Our Songs: The Mat Kearney Concert

Mat Kearney sings his soul at the Alban, Saturday, July 10, 2010, St. Albans, West Virginia.

It just occured to me that live music has been a important part of the romance between Barbara and me. It's not immediately obvious as we've never been regular concertgoers, but then in Saipan there's not much to be had in terms of concerts beyond the local bar bands. But nonetheless, from the very beginnning "our songs" have been played live. Our first real date was to the best concert I've ever attended, a Rich Mullins show in South Bend, Indiana. In the years that followed we saw Michael W. Smith, Twila Paris, Jars of Clay, Michael Card, Caedmon's Call, and Rich Mullins (again) among others. Sometimes we went with friends, more often it was just the two of us--a drive to some far-flung town, dinner at a new restaurant, holding hands when we weren't clapping along to songs we loved by artists we admire. This has been the archetypical date night for us--a date night we hadn't had in years, until last weekend. So it was somehow appropriate that the artist we would be seeing is the one who sings "our songs." You know how some couples have "their song." Well, we have a whole album's worth of songs that are "ours"--all tunes by the one artist Babs and I are equally enthusiastic about--Mat Kearney.

Our first "real" date since Elijah was born was Saturday evening, July 10, to a Mat Kearney concert in the little town of St. Albans, West Virginia. On Sabbath afternoon, Barbara's parents came up from Dayton, with Barbara's sister, Jenny and her two dogs in tow. (Matt, Jenny's husband, is still in Minnesota closing up shop. Jenny got a new job in Cincinnati and they will be relocating there. Until their house sells, Jenny is staying with her parents in Dayton and Matt is in Minnesota). After providing them with detailed instructions for the Feller's care, the two of us jumped in the car and started for West Virginia. I was a little anxious about leaving Elijah. This would be the longest we'd both been apart from him, both in terms of time and distance. But after a few cell phone calls back home and receiving assurances that our son was doing just fine, I relaxed and enjoyed the drive.

And it was a beautiful drive. We headed southeast on OH-33 and within the hour the landscape changed dramatically the flat farmland giving way to rolling hills. Virtually all of the drive was on the old system of state roads and U.S. highways instead of the Interstate highways. You can't drive as fast on these roads that predate freeway travel--sometimes you're cruising along at 65 mph, but a few miles down the road, you're slowed by traffic lights and residential speed limits as you cruise through a small town. But in exchange for longer travel time you gain atmosphere--beautiful countryside, bucolic little towns, picturesque slices of Americana (On this jaunt through America's heartland I actually did see a Mail Pouch tobacco poster on the side of rotting barn, just like in the Rich Mullins song). The time seemed to fly by--Babs talked to my sister Dawn and to Carol, our friend from Saipan, on the cell, putting them on speakerphone so I could listen in. When we weren't talking on the phone, we played Mat Kearney tunes as a primer for the evening's concert, talked, and marveled at the beauty around us. We drove through the Hocking Hills, traced the Ohio River, and finally crossed into West Virginia about 40 miles from St. Albans.


A glimplse of the green hills of West Virginia from Main Street., St. Albans.

St. Albans is a charming little town nestled in the Appalachian foothills about fifteen miles from Charleston, the state capital. Like many small towns across America it seems to have seen better days. Babs and I arrived in St. Albans just before eight o'clock in the evening and walked Main Street a little bit before the concert. There were empty storefronts, and even the stores that were still in business seemed to be relics from another time.


Looking up Main Street, St. Albans, WV.


The heart of Main Street is the Alban the tiny old theater that was the venue for the concert. We couldn't figure out how Mat Kearney ended up at this little town in this theater so small that with door open, you could stand on the street and hear the performers on stage. There's no nearby college town or enclave of urban ex-patriots to explain the St. Alban's art scene--it would appear that Kearney's concert was simply the work of St. Albanians determined to keep the arts and culture alive in their town. We only spent a few hours in St. Albans, West Virginia, but I came away impressed by the spirit of this town--small but proud, open-hearted and open-minded.


St. Albans Celebrates the Arts (with high-quality recording artists, I might add)

The pride of Alban's art scene, the little Alban theater.

After our little walking tour, as the Sabbath faded with the sunset, we drifted into the Alban, arriving just after the opening act Jane Carrey (daughter of the famed Hollywood actor Jim Carrey) had left the stage. In a little place like this any seat would have been a good one, but we were able to find really good seats, on the left side of the stage, six rows back from the front. Seated next to us was a teacher from St. Albans who was working at a school in Saudia Arabia--a kindred spirit! His date was an aspiring jazz singer who would herself be singing at the Alban later this year.

Mat slipped on to stage with little fanfare, joined by only his friend and guitarist Tyler Burkum. What followed was a little more than an hour of Mat's finest work.

A relatively new artist, Mat Kearney has rapidly ascended the ranks of my favorite music to inhabit the rarified air occupied by U2 and Rich Mullins. I first heard his major label debut Nothing Left to Lose in the summer of 2007 and was instantly blown away. Mat’s music on that album was a perfect and original combination of rich, warm acoustic guitar, the occasional smooth rhythms of hip-hop style rhymes, and poetic, literary lyrics. I’d never heard anything like it before and was instantly hooked. During our annual week of teacher’s meetings in Hawaii that summer, Mat was in heavy rotation. To this day every time I hear the buoyant thrum of “Undeniable” it takes me right back to the drives over the mountains from Honolulu to Kailua. I hear “Nothing Left to Lose” was and I remember walking on hand in hand with my favorite girl along Waikiki ten years along into our journey together.

Later that year, J sent me some of Mat’s earliest work—songs like “Chicago”, “Memorial Stones”, and the song that has become my Favorite Song of All Time, the Theme Song of My Life, “Lifetime.” This “old-school” song (as Mat himself described it to me) is from his earliest days as a recording artist and is quite hard to find now. Unfortunately, I can’t post a link to YouTube because there isn’t one—that’s how rare it is—but I can direct you here to an 2007 entry where I posted the lyrics to this powerful song.

Mat emerged from too-cool-for-Christian-Contemporary-music obscurity when Grey’s Anatomy picked up one of his songs for their soundtrack. His heartfelt singer/songwriter vibe seemed to be a good match for the show and several songs of his ended up being played in various episodes. The Grey’s exposure thrust Mat into the mainstream limelight and his fan base expanded dramatically. His sophomore album, City of Black and White released last year, reflected this expansion with a more commercial sound and the retirement of the rapping over guitar chords that had been a key to his earlier style. Still, the melodies on these new songs were some of the best he’d ever written and the lyrics remained solidly literate, truthful, and fresh.

For this tour, Mat explained that he’d decided to go back to basics—a simple acoustic tour, just him and Tyler in a van criss-crossing the country playing at a bunch of tiny venues like the Alban. Ours was the first show of the tour, and I imagine Mat might have been tempted to question the wisdom of this idea. Many of the people in the audience were unfamiliar with his music and the sing-a-longs fell a little flat. But I felt we couldn’t have been any luckier to see Mat in this setting. Here he’d hit the big time, and we still had a chance to see him as if he were just starting out. And I’m confident that St. Albans was a fluke—the show scheduled for the next night in Ann Arbor, Michigan sold out weeks ago (we had intended to go that one but the tickets were gone by the time we were ready to buy)—and I’m willing to bet throughout the rest of this tour the sing-alongs will be drowning Mat out. I was impressed with how Mat handled the unexpected unfamiliarity of most of our audience with his work. He was funny, friendly, poked fun at himself, and won the crowd over with his charm and undeniable musical talent and songwriting chops. He may have had few fans in the audience when he began, but certainly had a roomful when he finished.

In keeping with the old-school theme, Mat’s set list was stacked with older material—a lot of material from his first album, a few from even before that, a handful of new songs, and only two tunes-“All I Have” and “Closer to Love” from City of Black and White. He even delivered a fantastic cover of the Bruce Springsteen classic “Dancing in the Dark.”

Here’s the set list, with links where available to the songs on YouTube. Listen! I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.
1. All I Have
2. Crashing Down
3. Girl America
4. Breathe In, Breathe Out
5. In the Middle
6. What’s a Boy to Do
7. Chicago
8. Undeniable
9. All I Need
10. Closer to Love
11. Rochester
12. Dancing in the Dark

ENCORE
13. a new song whose title I couldn’t figure out.
14. Nothing Left to Lose

Despite occasional technical mishaps here and there, the show was excellent. My only complaint is that it was too short. Mat played for just over one hour and I would have been happy for a second. But I guess that’s the sign of a good show, when you’re left wishing for more. I highly recommend this tour. Click here to see if he is coming to a city near you, and if the show hasn’t sold out already, GO! You’ll be glad you did.


This video is not from the St. Alban's show; it's from the show the following night up in Ann Arbor at a venue called the Ark. I took two videos, one of the song above, "Undeniable" and one other, but both turned out terribly. The digital camera we had did a terrible job of recording the sound clearly and it is literally unlistenable. I'm quite disappointed, not least because in an amazing feat of lyrical prowess Mat added an extended rap to the end of this song that included virtually everything he'd learned from the audience that evening. Small as the venue was, Mat was able to actually interact with individual members of the audience between songs. All of those littler interactions he turned around into an impromptu rap. Amazing. I got the whole thing, but unfortunately the sound is so bad you can't understand a word he's saying. I don't know if he did the same thing in Michigan the next night, as this video cuts out partway through the song, but at any rate it will give you a sense of what the show was like for us.


The Merch. I decided to buy Mat's latest release, a four song EP on sale only on this tour and available only on old-school vinyl. I don't have a record player, but I bought it anyway, not least for the achingly beautiful ballad, "Rochester", a tribute to Mat's father. I figured I'd find a record player and a way to get it copied on to a format I can listen to. I've heard that musicians make most of their money from touring so I wanted to be sure I did my part to support one of my favorite artists and bought a T-shirt as well.


Babs and me with the man himself, Mat Kearney after the show. He was gracious and friendly in the few brief minutes we talked to him. To all appeareances not only is Mat Kearney a great musician and songwriter but a good guy as well.

So with an autographed record in one hand, Babs hand, soft and warm in the other, and Kearney’s tunes still playing in our heads, we headed out into the balmy West Viriginia night. The show had ended earlier than we had expected, and on the one hand we were tempted to hop in the car and go straight home, getting back to our little boy as quick as we could. On the other hand, this night was special—a rare opportunity to feel like we were college kids in love again. It seemed too early to call it a night. We decided to go with that feeling and hunted up a local diner called Dwight’s for a late dinner. The food was okay, but the folks were friendly and helpful—both staff and fellow diners. An older couple sitting at the next booth over even took the time to help us figure out directions for the drive back home.

Overall, it was a special memorable evening, made so most of all by the woman I got to spend the evening with. Without her the songs just wouldn't be the same.


Me n Babs.

Beyond Happiness

So I was listening to NPR this past spring--it was the week before Mother's Day in fact. I had just caught the tail end of one of my favorite programs, a buisness-oriented broadcast called "Marketplace". The final commentary of the program was a reflection by Betsy Stevenson, a professor of buisness and public policy at the Wharton School of Business, on recent research that indicates that women (and men) who don't have children are happier than those who do.


You heard me right. The childless are happier than parents. Accounting for religion, stage of life, income, education does nothing to change this stunning stat. No matter how you look at it, those who don't have children are happier. Stevenson, a new mother herself, had some interesting thoughts on this research, and I highly recommend giving a listen (or reading the transcript) to her commentary. It's only a few minutes long and is great food for thought. You can either listen or read here.


Stevenson got me thinking and I decided I'd give my own take on the subject of happiness as it relates to children as well.


Let me begin by saying, that if I'm honest, I can't argue with the research. I think it's true. If we define happiness as being able to do what we want, when we want. If we define it as an absence of fear, worry, or stress. If we define happiness as the confidence that comes with knowing what you're doing and being certain that the outcome of your efforts will be successful. Then yes, those without children are happier. After all, once you have children your life is not your own anymore. It's remarkable, how for some years to come Babs and I will literally be unable to leave our home, just the two of us, without some serious advance planning. Since we're still new to Columbus and to parenthood, we have little in the way of resources so basically, we just don't go out on dates anymore. Ever. And it's not just date night--virtually all our decisions every day are dictated by one very small person.


Also, with Elijah's birth came a sort of low-level anxiety that has remained until this day. Always in the back of your mind are the thousand and one different things that could go wrong--so many ways your child can be hurt, can be taken from you. The love I have for my son makes me vulnerable in a way that is downright scary. And of course, you constantly question whether you're doing a good job as a parent. There is no training manual for this job. It's easy to see the mistakes parents make--it's far harder to know how to avoid making them yourself. In short, parenthood means a loss of autonomy, an increase in stress, and a crisis of confidence. Not exactly a recipe for happiness.


And yet. I wouldn't change a thing. As crazy as it sounds I'm happy to be "less happy." It occurs to me that perhaps there is something more--something beyond happiness.


When I sat down to write this blog, I really didn't know how to articulate the incredible feeling of being a parent--it is a sensation that doesn't lend easily to words. But as I analyzed it, I was able to identify a few key things that I gain from being a father--things that are far better than mere happiness. First, there is the deeply gratifying privilege of simply being around my son. It's very hard to describe the feeling unless you've felt it--there's no parallell in the childless world that I'm aware of. Perhaps it's biological--a God-given instinct, a gift of bonding, that awakens the moment your child comes into the world. As much as I eagerly anticipate those blocks of time to myself--naptime and after he's in bed for the night--when I can finally do what I want, I find that when I'm away from him for even a short while, I miss him. Companionship seems inadequate, but that's the word I keep coming back to. I enjoy the companionship of my child. I am beguiled by his childish efforts to understand and explain the world, to see him discovering new things every day. Even when he is cranky, petulant, and selfish--I find he wins me over.

Parenthood also provides the rewards that come with risk and the satisfaction that comes from great effort. In being a parent, you risk greatly. The entire act of raising a child is a huge gamble--you really have no idea, and less control than you'd like to think over how they'll turn out. You want them to be happy (ironic, isn't it), healthy, at peace with themselves and others, making a positive contribution to the world--but there's no guarantee that they'll be any of those things. The odds are pretty favorable, it seems, but still, if we lose, we lose big. In having children we parents risk shattering heartbreak. Likewise, parenting is hard work--emotionally and physically--and like all hard work, the payoff that comes from putting real effort into something is far more rewarding than the high that comes at the end of say an afternoon of watching movies. As Rich Mullins put it, "there's a rest that you find in work, that you can't get out of sleep." All the things that matter in life--that really mean something, involve risk and effort. It's why we run marathons, climb mountains, travel. The greater the risk, the harder the work, the more satisfying the reward--and the risks don't come any greater or the work any harder than in parenthood.

Finally, there is love. Not just the warm, fuzzy feeling you get--though there's that too, but the choice to love, to focus on something beyond yourself. If all you have is Whitney Houston's much touted "greatest love of all", i.e. to love yourself, that's not much. Love's best gifts come when it is directed outward. When you have a child, putting the needs of someone else before your own becomes second nature, and the reward that comes with the giving is as regular as a royalty check in the mail. Happiness comes and goes, but love remains.

I'm not here to suggest that every one has to be a parent. After all, the blessings of companionship, risk and effort, and love are not limited to those with children. But, I'd wager it takes extraordinary intentionality and wisdom to seek these things out when there's no child to demand them of you. And whether you have children or not, to share meaningful companionship, to risk big and work hard, to make service to others a priority in your daily life may cost you some happiness. But you gain you something else far more valuable. A lot of time we confuse this benefit with happiness, but though they can often seem similar I believe they are not the same. Happiness is what I feel when I'm getting what I want, when things are going my way, when life is good--but this is something else, something better and more lasting, something that I believe can ultimately be immune to the vissitudes of life, something beyond happiness. It can all be summed up in one word, and that word is. . .well, I'll let him tell you:

(Okay, actually he was talking about a person, not the concept, but still, you get the point, right?)

Stay-At-Home Dad

Some of this summer's handiwork.

So, this summer I'm on full-time Dad duty. We decided to have the Feller stay home instead of going to daycare this summer. We save some money and he gets to spend some extra time with Daddy. It's not so different from summers past though. I still read a lot--though, now the books are favorites like "Good Night, San Francisco", "God Made Me", and "Tomy's Little Mother Goose."


The Feller goes through phases of favorite books. Right now this memento of our trip to the Bay area last summer is in heavy rotation. It's a beautifully illustrated book of San Francisco's highlights--every time I read it, it reminds of me all the fun we had there last summer. They have a whole series of "Good Night" books and I'd like to collect more from the places we visit.

We have a little worship together every morning after breakfast too--sing a song, read from his Baby Bible (his favorites are Zaccheus and David & Goliath) and pray together. Usually, we read a few more books after that too. I read to him again, if Barbara doesn't come home before his afternoon nap.

We also go to the library once a week for their storytime. The New Albany branch of the public library is just five minutes away, and he's always excited to go and listen to the stories and sing the songs with other kids.


At the library (or "libarebary" as the Feller calls it) for story time.

I still do little reading of my own too--I might sit out on the balcony in one of our deck chairs and read while he naps, and I try to read a bit before bed every night. But the days of reading until my head hurts are long past.


The perfect place for a summer afternoon read while the Feller naps.

In summers past I usually watched a lot of movies during the summer as well. Now, my video diet consists mainly of the BBC video "All About Elephants" (at least a couple of times daily), and Sesame Street. I suppose we could watch more, but I don't want him to get used to watching a lot of television--and his age, he's really not supposed to be watching it at all.

I get on the computer still, although much of the time it's to look at "pictures!", usually of Saipan. The Feller likes to see the "beach!" and Saipan friends like Virle "O Vee" Gayatin, Joy, and Tali "Tidy" Paez. I still manage to steal some time to drop into Interference to discuss politics on the Free Your Mind forum while he's napping. Naptime usually lasts for about three hours from about 1 P.M. to 4:00 P.M., though he can go as long as four and sometimes even five hours. Up until this past week, a good chunk of that time was spent working on my class for my master's degree. I'd usually go down to the library and work in the study room for a couple of hours, coming home around 5:30 or so. That class wrapped up on the July 1 so it feels like I'm now fully on vacation.


This is the little "village square" in New Albany. This photo is looking from the library entrance. When I was working on my master's class, I would be here every afternoon. Now it's just twice a week--once to prep for next school year, and once for story time with the Feller. I usually eat lunch on my "work days" every Wednesday at a tavern called the Rusty Bucket. It's obscured by the trees approximately in the center of the frame.

In addition to the old summer standbys, there's new activities too. On most mornings we're up by 7:30 and done with breakfast, clothes & diaper change, toothbrushing, and worhsip by nine. On many days we have to make a run to the store, something the Feller always looks forward to because he likes riding in the carts that look like cars (complete with steering wheels) at Giant Eagle, and "holding" the groceries (especially the produce) at Aldi. On other days we might go for a walk outside or my friend J "JJ" Carlos will come over with his son for a playdate.


On a morning walk with the Feller. Our apartment complex has a neighborhood feel, with lots of green space for walking, running, and playing.

The mornings usually go by pretty quickly. Before you know it, it's 11 o clock--time for Sesame Street while I make lunch. We eat lunch around noon, and then it's naptime. Barbara usually comes home from her job around this time, though she sometimes has me put him down for his nap so she can run errands.

Now that my class is done, we hope to spend some time doing fun family summer stuff in the afternoons after he wakes up from his lap. So far this week, though, he's slept so late most days that there hasn't been much time to do much else beyond squeeze in some playtime, have supper, and take a bath. This past Wednesday, we did make some time to run up to the Farmers Market in Westerville. It was nothing spectacular, just a few tents with a handful of local farmers hawking fresh produce, honey, pastries and jams, and free range meat. But it was nice to walk through Westervilles quaint Uptown district browing the Amish furniture store and antique shops.


The Westerville Farmers Market


Uptown Westerville, a slice of small town Americana.

The evenings fly by quickly. Though he's supposed to be in bed by seven or 7:30, with the long naps, he's been going to bed an hour or so later, so by the time he's down it's almost time for us to hit the sack as well. I never manage to get to sleep as early as I'd like, but the old summer bedtimes of 2 in the morning are long gone. An eleven o'clock lights out is late for me, a late bedtime I will pay dearly for the next day. When you spend a good part of your day chasing a toddler around you need the energy provided by a good nights sleep.

My life this is summer is simple, and the time goes by quickly--things like making breakfast and lunch and keeping up the kitchen from devolving into a dirty-dish disaster area seem to be never ending tasks. But the time with my son is precious.
On the one day of the week when he goes to daycare (just so he doesn't get out of the comfort zone of being there) and I have time to do prep work for school next year, I miss him a lot. Every day he grows a little more and he won't be this age ever again. So I'm grateful for this golden summer in Ohio with my son, staying at home, and being a full-time dad.


Happy Independence Day! (These huge flower basket line the main drag through Uptown Westerville).

Old Friends at the Show

A publicity photo for the English folk-rock band, Mumford & Sons. Were they worth the road trip, the ten dollar admission, and the three hour wait? Absolutely! Ten bucks to see a show worth ten times that much was definitely worth it.

We rolled into Bloomington around six in the evening. Though I’d never been to Indiana University, the place brought back memories nonetheless. College was one of the best times in my life—it was when I think I finally began to enjoy life. Those years were marked by stimulating classes, interesting work on campus, pretty coeds to pursue (one of whom would become my wife), a new sense of independence, and most of all knowledge gained--of myself, of the world, and of God. Cruising the tree-lined streets of the IU campus brought all that flooding back,

We had supper at Mother Bear’s—a hole in the wall pizzeria that lived up to its reputation for serving some the nation’s best pizza. We ordered up a half olive, half cheese deep dish (made with the sauce on top), and it was fantastica—a pillowy, melt-in your mouth crust, rich sauce, and lots of melty mozzarella. It’s hard to do pizza wrong, but it’s equally difficult to do it exceptionally well, and the folks at Mother Bear’s pulled it off.

Our bellies full, we drove over to the Bluebird for the main event of the day—the Mumford and Sons concert. We waited in line outside the venue for about 45 minutes before the doors opened and we were ushered inside. We walked through a darkened warren of bar areas—low lights, wood counters, walls a scrapbook history of the bar’s past—to the performance area in the back. There was an upper level about the same height as the stage, a lower level a few steps below, and a back bar on the wall opposite the stage. We found a good spot on the railing of the upper level and settled in for the wait. And it as it turned out, we would be waiting for a good while. First there was an hour wait before the opening act—a humble man whose name I can’t recall in an overlarge rockstar t-shirt, sporting a mustache and a respectable talent. He played a handful of songs accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar. Though we’d been waiting for almost two hours by the time he came onstage, the audience responded to his gracious self-deprecation with appreciation and patience. We later realized that he was Mumford and Son’s sound tech.

After his exit there was another wait of about half an hour and then what appeared to be an accountant wandered onstage and started fooling with a bright red electric guitar. He was soon joined by a Toby-McGuire look-a-like who took a seat at one of the drum kits on stage. There was a muted sigh from the audience as we realized that this unlikely duo was yet another opening act. Unfortunately, the French & Indian War (that’s the name of the two-man band) were unable to win back the audience’s regard. They were awful. The vocalist in his ordinary oxford shirt, jeans, sneakers, and conservative haircut had no rockstar pretentions, but no rock star talent either. After haranguing the sound guys for various adjustments, including more "reverb" (you know that effect you get in the shower that makes you sound better than you are), he strummed tunelessly on his guitar, intoned a-melodic noises into the microphone, occasionally inserting a dramatic yelp. Toby on the drums, tapped away in the background, looking bored and vaguely apologetic, occasionally laying down his sticks to take a swig or two from his beer bottle, as if to fortify himself. The pair slogged through half-dozen so-called songs, including an unrecognizable cover of Paul Simon’s “Graceland." The audience grew surly, expressing their irritation with increasing boldness as the War wore on.

As is the case with all wars, we were all thankful when the French and Indian War finally came to an end. It was now almost 10 P.M. and yet another wait ensued. Around 10:30 P.M., at long last Mumford and Sons took the stage and proceeded to make the wait worth it.


This photo of the band is not from our show, though the venue and the passion for music that reflected in this photo were similar to what you see here. My camera was dead, so I got this picture off the web. I'll replace it with actual photos that Greg or J took if or when I can get them.

Mumford and Sons is a folk rock act out of England—four guys playing an upright bass, bass guitar, banjo, guitar, keyboards, and drums (obviously not all at once—all four band members seem to be able to switch instruments effortlessly, and did so throughout the show). Greg, in his trademark role as the explorer of the outer reaches of the musical universe, had discovered the band and mailed us each a copy of their album in advance of the concert. Their acoustic-y sound—hard strumming on the guitar and banjo, almost reminiscent of bluegrass--big harmonies, and earnest, emotional lyrics had already won me over, but the show made me a fan. They ripped through their set with buoyant energy and furious skill, playing virtually every song from their debut album and tossing in a couple new songs that instantly felt familiar. The tunes were perfect for singing-along and the audience obliged, belting out not just the choruses, but the verses as well. I got the distinct sense during the show that this was a band that was about to break out big. I think the band felt it too—throughout much of the show front man Marcus Mumford had this amazed, appreciative look on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe the enthusiastic reception they were receiving. This was not an audience with a passing interest in a band who happened to playing. These were fans, as evidenced by the fact that they sang all the lyrics to the gentle, introspective, “After the Storm.” “I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone sing along to that one before,” Mumford remarked gracefully at the end.

“Best show I’ve ever seen for ten bucks,” Greg commented as we walked out of the Bluebird just before midnight. Indeed, it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen at any price.


Greg sent me the link on Facebook to this video for Mumford & Son's soaring, life-affirming "The Cave." This is one of my favorite songs by the band, though not their most popular one. Funny thing, this is music you'd feel safe bringing home to meet the parents--the lyrics are poetic, articulate, and clean, with the exception of their biggest single, "Little Lion Man", in which they drop the F-bomb in the chorus no less. It communicates well what they wanted to say--it's the story of a repentant man who declares (and I'm paraphrasing), "It was not your fault but mine, and it was your heart on the line, I really messed it up this time, didn't I, my dear."

Old Friends on the Road

The Road to Indiana (Photo Note: Throughout this and the previous blog, you will note that Greg's face is never seen. This is an accordance with his request that his image not be posted online. Wedel likes his privacy. However, remarkably, none of the photos you will see with his face obscured were staged or posed. I just found ways to get his picture without getting his face. )

In the old days we used to drive. In those days of cheap gas, on Sabbath afternoons we'd hop into Greg's little red Honda Civic, and just drive to see where the road took us. On occasion we'd take longer road trips--our senior year, the three of us took a couple of days driving up the southeastern coast of the United States. During college, J and I took an epic road trip to New Orleans, then met up with Greg and another old friend, Chris Cotta, on the Florida panhandle.

And so just as in the days of old, this past Monday, J, Greg, and I jumped in the car took off for a little road trip. Our goal was a concert Greg had booked tickets for, an up-coming folk band from England called Mumford & Sons performing in Bloomington, Indiana, about four hours from Columbus. But of course, road trips aren't about the destination, but the journey itself. We left in the morning so that we had plenty of time for stops along the way. Greg had suggested we each make a mix CD for the trip, and so the music--Tom Petty, Midnight Oil, Pearljam, and even a little Guns N-Roses--along with debating, joking around, and funny stories took us back in time. Sometimes it seems like all that has really changed is the cirucmstances around us. We've got grown up jobs, responsiblities, but at heart we still feel like the same high school kids we were all those years ago.


Click on the map to enlarge. Our route took us on I-70 through Indianapolis and on to Terre Haute, then southeast through a dozen little towns along route 246/46 to Bloomington.


Our first stop was for lunch at White Castle in, appropriately, New Castle, Indiana. White Castle (Motto: "What You Crave") is one of the oldest hamburger chains in the country--perhaps one of the first fast food places in the nation. You can still go in and order a 10-sack of the little, square shaped hamburgers they've been serving for generations.


White Castle's famed chicken rings with ranch dipping sauce. Well, it wasn't exactly what I craved but it wasn't bad. I considered ordering a few of the cheaply priced burgers, but couldn't get past their unappetizing appearance. Instead I settled for two orders of the chicken rings--recommended by Greg. The concept of chicken smashed into small, flat rings was a little weird, but they actually weren't too bad. While the food wasn't particularly spectacular, the service was fast and friendly.


Reading about air travel while traveling by car. I did a fair amount of reading when I wasn't driving. The book was Up in the Air by Walter Kirn, the basis for the recent Oscar-nominated film. I have to say, with apologies to Mr. Kirn, that this is perhaps the only time I've ever found the movie way better than the book. Russ Bickerstaff at the Box Office Prophets website does a much better job than I could of explaining why. Click here to read his comparision of the book and film.


A historic building in downtown Terre Haute. Too bad the rest of the city didn't look like this. Around 3 in the afternoon we arrived in Terre Haute, Indiana, not too far from the Illionois border. I must confess that this has to be one of the ugliest cities in America. Aside from a few tasteful historic buildings downtown, Terre Haute is one soul-sapping, architecturally dreary strip mall after another. It is home to the world's ugliest Kroger supermarket--a literal off-white, windowless box, with only the Kroger name to distinguish it from a faceless warehouse. It also hosts the nations homliest Macy's department store--with's it's dirty, industrial looking exterior it exudes a vaguely Soviet vibe. The rest of the sprawl of the city matched these buisnesses' depressed air. It was distressing just to drive through the city.

But drive through we did, on to the cemetery outside of town where Greg's maternal grandparents are buried. As a favor to his mom, Greg had promised to to stop by the graves just to see that we were well-maintained.

This grave had no connection to Greg's family but I found it interesting that Homer, born in 1892, had not yet been interred next to his beloved Helena. Either he's still alive at 118 years old, or more likely, ended up being buried somehwere else.


Greg pauses at his grandmother's grave.


J at the cemetery. That's our transportation in the background, J's Toyota Corolla.


No GPS for us. We found diretions the old fashioned way. Greg plots the course for our next destination: Eugene Deb's house on the campus of Indiana State University.


Eugene Deb's house. I suppose this is the sort of thing that our students assume we teachers do for fun during the summer--visit the homes of dead historical figures. And indeed, Greg teaches AP American History at a high school in Florida and wanted to stop off to see the home of Eugene Debs, a leader in the labor movement and the founder of the American Socialist Party (I know a lot of people, deceived by the angry right-wing talking heads, thought that was Barak Obama, but nope, it was Debs). Of course, Greg also went to see both Mumford and Sons that night, and the Silversun Pickups the following night, so it wasn't all history nerd stuff!





The Smallest Chapel in the World. After checking out the Debs home, we zipped over to the little town of Farmersburg where we drove by the home of one Greg's great-aunts, I believe. On the way out of town, we stopped off here, at the world's smallest chapel. We actually went inside, and it was small--about the size of my living room, but complete with a handful of pews and a small pulpit. It was dusty, quiet, and had that vaguely moldy smell of old hymnals. (It was here that my camera ran out batteries, so the rest of the photos of from the trip will be provided courtesy of others).

After leaving Farmersburg, I took the wheel for the drive to Bloomington, while Greg navigated and J napped in the back seat. I feel like I lucked out in the driving responsibilities. While Greg and J had been consigned to the homegenity of freeway driving, I got the winding backroads of the Indiana countryside. Miles of rolling farmland, woods, and grassy meadows occasionally interupted by bucolic small towns, relics of a bygone era--bastions of what some politicians like to call the "real America." And driving through these towns, I get it. This little slice of rural America represents how we like to imagine ourselves as a nation. We started out as an agrarian society and this self-conception is rooted deep. Hard work, self-reliance, faith and family all seemed to exude from these little hamlets. (Though I disagree with the suggestion that such characteristics are limited to small towns and farmland. Indeed, as farming in America is gradually taken over by massive corporations and the little towns of of America die out as younger people head for the bright lights and big cities--or at least big-box suburbia--these old-fashioned"American" values are as likely to be found among the immigrant population in this country as anywhere else).


Clay City declares itself the Mayberry of the Midwest, a small town with big pride. And in fact, Clay City does feature a storybook town center reminiscent of the Andy Griffith Show.


An on old-fashioned gas station in the heart of Clay City, a metropolis of just over 1000 people.

In addition to the idyllic Clay City we passed through lots of other places with charming local color. One of my favorites was the sign for the Friendly Open Bible Church in Coal City, Indiana (right down the road from the much sterner Independent Fundamentalist Baptist Church). Apparently the friendly folks at Friendly Open Bible Church even have a Myspace page (which, granted, it doesn't appear has been visited in two years).

Rural small-town Indiana right here in America was as exotic and fasinating to me as any foreign country. It was exciting to see a part of America that I had heard memorialized in so many of my favorite Rich Mullins songs ("I grew up around Indiana, You grew up around Galilee," he sang in "Boy Like Me/Man Like You"). "My dad, he could make things grow out of Indiana clay," he reminisced in "First Family." I half expected to turn a corner and see "all of those Mail Pouch posters thrown up on rotting sideboards of these rundown stables like the one that Christ was born in" (from the song "Land of My Sojourn").

In my short sojourn through the backroads of Indiana, I found myself captivated--in the same way that I have been in places as diverse as urban Japan, suburban Australia, and rural Thailand--by the little glimpses of a life that seems so different from mine and that is completely normal for those that live it.

Soon though,our passage through the heartland was at an end and we were entering the city of Bloomington Indiana, home to Indiana University, and the location of the ultimate goal of our journey--the concert. In the next blog entry, a brief account of a long wait, a decent opening act and a simply awful one, and a little over an hour of blistering, soul stirring modern folk courtesy of the up and coming band, Mumford and Sons.

Old Friends

Sean and J Go to White Castle: It seemed the "road trip" thing to do, to stop at White Castle for lunch. Old high school friends J Carlos and Greg Wedel (taking the photo) and I took a little trip down memory lane and through the farmland of Indiana on our way to a Mumford & Son's concert this past Monday, June 14, 2010.
What does it take a friendship strong, not just for a season, but for a lifetime? Proximity is certianly helpful. My best friend J Carlos and I have been blessed by intersecting paths for the past twenty-one years, starting with when we met in Mrs. Gish's freshman Earth Science class at Forest Lake Academy. We graduated from high school together, and perhaps we might have drifted apart then, as he went to Southern College in Tennessee and I attended Andrews University in Michigan. But we decided to spend a year as student missionaries together in Micronesia. That year, followed by a summer in Europe, further cemented our friendship. But then, something truly fortuitous happened. J's parents moved away from Florida to Dayton, Ohio. With our families now living in different states it seemed unlikely we would have much opportunity for further contact. Except that, the same year that the Carlos family moved, I began dating a wonderful girl who just happened to be from. . .Dayton, Ohio. That Thanksgiving, I met Barbara's parents for the first time and stayed with the Carlos family for the holiday.

A few years later, Babs and I got married and J was in the wedding. A few days after that, J was on his way back to the mission field, where within a few years he would meet his own spouse, Evelyn. Of course, Babs and I also headed back out to the islands, and so, though we served on different islands, our paths continued to cross from time to time. Eventually, J and Evleyn moved to the mainland, to Ohio, to be near his parents. When our familymoved back last year it was to Ohio also--but not just anywhere in the state. It just so happened that I'd gotten a job in the same city--Columbus--as J was living in. And so now we live about 20 minutes apart, each raising young sons that we hope, by virtue of proximity, will become the best of friends, just like their dads.

But proximity is not the only way to preserve a friendship. I can think of at least one individual I know from high school who has also ended up living close by, but we are merely nodding acquaintances. How much more is required, then, when old friends live miles apart. For such friendships to last there must be an real effort to make those paths cross. I confess, I'm not the best at keeping in touch. I don't call, I don't e-mail, I don't even friend on Facebook! I rely heavily on proximity to keep friendships alive. Fortunately for me, Greg Wedel has done better than that. He's always put forth the effort. From time to time he'd call, just to see how things are going. He kept me supplied with new music from his ever-growing collection. He passed on book and movie recommendations. And whenever we passed through Florida, he made time to hang out. Greg seems to understand that like all relationships, friendships take work to thrive, and he's always been willing to take the iniative and make an effort. Greg's not one for a lot mucky sentimental talk, but his actions show that he understands what friendship for the long haul is all about.

So this summer Greg set out to orhcestrate an opportunity for the three of us to get together. He got us tickets to see one of his favorite new up-coming bands across the state line in Indiana. He flew up from Florida on Thursday evening, June 10, 2010, and we spent the weekend between J's house (where he was staying) and ours hanging out and catching up. Monday we set out for Indiana (an account of that trip will follow in the next entry).


Greg has a gruff demeanor that belies his gift with kids. "How's it going, little man," he'll say somberly. But kids, including our son, see right through him. They know somehow, that they've found a friend. And he gracefully obliges with swings, read-alouds, and other kid-friendly treats.



There's one more element of friendship that goes largely unspoken between the three of us. With all the trash talk and mock insults that are prone to fly between us, you might not even realize it's there. But pay close attention and you'll recognize a deep well of respect and acceptance we have for one another. The three of us are each quite different. We learned long ago that it was fruitless to try to change one another. We concluded that we would live with eachother's foilbles, focus on that which we admired in eachother, and seek, wherever possible, the common ground.

And so decades have passed and thanks to proximity, effort, and mutual respect, we are friends still.


The table set for company. On Sunday morning we had the Carlos family (J, Evelyn, and baby Benjamin) and Greg over for a Mexican themed brunch. We were pretty excited to put our new dining set to good use.


The Key lime pie (or what's left of it). On Sabbath afternoon, June 12, Greg came over for lunch and to hang out for the afternoon while the Carlos clan was away at camp meeting. Greg and I have always been partial to Key lime pie, especially from TooJay's, our favorite Jewish deli chain in Orlando. So we decided to try our hand at making our own. As evidenced by the photo above, it turned out quite well. We'd eaten half the pie before I thought to take a photo for posterity.


Good friends and good food make for good times.

Year One Done

CAA's class of 2010. This is probably my favorite photo of these kids. It was actually taken the week before graduation, when we were taking photos for the graduation bulletin. There is just such warmth between them in this photo.


On a warm day in early June--blue summer sky, sunshine, the trees bursting with brilliant green, a light breeze, birds chirping--I tossed my backpack into the backseat of my late model Toyota, got behind the wheel, and drove with away without a pang of sadness or a care in the world. It was a week ago today. . .or it was yesterday. Either way, the weather and the mood were the same. Last Friday school let out for the summer, my teaching for the school year finished, and yesterday I completed my postweek duties and left the school with no reason to return until August.


The end of the school year here in America is a little different then it was in Saipan. Instead of bidding a fond farewell to almost everyone on the staff, it's "I'll see you in August" or "We should get together sometime this summer." With the exception of our 1st/2nd grade teacher who came out of retirement to teach for a year and is now going back in, everyone will be back. Instead of a big summer trip to the States to prepare for, there is just a nice long lesiurely summer stretching ahead, with one little trip to Florida in mid-July. Instead of kids packing the house on Friday night for one last TGIS before the summer begins, we teachers all stand outside and wave goodbye as the buses pull away; the kids are too far-flung across the city of Columbus for such gatherings and besides hanging out with the teachers in your spare time isnt' quite as cool here as it is in Saipan.

Oh, there were some tears shed. A couple of our sixth graders won't be back next year and the last day was a wrenching one for them. That's one thing that hasn't changed much--just like in Saipan, the kids might talk a lot of smack about their little school and boast about where they're going to go next year, but when it comes right down to it, they love this place. For these departing students the end of the school year was a bittersweet moment.


But for me, it was barely bitter, and largely sweet. It's been a good year. I've gained a lot, learned a lot, grown a lot. I'm beginning to put down some roots, beginning to feel at home. I know a few people now. I've starting to figure out how to get things done. It's a good feeling. I'm excited about next school year and all the big plans in the works, now that I know my way around a little bit. But August will come soon enough--I'm not gonna rush it. Right now I'm ready for vacation, ready to be a stay-at-home daddy for the summer, ready to read, rest, and recuperate. Year one is done and so am I!


A few photos of year end events at CAA.


Shadow's First and Final Tour of this Season


This first season with Shadow has been all about getting off the ground, so it wasn't until the final month of the school year that we finally mounted our first tour. It was a humble three-show gig, but those three performances got the team--and me--so excited about Shadow. The tour is the payoff: the applause of the crowd, the adrenaline boost of stepping out on the stage--not just for one little skit in the midst of a larger program, but for a full show where we are the main event. We all loved it, and I think it got us all excited for next season.




Shadow team members perform "Officer Bob", an anti-drug skit, at our second show of the tour, Friday, May 21, at Eastwood Junior Academy (the school where my best friend, J Carlos works).


Shadow Co-Director Wayna Gray brings it home to the audience between skits at the Eastwood show.


The Shadow team at Ephsesus Seventh-day Adventist Church just before our final performance of the season on Sabbath afternoon, May 22, 2010. (Our first show was at our own school on Thursday, May 20. The hometown crowd was so enthusiastic and supportive. It really pumped us up for our road shows. A couple of the students actually came along with the team on Friday just to see the show again and show their support for the team.)


Shadow just before we took the stage at Ephesus on May 22.


"LoudNClear" calls for quiet. This young man is one of our most energetic and entertaining actors. Let's just say I've never had a problem with him projecting on stage. He always comes through loud and clear. (I have however had some problems with that same talent during class, though!)



"LoudNClear" and one of our fifth (now sixth grade) actors, "Jazzy" perform "Vengeance is Mine" (an old favorite from my REAL Christian Theater days).



8th Grade Graduation

My first graduation at CAA felt relatively simple. But then I had a lot of help. This year, the 8th grade and kindergarten graduations were held jointly, so I had help from Lisa Lavalas, the kindergarten teacher. Brenda Arthurs, the principal also pitched in with deocrations and coordination. A lovely group of church ladies callled the King's Daughters took care of the refreshments. The sanctuary at Ephesus Seventh-day Adventist Church required little in the way of decorating--it looks grand enough by itself. Our secretary, Bunnie, took care of the bulletin. Much of the program was already set--all we had to do was plug into the ongoing traditions.


Pomp & Circumstance


This is their moment.


The Class of 2014. The end of one journey, and the beginning of another. High school here they come!


The Last Day of School

The room reverting back to the state I found it in when I arrived last August-Chairs and desks, stacked, books put away, posters and bulletin boards taken down.


Some of the 5-8 kids playing video games in my classroom on the last day of school.



This poor guy thought it'd be a good idea to get in a fight on the last day of school. It broke up before any one got hurt, but he and his nemesis forfeited the rest of the days festivities. He spent the final hours of the school year sitting and doing nothing.


Until next year. From left to right, "Quiet Man" who will be in my 8th grade class, "LoudnClear" who will be in 6th grade, and "SoulBrother" who will be in my 7th grade class.