Reflections

Well, I did it.

After four years of writing, I finally did it.

I gave my first concert.

And, really, "I" did it just isn't the right description.

At all.

God pretty much dropped this opportunity in my lap,

And it would never have come together without the help and encouragement of countless friends and family members.

Honestly, I am blown away.

By so many things.

I thought I'd take a moment to share some of the strange, random thoughts that have occurred to me in the past sixty hours.

"I just sang sixteen songs."

I think the only time I've ever sung that much is when we used to do worship nights in college.

I've never known how to sing and play fifteen of my own songs at any one time.

Since I've never had the opportunity to practice much, I forget the accompaniments shortly after I record them.  (Fortunately, I have the recordings to refer back to so I can remember them again.)

"How, exactly, did I get through sixteen songs?"

I don't know if I've ever once performed a single one of my songs and been able to look back and know how I got through it.

I've never completely, totally forgotten a lyric (though I've come close).

I've never gotten completely, totally stuck (though I do in practice all the time).

I've never had a clear memory of how I managed to get through every step between the first verse and the last line.

I think it must just be God sustaining me, because I can't figure out any other way to fill in the holes.

"These people actually came to hear me."

It's so crazy to me that other people would want to hear the words that I write.

I feel like I write to get things out of my brain and off my chest.

There's something in the artist that requires making art - as though, if I don't write, keeping it all in will kill me.

So, really, I write mostly for myself.

I write very personal songs about what's going on in my life at any given moment.

That anyone would want to come hear my messy words - my messy life - just blows me away.

(Then again, I love listening to other artists' music.  Double-standard, much?)

That my friends would give up their night - absolutely prioritizing my concert over anything else they had going on - is so humbling.

That strangers I've never even met would take a friend at his or her word and come to hear some unknown songwriter perform is so humbling.

I feel like I'm not enough.

I guess, then, that what God does through me amazes me all the more.

"These people were blessed by my performance."

A super-encouraging friend keeps telling me that my music is a blessing.  Sometimes, though, that's hard to believe.  How could my words actually bless someone else?

I got to spend a lot of time at the concert talking to people.  While I wasn't very good at engaging those who weren't really engaging me (which is really because I'm shy and small talk is not my favorite thing to do), those who really wanted to talk to and engage me just blew.  Me.  Away.

I heard so many times that a particular song blessed someone, or that a particular thing I said blessed someone.  I heard about at least two people who cried.

Then people were telling me my lyrics were deep and meaningful - not just the same old lines repeated over and over again.  They said my stories were articulate (when I'd been more concerned that I was rambling and not explaining clearly), and that they appreciated my honesty.

It's hard to be in front of a group of people and let them see a little bit of how screwed-up you are.  There can be a lot of fear that someone will think you're not good enough - especially in Christian circles, that you're not a good enough Christian - because you admit that you aren't perfect.  But the truth is, we're all struggling.  And, hard as it can be for a perfectionist to admit she's not perfect, it's absolutely the truth.

That God would use my words to bless another?  It just astounds me.

"This is the Body of Christ."

The day after I got back from Escape to the Lake, I went to church early for prayer.  We read that day's passage, which was about the Body of Christ, the church.  As we prayed, I started crying, because I felt like I wasn't fulfilling the role I was supposed to as part of the Body.

Saturday night, someone else brought up the Body.  The way everyone supported me, and the things I heard of what my music had meant to others - I just felt whole.  That role I wasn't fulfilling?  I was fulfilling it now.  And it felt like the perfect timing.

"I wasn't really nervous."

I usually have terrible stage fright.  But, Saturday, I didn't.  At all.

I was a little more attentive than normal because I was worried about screwing up, but nothing I'd call nerves.

I was just comfortable and so happy, blessed, and overwhelmed to have the opportunity to share.

It was fun.

"I want to do it all again."

This morning, I was asked if I was glad it was over.

I spent over two months writing accompaniments, practicing at every possible opportunity, meeting with people, gathering objects . . .

I spent the weekend staying up late and getting up early because there was so much I needed to get done.

And all the time, all the absolute exhaustion, everything - it was all worth it.

I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing.

So, I answered, "No.  I want to do it all again."

 

Human Nature

All that's been going on miles away,

All the way in Ferguson, Missouri,

Has hit me really close to home.

Close to those I love as though they were my own flesh and blood.

They might as well be.

Family is more than skin deep.

So, I responded like any songwriter.

I wrote a song.

Human Nature
by Mary Schieferstein
©2014 Mary Schieferstein

We say it couldn't happen here,
Claim we're smart enough to not get carried away,
Tout words like equality and justice,
But perspective makes our definitions change.

And I guess it's human nature,
We all want to be better than someone else,
So that those in power see what they want to,
Then the oppressed give back what they've been dealt.

And skin's the catalyst of deeper problems,
The image of unspoken castes we've put in place,
Feeding the fire eating our souls,
Forgetting that we're all in need of grace.

We say we took care of this years ago,
Announce that hatred's gone and we are free,
But outlawing the worst symptoms
Never cured the disease.

And I guess it's human nature,
We all want to be better than someone else,
So that those in power see what they want to,
Then the oppressed give back what they've been dealt.

And skin's the catalyst of deeper problems,
The image of unspoken castes we've put in place,
Feeding the fire eating our souls,
Forgetting that we're all in need of grace.

My sister draws these beautiful pictures
And her friends tease her about her braided hair,
My brother hugs with his whole heart
And repeats remarks that I would never dare.

And my sisters and my brothers
Are grieving loss of life and faith,
Whatever "he says, she says" happened
Can't be worth this kind of pain.

And I guess it's human nature,
We all want to be better than someone else,
So that those in power see what they want to,
Then the oppressed give back what they've been dealt.

And skin's the catalyst of deeper problems,
The image of unspoken castes we've put in place,
Feeding the fire eating our souls,
Forgetting that we're all in need of grace.

Wrestling

So the story of how this song came about is a little different,

Yet, really, very much the same.

It was a day like any other college day . . .

Any other college day approaching finals week.

I was working on a movie script as a final project for one of my classes.

The main character needed to go meet a kindergarten teacher

(So that the two could fall in love by the end of the movie, of course)

And, as the main character did not have any relatives in kindergarten,

I needed a reason for a friend to ask the main character to go pick up her daughter from school,

And not just any reason, but a quick, random text in the middle of the day type reason.

And now, the insight into the way my brain works.

(I can hear all my friends saying, "Mary, you're such a happy person.  Why do you write such depressing songs?"  Well, this is how it happens.)

I decided that the mother must have another child,

A little baby boy,

Who was dying of heart failure.

(Because that's the most obvious reason a mom would all of a sudden need a babysitter, right?)

So the main character picked up the little girl from school

(Meeting the kindergarten teacher, of course)

Then watched her for a few hours,

During which the little girl,

Who had just been singing "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands" in school that day,

(See the corners I write myself into?)

Asked if her baby brother was really in God's hands,

If God really loved her brother.

And so I tried my best to write out a theological explanation of suffering that the main character could give to the six-year-old,

But, once I finished, I found that my heart was still trying to understand,

That, even though I might have at least a basic framework for understanding suffering theologically,

It was still painful emotionally.

I remember sitting there, staring at the computer screen, thinking, "God, don't You love them?"

(Which seems a little out of character for me.  As much as I love to think about God's Love, I'm not a "Smile, Jesus loves you" kind of person.  The way I understand the Love of God is far too deep and nuanced for those kind of cliches - and definitely nuanced enough for some theological explanation of suffering.  But that's what I was feeling.)

So I found myself wrestling with God,

Knowing that He is Good and His ways are perfect,

Yet feeling that something was wrong and life shouldn't be like this.

And it shouldn't.

Death is not natural.

It's a result of sin and, as such, is not part of what we were created to be.

And so it hurts.

And it hurts in a way that can't be just glossed over by those pat answers people like to give at funerals.

I was just thinking today that Jesus wept, too -

That there is a place for this -

That all the knowledge of and love for God we could ever have isn't necessarily going to take away our pain.

Sometimes, theology has brought emotional healing,

But, usually, emotions must be wrestled with and thought through,

Like Jacob going to meet his brother,

Terrified of what may come.

And God met him there.

And his wounds?

(I think I heard a story somewhere that he limped for the rest of his life)

They were grace.

So, a couple of days letter, I poured that brief time of wrestling into a song.

Wrestling
by Mary Schieferstein
©2014 Mary Schieferstein

A baby's dying,
And beside him sits a mother's broken heart,
A pair of empty eyes staring at the stars,
Mindless fingers stroking his arm.

The sound of crying -
Tears rolling down her sunken cheeks,
Mouth gaping as she struggles to breathe,
Half-formed questions left hanging.

And, O, my God, don't You love the people staring straight at death?
O, my God, don't You love the babies who will never be children?
God, I know You have Your reasons,
But I'm sick of easy answers
That pile Band-Aids on the deep wounds,
And sometimes pain cannot be cured
By any magnitude of truth,
So we're left wrestling like Jacob,
Holding on until You bless us,
And time may heal, but it will never remove.

A sister's reaching,
Her touch cut off by solid glass,
Her heart held out in her empty hand,
Her fingerprints marking the impasse.

The sound of yelling -
A father's head makes contact with the wall,
His angry fist asking if You care at all,
His face twisted by hope's apparent downfall.

And, O, my God, don't You love the people staring straight at death?
O, my God, don't You love the babies who will never be children?
God, I know You have Your reasons,
But I'm sick of easy answers
That pile Band-Aids on the deep wounds,
And sometimes pain cannot be cured
By any magnitude of truth,
So we're left wrestling like Jacob,
Holding on until You bless us,
And time may heal, but it will never remove.

And, oh, I know some things aren't meant to be,
And, oh, I know we're not the only ones who weep,
But, sometimes, we cursed just need to grieve
Over the loss of Eden,
Result of our own conceited
Seeking to dethrone
Our one and only hope,
As though who You are isn't who You ought to be,
As though it'd be better if we defined what we believe.

And, O, my God, I know that Your Love never left.
And, O, my God, I know that You have something greater planned,
But, God, it's just so hard to understand,
So I won't take the easy answers
That pile Band-Aids on the deep wounds,
'Cause sometimes pain cannot be cured
By any magnitude of truth,
And so we'll wrestle like Jacob,
Holding on until You bless us,
And it's the scars of Grace that time cannot remove.