I am finally taking a few moments to post something besides a series of boring pleas and explanation apologies of internet dissolutions, new material and what not. I am in the kitchen standing over a gas stove brewing up a pot of shrimp and corn soup, one of my few culinary specialties. Adding green onions to a warm, rolling broth is something everyone should have to do at least once in this life, if only to realize the breadth and beauty of slow-cooking in order to warm and fill hungry stomachs. The smell is invitational, the rain is falling and, though it is a tad too warm for the time of year, it is nonetheless soup season. A great time of year, yes?

Upon flying home from Chicago this afternoon amid one of the bumpiest plane rides I have experienced, my beautiful wife and son picked me up at the rainy Nashville airport. It was good to be on solid ground again. I mean that in more than one sense of the word. I played two shows in Illinois this weekend. Saturday morning my friend picked me up at Midway and drove us to Bloomington/Normal, IL. I found out at the venue that Bob Dylan and Toby Mac were also in town that night. There were 15 people at my show. I wonder how Bob and Toby fared. I knew half of my crowd personally. I’m not entirely sure if that’s meant to be pathetic or heart-warming. Numbers aside (God knows if I had allowed crowd sizes to dictate my career outlook I would have quit a long, long time ago,) the sound system wound up being decent (meaning Eric could hear himself), folks were pleasant and I enjoyed once again playing these songs I have been given. I had not played a show in a month, not even picked up the guitar in that time. It was good to sing again, but my fingertips ached since the callouses had regressed from lack of exercise. A medium-well steak and catching the final minutes of the LSU-Auburn football game on television made for a very pleasing end to a long day. They tried to get me to play Guitar Hero II afterward, but since I am terrible at video games, I left it to the college-age pros. Goodnight, I shall sleep like a rock.

I woke up Sunday morning to strong winds howling at the side of the residence I stayed in. It sounded like wind playing Yahtze on sheet metal, minus the sheet metal. We enjoyed an unhurried morning of coffee, cereal, reading and conversation. Much needed. Then it was back to Chicago for Sunday night’s show at my friend’s church. A beautiful, small sanctuary full of windows that, when the day finally faded and the sun sank low enough, it lent the westward facing stained-glass window true purpose. The room was warm with the end of day daylight. A friendly crowd of 50 or so (alas, still no Dylan or Mac numbers) were kind enough to listen to me for nearly an hour and a half as I forgot several words (I have slowly been weaning myself off the cheat sheets). I was undoubtedly an unremarkable figure on stage, but they gave me an encore regardless. I thank them. I enjoyed every second of playing on this particular night – folks actively listening, smiling, responding – and, at some point during the show, the career crisis I have been embroiled in for quite some time crossed my mind. I pondered how hard it would be to give even this paltry career up once and for all, yea even the long hours of traveling to and fro. I imagine it is a rare gift in this life to find work that is altogether fulfilling to a man’s soul and that which edifies one or two other people en route. I build, and I tear, and I rip up, and I reach for what I long for, and I find ways to succeed at it and I find ways to absolutely mangle it. Through it all God sees fit to provide and nourish even in those arid times when there are far more questions than answers and far more dust in the air than water in pools. In those times, the slow seeds of faith once again peek through the calloused surface and continue their upward ascent. Folks, I rarely know what I am talking about in these brief pages – no doubt, you have already ascertained as much – but whenever I am down (and seemingly out), the opportunity to play a concert or two is usually a fair dose of encouragement for me, however few attendees, however good or bad I may sing or strum, however far from home or the Truth I may be at the time.

I rarely talk about “calling” with a capital “C”. I once thought that to say one is “called” to something or other was an ignorant, blind statement; after all, we do what we want to do in life. But now I am not so sure. By no means do I hear ethereal voices telling me to go hither and thither other than the voices of my wife and respected friends. When they speak, I lean in a little closer, afraid of missing a word, THE word which I might have overlooked in my panicked plea and excavation for guidance. I have no idea what I am doing right now, no idea if I will continue to write and play songs for a living, no idea where I will be or what I will be doing in 5, 10 years, but I can only hope that faith will be the vessel of the journey taking me there. There may be no promised land for me, no fame, no notoriety, acclaim of men, or even a clear, audible voice from heaven directing me, but for now at least, there are friends and family whose voices and lives are very real and are callings in and of themselves. I listen to them. I lean in a little closer for a word, the word, and I hope callousness – the same hardness that protects my fingers – will not act in the same manner unto my heart. Lean in a little closer.