I’m heading to Texas this morning to visit friends and family for a day. While I’m away, please check out the bloggers coming with Brian and me to the Dominican Republic November 2-7. And please begin praying for them and the trip if you haven’t started already. Thanks.
Mary at Owlhaven.net
Tim Challies at Challies.com, also writing some about the trip over at WorldMagazine.com
Marlboro Man, husband of Ree, who blogs at ThePioneerWoman.com
Melanie at TheBigMamaBlog.com
Jennifer Donovan blogging for 5MinutesForMom.com
We’ll have only one camera up today and the audio will be off and on so we can fight with each other in private. Kidding, of course.
"What are you about to do here, Jeff?” I asked.
“I’m about to put some guys out of work,” he laughed, possibly to ease his conscience. Jeff loves his studio musician friends, he’s a thoroughly nice guy, so he wasn’t being calloused when he said this I’m certain. It was more like a confession.
I thought it odd that Monroe (producer) only arranged for one musician - Jeff Roach - to meet us in the studio yesterday. When I’ve recorded in the past, the first day in the studio was for tracking the entire band at once. An electric guitar player, drummer, bass, keyboard guy - we’d all hang out for an hour or so and then go off into our corners of the studio, put on headphones and do our thing. That first day was like a party, a reunion of old friends who’ve worked on hundreds of albums together.
Those friends are out of a job now, replaced by Jeff and his box of wonderment. And my upright piano is gone too. Jeff has his friends and that piano sound I love in his red keyboard now.
The music industry has been downsized. As profits have plummeted, budgets have done likewise and circuitry has replaced musicians.
I’m a little uncomfortable with this, but I’m not exactly protesting the innovation. So far, I can’t tell the difference sonically. And I can’t afford old friends.
I’m in the studio today starting at around 10:30AM, give or take an hour. Watch here or at mogulus.com/sgtv and mogulus.com/sgtv3.
Last night, I stood in the driveway with Gabriella, my seven year-old. I tickled her and she laughed my mother’s mother’s laugh. Something about the moment spurred a flashback. In my mind’s eye I saw her swaddled and lying stone still on my lap. She was gripping my finger so tightly her knuckles turned white. I was singing to her. I did that a lot in those days. She was my first born and nothing on TV or anywhere else was as entertaining or calming as she could be.
When the tickling and laughing stopped, i just stood there for a minute and took her in. She suddenly seemed much taller and more beautiful and effortlessly enjoyable than I’d noticed before. I should notice her more, I thought.
She stilled, stood with her back against me, my hands on her chest, and she told me about something funny a friend of hers had done at school. Have you ever felt so compelled to speak that you couldn’t hold the thoughts in even if you wanted to? “I remember when you were so small you could fit on my lap, and I would sing and sing to you. You’ve become such a kind, smart beautiful girl you know it?”
I felt relieved, the way I did when I told my grandmother I loved her just before she died, the way I did when I told my friend Becky I loved her for the first time. I got it out. I knew that Gabriella now knew I didn’t just love her, but I noticed her and liked what I saw. I hoped in those seconds after those words were spoken that she’d remember them, that they’d play in her mind when boys at school pick on her - and they will - when girls look at her as if smelling something disgusting - and they will - when she fails - and she will. I hoped those words would keep her heart safe and remind her always that she is lovable and good.
And then she said, “My teacher says I have the best handwriting and today I made the highest grade on my paragraph. And I helped Penelope unbuckle when Gresham just ran inside.”
In seconds my pride became hers.
Maybe it’s genetic.
