Sacrament of Strange ::

{via pinterest}

Madness, fearlessness and a message for “right now”, wasn’t that what all those Bible-prophets had in common? Would the same ingredients be present in the oracles of our current age?

:::

In my child-eye estimation, my mama was the free-est and Spirit-fullest woman I knew. Sometimes she would just be crazy for crazy’s sake, deliciously and graciously defying convention and institution. It was not uncommon to watch her get high from nothing more then a large intake of clean, country air and whoop some unnatural sound into the sky. To me it was evident that she wasn’t like the other mama’s around our growing-up-parts, yet all the neighborhood kids wanted to live in our home, to have her for their very own nurturer and nestle next the comfort of her love-shadowed wings. She was bright and vibrant and packed with glory and I’m sure we took for granted what she was giving us; maybe we didn’t know how she was weaving us to be free, to be our own person—not ball-and-chained to protocol or must-do’s or must-be’s. Because she made a sacrament out of doing strange things, arced her neck and blew that weird and wild trumpet to keep the society-informed-walls at bay. She was a prophetess of what it meant to be all-the-way-alive and she didn’t care what anyone thought – she stood before God alone and He craved her brand of uniqueness for the enrichment it brought His heart and kingdom . . .

It is a distinct pleasure I feel to be able to continue this story over at my friend Seth’s blog. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: He’s a right fine dude and for some reason he trusts me to create in his space. Would you follow me there today? Because, the thing is, not only do we have a special treat for you, but I’m also doing something I’ve never done before . . . So, I’ll see you over at his place! :)

Love,

Erika

 

 

Wherein He {Still} Makes Music

It’s the sweetest sound, really. And I can hear it everyday if I’m sitting in just the right spot at just the right time . . .

When I first laid my 17-year-young-eyes on all 6 foot 3 inches of unbridled male virility, I dove, DOVE I tell you, into love. (Which is just a way more dramatic method of “falling” in love.) All I remember thinking was, “ME WANT. UGG.” I might’ve even beat a fist against my chest once or twice. (I don’t usually exhibit neanderthal qualities . . . I swear.)

To my further delight, I discovered very shortly after meeting said heart-throb that he was a drummer. (Like, EEEEEEK!!!) AND he played Jesus in this dramatic presentation that his YWAM mobile team performed at my church. My little-smitten-heart repeated like a pull-string doll that night, “What could be better then a drum-beating, Jesus-acting, heart-throb? I want one.” Never mind that every other girl in that church auditorium was thinking the same thing. We all know who he ended up with. What Erika wants, Erika gets. Totally kidding! Or am I? If you know me and you’re reading this, I absolutely forbid you from commenting.

I digress.

In the early days of our married life, drummer-husband collaborated with his friends and created the songs of Ten Shekel Shirt, among other gigs. But, shortly after we conceived our third child, Austin and I needed to upgrade our dwelling space to accommodate our rapidly emerging offspring and we found that a musician’s salary didn’t cover our monthly expenses anymore. Overnight, my music-loving, drum-beating spouse went from living his dream to becoming an apprentice to my brother’s carpentry business and swinging a hammer for our bread and butter.

He still hits his drums whenever our schedule-stuffed lives afford him the time, but it’s been 7 years since he’s been a full-time musician. Can I tell you something though? His various mediums of music-making has met my ears for 12+ years and I’ve loved every beat of it, but the sweetest rhythm he composes is not the noise from his musical prowess, it’s simply and profoundly the sound of him coming home everyday. And I can hear it from start to finish if I’m sitting on my favorite couch cushion in the living room.

Through the thin, historic-old glass of our 1856 apartment, the distinct purr of his truck engine bleeds through to my ears and it – sure as the sunrise – puts a smile on my face and lifts my heart higher because I know we’re about to be whole again, our family circle – he completes it. The motor dies, the F-150 driver-door opens and closes, his footsteps up the yard path reach my waiting ears from the second story.

I can’t see him yet, but I know he’s going to be dirty, covered from head to foot with dust – all the cracks in his trade-roughened hands will be filled, his hair concrete-powder-white instead of chestnut brown. His work-weary movement echoes as he crosses the front porch heavy. Pushing through the entrance door I can hear him drop his boots on the mat and reach to unhook his apartment keys from the backside belt-loop of his Work-n-Gear pants. 17 more steps up and a little jangle, the key fits in our door and I’m still smiling and the boys notice their papa’s coming-home-music, they come galloping and hollering from every corner like it’s Christmas morning. It never gets old.

All that to say, he still makes music, always and no matter what he does. Because who he IS, is our harmony, a vital refrain to his family and further relational sphere.

I love my musician.

The End.