clever exhausts me

Moving....again

2010-10-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

Hey Loves,

though it pains me to tell you this I am moving blogs.

Hipster Christian Housewife

Cheeky, I know. But I couldn't resist :) Come one over!

xxoxoCameron

About My Daughter

2010-08-27T06:32:00.001-07:00

I am undertaking the careful, delicate task of transforming my living room/dining room from Sydney's playroom to a place where I can write. To a "writing room", a concept so deliciously indulgent I almost don't dare to attempt it. Space is a premium here, we'd be comfortable no other way, so by now we are adept at the quick transformations that can change the layout of our house. Dining room/ recording studio, Living room/child's playroom, writing room/ dining room. Depending on who is here and why, our house can have many identities.

This morning it's a writing room. I've collected all the tiny, plastic Polly Pocket dresses from the dining room table, floor and couch, sweeping them up into a re-purposed colander. Cleared away the magic markers and bits of half chewed Cheerios. Gathered up the myriad bunnies and puppies and attempted to make this space feel like mine, at least until I pick up Syd at 3 o'clock. My sense of joy is almost delirious this week. I wasn't sure what it would be like to have her at home two days a week with nothing but my own imagination to guide me in instructing and entertaining her. I haven't spent as much consistent alone time with her since she was an infant, newly arrived and utterly dependant on me. She is still, of course, dependant on me, and I relish this. I experience the full force of her independence, her desire to "do it by myself", and feel grateful that there are still many things she needs me for.

I was not someone who considered working, or working full time after I had Sydney, as some sort of medieval punishment. I all but ran back to work when she 3 months old, and started singing in worship again when she was about 6 weeks. I remember those early mornings sprinting to a far ladies room to nurse her then racing back to the sanctuary for a prayer time before the service. I would often say to Matt "I've never been this tired" and he would remind me that I said that almost every day.

The truth was, I was more than worn out from middle of the night feedings and the physical demands of being a new mother, which is, for everyone, exhausting. Something was going terribly awry in my system, my brain, my nerves, and I was edging into a full fledged bout of post partum depression. Of course, I didn't know this at the time. I simply thought I was a wimp and couldn't handle motherhood. A regular routine that involved being around other adults (i.e., work) eased some of it's early grip on me. I embraced work and continued to seek additional hours and responsibilities, trusting the nursery staff at the church to take care of my baby during those hours I attempted tasks I knew I could handle. In fact, I was sure that the nursery staff workers, all mother's themselves, were far more qualified than I was to take care of her, and it gave me some peace.

I wasn't completely nuts, not yet, but I was getting there. My coping mechanism was also meaningful work, and so it was no scandal that I was back at work, by my own choice, after having Sydney. I was raised by a working mother and I discovered that I believed in the early socialization that comes from a good, faith based child care environment. Sydney thrived, and her caretakers became like family to us. It all went swimmingly for quite some time. In the dark recesses of my heart, my middle of the night panic sessions, I feared that I was an inadequate mother. Nothing came 'naturally' to me. Often, the thought of spending a stretch of hours alone with my infant scared the business out of me. I was exhausted from not sleeping (even after she began sleeping longer stretches I would lie awake at night waiting for her to need me) and I felt that attempting motherhood was really an aggregious act of hubris on my part. Why did I think I would be able to do this?

As I recollect those painful early days I am shocked by the mother I've become. I'm confident. I'm careful. I think I'm even fun! I am a good mother, (twice this week people have told me that so it must be true) and I learned the hard way that I was neither lucid nor rational in the beginning. I was literally coming under a tidal wave of hormones, brain waves and physical exhaustion- the molotov cocktail of post partum depression.

The thoughts I had then were not rational thoughts, they were amplified projection of my own deep seeded fears. Like electronic pings, they honed in on my deepest insecurities and exaggerated them 1000%. The most devastating lies are the ones with a tiny grain of truth to them. The evilest evil is a distortion of the most beautiful good.

I have never more enjoyed Sydney than I have this week. I pick her up from school at 3 (though she is in a new school I can tell that she is still shocked that she is not the last one to be picked up). Twice a week it's just she and I for the whole day. We run errands, we practice numbers and letters, we cook. I adore her, which is no surprise, but I've learned this week that I adore spending unstructured time with her. That I can spend unstructured time with her. That I can be trusted with her. Though it's been 3 and a half years since the Post Partum (which after months of stubborn denial on my part was finally 'cured' with a small dose of an anti-depressant) I am only now seeing the deep wound it left in me. And I am only now embracing the joy of the victory I've won over it. A victory over more than just the emotions, but over the fairly binding choices it inspired. I don't need to work until I drop. In fact, it's better for Sydney and for me, if I pick her up at 3 o'clock.

Don't get me wrong, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this a luxury. A tremendous luxury. I still get to participate in meaningful work, but I don't have long office hours. Sydney get's to go to a terrific Christian school, and I can still pick her up at 3. This new arrangement, which I credit solely to the grace of God, is allowing us to try out something we've never done before. And simply put, I am enjoying it.

Pictures from Budapest

2010-08-20T16:23:00.001-07:00

Friends- we're back!

Thank You.

Check out pics and tales from our adventure:
http://hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com/2010/08/pictures-from-budapest.html

Love, Cameron

Pictures from Budapest

2010-08-20T16:23:00.000-07:00

Friends- we're back!

Thank You.

Check out pics and tales from our adventure:
http://hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com/2010/08/pictures-from-budapest.html

Love, Cameron

You Give and Take Away

2010-08-07T07:37:00.000-07:00

Today we learned that our friend Kimberly Richter, who has battled brain cancer bravely for several years, went to be with the Lord yesterday.

It's so strange to learn of this from the other side of the world. We are happy to know that she is healed and whole, but of course we'd hoped for those prayers to be answered this side of eternity. We are heartbroken for the Richter family and for the Grace Presbyterian Church family. Our prayers for peace and comfort for all.

Just last week we learned that our little friend Kate McRae is healing from brain cancer. A true victory. We rejoice with her parents and friends. It makes me think of that lyric- 'you give and take away.' I will be singing that song in my head for some time I think.

Today, we spent the day with a couple who are here as missionaries from Ecclesia Clear Lake. How exciting to talk with people who have the same ideas we have for reaching people- for a focus on long term relationships and discipleship with Hungarians. We connected on so many points, it was an exciting hang.

We've come to a place of maybe beginning to understand a little bit of why God brings us back to Budapest. We always thought we were just avoiding the call to come and live here full time- but I think we've realized finally that is not what God has for us now. It's more important, we hope and pray, for God to use us to communicate with our friends in the States the needs over here- and hopefully inspire more people to come to do long or short term missions in Budapest.

Here's the deal: The next generation of European and World Leaders are coming through Budapest. Hungarians, Russians, Estonians, Ukranians, etc.. People who are going to make up the next wave of influence in the world are coming from Post Communist, Post Religious countries. For now, material gain, as promised by the EU is this culture's religion. Under communism personal material gain and wealth was forbidden, so now you see people all but crushing each other to have it.

The work here is not providing basic human needs like water and food, as we see in developing countries. Instead the need is to disciple Europeans to want to, in Jesus name, provide a clean cup of water to not only those in developing countries- but to the marginalized populations in their own back yards. These "hardened, post modern" Europeans can and by the grace of God- will be- the next generation to lead Europe. We want to see them leading from a place of faith in the Redeemer. This means practically- a developing distaste for injustice, for greed, for exploitation. A developing taste for love, justice, truth and compassion.

Yesterday at the outreach there were breakthroughs for sure- again we saw how God uses our music to draw people in- to begin to ask questions of who, what and mostly WHY? Why are you in Budapest? Why do you like it here? Why do you want to learn our language?

Even though we might be drifting from this idea of "street evangelism" we cannot deny that the power of the Holy Spirit falls when we are playing music. It opens doors. We are grateful God allows us to be a part of this. So for this week- we will suspend our doubts and just go with it.

Another thing happened today to remind us that our financial well being is utterly and totally dependent on Him. :) How grateful we are for his provision and how totally in need we are of his grace.

To support us with prayer and/or finances - learn how here: GIVE.

Divine Romance: Update

2010-07-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

In his heart a man plans his course,
but the LORD determines his steps. –Proverbs 16:9

Believe it or not we are almost half way to our fund raising goal of $2700. As it happened in 2008, I have learned more through this process of reaching out for support, than I have in almost any other adventure I've had with God so far.

Every part of each gift- who it's from, why you've given, etc., is a miracle to me. The faith that it represents in Him, in us, in this mission is stunning and humbling. THANK YOU.

My prayer is that we get out of the way enough for God to use us in the short time we will have in Budapest. I know that we will be changed and encouraged, as we always are in these situations. I pray that the people we encounter will be as encouraged as we are. I am thankful for the chance to participate in the miraculous things that God is doing in our beloved Budapest. I am so thankful already for being able to see what God is doing as he works through you who are praying and supporting us financially. Wow. Wow. Wow.

Again, here's the details. See ya over there. Don't forget: www.hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com

###
PRAYER SUPPORT

We covet your prayers. During our three months in Budapest in ’08, your prayers opened doors, sparked conversations, and overcame darkness in so many moments of ministry. Your prayers for provision were answered in astounding and humbling ways.

1. Please pray for safe travels for us (August 2 &3- August 13&15).
2. Please pray for peace and safety for Sydney who will be staying with my mom in
New York.
3. Please pray that God will use us to both boldly and humbly plant seeds of faith for those we encounter by His divine appointment.
4. Pray the Holy Spirit will use our music to reach people’s hearts where language is a barrier.
5. Pray for financial provision for our plane tickets, and for our meals and travel while there.

FINANCIAL SUPPORT

1. We are needing to raise about $2700 to cover our plane tickets.

2. Your contribution can be a tax deductible donation through Ecclesia Houston, who will be supporting us on this mission.

3. To give online: From the ecclesiahouston.org website, click ‘Online Giving’ from the menu on the left side.

4. Enter the amount of your donation in the Amount box below.

5. Make sure the ‘Recurring Donation’ checkbox is unselected.

6. Click the ‘Make Donation’ button.

7. You will be taken to a Paypal page.

8. If you have a Paypal account, you can login with your email and password. Enter Hammon's Budapest Trip in the memo line.

9. If you do not have a Paypal account, you can click the link at the bottom of the page to use your Credit Card. PLEASE EMAIL JANA@ECCLESIAHOUSTON.ORG and let her know the amount of your gift, your name and "Hammon's Budapest Trip" so we can be sure your gift is accounted for and tax deductible.

10. Our you can send a check or put a check in the offering plate at Ecclesia Houston on Sunday morning. Please make checks out to Ecclesia Houston and put Hammon’s Budapest Trip in the note line. Mail checks to Ecclesia Houston, 2115 Taft Street Houston, TX 77006.

Island of the Misfit Toys

2010-07-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

This weekend I had the great pleasure of participating in a poetry slumber party with some friends I met at University of Houston's Boldface Writer's Conference. I began writing poetry in high school (um, who doesn't write poetry in high school) but got serious about it at Carnegie Mellon where I majored in creative writing. When I started writing songs just after I graduated I stopped writing poetry- at least the non musical kind- and hadn't picked it up until a trip to Laity Lodge this past Spring inspired me to start writing again. Inspired feels like too flimsy a word. It's a valve that I had sealed shut, as the season's of my life turned me away from poems and toward marriage, moving across the country, having a child and the like. That weekend in the Hill Country the valve blew and poems have been flowing, for better or worse, ever since.

Today at Ecclesia, Chris Seay talked about divine appointments. About how sitting next to someone on a plane or in a restaurant can be an invitation to sacred conversation. Lives, mine and yours, can be changed because of a seemingly chance meeting. This is how I feel about my poetry friends. It's funny; I went to Boldface with the intent to leave my church stuff at the door. I had just left the church where I worked for 5 years and I needed a moment, a pause, to be among people who love the other thing in my life- words. Being around people who love God is awesome, but we all know the church can be a bubble. And bubbles are suffocating.

Not an hour into the workshop and the Jesus issues came out. I don't say this lightly. There were about 8 of us in our group and I can almost say for certain that each poet wrestled with the things of God in at least on of their four workshop pieces. Mostly these poets had been hurt by some part of the church- a priest, a pastor, a friend, a parent, a grandparent. It had left a scar, a wound that was still working it's way to the surface years later.

Sarah (not her name) is one such person. Sarah is smart. Really, really smart. Really, really, really smart and sensitive. She was a committed part of a church until as a teenager she went on a mission trip to Russia. She said it felt bad- invasive- condescending to the people of that country- to go in the way they did. I can only imagine it involved brightly colored t-shirts. She also didn't like how everyone at her church acted all happy all the time. She said "Nobody is that happy all the time." Other things happened to Sarah in regard to her life at her church and she left. But in her work, God is there. Working His way to the surface.

After our slumber party I spent a few moments talking to Sarah and her mother about Ecclesia. Her mother told me that her youngest child, sensitive and artistic, is being bullied in the youth group at their suburban church- for being sensitive and artistic. I explained how everyone at Ecclesia- or at least it appears so- is sensitive and artistic. Alot of people seem to be drawn there to rebuild their sense of self in the context of faith. It's a place where your sensitivity, your creativity, your weirdness and eccentricities are not mocked or ridiculed. They're celebrated.

So being someone who likes words, I described Ecclesia to Sarah and her mom as something like the Island of the Misfit Toys. And as I said it I realized that we were having a moment, a sacred conversation right there on a sweltering neighborhood street in Montrose.

For those of you who are wondering what I am talking about- remember that particularly heart wrenching part of the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer Christmas special? (Which happens to be the longest running Christmas special in tv history, according to wikipedia at least.) King Moonracer is a flying Lion who searches the world each night for toys who are abandoned and unloved,bringing them back to his Island where they become a part of community. (Um, Aslan?) There is Charlie in a Box (misfit status= b/c he's not a "Jack in the box"), a polka dotted lion and a depressed rag doll- among other toys. Rudolph and his misfit friend (an elf who wants to be a dentist) find sanctuary among them while on a treacherous journey of identity. Even thought they're not toys, they fit in, and they can rest a while.

Ecclesia is a place that should have "All Misfit Toys are Welcome Here" above it's entryway. It's a place where you can let your freak flag fly and you will be welcomed. There will be no fake "Gap" greeting as you enter. Just a throng of other folks like you. Bankers, bus boys, doctors, artists and students. Prostitutes, pastors, carpenter's and millionaires. Come one and all.

Ecclesia is a church where my poet friends will come. They will sense something is different about this place. They will not stand out. They will not be asked to wear a nametag. They will fit in quite nicely. Heck, they may even catch a glimpse of a flying Lion, a spotted elephant, or a Charlie in a Box. It's Montrose, so you just never know who might show up.

Divine Romance

2010-07-21T18:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends,

“What started as a crush, blossomed into a full fledged romance. At first we weren't sure if Budapest returned our feelings. Afterall, who doesn't fall in love with her at first sight?”

Almost exactly two years ago, as Matt and I were getting ready to say goodbye to Budapest after three months of ministry there, we shared these words on our mission blog. We thought for sure we would return to the city and the people we’d fallen in love with sooner rather than later.

In his heart a man plans his course,
but the LORD determines his steps. –Proverbs 16:9

God is faithful and his timing is perfect. When we returned to the States in August of 2008 a lot happened that made it clear to Matt and I that the best place for our ministry, and our family, was right here in Houston, Texas.

Since then we have seen our relationships with close family members (my father, who is 83 and in poor health) restored and strengthened. We have shared our music and ministry with a half dozen Houston church families and have recorded and released an album of original worship songs as a part of Advent Conspiracy. Most recently we have been thrilled to accept an invitation to work alongside Robbie Seay as worship leaders at Ecclesia Houston. And of course, Sydney, who wasn’t yet two when we were in Budapest is now nearly 4 years old and starting pre-K in the Fall! What an amazing two years it’s been.

We are thrilled to share that God has called us back to Budapest this summer! We will spend 10 days reconnecting with friends and mission partners, offering support for the Kingdom work they are doing in that beloved city.

Our romance with Budapest and the Hungarian people has not waned in these last two years. We’ve talked, read, learned and dreamed about Budapest nearly non stop. Matt is practically an expert on Hungarian culture, history and politics! We are eager to return and refresh the passion for Hungary that God has given us.

The statistics are still heartbreaking. Hungary maintains among the highest suicide rate per capita of any nation in the world. Anxiety and depression affects a disproportionate number of Hungarians, as does alchoholism and drug abuse. After more than a thousand years of occupation by repressive ideologies (from the Ottoman Turks to Nazi’s and Communists), suicide and hopelessness are part of the national identity.

As Christians we know that Christ alone offers the only true hope in this broken world. We long to share that hope with a city and a nation of dreamers, poets, scientists and artists.

Would you consider supporting our mission with prayer?

We covet your prayers. During our three months in Budapest in ’08, your prayers opened doors, sparked conversations, and overcame darkness in so many moments of ministry. Your prayers for provision were answered in astounding and humbling ways.

1. Please pray for safe travels for us (August 2 &3- August 13&15).
2. Please pray for peace and safety for Sydney who will be staying with my mom in
New York.
3. Please pray that God will use us to both boldly and humbly plant seeds of faith for those we encounter by His divine appointment.
4. Pray the Holy Spirit will use our music to reach people’s hearts where language is a barrier.
5. Pray for financial provision for our plane tickets, and for our meals and travel while there.

Would you consider contributing financially to our mission?

1. We are needing to raise about $2700 to cover our plane tickets.

2. Your contribution can be a tax deductible donation through Ecclesia Houston, who will be supporting us on this mission.

3. To give online: From the ecclesiahouston.org website, click ‘Online Giving’ from the menu on the left side.

4. Enter the amount of your donation in the Amount box below. 

5. Make sure the ‘Recurring Donation’ checkbox is unselected. 

6. Click the ‘Make Donation’ button. 

7. You will be taken to a Paypal page.

8. If you have a Paypal account, you can login with your email and password. If you do not have a Paypal account, you can click the link at the bottom of the page to use your Credit Card or Bank Account (in some cases the bank account option is unavailable). Follow Paypal’s instructions to complete the transaction.

9. Our you can send a check or put a check in the offering plate at Ecclesia Houston on Sunday morning. Please make checks out to Ecclesia Houston and put Hammon’s Mission Trip in the note line. Mail checks to Ecclesia Houston, 2115 Taft Street Houston, TX 77006.

We love you guys so much and are so glad that we are on this journey with you. Until we arrive in Budapest we will be blogging at www.hammonsinhouston.blogspot.com.

When we arrive on August 4th you can follow along with us at www.hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com.

Love,

Matt and Cameron

Matt- matthammon@mac.com
Cameron- cameron@ecclesiahouston.org

How to Help Dan Cho's Family

2010-07-17T21:16:00.000-07:00

Friends- there are two easy ways to support Dan's family. I am including widgets here. I think. Hopefully it will work.

Dan was a Christian, an artist, a father, husband, brother, son and friend. He was an amazing person who was an integral part of my own faith journey. Please consider supporting his widow and baby girl financially during this awful time.

Dan

2010-07-08T20:00:00.001-07:00

Psychologists insist that anger is a legitimate stage of grieving, and so I admit. I feel like cussing. I am angry. I've been thinking all day about how much I want to sit shiva for Dan, my friend who died on Tuesday. I want to spend seven days sitting around with friends, laughing about the good times, eating, crying and remembering. I suppose this is what I feel like cussing about. Dan was not Jewish, and I guess I'm not either. But that particular discipline is a really important one. Grieving is something I feel like I know too much about. And what I've learned is that not allowing it to take it's course; not meeting, talking, crying and eating, is the worst thing you can do.

I am also angry that this is the second person I've loved that I've eulogized in as many weeks. As horrible and shocking as it was to lose Barbara one could not deny that she lived an incredible, full life. Six children, many grandchildren, friends, family. And Barbara's beloved had left this earth four years ago- she must have longed to be with him again. She told me often that she was pissed at him for leaving her so early.

But Dan. Dan, Dan, Dan. He had half the years Barbie did, but he squeezed every last drop of life out of the time he had. He travelled the world with amazing musicians, including Regina Spektor, played SNL (!), Ellen DeGeneres, played for Coldplay. Pretty much the 'bucket list' for any musician. He had a beautiful wife, a gifted artist in her own right, and a gorgeous baby girl. His family was just beginning. He should have had 20, 30, 40, 50 more years with them.

So I met Dan at the Manhattan Vineyard Church. I was not yet a Christian, I was investigating. I'd gone once with Matt, but he was on tour and so I went alone. I cried during the worship time. The music pierced me. It was so powerful, moving and minor. Not what I expected. I don't remember the line up, except for Dan. He was the cellist. I approached him with some bizarro boldness I didn't have and simply asked "I'm a singer songwriter. Would you play with me?" He said "Ok." And kinda smiled and shook his head.

Dan was a Christian. He answered alot of questions for me, but he never evangelized. He'd smile and kinda shake his head when I'd say or do something that indicated I was 'getting' it. He was proud of me. He was sort of, protective. When I said or did something that indicated that I wasn't 'getting' it, he shook his head again, but this time differently. I cared tremendously what he thought of my life, and my choices. When I was baptized in the middle of a lighting storm on the beach at Coney Island, he and Julia were there. With a camera. Because of them I have a record of this major milestone in my life. Julia made a collage for me with pictures from the baptism and scriptures and framed it, presenting it to me as a gift a few weeks later. I was blown away. I knew I had become a part of a real family. And they were a part of it.

Dan was a man of few words. But the ones he did speak, meant the world. He was so mellow about everything, I sometimes wondered if he liked playing with me. He seemed content, and interested, but I am a chick who needs a lot of reassurance. When I would ask him what he thought of a new song, or a new arrangement- he was honest, and encouraging. Musically, he provided a depth and resonance that those early songs probably didn't deserve. I remember recording his part of "Gulf of Mexico"- on "Mary's Daughter" the song I wrote about Jeff Buckley's drowning. I see the irony in this only now. He played a cello part that made the song. It was far more emotional, and powerful than any guitar solo could've been. And since there were no guitars on my record, by choice, Dan was it. He was my lead player. He colored everything he played with honey, resin, and love. I don't know how else to say it.

When I saw him in Houston, he was on tour with Regina Spektor. I was proud that Dan had graduated to such heights. He was protective of her too. Apologizing in advance for her if she didn't say hi to us, explaining her voice is strained, she's been sick. He loved playing with her, and she obviously loved playing with him. Her songs deserved him. It was a perfect fit. He was luminous at that show; the honey tone warming and washing Regina's songs. He got us the most rock star seats in the whole place, and I kept shouting "Dan!" when ever I thought it wouldn't embaress him too much. We drank green tea, we swapped baby pictures. Being away from Julia and Audrey was really wearing on him, Matt and I could both see that. I had the sense that he planned to get off the road in the somewhat near future, but he didn't say anything specific.

Dan was loyal. I kept expecting him to flake out on my in those early days and he never did. I wouldn't have blamed him. He certainly wasn't playing with me for the money. But he would always be there. I remember our first rehearsal, at a divey rehearsal room off of Times Square- just him and I. He was excited and prepared. I couldn't have hoped for more. This is not all I will say about Dan, but this is all for now. I hope this paints a bit of a picture of the person who he was, at least to me.
Posted by Cameron Dezen Hammon a

pain.is.everywhere.

2010-07-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in the coffeeshop where last week I met a woman, who is now a friend. She told me the story of having, and losing her first child, a son. He was born with a fatal heart condition, and lived only 56 hours. I need to write this, I'm not sure why, to do what I do- to mark these events as having happened. I have no conclusions, except that pain is everywhere. Its sitting next to you in the coffeeshop sipping a cup of french press, looking at a map. It's behind the wheel in the car on your tail. It's there,radiating like a muscle spasm.

What are we going to do? All I can think of is to talk to eachother, to ask eachother about pain- how is it going? how are you feeling? what are you remembering of your beloved mother, husband, friend today?

Death is foreign. It's not supposed to be this way. It's shocking because it's not a part of the original plan. We wait anxiously for the day when all is shalom, when all is restored. And we are playing music, cracking jokes, and cuddling with our loved ones again.

Rest in Christ; Daniel, Barbara, Dan, and Mike.

Barbara

2010-06-24T20:17:00.000-07:00

You have a special place in your heart for the people who love your children. Aunt Barbie loved our children, Grace Presbyterian Church. She gave them candy when we weren't looking (or when we were) she kept their pictures at her desk, and always wanted the most recent one. She hugged them, held them and let them push the button on that Christmas reindeer as many times as they wanted to, making it sing an ear splittting chipmunks version of some carol. She loved it. She loved our kids and they loved her. Barbara Marsden Cattanach you are loved and missed and will always be Aunt Barbie to me and Sydney. Enjoy Jesus. Tell him we said hi.

short leash

2010-06-23T20:04:00.000-07:00

I will admit this: I'm on a short leash. And honestly, I'm grateful. I remember tearing out of bed one morning, choking down coffee and throwing on jeans and a tee-shirt (while Matt did the same) to make it to the Houston Vineyard on time for worship. Not just to participate in worship, but to lead worship as a part of the band. We lived three blocks away and slept until about 15 minutes before soundcheck. Now, this is the Vineyard. Jeans and tee-shirt- just fine. Bedhead-- no problem. It isn't a Vineyard church if at least one Pastor isn't wearing flip flops.

So, tearing out of bed to get to soundcheck on time I realized something. We probably would have slept through both services if we weren't playing on the worship team. This is awful, right? Only making it to church on time if I'm singing, or serving, or needed in some way? Shouldn't church leaders be the ones who are there every time they open the doors, early and eager?

Maybe yes maybe no. At the time, our marriage had just suffered a pretty significant blow. We'd been married two years and the issues that had been there before we got married- well, they'd just gotten worse. Heated to boiling. Someway, somehow- just on the other side of this crisis point, our friend Shae Cottar asked us to join the worship team at the Houston Vineyard. Matt had been making his living, though with considerable difficulty, as a touring drummer. He was, and is, and incredible musician. The offer came with a promise of hot coffee and community but no paycheck. Though I was not a professional musician at the time, and had no problem volunteering, I knew it would be hard for Matt. A caveat- he'd learned to play drums as a teenager in this very same church. Then left Houston, and the church (well, all church) for about 10 years.
I'd been going to the Houston Vineyard on and off by myself for most of the first two years of our marriage. People would often ask me if I was single. It was painful.
I'm not even really sure how Shae knew we were even Christians. But he invited us in, and so really, he invited us into what would become the call on our lives. To lead worship, to play music together. TOGETHER. That's what God had for us. And it took a volunteer opportunity in our local church, (a church we were rarely on time for, but who loved us just the same) to show us that. Seven years later Matt and I are worship pastors and songwriter's. He is an accomplished record producer. He uses his gifts to help artists and musicians shape their songs and lives.

If God hadn't opened up that opportunity to serve--we would likely have not even gone to church, let alone shaped our lives around serving the church. It all just sparkles with God-personality. Humor. Patience.

I give you all this back story to say simply, that I've been tugging at the leash for the last three weeks. Having left my job at Grace, I've had some 'time off'. For the first time in 5 years I haven't spent all day every day at a church. I've spent a week with intellectuals, writer's!, at a workshop at U of H. Dipping a toe or two in the fountain of academia, flirting with graduate school; a interesting idea I am still flirting with. But suddenly, I was a fish out of water, and I allowed myself to doubt, for the first time in a very long time. Spending time with poets made me realize that I had been on auto-pilot as a Christian. Quipping slogans and trying to believe them. Could I go back?

Full of humor and patience, God sent me there. To the writer's workshop. A chance encounter, led to a narrowly missed discovery matched with impeccable timing and there I was. Only God could organize something so flawless and unlikely. He knew what I needed, and how I would best receive it- he released me to wander (though only a few miles east)- and process. Jesus stuff was everywhere. At the workshop I mean. And not in a religious manifestation - like seeing the Virgin Mary in a water stain on the ceiling- but in everyone's work. Tortured, wrestling, hurting, searching, grappling, hiding- all of it - with "Jesus stuff." I felt like the most well adjusted person there. I felt so grateful that I knew what I knew. And I believed. I needed to wander to be reminded. I smiled to myself all week about that.

It's like this- I will let my daughter grow up and be her own person, make her own choices. I will do this, though every fiber in my being wants to protect her, keep her safe, limit her choices and therefore limit the potential for pain. But I know, because I love her, she will have to figure it out for herself. And if I let her wander just a few more steps, she'll come running back to me by her own choice. Eager to show me what she'd seen and learned.

So at the end of this week, I will return to work for the church. It's a different church, it's ecclesia. It's the place I've gone to worship on Sunday evening, often by myself, for the better part of eight years when I wasn't serving somewhere else. It's a place I'd gladly volunteer. It's a place I'd take out the trash if it was full. It's a place that makes getting out of bed at 6:15 on Sunday morning sound like a great idea.

Moving Day

2010-05-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

I am feeling, in no small way, like a bride packing up her childhood bedroom. Wondering what stays, what goes and what goes to good will. If I slide into unbridleld sentimentality, forgive me, but bear with me.

Grace Presbyterian Church has been the childhood home of my ministry. Of our ministry. It's the place I wrote all my songs, save one. It's the place I led worship in front of hundreds of people, none of whom knew me from Adam when we arrived in the summer of 2005. I remember being awed by the sanctuary. Walking in and being overwhelmed by the stained glass, the royal red carpet, the beautiful chancel, the communion table- whose message implored "Do this in rememberence of me."

I learned alot here. Like what "Call to Worship," and "Words of institution" means. How to plan a worship service. How to be a part of a team. How to be a mother. How to drive fearlessly on I10.

I learned to love the history and the liturgy of Grace. I remember thinking, "these people must be really holy" as I stood in the shadow of the giant cross, suspended as if in mid air above the platform. What I learned, and this is no small thing, is that all people- regardless of denomination, liturgy or history- are working out their salvation with fear and trembling. Liturgy does not holy make. But I dare to say, Love does. And they've got it in spades.

As I sit here surrounded by moving boxes, stacks of books, layers of effort, hope and intention, I am reaching for the meaning of it all. And what I'm finding is simply the last page of the first chapter. One I hope to revisit with fondness. But one that's finished none the less.

Thank you Grace. For trusting, loving and letting me go. You will be missed.

You cannot love both me and Ezra Pound

2010-05-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

I knew it would never work. Deep down, I knew. Because of Pound. I made it my business to know who all the Anti-Semites were in art, music, literature and the like. I was like a one woman Red Scare, except I was hunting people who don't like Jews, not Communists. As a child I wanted to be Ann Frank. Or rather, I wanted to play Ann Frank, in an original production, written by me of course, that would include "Somewhere" from West Side Story. Yes, Ann Frank the musical. My fourth grade English teacher politely advised against it.

Walt Disney
Ezra Pound
Charles Lindbergh
Martin Luther
Henry Ford

The list goes on, at least according to google. But back then, there was no google, and this information was hard to come by. It was passed with the salt and gefilte fish. Dropped like alka seltzer into conversations of adults that I eavesdropped on. Pop, pop. Fizz, fizz.

So when a man I liked in college, (I was in college, he was in Baltimore) who was courting me through letters and poems, declared his love for Ezra Pound, I should have run in the other direction. He loved ampersands (and apparently still does),played in a well known rock band and was considerably older than me.

He was very concerned that he couldn't take me to his neighborhood bar. And being a "writer" who loved "Pound" his neighborhood bar was critical to the formation and maintenence of his delicate psyche. I was 20. "I have an id", I whispered over the phone as snow piled up outside my window. "Oh, God" he said dramatically,"a fake id?"

I went to Baltimore nonetheless. Against my better judgement (where was my mother?) I got on an Amtrak train over Christmas break, from New York City to D.C., to spend a few days with ampersand guy.

When we got to his house and I dropped my stuff on the futon in the loft outside his bedroom he raised an eyebrow. Then I raised an eyebrow. I expected him to offer to sleep on the futon. He was expecting some other arrangement.

What ensued was a quasi-comedic unraveling of this poetry based relationship, starting with Ethiopian food, ending with me hiding out at a girlfriends parents' house in suburban Maryland.

What could be less poetic than eating Ethiopian food on a first date. When you're 20. At thirty five I will happily eat Ethiopian food in front of anyone. I am married to a beautiful man whom I love and I am comfortable in my skin. Back then I wanted all boys to think I wore no makeup ("oh that? My lips are naturally berry-crush"), looked perfect first thing in the morning, and never went to the bathroom.

In this day and age you cannot escape anyone. If you have the slightest curiosity about a person who was a part of your life in some capacity you can find them on the internet. And their spouses. And children. Whether it's ampersand guy or your high school English teacher.

I feel as though this is both good and bad. Good in a way, for compulsive memoirists like myself. But also bad for us. There is less liberty we can take with these stories. Though I can't imagine the ampersand guy would particularly care if I re-wrote a few details of our short, strange story.

I was a bit of a groupie I will admit. I loved that he was in a band. And even though this visit was going badly, not just awkwardly but badly, I stayed long enough to accompany him to a show at a DC club. We walked the ten or so blocks from the train in silence. When we got our names checked off the guest list he went straight for the 21 and over VIP section and began drinking scotch. I drank diet coke with a girlfriend and shot irritated glances at him as often as I could make eye contact.

By the time the show was over he was hammered. My girlfriend drove us back to his house in her VW Rabbit, and he spent the entire ride hitting on her. When we pulled up to his place, he climbed into the front seat and kissed her cheek, half falling onto the icy sidewalk.

I went home with my friend that night, wondering what could have gone so wrong. I was usually a pretty good judge of character. "Serves me right," I thought. "Pound." There are signs, there is writing on the wall.

Weeks later I called him, snowed in and bored. "What happened?" I asked, thinking of all the lyrical poems, letters and ampersands. "Truth be told, Cameron," he said, "I really don't give a damn." Maybe it was less Rhett Butler. I can't remember now. But what I do remember was the "truth be told." It was so colloquial. So average. So unlike the dramatic vocabulary of his written self. But really, what did I know? I was only 20 after all.

Jamaican Gold

2010-05-11T07:18:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with gold cross necklaces. I was about 8, and Jewish, so naturally this caused a bit of a stir in our house. We had a nanny who lived with us back then, she was from Jamaica and wore a light blue nurse's uniform. Her skin smelled like gardenias and cocoa butter and she did bible studies in her room at night, when I was supposed to be in bed. Sneaking glimpses of her bible and notebooks, I zeroed in on the crosses emblazoned on them. Bingo, I thought. This is my chance.

While Soul Train played on her small TV with the sound turned down, Mary would read bible stories to me, eventually giving me colorful, illustrated versions from her churches Sunday school archives.

If I'm honest, I will admit that my motivation for participating in these secretive studies was the glittery cross that teased me from the throat of my classmate, Allison Scully. Allison was also allowed to wear ripped jeans, had blonde hair and a tan-all-year-round complexion. She was not Jewish. And I wanted to be like her.

Our studies were secretive because Mary knew, much better than I did, that my Jewish father would likely object to his only daughter being evangelized under his roof. In retrospect, he might not have cared much. It was my lapsed Catholic mother that eventually put the kabosh on the late night Soul Train sessions.

Mary told me that she would get me a gold cross necklace if I finished all my lessons with her. She told me that the gold that came from her country is more beautiful than from anywhere else. She proudly showed me her own cross, tucked discreetly behind her powder blue collar. Good for her. She knew that visions of jewelry danced in my head and wanted to be sure I knew the meaning of that pendant I so desperately wanted.

When the day came that I'd correctly filled in all the blank, underlined spaces in my notebooks (and believe me, I labored over them) I casually approached my mother in the kitchen after she'd gotten home from work.

Poor Mom. Working her tail off. Sitting in traffic on the George Washington bridge. Likely worrying about my nutjob younger brother and how he was compulsively punching his Kindergarden classmates. The last thing she was expecting was a religious grenade, lobbed from her daughter's 4th grade hand.

Ironically, this is still how I approach my mother, 20, er, ahem, plus years later, with my biggest news. "Want something from Starbucks? By the way, I'm getting married and moving to Texas." That sort of thing.

Before the words had even fully left my mouth, she was hushing me and pulling me to the dark of the front stairwell. "Whatever you do," she said, "don't tell your father." That was it. End of story. The saga of the gold cross necklace had come to an end, at least temporarily.

Looking back, I am profoundly moved by this act of love from my mother toward my father. Maybe there was some genuine fear there, but my mother is not one to scare easily. Though my father has always, and still does at 82, cut an intimidating figure. Their marriage was a shell, propped up on holidays (Jewish ones) for us kids, and their friends. There was literally no love between them, though I didn't really know that yet. Though her own needs, and even dignity were often disregarded by my father, my mother took great care in protecting his Jewish-ness. Something that he himself cared little about.

Recently on the telephone he told me, "You know, when you were a kid, you begged me to send you to Hebrew school." I waited breathless for some additional revelation of my childhood self. "Why didn't you?" I asked. "I don't know" he said. Silence.

"Well," I retorted, tongue planted firmly in cheek, "blame yourself I'm not a Jew."

I kept prodding. "Well, your mother was not interested and..." "Dad," I said, "she was more interested in Judaism than you ever were."

A note of tenderness entered his gravelly voice, "I never knew that", he said " I never knew that."

Iowa?

2010-04-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

This is how it appeared on my pop-up calendar, as I opened my phone my first morning here.

Iowa?

Somehow it seemed a fitting title for a few observations of the place:

The esteemed Writer's Workshop at the University of Iowa, arguably the most esteemed graduate program for writer's in the US, is where I find myself. Iowa City, Iowa that is.

1) You need alot of change in Iowa; for parking meters and soda machines. The implication is that you can still buy things with change in Iowa.

2) They have nice sinks. Kohler actually. As if when planning the new addition to the Dey House, home base for the workshop on the U.I campus someone thought; the writer's should have nice sinks. If they want to live in squalor, off campus, that's their business. Here, the student's will have nice sinks.

3) In town, you are sure you will run into your college boyfriend (or girlfriend). Headphones, backpack, awkward hello's and how have you been's. But you won't, because this is Iowa. And that person is probably in Austin, New York City, Chicago or wherever. You fill in the blank.

4) Iowans are nice. My brother's nice friend Ryan seemed particularly keen on this observation, as he is a native Iowan; polite, smart, nice. Sidenote: Ryan is a writer at the workshop, loves turbulence on airplanes, and spent the better part of 3 years in Iraq as a correspondent for AP.

5) The streets are literally paved with phrases from famous writer's, most of them graduates of the program. And famous writers haunt the bars and classrooms here: Kurt Vonnegut, John Cheever, Phillip Roth, Marilyn Robinson, Flannery O'Connor,Raymond Carver and my new friend Chris Offutt (A collection of short stories called- Kentucky Straight, The Good Brother, Episodes 7 & 10 of Season 1, true blood, ahem.)

That's all for now. Signing off for W-IOWA!

Russian sweet bread

2010-04-06T20:17:00.000-07:00

Russian Sweetbread
A sweetbread that is a Pascha (Easter) tradition.
Makes three large or six small loaves; 24 servings

Ingredients

5 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 pkgs. dry yeast
1 tsp. salt
3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup water
1/3 cup butter
2 eggs at room temp.
1/2 cup citron
3/4 cup chopped, toasted almonds

###

The bucolic journey, which started as a rare time of togetherness for me and my Texan husband, turned tension filled and stressed out when we took a wrong term at Kerrville.

"Did you read the directions?" I asked

"I know exactly where it is," he offered, "don't worry."

Attending this retreat, for free, was a minor miracle in itself. We'd gotten a babysitter for the weekend and were actually going to spend 3 uninterrupted days with artists and poets and musicians. And eachother. Amazing.

When we pulled over at a friendly looking restaurant so I could ask for directions (note: I was asking, not my husband), we were nearly to Bandera. The very wrong way on the road that didn't turn into 71 like we'd thought it would. It was getting dark.

The GPS on the iPhone found a windy little road through the hills that felt like mountains- with hair pin turns that demanded we slow to 10mph. What should've taken an hour from the interstate was taking more than two.

I was frustrated and tired and hungry, and noting all this, I thought to myself in a rare moment of maturity "maybe there's a reason we're lost and late. Maybe it's a God thing."

When we finally made our way to the river road that leads to the lodge I began to see the reason. We opened the sunroof and the sky was a silver dome with pin pricks of black between the stars. We opened the windows and the air was clean and cool and clear.

When we arrived, we immediately met Edwina (pronounced Ed- winna, not Ed-weena). Well into her 80s yet exuding joy and vitality,Edwina welcomed us with hugs (we'd never met her before this moment) and asked if we were hungry. Our grumbling stomachs gave us away. "Well I'm just so glad you kids made it, I was so worried". Kids? I thought. I exhaled. We'd called her at the front desk at least 4 times when we still had phone service, trying not to sound like neurotic city folk, and Edwina had patiently tried to talk us through the directions.

We followed her into the lodge's kitchen where she gently nudged us toward the table she had laid. Hot, fresh, bread, and cold iced tea beckoned. The site of it nearly made me cry. I was tired, hungry and raw from a long journey, and frankly, from too many years of ministry without a break. And I didn't grow up with this sort of thing, this sort of hospitality. My grandmother passed away when I was 6 and my mother worked, alot. So I work, alot. It's what I know how to do.

I considered asking Edwina to adopt me. Though I am an adult and I'd known her for five minutes, it seemed like a great idea at the time, and still does. I could learn a lot from her. She chatted to us, making us feel comfortable and less guilty for keeping her awake until 10:00pm. "Oh, I don't go up to bed until after 11!" she assured me, and though I thought she was just being polite, I knew she was telling the truth. Staying up late, and caring for road weary strangers, heating up food and making small talk, seemed like the exact thing she had been looking forward to all day. She served us dinner, and hovered, making sure we had everything we needed. Matt and I looked at eachother dumbfounded when she left the room for a moment. "Is she real?" I asked, thinking that it was altogether possible that Edwina was an angel.

Before leaving us with a tupperware full of deserts, Edwina asked if we'd like to try the Russian sweet bread. “Is that what it's called" she asked looking directly at me, "Russian sweet bread?" Edwina doesn't know this, but I am Russian, or at least half Russian. And there would be no way that I would hear "Russian sweet bread" coming from a tiny, elderly woman, in a remote canyon in the Texas Hill Country, and not look over my shoulder to see if some long lost relative was about to jump out the pantry and shout "Candid Camera!" She said "Russian sweet bread" and I heard "This is for you. Not the other 40 people at the lodge this weekend, not even Matt, but just for you. This kindness, this love, this food, is just for you." I knew it was a God thing. I'd been lost, literally, and now was found. And full. Yum.

Cameron Dezen Hammon © 2010
*recipe courtesy of Russian Life

Holy Magic

2010-04-03T19:03:00.001-07:00

First, I checked their twitter feed, and their facebook page. Even though I knew I was going to go to the Easter Vigil service, regardless of their social media sites. But St. Andrew's Episcopal's twitter and facebook pages suggested I would be in the right place. Twitter followers- 11. Facebook fans- 53. Oh wait, that was before I joined. 52 then. No bells, no whistles, no Starbucks in the fellowship hall. Just right.

I've tried an Episcopal service once before. It was a bit of a comedy of errors. Well I was a comedy of errors, the service was lovely. It was me, Matt and my brother Alex in Austin on Christmas eve. We found an 11pm service in a close in suburb and filed in moments before it began. The sanctuary was empty, so we found a seat in the middle of a pew close to the front. Since it was empty I hadn't thought to get an "aisle seat" in the case I needed to slip out to the restroom. I was 6 weeks pregnant and little trips to the restroom were a frequent occurence. Seconds before 11pm hundreds of people made their way into the sanctuary, closing us into the front pew on either side.

Long story short I got up, thus getting the whole pew up 3 times before realizing that it probably wasn't going to work out between me and the Episcopal church. At least not that night. Not to mention the shared chalice communion thing. I was a bit of a germ-o-phobe, being pregnant and all.

My brother had felt compelled to announce at a hushed moment in the liturgy, that I was pregnant. Perhaps he felt he should explain why I kept running out of the service. The liturgy itself was confusing to me. I hadn't yet connected the read thread running between my history as a half Catholic half Jew and my present as an evangelical Christian. I hadn't yet seen the beauty of the ritual, as I seem to be starting to do now.

I have always, always wanted to go to midnight mass. All my life. Every Christmas eve my mother would promise to wake me up to take me to midnight mass. Her descriptions of the candlelight, and the singing, and the glamour of the late hour, especially for a kid; it all seemed magical. It never happened and I can't really blame her. Being a mother myself, I cannot imagine waking a child sleeping soundly on any night, let alone Christmas Eve. As an adult, and as a Christian, I have occasionally given thought again to midnight mass, but I have yet to go.

Last night I caught a glimpse of that magic. To steal a phrase from poet Luci Shaw, "holy magic." A time and a place where the veil between heaven and earth is particularly gossamer, and it if you pay attention you might catch a glimpse of an Archangel or two.

The Easter vigil service at St. Andrew's Episcopal started, for me, with a brisk walk through the musty back entrance adjoining the parking lot. I passed a tiny room with a beautiful stained glass window that appeared to be a children's Sunday school room. I encountered a cheerful woman in a pink pantsuit who loaded me up with a bell, a candle and a 20 page bulletin to take into the service. I followed a mother and her two middle schoolers along a short outdoor path to the front of the church where another sweet lady in a pantsuit welcomed us and held open the heavy, red wood doors. I nearly fell into a gaggle of white clad priests preparing in the foyer (foyer? probably not the right word) for the service.

I tried to blend. Looked straight ahead and followed the mom to a pew a few rows from the back. I immediately wished I had looked more closely at the priests.

The church was dark except for a few chandeliers on dimmers. The altar was completely dark. There was a bit of light coming into the stained glass windows from outside as dusk settled in. The church, meant to simulate Jesus' tomb, wasn't exactly tomb-like, but it was dark and it was somber. Just what I came for.

Just then the lead priest came to the front of the church and gave us a brief rundown on what to expect. She welcomed us to "this most holy of nights" and sang a little something, cantor-like, before gliding to the back of the church.

Behind me the white robed priests were gathered around a low fire, smoldering in some sort of bowl. They were adding what looked like sticks of incense to kindle a fire that would light the candles for the processional.

The number of celebrants, or priests and singers, about matched the number of congregants. But instead of feeling sad that there weren't more people there, I felt grateful that I was getting this gorgeous service in this gorgeous little church, almost all to myself.

Seeing them leaning around the flame, lighting candles, I was struck by how druid it all seemed. The bunch of them, men and women, young and old, looked otherworldly in the darkened church. I knew I was in the right place. I almost wanted to text my husband "this is awesome" but I refrained. It felt as though my phone must have not been invented yet, as I'd traveled back in time to an underground church in some distant country, in a long ago era. The magic and mystery of what we're keeping watch for, the resurrection of the One whose "pronouns we capitalize" in the words of Lauren Winner, is powerfully evident in this place.

In Mark 16 we read the account of Mary Magdelene, Salome (rhymes with Shalom) and Mary, Mother of James bringing spices and herbs to anoint the body of Jesus on Sunday morning, once the Sabbath had ended. "Who's gonna roll this stone away?" they asked one another. You can imagine the exhaustion and frustration. I love when bible characters really sound like the Jewish people they were. Like in Exodus when Moses is trying to lead the Israelites into the wilderness. "Are there no graves in Egypt?" they ask rhetorically, "that we have to die in the wilderness?" A hint of chutzpah and some sarcasm to balance the grief- a time honored tradition. In the case of the three women at the tomb, it's no different. Another rhetorical question. There wasn't anyone to roll away the stone.

When they arrived, the stone had been moved, seemingly by magic. When they dared to scuttle into the cave to prepare the body of their Lord for the grave, they found, you know the story, just the grave clothes and no Jesus. But they also found a man in a "dazzling white robe". An angel whose power and beauty and presence took their breath away. In my imagination the angels robe looked sort of like the billboards for Westheimer Lakes, a suburban home site boasting waterfront properties. Westheimer Lakes is luring Houstonians out to the 'burbs with promises of tranquil water views. This claim alone would be enough to draw the attention of landlocked Texans, but hundreds of tiny reflective disks decorated the sign, simulating, I guess sunlight on a lake. As they caught the sunlight just so, the whole billboard shimmered wildly. And it was almost blinding, but I couldn't look away.Cheesy? Maybe. But magical nonetheless. The extra effort to make those billboards shimmer got my attention. God being the Creator of the Universe is the original designer of 'shimmer' and He has it in spades. He chose to dazzle the bedraggled women, he didn't have to, but He did, giving them a taste of the dazzle that was yet to come. The dreamy angel simply told them "He is Risen!"

Today, Christians around the world will answer that revolutionary proclamation with "He is Risen indeed!" Some will really believe it, having experienced the extravagant dazzling of God in a sickness healed, a relationship mended, or a crime pardoned.

"Holy magic!" said Luci Shaw to a room full of attentive Christian artists. "Is that theologically correct?" she asked, half joking. Nothing could be more theologically correct, I think.

Happy Easter.

Kate

2010-04-01T20:57:00.001-07:00

I wanted to simply share our about our brief visit with the McRae's last night. It's a strange tightrope I must admit. The feeling I have is a strange cross between fierce protectiveness and a desperation to communicate. I want you to know all about it because I want you to pray and to tell others to pray for Kate, and for all those battling brain cancer. But then I want to protect her from the eyes of the world. I want her to be safe like I want Sydney to be safe. Kate McRae is simply a precious six year old girl, with two great parents. She and her parents are like so many of our friends. Chatting with them on the sidewalk outside their temporary home was as easy as it is with the Mann's or Kuykendall's. Couples our age, working in the church, having kids, doing life. My relief at this easy feeling was peppered with the sadness that we aren't meeting under better circumstances because I know that if we did, we'd be friends.

We met outside because Kate is still immune compromised from the stem cell transplant and Sydney- being in preschool- is probably a bit of a petri dish as far as germs go. But the two of them had a great little visit. It's so funny how kids hunt out other kids. It's like some kind of "play" instinct. We'd kept Syd in her carseat as we got the goodies and dinner out the car and she was going bonkers because she wanted to meet "Little Kate" as she calls her. Kate wanted to get a look at Syd and before long they were digging through her gift basket (an incredible blessing from the Home Improvement Sunday School class at Grace Pres and the amazing Amy French.)

Barbies, dress up clothes, movies, games and a big 'ol pink cowgirl hat. Kate wanted to try it on so Syd gave it over to Holly. As Kate reached for her own knit hat to remove it, she paused and looked at her mom. "Is she going to laugh at me?" she asked. The world stopped in that moment and the reality of this disease hit us like a freight train. My heart broke. "No, she's not going to laugh at you" we both said, and then Holly proceeded to gently explain to Sydney that Kate doesn't have any hair because of her medicine. And that when it grows back it will be blonde, like Sydney's but lighter. Kate's question to her mother was simple, practical. Obviously she is speaking from experience.

As she took off her hat I watched my sweet 3 yr old's face go from giggles to shock then right back to giggles. She didn't miss a beat. She didn't stare, she didn't laugh, she acted like it was the most normal thing in the world to not have hair. They went right back to playing, balancing on one foot, trapsing up and down the sidewalk in their hats.

Two observations: No child, no person should have to go through this. It is very hard to reconcile a just, loving God in the face of a child's suffering. Yet somehow, the mercy and the suffering of God himself, is so real and palpable here. Our only comfort I guess is that God himself is nearer than we know. And he doesn't waste our suffering.

My little child is being changed just by her proximity to Kate and her understanding- though limited- of her illness. She is becoming compassionate. The compassion of one child for another is beautiful. It is stunningly beautiful. God is making something beautiful out of this pain.

Pray like your life depended on it. For Kate.

Thoughts on parenting and post partum

2010-03-30T21:33:00.001-07:00

As the title suggests, what you will find here are some observations on parenting. I do not now, nor have I ever claimed to be a parenting expert. I have one child, with whom I have 3 years and change in this game. So stick with me. The second bit I am sure I am an expert. Or at least a survivor. So it’s from that perspective I will offer some thoughts.

Disclaimer:
These are shark -infested water. And the sharks may turn out to be dear friends or even family members. Say what you think about parenting, and if what you think is outside the accepted theories of the sub-culture (read: James Dobson, the Super Nanny, your pastor any given Sunday, etc.,) you risk the alienating hush of your friends at lunch. You’ll hear “Bless your heart!” A polite Southern way of saying ‘Wow, you’ve really gone off the deep end’ or ‘You’ve become so liberal’/ (the very worst of all possible fates) and the like.

So here are my radical, not- so- radical reflections on parenting.

Kid's are not stereo's, and there are no instruction manuals:

Do you remember in the hospital with your first child when the nurse (doctor, midwife, whatever) said "They all come out with their own little personalities”. Maybe you were too euphoric, depressed or exhausted to pay attention, but the comment stuck with you. This may have been their way of explaining why your baby was fussy, sleepy, goofy, or whatever he or she was upon initial descent to earth. But it was true. Your baby did things other babies didn't. Her knowing eyes, her projectile, er…, well you know- whatever it was, you recognized that it was true. She was unique.

Then the moment they released you from the hospital and the care of professionals, you set about looking for just the right instruction manual to make her exactly like your best friend’s baby. You know the baby; the one who slept through the night at two weeks old, took naturally to breast feeding and never had colic. The one whose "behavior" - a word which should never be used when talking about a child under 1, possibly 2 years old- was just perfect for her parents schedules, egos and needs. They could beam with pride when their child napped without a fight, ate all her strained peas or didn't puke at the dinner table, because this of course was "proof" that they were doing something right.

Ok, back to you and me. Let's retrace our steps. First we got into the attachment parenting thing, because it just seemed nicer. Digging through the stack of baby books at 1 in the morning, the picture on the cover of the “attachment” book seemed to sooth our fried nerves. “No cry method” sounded great to us who’d been up for three days and couldn’t quit crying ourselves.

Or maybe we tried the cry-it-out method first. Babywise. Because that's what our Christian friends swore by (wait aren't we not supposed to swear?) and their kid slept like 10 hours straight the first night home from the hospital. And besides, the book warned, if we didn’t follow their method our kids would grow up to be self-centered social deviants. All because we caved and gave them a bottle at 3am.

Whichever way we gravitated, we read and re-read the "instructions." We surfed baby blogs late into the night. But our little guy wasn't following the “instructions,” was he?

Mine didn’t. Not only did none of the many, many books help, but they were the cherry on top of my self pity Sundae. "See, I am not cut out for this." "Why can't I do this right?" "Why isn't my baby like all the other babies in this book?" I was determined that I would get it right, and my Christian baby books and prayer groups, Mom's groups and websites would be enough to guide me through. And granted, if my self -pity had been just the baby blues, the standard two to four weeks of weepiness, they may have.

But it wasn't, it didn't, and here we are. And the only reason I can imagine that God let me go through what I did, is simply so I can share it with you.

Here’s how it came down.

My brother’s band was in town to play at a huge arena when my daughter was about 5 months old. I had planned the outing for weeks. Though my nerves were fried from five months of anxiety and sleeplessness, I was determined to go to the gig, even get up on stage and sing backing vocals on a handful of songs. My adrenaline was in overdrive. I did my best to recapture some of my pre-pregnancy confidence. After a great night I returned home to Matt and Sydney asleep on the couch. She wasn't in her crib, it was midnight. The slight deviation from our schedule sent me into an anxious downward spiral of guilt and panic. I barely slept a wink. Maybe 30-40 minutes. The whole house was snoring and I was staring at the ceiling, punishing myself for having had a night out. Trouble is I had no idea that my sadness- about my body, my perceived daily failures at home, my fizzling career and creativity- was due - at least in some significant part to the hormones that were still raging through me. It had a name, and my brother named it. “You have post partum depression,” he said, a little frazzled by my sudden explosion of tears as he readied himself to leave town the next morning. “There’s medication for it. It’s not a big deal. Just talk to someone.” What I had feared, what I refused to utter, what seemed to be lurking just around each corner had finally come into the light.

That declaration by my brother in the kitchen of our rented house started me on the road back to wellness. In that moment, I had clarity. I had a to-do list. Talk to somebody. Get help. Put one foot in front of the other. I could handle that. Wandering around the desert of woe had just about done me in.

I’m a little bit disappointed that it took my rock star brother, who is not exactly an expert on women’s issues, to tell me to get help. I had prayer partners. Sisters in Christ. Family members who knew what I was going through but couldn’t, or wouldn’t name it. Maybe they were as terrified of this unknown monster as I was. Maybe the name alone, “post partum depression” conjured horrifying images of deranged women and defenseless babies. Maybe they did tell me to get help but I wouldn’t listen.

I was so certain that God's healing for me would come through prayer, bible study and white knuckle discipline. For some reason I perceived my depression and anxiety as my own fault. Something I could "kick" if I just worked harder at it.

But this is not how God works. He wants us to trust deeper, not work harder. He taught me something huge about himself through all this. First, that He and He alone determines how healing will come. He knows me. And He loves me. And wouldn't you know, His way of healing me was utterly simple. It could have come months earlier if during one of my many pleading prayer times I had stopped to listen. I would have had more crazy-free time to enjoy my baby girl if I'd had my antenna up a bit higher.

These days I am the post partum police. Whenever a good friend has a baby I give her a week or two before sitting her down, making eye contact (this is nearly impossible to do with the mother of a two week old) and ask how she’s doing. Not how the baby is doing, not how her mother-in-law, husband, best friend, boss or sister is doing. How she is doing. And I try to get a straight answer. Most of the time, my friends are doing fine. Even better than fine. Which reminds me of the statistics that insist that almost all women get about two weeks of blues, but very few get the full blown crazies like I did. And even fewer will experience the kind that lands their story on the evening news. Devastating as those stories are they are very, very rare.

But once in a while, when talking to my friend, I will hear the nervous quiver in her voice. The obsession with feeding schedules, sleep schedules or bowel movements. I will hear hopelessness in her voice. And that’s my cue.

If I know you well, I’ll just tell you flat out- there is a medication and counseling that can re-teach you how to be you. You shouldn’t suffer like this. It’s easily treatable. I will remind you, as my husband so kindly reminded me, that all healing comes from the hand of God. If I don’t know you well, I will try to get to know you better. But I will try, if you let me, to help.

the worst Jew ever

2010-03-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to shake off the above title, not so kindly bestowed on me by my brother via Twitter when I mis-spelled mohel, I will say a few words about Passover.

As a child I had two sets of friends. My Jewish friends and my Catholic friends. My Jewish friends were closer friends, having nothing to do with their religion, but simply for the reason one chooses friends at 6 or 7; cool toys, nice Mom, and later, at maybe 11 or 12, cute older brother.

Having a regular Friday night sleepover at Rachel R.'s house guaranteed me a trip to Shul- Synagogue on Saturday morning. "Bring a dress", Rachel's Swedish convert mother would tell me, "something nice, but not too fancy." When we arrived at the Temple the kids would run to the coat closet where we would find lace doilies and bobby pins for the girls, and mini prayer shawls for the boys. The lace always seemed so elegant and precious in my hands. We would hastily pin the doily to our braids or ponytails and file into the sanctuary.

I, of course, was not Jewish. Though my father is Jewish and in some, more liberal circles I might be accepted, in this Conservative temple I was about as Jewish as pork tenderloin. I tried to blend in with Rachel's family. We whispered a hushed plan to tell the Rabbi I was a cousin visiting from a nearby town. Because I knew, somehow, that if I was outed I wouldn't be able to participate in the rituals I was growing to love and look forward to.

One of the best parts of the service is when the Rabbi, surrounded by a handful of lucky kids, processes into the Sanctuary carrying the Torah scrolls, high above his head. Because the Torah is sacred, I was told, it can never touch the ground. So the job of helping to carry the giant, sacred book, was an important one. Even if our part was merely symbolic, it was an honor to be called on for this job.

Christians also love to process. In some circles at least. It's dramatic and powerful. I remember being particularly moved by seeing a handful of Episcopal priests file past me on a Sunday night as I sat daydreaming in a garden beside St. Martin's Church. Robed and focused, one cheerful looking teenaged girl- arms outstretched balancing a Medieval looking banner- smiled at me as our eyes met.

Back to being Jewish.

One Saturday, I suppose my regular attendance and the "cousin" story had worked because I found myself at the top of the aisle behind a curtain, nervously standing beside the Rabbi as we were about to make our way to the front of the Synagogue with the Torah. I avoided eye contact with him. I repeated the story in my head, "I'm the cousin from Ft. Lee," I thought, hoping my lie would go undetected if I was called upon to identify myself before taking part in this holy errand.

Though this is not my favorite Jewish memory, for some reason it's the first that comes to mind. It wasn't Passover, it wasn't a high holiday of any sort. It was just a regular old Sabbath day, but yet, it was important. The work of God's people was as important on this morning as it was on any night of Hannukah, or Purim, or Passover for that matter. At least it was to me. And it was important for the children to be involved, to have ownership in this glorious, everyday activity.

It certainly was important to the Rabbi. My goy hands never touched the Torah. I watched teary eyed from behind the curtain, exposed, sort of, as the non Jew I was. But I get it. I understand now. I had no idea, except for the crumbs of Hebrew, culture and tradition that I gobbled up at every opportunity; I had no idea what it all really meant.

Passover memories are better. More inclusive, more encouraging. A myriad of seder dinners were attended by our family, one resulting in my little brother getting a cauldron of matzoh ball soup accidentally dumped on his head, but generally they were undramatic, regular sorts of events.

My friend Leah, another one whose family occasionally let me tag along to Shul, had a grandfather who was in the Jewish mafia in Pennsylvania. I learned of this years later when her parents got divorced and all the family secrets came spilling out, as they tend to do. But my memories of spending Passover at her mafia don grandfather's house are some of the happiest of my childhood.

They had a huge, gorgeous house surrounded by manicured gardens and 12 foot high hedges sculpted into a labrinyth. I remember the cool, pre-Spring evenings we would run around the backyard, waiting for the ritual to begin. As the sun began to set we would all take our places at the giant dining room table. Each place was set with a pocket sized prayer book, the prayers in both Hebrew and English. "Now this is something I can do," I thought. When it was my turn to read a prayer someone kindly suggested I read in English, acknowledging that I knew no Hebrew. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. I proudly and carefully read aloud the designated prayer, to smiles and nods of encouragement from Leah's family. To them, at least in that moment, I was Jewish enough.

Later we would all hunt for the Afikomen, slip sliding on the polished mahogany floors in our socks. We would be given mesh bags of chocolate money, whether or not we were lucky enough to find the hidden matzoh.

St. Leonard

2010-03-23T12:58:00.001-07:00

Seth: You have such vivid Christian imagery in many of your songs, and much of it is contrasted with the selfishness of the "modern" individual. I was wondering what's your take on the state of Christianity today?

Leonard Cohen: Dear Seth, I don't really have a 'take on the state of Christianity.' But when I read your question, this answer came to mind: As I understand it, into the heart of every Christian, Christ comes, and Christ goes. When, by his Grace, the landscape of the heart becomes vast and deep and limitless, then Christ makes His abode in that graceful heart, and His Will prevails. The experience is recognized as Peace. In the absence of this experience much activity arises, divisions of ever sort. Outside of the organizational enterprise, which some applaud and some mistrust, stands the figure of Jesus, nailed to a human predicament, summoning the heart to comprehend its own suffering by dissolving itself in a radical confession of hospitality.

Laity Lodge No. 3

2010-03-22T14:58:00.000-07:00

Stand in the field
Arms wide open

Don’t curl up, anesthetized.
Filling the cracked and broken heart
with lipgloss,
movies,
and religion.

Stand at the water’s edge
and trust-fall into the icy emerald pool.

“Put your hand into my wounds”
And know who I am.

The Valley of Achon, of Trouble, becomes the Door of Hope.

Risen from the water,
the wounds remain.
But we are no longer alone with them.

Laity Lodge No. 2

2010-03-22T14:49:00.000-07:00

I have experienced disturbing kindness.
The kind that penetrates,
keeps your dinner warm,
and reduces you to sobs and shudders.

I have seen a blind woman paint.
Cheshire smile spreading
as her tiny, delicate hand applies crimson to the canvas.

I have been adopted
by a gentle woman made of love and Russian sweet bread.

I am not an orphan anymore.

I have been heard and named: beloved.

The locomotive wind arrives,
racing through the trees like a subway car.
Rattling my bones and promising deliverance.

In the shadow of the bald Cypress,
along the craggy driftwood and gravel path,
beside little Mary’s fountain.

I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see.

security words haiku

2010-03-22T13:41:00.000-07:00

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that flaming invented stuff
amazing hubris

soul vacation

constant Emperor invent epiphanies

relevant wisdom
common good

my nine lives and the ministry of lemon pudding

2010-03-12T09:29:00.001-08:00

Naming
I was named for the stage. When my parents stopped fighting long enough to conceive me, the only name my father, a frustrated singer ala Dean Martin, would allow- was Cameron. Alexandra, my middle name, I am led to believe was a nod to his Russian Empiric heritage. My mother, herself a professed relative of Grace Kelly and a studied actress, must've hoped what she carried in her belly would live the dream she'd sidelined for love.

I named Sydney, Sydney Shalom for similar reasons. Shalom- a nod to my father's Judaic heritage as well as a proclamation of my own Jesus centered aspirations. Sydney Shalom- in itself arresting and poetic, is a perfect "stage name" should she so choose. Her name embodies the Hope that the eschatalogical future will include the reconciliation of all broken things- broken relationships with my father and the broken ecosystem included- back to the Creator.

I intend to write much of this entry on mentors. The importance of them and the way I have come about them in my nine lives. I have had a remarkable life so far. I've supped with movie stars and hobos. I've walked the far east and the lower east side. I've sketched alongside world famous artists and gazed upon the live and in person face of the great Audrey Hepburn, which was at more than 80, the embodiment of stunning kindness.

A colleague once exclaimed over tex Mex- "How old are you?" When I amen'd and smiled at some obscure cultural reference from the 60s. I've had an incredible journey so far and I'm not even 35.

Writing this and naming these different 'lives' has confirmed for me how blessed I really am, and that everything is indeed a season. The mountaintop and the valley of the shadow of death. Both, seasons. Perhaps God in his wisdom and his mercy knows we can't take much of anything for very long. And that waiting -shapes us.

Now, to clarify the stage I am referring to is not the American Idol or Star Search stage. It's the stage of the golden voiced Sarah Berhardt, the Grand 'Ol Opry (even though I've never been there), the in the round or blackbox theater where real art happens and dreams come to life.

This is the stage I named my daughter for, and I imagine, the stage I was named for.

Mentor
Sadly for my mother I never showed much gift for the stage at a young age. I was desperately self conscious. Adolescence was not kind (it rarely is) and I was immobilized by trying to hide myself form the eyes of the world. My skin, my profile, my hair, was never right. Too pale, to pointy, to red. At the tale end of adolescence I encountered my first real mentor. His name is Michael Horowitz and he is a writer, editor and the primary archivist of Timothy Leary. He is also the father of actress Winona Ryder.

Though I was too self conscience to act myself, I was an avid fan. And the blondes of the 80s had made way for the broody depth of my dark haired hero, Winona. I saw her in Lucas. Scrawny, boyish and beautiful, a misfit. Walking poetry. Later called "the thinking man's movie star" she embodied all I loved and wanted to be.

Instead of cultivating my headshot and monologue (which as a teenager at the High School for the Performing Arts, living a half block from Lincoln Center, was quite radical) I wrote poetry. I discovered Alan Ginsberg (who I stalked all over the West Village). I discovered Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of the Mind (the actual Coney Island is where I would be baptized some 11 yrs later.) I discovered Jack Kerouac, and later Rainer Maria Rilke and Adrienne Rich. I identified myself as the maker not the muse.

And then I found Mike Horowitz. I was a fatherless, teenage poet and who better to mentor me than the father of my hero?

Reading an interview with Winona in Elle Magazine in my bedroom on the 21st floor, I came across a description of her father's business, a rare book mail order house specializing in rare books from the 60s. "Could I be so lucky?" I thought. I was writing a paper on the Beat Generation at the time for my AP English class and convinced myself that I had a legitimate reason to write to him. What could I lose?

What began as an inquiry for a book, turned into a bonifide pen pal and phone call mentorship. I cannot imagine what inspired this kind man to talk to me, encourage me and listen. I sent him my poems. He loved them. Or so he said "Keep going," he would say. "I am so proud of you."

My mother and I would later travel to Northern California, she on business, me on a pilgrimage to spend the day with Michael in North Beach, unearthing treasures of the beat writers in their original habitat. Later we would drive to Petaluma and have dinner at the family's kitchen table. Their kindness was shocking. They never questioned why this 16 year old stranger was hanging out with their Dad. We had dinner and conversation. I got to know Sunyata and Uri (2 of Winona's siblings who were living at home). I was enfolded and accepted.

Our correspondence continued for years. A self described LSD expert and Atheist, Michael Horowitz was the most fatherly man I had ever met. Though his values were not the best, he did care about me. And he encouraged my adventurous spirit, and most importantly my writing.

High Calling

2010-03-09T08:30:00.000-08:00

Lovelies:
Here's a brief note to attempt to explain the sudden widget on my blog. First, I am tremendously impressed with myself that I managed to install said widget. Slight trembling, slight sweaty panic. Phew. Cut and paste, easy enough. Please don't out my technological ineptitude.

Second, I don't know much about High Calling yet- except that it's a function of the HEB Foundation- something that alone I will support having just experienced their amazing work in restoring and encouraging Christians @ Laity Lodge

Third, it appears to be a community of non religious Christian writers interested in communicating honestly and encouraging each other to do the same.

Obviously, I signed up. Feel free to click the widget and browse. You might find yourself signing up as well.

I've got a slew of poems to post. Coming soon.

Love, Cameron

new poem

2010-03-08T14:52:00.000-08:00

Laity Lodge

There is something about this place.

We become like
one living organism.

Breathing in and out,
gathering close,
leaning toward

our common one-ness,
our made new-ness.

Grasping to lay hold of it.
Clawing out of the pit of isolation.

There is something about
the pockmarked moon rock,
the ancient limestone that is newborn,
yet grooved and layered like hardened lava.

You are baptized in the river
under the stars

Open up all the windows
and breathe
the air of potential.

Climb down the canyon
out of reach of phones
pets and children

Climb down the canyon
to the river,
to be transformed.

Sydney-isms

2010-02-22T07:33:00.001-08:00

First, is it possible I haven't blogged since "Christmas cards?" Pathetic!

I sincerely apologize to all one of you loyal readers :-).

Before I forget , I must share some Sydney-isms.
Here we go...

When playing Mary, baby Jesus and the angel in the bathtub with mermaid Barbies (yup, that's right, Sydney (Mary) told the Angel (me), "You can't take my baby, he's my baby Jesus"- Touching moment, yes, so I, er, the angel said "I'm not going to take your baby, I've just come to tell you to name him Jesus." And Sydney (Mary) replies, "Well, you can stay for breakfast, but only if you bring stickers."

"Where did you come from?" she asks while peering quizzicaly at my forehead. "Well, er, I came from Nanny." Patiently she replies, "All people come from Jesus."

Watching the Pittsburgh Steelers (my team) play the Dallas Cowboys (Mimi and Papa's team), I ask "Sydney, who are you going to root for?" She pumps her little fists in the air and exclaims "God!"

More to come.....

Christmas cards

2009-12-22T12:55:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-17T09:02:00.000-08:00

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).

2009-08-07T12:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-05T09:54:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-04T18:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-12T21:24:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-08T20:50:00.000-07:00

An unbelievable day from start to finish. It's almost too overwhelming to take in all at once, so I will start with it's ending.

Went to Montrose Street Reach tonight, known to most as "street church", a place where we've served on and off the last three years. Street church is a Wednesday night church service and meal for street people- homeless, prostitutes, drug addicts and dealers, gang bangers, etc. Usually when we go we lead worship. Once I gave my testimony. It was the first place I was applauded when I mentioned that I'd been 9 years drug free. That applause was startling, humbling and refreshing- I had something in common with these folks. Many of them obviously struggle with sobriety of many kinds.

But I digress. Street church is a very special place. The friends who run it, the volunteers who do music, serve food, play with the babies and toddlers of the attendees- those who pray with the folks who come, etc- all these people are amazing. But perhaps not nearly as amazing as the brave men and women who attend.

First person I see is Janie. Janie is a recent widow, mother of three children, who until fairly recently was living with her entire family in one motel room. She looks after the children and her husband- He recently died of cancer, but had struggled to support his family and pay his medical bills on his small salary. They were in bad shape when they started to come to street church. My friend Andrea made a B line for Janie and developed a close relationship with her that has lasted more than 3 years. Andrea advocates for Janie, organizes fun days for the kids, makes sure they have cooking utensils and appropriate bedding and furniture. Through street church and Andrea's persistence Janie's family moved into an actual apartment in the last year. Her husband Felipe died of cancer last winter and I sang at the memorial service.

I hadn't seen Janie since the service and when we saw eachother we hugged and we talked and cried together a little bit. She's doing good, but she misses her husband.

Kim Dale was preaching tonight and after music was over she started to talk. One of the first things she said was "Stay with me guys because this is going to get radical." This is a woman whose life is dedicated to helping people who are hopeless find hope. The hope that can deliver someone from the depths of the darkest pit to the joy of living in step with God. But she is not satisfied with just a change of heart- she wants to see people delivered- healed, restored, renewed and redeemed. There is a young man who suffered unspeakable sexual abuse at the hands of his mother's boyfriends, who became a trans-sexual prostitute, who came to street church This same young man showed up a few weeks after getting prayer dressed as a man for the first time in his life, with a job and a girlfriend. Healing for the un-healable.

This is just one of the many miracles that happen near Westheimer and Montrose when the holy rollers come out for street church.

When Kim preached tonight on Daniel, the one delivered from the lion's den, the holy spirit fell like a rain storm. As I listened to her heart cry out for these men and women and children to walk toward hope, toward God, toward redemption and restoration- tears just started rolling down my face. I got goose bumps all over my body. I was flooded with this yearning to see miracles happen.

And I did.

Tonight, a man named John is in Montrose, getting ready to head to NY tomorrow, where he will start life again with a job and a place to live among his family. John is joyful because his life changed tonight.

"I thought that guy was gonna kill me"! Matt and I met John two Fridays ago as we and some Irish friends talked and prayed with a few homeless kids in the neighborhood. John came charging at us, waving his arms, shouting something, generally scaring the crap out of us. When he got close to us, he started to laugh and shaked our hands as if it'd all been a big joke. He was high, probably on crack, and didn't stop moving for one second, just carried on his way, leaving us a little shocked in his wake.

Tonight he came to street church. I saw him kinda sheepishly heading over to where I was praying with some people. I said "Hey, I met you before, what's your name?" "John," he said, "your from Jamaica right?" "Yeah that's right, I am leaving tomorrow, going to NY."

I asked if Joe Williams (Preacher Joe) and I could pray with him for his trip. Before I knew it, Joe and John were praying and John was accepting Jesus Christ as his Lord, saviour, redeemer and friend. The floodgates opened and tears poured down my face. I got a picture of John as a little boy- and I tell him- that is how God sees you as a little boy, innocent and beloved. That is how God sees you now. The blood of Christ, this perhaps creepy, myth-like concept that seems so bizarre when you don't GET IT but seems so right when you do, covers him now.

The blood of Christ IS the passover sacrifice. We don't need to put the blood of sacrificed animals on our doorposts to tell the spirit of the Lord to preserve and protect us, as Israel did at the first passover. The mess we've made is way to massive to be atoned through an animal sacrifice. The only sacrifice that God will accept to atone for our lying, our malice, or perversion, our distrust, the prostitution of our spirits and our bodies, our neglect-- all of it-- the only sacrifice God will accept to cleanse us for all that we've done, considered doing and/ or will do- is the sacrifice of God himself. God sacrificed himself, his own flesh, his own Son (who IS Him) so we wouldn't suffer the plague of Death that is brought down on the Egyptians.

Proverbially or metaphorically speaking the Egyptians would be those who do not belong to God. You are Israel, if you choose to be. If you choose to fall under the protection of His blood.

So this is the second part of what I shared with John. When this guy comes around to sell him some stuff, when this girl comes around to get him into trouble, nothing but the blood of Jesus can keep him from it. Not his own willpower- but invoking the power of the name and the power of the blood- "I can do ALL THINGS through Christ who strengthens me."

John is in the kingdom tonight. And he will be tomorrow, and the next day and the next day. NOTHING he does, says, or thinks can separate him from the love of God. He will spend eternity in the ecstatic presence of the Creator and the angels that worship Him. If he chooses to, he can spend this life in that same presence.

So pray for John, or if you don't pray, send up good thoughts, dance a jig, I don't care how you do it- BUT PRAY FOR JOHN. Let him be another miracle story. In many ways he already is.

Shalom y'all,

Cameron

what are we missing?

2009-07-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-20T20:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-31T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-26T20:06:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-16T21:50:00.000-07:00

Matt's new website.

Rolling

2009-05-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-02T20:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-28T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-08T10:50:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-03-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-10T11:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-22T19:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T21:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-04T19:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T20:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-04T19:46:00.000-08:00

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.

Holiday Hangover

2008-12-28T16:52:00.000-08:00

I think this year's Christmas was the best and went by the fastest. I can't believe it's all over; worship services; presents wrapped; Santas's cookies eaten; family fed and enjoyed. It just went by so fast I feel like I barely got to catch up with all my loved ones. Sydney had a time- and really got the hang of "i want to open presents..."

I guess I kind of have the holiday hangover- feeling kinda sad and nostalgic. Overwhelmed by the amount of cleaning and organizing that must happen at my house. Preferring to crawl into bed and escape into a good book (Breaking Dawn) or critically acclaimed TV drama (MadMen). What is that thing we do, the escapism we crave? At the mall, the bar, church? Wherever. I think we all do it. Something Michael Palandro said today really hit home. We need to stop trying to make room for God in our idealized future and let him into our present. We sometimes miss what's happening now, because we are so focused on the "I'l be happy when..."

Pretty profound stuff I think. I'm thinking about it. Sydney is making pictures.

Love,
Cameron

baby's first Christmas

2008-12-24T22:11:00.000-08:00

This is the site at my house tonight. Santa's cookies are half eaten and his milk is all gone. The tricycle has a big red bow on it and there are too many presents to mention. Even though this is really Sydney's 3 Christmas (she was born in August of 06) it's really the first time she gets it. I can't wait for tomorrow morning.

I can't sign off without a word about the reason for the season as it were. As Doug said tonight, there is no mess to messy for God. No matter where you may be or how disqualified you may think you are from God's love, He is right there beside you ready to give it. Hallelujah indeed.

Merry Christmas.

xoCameron

another doozy

2008-12-21T20:11:00.003-08:00

"Mommy, " she giggles, "I'm so happy."

I mean really, this is the best. What could beat that. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Ok, maybe it was the 7up. And the sleep deprivation (2 worship services, 15 hour day). Or the ice cream. Or the fun with Mimi and Papa, Brian and Andrea and Mommy and Daddy. Whatever it was, her reflection at the end of this day was "Mommy, I'm so happy."

A thought occured to me when Sydney was 3 or 4 months old. It had to do with the ferocity of our love for our children. It's huge and desperate and if we stopped to think about it, or if we talked about it, a geyser of emotion would threaten to erupt. Protectiveness, elation, wonder, awe. But it's not a passive love or a delicate love. It's almost vicious. I was still in the throes of the emotional ups and downs post partum and was sure this thought was insane, but time has passed, I'm no longer nuts, and I still believe this to be true.

It's almost like, we roll our eyes and talk about the struggles (Oh, she was up at 4:30am, or Oh, she ate her weight in Christmas cookies, or Oh that child never stops moving!)- just so that we won't make fools of overselves weeping over the sheer joy and passion we feel for them.

Maybe I am speaking only of mothers- maybe not- but it's something I've experienced that I suspect I am not alone in.

Sydney's Song

2008-12-20T19:51:00.000-08:00

Here she is. When they say your children will imitate you they are not kidding. This was perhaps one of the warmest moments of motherhood for me yet. Totally without prompting my brilliant little girl pulled up to the piano and began "writing a song". She would play and sing a little, then stop, and "write" a few notes down on the notepad. Just like mommy does. What a miraculous gift children. How they carve a totally unique existence from yours. Visit my facebook to see a bunch more recent photos. Love, Cameron

spammers beware & ephiphany 1 and 2

2008-12-16T20:23:00.000-08:00

I will personally thrash anyone selling beachside condos or "free internet speed tests" (what the heck is that) who posts a phoney comment on my blog. I will find you and you will be sorry.

Now, onto other business. I've revised my position. My church is really cool and most of the moms - possibly more than half -are working outside the home- and inside of course (our jobs are never done). There really is equal love for whichever you choose and frankly everyone is probably to busy to care that much about what you're doing anyway. Regarding staying home or not. I have no bone to pick on that subject and since we are all on the same page (whatever works best for the family) let's move on.

My bone to pick is with the invisibiliy of post partum depression and the lack of support from within the church community. The unspoken message is "If child bearing and rearing doesn't make you feel like your blissed out on some happy drug- and if you can't stop crying, even 6 months into it- well then you aren't much of a woman, or a Christian". Folks, this twisted inner dialogue is extreme I know, and may only be my own, but I would like to dig a bit and find out what women really think- how many have suffered through it in silence- and why.

When I started talking about it, I was amazed at how many have responded with, "I went through that too," or "I'm going through that now." Personally I was so afraid to admit it to others and to myself that I suffered much longer than I should have. I will do whatever I can to prevent another mom from going through that.

Another epiphany I'd like to record here is that I have realized why my PR hat makes me sometimes gag. When I am PR'ing these days I am doing it for good and worthy things. I work for a church. Everything these people do is selfless and loving, so there is no danger I'm hawking a bum toaster. For me, a former fashion PR person aka bum toaster hawker, I still associate PR'ing with a subtle icky feeling. Even though when these stories get picked up God is glorified- no question, I still feel this vague guilt, for seeking publicity or attention for something that may not be worthy of it. Thing is, it is worthy. Way worthy.

I spent the day in Galveston with one of our members who took $100 of "seed money"- Kingdom Assignment money- and turned it into 2130 new winter coats for the students of Ball High School in Galveston who lost EVERYTHING in Hurrican Ike. She raised $36,000 in 5 weeks, and the kids were just blown away. It was so humbling and moving to see their reaction. Some took a coat to give to a parent or teacher whom they felt needed it more than they did. Even thought it was 38 degrees outside and most of the kids didn't have coats of their own.

I need to get a life.

I have to re-train my thinking; I am not seeking the clients approval or the reporters- I am seeking to use my gifts to get people talking about what God cares about- loving our neighbors, feeding the hungry, caring for the fatherless and the widowed. I have to stop deriving my self worth from how appreciated I feel by my co workers or even how many media hits I secure. I have to repeat to myself like a mantra, "For God to be glorified," so I don't forget it for one second. WHAT AN EPIPHANY! I can't wait to get back to PRing for a great cause tomorrow. I'll let you know how it goes.

Love and Coco Puffs,
Cameron

more on this

2008-12-15T20:33:00.000-08:00

My gorgeous cousin, who has four kids and knows a few things about being a mommy, posted an awesome comment to my last entry...take a look.

See, I don't think there is a right or wrong when talking about to "stay home" or "not to stay home." I think it depends on the person. But the culture inside the church that I've noticed definitely seems to support the notion that "the right" or "the best" thing for infants/ toddlers is to be home with Mom. Which I think is fantastic if that's what's right or best for Mom too, but if it's not, then it's not empirically right or best. Does that make sense? It depends on what kind of care if provided for the child, where it is, when it is, etc. But even so, God makes up for where we lack. We can't be perfect. The best we can be is ourselves. Asking God to take over where I lack. And actually letting Him. That's been the hardest lesson of early motherhood I think. If He can make a candle burn for 8 days or raise Jesus from the dead He can certainly make up for what I lack for the child whom He loves more than I ever could. The latter a hard concept to swallow but true - if we believe.

My deal has been amazing. I started working part time when Sydney was 3 months old. She was in childcare at the church onsite. Not only was this incredible but it was close enough that I could see her every hour if I wanted to. But what I wanted was to think and talk and write and create. Being able to do that 20 hours a week made me a better mommy. Now she is in preschool - still on site- while I work 9- 2:30 four days a week, and church on Sundays. She is 2 and counts to 10 spells her name and can say water in three languages. I realize this is not the typical set up, but it was a blessing/ and still is a major blessing for me to have her learning and growing at the same place I am.

I am sure that she would be doing all these things if I was at home with her everyday, but I'm not, and she's doing great anyway.

I should talk more about the PP (post partum) to explain maybe why I am even writing about this. But I will. Soon enough. Now, I'm exhausted. Wrote a new song today and have officially written the beginnings of a Christmas album. Seems I'm obsessed with Christmas.

Ok, Love + Ice Cream.

Cameron

feminism, momism and other myths

2008-12-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

I've been batting around some ideas lately about women and their roles, inside and outside the church.

I've been thinking about writing about my experience with post partum depression and anxiety - in an attempt to start a conversation among Christian women on the subject. The mass media has just gotten around to talking about post partum - thanks to Brooke Shields and the like. But it seems to me that when it come to some issues of gender identity, the culture - if not the prescribed beliefs of the church- is 25 years behind the times.

A book that came out in '04- The Mommy Myth- attempted to address the issue of the pressures of motherhood from a feminist perspective. I think I speak for many gen X'ers- Christians or not- when I say that though well intentioned and successful on certain fronts- the Feminist movement never got it right. Since it's rocket- like launch in the 60s, to it's asteroidal crash landing- right into Britney Spears and Martha Stewart- in the 21st century, feminism has been cast as irrelevant and outdated, along with flower power and power suits.

But the church, the bride of Christ, shouldn't project the same impossible standards on women. Shouldn't depend on culture to give us our identities and define our roles. God doesn't love us because we're good at anything- whether it be neurosurgery or motherhood- does he?

I'm going to be exploring this issue and writing about it on my own...just to see what I can come up with. If you've got an experience to relate I would love to hear about it. I am going to start with my own and my friends (they shall all remain nameless of course). But I am inspired to tell a different sort of story from within the church. A story of the power and potential, pitfalls and struggles, joys and sorrows- of a generation of women trying to live their lives for the Glory of God. And trying to get all the rest of it right too.

Let me know what you think.

-Cameron

something good

2008-12-11T18:52:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's my co-dependant nature (can one be co-dependant with unknowable blog readers? If anyone can, I can) but I can't leave you with that last post and not the hopeful follow up.

I had an epiphany about seminary and have decided to get back in the saddle, but a slightly different on. Tailoring the degree to what I do and want to do (worship, theology, art), rather than what I don't (weddings and funerals). I am really excited about it. And Matt is doing amazingly with his new custom music production business. He's busy and had a great new business meeting today. I am grateful.

I need to go register for classes but I am excited to- with a vastly more attainable and useful goal in mind. And a revised picture of how I limit myself, God does not. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

retail therapy- delayed post

2008-12-09T20:53:00.000-08:00

It's a strange day that begins with frosting cookies, seems to skate through irritation after irritation, flirts with retail therapy and settles on the book of John, chapter 3 v. 30.

I don't think it's impossible, or fictional, in fact I know it's real because I've lived it, but it's bizarre nonetheless. Honestly, I feel as though I am experiencing the identity crisis that one would expect in college when trying to choose a major, or even in high school when trying to choose a college. But here I am, 33, a mother and wife, with a mortgage and the like and I'm still not sure I'm doing what I will be doing for the rest of my life.

Am I being obtuse? I have realized this week that I have shortchanged a part of me (the music part) for the part that is easier to explain at the cocktail parties I don't go to anymore (the PR part). I've resigned myself that I couldn't do that other thing full time for a living because it's just not practical, but I can do the thing I'm good at that I don't love because it is.

I'm just being honest. Don't panic or anything. Everything's fine. It's just that I've realized I've been trying to fit a square peg in a rectangular hole. It fits if you shove and stretch a bit but it ain't right. This may be the stuff of diaries and not blogs and so I will wait to publish this one, but ya know. It feels so good to realize this. My shortchanging has not been valid or reasonable or justified. The thing that I love IS the thing I'm good at, and I should be focused on getting better and richer in knowledge and purpose within that. Doing the thing that puts Him at the center, at the focus. That He must become more; I must become less.

star o wonder

2008-12-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

so it is 9:30pm and we are all in bed which can mean only one thing....a 7am call time! Yeah! Actually I am so excited because I get to sing the most amazing song ever. It's so incredible that it is no problem what so ever to get us all up, including the two year old, at 5ish to get ready. In fact I can't wait. I do have that throat tickle and hoarseness that is threatening to throw me into a panic- but I've never been a voice panicker before and I don't intend to start now. I am, however, speaking only in whispers and wearing a scarf to bed. I've become my high school voice major classmates. Ah! Where's my slippery elm!? Wait, I just whispered that because I am not aloud to speak. After 5pm. On performance days. On any days really. I actually knew people like this. It's cool though. I need to respect my voice more. I need to like warm up sometimes. What a novel concept. I don't realize what a gift and blessing it is until I can't use it. Like when I've lost my voice. It amazes me how much singing to myself is therapy. Like rocking back and forth in a ball in the corner of the room. Whether or not another human hears is irrelevant. It's really just for me. That's such a cool thing. God designed it as such. He knows all this. And losing my voice was kind of like fasting music but not on purpose. I've learned so much in times when I couldn't , or didn't play or sing. Like how it IS a gift. But it's not the extent of my value or my worth. In fact my value has nothing to do with it. How well I sing or for who or how many has no bearing whatsoever on the way I am seen by God. That's a mind blower for me and always has been. God's love is not conditional on my abilities, or my actions. Or inactions. This is something I need to remind myself of alot. We all do.

So Labor of Love is the song. Andrew Peterson wrote it. Jill Philips sings it. Check it out.

Resolution

2008-12-03T18:25:00.000-08:00

Amazingly enough it seems that the crisis in Thailand is on the mend. I just looked at photos of the airport from CNN- hundreds of riot police, thousands of protestors, bombs, tourists sleeping on baggage belts, etc. It is literally by the grace of God that we did not get caught in that. Wow. It's a sobering thought. Not because I think we would've been hurt or anything, but more the stress of that would've just been so over the top for us in light of the crazy year we've had. I feel more aware of God as a father when I think of this. It was just his mercy. And don't think the idea of being caught in the middle of that isn't a little bit exciting, b/c it is (scary?)...but God knows that is not the kind of exciting I can handle right now.

Which brings me to the exciting I can handle. And no, I'm not pregnant. (Why does everybody think that's what I'm gonna say?)

We are performing a song I wrote called "Emmanuel" on Sunday. When I wrote it on the piano, as I do, I had no idea it was going to become what it is going to become on Sunday. Hats off to Brian Mann for arranging and producing on the fly during rehearsal yesterday. That guy is so over the top talented it's spooky. He had exactly the right direction for us, the band, to give that song wings. It was such an indulgent treat for me, such giddy joy. I felt like a twelve year old kid who got asked to sit with the cool kids at lunch. "You like me? You really like me?"

This is where the resolution comes in; that question about being an artist I was wrestling with. This is my primordial heart beat and there is no denying it. Creating music. Writing songs. Seeing the pieces come together, layer upon layer. Experiencing it and being impacted by the generosity of a God who let's me do this. It's just so amazing. Matt and I literally looked at eachother after practice the other night and he just said "This is so amazing. This life. Getting to play with these people." It really is just such an illustrious, over the top gift. So thanks, friends for letting us play with you, worship with you. And thanks God for blessing me so massively..me with the sometimes short temper, me with the lousy self discipline, me with the insecurities, me so undeserving. Yet the "me" doesn't change who "You" are. And your insistence on loving me like crazy, anyway.

G'night.

Cameron

The Rabbit Room

2008-12-01T19:03:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it's fitting that I should stumble across The Rabbit Room whilst listening to Andrew Peterson's "Labor of Love" 10 million times.

Let me clarify, if I could I would. 10 million times. Yes because it's great. Because it shows "little Mary full of Grace" in such a real way that the Christmas story will never be the same. Yes because I am singing it in front of folks who are a lot better at singing and such than I am- tomorrow. And because I need to make "practice" part of my vocabulary.

That said, back to the Rabbit Room. It is a website proprieted (a word?) by Andrew Peterson, who is the artist/ writer who brought us Behold The Lamb of God. I just read his blog posting about why and what - as far as this Rabbit Room and it inspired me so much I would like to reprint a bit of it here but something terrible is happening with my computer. Basically this site is a forum for writers and artists who have "succumbed the the origin of there inspiration" aka God, to talk, rant, request, deny, and praise. All I've read is AP's own explanation of the name (the room in the local pub where Tolkein, Lewis and the like drank stout and talked shop)- and the intent of the site- "I believe in the role of the artist" - he says.

It's such a touchy subject for me. To which camp do I belong? Am I an artist? Am I a worship leader? Am I an entrepreneur? Am I a missionary? A wife? Mother? And why do I have to pick one? Or even two. Or three. I have struggled with this so long. I never really have ever fully fit in with one camp or the other. Maybe I travel between worlds and that's ok.

Without a doubt I agree with Peterson, I believe in the role of the artist. But I am not sure if, or what, I believe about my role as an artist. It's a conundrum. Frankly my own creations are limited to this blog and the smattering of songs I've had time to write in between diaper changes, trips to Thailand, my job at Grace (which itself is quite duplicitous) and seminary. The latter deserves a post-of-explanation all it's own.

At risk of further delving into "Are you there God it's me Cameron" ruminations, I will change the subject and offer a massive praise report and a massive prayer request.

Speaking of Thailand. There are over 100,000 people stranded at the Bangkok airport. Some of them I may know. And none of them are me. Or Matt. Praise God for that. The rest we needed is the rest we got, even if by the skin of our teeth. Thank You Jesus.

Please pray (and I am pleading with myself to do this) for little Moshe, and all the children who've lost parents to violence, this week in Mumbai, but everyday, somewhere in this crazy, broken world.

Thanks for reading.

Love,
Cameron

Narita Airport, Japan

2008-11-16T22:41:00.000-08:00

Back in Tokyo, at the airport at least. Matt and I just got paged - not sure what that's about. Hopefully all is well and we will be off and on our way to Houston shortly. Asia is intense. So many different sights, sounds and smells. I am so grateful for the opportunity to visit here. I like Japan alot. Very very different from Thailand, culturally speaking. But I love Thailand, but for different reasons. If I was one for culture shock I certainly would've experienced it, but by the grace of God I have not. Last night in Bangkok almost did it to me- but sleep won out.

All is well with our tickets to Houston. We board in less than an hour. I miss Sydney so much it physically hurts. I cannot wait to see her. We got her many many fun little presents.

See you all soon.

Love,
Cameron

Weird Hotel, Bangkok

2008-11-16T08:33:00.001-08:00

Yeah, so..note to self. No boutique hotels in Bangkok. Now I understand why my mom's boyfriend favors chain hotels when travelling in far off places. At least at the Hilton you know what to expect. Ok, it's really not that bad. Clean and pretty modern. But it smells like moth balls. Weird.

Anyway, 4 am wake up call will come soon God willing :-) We've had such an awesome trip. I was sad to leave Chaingmai and our precious little woodsy hotel there. All the locals were so awesome and friendly. We had a great time with Paul and Mandy. To be honest it will be a LONG time before I eat Thai food. I am dying for a real cheeseburger and french fries.

So on this side of the world things are different. I feel that more here in the weird hotel and in the crazy Battlestar Gallactica airport in Bangkok.

Anyway, we are fine, just anxious like all get out to get home and hug Sydney. And give her all the presents we got her!

Pray for safe and easy travels through 3 international airports and innumerable time zones. Thanks. Love , Cameron

Last Day

2008-11-15T17:40:00.000-08:00

We've had such a deeply refreshing time here. It's so wonderful to see my husband so relaxed and encouraged. Please visit www.facebook.com/camerondezenhammon for pics. More later.

Across the Sea

2008-11-14T03:31:00.000-08:00

We have moved into our new hotel and I am quite relieved (phew) b/c I chose this place site unseen and three other people were depending on me to make a good choice. It is amazing. I will upload some photos. We are in the middle of a very green area and it's very natural feeling- we have a two story room with a big gorgeous bathroom - two tvs, free wifi, etc...And it's dirt cheap. Wow.

It's been wonderful spending the last week with missionaries. Even though we were off exploring during the day when they were in their learning tracks, we got to enjoy worship, teaching and small group times with the UWM group (United World Missions). We literally hung out with people living in Khazikstan, Timbuktu, Sczechuan Province, Belgium, Costa Rica and the good 'ol US of A. I mean....Timbuktu. That's a real place, where churches are being planted, people are getting acquainted with the one True Living God and M's (that's missionaries to you and me who live in countries with freedom of religion) are sacrificing their comfort and security to be God's hands and feet on earth.

It's pretty humbling stuff. One couple in particular, the ones in Timbuktu, Nepal really struck us. He is the recipient of 6 Dove awards (the Christian Grammy's) and had a successful and promising career in Nashville in the Christian music industry. He left all that and went out on the mission field, living with and among Nepali's for whom Jesus Christ is a foreign and altogether alien concept. One guy who lives in China said that when he finally got up the nerve to answer the question "Why are you here?" with "God sent me"- he found himself faced with a lot of very curious and interested Chinese. Who is this Jesus? And why would you leave your life in America to come here?

Missions is a value that cannot be disputed or denied among believers in the Living God. But as it was pointed out in the message today- Romans 13- we need to understand what that means 'in light of the present day.' What does that mean today? Where you are. Where you live? Why is Jesus relevant to your life, right now?

I continually had the image in my mind of a tuning fork, vibrating with the harmony of God: hope, love and peace. That is what a missionary must be- a tuning fork, a lightening rod- radiating the sound and the vision of rebirth, of life out of death, of redemption and renewal. That is what you are. What I am. No matter where we live.

We're off again tonight to the Night Bazaar- a melee of sounds and sights Thailand style. We will be visiting with a young American couple in Belgium who have amazing gifts that would equip them for coffeehouse ministry in Budapest !!!;-) Of course the incredible Paul and Mandy are our partners in crime for the next two days and they will also be with us tonight...

Blessings and Love....Sawadee Ka!!! (Thank you)....

Cameron

Salty Decisions

2008-11-13T08:55:00.001-08:00

So sorry for the delay in getting a post up. Our friends Paul and Mandy Falgout have just joined us to the balance of our time here- we are moving hotels tomorrow and the conference is wrapping up! We are FINALLY in vacation mode! I say finally because it has been over two years since we've had one so this weekend is going to be all about relaxing. Can't wait.

We've learned something- it's time to make salty decisions. Being the salt of the earth means changing the world by the decisions you make day by day and moment by moment.

Sorry to be vague but I will go more into that later.

We've come to Chiangmai during Loi Krathong- a Buddist festival where thousands of paper lanterns are lit and released into the sky like mini hot air baloons. It's a cross between the fourth of July and New Years eve- and it lasts for four days. It's been the most magical, breathtaking experience.

We wandered into the most expensive hotel in Chaingmai quite by accident and decided to splurge and have dinner on the river, with a birds eye view of all the festivities. It took our breath away. A blessing quite unexpected- the best kind.

Blogger isn't cooperating so you'll have to visit my facebook page to see pics- www.facebook.com/camerondezenhammon

Love, C

Chaingmai, Thailand

2008-11-08T19:50:00.000-08:00

We made it!

We are here in beautiful Chaingmai, Thailand. The journey here was far more difficult from Tokyo- then Houston to Tokyo. Jet lag is pretty non existent. It's easier to jump 12 hours than the 7 to Budapest. Speaking of, we had a wonderful time reconnecting with our friend Chad Hallowell from Budapest via Tyler, Tx- who invited us to lead worship for this conference. Which, by the way is called "The University Conference" b/c there is no freedom of religion here in Thailand so we are flying a bit under the radar. Can you imagine such a thing? Especially you guys in Houston. Not being able to hold a Christian event for fear of government intervention. The feeling I get though is that no one is going to bother with Americans doing Christianity but I wonder how that would change with Thais.

None the less today is a free day and we are going to go check out some elephants! We miss Sydney terribly so if you see here give her a BIG kiss. We will skype her tonight.

Love,
Cameron

Welcome to Japan

2008-11-07T04:10:00.001-08:00

We are really in awe. As I sit in our hotel room for the night (it's 9:00 pm here) I cannot believe I am in Japan. God is so cool. We are going to go explore the hotel a bit. Tomorrow we leave in the morning for Bangkok. Japanese people are beautiful and small. And very polite. I see on CNN that there is crisis in the Congo. I just got done reading Ishmael Beah's incredible memoir of his time spent as a child soldier in Sierra Leone. It brought that struggle home for me. Check it out.

Love,

Cameron

Going to Thailand

2008-11-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

Y'all!

In the airport, flight delayed, but not by much. Very tight connection. Worse comes to worse we spend the night in Tokyo which would be totally cool :-) so I'm not complaning. Perhaps I have visions of lost in translation dancing in my head, but what an awesome opportunity that may never come again, right?

This whole trip has been such a God thing- Maybe I sound like a broken record but it is. When we were originally invited to Thailand we had no connection to the place but were thrilled for the adventure. Since then, really in the last few weeks, we've built relationships with people working in Chaingmai and going to Chiangmai. It's crazy! International Justice Mission has an office there and we are going to visit with them. A new friend- the director of distribution for Call + Response- will be arriving the day we leave. We are going to try to meet at a cafe for an hour or so by the airport. I would love to help them with the regional publicity for the movie, really anything I can do to get the word out about it.

Ok, I am going to say later, and eat something. Blessings, C

What's at Stake

2008-11-03T17:54:00.000-08:00

I've heard this said alot in regard to tomorrow's election. "Do you know what's at stake?" "Our future is at stake.." and "the most important election of our lifetime." I've heard this over and over again from both sides of the fight. And make no mistake a fight it is. I've wrestled with voting one way and not another, with not voting, with writing someone in...just not sure who. It would be so much easier, or at least it feels that way for me to vote a particular way (ahem, ahem) because my family (or at least some of them) would be pleased with me. I would fit into a particular group at work, at church, among friends. But perhaps for just that reason I resist such a decision.

This business about what's at stake: here is my point.

I am reading a book about a young boy in Sierra Leone in 1993. One day he is skipping stones and listening to Eric B. & Rakim on cassette tape. The next his family is murdered by "revolutionaries", murdering their country men in the name of freedom from an oppressive government. Weeks later, devastated, wandering and half starved he is drafted into the national army of his country. Barely big enough to carry the AK-47 he is given, he is transformed and trained by revenge to murder on command. He is 12 years old. "Do you know what's at stake?" his commanders would ask him. "Do you want these (insert un printable expletive)'s running your country?"

I bring this up because in other parts of the world, the venomous division that we are only getting a taste of, leads all to often to bloodshed. I was thinking about how in many, many other countries I wouldn't dream of leaving the country just days after an election without my child. In many other places "unrest" follows these sorts of elections and more often than not bloodshed.

The judgements that are passed on either side are so simplistic-- and both naive and cynical. Obama is Hope and McCain will save us. Obama is dangerous and McCain is evil. No matter which adjective goes in front of which name - all these labels are simplistic and sad. Obama will not, can not save you. Neither can McCain. There is only one who can do such a job and He is as utterly unpopular as not voting. This perception that either candidate can represent Jesus is the most ridiculous notion imaginable. Politics cannot save you.

Start with the one. Gary Haugen talks about this so eloquently. If you really want to put your time, money and effort toward something that will change your world, start with your neighbor. Try treating the bus boy at your favorite cafe with the respect of looking him in the eye and asking his name. Roll down your window and talk to the homeless woman panhandling on the corner. Take the money you spend on Starbucks each week and sponsor a child for a month. This will change things, and it's the only kind of change that really matters. It's the one. Caring enough about another human being, for no other reason that they are beloved of the One who created you. And me. And Obama. And McCain.

Fair warning, don't pass judgement on those who might not share your views. Trust God. Put your life in his hands. See where that goes.

And a postscript. Please don't ask me if I've voted, or who I've voted for. I'm voting for Love and for reconciliation and for healing and for redemption. And that's what matters to me. We've all got to put our heads on that pillow each night. Do what you've got to do. That's my vote.

Shalom,
Cameron

Welcome to the Fight

2008-10-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

Just got home from the Texas Benefit Dinner for International Justice Mission (ijm.org) and have just now after a few hours processing what we saw and heard...come back down to earth. Sort of. Is it normal to learn about slavery and oppression and feel an overwhelming desire to run headlong into the fight. It's a bizarre sensation. Vibrating like a tuning fork in anticipation of what God is gonna do with us.

My heartbreak for forced prostitution was made complete in Budapest and I was a part of a start up anti trafficking taskforce. Our aim was to get our structure together to attract IJM or something like it. I lined up behind the autograph seekers and practiced "Nice to meet you Mr. Haugen. Please come to Eastern Europe."

Believe it or not he gave me a few names and his email address and told me to write and he would put me in touch with others who have the same idea.

I also talked to one of the IJM staffers who was at the benefit and asked if we could volunteer at their office in Chaing Mai, Thailand, while we are there next week. We exchanged info and she promised to put me in touch with the office. She said the work they do is not "exciting" because after their office was established there, they documented a 90% decline in forced prostitution and so now they mainly do follow up and help victims with citizenship issues.

My mom will be happy to know the extent of our involvement will likely be stuffing envelopes or licking stamps. Which is just fine by me.

Friends and Family please do pray for us while in Thailand. We will be leading worship for a missionary training conference and will be of course leaving Sydney with friends and family :-) Please pray for her peace and comfort as well as travelling mercies for us (read: Houston to Tokyo to Bangkok to Chiang Mai....phew!)

My inspiration is totally renewed and I am so excited for...something. Just not sure what exactly.

Love,
Cameron

New Leaf

2008-10-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

Hey Buddies,
Maybe it's the weather but there is a newness in the air. A new season, yes, definitely, but it feels like more than that. Had an epiphany lunch today (thanks Kim). Left feeling like "Maybe I don't have all the answers and that's ok".

On a shallower note (is that a word, wait of course not, I know "shallower" is not a word) I am definitely getting my hair cut this week and I am excited. I get into these phases where I want to dye my hair a different color or cut it a different way constantly. I think I can get addicted to "new" a little bit.

I'm going to go not watch election coverage.

Blessings,
Cameron

the clothes we wear, the miles they travel

2008-10-20T19:30:00.000-07:00

Do you ever look yourself in the eye at night, maybe after taking your contacts out, getting ready to brush teeth and read that book you can't wait to get back to. Do you ever think "I had no idea when I put these clothes on this morning how crazy this day would be." You get back home that night and your once fresh and laundered clothes are wrinkled, warm and warn. Perhaps tell tale signs indicate where you've been, perhaps not. Maybe it's just the person inside them who carries the transformation the day has brought.

Obviously today was one of those days for me. It was very much like how I experienced our street outreaches in Budapest. At the beginning of the outreach as we'd gather in the park, just a rag tag bunch, to pray and plan inevitably I'd think "there's no way something amazing is going to happen today. Everything today is just so...ordinary." Inevitably, it would be anything but ordinary.

Tonight, another rag tag bunch gathered to commune under the auspices of Jesus. At Brasil, an uber hip coffeehouse in Montrose, over the music, airplanes and traffic and in the near dark of the patio 11 of us (strangers to each other for the most part) gathered. It was transformational. It's amazing what God can do with our 'just one cup of water and a little oil and flour.' With the little we have to give he can make miracles and as far as I am concerned he did that tonight. So thank You. God. You rocked it.

Love,
Cameron

memories

2008-10-15T10:28:00.001-07:00

Reconciliation in Budapest

When we arrived in Budapest this June with 6 suitcases, a recording studio and a toddler in tow, we had no idea how different we would be 10 weeks later, when we again attempted to navigate Ferighy airport.

I had gone on my very first mission trip less than a year prior and was so transformed by it, that my husband Matt and I decided to move our family to the ‘mission field ‘ the following summer. We were greeted by our now dear friend Steve Johnson, who patiently loaded up our myriad bags and listened to our excited, sleep deprived chatter as we drove to our new home in the lush 11^th district of Budapest.

As the summer flew by and the foreign became familiar we had the privilege of working with a number of short term teams who had come from the States. All had come like we had, to spend a week or two or three or 10 (in our case) serving the ministry of YWAM Budapest. Eager and passionate, each person had unique gifts and were clearly called by God to be there, at that time.

As each team arrived we were jolted from the delicate cocoon we had created of assimilation; speaking as little English as possible, investing in real friendships with local Hungarians- mostly non Christians, building community with the coffee and sandwich vendors we visited every day. Suddenly our low-key identity was blown and we were once again Christians from Houston; aliens in a strange land.

But here’s the amazing part. The first person we really connected with and were able to share the Gospel with, was an American backpacker from California. A young man on a journey, who’d been backpacking for months and had vowed to continue until his shoes wore out; even after his carefully saved trip money had long since evaporated. Our YWAM extended family, which included the year round staff at YWAM Budapest and the short term teams that were passing through, willingly adopted our new friend, Marcus. He stayed with us, ate with us, attended bible studies and street outreaches with us. He was not a Christian, he said, but he believed in God, and was searching for the truth about Him. He was also searching for his own history; his father had been a part of the tragic 1956 Revolution in Budapest, where thousands of students were killed protesting the tyranny of the Communist government. His father had escaped, leaving behind his family and identity- never to return.

Marcus spent many evenings talking to his father on Skype, telling him of the Christians he’d met in Budapest, the landmarks he’d seen. It was a chance for father and son to connect and mend the difficult relationship between them.

Matt and I spent many hours around the kitchen table talking with Marcus and praying for him. Praying for reconciliation with his father, but most importantly, praying for reconciliation with his Father in Heaven.

The evening before Marcus was scheduled to leave Budapest, we were out playing Christian songs in our favorite city park. A freak summer storm released copious thunder, rain and hail on us as we huddled together trying to protect the instruments. “Marcus,” I said, half jokingly, “I would feel a lot better about this being the end of the world if I knew you were going to Heaven with us.” To my shock he agreed, and moments later, in the midst of a city park in Budapest as golf ball sized hail stones scattered across the pavement, Marcus was praying to accept Christ.

I had never had the privilege before of leading someone in prayer to the Lord and if I never do again it will be ok. God’s grace and power was so evident in that moment, the thrill of seeing Him so present and so active it will surely last me a lifetime.

What I want to say, what we want to say, is THANK YOU, all of you who prayed, who wrote, who supported us in our mission to Budapest this summer. We are so humbled by your love and support and by your faithfulness to His call, to “go and make disciples of all the nations.” Even those of our own nation, however far they may be from home.

-Cameron and Matt Hammon

A rare and shining moment

2008-10-10T21:19:00.001-07:00

Hats off to John McCain for attempting to stop the locomotive of fear and thinly veiled hate that both campaigns are running into the ground. He stopped in the middle of a town hall meeting where people were verbatim quoting his campaigns own commercials back to him, and he disagreed with them. I guess it's a hats off but it's really a disappointment to me that an obviously principled man- McCain- has sunk to the low I believe he has in order to try to win this election. Where is the maverick anyway? What I am seeing and hearing is acme model #001 republican political candidate. It doesn't even really seem like him at all.

I don't really know how I can even vote in this election. I am totally baffled at how there seems no choice. Is Nader running in this one? I saw him in an old episode of Sesame Street the other day I was watching with Sydney. I think we'd actually be better off with someone who can hold there own with Big Bird.

Someone once said it's impolite to talk about politics and religion. Hmmmm. I guess I lose there.

On a lighter note I had a blast today with Sydney- we went to the park, rode the train, had lollipops, played with bubbles. By the end of the day we were stuffed, happy and exhausted. I can never get enough of the smell of her hair, or is it her forehead. That smell that is "your child." My mom still does that to me. Smells my head or kisses my forehead. It must never go away, that passionate protective reverie that a mother has for her child. I am actually really grateful for the time we have just the three of us. Alot of people ask me when the next baby is coming, but we are just so happy with this one. We want her to have a little more time with our undivided attention.

I'd like to post a little piece I wrote for the Grace Quarterly about Budapest. I will do that tomorrow... that's all for now...

Love, Cameron

What God has joined together...

2008-10-06T20:32:00.001-07:00

Just have to blog a few words about an absolutely magical wedding we were a part of tonight. Our friends Daragh and Kara- he being Irish- she being American- got married tonight in a beautiful italian- themed place called The Gallery.

It was such a beautiful wedding; in no small part due to the trials the couple went through to get there. There original venue went out of business and ran off with their deposit! Amazingly, in two weeks time they put together a gorgeous wedding - and we were so blessed to lead worship a bit for it. PS. My inner dialogue has an Irish accent now. Weird.

Love,
Cameron

new direction since lunch

2008-10-04T19:47:00.000-07:00

ok, far be it from me to blog twice in a day....but....I think my mom's got this on an RSS feed and I wanted to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY< because my mom is the coolest lady I have ever met and I totally look up to her and thank God for her everyday. And I wanted to tell her that there's a good chance Matt may go to grad school in Texas. We'll be praying about that. SO DON'T WORRY!

But back to Mom. She is beautiful, smart, genuine, unapologetic, sensitive, creative, encouraging and inspiring. Mary Loving! Happy Birthday!!!!

Love, me

proof that I am real

2008-10-04T15:04:00.001-07:00

So I went to this web seminar, a uh, er, web-i-nar... about social networking sites and social media and all this and the very learned man who officiated (way to go Ed) said something like, you must blog off topic occasionally to prove that you are real.

So here goes. I am currently OBSESSED with the MoMa Design Store catalogue (that's Museum of Modern Art for pleb's like me.) I bought this really gorgeous "ghost clock" designed by Yee-Ling Wan in 2005. Quite affordable and it's my very own art-clock. Early Christmas present to self. Art-clock. Yipee. It's amazing how beautiful things can make you feel, well, amazing. Here's where I digress back on topic for a second. There is no doubt that art is divine. In my mind at least. As is science, the universe, the cosmos, etc. The latter which absolutely functions by set terms and conditions but which functions with said myriad terms and conditions nearly perfectly. Designed by a master.

Ok, back to "off topic." I bought a piece of art once before and left it in the house in Pittsburgh I lived in my senior year. That makes me a pretty big looser. It was a giant modern tribal drawing by an artist named Thomas Campbell who I think is quite famous now. I am sure it is probably worth a bundle. Too bad it's in the basement of a house in Pittsburgh. He is quite nutty, the artist, but clearly amazing. I had a friend who owned an art gallery on the lower east side (NY) who sold it to my mom - who gave it to me for my 19th birthday. I think it was $300.

Oh well, perhaps this little clock will start my collecting affordable modern art a-new.

Love,
Cameron

burnt popcorn

2008-10-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

We all have that something odd about us, that makes us, well, us. Mine is burnt popcorn. Among other things of course, but that's the one I am thinking about right now.

I am also thinking about Budapest. I have a pit in my stomach when I see pictures or here it spoken about that kind of feels like love sickness. My friend Simona posted some pictures and I can see that Fall is in full swing. Everything is blue and gold and ivory.

This picture is one of my favorites. I believe I was saying "Stop doing American Church!" I even issued a disclaimer before doing this devotional/ teaching at YWAM in Budapest. It is amazing how bold the Spirit made me/us over there. I think this is absolutely my favorite picture ever take of me.

I am a bit better on my relationship with JC these days. A bible study looks promising for Monday nights. Reading- mostly Proverbs (and ok, vampire novels, but I'm trying) and praying- mostly for my neighbor, and myself.

I want to apologize for being terrible at sending thank you notes. I wanted to send a letter to everyone who supported us in Budapest and had planned to do it as soon as we got home. Life became insane and has not really calmed down. I promise to do better than thank you notes. Hopefully we can send everybody a letter that will also talk about what's next! And hopefully soon.

Ok, the vampire novel is calling. And it's set in Eastern Europe. But after a few Proverbs, I promise :-)

Love, Cameron

If you don't laugh you'll cry

2008-09-30T08:26:00.001-07:00

You know you're from the Gulf Coast when….

1. You have FEMA's number on your speed dial.
2. You have more than 300 'C' and 'D' batteries in your kitchen drawer.
3. Your pantry contains more than 20 cans of Spaghetti O's.
4. You are thinking of repainting your house to match the plywood covering your windows.
5. When describing your gutted house to a prospective buyer, you say it has three bedrooms, two baths and an open air feel to it.
6. Your SSN isn't a secret, it's written in Sharpie on your arms.
7. You are on a first-name basis with the cashier at Home Depot.
8. You are delighted to pay $3.50 for a gallon of regular unleaded.
9. The road leading to your house has been declared a No-Wake Zone.
10. You decide that your patio furniture looks better on the bottom of the pool.
11. You own more than three large coolers.
12. You can wish that other people get hit by a hurricane and not feel the least bit guilty about it.
13. You rationalize helping a friend board up by thinking It'll only take a gallon of gas to get there and back
14. You have 2-liter coke bottles and milk jugs filled with water in your freezer.*
15.. Three months ago you couldn't hang a shower curtain; today you can assemble a portable generator by candlelight.
16. You catch a 13-pound red fish - in your house.
17.. You can recite from memory whole portions of your homeowner's insurance policy.
18. You consider a vacation to stunning Tupelo, Mississippi.
19. At cocktail parties, women are attracted to the guy with the biggest chainsaw.
20. You have had tuna fish more than 5 days in a row.
21. There is a roll of tar paper in your garage.
22. You can rattle off the names of three or more meteorologists who work at the Weather Channel.
23. Someone comes to your door to tell you they found your roof.
24. Ice is a valid topic of conversation.
25. Your drive-thru meal consists of MRE's and bottled water.
26. Relocating to South Dakota does not seem like such a crazy idea.
27. You spend more time on your roof then in your living room.
28. You've been laughed at over the phone by a roofer, fence builder or a tree worker.
29. A battery powered TV is considered a home entertainment center.
30. You don't worry about relatives wanting to visit during the summer.
31. Your child's first words are hunker down and you didn't go to Ole Miss!
32. Having a tree in your living room does not necessarily mean it's Christmas.
33. Toilet Paper is elevated to coin of the realm at the shelters.
34. You know the difference between the good side of a storm and the bad side.
35. Your kids start school in August and finish in July.
36. You go to work early and stay late just to enjoy the air conditioning. *
37. Your garage smells like gasoline.
38. Your more concerned about someone stealing your generator then your car.
39. You get excited when you see a FPL truck in your neighborhood.
40. You get really excited when you see the cable guy.
41. You can create memorable meals wit h a can of SPAM and one gas burner.
42. You are prepared to wait in line at Starbucks for 2 hours to get a cup of coffee.

Same Kind of Different

2008-09-27T20:17:00.000-07:00

Went to a talk tonight at Second Baptist given by the author's of a book about how relationships built on the love of Christ can transform lives, marriages, families and cities.

I hadn't read the book, I will, but right now the book burning a whole in my nightstand is my bible. I have, we have really been getting the wind knocked out of us pretty consistently since we got back from Budapest. Matt lost his job, my father nearly died, etc. Those things I have watched God redeem, especially my Dad's illness. I even swaggered home after spending 4 days with him, thinking "Ha, devil, nice try!" I thought surely all this is spiritual attack we are coming under because of what we were doing in Budapest. I guess I didn't think these things were gonna keep piling up. The Hurricane of course and now our neighbor is sending nasty and threatening emails to me about a wall she claims is mine, that my deed says otherwise. The wall of course is deteriorating and needs several thousand dollars of repair. This is a really good opportunity for me to love my neighbor with the love of Christ, right? Not to react and want to knock her out- I should be praying for her as she insults, accuses and berates me.

Well you can guess I haven't been doing that. And I feel like all this stuff - the traveling, constant traveling- the job stuff- has displaced me from a praying, talking, learning accountable community.

One of the author's of "Same Kind of Different as Me" said tonight that when he and Denver (the co-author, former homeless man) began being invited to bible studies to tell their story- Denver asked, "Do all white people have a bible study?" He said, "When they start a Bible Doing group I'll go." As profound as that is, I have been "doing" alot and studying way to little. I confess it, hold me accountable. I need to participate in a bible study, not lead one.

This talk tonight confirmed for me that ministry is about relationships. But the relationship at the core of my ministry is being neglected- it's in the pages of that pocket bible with my name engraved on the cover.

What I do logically surmise, and I may be wrong here, is that the door to Budapest is open. Not that God is kicking us out of Houston - but he's not allowing us to get too comfortable here. That is for sure.

Ladies Night?

2008-09-25T14:55:00.000-07:00

There seems to be alot of interest in a bible study, all from my favorite ladies. I am wondering if the Thursday night Brasil idea would work as a "ladies night" bible study. We could meet at Brasil, eat and do a study.

Any takers?

The problem of course is who has energy to create a curriculum and/or lead? If we could get our hands on a good curriculum that's easy to follow I would be thrilled to fascillitate. What about the idea of making it a bible study/ book club- but the books are like The Shack, Purpose Driven Life, etc?

I am open to ideas. So far Kelly, Christina, Lauren P. and Claudia have expressed interest. With me that's a perfect sized group- we could even take a few more. Ladies, if your out there and you are interested, let me know. We can start as soon as we get a curriculum.....

Bring it!

Believe it or not

2008-09-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

You can take a look at this handy dandy map and figure about 1/2 these folks still don't have power. I am worried about my friends and neighbors who are ready to blow a fuse, so to speak. I can't believe how merciful God is with me. Seriously. I am almost a little embarrassed about how this hurricane has revealed to me the depth of my own high maintenance-ishness. But I guess I shouldn't be embarrassed. God knows me better than I know myself, right? Embarrassment suggests the revelation of something before hidden. Strange to think nothing is hidden from him and yet his love for me never changes. Hard to believe sometimes, isn't it? Or maybe hard to believe any of the time if you are like me. I can't say it enough read The Shack. Right now. Log off, sign off, shut down, whatever you need to do, go get this book and read it.

We are really trying to figure out the Budapest piece of our lives. Matt is going to apply to Central European University to get a masters degree in nationalism. He wants to eventually do a PHD around the subject of ethnic conflict in the Balkans- something that we feel we need to know about to do ministry in that region. We are working on the terra firma part of it- but we need the Holy Spirit part of it too. My friend Jane said God woke her up and told her "Cameron needs to be in a bible study." I am sad to say it has been a long time since I have really been in one. Anyone know of a good one I could join? Maybe in the mornings before work?

Please pray that Matt gets into the right graduate program. Please pray that he would really hear God's voice on the right direction to take our family. It's a big decision!

Hope you are all well powered and airconditioned but I know you are not. Let me know how I can pray for you.

Love, Cameron

News

2008-09-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

So we just heard that powers' been restored to my next door neighbors and we think it's safe to assume that we have it as well. Still in Austin and figuring out when to hit the road for home again. We are definitely experiencing survivor's guilt and I think it will feel better to at least be around to try to help folks.

I've heard that the Grace staff is going door to door checking on people's needs. That makes me feel so good about our community.

I am going to surf around and check in on folks with the few minutes we have online at our friends David and Lisa's house.

Hey- if you're out there- and if your praying- and not overwhelmed with all the many needs you need to be praying for - please pray for my mom. She is really worried about something that I can't even really explain. But hopefully will be able to soon. I know that's cryptic but more later.

I am generally feeling down, sluggish, low energy. I know the 1-2 punch we've been feeling since we got home from Budapest is the enemy. I know that. And before this storm I felt more than capable to weather it and remain focused. I am struggling, as I am sure many of you are, right now. Let's remember Romans 8 is it...

Love, Cameron

On the road again

2008-09-15T08:39:00.000-07:00

Well we are getting ready to move on to Austin as my aunt and uncle have graciously offered to lend us their place there for a few days. It's pretty weird. It feels like a holiday or vacation and then I remember that my city is a warzone. I am definitely experiencing survivor's guilt for not being there and struggling through it with our friends and neighbors. I also am so uplifted by stories I've read in the Chronicle about neighbors helping neighbors. What can we do? I suppose there will be plenty of needs to meet when we do get back. My prayer is that God will use us, show us how and where to go to help.

I wonder if Sydney will remember any of this. Miraculously she slept through the worst part of the storm, and didn't really seemed fazed by the sound of the two dozen or so tornadoes that were terrorizing the Heights. My own denial rationalized through all of it . I kept thinking, "oh, it must just be the wind." And "our front door is not sealed very well." Basically it sounded like a freigh train pounding through our front door.

Well I am going to send a text messsage to friends and fam to let them know they can follow us here if they want to. And we're off. Lord, thank You for your provision and protection for us, please provide comfort and shelter for our neighbors in Houston, show us how we can be your hands and feet on earth. We love you Lord. Amen.

Love, Cameron

Waiting

2008-09-14T08:19:00.000-07:00

So we are safe and cool in College Station by what feels like a miracle. We realized yesterday afternoon that considering how high maintenance we are it would be best to leave town until the AC comes back on. All kidding aside it feels like a big roundhouse kick to the gut and we were spared the worst of it. By another miracle the giant, dead tree next door to us did not fall on our house, when hundreds of young, healthy trees fell all over our neighborhood.

I can't help but feel like I have personally been in post traumatic stress since 9-11, or maybe earlier. But it's too soon to start with such melancholy. I will try to pray instead for my adopted city.

Love, Cameron

Eek & some potential heresy but here goes

2008-09-11T22:49:00.000-07:00

Please do pray for us because this storm is about the size of Texas itself. I keep going back and forth about whether or not to get up at the crack and drive to College Station to stay with my aunt and uncle. Trouble is it's not the best situation for our cat, Steve, because my aunt is allergic and he would have to kinda stay in the garage or somewhere. Hmmm. I think that could be really stressful but I also think it may be better than being in the house when a hurricane hits. I am without a clue as to what to do.

I was struck by something I read last night in The Shack. Jesus is talking to Mack and explaining to him why he doesn't trust God. Jesus says something like "it's because you don't believe we are good". We or me- not sure which "he" meant. God is portrayed in the book as three distinct people- the Trinity. When I was pregnant with Sydney I went through a particularly dark week where some tests had indicated that something "may" be wrong with her. Without a doubt I can say that was the hardest thing I had ever been through at that point. All my crippling fears showed up and insisted on staying for dinner..and breakfast...and lunch...and dinner...for about a week. I went to see my friend Patsy over at the Houston Vineyard for prayer. She gave me Psalm 139- "you are fearfully and wonderfully made"- and asked me if I believed that God is good. I guess I had assumed I believed that but I really didn't. I lived with a sense of anticipation of the hammer coming down. Of punishment. Of some kind of lesson I'd have to learn. Not consciously, but unconsciously. It was so much a part of my thought life that I didn't even know it was there. It wasn't until she told me that morning, that God is Good, did I really think it could be possible for me to believe that.

So that brings us to Ike, or Eeeek as I would prefer to call it. Are hurricanes a part of the Fall? I mean the thing in itself with all it's strength and fury could be seen as quite beautiful- something God may have created. But perhaps the wickedness of how we humans have stewarded his good creation - pollution, global warming, etc- has resulted in turning the majestic thing that may have been intended to act as some kind of oceanic scrub brush- into the monster that it is.

Just a thought.

Please pray for total peace and security for Sydney. My biggest prayer is that she will not be afraid. She's been really cranky since we got home from Budapest and I think she is just mad because life has been so unpredictable- all the travel- new year- Daddy's job thing, new school, mommy's job thing, etc. She's probably just overwhelmed. And two. There's that of course. Nonetheless we covet your prayers and know that you friends in Houston- we are praying for you too.

Love and blessings,

Cameron

Ike

2008-09-10T20:12:00.000-07:00

Argh. What really sucks is that it makes you think that the Gulf Coast isn't really liveable. Which, really, just the bugs and humidity alone might make you think. Should we board up our windows? We went to Target tonight and got some "Hurricane Supplies", thanks to Brian Mann who printed up the list from ready.gov and handed it out today :-)

Well here's an image that I love. Sleep tight.
Cameron

2008-09-10T11:52:00.001-07:00

The Media Milkshake

2008-09-09T20:33:00.000-07:00

So I am doing more "communications" stuff at Grace, which means I am dragging my PR hat out of the closet once more, blowing the dust off and rolling up my sleeves. After attending a "seminar" on web stuff I am a born again public relations person, but not really. Because what I've decided is the term public relations is completely last century. The idea of communication for me is about evangelism. Seriously. It has to be. Wanting to share with everyone something that has honestly changed your life for the good. I am just so grateful that I don't have to share "widgets"- I can share about the things I really care about.

Speaking of widgets I have added some "bling" to my blog, the twitter feed. Check it out. I am just now really getting the hang of it. You can add it to your phone, you can choose people to follow (follow me, follow me!), I think you can comment? I am not sure. But check it out.

On another note I am reading The Shack (of course I am) so I am going to get to that. The protagonist is in a log cabin somewhere in a perfectionized version of Oregon, having tea with The Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Aka "Papa"- an Aretha Franklin type character who represents Father, "Sarayu"- an ephemeral Asian woman with commitment issues- meant to be the Holy Spirit, and Jesus- a less than handsome Middle Eastern handyman with a Jewish nose. http://theshackbook.com.

I am torn between thinking it brilliant and ridiculous. Have you read it? Chime in. I'd love to start a discussion about this one. Here is the author's blog

Night night again,

Cameron
PS. I just changed my laptops clock back from Central European time. It's 5:51 am in Budapest right now. Crazy.

Little Chicken

2008-09-06T20:32:00.000-07:00

As she always is, a burst of sunshine. Sydney's 2nd birthday party at Nick and Nanny's in Southhampton. Get a load of the boat and the impossibly green grass. It really is heavenly there. Up early for worship tomorrow. It has been a long time since we've done that. Looking forward to being back. Night, Night, Cameron

Locks and Locks of Love

2008-09-04T21:33:00.000-07:00

I cut my hair. 10 inches! Yeah! I am sending it to locks of love tomorrow. I feel like a new person! Hooray. I just got wind of a million amazing new techie geek website-y things that are going to be mainstream in about 5 minutes. Like google mainstream. Big. Really, really big. I signed up for twitter and you should to. My handle is 'missionarymama'. I know it's not a handle, but that's just a funny word and makes me think of smoky and the bandit. Ok, night, night off to read the trashy vampire novel set in Eastern Europe I bought in the airport. Can I be an Eastern Europe-o-phile? I met a Russian today and almost cried.

Love, Cameron

Re-Entry

2008-09-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

There is a book somewhere in my house, maybe in one of the new baskets that I bought in a feeble attempt to organize my house. The book is on loan from some of our favorite people- Brian and Andrea Mann- folks who lived in Sweden as missionaries for 3 years. The book is about coming back home after a mission trip- short or long- what to expect, etc. I don't know if it quite covers all that we've encountered upon coming home though- from the immediate death of both our refrigerator and disposal, to my own father's literal near death experience to...well the rest of it.

But here is what's amazing. And here is what we have learned in Budapest. God is in the middle of it. God is doing something. God has and will provide and we have no doubt. We want to be a part of what He is doing even if it means a bump in the road. Or a crater. Whatever it is, He is in it and personally I am kind of giddy about seeing what He is up to.

I cut my hair off today. Well not completely but quite short. 10 inches shorter! When we came back from Budapest it just felt like nothing really fit. Our furniture, our clothes (maybe that was the Hungarian food), my hair, etc... We became different people in those 3 months. We've truly been changed.

I had a great talk with Melissa Brown today, who is Grace's missions director, and in her no nonsense way she framed it perfectly. She said "You are convicted, you are being called to the mission field, and the enemy doesn't like it." Our hearts have been completely broken for Hungary, Hungarians and the city of Budapest itself. For different reasons but with equal seismic consequences. Our hearts grew to include this tragically beautiful country and it's proud/sentimental people-- but the swelling could not be contained resulting in a fissure, a true break. Never to be the same again.

All the while we were there I kept saying to people, who would ask if we'd come back, "Well God would have to really do something, really open a door, make it obvious, because we really love our life in Houston." Perhaps that is what is truly happening. Who knows. All I know is that in Budapest life was in color. Brilliant, vibrant, heart breaking color. Back in Houston, we are experiencing black and white. We love Houston still, but it's just...different. I just pray we have the guts to follow where He is leading. To discern and follow.

Our friend Dani had a t-shirt last summer that on the front said, "Send me." On the back it said "I'll go."

Love y'all,

Cameron

Normal Life, Sort of

2008-08-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

Matt and Sydney and I went to "Discovery Green" today, an incredible new city park in downtown Houston. It is like being in an exclusive country club designed by brilliant, modern architects-- with a Japanese flair. The parking meters are solar powered. The to- go bags at the cafe are biodegradeable. It's 21st century fun.

It is amazing for kids. The playground is literally a work of art- a "mist tree" -- a giant metal tree that constantly mists cold water, cools kids and parents alike on a hot day. Sydney ran around in the "fountains" for a couple of hours and had a blast. 100 water jets are randomly spread out over a big stretch of granite, and erupt in sprays of water at different times and at different levels. The kids have fun trying to follow the patterns.

We had a really good day, except for my occasional crappy attitude which is creeping out alot. My poor husband is getting the brunt of it. And my mother. Apparently I was short with her on the phone today, and of course was totally oblivious. I have no idea what my problem is accept for fatigue. But that's not an excuse and it's not fair to them. Mom, if you're reading I am sorry and I love you. Things have been rough of course, as everyone knows by now, but there is definitely hope on the horizon as far as Matt's job goes. He has so much to offer and is so passionate about ministry, I can't wait to see what God does with him next. But, that doesn't mean this isn't still a rough patch. As is evidenced by the fact that my dining room was just turned into a recording studio- as Matt moved all his gear out of the office. It is what it is. We always eat in the kitchen anyway. :-)

Speaking of ministry - we are starting a group that will meet every Thursday at Brasil's in Montrose. We think it's going to be something like "Theology on Tap" with a political bent for the Fall. Some friends at Grace are on board as well as friends from all over the city. I am hoping it will just be a gathering, not of any exclusive church, but all inclusive, where people can come, eat, hear scriptures, discuss current events, and build community. And hopefully, it will spill over to the people around us. Outreach in a way. I am committed to the idea that we cannot expect people to come to the Church, we need to bring the Church to them.

Tomorrow I am going to upload pictures from Sydney's birthday party at my mom's in New York. And hopefully take a few more....Bare with us as we get our sea legs in this new season.

Love and Blessings,
Cameron