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More on War

What if politicians had to actually fight the wars they waged? And what if we honored actual heroes – both military and otherwise – instead of proclaiming anyone in a uniform, and no one out of one, a hero? Good questions from the authors of the following two pieces I came across since writing my Veteran’s Day post.

In this piece, Frederick Buechner asserts that things might be different if the actual people in power, the ones making the decisions that push young soldiers around like pawns, had to fight too.

And here, David Masciotra asks us to reserve our hero worship for actual heroes, within and outside of the military.

Veterans deserve care and respect from their nation’s citizens, and sometimes – many times in recent years, I believe this includes citizens speaking out against the endless wars that produce so many veterans – and flag-draped coffins – in the first place.

I am pro-peace, and pro-veteran.

Veteran’s Day has often felt awkward and ambiguous to me, because I don’t support so much of my nation’s military action. But this old World War II song got stuck in my head last year, and it seemed fitting to make a video for Veteran’s Day this year.

Sifting through thousands of public domain images of veterans throughout America’s warring history, I pushed the politics aside and saw the faces and bodies of humans who have put themselves on the front lines for their people. I don’t always believe in their cause, but then, I expect that they don’t always either – which makes doing their job that much more difficult.

What I do wholeheartedly believe, is that war wounds soldiers. And so, I wanted to sing to them today.

 

It was my 39th birthday yesterday. And I’m giving you a gift. A free record called Thirty Nine, a sort of faith and doubt memoir told through music.

Thirtynine

I imagine these songs to be a sort of conversation, possibly going on in my head, possibly with God (and I think these two ideas are not mutually exclusive).

Here are some virtual liner notes, a little listener’s guide if you like:

“Bridges for Burning” – Some things, we lived through once, and that was plenty, and we can let go of them now. Others are worth holding like treasure, deep in the heart.

“From Your Love” – The euphoria and unshakeable confidence of a young fresh believer. Mostly quoting Paul, from his epistle to the Romans, chapter eight.

“So Good” – More euphoria, gratefulness, love.

“So Easy” – I begin to question myself. Really? Naive little girl, have you given any of this much thought?

“Ask” – Little girl begins to grow up, starts to voice questions that have grown bigger over the years she’s been squelching them.

“Epiphany” – God, never threatened by questions, always seeing to the heart of the matter, sings a not-exactly-soothing lullaby.

“Come Out and Play” – I wonder about this faith, hope and love I’ve staked my life on until now. And even if there is a lover of my soul, am I interested?

“Come Unto Me” – And still, God asks, invites, apparently also unthreatened by the possibility of public rejection and humiliation.

“Demystification” – Enough with the mystery and romance. I demand of God, explain yourself. Just show up.

“89 Degrees” – My world is burned, my heart is drowned. I’m about to turn the corner. Are you still there?

“Dreaming for You” – God sings – I have a dream, and it’s for you. (And I liked the way you started that last song so I’m doing a variation on it.)

“Farewell Fairytale” – I get the last word. Also the first, of the rest of my life. I burn some bridges, and walk on, in the wild wandering Way.

 

 

Thirty-Nine

I couldn’t sleep last night. Nathan and I are getting ready to release a new full-length album, one we’ve been working on for, oh, five years or so, and the title we chose for it is Thirty-Nine. The songs are records and reflections from my personal journey through faith and doubt, and our working title was “FaithedOut” or “Faith-Doubt” or – well, we couldn’t figure out how to spell it to make it work without being spoken, mute on an album cover. Faith and doubt, but also faithed out, as in worn out, churched out.

I’m turning thirty-nine this year, this month actually, and we decided, when the guy we hired to master the album asked us for the title last week, to call it Thirty-Nine, partly because of my age, partly because 1939 was a dark time in history (the Great Depression in the United States, Germany invades Poland and begins the second world war), and mainly because of the not-quite-fortiness of it, the almost-there-but-still-slogging feeling of thirty-nine, no milestone, just faded-ness. 

That was all rolling around in my head last night, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I wrote something and put it to rest. Below is what I wrote. Most of my thirty-nine years have not felt like this, of course, but a considerable portion of my recent years have come closer to a “dark night of the soul.” I share this mostly to introduce some of the sentiment behind our new album title. Yeah, it’s really my wordy and hype-aversive way of starting a “launch” for the new album – coming to you (for free through Noisetrade!) on October 26th.

Thirty-nine is an unholy number. Noah waited forty days and forty nights in the ark while it rained and everything outside drowned. Moses spent forty years in the desert, and only then began his long journey leading Israel to the promised land. Jesus fasted forty days in the wilderness before he started his three years of work that changed the world.

On the thirty-ninth day, in the thirty-ninth year, nothing happened. In the wilderness, in the womb-like tomb-like ark, it was only one more of a long string of the same – wandering, hungry, lonely, in the land of unknowing, a heart forsaking and forsaken.

It’s the second-to-last year, or day, of the long dark nothing. I’ve been keeping count, and I know it, but another year, another wasteland of a day, awaits me after this one. Even as hope begins to germinate. Forty is the pattern I know from my thirty-nine-year history reading Bible stories. I know that after forty has passed, something new begins.

So in the dark, on yet another impenetrable night in year thirty-nine, I feel tiny cracks in my heart. Something new pushing inside. An olive branch and a rainbow, a burning bush, food, water and comforting angels might be in store, on the path up ahead.

The dark still whispers fears in my ears, still tries to dress me down, show me wrinkles and withering and death to all things. But I’m nearly thirty-nine now. I’ve nearly made my peace with the dark, count her among my acquaintances now, need not run.

This next year will be bittersweet. And then, who knows? Who knows?

There now, dark. There, I’ve written it, or something like it, or something anyway. Now may I sleep?

The Last Day of the Month

On the last day of the month

I cook my stash of vegetable peelings and potato water

Into broth for next month’s soups and stews and gravies

Bake the heels and crusts of bread

For crumbs for next month’s casseroles

Gather the nearest-to-perishing perishable food

Refrigerated leftovers

Fresh fruit and vegetables

Search the pantry and the freezer

For whatever can fill out this day of meals

Made of remnants

Nothing is wasted

Yet this feels like abundance

These meals like generous gifts

As we linger after dinner

Filled to satisfaction in body and soul.

White American Life

White tears are decorative

White grief is distant

White guilt is optional

White promises are broken

White passion is fickle

White skin is thick insulation

And a most effective cushion

To smother a human soul.

Child-Woman

I closed out another journal this morning. Here’s an entry from earlier this year, written after a particularly painful evening of parenting.

Oh ten-year-old girl with the rages and rolling eyes, the cry and play of a child, the body and mind leaning towards adulthood. You are loved, and lovely. You are unpredictable, awkward, unkind, collapsible. Headstrong, indecisive, brilliant and naive.

I, young one, am your mother. I am wise and baffled. Patient and irritated. I love you. I do not always like you. I am not old and wise enough to never feel pain at your unkindnesses. (No, that’s not where wisdom would be found. Love feels the pain. Wisdom – and love again – can reach beyond it, to embrace you, to envision you in truth, a child-woman writhing in growing pains.)

Sleep tonight, my small darling. Sleep and be refreshed. You are not in-between two realities. You are fully functioning, smack-dab in the center of one reality, this one, the reality of your living self at age ten-and-one-half. And I am honored to know you here and now.

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