Little Do We Sometimes Know:
I have a memory from when I was fourteen and my sisters and I are singing in a hotel room on the night before an audition for a ballet school where we would later dance. I remember our mother smiling at us and I remember getting up from the table and taking a sip of raspberry flavored soda water. We probably should have been drinking straight animal protein from a straw, but it took us awhile to learn about nutrition. I remember the soda water because the song we were singing and would love for a long time afterward was Strawberry Wine.
Lindsey and I are sitting in our sunny, window-lined Sunday school classroom with our last three children of the day. One mother, of a tiny little boy named Hayes, comes in and plops down on the carpet and plays with her child. We always love when parents do that—take time to enter a child’s world instead of yanking the kid out of the room to fit into their schedule.
Just before that a little brown-haired girl in the classroom had left after two hours of intermittently repeating to everyone:
“Thank you excuse me I’m sorry It’s ok thank you I love you excuse me It’s ok!” she repeated over and over calling other children by different names and hugging them at about the “I love you” phrase.
Another little boy with long, pale red hair, "Q", remains in the classroom with Hayes and another little girl who speaks mostly Japanese even though she’s a blonde-haired, blue-eyed two year old. Q sits on my lap and the girl sits beside me as we work with play dough and continue talking. Hayes’ mother then sits at the table with play dough and chats with Lindsey and I, her thick Southern accent drawling in the most beautiful way. I smile because her son is off playing and she is making play-dough cut outs of different animals.
Just then Q's parents enter the room and I cringe inside because I can’t stand them. They are of the more obnoxious church-going breed. I've watched them treat people at church as either "in" the club or "out" of the club. Since they led worship at one of the services they often acted as though they were the famous musical members of the club. They also often left their child at Sunday school until long after the building had closed, never said hello or thank you, and only addressed us to see if their child had done something wrong. Hayes’ mother starts chatting with them and inquires about their move to Austin.
“Oh, did you have a job change?” I ask the mother.
“Well, no, I mean, the music industry is good there so we’ll totally be fine,” she says tossing her waist-length brown hair.
“Oh, are you musicians?” I ask (yeah so I forgot about their "job" at the church). She nods and sighs as if my question is superfluous and continues telling Hayes’ mom about their move. Hayes’ mom proceeds to ask about whether or not the couple knows if the church needs assistance with the music on Sundays now that they're leaving.
“Well, you know, we’ve been doing it for years,” says the pompous couple who haven’t even said hello to their son, who still sits calmly in my lap and stares at his parents with vacant eyes. “But yeah, I guess now that we’ll be gone they’ll need help but I really don't know how that will work.”
“I’d really like to, maybe, get involved or help in some way if I could,” says Hayes’ mother,
“Oh are you a singer?” says the mother in a condescending tone-- as if everone she has ever met is a singer.
“I am.” Says Hayes’ mother,“I’m a musician and I feel the Lord is directing me to do something of that sort here. It's just, you know, been on my heart.”
“Yeah,” says the other mother as I’m smashing bits of playdough into the table wishing she’d let me keep Q. and just leave, “Chris, the guy who is arranges everything, has had lots of people interested in singing. I know that a lot of people have approached him on that. So I don't know. I don’t know what they’re going to do once we’re gone, but you can talk to him if you want and see what happens. It's always worth a shot.”
Hayes’ mother smiles sweetly and listens as the other mother and husband go on and on about themselves. Finally the dad interrupts and says someone is waiting for them to go to lunch.
“Oh! Well, a bunch of us are going to lunch! We’ll be seeing you.”
The only time the woman addressed Lindsey and I was when she told us it was their last Sunday and we wouldn't be seeing Q anymore. We will miss Q. We will not miss his parents.
As I clean up I keep talking to Hayes’ mom who says something about Hayes’ dad.
“Is he a musician too?” I ask as I wipe the table.
“No, he’s a film director.” She says. I nod to myself. Who in Hollywood ISN'T a film director?
“But you’re a musician?” I ask again. “What do you play?”
“Yeah I’m an artist,” she says.
“What kind of artist?” I ask as I wad up the paper towel and toss it into a trash can.
“Well I do sorta alternative country music,” she says as she helps us put toys away.
“Oh!” I say as I wash my hands at the sink, “We’re from Bakersfield so we’re fans of country music, but we lost the country station here in LA,” I add knowing she hasn’t lived in L.A. long.
“Yeah, KZLA is gone,” she said. We keep talking about that travesty until finally I ask:
“So do you have any CD’s out or anything?” thinking everyone in Hollywood is a work in progress.
“Well, yeah, I have a few.” She says as she starts to get Hayes ready to go.
“Oh really? What are they called?” I ask stupidly.
“Um, well, my last name’s Carter.” She says sweetly. I pause. I stare at her for a second.
“Deana Carter?" I say. She nods.
“You’re DEANA CARTER?” I say again. She nods and looks embarrassed that I’m so bewildered. Lindsey’s mouth drops open.
“Oh my gosh!" I gush, "we’re huge fans….” (Ok, so apparently not huge enough to know what she looks like, but hey, she's a singer). "And you're a CHRISTIAN?" I say in shock. Probably too much shock.
What struck me as so ridiculous about the thing was that this well-known, extremely accomplished musician just sat there as the extremely “churchy” people told her to “try” to get involved in the music aspect of church. I know far too many people who have been wounded by the "club" nature of churches to not boil when I watch it happening in front of me. I was annoyed at their behavior even before I found out she was famous. But once I learned that, their behavior looked even more ridiculous.
Deana, however, never aired her accomplishments. She always thanks us. She is kind and patient with her son. She acts like a Believer, though you wouldn't label her that unless she told you. And yet she stands on the margins of our church...and leaves last of all while little Hayes runs through mud puddles. And instead of saying who she was or what she could do for the music of the church to the couple who were "talking down" to her, she just sweetly wished the obnoxious duo luck and gently asked us where she could find an indoor play place for Hayes.
And her re-make of Strawberry Wine--that song from my childhood—is online at her new MySpace profile. Go check it out and meet a truly beautiful,refreshing and humble woman.
I have a memory from when I was fourteen and my sisters and I are singing in a hotel room on the night before an audition for a ballet school where we would later dance. I remember our mother smiling at us and I remember getting up from the table and taking a sip of raspberry flavored soda water. We probably should have been drinking straight animal protein from a straw, but it took us awhile to learn about nutrition. I remember the soda water because the song we were singing and would love for a long time afterward was Strawberry Wine.
Lindsey and I are sitting in our sunny, window-lined Sunday school classroom with our last three children of the day. One mother, of a tiny little boy named Hayes, comes in and plops down on the carpet and plays with her child. We always love when parents do that—take time to enter a child’s world instead of yanking the kid out of the room to fit into their schedule.
Just before that a little brown-haired girl in the classroom had left after two hours of intermittently repeating to everyone:
“Thank you excuse me I’m sorry It’s ok thank you I love you excuse me It’s ok!” she repeated over and over calling other children by different names and hugging them at about the “I love you” phrase.
Another little boy with long, pale red hair, "Q", remains in the classroom with Hayes and another little girl who speaks mostly Japanese even though she’s a blonde-haired, blue-eyed two year old. Q sits on my lap and the girl sits beside me as we work with play dough and continue talking. Hayes’ mother then sits at the table with play dough and chats with Lindsey and I, her thick Southern accent drawling in the most beautiful way. I smile because her son is off playing and she is making play-dough cut outs of different animals.
Just then Q's parents enter the room and I cringe inside because I can’t stand them. They are of the more obnoxious church-going breed. I've watched them treat people at church as either "in" the club or "out" of the club. Since they led worship at one of the services they often acted as though they were the famous musical members of the club. They also often left their child at Sunday school until long after the building had closed, never said hello or thank you, and only addressed us to see if their child had done something wrong. Hayes’ mother starts chatting with them and inquires about their move to Austin.
“Oh, did you have a job change?” I ask the mother.
“Well, no, I mean, the music industry is good there so we’ll totally be fine,” she says tossing her waist-length brown hair.
“Oh, are you musicians?” I ask (yeah so I forgot about their "job" at the church). She nods and sighs as if my question is superfluous and continues telling Hayes’ mom about their move. Hayes’ mom proceeds to ask about whether or not the couple knows if the church needs assistance with the music on Sundays now that they're leaving.
“Well, you know, we’ve been doing it for years,” says the pompous couple who haven’t even said hello to their son, who still sits calmly in my lap and stares at his parents with vacant eyes. “But yeah, I guess now that we’ll be gone they’ll need help but I really don't know how that will work.”
“I’d really like to, maybe, get involved or help in some way if I could,” says Hayes’ mother,
“Oh are you a singer?” says the mother in a condescending tone-- as if everone she has ever met is a singer.
“I am.” Says Hayes’ mother,“I’m a musician and I feel the Lord is directing me to do something of that sort here. It's just, you know, been on my heart.”
“Yeah,” says the other mother as I’m smashing bits of playdough into the table wishing she’d let me keep Q. and just leave, “Chris, the guy who is arranges everything, has had lots of people interested in singing. I know that a lot of people have approached him on that. So I don't know. I don’t know what they’re going to do once we’re gone, but you can talk to him if you want and see what happens. It's always worth a shot.”
Hayes’ mother smiles sweetly and listens as the other mother and husband go on and on about themselves. Finally the dad interrupts and says someone is waiting for them to go to lunch.
“Oh! Well, a bunch of us are going to lunch! We’ll be seeing you.”
The only time the woman addressed Lindsey and I was when she told us it was their last Sunday and we wouldn't be seeing Q anymore. We will miss Q. We will not miss his parents.
As I clean up I keep talking to Hayes’ mom who says something about Hayes’ dad.
“Is he a musician too?” I ask as I wipe the table.
“No, he’s a film director.” She says. I nod to myself. Who in Hollywood ISN'T a film director?
“But you’re a musician?” I ask again. “What do you play?”
“Yeah I’m an artist,” she says.
“What kind of artist?” I ask as I wad up the paper towel and toss it into a trash can.
“Well I do sorta alternative country music,” she says as she helps us put toys away.
“Oh!” I say as I wash my hands at the sink, “We’re from Bakersfield so we’re fans of country music, but we lost the country station here in LA,” I add knowing she hasn’t lived in L.A. long.
“Yeah, KZLA is gone,” she said. We keep talking about that travesty until finally I ask:
“So do you have any CD’s out or anything?” thinking everyone in Hollywood is a work in progress.
“Well, yeah, I have a few.” She says as she starts to get Hayes ready to go.
“Oh really? What are they called?” I ask stupidly.
“Um, well, my last name’s Carter.” She says sweetly. I pause. I stare at her for a second.
“Deana Carter?" I say. She nods.
“You’re DEANA CARTER?” I say again. She nods and looks embarrassed that I’m so bewildered. Lindsey’s mouth drops open.
“Oh my gosh!" I gush, "we’re huge fans….” (Ok, so apparently not huge enough to know what she looks like, but hey, she's a singer). "And you're a CHRISTIAN?" I say in shock. Probably too much shock.
What struck me as so ridiculous about the thing was that this well-known, extremely accomplished musician just sat there as the extremely “churchy” people told her to “try” to get involved in the music aspect of church. I know far too many people who have been wounded by the "club" nature of churches to not boil when I watch it happening in front of me. I was annoyed at their behavior even before I found out she was famous. But once I learned that, their behavior looked even more ridiculous.
Deana, however, never aired her accomplishments. She always thanks us. She is kind and patient with her son. She acts like a Believer, though you wouldn't label her that unless she told you. And yet she stands on the margins of our church...and leaves last of all while little Hayes runs through mud puddles. And instead of saying who she was or what she could do for the music of the church to the couple who were "talking down" to her, she just sweetly wished the obnoxious duo luck and gently asked us where she could find an indoor play place for Hayes.
And her re-make of Strawberry Wine--that song from my childhood—is online at her new MySpace profile. Go check it out and meet a truly beautiful,refreshing and humble woman.
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