Out of the Mouths of Babes....

This moved me to tears...

Hype Bites

My first job in Nashville was with a company called Spectra Distribution. My boss was the legendary record producer, Bob MacKenzie. I so wanted to make a good impression. My job was to promote new choral releases by clients like David Clydesdale and Camp Kirkland. I traveled to choral workshops and led music directors as we sang through selections of their works. I learned how to hype anything new as being the biggest and best ever! Hype is really not something I came by naturally. I’ve never been comfortable promoting myself and have always opted to let my work speak for me. But at this time in my life, I needed to be a salesman so I dutifully rose to the occasion.

One of our clients, George King, had just signed a celebrity to his Diadem record label – none other than Shirley Jones – you know, the star of “Oklahoma!,” “Carousel,” “Brigadoon,” “The Music Man,” AND the mom on The Partridge Family. Record distribution was not a part of my job description, so I didn’t make it my business to follow the progress of her project. I only knew enough to know that she was recording a Christian album and our company was distributing it.

As fate would have it, one afternoon I came bounding into the office after lunch – spun around a row of cubicles and ran right into Shirley. Right there, in my face, was Mrs. Partridge. She was every bit the polished “Old Hollywood” star you would imagine. I stuttered, stammered, smiled, froze, stuck out my hand and tried to sound professional – since we were representing her. All I could think to say was, “It’s so nice to meet you Miss Jones – I love your new album.” She sort of half smiled, while tilting her head a bit to one side and looking confused, yet gracious. She simply said, “thank you – thank you very much.” I had nothing else, so after a brief moment of painful silence I nervously shuffled sideways - not knowing what to do with my hands or my feet.

All afternoon I wondered why she looked so puzzled and awkward when we met until someone told me that she had not yet recorded the new album. Lesson learned. Hype bites! But Shirley's goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life.

Privilege & Persepective

I was born to privilege. No, we weren’t wealthy. We lived in a small farm house built by my great grandfather. The white asbestos shingled structure was unceremoniously constructed in a cow pasture in rural Mississippi.

My family never owned a new vehicle. Our first family vacation involved loading all the kids in the back of a 60’s Chevrolet pickup - complete with wooden cattle gates surrounding the bed and a tarpaulin stretched across the top. With a cooler full of RC Colas, Vienna sausages, potted meat and saltines – we set out to explore the far reaches of civilization (aka Ruby Falls and Rock City.) We were living large.

I was born to privilege. Maybe not by standards that most would imagine, but the older I get, the more I realize that I was uniquely privileged. To be surrounded by loving parents, grandparents, great grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins – all who were God-fearing, church going people is a rare privilege in this modern age. There is built-in accountability in close family structures. I didn’t want to disappoint my parents. I would never dream of embarrassing my extended family. With every prayer around the dinner table - every flannel-graph story in Vacation Bible School - every time we gathered around my grandparents old pump organ to sing Christmas carols, I had an abiding sense that God was at the center of our lives. I knew that He loved me and that my family loved me and cheered me on - even when it meant I didn't always get my way. What comfort – what stability this affords me - even to this very day.

As I followed the story, and saw the images of Paris Hilton being carted back to jail this week I thought about how underprivileged she truly is. Though she’s been given all the things that money can buy, she’s apparently not been equipped to face life itself. Her parents failed to teach her respect and responsibility, and now she has to learn it a much harder way. Her courtroom cries to her mom were more than telling. They sounded like the cries of a child to the one who should be able to protect her. Those cries were too little, too late.

Her mom could have helped her by teaching her that with “privilege” comes responsibility – that every blessing she enjoys comes from her Creator. Apparently Paris was not afforded that privilege. So, as one who often takes for granted the simple, but good life I was born into, I find myself pitying Paris. And praying for Paris. For the first time in her life she is forced to endure silence and separation. But I believe that this may be the first time in her life that she could possibly hear the still, small voice of God. No friends, no parties, no paparazzi, no staff, no attorneys, no mom, no shopping, no music, no TV – just Paris in an 8 X 12 cell. I’m praying that, in her brokenness, she cries out to the only One who can help. There may never be another opportunity for her to escape the madness of her world long enough to hear God calling. Please join me in praying that this lost child will see her life for what it truly is, and see God’s offer of abundant life for all it truly can be.

Fast Forward Phenomenons

So I'm chasing links around the web a moment ago and land on Word Records' site....and the first face I see is an old roommate I hadn't seen in years - Mark Roach. Back then I was a struggling musician and needed someone to rent my extra room. I ran an ad in the paper and this Belmont University kid showed up on my doorstep. He seemed nice enough and I thought it would be neat if my renter was a like-minded Christian musician. But the whole time we were together I never once heard him sing a word. He never showed me a single song he'd ever tried to write. He talked about wanting to work in the Christian music industry, but it seemed like little more than talk. He used to hang out with a college buddy - introduced me to him - some kid named Matthew West - but I didn't see much of a future in him either. Eventually Mark packed up his few belongings and moved back home to St. Louis.

Fast forward a few years. Mark Roach and Matthew West are both Word artists. Both great songwriters. Both amazing singers. And to think....I taught them everything they know! They'll thank me some day....

The Unseen Hand

When the house lights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her seat and discovered that her child was missing. Suddenly, the curtains parted and spotlights focused on the impressive Steinway on stage. In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking out -- "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."

At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in the boy's ear: "Don't quit.""Keep playing." Then, leaning over, Paderewski reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child, and he added a running obbligato. Together, the old master and the young novice transformed what could have been a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative experience. The audience was so mesmerized that they couldn't recall what else the great master played. Only the classic, "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."

Perhaps that's the way it is with God. What we can accomplish on our own is hardly noteworthy. We try our best, but the results aren't always graceful flowing music. However, with the hand of the Master, our life's work can truly be beautiful. The next time you set out to accomplish great feats, listen carefully. You may hear the voice of the Master, whispering in your ear, "Don't quit." "Keep playing." May you feel His arms around you and know that His hands are there, helping you turn your feeble attempts into true masterpieces Remember, God doesn't seem to call the equipped, rather, He equips the 'called.'

- Author Unknown

SyZyGy

I had a rock group in high school. We called ourselves SyZyGy (pronounced C-Z-G….it’s a word, look it up). We were not your average garage band, we had the first synthesizers ever on the market, bass, guitars, drums, horns (trombones and trumpets), a manager/booking agent, and me – the singer/EmCee. Imagine, if you will, a high school version of the group Chicago.

Our first gig was a benefit concert – raising money to put indoor restrooms in a rural community center. My mother made me a gold metallic jumpsuit with a huge Elvis collar. She didn’t bother lining it so I itched like a flea bitten dog. But I wore it proudly to set-up and rehearsal. It was there that we discovered we needed more duct tape (you can never have too much duct tape). I volunteered to drive my Plymouth Fury III (baby blue with an “ah-ooo-gah” horn AND fender skirts) into town to get some. Now mind you, this was a town of about 1200 people in rural Mississippi – circa 1975. I walked into the local hardware store wearing a shiny gold jumpsuit and platform shoes. People have been killed for less….fortunately, I lived to perform another day.

We won our state FBLA (Future Business Leaders of America) talent competition and were awarded a performance at the national convention in Washington, DC. Just as we arrived at The Washington Hilton an emerald green limousine drove up. On the doors of the limousine was a picture of David Bowie and the title, “The Man Who Fell to Earth.” After inquiring we discovered that this was the name of his new movie and that he was in town for a premiere. So being the star-struck future rockers that we were, we began plotting ways to meet the rock legend himself. We found out that one entire floor of the hotel was nothing but suites, and everyone knows that a celeb never checks into a hotel using his name. One of our guys suggested that maybe Bowie checked in using his real name – David Jones (he changed it to differentiate himself from Davy Jones of The Monkees). Armed with all that knowledge, I began calling each suite directly – asking for David Jones. Eventually a lady answered and said that he wasn’t in but that he would be glad to return my call. A few hours later, after we had pretty much given up on our escapade, the phone rang – we all froze – I answered the phone and this very British voice said, “Hello, this is David Jones…er, uhm…Bowie – did someone call for me?” I freaked. I never considered what I would actually SAY if I spoke to him. So I stuttered and stammered and just told him that our band was in town for a “gig” and saw that he was staying in our hotel and thought that, maybe, we could just say hello and have a brief visit…or whatever…” He was very gracious and said that he would love to but the hour was late and he had a full day ahead. I apologized, all over myself, for taking up his time and thanked him for calling.

To be honest, I only knew his one song, “Fame,” and I always thought he was beyond bizarre – so I was relieved that I didn’t have to actually meet him. But it was fun talking with him – now how many people can say they’ve done that! I haven't seen the SyZyGy gang in years. Tommy Greer (keyboards) moved to Nashville and worked at Word Records as a writer and staff producer. He married Leigh Benson (daughter of Bob & Peggy Benson/The Benson Company) and worked on projects for artists like Sandi Patty and Andy Williams and wrote songs for Cindy Morgan, First Call and many others.

Stan Thorn (guitarist) found fame as a member of the Country super group Shenandoah (ironically he played keys with them). Based on my first original composition, "Grave of Love" (we actually performed it) - I'm sure the other guys would not have imagined I'd be making a living writing songs. I'm so glad I'm not 17 anymore!