I have a problem. Not that it is inherently harmful or detrimental or that it shall become your problem. It is certainly not a problem in the “please help me fix this” sense of the word, if you follow. It is more like a benign obsession. For books. Specifically, used books. I am newly addicted to used book stores. OK, I know exactly what you’re thinking: Boring. [Flip goes the channel].

I am currently sitting in the sunroom, of which there is plenty of sunshine this fine morning, of the McDaniels family, the kind and gracious folks who are hosting myself and eventually Randall Goodgame for our thus far tumultuous tour in eastern Nebraska, of which we have yet to play a single concert. Things already got off to a rocky start before either of us have played a single note (one last-minute show cancellation, one lost guitar). I’ll spare you the details. All I know is that I fell asleep last night to starlight clear skies, and I awoke this morning to iris-blue skies. But somewhere in the middle of dream’s proceedings it snowed. A lot. I can no longer make out the pavement of the street or any of the lawns in this quiet Lincoln neighborhood, occasionally littered with the cawing of crows or the blare of snowblowers. Atop the deck balcony, all piled in white shoulders, sits a good 2-3 inches of snow. It is a strange thing to wake up to, if you’re like me, an unaccustomed soul to the downpours of winter. It passed through the night, this visible ghost, unleashed its bravery, and ebbed away to some other unsuspecting land. I digress, snow does that to me. Now, back to my problem.

At some point near about when the calendar conspired to 2008 I somehow morphed into a used bookstore hound. I am borderline obsessive about it. I suppose I should have seen it coming. My dear wife laughs at my preposterousness, but not fellow songwriter and friend, Andrew Peterson, who very nearly shares the same degree of passion and obsession and is quick to join me on used bookstore jaunts. It is good to have friends in your life who share and understand one’s own similar quirks and foibles. It has gotten to the point now where when I travel to far off cities, instead of searching for movie-plexes or malls I scour the yellow pages and internet for local used bookshops. I suppose this might be considered a good thing. I don’t know if it’s a newly-obtained old man tendency (of which I have quite a few) or if I have simply turned into someone worth ridiculing. All I know is that I am hooked to the point of obsessive-compulsion. I dream of, and wake up thinking about, used book stores. Like I said, I have a problem.

It is the elusive hunt for those rare, personally treasured authors’ works which gets the blood flowing and the heart palpitating much akin to the eager anticipation of seeing a loved one after a time apart. The thought of stumbling upon any work - specifically, first editions - by Frederick Buechner (always my first priority), Annie Dillard, Wendell Berry, Kathleen Norris, J.B. Phillips along with a few others is enough to get the adrenaline pulsing and the heart rate up a notch or two. The outlandish beauty of such a search is that I never, ever know what I’m going to find in these papered stores, and that is exactly what I love about it, the impeccable unpredictability, and is what draws me in time and time again in city after city past shelf after ever-blessed shelf.

I am coming to the not-so-well-defined conclusion that a truly great city should not necessarily be defined exclusively by its housing market, economy, mass transit system or other mind-numbingly boring sterile data, but also by the number and quality of used book stores which inhabit its incorporated borders. This may be a tad far-fetched for many of you, I realize, but, still, I can’t help but think there’s an inherently good quality to which a city, however large or small, affords the value of literature, to the written word, to the rare, collectible and unwanted. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Flea markets, antique stores, dumpsters and used book stores all have this in common. A quality used bookstore is a window into the heart and soul of a city. Just look on the shelves and you’ll see what people read (and discard), what is taken in, what is tossed out, and is very nearly a quiet and pensive pulse of its civilians. How can you NOT want to enter shops with alluring names like The Yellowed Pages, or BookMan BookWoman, or A Novel Idea, or my favorite in Nashville, the obvious, unglamorous and simply named Books?

Yesterday at a great shop in downtown Lincoln, for example, I bought a first edition of Frederick Buechner’s Brendan. It is a book I never imagined I would ever happen upon, and yet there it was, its clean spine staring me in the face. An audible “oh my goodness” escaped my lips when I saw the book sitting on the ground-level shelf, apparently - obviously - awaiting my arrival. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, my love. I am here now to rescue you from these dusty shelves and ces autre livres. Come and find peace, rest and admiration in the temple of my home.” Seeing this book on the shelf, I was beside myself in a near out-of-body experience; such is the degree of nerddom I have attained. There are far more dangerous obsessions in life, to be sure.

I have a dream to build a Buechner collection of first editions of his entire authorial work. On the shelves they shall long rest, be read and perused, perhaps eventually one day to become my son’s treasured possessions as well. To pass on a love for the written word is my hope for him.

Two final things worthy of mention: the generous McDaniel family loaned Randall and I one of their cars for the entire weekend. On the back windshield they created one of those stencil stickers that you see on car windows as advertisements. The one on this Honda reads, “Eric Peters Tour Vehicle. March 6-9, 2008. www.ericpeters.net”. Essentially, I am driving a car with my own name on it. I don’t know how I feel, or how I should feel, about that, but I figure if someone asks, I’ll just talk about myself in the third person: “Oh, he’s great if you like folk singer-songwriters.” To wield such power. Yes, I will post a photo as soon as I’m able.

Last but not least, one of the McDaniel’s sons, whom I met years ago in my touring travels, is a professional mortician. Ironically, his name is the same as that of the aforementioned book I purchased. Brendan, the mortician. Brendan, the saint. Brendan, the McDaniel. To say that one is friends with a mortician - with no intended disrespect to either the living or the dead - is a mighty unique declaration.

I am unsettled today. Between the pauses in snowfall, briskly three-dimensional and aloof, I sense a strange and perilous lag inside my own skin. Just now, I feel foreign to my space in the world. I am weary of winter and the gray concoctions that inhabit seemingly every second. I find myself longing for more than just the temporal warmth and spring and rebirth of earth and its mavens. The snow is blowing parallel to the ground, north to south, and is as dense as I’ve ever seen in these southern United States. The only green color within my vantage point is the small cluster of longleaf pines across the avenue, now hosting small pockets of cold.

I find myself longing for more than these slow, sublime, occasionally frustrating days I lead, longing toward peace and rest, longing away from here and now, away from encumbered toil and aimless labors. Just outside the coffee shop window, a man is digging at the ground, shoveling away mud and dirt from a trench. The paved concrete has been ripped away, surely the result of a busted water pipe, revealing long-hidden soil and a slow trickle of water. All the while snow floats about, coating the worker and his tools in a baptism of sorts. The pines collect it in their tendrils. It stockpiles atop cars. The earth tends to take such reckless actions. The world is, after all, subject to heaven from whence originates its own christening. Occasionally, I take notice of such occurrences of blessing being bestowed upon the most unlikely subjects. To see it inside a religious sanctuary is one thing altogether expected, but to witness it on the urban concrete of the city is quite another, rather unexpected and most welcome. Sun shimmering through the parted clouds, humanity wheeling and whirling about, the wet painting of falling snow and rain: all the Good and Remembering grace.

I would wish to be settled, to be at peace with this skin I am given, to pause and recognize that my being foreign to this world is not necessarily all that terrible a thing. For however long I yearn for tomorrow, however deeply I long for rebirth, however fearful or comfortable I am with myself is, in some small measure, an entrenched and guttural hope that God continues to prepare a place at his festival table for the slow and peculiar creatures we are, and the blessings we both unknowingly bestow and undeservedly receive, amid all our faith and lack thereof.

The years were 1993-1998. I, and a friend, Kevin Smith (neither the DC Talk guy nor the film director), were in a budding young acoustic folk-rock duet back when folk-rock duets were limited to The Indigo Girls (people sometimes called us The Indigo Boys), Simon & Garfunkel (a mighty nice pair to be compared with) and, more than likely a group you’ve never heard of, Big Bam Boo (my secret favorite ear-candy group of all time). In a move that opened many doors for us, we were invited to tour as Caedmons Call’s opening act throughout the year 1996. We took our 6-song, self-titled EP out on that tour and sold out of them fairly quickly. We then recorded our first and only full-length album in 1997, The Only Thing (produced by Don McCollister). That album, too, eventually sold out.

Fast-forward to 2005. Kevin and I, in a fit of for-old-time’s-sake nostalgia, decided to reprint that album because we wanted it to live on in the world a little longer since we’d had several requests for it over the intervening non-Ridgely years.

Fast-forward to this very day. We haven’t exactly sold out of them since that reorder. Dilemma: I have way too many of them currently taking up valuable space in my attic (AKA, workspace/office) and I want to clear some out so I can carve out an area to set up an easel, lay out some brushes, paint tubes, linseed oil and finally teach myself how to oil paint. So, I’m going to have an attic sale (I love sales, if you haven’t noticed) for the next however many days. Each copy of The Only Thing is $2 (+ S&H). Also available will be boxes of 5, 10 for those who want to spread some new-old music to your new-old friends. “But wait there’s more…. ” To further sweeten the pot, whenever you purchase any 2 of my solo records, I’ll throw in a free copy of the Ridgely CD. That, my friends, in Louisiana, is what we call “lagniappe” (pronounced, “lon-yap”) — a little something extra. Happy Mardi Gras, everybody.

For the first time in well over two years, I am thinking, and, dare I say, am enthused about making another album. This new year I have been working to attain some semblance of writing discipline so as to plough forth with the grand idea. Songs : album.

As you may have already deduced, I have not exactly been a cauldron of creativity since Scarce reared its lint-breathing head on that late February day of aught six. I have several songs laying about here and there, some finished, some incomplete, some written a time ago, some brand new ones I am polishing off even now, most of them having never been heard by anyone, not even Lady Danielle. Honestly, I am afraid to play them for her, because she is my filter, the one whose opinion I trust most, even though she has little to no musical pedigree and can’t detect a major chord from a minor. She knows me well and, armed with such knowledge, she tends to listen with her soul and guts. It is a good way to listen to music, in my opinion. I cornered her a few nights ago and played her one of the new songs, one that I was quite proud of and eager for her to hear (and bestow praise upon me, afterwards). It bored her. It was, in her words, “not Eric”. Brutal. Ego-wrecking. But honest. And good and necessary. Back to the drawing board. Since I have not written much in the Days of Ellis, I am fairly out of shape in the overall exercise, a proverbial fat kid in brand new Sauconys standing on a treadmill having yet pressed the start button. I sweat it without ever doing the work. Hopefully, songwriting is a little like riding a bicycle (ironically, one of the new songs is from the perspective of a 10-speed), especially since I’ve just been sitting, watching all the other kids from the curb. During the writing and preproduction phases, I never really have much of a clue if the songs I write for an album’s inclusion are any good, or even if they’re worth pursuing — alas, that’s where a talented producer is worth his/her weight in gold. (Oddly, this makes for some strange imagery: “Mr. Subway Jared, you used to be worth 250 karats, now you’re only worth 135 karats. We’re sorry for the news, but you’ll have to leave now.”) Critical discernment has never been a talent of mine.

Some time ago the idea began brewing around in my head to record a collection of third-person stories/songs, several of which have missed the cut on my previous albums, perhaps some which have yet to be written, and the rest pertaining to onions and bicycles. Writing from the third-person perspective is a challenging and enjoyable exercise for me. Empathy, understanding and listening to both sides to a story seems to me to serve not only that person (or object), but humanity on the whole as well, especially in this age of mistrust and fear of what is misunderstood. Mistrust comes with a price. We’re living in it now. Time will tell whether or not this album, A) ever comes to fruition, or B) retains the earmarks of a homemade quilt, with its narrative, tale-driven mojo. Then again, this “album concept” (why does this make me think of Pink Floyd?) may sound as boring as winter trees. You, of course, will be the judge of that.

My friend, Geof Morris (all-around dot net guru), has a really interesting idea on how to garner support for my next (independent, yet again) record since money isn’t exactly forcing its way into the ol’ bank account these days. Without divulging the details, I will say that the idea involves you, the devoted. More on all this as we figure out a game plan and draw up X’s and O’s (there I go spouting off with sports-speak again). Until then, avoid financial debt and eat lots of warm soup during these bitter cold days.

WARNING: This post contains graphic, superfluous and melodramatic sports-oriented language. If you have no interest in athletics — specifically college football — you may want to venture out to the rest of the world-wide-web. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Consider yourself warned.

I just took a mancation. Yes, I combined the words “man” and “vacation” — probably not a cool thing to do. A week ago, I spent five hours inside the Louisiana Superdome in New Orleans watching my alma mater, LSU, play Ohio State in the national collegiate football championship, AKA, the BCS Championship (Bowl Championship Series). The ticket to the game was a gift to me from the father of my best friend in high-school and, probably life, John Neswadi (the same guy who supplied the stone on which my song Squeeze is based.) Me, my dad, John, his dad, John’s brother-in-law, his dad and brother - eight of us, all told - all were given tickets to the event by Mr. Neswadi. This was not an inexpensive offering. We sat in the nosebleed section 15 or so rows from the top of the dome at about the 10-yard line. We needed binoculars to make out players’ numbers, and it was hard to find the football at times amid all the action, but the view was clear and unobstructed and afforded us a bird’s-eye view of a swath of purple & gold-, crimson & grey-clad humanity. And it was glorious. A venue filled to capacity with 79,000+ screaming people, full bright lights, a freshly painted field and national media attention emits a certain electricity, an air of eager anticipation and excitement that was nearly as hard to digest then as it is for me to explain now. No one in our group - four LSU fans, three Ohio State fans - were able to believe the fact that we were there. The Tiger Band took the field during pre-game and blasted the first four very well-known south Louisiana staccato notes, I got choked up. They played the national anthem and I knew tears at “o’er the land of the free and home of the brave”. I cheered throughout the game, I yelled myself hoarse, I nearly lost my voice. I hugged and high-fived my dad and friends after every big play, and we relished every moment. Four quarters flew by, LSU won the game, I got teary. I easily get teary. I am teary now even thinking about being teary.

You see, I am a sucker for sports drama and underdogs. Honestly, I’d rather watch “Rudy” than most any sub-titled foreign film. This does not exactly make me Renaissance-man material. I doubt anyone will ever accuse me of being a cinephile or critical observer of culture, art and film. I have fought this for many years, but I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that I am a simpleton in many ways, but especially when it comes to understanding and conveying the arts. I could be wrong; that’s why there are critics in this world — that’s their job. Myself, I enjoy sports. I don’t live and die by them, but I certainly enjoy the energy and competition. I can throw a decent spiral, I know how to catch a pass, how to dribble a soccer ball with some deftness, I can shoot a 3-pointer (I make for a short, scrappy point guard), and I can hit my driver 300 yards on a good, dry downhill day. I am not bragging, so don’t misinterpret me. I am getting at a point, however obscure or feeble. Many in my close circle of friends are artists and are far less interested in football - nay, sports, in general - than they would be in watching paint dry on a basement wall with only a bowl of cold gruel to keep them company. I usually feel like a grand poseur when I’m around them, especially when they get to talking about music, music theory, or, especially, when I hear them play their songs. Me, I like hitting the little white ball here and there and chasing it around for 18 holes. My pipe and putter; not exactly a complex arrangement. My wife says all this makes me a more well-rounded person. I’m not sure I agree, but I appreciate her grace.

Earlier during the day of the game, I spent with these seven other men (also on their mancations) walking the historic brick streets of the Vieux Carre. We parked the car late that morning and walked several blocks east down Poydras, turned left on St. Charles, made room for a couple of passing street trolleys, and entered the French Quarter via Royal Street where I, once again, marveled at this rich and unique city. You have no doubt heard this before, but I can assure you there is no place across the wide expanse of this exceptional country like Nouvelle Orleans. No American city matches it for its uniqueness, architecture, complex history and convoluted present, for better or worse. It possesses an identity all its own. And that is to say nothing of the food, oh my, the food. It is a city that knows itself. I appreciate that. We stood at the elevated position of Washington Artillery Park overlooking the Great River directly behind it, St. Louis cathedral and Jackson Square to the west, and absorbed what was so authentic about that setting at that very moment: life. Street performers cajoled and lived out their animation and antics in the eyes of all the onlooking slack-jaws, myself included. They brought smiles to faces. Painters sold their paintings along the iron fence of the Square. Dixie band notes hurrah’d over General Jackson’s statue from the direction of the cathedral. Cafe du Monde churned out chicory, cafe au lait and hot beignets. Life exists here. Life exists. This is a good thing to know. It is good to have and know friends, to have people in your life who value you because you are, because you exist. Nothing you do can change or repeal it. To be loved is the best of all.

Ah, so my wife just told me she’s sick and tired of looking at the “Tonight’s Concert Cancelled” blog from two weeks ago and that I should write something new, and quick. In a fit of agreement, I went ahead and deleted that post (even though I can’t quite seem to shake the lingering sniffles) and thought I’d spend a few moments commenting on the world - my world - as I know it.

Ellis is nearly one year-old now (Dec. 21) and is in a mighty good state. He must be growing something fierce because he sleeps a lot these days. 14-15 hours a day. Oh, what I would have given for him to sleep that kind of sleep those first few months of his life. Oh, what I would give to be able to sleep that much every day. How times change. He weighs nearly 20 pounds - a regular bantam featherweight boxer - and crawls around like the ground were his and his dominion alone. I suppose that is the way God intended it. Ellis adores the hand-me-down Fisher Price multi-colored rings (reminds me of a ring toss game) and has a peculiar habit of crawling here and there throughout the house with one in each hand, creating the effect of horse hooves, occasionally pausing to knock them together or to drop them to the ground, all the while watching as they twirl, sway and roll to a standstill. What can I say, the dude likes gravity. Amusement gratis, food, beverage, and burying his drooly face in our long-haired obese cat’s fur; Ellis finds joy in it all and, as a result, all of joy seems to find him. Everything is repeated ad nauseum. I am sure this repetitive nature only gets more drastic and dramatic as the months pass and my dear boy grows older. Another great thing about Ellis is the depth of laughter he has infused into this house, our cozy cottage on sleepy Russell Street. What he finds humorous, we of course are effected to confront with laughter as well. His high, free laugh is no weak medicine. The contagion of laughter has done me well, especially since it has been in short supply these days. We kneel and praise all small, forgotten miracles.

Over a cup of coffee yesterday with Matthew Perryman Jones, he and I began sharing with one another our outlooks on life, career perplexities and successes, fatherhood, worries and joys. A wise man, this Mr. Jones. He spoke many great things to me, but one thought in particular gripped me, or rather had the effect of unlocking corroded, self-inflicted shackles. As we commented on our world, both macro and micro, and on the American culture we are so helplessly immersed in with all its greed, self-service, community-less-ness and overt and subtle materialism he alluded to songwriting and the pursuit of making it big, pursuing the horizon. The only problem, as he put it, is that we can pursue the horizon forever and a day, but we will never reach it. It is infinite. It is sightless. And it is ruin. We do what we do in life, we write songs for that which is in front of us, who and what is a part of our lives, who and what we can see, care for, nurture and for whom we can give our absolute best. We know what we write, therefore we write what we know. The Truth comes to us from those we know and love, and who love us for who we are. Their voices are light in our lives, laughter for the disheartened, they are grace and hope at the time when it is needed most. This, dear friends, is God alive in the world - our world - and as I can see it, this Emancipation is the way God, THE God, intends it for his Kingdom. Reveille.

I crossed the Tennessee River at precisely 12:30am. I know this because I happened to glance at the green-glowing dashboard clock while the waters sneaked along dark and cavernous beneath the airborne pavement at that very moment. The river barely revealed its broad image in those late hours, but the moon’s astral glow made the river’s presence below the bridge visible, even if only in my mind’s eye. A small array of clouds funneled overhead, their horizon-long tendrils colored mock-orange, no doubt from the lights of nearby Huntsville, and they snubbed their proverbial noses at the clarity of night.

I drove away from Birmingham after saying goodbye to some old and new friends at a surprisingly well-attended show at the church Danielle and I worshipped at during our six-year stay in the Magic City. Once meeting in a warehouse (not the cool, red brick-laden kind; imagine the drab, boring office variety), the church bought Birmingham’s only combination ice-skating rink/indoor soccer facility a couple of years ago and has slowly converted it into a surprisingly cozy, hospitable, high-ceilinged affair. Lovely and inviting with its earth tones, stained concrete floors, well-worn antique sanctuary doors, and non-traditional soft lighting, the building has a new life of its own. I was glad to see familiar faces again. I managed to remember a few names, which spared me from embarrassment. It is a good thing my old man tendencies don’t always emerge victorious.

I fear that I say some very odd, nay, clumsy things from stage. I managed to fumble my way through my ill-thought-out set list, all the while hoping against hope that the words on my heart would translate from my lips clearly and humbly. On the drive down to Alabama I had hoped to communicate with my gracious (and patient) audience by being openly honest and upfront with them about my recent personal grappling(s) with God. I remember trying to equate my present story with that of Jacob’s ancient one. Instead, I’m fairly certain that I came off like a clueless child uttering words he knows nothing about. I felt like I was another son of Laughter, only wanting. Folks were nice afterwards anyway. One of the most frustrating and perplexing things about myself - to me, at least - is my inability to clearly state what is fresh on my heart and mind whenever I get the opportunity, the privilege, to be on stage and share what has been given me. I nearly always manage to get tongue-tied and stutter and stammer my way to near oblivion. I speak nonsensically. I make a mockery of the English language. I am a klutz. I become a clanging cymbal to those within earshot. I ride roughshod over beauteous language. In short, I become a fool. Do you relate to this?

If only I possessed the tongue of an angel, if only words weren’t such an obstacle for my muddied mind. If only I were someone else. Do you relate to that?

After staying awake by the power of sunflower seeds, I pulled into Nashville around 2:30am and the skyline was as sharp and in-focus as I’ve seen it in many months. City scapes are held tighter and are more visually stunning when the air is cold and the sky bereft of cloud cover. Skylines appear more confident-looking on crisp, cold fall nights when the stars are shining full throttle and the artificial downtown lights create their own sort of brilliance giving further definition to the buildings’ already impressive outlines. It is a place of integrity on nights like this. Buildings seem to stand taller, the stars fervently grind away at darkness, the cold takes your breath away, while your breath gives back to the cold air its heavy-handedness. I suppose this is akin to what the Holy Spirit manages to do with us, the well-meaning, deeply hoping children and klutzes of God. I wonder, how is it that we become the strong-frail dwellings of integrity and light now that God himself has shone his grace upon and within us? We, as a result, are held tighter, stand taller, receive a confidence and courage that is not our own, and relay a definition - an outline, if you will - that is far more becoming to us because of that outreach of grace than we must be to God in all our clumsy, wishful pseudo-articulateness. Praise be.

I’ve decided to extend the $3 MOF sale through Fri. 11/30/07 (another two weeks) for those of you who haven’t been around these parts in awhile. I hope you will take advantage of the cheap CDs and give some of my music away for Christmas. Thanks again, folks.

Once again, I bring you cheeriest wishes amid falling leaves and the coming season of all seasons. Hope you’re enjoying warm tea and steaming soup. Since last year’s response to the Scarce sale was so tremendous, I’ve decided to do it again this year, only with my 2003 album, Miracle of Forgetting. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to sell them for $2 apiece like last year. Admittedly, that was painful to absorb, so I, in a fit of mad marketing genius and financial wizardry, raised the price by a whopping buck. I hope this won’t deter you, since where else can you buy 5 CDs for $15? That’s still cheap, even for misers like me. I hope you understand.

MOF was released in 2003. It was an album that I feel sort of fell through the cracks for a lot of folks; it received little to no press or publicity, it had to follow Land of the Living, but it contains a few of what I feel are my better songs. Many of you may not even know the album exists. I really want this record to be easily available and I want those of you who have heard it (and hopefully like it) to be able to give copies away as gifts to music-loving friends and family, a la last year. So, for two weeks beginning Friday 11/2/07, MOF will be on sale for $3 each + S&H. We’ll sell them in boxes of 5, 10 or more.

CliffsNotes summary:
5 CDs = $15
10 CDs = $30
20 CDs = $60

Click here to order. As always, thank you for your great support over the years.

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.