Going to a "Real" Concert - Mumford and Sons live!

I have been saying, for years and years, actually, that I want to go to a "real" concert. By that I mean that I recognize that my generation has this whole "concert" culture, where there are mega venues and massive crowds that sell out showings for popular bands, and half of it is for the experience of the crowd and the venue and the atmosphere.

So, while I've been to some really sweet Christian concerts (best of which was Switchfoot), and some pretty big free concerts in Grant Park during Chicago's summer concert series (best and biggest was Brad Paisley), I hadn't yet had the experience of buying tickets to a band I wanted to see at a big venue.

Mostly because, you know, concerts are ridiculously expensive.

UNLESS

Unless your good friend Steph sees Mumford and Sons say on their website that they want to give tickets at cheap prices to fans before releasing them publicly to be scalped and resold and exorbitant prices, so if you're interested, message them and let them know.

And if, whoever runs Mumford's facebook page actually replies and gives Steph four tickets to a showing in Austin at totally affordable prices.

And if Steph loves you and knows you love them to and offers you two of them, and you think it's a joke (it was April 1st) and then are totally beside yourself with excitement.

So... my first and possibly last "real" concert experience was last weekend, watching my very favorite band in my very favorite city in Texas, with some of my very favorite people, and ... it was amazing.

It was also the day before Ted Dwayne, Mumford's bassist, was rushed to the hospital with a blood clot in his brain, and all the rest of their upcoming shows were cancelled. I have to admit I feel some sense of superiority because we got in, and if we'd bought tickets instead for here in Dallas, we'd have missed the experience completely. It was just amazing. I mean, I love Mumford so regardless it was just going to be amazing, but, it was, and they are:

The concert was outdoors at a racetrack venue outside of Austin, so we drove down, got a babysitter (by the skin our teeth - thank the Lord for people who babysit, for real), and went out early. We had general admission tickets and expected to be sitting on the lawn, but then they gave us free admission to the pit, so, in the end we were about three people from the stage.

It's Texas, so, completing the sentimental experience was..... the heat. You know, sticky, sweaty, makeup-melting-off-your-face heat. For hours while we waited with the crowd and through one good and one boring opening act. We were good sports (and I went up to the breezy concessions area and got water from the water fountain and some good kettle corn).

 

 

In the absolute worst timing you could have, just as Mumford took the stage and we all rose to our feet.......... I got woozy and felt like I was going to pass out. I think the rush of energy with heat (and the fact that we were all out of water) finally took its toll, and I felt just the way I did when I really did pass out earlier in this pregnancy. Being in the pit surrounded by people with Mumford just about to start, I didn't really see any way to easily get out of the crowd and get back later, so I sank to my knees and prayed I wouldn't have to be carried out! It took several songs to clear  my head and gain back enough energy to stand, so my first view of the band was mostly looking up between a sea of legs and seeing Marcus Mumford's face on the screen! All part of the experience. 

 

The crowd, of course, loves them, and being right in the pit was incredible. The week before the concert I'd been in a debate a work after a co-worker heard them for the first time and proclaimed them "dark and depressing". They are, of course, loved by many, and of course as always the Christian world sees the spiritual references in their lyrics and wants them to be a sort of hidden Christian band. This Christianity Today article analyses them  and their concerts well.

 

Their shows are enthusiastic and joyful; fans sing and shout along, and there is an overwhelming sense of camaraderie. The band and the crowd have a sort of symbiotic relationship, feeding off each other's passion and energy. 

Their lyrics—primarily written by frontman Marcus Mumford—are heart gripping, capturing experiences to which most listeners can relate—brokenness, regret, and longing for restoration.... Their songs tell stories of guilt, personal and relational anguish, loss, and discontent. But these themes are coupled with images of love, forgiveness, restoration, fulfillment, and hope. Few popular artists tell stories of the fall and redemption so poignantly.

 

As for me, I absolutely believe that his lyrics reflect spiritual musing and longing. His parents were leaders in the Vineyard UK church, which means the semi-charismatics evangelical world was his world, and he wrote at least part of his first album while at Oxford, newly on his own and I'm sure, as with most college kids, wrestling with much angst over his choices, faith, God, sin, etc. That's what I hear in his lyrics. I know he doesn't call himself a Christian and quite frankly, it doesn't bother me. He writes from the heart and his lyrics have depth. I love that. Sometimes I draw my own meaning into how I interpret them, sometimes I recognize that a song is simply dark, and sometimes they are undeniably beautiful spiritual truths.

 

And, because they have been our favorites for a few years now, some of the songs have been intertwined with what we've experienced in these years, and it was beautiful and redemptive to be there with Steph and Jake.

 

For me, "I Will Wait" is probably my favorite songs and it was absolutely amazing to be doused with the music, surrounded by people singing it out, with Mumford playing hard just in front of us.  The song that was perhaps most striking as a live song was "Dust Bowl Dance", in which the band went absolutely wild, and Marcus is insane on the drums. When I'm listening to an album I like beauty, but the wildness of Dust Bowl Dance was unmatched live.

Ross Holmes is apparently a Texan fiddler that has been playing with them for the last couple of years, and he was so fun to watch. He lived the music and seemed to be having the time of his life, as if he'd been a nerd growing up and was living the dream of actually playing with a cool band. He plucked out "Deep In the Heart of Texas", to the great joy of the crowd.



We stood the entire time, and left dehydrated with sore feet and feeling completely exhausted.

It was worth it.

On being "at home" in a place you don't belong

On Sunday I drove across town to see my sister, who is in college but went "home" to Pakistan to spend a few weeks. She had a layover at DFW and we just had a few minutes, but I got to hug her and hear her high/lows of her trip and a little of her heart.

I marvel, because she loves, deeply loves, Pakistan. My family isn't there anymore, they settled back in the US what... two years ago? When I called Indonesia "home" I could get away with it more often because I mostly grew up there, but Michelle's full span of time in Pakistan was less than four years.

And yet, I am not surprised. I've seen it so many times before. It's partly the developmental stage. If you live in a place during the key developmental years, it's bound to have a far bigger impact than staying in a place for a couple of years later in life. You're changing so much that the culture and place changes you as you grow, becoming part of you in strange bits and pieces.

But it's not even just that life stage thing, because I also remembered this post from Alysa, a dear friend who spent a few years teaching as an adult in Indonesia, where I grew up. I see the deep love of the place and the powerful impact of a few short years in her feelings about Irian (now Papua) and the people connected to that experience. She said:

 And there was {and is} this unexplainable connection. A strong connection that I've come to realize I just can't explain to those that haven't experienced it. ....Maybe it's because Irian Jaya {now called Papua} is this magical, tropical paradise with beautiful, amazing people. And because it is so remote, most people in the world will never experience it. It's not common. It's kind of an out-of-reality-no-box-to-fit-it-in kind of place. ...And then there's this indirect connection that runs super deep, too. ...Because they know a part of my life - a big part of my life - the Irian Jaya part of my life - that most people here in America don't know and will never know. And maybe that's it. Deep down, we all want to be known, so when people know this huge part of your life and understand it and have memories attached to it, it causes connection.

I marvel at the way these places and times have twisted themselves so deeply into the hearts of some of us that grew up in foreign lands across the world. The culture is not actually our own despite all the ways it has influenced us. We are still foreigners in these countries. And yet this loyalty and fierce love is generally stronger than people feel when they've truly grown up in a place and really are "from" there. Perhaps that's part of it. When you truly are from somewhere, it's taken for granted. Only years later with many other experiences under your belt do you really begin to feel the uniqueness of your place and how it's formed you.

For us, though, there is no belonging except what we choose, and so the places and experiences are things you either push away from because of that sense of separation, or you find that you love this place that isn't your own and you see it with the eyes that take nothing for granted. You love it for all those small things, you commit yourself to it with intentionality. And also, as Alysa said, it is so unique and different. Once you have experienced it, it does not seamlessly integrate into life elsewhere. It is uncommon, and so we love that rare experience and place and those few who experienced it with us.

My sister wrote about it here, and she's a stunningly beautiful writer so you should just go read the whole thing!:

And all the little imperfections over there–the blemishes that would seem to some like inconveniences of the developing world–are what make the culture so endearing to me. And it makes me feel all the more foreign and uncomfortable amidst the neat and clean and pristine of the sanitized and modernized West and their tireless pursuit of the latest and greatest and prettiest and fastest. 

And sometimes I just long for the creaking doors and old marble floors and the rickety picnic tables with peeling green paint covered in fallen pine needles and sap. And I’d trade all the expensive restaurants for one perfectly run-down chai shop at the side of the mountain road. I’d trade a four dollar Starbucks coffee for a perfectly stained cup of steaming sweet chai and a handful of pakoras wrapped in last month’s grease-spotted newspaper. I’d trade electricity and fluorescent lights for one night by the glow of flickering candlelight. I’d trade the sounds of intersection traffic for the sound of birds and musical truck horns and the call to prayer drifting from the loudspeakers of the mosque through the valley at the crack of dawn. I’d trade the dryer for the sight of clothes hanging on the line in the sun and the breeze blowing through them. I’d trade the TV for time to sit outside together with cups of chai and conversation. I’d trade the sight of traffic lights and all these expensive cars for a knuckle-whitening ride with a crazy driver in an old beat-up suzuki on winding mountain roads. I’d trade the overwhelmingly large grocery stores with artificially huge and shiny produce for a small fruit and vegetable stand buzzing with flies by the side of the dusty road.

Not everyone who reads this blog now read it back when I wrote bluntly about my deep longing for Papua, the place I grew up and love. I've returned only once, six years after I left, and it's been another six years since that visit. The first six years did little to change my love and longing for Papua. The last six have made me afraid of how I've romanticized it, and so I am far more hesitant. But still, oh. Rain on a tin roof and the smell of the jungle after the rain. Cicadas at night. Visitors said they couldn't sleep with all the noise, but between the fan (no AC) and the cicadas, it's the lullaby I love. Roosters in the morning. Jasmine tea, mostly sugar water, in a juice box. Children playing soccer in the street with a tattered old ball. Going to market on the back of a scooter/motor cycle, driven by a man with too-long fingernails. Traffic that has only one rule - don't hit anyone. Church where everyone sings with all their might, no matter how bad they sound (and they sometimes sound pretty bad).

I am so keenly aware (and afraid) that going back as an adult to the place that I love and knew as a child will be very different. I know it's possible that some of those things I love will now drive me crazy. It's also possible that I will be fiercely defensive of them, and that my appreciation for them will help me integrate into this utterly different and uncomfortable place. I am so thankful that I already have this appreciation for many things that are seen in this culture as imperfections.

(photo courtesy of Michelle!)

This is why you should buy Cutco

So Sunday night was the end of an absolutely packed weekend and I was totally exhausted. It was 11pm by the time I'd put the kiddo to bed, finished cleaning up, and put away the groceries we bought at 9:30pm. I took a deep breath and decided to treat myself to a slice of this amazing frozen peanut butter pie with an Oreo crust. It's awful for you but, dang it, I was going to have a piece and relax before bed.

I pulled out a plate and a steak knife to cut myself a small slice and pushed down firmly to slice through the frozen deliciousness.

And then the handle broke off the knife, plunging my hand down onto the now handle-less back of the knife. I thought, "Oh man, the knife broke, I wonder if I cut myself?" A quick look down and, "Oh, wow, that would be my knuckle bone!"

It was a calm but adrenaline-filled 'drive yourself to the emergency room' experience (you'll do a lot to avoid having to take an exhausted child to the emergency room at midnight) and my first stitches ever.

And that, folks, is why you should splurge and buy Cutco.

Disclaimer: I sold Cutco (rather unsuccessfully) in college.

Caveat: I no longer sell Cutco. I was just apparently successfully indoctrinated.

PS: I totally ate that piece of pie when I got home at 2am

Mothering

A friend recently asked to give my thoughts on motherhood and oh, how do you even start? I swing with the winds of the day one day loving and treasuring, the next completely overwhelmed. I know many moms are overwhelmed by the craziness that is the newborn stage, but I loved it and soaked up every moment. It seems others come to their own during the toddler years, but oh man, it 's where I've felt totally out of my league.

I'm in a unique situation, too. I work full-time and for better or worse most of the time people think of motherhood as the daily ins and outs of parenting full-time from home, which I have never experienced.

Judah is, oh, wonderful. Last month he finally started calling me "momma", and now in the morning he calls me softly, "Momma, get me?" He's my snuggle bug, and in those moments he'll wrap his arms around me and lay his head on my shoulder and oh, I soak it up. He has a little toy that closes up like a briefcase, and as soon as he gets a hint that someone might be going somewhere, he grabs the briefcase that's just like momma's computer bag and heads for the door babbling about "go", and really really loves it when he gets to go with me in my janky old Tercel. He's no longer super clingy and we increasingly have conversations and are headed into the stage of constant discipline. Do I like mothering? Well, I like mothering Judah.

To be honest, I am currently terrified of the fact that baby #2 is nearly halfway cooked. I feel quite insecure about whether or not I am a good mother, a mother who enjoys mothering, a mother who is gifted for this job. I love my son, deeply, and I treasure him and being with him. But truly - loving someone and feeling equipped for and fulfilled by spending 24/7 meeting their every need.... those are two different things. I simply don't know how it will be being at home full-time, and yet soon I will be doing it with two rather than one, and in a new culture.

The truth is that recently after a full weekend with Judah my stress-level is sky high. Luckily I don't react to stress with anger. I become quiet, restrained, gentle, but.... internally overwhelmed. This HuffPo post "To the Parents of Small Children" is one I really relate to.

So, I simply don't know. I reject what some people have said to me, that women are just built to want to be at home with their children and feel fulfilled in caring for them. Not necessarily. Is a man necessarily fulfilled by his work? No. Some women never feel truly fitted at home, and some men never find a job they truly fit in either. Just because something is a part of our vocation for a time doesn't mean it will feel fulfilling or that we will be particularly well-suited to the job. If needed, you do it anyways, because it is your vocation, and in the case of parenting, because you love your children. I feel deeply called to care for my kiddo, and I have often felt burdened to be at home with Judah because I've felt like he needs me...... not because I just want to be at home.

To a certain extent, though, it really doesn't matter if I am one of those women who especially good at mothering. I AM a mother, and I'm about to enter a season where I will mother full time, and that's just the way it is and I will do it, and I'm sure some of it will be stressful and some of it will be wonderful. It is a season of life. I am a pragmatic person, and after working full-time for years, this will be a new thing to walk through.

On the other hand, it does matter as I make choices about the size of my family. I knew I wanted some children because I wanted to nurture life and a family. It's a gift, truly. But if I were the type of woman who felt completely suited to mothering, like it was what I was made to do and it's what I want to give my life to, then I would likely keep having children.

I don't know if I am that kind of woman. I don't think I really can know until I really am mothering full-time for a while. At the moment I often feel like I can't relate to the mommy club, to the mom talk that they can engage in and the topics that interest them. I don't know if that's because it's steeped in American culture (to which I still feel like partially an outsider) or because I'm a working mom who gets to engage in adult conversation (to my great relief) for the majority of my day.

I really enjoy working. I am a very independent person. I feel called to mother the children I'm given but I also think I'm called to some other things, and so I lean towards the idea of this full-time mothering for a shorter season. I realize that the more children you have, the longer your pour nearly all of your identity into mothering and oh, man, right now that's a bit terrifying.

I am preparing to throw myself into a season where my primary outer identity is that of "mother". But even while I do it with the knowledge that it is for "right now", I realize that the decisions I make now about having more children will affect... umm.. half my life? I am sobered and pondering.