me. It also makes me wonder what I missed when I was growing up. It also makes me want to start keep up with sports so that I can at least have something to talk about with guys who don’t care about Radiohead and books. We’ll see if that actually happens.

5. I am really, really going to miss touring.

6. Any future songs I write may not ever be heard by anyone else, and I have to be okay with that.

7. Cool Hand Luke was never a very big band, but that is more true now than it ever has been.

8. Cool Hand Luke has some of the kindest, most encouraging fans one could ever hope to encounter. I am overwhelmed and thankful for the kindness I have been shown.

9. I like playing with a band a lot more than playing by myself.

10. At the end of the day, I kind of like to rock.

11. Touring as an adult is not as exciting since I don’t do all the crazy stuff I used to do.  Conversely, there is way less drama.

12. I think I spent a few years trying to re-capture an earlier time—like I wanted it to be 2002 again or something. Of course I could never do that, so I was always frustrated. I have learned that recreating that time isn’t possible and even if it was, I’m not the same person anymore. That time is gone and it’s okay. Now is good, too. On the last tour, I just tried to enjoy my time, and I had a blast.

13. It wasn’t as sad as I thought it would be. It was just mostly fun and at times surreal. It didn’t feel like the end.

14. When we started touring, none of us had cell phones, and we used actual maps to get to places. Our webpage had a URL that was impossible to remember. It was like www.tripod.com/punkrock/jesus.1234_coolhandluke/tennessee-fv9nr2_duckduckgoose or something ridiculous like that. I had just gotten my first ever email account through my college. There was no myspace, Twitter, or Facebook. We used AOL instant messenger to find people (back when they would send you a disc in the mail for 20,000 minutes of free internet!),  and we actually called people  on their land lines to book shows. If you wanted our merch, you had to write what you wanted on a piece of paper and mail it to us with a check. We got “fan mail”. We recorded our first EP to ADAT and then released it on cassette. We had a glossy promo pic in which I had a goatee. We thought Jinco’s were cool (though I could never afford them) and we all had chain wallets.

For this tour, I was the only who didn’t have an iPhone and we used GPS to get to shows. We don’t even have a webpage anymore. I booked the shows using texts and emails. We released the new record online only. Skinny jeans are cool. Times have changed.

15. It never was perfect, and nothing ever will be.

16. I’ve been extremely blessed to get to do this for so long.

17. I got to do what I dreamed of doing as a kid.

18. It was nothing like I thought it would be.

19. I feel like music is something I’m really good at and I feel frustrated that I can’t make a living doing it.

20. Something about riding in a van all day makes me tired no matter how much rest I’ve had.

21. The food I bring with me in order to save money is never as appetizing as the food that everyone else is eating from a restaurant.

22. I never need everything I pack—especially books. Every time, I bring three or four books. I end up having time to read three or four chapters. I never did learn that lesson.

23. I’ll probably never know what it’s like to have someone else set up my stuff and not walk out on stage until the house music stops and the lights go out. I’m okay with that, but, man, wouldn’t that be cool?

24. I miss playing drums a whole, whole lot.

25. I will never stop coming up with new song ideas even if there is no way to see them come to fruition. It’s just a part of who I am.

In all seriousness, I did finish The Killer Angels that day. I was fighting back tears as I read the epilogue detailing what each of the generals went on to accomplish—if they lived on. I could not get my mind out of the book even when the lunch rush came and the book was finished. I really did feel like I was bracing for battle. I just wanted peace to process this huge part of our country’s history, but I was bombarded with bankers wanting soup and a half sandwich.

It hit me then how trivial my job is; how trivial cups of coffee and pastries are. Everyday somewhere people are fighting and dying and everyday someone gets upset with me because we’re all out of orange croissants.

I’ve prayed and I’ve asked God what it all means? Not just that day. Many days.  Why are some jobs so important and others aren’t. Why do some people get paid for things they are passionate about while others get paid hardly anything for doing a hard job so they can afford to do the thing they are passionate about? Why do some people’s lives consist of survival and others’ consist of achieving a greater level of comfort? Where do I actually fall in that spectrum?

And His answer?  I think it goes something like this: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”  I don’t think God cares as much about our vocation as we do. Some of us will be generals, some of us will be slaves, and some of us will serve coffee and pastries. Whatever our lot in life, the best thing we can do is serve as if we are serving the Lord and not men. If we can help improve someone else’s lot in life, I think we should.
 
Does that mean we go to war for them?
I really don’t know.
Our war is not against flesh and blood, right?

All I do know is that it’s hard enough for me to abide in Christ without solving someone else’s problems. A man can’t bear to wait two minutes for his skinny latte. I can’t bear to be torn away from my book. Somewhere people are being killed for something they believe in. Somewhere else people are dying for something their nation’s leaders believe in. It’s so hard for us to see beyond our limited perspective. At the end of the day, if I can think about Jesus and how Jesus would treat you while I’m serving you your pastry, I see that as a victory. That’s more powerful than the Union battery.
 
When I’m out of my current situation and God has moved Brandy and I onto the next thing, we’ll be able to see more of God’s hand in all of this. Just like we understand wars better twenty years, or a hundred and fifty years after they were fought.  I’m learning.

How did I get from a road trip, to a novel, to a coffee shop, to the pondering of life’s deepest questions? Well, I think everything is always pointing that way to begin with. Rather, everything is always pointing to the answer of life’s deepest questions. The Way, the Truth, and the Life. The Answer. The Reason. The End.

In that two to two and a half hour lull (hereafter referred to as “The Lull”) at Petite, it gets boring. So, I started bringing books to work. I realize that this probably isn’t the most professional thing to do, but hardly anyone at all comes during The Lull. I have found if I stand behind the counter with my book on top of the cash register, I can see when a customer is approaching and it gives me enough time to put the book away before they get to the counter. To them, it just looks like I’m doing something important on the cash register.

I read most of The Killer Angels at home, but the last few chapters were read at Provence in the aforementioned Lull. I got down to the point that I only had two chapters left in the book. It was the night before the final showdown at Gettysburg.
I had disciplined myself to not venture to Wikipedia to find out what happened on that last day of battle. I wanted the story to unfold before me from the perspectives of Generals Lee, Longstreet, and Chamberlain. So, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew who “won”, but I knew no details. And by this point, I was very attached to the Generals on both sides of the field. This is not to say that I supported their causes (namely slavery), but as human beings, I had grown attached to them.

It’s probably important for you to know that I am the sort of person who gets lost in a book and lives vicariously through the protagonist. It started early on for me when I read The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I also do the same thing with movies. This is not a voluntary exercise on my part but rather how I am wired.  I come out of a movie feeling exhilarated or depressed depending on the sort of movie I saw. For this very reason I saw each of the Lord of the Rings movies by myself in the theater because I knew I would be in no state to have conversations about where to eat after living in Middle Earth for three hours.

I was no different while I was reading The Killer Angels, which got confusing emotionally since the protagonist was constantly changing. One minute I’m General Longstreet, the next I’m shooting at General Longstreet. All the while, I’m not down with slavery. Confusing.

So, it came down to my last day of The Killer Angels and the last day of the battle. I could sense the end was near. Neither side could hold out much longer. Losses on both sides were great, and the soldiers were weary. Some of the men had marched all night, fought all day, and were preparing to fight again. Weary. Disheartened. No, this battle wouldn’t last much longer. Plus, there weren’t many pages left.

I had resisted the urge to finish the book at home the night before. I was saving it for The Lull.  The Battle of the Lull will live on in my memory for years to come. As the weary Union braced to repel one final attack atop Little Round Top and the Confederate soldiers lined up to race across Cemetery Ridge in waves, I stood my ground behind the cash register, ready for any banker or underwriter who may need coffee at 10:30 in the morning.

The Union cannons were lined up with what little ammunition was left, the wounded far behind the lines. The overly formal ,”Good luck out there” had been exchanged among the Generals, knowing that it may be the last time they spoke to one another in this life. I had two extra pots of coffee brewed for an unforeseen rush. All was in place.

As the first wave of Confederates filed out across the field, not yet in sight of the Union battery, I could see the enemy in the distance—ascending the escalator.  I sized my foe up quickly. Woman, late thirties, business casual.  This is no stranger from off the street who happened upon Petite Provence. She works here. In this building. She is highly trained and has done this many times before.

You can always tell a vet by the way they carry themselves. Confident, head high but not too high, slow, even pace toward the register. She did not look at the menu on the wall or survey the pastry case—she knew exactly what she had come for. My guess was coffee. I braced myself, typing in the manager code and arming the register for whatever transaction was necessary.

As the gap between the businesswoman and me closed, she gazed straight at me and gave me a knowing smile, as if to say, “Bring it on, barista.” There was only one question now—What size of coffee was she going to order?

My guess was a small. She was rather petite herself, and plus it was already 10:30am. This only needed to get her through to lunch when she could get reinforcement.

“Hey there.” (That’s almost always how I greet them.)

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”  (Alright, missy, let’s keep this short and to the point.)

“Pretty slow this morning?” (Was she taunting me? Did she really just say that? She thinks I’m inexperienced. Calm down, Nicks. Don’t let her get the best of you. Stay focused. )

“Well, we had a rush about an hour ago, but I’ve kind of hit a lull now.”  (I can’t hide the fact that there are no other customers, but I’ve got to let her know that I’m experienced. This is not my first transaction. Enough small talk. Let’s do this.)

“What can I get for you?”

“I’m just going to get a small coffee…”
(I knew it! My finger was already on the button. Bam!)
“…and I’ll also get a blueberry muffin.”

(I was blindsided. I didn’t see the muffin coming. Why wasn’t I ready for that? Oldest trick in the book. She didn’t need to look in the pastry case because she’s a regular. She already knew what pastry she wanted. She does not care about spoiling her appetite. She’s going straight for the muffin. A muffin! Coffee I can handle because it’s self-serve. I don’t even have to hand her the cup. But for a muffin, I’ve got to get tongs, open the pastry case, tong the muffin, and then get it into an itty-bitty bag without touching the muffin. If there were another customer behind her, this could slow me down enough that I wouldn’t have time to finish my book before the lunch rush. These seemingly small events are what win or lose the battle. Not only the battle—the WHOLE WAR!)

“Anything else? “

“Nope that’s it.”

She paid me and then retreated back to her office. She had fought bravely, but she was unable to get through my dense line of coffee and pastries. I knew she would be back, though. Maybe next shift. Maybe next week. Who knows, next time she may try to flank me with some complicated latte order. For now I would regroup and see to my pastries. I had to make sure they were ready for the imminent next wave.

And so began the Battle of the Lull.

TO BE CONTINUED

If you don’t know, I work at a café called Provence in Nashville. (Pronounced /pro-vonce/) It’s a French café that serves really good bread, pastries and food.  And, of course, we have really good Intelligentsia coffee.  If you’re in the area, you should check it out. The one in Hillsboro Village is the best—plus, I may be the one plating your food or making your drink. (Or washing your dishes.)

I worked a full-time job at the print shop of an insurance company for over a year. It was really a blessing for a time. It was pretty good pay and really good benefits. It’s just what Brandy and I needed then, but I had no time to play music or tour.  I started to lose myself, and I felt like I was living for a job that I had no passion for.  Maybe you’ve been there?

In March of 2010, we decided to step out in faith and try music again. The plan was to tour as much as I could and get a part time job to supplement my income. That’s how I ended up at Provence. It has been good for the most part. I don’t get paid much and I don’t have benefits, but I do get a lot of free bread and pastries and my boss is amazing about letting me off for shows. Now we don’t trust in my paychecks and benefits. We pray a lot more for provision, and I think that’s good—to remember where it’s really coming from.

A few months ago when I got to work I discovered that the store I was working at was being closed in two days. Bummer. I really liked working at that store and I was comfortable there. I’m a creature of habit and I don’t necessarily adapt to change all that well. Ironically enough, I’ve always enjoyed touring, which consists of constant change and no routine whatsoever. But that’s not what we were talking about was it?

My store closed. So, they moved me to the main Provence in Hillsboro Village. It’s a lot busier and the clientele and co-workers are not nearly as friendly. To be honest, I’m still not quite adjusted to it yet but it’s fine. The problem is that I’m not getting many hours there.
 
Since I’ve been recording the new record [if you don’t know, I’ve been recording a new record], I haven’t been playing any. That means my only income has been Provence. It’s getting tight financially, so I asked my boss for more hours. He has started giving me some hours at yet another location.
 
This location is called Petite Provence because it’s little. It’s in a nook on the first floor of an office building downtown. Our only customers are people who work in or around the building. I usually have a big rush of people wanting coffee in the morning and then a big lunch rush. Other than that it’s pretty slow. I work by myself and I usually have a lot of down time from 9-11:30am.

So, what does this have to do with The Civil War??? Well, I’ll tell you…later.

TO BE CONTINUED

I recently finished one of the best books I’ve ever read. It’s called The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara.  I know it sounds strange if you don’t know what it is, so I’ll tell you. It’s a historical novel about the Battle of Gettysburg. Now it just sounds boring or a bit dorky, right? What if I told you that it won the Pulitzer Prize? Shaara spent seven years writing the book and studying not just the facts of the battle, but also the lives of the men themselves.

Whether you’re interested in history and war or not, The Killer Angels is a compelling read because it is so human. Shaara highlights the internal struggles of a man at war—especially a war that is in essence being fought over foreign slaves.  He also draws emphasis to the small, seemingly arbitrary details that lead to winning or losing a battle. I am a slow reader in general, but I think I read this book faster than any other book I’ve ever read. Not so much because it was easy to read but because I read it non-stop.

My good friend John Schofield turned me onto the book. You may know John because of his formidable bass prowess with the band The Myriad. He came all the way from Seattle to Tennessee to visit me last summer and his only request was that we visit some Civil War battlefields.

I have to admit that I have completely taken for granted the history that is all around me. I think I went to a couple Civil War battlefields with the family when I was smaller, but I didn’t care about it (except when they were firing cannons.) We played in Gettysburg a couple of times and it didn’t even occur to me to go check out the battlefield. It wouldn’t have meant much then.

Now that I’m older, I wish I had paid more attention in history class and taken advantage of all the amazing things that are within driving distance from my home. [I’ll be moving away soon—but I’ll leave that tale for another Tumbl.] Now I am interested in learning about these things, but I find I have so little time to learn it on my own. Again—slow reader.

John’s zeal for history is contagious. I joined him in the quest for experiential knowledge. We literally drove the width of TN in search of waterfalls, battlefields, and a Mastodon show. (That was historical in itself. Baroness + Mastodon + two wussy dudes who get stoked on well-executed metal = geekfest) We managed to make it to Stones River Battlefield and to Shiloh Battlefield. Both were amazing experiences.

Brandy joined us at Stones River because it’s only about 45 minutes away and she didn’t have to take off work. Together the three of us read the graves at Hell’s Half Acre, had a picnic, and frolicked in the treeline, where men fought and died, running from mosquitoes and shouting what we imagined the Rebel Yell probably sounded like. 

Shiloh was a long drive almost to Mississippi. John and I listened to sermons and had deep conversations. I’m glad we went to Stones River first because while it was pretty interesting, Shiloh was massive—and impressive. There were monuments and cannons everywhere.

John and I walked in the hot sun, seeing sight after sight of what is left of one of the bloodiest battles the world, and certainly America, has ever seen. John could see it all in his head. He would take me up on a hill and show me where the Union would have been and where they were coming from. I learned so much that day. It was really moving and inspiring. John’s knowledge and passion for the subject sparked something in me.

I was hooked. I wanted to learn more. I wanted to know what all these men fought for and why they died. I wanted to know more than the basics that I knew in fourth grade. John bought me a copy of The Killer Angels in the battlefield souvenir shop. I’m so glad he did.

TO BE CONTINUED

Yesterday, Brandy and I had our first free Saturday in about two months, so we had a coffee shop date. That’s one of our favorite things to do together. We go get cozy somewhere, sip coffee, talk, and read. Yesterday was especially nice because we had a huge block of time and we were in no rush. We both read our Bibles and talked about how weird and cryptic parts of the Old Testament are. She crocheted for a while and I edited some music on my computer. 

I had headphones on and I was staring at my computer screen, so I was mostly oblivious to what was going on around me. Occasionally I looked up and I noticed a guy setting up a mixer and some monitors. Later I saw stools in the corner and then guitar cases. When my computer finally died, I took my headphones off and closed my computer to discover a girl playing guitar and singing in the corner. Her voice was almost swallowed up by the murmur of twenty different conversations and the hum of espresso being ground and milk steamed.

I leaned over to Brandy and said, “Is she really playing or is this just a sound check?” 
“She’s really playing. She told everyone hi and thanks before she started.”

At this point I pulled out my huge T.S. Elliott book and began to read almost-hunder-year-old poetry. I know, it’s pretty cliche; sitting at a coffee shop reading poetry while someone sits on a stool playing guitar and singing in the corner. But that’s what happened.

At first I found my self slightly annoyed at the distraction of a human being playing music just a few feet away. I just wanted some quiet so I could try to understand what Mr. Elliott was communicating, but every few stanzas I would find myself looking around. From what I could tell no one was there to hear this girl and no one seemed to be paying much attention. Brandy and I were sitting facing her, so I tried to look up and make eye contact with her occasionally as if to say, “I’m aware that you’re here and I’m listening.” We made sure to clap after every song and at least gave her our attention between songs when we knew she was looking up. We felt sorry for her.

At some point, I began to actually listen and take in the situation. I realized that she wasn’t there to be background noise for our conversation or a soundtrack to my book. It wasn’t just a weekend job because she wasn’t getting paid at all. She was playing her own songs that she had poured herself into. She spent as much time working on these songs as I spend on mine and they are every bit as important to her. And you know what? She was pretty good.

These weren’t pop songs that she was trying to sell or license to some one hour drama. These were songs born from her experience. Songs sparked by the hope that they could do for someone else what a song had once done for her. She just wanted to be heard. To be honest there was nothing about her or her music that was very different from any other girl strumming a guitar in a coffee shop, but I respected her for doing it. I realized that I know exactly what that’s like—to sit by yourself and play songs that come from the deepest parts of your heart to a room full (or half-full in some cases) of people who may or may not care at all.

No one who is passionate enough to write a song and vulnerable enough to share it deserves to be background noise.