Christmas cards

So, confession time. I am horrible at them. I don't even have an address book. I am a last minute, adrenalin junkie who gets the really important stuff done in the nick of time. Well, not all the important stuff but you see where this is going. So writing and mailing out Christmas cards is one of those things I envy other women. The ones who also have an organized sock drawer and who put healthy, gourmet meals on the table each night. They have toddlers who love brussel sprouts and a Dyson.

And customized, glossy Christmas cards that arrive somewhere between the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas eve.

But seriously, what is it about these red and green paper confections that still strike a chord in our world weary hearts?

It's the one piece of mail you are likely to get this year that isn't trying to sell you something, or asking you to pay for something.

Who writes letters anymore? The days of rushing to the mailbox for a love letter are long gone, aren't they? Christmas time is the one time of year we take the time to share our hearts with one another. Granted, a glossy mass produced card is nice. But isn't a handwritten note so much nicer. And if the thought of writing notes to everyone on your list is dizzying, maybe you should have a shorter list. Is it an obligation, or a joy?

Maybe I am just trying to make myself feel better about not getting it together in time.

But, here's a thought from one I received today from a friend who'd asked me to volunteer with her at a local school,"Sharing yourself and your love is the greatest gift you could give these kids." She took the time to write a special note to just me. Just me. That means alot. Alot. So thanks.

Merry Christmas!

what's on the inside

Hanging out at street church last night, something occured to me. I felt like it was so profound that it shook me out of my blog coma and has inspired me to cyber jot it down.

As I scanned the crowd of at least three hundred (lots more in attendance for annual Christmas meal and gift give away, both volunteers and participants) I saw so many sick, broken,hurting and confused people. I can make these assumptions about them based on their appearance. Hold on, you say. Aren't you supposed to be a Christian. Aren't Christians not supposed to judge people. Yes and yes. But we - me- I should say- assume all sorts of things about people based on their appearance. The uniformed security guard, tells me with her presence, that she is here to protect me and my child. The man in the Hummer with the expensive clothes, tells me that he is well off. The priest in a collar tells me He (or she) is a woman or man of God. Of course there are exceptions to this but I think you will agree we understand the world and the people in it first based on what we see.

So as I scanned the crowd last night, my eyes rested on a heavy set woman digging through the piles of donated clothes. I couldn't not notice her. On her left cheek was a tumor, or cyst, about the size of an apple. It looked painful, and even among street people there is a heirarchy. Her attempt to share her umbrella with a man sitting next to her was rebuked in disgust. My heart broke for her. A thin man paced in front of the speakers smiling and rubbing his hands raw. Another man I noticed with ruddy weather chapped skin and a dirty, light up Santa hat reached out his hand to shake mine, "You have a very beautiful voice" he said.

I could describe in detail the physical afflictions so obvious in many of the homeless that were there last night, but I don't need to. I will get right to my point.

The way these people look on the outside, is how we all look on the inside.

I was perusing a local church website this morning and noticed that they had attempted to address all the questions a visitor might ask before coming on a Sunday morning. When asked "What do I wear?" The church replies: "Our concern isn't what's on the outside, but what's on inside. Come as you are. Besides, Jesus accepts us as we are when we come to Him. Why shouldn't we?" Though this idea is right on, do we practice it? We wear our Sunday best, the best we've got. We put on a smiling face. We say "God Bless You" and "What a blessing" and answer "Good, or great" when asked the ever familiar "How are you?" in passing.

But are we? Some people hide their wretchedness better than others. The sin of my mind and my heart is no greater than the sin of drug use, or theft, or whatever is plaugeing my homeless brothers and sisters. Though we serve the "less fortunate" at Christmastime, we are really no "less fortunate" than they are. But for Christ. If we could see with spiritual eyes, the faith of a homeless mentally ill man would astound and inspire us more than any sermon on Sunday.

God reminded me last night that Mary, the mother of God, the Savior of Humankind was an unwed, teenager. And Jesus told us himself that "Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head" (Luke 9). He was homeless.

God reaches into our mess, uses us for greatness we could only imagine, and makes us beautiful. If we let him.

Everything you've ever wanted to know about Cameron (but were afraid to ask).

I am a bit of a blog hog I will admit. Matt encouraged me to take the lead on this last summer in Budapest so our friends and family could keep up with us. When I was blogging he was either loading musical equipment in and/or out of the car or was asleep (likely caused by exhaustion resulting at least in part from said loading in and out of gear.)

So, as I was going through my list of friends on Facebook, to invite you guys to become friends of our worship band, Olivette, I realized that there were many of you who might not have any idea what the heck a worship band is, and who may be mildly curious as to what all this God and Jesus business I appear to be into is about. So I'm gonna blog about it.

For the other lot of you, whom I've met in or after 2000/2001; this is just gonna be a brief run down on how I got on this God trip and what it means to and for me.

So I grew up in a non religious family- until I was 14 I lived with my mother (raised Catholic, non practicing) and father (raised Jewish non practicing)- and the only mention of religion came at Christmas time when my parents would fight about whether or not the Jews killed Jesus (I am not making this up.) Or when my father told me we could never be members of the local country club where my friends ice-skated because we were Jewish. Basically I wanted nothing to do with any of it. The whole God business seemed nice for some, but it was not for me.

However, I definitely envied the acceptance and support my friends who were "religious" got from their respective communities- whether at Hebrew school or CCD classes. I envied the comraderie it seemed to breed.

I was always a bit of a spook however. I one time hynotized a friend (I think we were 11) and earlier spun elaborate haunting stories that got my entire elementary school in a frenzy. One boys parents actually called mine to complain that I was giving there son nightmares with my constant talk of ghosts.

I will say I don't recall seeing these "ghosts" but I was always aware of an unseen world, a presence of something or somethings that was beyond what we can detect with our senses.

Somehow I never connected this supernatural infatuation with the idea of God. Into my 20s I had become a bit of a superspook (someone actually called me that). I was into tarot, having prophetic dreams, believed thoroughly in re-incarnation, etc., and was generally into what Christians call the occult.

Along the journey I had experienced the sudden and tragic death of a friend (several times actually) which sent me searching for answers. His name was Matt Liedke. He was a great guy. He died the summer before my senior year of highschool in a car accident. After that I knew I had to find out where he was. My naturally melancholy personality wallowed in grief for a long time. I visited psychics, readers, priestesses (yeah I did) anyone who could tell me something of where my friend was.

Everytime I was disappointed. Every time. It was like turkish delight; never satisfying, left you wanting more.

Suffice it to say things got dark for me after college, real dark. Post college Manhattan with paid rent, too much free time, and no direction except "I wannabe a rockstar?" Not a great combo. Partied way to much. Bad relationships. Drugs.

Hit a brick wall. A meltdown. A breakdown. A health scare. An addiction scare. Scare. What, I'm mortal? I'm not untouchable? I'm vulnerable?

One night I did way to many drugs and was up for several days. I had a massive anxiety attack (tunnel vision, heart palpitations, thought I was dying,etc.) that triggered what will most likely be a lifelong battle with anxiety. The wall I hit hurt for sure, but it could've been so much worse. It was like someone had thrown themselves in front of a locomotive (me) and though the resulting crash was devastating, it kept me from being pitched off a cliff. I realized that something or someone had rescued me from myself. The path I was on could've landed me at the bottom of a cliff- shattered in a million pieces.

I didn't know it then, but this someone was real. What I've described above is thematically identical to what Christians have described through the centuries; from Roman Christians who went to the lions hymn-singing to St. Augustine to CS Lewis to millions in between to me. Somebody took the hit for me, the scales of justice demanded it, and that person was Jesus. But that person was also God himself, the very One who was most offended by my utter lack of regard for his child, me.

So all this came together for me between 1998 and 2001. I was baptised on the beach at Coney Island in the middle of a lightning storm. It's all still coming together for me ,everyday. Faith -everyday is a journey. There are moments of clarity, moments of doubt, moments of sheer joy and moments of desperation. But I am never alone in these moments.

I met a bunch of artists who were in a house church in Brooklyn right around this time. Lived in NY most of my life and this is when I meet the Christians, interesting, isn't it? This group of people who called themselves Tribe were smart, educated, talented artists who also happened to be Christians. They were not Republican, narrow minded, reactionary, stupid, judgemental or any other stereotype I had at the time. They broke the stereotypes. They became my family.

I went to weekly meetings where I learned about this Jesus who threw himself in front of the train for me.It took me a long time, to be honest, to be cool with Jesus, saying the name, crediting him for my rescue, etc. It was that extra something that pushed me out of the general "God" category and into the very specific "Father, Son, Holy Spirit" category. I suppose at that point I definitively broke from my Jewish past. Though I was never a religious Jew, culturally I was Jewish. The idea that God could become man, or be both God and man, went against everything I believed. It was a leap of faith.

I've since grown into the role of a Christian artist. The music I make and the words I write reflect what I am interested in and passionate about, as it is for all artists, and for me that interest are the things of God. Loving Him, singing at the top of my lungs to and about Him, and Loving my Neighbor, dedicating my resources and talents to caring for the poor, widowed and fatherless.

I in no way mean to suggest that I am great at doing any of these things, to the contrary. But I am the happiest, healthiest and most balanced I have ever been in my life. I wake up with purpose and go to sleep exhausted. And I sleep, most of the time, like a baby.

It's out of this place that I, and most Christians, want to share with you- about this Change and what it means for me. Some evangelical Christians have given the lot of us a bad rap. Christians don't want to convert you because they think you are wrong, a sinner and going to Hell. We are all wrong most of the time, we are all less-than-perfect or less-than God (aka a sinner) and Hell is what you make it. A lot of times life on earth fits the billl.

Most Christians, and I, want you to experience what we have- hope, peace and love. No, scratch that: Hope, Peace and Love. The real McCoy.

So maybe this is more than you wanted to know, or not enough, either way, I'd love to talk to you about any of this if you want. If not, that's cool too. Thanks for reading, caring, and being my "friend." :-)

Love, Cameron

Watch out y'all, I've discovered Google Images

I may not have a digital camera (it was lost somewhere between Budapest and Houston) but I've discovered GOOGLE IMAGES, hallelujah. Not to mention that I wouldn't have pictures of Israel of my own anyway so these are perfect for my task at hand: to do my best to describe what "Olivette" means, how to pronounce it, how we chose it, etc. etc.

Olivette is pronounced "Olive" like the gorgeous snack item or the ancient tree, and ette, well, think corvette. The spelling comes from a combo of 'olive' Matt's favorite color and corvette red, Matt's other favorite color.

When I came along, our Olivette ventures, which have included a PR company and a music production company gained a deeper consideration.

Mt. Olivet or the Mt of Olives was the platform Jesus used to speak and teach. It was a place of communication. It was also a place of refuge and rest for Him, the Garden of Gethsemane sits at it's base. Everything we seem to do together creatively we call Olivette. So Olivette is the name we use for our worship/ music ministry- it's not the Cameron band, it's not the Matt band, it's the vehicle from which we communicate the songs that God's given us, the things he's put on our heart. As I mentioned I am enamored of Israel and all that it represents, the part it plays in the story of my God, so I've included some gorgeous images I hope come through here. A very smart Jewish man I met recently told me "Unlike any other religion Judaism is a civilization"- one that we as Christians and "gentiles" have the great privilege of inheriting. If we chose to claim it.

Love, C

Christmas in August

So...at the studio in Magnolia as the boys work on drums tracks for O Come O Come Emmanuel. I am listening to "Hosea's Wife" on Mr. Seay's fancy headphones. Had a few thoughts to share on this album.

It will rock. It will not be sentimental. It will be joyful and make you want to dance. Many months ago Doug Ferguson asked me if I was listening to a bunch of Christmas albums to get ideas and get in the right mood for the recording. THis is a good and valid question. My answer at the time was "no" - and to some extent still is- but I've been listening to a few different versions of songs we are doing - Wexford Carol and O Come O Come Emmanuel- and I am satisfied that no one has done the record we are doing.

There is an urgency and a thunder to these songs- thanks to Jay Snider playing the heck out of the drum kit and a thousand other percussive things- that I haven't heard before.

It sounds- especially O Come O Come- Hebrew, epic, military, bad (in a MJ "Bad" kinda way). There are shades of me in this recording that I can already recognize, even though we've only got a skeleton recorded. I recognize the skeleton. It's good, really good.

I am interested in Christians digging into their Jewish heritage; celebrating it, owning it, revering it, and learning from it. The story of the Savior's birth is just this sort of story- we're all looking for a nice Jewish boy -ultimately- aren't we? A nice boy born to a nice family, a rocky start for sure, but the start of the greatest story ever told.

Owning it means this- Christmas is not precious, sentimental or for children. It's outrageous, like Fat Tuesday in the French Quarter; it's exhilirating, like a cliff dive; it's earthy and organic, like a big family meal around the table at dusk. These are the colors and flavors I want to experience at Christmas, and I pray this album will help me (and you) do that.

Images and vid to come soon. Thanks for caring, reading and listening.

Love, Cameron

Epic Sunday

I have heard some goooood preaching lately. I must be southern now because I can say that without wincing. The very idea that preaching can be a good thing- not something in my cultural dna.

Nonetheless- Jane Pettit knocked it OUT OF THE PARK this morning with a message on Revelation Chapter 2:8-11."Hang in there, better days are coming."


My mom used to say that to us when we were kids and our domestic life was a horrible disaster. 'It can only get better.' I believed her but I was often disappointed. We didn't have the same concept of hope that I have now. Hope in Someone is a fairly new development. Blind hope has little to recommend it. The law of averages is hardly comforting.

But now I find myself in conversation with the body of Christ about hope. What do you Hope for?

Living for Something not dying for nothing

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what are we missing?

FYI...(i didn't write this)
---------------------------------------------------------

Washington DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes.

During that time approx 2000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After 3 minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.



4 minutes later: The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the till and, without stopping, continued to walk.



6 minutes: A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.



10 minutes: A 3 years old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly, as the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced them to move on.



45 minutes: The musician played. Only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32.



1 hour: He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.



No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars*. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.



This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities. The questions raised: In a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?



One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments* ...

How many other things are we missing?

At Last

My dear friend Ryan got married tonight. Matt and I were privileged to provide some music during the ceremony. Something must be said on this occasion but really, for once, I am speechless.

Happiness couldn't happen to a more deserving person.

God is a God of redemption, of second chances.

He loves to blow our minds with exactly the thing we've always wanted, the thing we want so desperately we dare not utter or mention for fear of jinxing it or watching it evaporate before our eyes. Such superstition has nothing on Him. He lives for this stuff. To see lives united and renewed in the promise of His presence and His help in good times and bad, sickness and health, for better or worse. What a blessing. Amen.

Summer Romance II

I just read my entry from the day we got back from Budapest, and am filled with longing for that gorgeous place.

Being oriented to all things Hungarian was no easy task, and it seems that we left just as things we starting to settle in. In a way. In another way, there was no sense of staying- no sense that staying was right- at least then.

It's become so clear to me that God has cleared the decks for us this summer to work on the music. It's painful, b/c Budapest is calling, other things, places are vying for our time and attention, but not now. This is it. This is the time. It's now or never.

We have one song, done- One song, a brand new one, for the worship album, it's called Improvise. It's the best thing we've ever done. Together or separate. So simple. You'll see.

This summer, it's about finding a pool, drinking alot of iced tea, being in Texas, and making blistering rock- Christmas and otherwise.

Can't wait.

I will post the song somewhere they do that sort of thing and will let you know how to find it.

In His Grip,
Cameron

Apology and other news

First, I'm sorry for my last post. No, really I am. I over reacted. Rather than address the person and the comment directly, I hauled off an fired a generalized retort that probably didn't make any sense to anyone. The "comment" wasn't even geared to me, just a generic intolerance that found it's way onto my page- likely by accident- but- nonetheless.

Onto more important things. Brian Mann just returned from India and gave me a sneak peek at the footage he shot for Freedom Firm, an organization that rescues and rehabilitates victims of forced prostitution in India. While looking at the footage Brian suggested I write a song that we could use with his images. I mentioned it to Matt and he is downstairs right now recording it:

Guard my life and rescue me; let me not be put to shame, for I take refuge in you. (Psalm 25:20)

There is an itch in my bones about this issue and I can't even really figure out why. There's nothing in my past or present that would indicate why I have such a burden for this- slavery, forced prostitution, etc. But I do.

We've been invited to Budapest in August to help lead worship for a new Calvary Chapel church plant in Budapest-- out by the airport. We also have a desire to bring a small group of musicians to Nice, France in the Fall and support Jassie and Igor- friends who are pioneering a YWAM base there.

In the meantime we are working- writing and recording- and trying to discern the still small voice. Pray for us- if you do that sort of thing.

He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God; Many will see and fear And will trust in the LORD. (Psalm 40:3)

Why Everyone is Not Your Friend on Facebook

So, I was reminded just now of why reconnecting with a fairly painful past through Facebook, is something that is not for the weak stomached (like myself). There was a section of my life in a place, with people, that is so tied to my parents divorce and all the painful years surrounding it, that since then (1990) I have imagined that it never existed. I have- untruthfully- skipped over it in the cliffnotes version of my life story- or mentioned it briefly- in passing, hoping to avoid questions about it.

Beside it being the site of the painful disintegration of my family, it was where I lived out the awkwardest years of my life- middle school- so until FB, it had been buried in the recesses of my memory.

But God is all about raising the dead, isn't he, and so that's what he's doing in a way, with my life. He's raising the dead parts. One dead part was my relationship with my father. Literally years- sometimes 8 or 9 between sitings. And sitings or visits were always painful, until now. This past summer, after 3 months in Europe, we returned home to two shocks- Matt's layoff and my Father's congestive heart failure.

Nothing in me wanted to drop my life and get on a plane for New Jersey to be with the father who was never there for me. Nothing in me wanted to navigate the streets of that town that has forever been tied with embaressment, rejection and uncertainty. And no one would expect me to. Everyone would understand if I just couldn't go up there. Everyone but the still small voice, the change in me, the wonderful councellor who will not be ignored.

I say all this I guess because my faith is another part of me that seems incompatible with that past place- another thing about me for them to reject, I think. And in many cases I am right, and in many cases I am wrong. A few old friends have become new ones, as we suspend judgement about eachother. But does it matter? Should it matter? Should I hide who I am and what I am because I am still trying to fit in? Should you? Hell no.

But I'm not going to fulfill sterotypes either. I'm not going to judge you, preach at you, or try to convert you. I am going to tell my story, that's all. I am going to provide a platform for others to tell their stories. That's all any of us can do really. I would respectfully ask for the same from you. Don't judge me. Don't assume I'm a republican (I am not), don't assume I think your going to Hell (I don't), don't assume I am ignorant, judgemental, or brainwashed ( I am not). Give me a chance. Have an open mind. Or don't. It's up to you. The minimum of what I ask, is that you maybe just try to have some respect. I will do the same for you, I promise.

Baby Daddy

Matt's new website.

Rolling

Roll your works upon the Lord, commit and trust them wholly to Him; He will cause your thoughts to become agreeable to His will, and so shall your plans be established and succeed. Proverbs 16:3

Friends,

I have the great privilege and honor of being friends with a few women who are truly superheros. One of them, Jane Pettit, gave me this scripture above to focus on and pray and I want to share it with you.

I have consistently gotten my ideas of who God is mixed up with the truth of who God is and the result is invariably confusion and frustration. In darker times I have been challenged to repent of believing lies about who God is. For example- not believing that God is good. Perhaps the image of the cosmic disciplinarian lingers in my sub conscience and even though I know that's not true, it creeps in.

I have often believed that when things are hard or bad that God is teaching me some sort of lesson, and that I should endure it for that reason. How very wrong. I remember being in the throes of my post partum depression when Sydney was maybe 4 or 5 months old, another sleepless, anxiety filled night for me while Sydney and Matt snored. I remember saying angrily aloud to God, "What could I possibly be learning from this!"

There is a subtle yet distinct difference that needs to be metabolized here. God did not author my post partum in order to teach me something. My human body, flawed as it is, as all of ours are, went hormone haywire and triggered an off the chart anxiety that didn't subside after two weeks- when the baby blues are supposed to vanish. I went to God again and again and again. I felt forgotten, forsaken. I felt like a failure. I felt these things--because my chemical, physical, self was totally out of wack. Yes, God could've touched me and healed me in an instant but he didn't. As he's done before, he allowed me to humble myself and ask for help. I am stubborn so it took 6 months, but when I finally asked for help, medical help, I recieved it and was healed. All healing comes from him. I think he knew I would have more confidence in medical healing.

What He did with my situation is he redeemed it. This is the difference. Redemption- to make good out of something bad. Resurrection- to bring something to life that was lifeless. I am convinced that this is the business he is in- In spite of our lack of belief, our doubts, our disappointments-- he makes something beautiful out of an ugly mess.

I am living proof. Man oh man was I an ugly mess, I can still be an ugly mess. Visit me on a weekday morning before 9am! And man oh man- has he made me beautiful.Not physically per se (again, weekday mornings, rough) but I am a beautiful work in progress . I am in the process of being redeemed, every day. Places that died in me- are being brought to life- dreams, hope, faith. What makes me beautiful is that I am broken, and in spite of my broken-ness He is making something good of me. He is fixing me. Often, in spite of myself.

So thank you Jane. Thank you Lauren. Thank you Cheryl. Thank you Anna and Ryan and Jenna and Paula and Mom and Nancy and Cameron. Thank you for all you've done to speak into my life past and present and remind me that I am a beautiful mess- a beloved work in progress.

Love, Cameron

thoughts

So the memorial service for Grant was today, and it was beautiful, I think. I can't say for sure because some other person got up there and sang and led worship without sobbing uncontrollably because it wasn't me. It was an out of body experience. I had this strange sense of peace and calm the whole time. I remember thinking "you can do this, you lead worship all the time," and "everything is going to be alright," and "an americano with 2 percent would be delicious right now." Strange I know. Interesting what the mind does to preserve itself. It's true that I've lost friends before but it never gets easier. The platonic male friend is a unique phenomenon, always more common when one is married, but still rare. A genuine friend. Like the whole thing in When Harry Met Sally about whether or not men and women can really be friends. I know they can be, because I've had them, not many, and three of them I've lost. An americano does sound good right about now.

I looked up Grant's obituary online (because I don't read the newspaper, I am a publicist who doesn't read the newspaper) and I felt for a second like I was trapped in a movie like "Dead again" or something where the person is not really gone but they are seeing the world act as if they are and how strange that is. Seeing that picture of him, that grin, next to those words, is so wrong, so out of context, so surreal.

Yes, he was sick, but he never seemed sick, he never acted sick. He always acted like his illness was a temporary road block, a minor irritation. What was that nickname he had for his nefrologist? Something offensive and hilarious. I bet that guy will miss Grant. There's a woman out there that Grant had dated, Adriana, and I wish I could get her phone number or contact her somehow. We never met her, but she is sick too, and I want to love on her- as we say in the South, talk to her. Being around his friends is comforting, but I keep waiting to see him walk around the corner. Show up at my front door with take out , in his shorts and birkenstocks, the taped up arm, the goofy smile, the polite-ness. He was polite. I always felt like Grant knew how to tie a tie, how to address people properly, how to act in fancy places and situtations. I liked his waspiness, it was comforting to me. My mother would have loved him if she'd gotten to know him. She did meet him once or twice at Christmas. That was nice.

I remember that first lunch at J Alexander's after Easter. Grant was there and all our "Well" friends (the young adult ministry at Grace), Rob and his mom, Sydney was a baby. Paula and Bill were there, gosh they were like holiday parents to Grant- there was a stretch when we got him for Easter, Thanksgiving and for the Baptism- post Baptism party, he was baptised with Sydney. I just want to write it so I don't forget how he was so easy going, how he came along, how he said yes to church, yes to lunch, yes to our small group. How eventually he said yes to Jesus and yes to living, or Living, really. It is a great honor to have been a witness to that transformation. He was so cool about it, so matter of fact.

This old world is not the same without you in it my friend. I will truly, truly miss you. But I will see you again someday in a better place than this one. Like Erin said "Put in a good word for us".

Love, Cameron

Grant

The irony is that my last post was about remembering and how important it was to me because of the friends I've lost along the way. It's always the good ones isn't it. Only the good die young, or something like that. I am all cried out so I'm going to save my reflections for another time- but all that to say- my precious friend Grant passed away last night. He went home to be with Jesus as Matt so confidently explains, and it's times like these that I am so grateful for that confidence.

Grant is the funniest, most irreverant, kindest most geniune person I know. Grant became a Christian in our small group and was baptized with our daughter Sydney. Grant was a fixture in our home, our lives, our hearts. He will be more that missed. The world is duller, more predictable, not nearly as interesting without him in it.

Good stuff

We had a wonderful Easter and a wonderful Lent really. I just love Lent. I love Advent too. I love the anticipation that something remarkable is going to happen. It's almost better than the actual day in my book. I am the kind of person who will receive a gift and leave it wrapped and unopened for days just so I can drag out the excitement and anticipation a little longer.

The thing about Easter is that Easter is every day. Every day He is Risen. Everyday We are set free. We are made whole. We get a do over. But it's not everyday that we remember.

"Do this in remembrance of me" is what we hear said before we take communion. That simple statement gets me every time. The humility of it. Before I became a believer I lost a few people. I used to say "it's just that I know a lot of people who happen to be dead." Young people. Friends. People who should be alive and well, getting married, having kids, living. So remembering is important to me. Always has been. I remember my friends who are gone and in remembering them I relive the joy they brought me.

He was fully God and fully human, and knowing our propensity to forget, He said "Do this in remembrance of me." Whatever it is you need to do. Sit quietly and remember. Sing loudly and remember. Laugh, cry, shout, whisper. Do what you need to do, but never forget.

So chocolate bunnies or not, everyday is Easter if we remember and accept the invitation to believe. Believe-if you are a Jew- like me- the entire history of our people makes perfect sense, and that the Passover has truly passed us over and if we choose to believe we are spotless in the eyes of God- not because of how good we are or how well we do but because God himself paid our tab out of simple love. If you are a Gentile you can simply choose, no birthright needed, no family tree- just a little faith.

That's all. Here's some pictures from Easter.


Love y'all, Cameron

Life of Christ

Friends,



Thursday and Friday of this week are the two soberest days in the Christian calendar.




Thursday marks the day Jesus sweat blood in the Garden of Gethsemane and was arrested, and Friday the day he was crucified. Without those two events the empty tomb couldn’t have happened. The empty tomb is our hope- that Death itself was defeated and all of humanity has access to live life without fear-- in the knowledge that we are covered by Grace and transformed through Faith.



This Thursday and Friday night our Grace worship band will perform The Life of Christ- an hour long candlelight service featuring classic hymns, the music of Patty Griffin, Brooke Fraser and Robbie Seay, video worship by Brian Mann and The Work of The People, scriptures, and testimonies of healing from Terry and Kimberly Richter. Senior Pastor Doug Ferguson will offer a brief reflection and we will take communion together.



Together, we will tell the greatest story ever told-- the Life of Christ.



Please join us. Bring a friend. This will be a powerful and passionate hour of worship.





Maundy Thursday, April 9 @ 7pm



Good Friday, April 10th @ 6pm





Founder’s Chapel @ Grace Presbyterian Church

10221 Ella Lee Lane (corner of Westheimer and Beltway 8)

Houston 77042

713.781.7615

www.houstonsgrace.org/easterconcerts







Every Blessing,



Cameron

Wanna be a record producer?

So here's what I am thinking...with your help we can make a beautiful record. But we can only do it with your help.


We need to raise some money --- not nearly the total budget. A good chunk of it is accounted for -hallelujah- but $6500 is the balance we need to come up with. I thought it was $5500 but that didn't include album artwork. Of course if any of you talented folks wanted to donate that..that'd be cool?

Here's what I am thinking:

$5- Coffee Making Volunteer Level: get's you a sticker that says "I support good music" and a hug...

$15- Youth Intern Level: get's you a hug (or two)and a free download once the record's done

$50- I'm in Seminary Level: get's you a hug, a t-shirt with the album art that says "Co-producer" on the back, and a free download

$100- I'm with the Church Band Level: get's you all of the above and a lifetime backstage pass to all matt&cameron events (hee hee just kidding, that would be boring)- get's you all of the above, a thank you and picture in the liner notes, a t shirt and a big hug or two.

$500- Front row pew Level: gets you Naming rights to our next child? Your own theme song? Seriously, how about a free live performance at your house (or wherever)and all of the above...(you could even charge admission and make your money back.)

$1000- Rock Star for Jesus Level: Get's you all of the above and the ability to sing on the record! Yes! That's right. You. Us. Making music. How cool is that.

Ok, I have to admit I am stealing all these ideas from Jill Sobule, but they are good ones. And I've always liked Jill Sobule. I digress...

I know the economy sucks, (hello- Matt got laid off in September)but does that mean we should shelve our hopes and dreams? I think not!

Here's the backstory:
It's a record. Matt & Cameron & friends (Robbie Seay is producing, Brian Mann is arranging and co-writing some and the lot of them will be making general magic of our music.)

It's called "Born to Us" which is the name of the song that Matt and I wrote together a few months after Sydney was born. It's the first of many Christmas songs that I've written since she came into the world- I've almost exclusively written Christmas songs since then.

Here's why- I think: I've been thinking about how human it all was- a teenage Mary, a barn, a helpful though thoroughly freaked out Joseph. How every detail of God's story is designed to resonate with us through our own very human experiences. These songs tell that story and God's told us to tell it.


Let's get started! Go to PayPal

To: olivettemusic@gmail.com
From: You!

And the rest should be pretty easy! Start warming up your voices...

not a chicken sandwich

I am thinking about starting another blog about church communications and calling it "not a chicken sandwich. blogspot.com" or something of the sort. I imagine I will use it to vent all my "church marketing sucks" impressions and irritations as well as ideas I think are brilliant and innovative. I am wondering if you- dear friends- have any interest in such things and also what you think of me launching an entirely separate blog from this one. I have been remiss at posting here and I fear I will lose you entirely if I stray...but...I also think there's a time and a place for my "teenage diary" moments and a very different time and place for thoughts on church communications- which as some of you know- is part of my new job title at Grace Pres.

Primarily- the very idea of 'church marketing' is absurd and irritating in the sort of way that just rubs you wrong. Am I right? Marketing is for chicken sandwiches. Communicating is how we share the gospel. It's how we share how our lives have been transformed by God. So even when we are making fliers for an older adults tea party or launching a technologically innovative web site- we are communicating the gospel to the outside world. And sometimes we do that very poorly. We do it poorly when we forget the great commandment, to go and make disciples (note- disciples, not converts), and begin to the think of the church as our own private country club- here to serve our unique needs in a way that best suits us. But "the choir" is not who we are interested in preaching too if we are following Jesus. It's those "outsiders", the ones on the fence, the mom who drops off her children at VBS and wonders for a moment what our church might have for her; these are the people we need to reach with the gospel before it's too late.

One thing I miss about the charismatic church is the viewpoint that we are living in the last days. It's not something us pragmatic Presbyterians like to dwell on. And rightly so. If we know our bibles, and Presbyterians do, we know that neither the day nor hour of the Lord's returning will be known to us. Like a thief in the night, He'll come. We just need to be ready.

But I believe he will have some tough questions for us: Did we share our stories of healing, grace and redemption in ways that were easily understood by non believers and comprehended, or did we lace our speech with "Christianese" because it was easier? Did we confidently use our gifts to advance the Kingdom or did we wait for someone to tell us to? Did we create an 'insider world' with our print, video and website or did we create multimedia invitations into the Kingdom and the life of our church?

We are not a chicken sandwich. We are the bride of Christ. Believe it!

I say this all mostly for myself. I am an external processor. I guess what I want to say is that those of us in ministry must unapologetically use technology, media and creativity to advance the gospel in a way that is relevant, and let God do the rest.

teenage diary

Before there were blogs, there were journals, before there were journals there were diaries. The kind with tiny little locks on them and pink swirly pictures of princesses or flowers or something. Gossip is recorded, crushes, disappointments and dreams. For me this is where I wrote the phrases that later became part of my poems and then later my songs. But I don't write in a journal anymore. I twitter. I facebook. I blog. I don't write anything that isn't shared with some sort of audience. It's a shame really. The idea that everything one says is interesting enough or ready to be read by others. As an artist of any kind this should strike fear in my heart. Ideas shouldn't be shared until they are worked over, seasoned, marinated and cooked on high until ready to serve. Alot of the time they turn out crappy and no one ever sees or hears them. Or at least that's how it should go. But sometimes the scraps provide the bridge or the chorus for another piece that's missing something. This process is completely non existent in my life because the crappy, cheesy thoughts or phrases never get a chance. They die on the vine. I am mixing methaphors like nobodies business. See my point? You didn't really need to read that.

All that to say, I am going to go out and buy something with paper in it that requires a pen or pencil and privacy. I am determined. I need somewhere to go for ideas- half baked as they may be. Somewhere to put the phrases that aren't ready to be read yet. Maybe they never will be. Nonetheless.

I had a bit of a fit, a breakdown sort of - when I first moved to Texas and just after Matt and I were married. I felt cut off, disconnected, a stranger in a strange land where everybody was nice but I couldn't tell if anybody really liked me. One night I decided to find the manila folders containing all the poetry I wrote in highschool and college. I was a creative writing major in college so there was a lot of material there. I found myself in the midst of piles and piles of papers and half empty boxes, in the middle of the living room floor in this strange place- clutching these things as if it say "I exist." "I am real." "Here is the proof."
There were alot of cheesy phrases. I kept all the scratch paper where these poems began so I could see how they evolved. Those folders are precious to me. I need to go dig them out of the garage again.

Playground

Remember the way it felt to run and run and run on the playground as a kid and your lungs would burn and feel like bursting and you'd collapse with your friends giggling... in a pile like puppies?

Chasing Sydney for the 120th time around the tiny little school playground I remembered that and it was a sweet memory. I grew up in a really beautiful place. For all the emotional scaring it caused it was still beautiful, green, lush, manicured. Magical even.

Well that's that. We are making a Christmas album with the amazingly talented Robbie Seay producing. A dream come true for me. So great for me and Matt. A husband who can produce his wife's records is a rare and patient man. That man- Matt- will get a break and be the artist this time. Well deserved. We wrote a song on Monday, on our Valentines-President's Day- Day Off day. The verses are taken from/ inspired by a Polish carol called "Amid the Silence". It's taken from a musical thing I've been playing on the guitar for 10 years but cleaned up and tightened up and made into a song and not just a musical thing. Mostly cause Matt figured out how to make it rock.


More later. Night, night.

Cameron

Daring to Dream

Ok, cheesy as it sounds I am daring to dream today.

"Unbelief puts our circumstances between us and God. Faith puts God between us and our circumstances."

I love this quote. And today has been all about this. Must stop editing myself, limiting God, and aw shucks-ing and self protecting when it comes to my art, music, and everything else I do. I need to have the same epiphany with art that I had with publicity at Ball High School in Galveston.

"Here we go again" I said, "Another publicity thing where I am going to get all excited and somebodies gonna be unhappy with some aspect of this and it's going to ruin it for me so I may as well not get excited."

"Excuse me?" said God, "this is not about you, or them, or whose unhappy or what anyone thinks of you or what you do. It's about me. So GET EXCITED."

Then I read this quote above, and then I read "I lift my eyes to you, the one enthroned in Heaven" Psalm 123....and how it's about NOT looking at ourselves or eachother, but looking UP at Him and all the supernatural possibilities in Him.

Matt and I had coffee with one of our favorite artists and people, Robbie Seay. And after Matt was like, "Can anybody really be that cool?" He is so down to earth and so real and he said something that really made me check myself..."I hear 'I'm just a worship leader,' alot, or 'I just want to capture what I've done', rather than looking forward to creating something better than one is...something amazing and inspiring'". I do that. I say that. I protect myself with low expectations and pass it off as piety.

That is SO NOT GOD. My dreams are His dreams. This new record is HIS record and it is going to be better than I am, better than we are. That's my pledge. "It's complicated," Robbie said,"this intersecting of faith and art and business. And it should be. It's ok that it's complicated".

Totally profound for me. I struggle with this and it's ok. Just need to start getting excited and turning it over. It's about Him. I can get excited. It's not for me, or you. It's not so you think I'm talented or humble or spiritual or smart. It's not so I think I'm talented or humble or spiritual or smart. It- the record- IS so that He is celebrated and communicated. Simple really.

My little brother (he's married and 30, can he still be my little brother) is giving his next Damnwells record away for free through paste magazine next week. I think he is experiencing the same thing. When you really let it go, it comes back to you, better than you could have imagined. Funny, isn't it.

Vegan for a Day

It wasn't as hard as I thought. I had dinner twice though. Let you know how tomorrow goes. I feel good though. I am sure this would make the "things white people like" list, but I don't care. I need to eat something besides cold french fries and chicken nuggets.

Budapest

I couldn't not write tonight. I couldn't not write. I couldn't not say what's occured to me tonight, but what's been building over the weeks and months since we've been back from Budapest. When I think about us going back, I feel like I am hiding - as in a game of hide and seek. Only imagine I am just a kid and playing with someone much bigger and older than I am, and when I shut my eyes real tight and wedge my body inside the cupboard, I am still found. My playmate just smiles and calls my name. It's really not a fair game. Him being omniscent and all.

So I am playing hide and seek and what I am hiding from is the overwhelming sense of being called back. Back to Budapest, yes, to the Mission Field, yes. Those two things are interdependant- it's seems. But I could be wrong. We could be called to Uzbekhistan? I just don't think so. I hope not. No offence Uzbekhistan, but we are called to Budapest. Her name - yes- we've feminized her- is like the name of your most favorite, glamorous, creative cousin. Someone who inspires and mystifies you. Someone who sometimes makes you sad because of her broken heart, but amazed at her indomitable spirit.

Ok, are you getting tired of the analogies and metaphors. I am waxing poetic, and I am due that. It's been a few days.

Tonight our precious friends and bandmates joined us for a magical time of worship at St. Martins. I was tired, late and ornery. The band was amazing and patient. The worship time was anointed, breathtaking and holy. I was convicted in my spirit: I have been hiding.

Steve Johnson and his family were there and Steve spoke about Budapest tonight, but something he said amazed me..."As we say in YWAM, it's not your ability, but your availability, that matters."

Lord, am I available? Am I avaiable to do as Abram was instructed to do, to leave what's known, safe and familiar and follow the sound of your voice into the wide, wide world? I like to think so, I do. I like to pat myself on the back a bit and say, "We've done that, we've moved our family across a country, ocean and continent for You. We're all set, thanks. Back to normal now, thank you very much." But it's the still small voice, and the magnificent presence that reminds me: "We've only just begun."

Make of it what you will but I am tired of playing both hands in this great cosmic card game (there I go again with the analogies!). I want to go, I do, but I am scared. And that's the truth. No more hiding.