Wedding Preacher

Slept with the wedding preacher. We shared a bed, although I think I'm the only one who got any sleep. I snore something fierce--that's what they tell me.

Madison, Indiana, celebrating the marriage of dear friends. Ryan was the preacher and I the wedding singer.

He's a great speaker. Passionate, challenging, insightful. A witty man, and playful, both on and off stage. I'm remembering his competitive bowling game when the boys went out for Alburn's bachelor party. Not bad, dude. We should go bowling again.

There are now three wedding sermons that I remember. One by Sam Leonor a year ago in Riverside, one by Andy at Liana and Jason's wedding, and Ryan's from yesterday: That marriages are meant to be live-action models of Grace, deployed so the world can see how God loves.

Ceremony completed, we had a smile over the ying-yang of his black-tie-on-white-shirt against my white-tie-on-black-shirt.

Then good times at the reception (I suck at blowing bubbles...) chatting with Kentucky Darren and the Michigan Smiths. That'd be a good name for a bluegrass band, right?

Found out this morning that Ryan likes bluegrass. I didn't know that. Wouldn't have guessed. And that's exactly what I liked about this trip.

I see him leading community actions in Hollywood and participating in the public conversation on healthcare reform. I hear him next door in his office, moderating a conference call between various church leaders and President Obama.

But it's these one-on-one moments when I see this man I respect in a different way.

Sitting in Starbucks at Louisville International Airport, planning the worship service for this coming Sabbath, I remember how much I enjoy working with him. I don't think I yet know half the reasons God aligned us in mission and ministry, but I know it's been an honor for me.

We board different flights to Chicago, whence he'll drive to Michigan and I'll catch Southwest to Portland. We'll both be back in Hollywood by weekend, God willing.

As he rises in the public scene, the activist minister, holding tightly to faith in one hand and reaching intently for social justice with the other, I think of him most fondly as the guy who showed me how to use the Iphone I borrowed for the weekend.

A single phrase to describe my friend Ryan Bell: Jetset Bowling Preacher

Smoke and Alcohol

I loved, and I do mean loved, working for Jeff Meader and Laurent Montalieu. Their collaborative companies, Oregon Wine Services and NW (NorthWest) Wine Company produce and/or store many of the great wines of the Willamette Valley.  They are also two of the finest gentlemen I've known. 

Most wineries delivered by tanker-truck. The guys in production would quick-connect the tanker and pump to our stainless-steel storage and let me know when it was all in-house so I could schedule a crew for bottling. 

This job was different. The wine was in two one-thousand gallon plastic tanks and we were going to bring them in by loading the tanks into the back of our 24-foot box, used-to-be-a-moving-truck. 

Both tanks forklifted into place, securely strapped to railings, the roll-down door padlocked, I set about a lovely 15-mile drive through vineyard and country back-road.  

I figured on driving gingerly with that much weight in the back. But even my 35 mph beginning was dangerously ambitious. Sloshing liquid so disheveled my truck that around an early corner one side of the truck started lifting off the road.

As I felt the wheels lifting, I thought, 

"Wow, mom was right, alcohol's gonna kill me!" 

Pleased with my own cleverness, I renegotiated a slower pace and settled in for the return trip. And then the thought, 

"This is gonna be a long, hard ride."  

For some reason my mind turned to the story of a guy coming home from a long, hard ride. Doesn't have a name, we call him prodigal, but I think prodigal's an adjective. 

Might be the gorgeous scenery, or the woody fragrance of pinot wafting forward from my cargo. Might be the steady maintenance of adrenaline to my heightened senses. Whatever it was, the muse stayed with me while I drove, and the entire song downloaded during those 90 minutes in the cab of a 24-foot box, used-to-be-a-moving-truck. 

I wanted to remember it, so I called myself on the cellphone and sang it to my voicemail. 

The song is "Smoke & Alcohol" and it's available on my website starting today, September 1st. Click here to download it for $1 US: 

Well, I don't need no more pictures

Took my pictures off the wall

And I tried to drown these voices 

In a blend of smoke and alcohol

Leave no reminder that I'm traveling all alone

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

Well, I'm the blacksheep in my family

And I disappoint my wife

But I'm driving this new highway

It's called the way, the truth, the life

Your folks can't get there for you

You got to drive it on your own

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

There's only one way

When I returned to my senses, I said I wanna go home

There's only one way

I been livin' like an animal, don't wanna do it no more

There's only one way

I was thinking I could get me a job down at the family store

There's only one way

He said come to me when you get tired and you're feeling heavy laden

I'll take your load and I'll give you more than you have ever taken

One condition, you got to follow where I go

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

There's only one way

When I returned to my senses, I said I wanna go home

There's only one way

I been livin' like an animal, don't wanna do it no more

There's only one way

I was thinking I could get me a job down at the family store

There's only one way

People, they gonna disappoint you

People, they gonna let you down

Don't leave your treasure where the moth can find it

And don't build your shelter on shaky ground

There's only one way

When I returned to my senses, I said I wanna go home

There's only one way

I been livin like an animal, don't wanna do it no more

There's only one way

I was thinking I could get me a job down at the family store

There's only one way

Well, I don't need no more pictures

Took my pictures off the wall

And I tried to drown these voices in a blend of smoke and alcohol

But it ain't workin'

My head is ringing like a phone

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

photo by Sean Amlaner

Sit-in

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...

--From the song "Hotel California" by Don Felder, Don Henley. and Glenn Frey of The Eagles. 

The 5th Floor is inescapable. Biology writes its name in blood. 

_________________________________________________________

A couple years ago I met this guy. People told me I'd like him, which is something funny that people say sometimes. 

"You're gonna like this guy!"

If I don't like him, do I get money back?  

Plus, I like everybody, so what's the big deal?

He plays a great cello. Makes a mean cranberry and tonic. Asks direct questions. Asked me about my loneliness. Did I answer simply because he asked? Would I have answered another stranger with such depth and transparency? Was it because of his training as a therapist? He just graduated from Loma Linda University, Phd. In Clinical Psychology. 

photo by Austin Bacchus

After listening to my fears, why in the world did he and his wife come over that Sunday, laden with food and good company? What made them sit with me when I was so painfully uninteresting? I was empty and they sat with me. 

I had the divorce leprosy. We don't know what to do with that. How do we treat these living dead? They're not single. They're not married. Are they contagious?

I fell asleep and they were still there an hour later when I woke up. How rude of me! They said they were glad of the opportunity to help me relax. 

He lives far away and I may not see him for a while. But I think in the few encounters we did have, I found someone I'm connected to by geography-resistant ties. 

Blood, they say, is thicker than water. 

The Biologicals are coming.

A single phrase to describe my cousin Derek Bacchus: He sat with me . . .

Editor

http://www.freeimages.co.uk/

Behind Guitar Center, up one block, one block west, up another block, is a  street lined with those trees with the gorgeous purple flowers. Such an amazing, vibrant color. We used to walk up that street every day at lunch-time. 

First time I met her, she was a customer. By the time she came to work there, we were already friends. 

Gear-head. I don't think that's a mean thing to say about her. She'd probably say the same. I admire her fascination with equipment and levels and processes. Loves to set up studios and run tracking sessions and label stuff and mix down and tweak this and balance that. When she worked in Hollywood, she'd get hired to consult on studio design and setup all the time.  

There's a podcast in the works for Sounds Like Humans. Her idea. It's a behind-the-scenes look at the making of the album, some of the conversations between me and Suren and Mike, some of the sessions at the studio, some of the challenges and the triumphs. 

We hung out a couple hours last night. Which sort of violates my whole not hanging out with women after dark thing. But technically, this was on Ichat and she wasn't really in my office; she's 300 miles away. Videoconferencing has been our way of meeting the last few months on this project. 

Basically, she's got me taping my whole life. With this many things to check off today's list, it's hard to remember to drag the camera and tripod along as well. 

Speaking of the camera...when we first talked about this podcast a few months ago, I said, "yeah this is a cool idea, but I can't afford a video camera right now. It's taking everything I've got to just make the music."

She said, "what's your address?" 

A few days later my video camera showed up in the mail. With instructions to film everything and send her the tapes. She'll edit the footage. Qualified for the After; she was there for the Before.  Seems right she should be part of the storytelling of  God reconstructing my life. 

Been a while since I walked up that street. 

Jacaranda. 

That's what those trees are called . . .  Jacaranda. 

photo by Truth

A single phrase to describe my friend Truth Knox:  Tweaker of Visuals

Video Bromance

I've never registered for stuff before. Say you're getting married in a few months, like November-ish. You can go to the store and make a list of stuff you want and if your friends like you enough, they'll buy this stuff for you! 

I am not making this up. Seriously!

Ok, I realize this isn't news to most of you, but apparently I've led a very sheltered life...

I went with my friend and his fiancee' to register at Macy's. It's too much fun. They give you a scanner and turn you loose in the store and whatever you scan goes on the magic list. 

I was like, "you get all this free stuff just for getting married?...seriously?"

Shoot, I was about to propose to the next woman that walked through the department. Then I remembered I'm already in love with somebody. Whew, that was close. 

Wednesday night we went to the Icehouse in Pasadena for an evening of stand-up comedy. Good times. 

Sunday morning to the studio for a tracking and mixing session. After the studio we went home and played video games. You don't understand. I do NOT play video games. Heck, I don't play games.  Seriously. . .

It was crazy fun. I don't even know the name of it. Just some racing game where you go as fast as you can until you crash full speed into the side of a mountain, or get bogged in lava and melt into nothing with hardly a whimper. 'Cause you're just that tough. Or maybe 'cause you know you'll be back at the push of a button. 

photo by MariaNoel

Between video games and pizza he had a prop-design project and I had to review some notes on the computer. He worked his project; I worked mine. Still counted as hangout time. Conversation comes when it comes. It's perfectly alright to just be in the same space and not say anything. 

I've never been more proud of him than watching him prepare for marriage. It's not a game, and he knows that. There's no reset button, and you can tell he's taking it seriously. 

Day after tomorrow, bright and early, we're going off-road to capture a photo for the single "Smoke and Alcohol," posting to my website first of September. 

Single phrase to describe my friend Sean Amlaner: 

My brother, seriously... 

No, seriously!

Rope

IM chatting with a friend who tells me she's come to the end of her rope. 

I've been to the end of my rope. Yet, somehow, I'm still here and the rope continues.  Which makes me wonder, was that the end of the rope I reached last time? Is this the end this time? There's more to this rope than meets the eye. 

As long as there's life, there's rope. (O, that's bad, I should delete that, but I'm not going to... Scott wouldn't want me to)

I relate to my friend. Here I am, once again at the edge of Lennox. 

Can't go any further. I fully expect the promise of God to be fulfilled in my life. Haven't stopped praying. Haven't quit believing. Just ran out of strength, that's all. Can't move a muscle. 

Stalled in the middle of the album. Wrote these songs at a low point in my life. Now I find myself re-living those emotions as I revisit this music. I've been here before, paralyzed. Last time I was paralyzed from fear; this time exhaustion. 

The effect is the same. I'm not moving. Like my friend on IM, it's gonna take a miracle to get me unstuck. 

My latest miracle wears dreads. Came alongside so smoothly I didn't realize what was happening. He came by on a Tuesday evening, told me we'd jam a little. We did. Worked on a track for singer Keaver Brenai. 

After a couple hours, I was ready to call it for the night. He starts having me play one of the songs for the album. Play it again. Ok, wait, slow down that part, shorten that part. Bring that part back again.

Next thing I know, dude's putting me through the paces of a fullblown musical arrangement. And by the way, what am I doing next Tuesday, same time? I'll tell you what we're doing, four more hours of the same. 

He was a professor at Berklee College of Music for 9 years.  Now he's a professional drummer in Los Angeles. I know this cat's got stuff to do. He's got tours and showcases, films to score and tv shows to record cues for. 

His schedule has one open date before he travels to Japan on a grant to study Japanese rhythms for 3 months. I'm pretty sure dude's got more to do than pick me up and dust me off. And drag me to the nearest studio. 

You know what, that's exactly what he's been doing. I was telling Suzanne the other day, I feel like a runner who's collapsed within sight of the finish line. And right when I'm about to give up and just lay there, along comes my brother to lift me up and carry me forward. 

The only date he's got available is July 19th. So that's the day we're going into the studio to restart "Sounds Like Humans." Batch of three songs: Road Trip, Smoke 'n Alcohol, and Sweet Lover. 

I really could not do this without you, my brother, my friend. I watched some of your gigs on Youtube tonight. You are an incredible musician and I'm deeply honored to have encountered you as a collaborator. 

 A single phrase to describe my friend David Cowan: Young Professor Old-Soul Brother

Sing Over Me

I love Sabbath. 

I told you I was sitting on the beach having conversation with God about this. It's tripping me out. Speaking of which, I should warn you now, I'm slightly crazy. I asked God to teach me how spirit works and He said, "OK, then follow me out of your mind." 

Rewind a few years to when Sabbath completely sucked for me. I grew up in a conservative setting where Sabbath was pretty much The Day The Fun Stood Still. 

Basic operational guideline: If there's any chance you might enjoy it, you shouldn't be doing it on Sabbath. 

So although I always felt like there might be something magical about it, the possibility was obscured many years by a list of rules for the doing and the don't-ing of the day. 

A few Sabbaths ago, I went to my Hollywood Church and it was a heavy day. Several of us were hurting, some out loud. There was a fog in the air over the city, a phenomenon called June Gloom. Weird that I've never noticed it before. I've lived in Los Angeles over 25% of my life, and I don't remember this?

Why this year am I acutely aware of the fog? It's 'cause I'm sad and lonely and we'll talk about that later. 

As soon as church was out, I tossed some stuff in the car and headed east. Three weeks earlier I had promised Zoe and Dulce that I'd come out and play music with them on a Sabbath afternoon. 

They just got all this cool new equipment. 

It starts out: "hey, you should come jam with us"

Then it was: "you better come jam with us"

Then it turned into: "if you don't come jam with us, you're dead!"

Don't you love how this escalates from invite to demand to death threat?

I'm so heavy by the time I get there, I'm looking for a way to ditch this, but understand these are two of my dearest friends in the world. The absolute delight on Dulce's face as I walk into the studio is reason enough to drive 100 miles. I figure they'll notice sooner or later, so I might as well divulge:

"Hey you guys, I'm depressed right now and I don't have any music in me..."

So you know what! They played and sang and I just sat there and soaked it up. And it was good medicine. Dulce rockin' the Madonna covers and Zoe on the Pat Benatar. And my spirit peeked out from behind my pain. And that thing that music does began at my toes and worked its way steadily into my heart. 

And it wasn't until later that I remembered you can't sing Madonna tunes on Sabbath.

By which time I felt much better and it was too late. 

A single phrase to describe my friends Zoe and Dulce: Musical Deliverance

Dare to hope...Thank God for my Divorce! (part 7 of 7)

I stand in the strength of learning remembered. 

By Grace I am strong enough to love deeply and well. Interesting that it took divorce to wake me from a passive state, but now I have opinions and tastes and desires and intentions. 

photo by Rory D. Peters

Shall I dare to hope that my friendship with Suzanne will last forever? 

I do

Dare I hope that someday our paths will cross more substantially than the current spiderweb of emails and phone calls?

I do

And do I hope that from the ashes will rise a phoenix, a marriage recognizably similar to the old and dead, but of a newly individual beauty?

I do

Hope is a risk that's worth the taking.

I believe God is more powerful than death. I believe this dead marriage can live again, better and stronger. I believe marriage is a life-long choice, a daily choice, a choice to love when I don't feel like it or I'm too tired or too hurt. We love because He first Loved us. 

Before you rush to my rescue, accept my assurance that I have no illusions about the finality of divorce. My marriage is dead. Completely. I get that. I may have a better grip on the reality of the situation than you think. Thank you. I am where I mean to be. 

photo by Zoe

I lift my hands in surrender.  A couple weeks ago, God said to me, 

"You know, there's a difference between throwing your hands up, and lifting your hands. Same range of motion, but one is quitting in frustration and the other is submitting to the requirements of victory." 

What if God allowed me to lose my marriage so I could learn to love my wife? Is that too unconventional to ponder? Are not His ways beyond searching, Her ways beyond finding out?

photo by Suzanne

Proverbs 25:2  It is the pleasure of God to conceal a thing, and the honor of kings to search it out. 

There is enough Love...Thank God for my Divorce! (part 6 of 7)

Love has been good to me.

photo by Jade

I was afraid that divorce meant I am not loved and nobody would love me again. What I found out was quite the opposite. Had I not been divorced, I might never have realized how many people care. Strangers and friends went out of the way to show me tender concern. It's still happening. The generosity of humans amazes me. 

More than once my cousin and his wife drove 90 minutes  just to make me dinner and hang out so I could relax enough to fall asleep. 

Derek & Steph

I just got back from dinner and dessert with a friend I've known for 20 years. It's feels good to say I've had a friend that long. In a world where connection is steadily giving way to isolation, I consider myself blessed to have traded love with such admirable people. 

That's what I like about love--you can't get rid of it. You give it away, you get more than you had to begin with. 

One of my favorite gifts of Love is Gratitude. When God offers me so many amazing opportunities to know and be known, why would I ignore these blessings to dwell on the pain of love lost? 

Gratitude opens my eyes wide enough to see I haven't lost Suzanne's love. It is simply speaking to me with an honesty I hadn't imagined before about changes I can make that will allow me to better serve the ones I love, including her. 

If by her honesty she has taught me to love more fiercely, to believe more steadfastly, to serve more humbly and dream more boldly, how can I not be grateful?

Wings

Facing Fear... Thank God for my Divorce! (part 5 of 7)

photo by Rory D. Peters

I arrived in Los Angeles, September 2005, all my possessions in the back of a green minivan. Bags and boxes. Clothes and instruments.  A car full of questions.

"Will this pain make me bitter or better?"

"Will I continue to open my soul and offer whatever strength is in me?"

"Will I dare to dream?"

"Ok, there's my toothbrush, where did I put my confidence?"

Confidence and fear both took the 17-hour drive with me, but they just don't seem to get along, you know? They argued all the way down I-5, and eventually it dawned on me one of them would have to get out of the car. 

I'm a very simple man. Suzanne is complex, and beautiful--she has all kinds of brilliant ideas. Me?  I've had, like, four good ideas in my life!

Music was one of them. I have known since I was 8 years old that I hear music in a unique way. I have known since I was 21 that God speaks to me through music. I have known since I was 27 that I was designed to tell an important story. But for fear of rejection, fear of failure, or worse, fear of success, I hesitated and half-stepped up until that moment in fall of '05.

There's a moment in the Matrix when Neo turns to face Agent Smith in the train station, and Trinity says, incredulity all over her face, 

"What is he doing?"

It's that moment in Return of the King when Aragorn turns into the cave, steel-faced, blade in hand, and says,

"I do not fear death."

It's that moment we face our deepest fears. 

Out of the abundance of the heart comes the human voice. I was hurting so badly, i could barely breathe. Singing was out of the question, but that's what needed to happen. I had to sing or my heart would close up and suffocate me in a cloud of fear. And, again by Grace, I met Tom Macomber who provided the opportunity to sing into a microphone that recorded my first album. 

The album isn't slick and shiny and polished. You can hear my broken heart rasping for breath. It's not my best work, but I tell you what, I may never accomplish a more important recording. It is the sound of a man afraid, and moving forward anyway. It ain't pretty, but it's real. It is the sound of defiance. Like the indomitable Love of the God who would not be stopped by death. 

 photo by Rory D. Peters

It happened while I was still bleeding. 

In the months since, I've been supported to strength, and we're now working on the second album, making something together that chronicles a journey toward wholeness. 

Without that first frightened move there would be no second. I am intensely grateful that in the moment of the question, God gave me an answer of confidence and not of fear. 

Honesty... (Thank God for my divorce! (part 4 of 7)

I drank the wine to numb my pain. 

Too much to feel at once. 

Pain, however, is a form of honesty. My heart wanted me to know that I had hurt myself. That something of great value had been damaged, maybe irreparably. 

As I learned to listen to the wisdom around me, I also learned to listen to the wisdom inside. When I wake up in the middle of the night and miss her, that's me letting me know that her being there is important to me. 

photo by Leslie Foster

I felt the pain of her honesty with me. When someone you love doesn't want to be around you and tells you why, it hurts. 

I was able to share what wasn't working for me. She told me what hurt. I told her what hurt. Honesty clears the air. Now everyone's working with full disclosure. When you're trying to rebuild damaged trust, stick to the truth. 

John 8:32 ..."The truth will set you free."

Absolutely!

So now I have a different value for honesty. Like the honesty of a man who explained to me what pornography does to my soul and to the soul of the woman I love. I had been seeking validation of my masculinity, a legitimate need met by counterfeit methods, a dishonest and ultimately ineffective approach. The counterfeit devalues the original by communicating to a magnificent woman that she is not enough. 

I also learned the tenderness of honesty. This is great news!! Truth not only exposes what's not working; it also heals, and comforts and reveals what is working. To whatever isn't working, there is balance, and honesty reveals that balance. 

Here's some honesty, both strong and tender: She didn't like who I was, but when I was real about it, I didn't either. Today I like myself very much, and that requires neither counterfeit nor denial.  

I see eye to eye with the guy in the mirror.  Honesty is now my pleasure. 

photo by Terry Reid

Conversation with God...Thank God for my Divorce! (part 3 of 7)

photo by Jade

"If you love me, keep my commandments."

Not the same as "If you love me, ponder my suggestions." 

Or, "If you love me, consider the following recommendations."

When my ego died I came to God and asked for something I would not have asked for otherwise. I wasn't looking for suggestions. I wasn't looking for advice. I was looking for instructions, for directions. 

"Tell me what to do. Talk to me like I'm two years old. Tell me to sit down, stand up, be quiet, eat my peas...What do you want me to do?"

I hear God's not saying anything these days.  Earnest hearts asking the question, why isn't God talking to me? I don't know the answer and there are still periods of silence in our conversation, but I submit to you that when I stopped asking God for advice, I began to hear much more frequently and more clearly. 

I don't have time right now to tell you about the vision I had with the horses and the tree and sword, but maybe we'll have a chance to talk about that another time. Let it be sufficient that I needed to know, so I asked. 

It was a simple conversation, rewarded by simple answers.  Straight to the point. Sincere. Honest

photo by Julie Kim

Death... Thank God for my Divorce! (part 2 of 7)

I drank an entire bottle of Pinot Noir in 3 minutes!

When the sidewalk started spinning, I thought, 

"Perfect, that's the way I feel inside."

My world was reeling. The woman I love no longer wanted to be with me. 

One blessing of my divorce is a learning about Humility. Although I knew that something wasn't working, I simply could not find it in me to ask for help. I could delude myself as long as she stayed. I could convince myself things weren't all that bad, but on the day she took me to the judge, denial shattered. 

photo by Suzanne

We weren't making it. We weren't flying. We weren't even close. 

"That's the ground rushing up at you, Len. That's the end of the rope you're hanging on to."

I finally had to admit that I don't know what I'm doing. I began to realize how smart that woman is. I've read a few relationship books and listened to a few gurus,  and I'm amazed at how much of what they tell me is an echo of something she told me years earlier. 

The thing is, I wasn't listening.  The shock of knowing that this woman I adore thinks her life is better without me in it, that shock activated a new response, something I hadn't tried before. I shall call it listening. When I finally sobered up, I began to ask questions and listen. 

First question: "What the hell just happened?"

Answer: "Your wife doesn't like you or trust you."

Second question: "Why not?"

Answer: "Do you really want to hear this?"

I would ask her and then interpret the answer to suit my preconceptions. I thought I already knew so I only half listened, enough to patronize, not really intending to hear. For some reason, I finally heard the problem clearly when a man explained it to me.

At this point, she was too deeply hurt to talk to me, so I started asking around, and by Grace I happened to ask some men with thriving families who were anything but gentle in letting me know how many ways I had ignored the signals. 

Why did I hear when a man said to me all the same things my wife had been saying for years? I don't know but that's the way it worked out. Somewhere there's a man reading this and I hope you hear me, cause there's a good chance your woman has already told you what you need to know and you think she's just crazy. 

I am grateful for my divorce because it taught me to listen, even when I think I know. 

I threw up on that sidewalk after midnight in February of 2005. Not the most beautiful ceremony, but certainly fit for occasion. A place to bury denial. A moment to confront death. 

More painful than heartache, more necessary than knowledge, the death of an ego. 

Photo by Rory Peters

When the student is ready, teachers appear. . .