What are your Vice Verses?

I will never forget sitting on the sidewalk by the side of a Portland street with a bunch of other music lovers, late at night. Jon Foreman, the frontman of the band Switchfoot, leaned up against the windows of the Real Mother Goose, a furniture import store right next to the MAX tracks. He had just played the hottest concert I’ve ever been to (temperature hot – it had been blazing), a 45-minute set in the extreme dripping heat. Still he got his guitar from the tour bus, walked down the street like the Pied Piper, and we all followed. It was just us, him, and his guitar for nearly an hour.

It was pure Jesus magic.

I had been a longtime fan of Switchfoot, ever since the early days of “You Already Take Me There” and the skydiving music video, but that night bred a die-hard loyalty. It’s like when you’re friends with someone for so long that it doesn’t matter how often you see her or even what she does. That friendship bond, strengthened by shared experiences, will never break and you can always pick up where you left off.

I’m serious when I say I don’t care what the band does – they could release a CD of cows mooing, and I’d pre-order the special edition.

They choose a different artistic direction. My friends in Switchfoot released their eighth studio album yesterday. It’s called Vice Verses.

I first heard the title track “Vice Verses” over two years ago via the internet, thanks to some thoughtful person who recorded an acoustic session that Jon did. He was sitting in a folding chair with people all around him. And he sang this song I had never heard before. “Vice Verses.”

The song started out musing upon the ocean, but quickly delved into questions about the nature of life and eventually built into a plaintive cry. “Where is God in the city lights? Where is God in the genocide?”

And on this particular bootleg recording, Jon’s voice cracked with emotion when he sang, “Where are you in my broken heart?” and the rest of the song came out through a choked voice.

It was the cry of my own heart.

“Everything seems rusted over, show me that you’re there.”

I’ve come back to this song over and over, and I think it’s my favorite of theirs – which is saying a lot with songs like “Shadows Prove the Sunshine,” “Sing it Out,” and “Your Love is a Song.” I also became extremely pretentious, just for the fact that my favorite song wasn’t even released on an album yet. Win.

In preparation for this album, the band launched a Twitter campaign, asking people what their Vice Verses were. I didn’t enter, because I didn’t know what that phrase meant. What are vice verses? I know what vices are, I know what verses are, but what are they together?

“I’ve got my vices, I’ve got my vice verses.”

I think I’ve figured it out now.

Vice Verses.

“I know that there’s a meaning to it all, a little resurrection every time I fall.”

To me, Vice Verses are those things which redeem our vices. We all know our own vices, we all know what we do wrong, what makes us bad and wrong and not good enough. We recite them like a liturgy, clinging to our own failures. We are the screw-ups, holding close those mean things little boys said to us on the bus or lies our teacher told us about who we were. Bad things.

We know our vices.

But do we know our vice verses?

I find that I struggle telling you what I’m good at, or what I truly love, or what gives me the greatest joy. I can bluff if asked outright, but it’s not usually the truest answer. What truly are the things that make my life worthwhile? That keep me moving forward even though my vices sometimes scream so loudly that I can’t even hear myself?

I believe this wholeheartedly: until we can name those things that give us true joy and meaning, we cannot escape the trap of our vices and we cannot move in the correct direction. How do we know where to go if we have not stopped to identify the tools we have to get there?

As for our vice verses, you can’t just say God or Jesus or any of those canned Sunday School answers. Yes, God and Jesus are good, but they are not your vice verses. These things are what were formed by the Creator to show us Himself and to give us purpose. They are gifts.

Most of the band shared their Vice Verses on their YouTube page. Maybe my definition is incorrect, but that’s what I’m working from to give you my own:

My vice verses are the deepest belly-laughter with deep friends, the joy of being known, the hope of something more, and beautiful words creating a beautiful story that tells of the beautiful possibility we humans have of redemption,

Vice Verses. What are yours?


Buy the new album here: www.switchfoot.com
Photo credit: Sara Kelm, Copyright 2009

A Story About Bravery

This is a story about bravery.

I have two friends who had a dream. They wanted to tell stories that matter. This dream sounds simple, but it was a dream, and so it was hard. Because it was a dream, many people believed it couldn’t happen.

I don’t know if they ever thought that too. But because they dream in stories and they know that stories are important, they worked hard and they started a theatre company. That sounds easy, but it involved money from their bank accounts, and painting ceilings black, and casting their friends, and walking all over town hanging up posters. They had to ask for help. A lot. That is really hard to do. And I’m sure sometimes they were scared and sometimes they thought this might be a bad idea. But they did it anyway.

They are brave.

Most people are too afraid to follow their passions. Because failing would break their hearts and they’re not sure they could ever mend again. So they never try. And the saddest thing is that they will never know the joy of what could have been.

My friends’ first ever show that belonged just to them opened last Thursday night. They wrote it and staged it. It tells the stories of seven ordinary people.

By ordinary people, I actually mean just regular old ordinary people who live in the small city of Newberg, OR. They weren’t chosen because they’ve done anything exciting – they were chosen because they call Newberg their home. And my friends wanted to tell the stories of Newberg.

Newberg is a college town, a dry campus in the middle of wine country. It is proud of its history, but the population is also very transient. There is great disparity between the richness of a five-star resort and the muddy fields filled with migrant workers and the treatment center that boasts celebrities hiding away from life.

These seven people have lived in Newberg for a while. Three speak Spanish, four speak English. One lives with autism. One is a teacher. Another owns a restaurant. Two came over illegally. And one died only a few weeks after being interviewed.

These seven people were extremely brave.

They told the stories of their lives. They are all normal people who live and work in a small town, feed their families from the local grocery store, go to movies at the old movie theatre. But they have the most intricate and beautiful stories.

Very few people think their own stories are beautiful. Boring, yes. Quiet. Maybe occasionally interesting. But rarely beautiful.

But there is beauty in the simplicity. And there is beauty in the act of bravery, of saying, “I will tell you my story because maybe you need to hear it.”

In being brave enough to share their stories, their stories were given such exquisite significance. They were made into art; they were made into meaning. They were given a beginning, a middle, an end – even as it continues forward. They were given life.

Those seven real-life people put their own lives onstage for others to see. The pain and anguish of reality, the pleasures of living – it was all there.

And we, the audience, were amazed. We learned we don’t know our own neighbors. In our rush to update our Facebook statuses, to share photos of our food via Twitter, to be somehow known, we are losing the dearest part of human existence: engaging in someone else’s life. Touching it, hearing it in ways that are more than 140 characters, that allow deep connection.

Because that requires bravery.

And my culture is not – I am not – brave.

Can we change this? Can we share our lives with those around us? Can we ask people about their stories? Can we ask someone about her dreams? And then answer truthfully when asked those questions back?

It requires something that we’re not used to: hard work. Challenge. And it requires pain and tears and just the slightest possibility of true, pure, untarnished joy.

Let’s be brave together, you and me.

See the Show!

Walk a Mile: Stories of Newberg

Thursday-Saturday, September 22-24 at 7:30 pm. Sunday matinee September 25 at 2 pm.

www.valleyrep.org

Rock Stars Need Grandmas Too

My grandma is a terrific seamstress. I don’t know how that talent didn’t get passed down to me, but it absolutely didn’t. The one time I used a sewing machine, I scratched my coffee table. Yes, the two are related, and obviously, things didn’t go well.

I know it requires practice, and honestly, that’s not something I’m good at: practicing. As I grow older, I’m starting to think that those with a “knack” for something are just willing to put the time into something and learn it. The rest of us then chalk it up to intrinsic talent.

Grandma is also one computer savvy lady. She always has been; she worked at a law-firm, creating documents that made other people look good. Now she works at a online high school. She gets technology in a way few of my peers’ grandparents do.

So, we’ve established that Grandma is hip in certain ways. But she is my grandma. She’s a great cook and fiercely protective of her family. She wears pastel tops and khaki pants. Her hair is always carefully dyed and coiffed. She’s a grandma.

She’s not a rock star.

In comparison, John Paul White is legitimately a rock star. Every article mentions his visual similarity to Johnny Depp. It’s not just his hair length, color, type, beard, mustache, or eyes that force you to come to that conclusion. It’s more so White’s demeanor onstage – mellow, cool, deep. The vibe you get from Depp as he walks the red carpet. Rock star vibe.

White is one-half of the Civil Wars, a band that’s erupted onto the world stage in the last year to rapturous applause (and not just by me). They put out a live album for free online, and before they or anyone else knew it, their music was being played on Grey’s Anatomy and MTV, and their gigs were selling out concert halls.

They deserve every accolade, and yet it’s hard to explain the alchemy. White is a southern boy from Alabama. His counterpart, Joy Williams, is a sunny girl from California. The duo sings about love and broken lives in voices that blend like strawberries and crème, so smooth and effortless that you’d assume either a) they’ve been singing together for years, or b) their emotional intensity is produced and amplified by a romantic attachment to each other. Not so, not so, as they’re both married to other people. But the musical marriage is something to be commended. Musical soulmates.

I was privileged enough to see them in concert, sitting in the second row of the old Aladdin Theatre in downtown Portland. It was a memorable experience, fully enjoyable, beyond entertaining. The pair are actually better live than recorded, which is saying something.

Afterwards, I did what everyone does: gushed about it over Facebook. Two days later, I get a Facebook comment. From my grandma. It said this:

Grandpa and I have been to a Civil Wars concert too!! They were thank-you tickets, for I stitched up the male singer's pants so he could appear on stage that afternoon! REALLY, I did!!

Let me just rephrase this for you, just in case you missed it. My grandmother stitched up John Paul White’s pants.

She made me wait for the whole story until the next weekend when I saw her at a family reunion. Until then, I just entertained marvelous, hilarious images of Mr. White standing in red heart boxers, chagrined, while my grandmother sewed up his pants and gave him a firm talking-to about ripping his nice work clothes.

When I did hear the story, it was basically what the comment said. The pastor’s wife at Grandma’s church is a cousin of Joy Williams’s husband. The Civil Wars were coming through Minneapolis. JPW ripped his performing pants earlier that week, apparently performing the previous gig with them torn, poor fellow. So Grandma came to the rescue. She grabbed her sewing machine and her husband, and both of them met the duo at the theater, where she set up shop before whipping through the repairs.

In the words of my grandmother, “Apparently he travels with only one pair??” She's still incredulous about that.

I get incredibly starstruck with anyone I admire: tongue-tied, red-faced, the whole nine yards. Hearing this story nearly put me over the edge, because this story was just what I needed. An “in.” A topic of conversation to lead me into a meaningful encounter with someone I find amazing.

You see, before the Civil Wars concert I attended, my friend Martha and I went to the bar next door for dinner. We were seated in a solo booth by the entrance. The bar was a dumpy little place with cheap food and none of the classic glamour of the venue. We were sitting, eating too much, getting excited, when I got up to use the restroom. Returning, I was able to see the booth behind us against the wall on the other side of the door. Sitting there were John Paul White, Joy Williams, the incomparable opener James Vincent McMorrow, and a few other folks.

My eyes grew wide. I froze. A million thoughts ran through my head. Should I say something? They were eating. What would I say? “I like your work?” No, uber lame. “Welcome to Portland.” Dull. “What’s up?” Not a chance.

What would I have done if I had known the story relayed to me after the fact? That my grandma hangs out with rock stars? Probably exactly what I did when I didn’t know: sit down in my booth, eyes wide, stuttering. I’m not good with rock stars.

If only my grandma had been there.


Check out the Civil Wars and their debut album, Barton Hollow, at www.thecivilwars.com.

Image copyright Sara Kelm, 2011

Remember and Be Grateful - 9/11/11

On the eve of the 10 year anniversary of the terrorist attacks in New York City, I find myself in a place of tension. I want to write and process what changed that day, what these last ten years have done, where I find myself now, the emotions and thoughts I have about this country and its citizens. But I fear falling into the wide pools of meaningless, false cliches or dry, unfeeling cynicism. So I will attempt to walk the tightrope in the middle.

We all have our stories. My grandparents remember when JFK was shot. My parents remember the Challenger's explosion. They can picture the very spot they were standing in as the colors grew more vibrant before dimming, an entire country changed in a moment.

And I have mine, 14 years old, first period of eighth grade. My history teacher - but mostly a wrestling coach - met another teacher at the door of the classroom a few minutes past the bell, swore loudly, and wheeled in the first television he could find. We didn't know what was happening then, only that people were walking through a city I had only dreamed about, covered in the dust of building and people, eyes wide and gaping in broken faces.

Everyone was an American then. It was easy to love American, to revert back to the patriotism our country had fallen away from in the disillusionment of the 90s. We were one, unified. We gathered around New York and Washington D.C., crying and raising our candles high.

In 2006, my family visited the Pentagon. It's easy to forget that a plane flew into the Pentagon that same September day. There is a memorial wing, with photos and flowers. I looked at our uniformed guide, stiff-backed, leading us around with hawk-like eyes, and I knew that he had known people who died that day in that building.

Ten years isn't a long time. Wounds can still be incredibly fresh. And at the same time, there are small humans, thinking and rational humans, who were not alive then. Even high schoolers now have very little memories of that day. I read an article about how teachers are now teaching the attacks as history instead of reality.

Time marches on. And we mark anniversaries. Soon it will not be ten years, but twenty, then thirty, and then it will be ancient history, a page in the history book that most history teachers don't get to because they run out of time before summer vacation.

But what is there to say? What is there to do? We were attacked. We lost people. We were angry. We went to war. We were misled? We lost more people. And so it goes. And so it goes.

A decade later, it's easy to be cynical. To focus on the fact that the truth is not so cut and dry, that we were perhaps lied to so that we would support military action. It's easy to see the negatives of this country: the blatant overindulgence, the loud bombastic American way, the small-minded ethnocentrism, the wastefulness of resources. My generation has raised this type of cynicism - especially in humor - to an art form.

But so easily my generation forgets the beauty of this country. The variety of landforms and people, languages and cultures. The art that is produced. The kindness of people who care. For every closed-minded bigot, there is a person seeking conversation and understanding. For every angry war-hungry individual, there is another who wants peace and contentment.

The bottom line is that I am so thankful that I am allowed to be a strong woman. I can work at a job. I can live by myself. I can enjoy art and culture. And most importantly, I can pray aloud to a God without fearing for my life. I know I have these things because of brave people who gave their lives to their beliefs, and I am in their debt.

And I will pray for those who have none of these things, whose lives are marked each day by terrorists and relegated to minor news stories. Because we were the victims then, but they are the victims now. We lost mothers and sons then, but they are losing them now. It's not over for them; they remember the anniversaries daily without television specials or tribute concerts. They do the washing, fix the meals, try to get by without starving to death or breaking down with grief.

On this September 11th, I will remember that day that I cannot forget. And in doing so, I will be grateful for what I have. Be hopeful for what I may have. And pray that all will someday have what is denied them.

I will remember. And be grateful.

SG(B)A - May 9, 2011 - The Joy of Tea and Scones

For one who enjoys eating, I don’t pay much attention to food. I have friends who are excellent cooks and can taste different spices, real foodies. Me, I’m rather a goat. I don’t care much what I eat, as long as my blood sugar stays up and my tummy doesn’t start growling. I’ve been known to eat chips and salsa for dinner and pizza for three straight meals. Part of that is immaturity, part laziness, and part just apathy.

Great Britain isn’t necessarily known for fine cuisine. The food of the homeland is comfort food – beef, potatoes, veggies. Nothing exotic, nothing even that tasty. I mean, they eat Marmite over there. Dear Scotland is known for haggis, an odd concoction of animal entrails stuffed in a casing. Rather like hot dogs, but more disgusting for those of us who didn’t grow up with it.

The food of Great Britain is a changing landscape though, due to immigration. A huge population of the island hails from India and comes to Great Britain because of proximity as well as England’s tumultuous past in that nation. For that reason, there are quite a few Indian food restaurants on the streets of cities, and the smell of curry can occasionally be caught as it wafts over the British streets.

But I thought of none of that. I was focused on two things: tea and scones.

In preparation for my trip, I was determined to become a tea and scone connoisseur. I am from the Pacific Northwest. We adore coffee here, the smell permeated through our culture. My small town of 22,000 has no fewer than four permanent coffee shops, five coffee stands, and coffee served at every café in town. The economic troubles have caused a few to close down, but somehow, there is still plenty of business to go around.

I don’t drink coffee. I’ve never liked it, not even when my grandmother came and visited, the coffee grounds peppering the air heralding her arrival. The bitterness sticks at the back of my throat, making my eyes squint and the corners of my mouth to draw back, an unintentional grimace. Even when friends swear to me that in this certain coffee drink “you can barely taste the coffee,” it’s always there, hiding behind much-loved flavors of milk and chocolate, rushing out to linger in my mouth far after the liquid has gone down my throat.

So, when I moved to Oregon, I had to find something to drink at coffee shops. Smoothies are expensive and rather cold in the winter. And I did need something with caffeine, once I hit college and the late-night studying that seemed so necessary at the time. That left tea.

The problem was that I didn’t like tea either. I wanted to like it. The romantic academic in me desperately wanted to sit by a cozy fire, drinking tea with a lovely book. But the tea was too bitter for my tender palate, and while it was immensely preferable to coffee, I still couldn’t enjoy it.

Enough was enough. I was going to Great Britain. I would like tea by the time I got there. I started soft, with green teas and herbal, decaffeinated teas that smelled of potpourri and tasted of fruits. Weak sauce. I just couldn’t work up to black tea, English breakfast or Earl Gray like I wanted to.

Regardless of previous (American) attempts, on my first full (coherent) day in Great Britain, I wanted tea. Koh took me to a much-loved local café in St. Andrews called Janetta’s. It was probably around 9:30, and we were the only patrons in the shop, a bright and airy shop with white walls and orange-red and green accents. The whole feel of the place was open, comfortable, the sort of place I’d feel comfortable in regardless of the language spoken.

We ordered at the counter, Koh able to translate the woman’s thick Scottish accent for me when I got stuck. I ordered tea, because I was in Great Britain. I needed to have tea. And a fruit scone, which is what they call scones with raisins. We went and sat down near the window, where I could survey the outside world of Scotland.

I was still in disbelief in this magical land. Outside the window were buildings, all shoulder to shoulder with little alleyways cutting through them to streets beyond. The streets were cobblestone, grey and smooth. The cars and trucks were all smaller than the enormous SUVs of America, and they drove not knowing they were on the wrong side of the road. The sky was the bluest-blue, with puffy clouds – a sky that didn’t show how chilly it was and mislead you into thinking the entire day would be marked with sun.

The woman brought our breakfasts, and I surveyed it with delight. The fruit scone was fluffy and high, peppered with raisins. Biting into it, spread with butter and raspberry jam, I gushed over how the scone was just the proper flakiness, the jam giving the pastry a little sweetness. It wasn’t too crumbly like our American biscuits or too cakey like our American everything else. It was perfect.

And the tea, brought in a metal teapot, was the most wonderful drink in the world. Of course, it was a nice dark English Breakfast tea – what else are you going to have in Great Britain in the morning? Once laden with copious amounts of milk and sugar and poured into the provided large white mug, it was the sweetest and most comforting liquid, exactly what I needed in a still-strange time zone in a foreign country. I could have had gallons of it.

I know in my rational mind that Janetta’s doesn’t make the world’s best tea and scones. The whole thing was 3.80 pounds – a mere pittance. And yet, it was the best breakfast I’ve ever had. It wasn’t just that the scone was delicious and the tea just right – it was the setting, the company, the wonder I had of being in Scotland that filled the experience with the most pleasurable tastes.

And that’s what food is, really. A way to create and hold onto memories. To spur conversation, to have an excuse to stop and sit and take care of yourself. To be thankful for having the ability to fill your belly and take pleasure in tastes and feelings. To be content.

I am content with fruit scones with raspberry jam and breakfast tea, milk and sugar added, and a friend to eat those delicious things with. Scotland taught me that.

5/9/11 (Day 3) - St. Andrews, Scotland, Great Britain

Image copyright Sara Kelm, 2011