Mavis Gets Around

© David Hartman

     What do you do when you're overdue for a blog post but lack inspiration? You go looking for it.
     So I checked the Spam on Wry playlist to see what the next scheduled track was, and discovered it's Roger Dunnam's a cappella version of the old C.W. McCall classic "Old Home Filler' Up and Keep On Truckin' Cafe." You should be listening to it now, unless by the time you read this another blog entry has been posted.

     It reminded me that I haven't blogged about camp. There's a number of reasons for that, I suppose, not the least of which is the fact that I'm still processing it internally. But I can't listen to Cafe without thinking of camp. It takes me immediately to pine trees and sunsets on the ridge. To roasted, buttered sweet corn and grilled bratwurst -- God's perfect, complete meal-gift to mankind. It puts me back around the campfire with kingdom kinfolk and Roger's guitar.

     I try to set my surroundings with little reminders of the camp in Wisconsin, so I don't forget. Not that I ever could. It's too big a part of my past. There's the little jar of sand and charcoal on the bookcase in my bedroom. Usually it's enough to just look at it and remember. When I need something more, I'll take a pinchful of the sand and sprinkle it between the bedsheets before bed. The next morning, put a little dab in my socks -- down around the toes. By lunchtime, I've had all the reminder of camp I can stand for a day or two.

     There's the ring of colored beads from staff meetings long ago attached to my Bible cover. The dozen or so WCYC t-shirts I own and wear nearly every day. The Norske Nook coffee mug on the dresser. There's even the lyric from Cafe: "Now we've been everywhere between here and South Soux, and we've seen us a truckstop waitress or two, but this gal's built like a burlap bag full of bobcats -- she's got it tooogether" that I've cut and assigned as a ringtone and SMS notification tone for one of the folks in my Android's contact list. Whenever she calls or texts, I'm reminded of camp. And also that I need to check my phone.

     But this year was different. I went back to camp for the first time in three years, but I didn't go to Wisconsin. I worked in the kitchen at church camp here in Oklahoma.

     Different role. Different place. Didn't really feel like camp at first.

     Don't get me wrong -- it was tremendously rewarding. In some ways more rewarding than any session I can remember in a long time. I love to cook, so I got to do what l love three times a day for a whole week. I got to do it with some terrific people. But most of the time, it felt more like cooking for a group than being at camp. Part of it was the oppressive triple-digit heat and the fact that after spending several hours in a hot kitchen during the day, I wasn't overly motivated to spend much time in the hot outdoors when air-conditioned indoor options were available. Sign of my age, maybe.

     So it wasn't until midweek that it really hit me. I came in the back door of the dining hall, into the kitchen to get a jumpstart on supper. Through the wall dividing the kitchen and dining hall, I could hear them. And it was just as amazing as I remembered:

"When the oceans rise and thunders roar, I will soar with you above the storm.

Father, you are king over the flood. I will be still and know you are God."

     A hundred camper voices in song. And they sound just as good in Oklahoma as they do in Wisconsin. Bit twangier, maybe, but just as sweet. In that moment, I was back at camp. In that moment, the three-year wait was worth it.

     At this camp, kids got baptized. At the end of the session, kids cried. They didn't want to go home. There's a Facebook page of camper after camper declaring that 2011 was the best session of camp. Ever. Just like in Wisconsin.

     In all that I found peace. Fresh hope for another 20 years.
     And I found I don't have to go all the way back to Black River Falls just to look for Mavis.

Madison Avenue Meets the Youth Group Devo: Imagine That

© David Hartman

     A few weeks ago, a Facebook friend posted a status that sparked considerable back-and-forth about 7-11 worship songs. It's a fight I wanted to drag my dog into, but I was at camp. With spotty internet access there, I didn't want to start something I might not be able to finish.
     So I'll start it here, because it's my blog. Because I can.
     If you're unfamiliar with the catchphrase, "7-11" refers to the genre of worship songs or "chants" that consist of little more than seven-word phrases that we repeat 11 times -- presumably in case God weren't paying attention the first 10. You can probably already figure out my general take on the genre.
     But before you -- my tens of loyal blog readers starved for a fix -- attack me too viciously in comments, know up front that I own and listen to copies of all of Free Indeed's "Sing a New Song" CD series. Own and listen to most of Zoe. I'm hip to Watershed, Revival and Acappella. Once I get a definitive answer to whether the redeeming blood covers even this, I might admit to owning and loving Richland Hills' stuff, too. I'm not against new songs or new concepts in praising through song per se.
     I would never judge a songwriter's heart or his or her relationship with God. I don't doubt sincerity. But let's be honest: "I lift my hands" is a real nice sentiment about bridging the gap between mortal worshipers and an immortal, almighty God. Stringing the phrase together half a dozen times in a row and calling it a song, however, is lazy. Even if you're too polite to call it lazy, I bet we can agree it's not exactly in the same league as turning Psalm 148 into "Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah." That's a classic hymn, complete with a catchy chorus and enough verses so that, if we need to rush through our praise to be home in time for kickoff, we can omit a verse or two without turning the whole hymn into mush. Try omitting a repetitive phrase from a 7-11 chant and see how that works for ya.
     Songwriting is a discipline, just like any other form of good writing. If you want me to spend some time singing it, spend some time writing it. Get the inspiration on paper, then put it away awhile, chew on it and come back to it with fresh eyes. Pray over it. Find another good writer or writing coach to bounce it off of. Take suggestions. Rewrite. Rewrite again. In the end, you'll probably come up with something more rewarding and meaningful -- maybe even a classic we'll still be singing 100 years from now.
     What brought all this up? Why the rant? It's that maddening Target back-to-school jingle I hear on TV every stinkin' time I walk into the breakroom at work. It has 7-11 written all over it, and it makes me want to choke the life out of someone.
     It's not a deep jingle. Jingles aren't supposed to be. But they don't have to be stupid, either. The Target jingle includes these great insights: "Imagine sunshine always shining" and "Imagine this, imagine that. Imagine this, imagine that. Imagine that. Imagine that."
     Tell you what: Rather than me imagining sunshine always shining, how about if I imagine sunshine not shining. Would it still be sunshine? Sunshine not shining is darkness. Period. Sunshine, by definition, shines. Always.
     If you want to stretch my imagination, ask me to imagine a piece of tofu becoming a 14-ounce slab of prime rib, medium rare, with a cup of au jus for dipping. But don't ask me to imagine the sun shining.
     Then we get to the whole 7-11 "imagine" part at the end of the jingle. Here's what I imagine whilst imagining this and that: I imagine that Target hired some advertising firm to come up with this "jingle," and that some schmuck in a suit spent all of 10 minutes writing it. The jingle isn't 30 seconds long, and fully half of it is about sunshine shining and imagining this and that. Where do I apply to get that job?
     I also imagine the jingle cost Target six figures. And I imagine they passed that buck to me in the form of higher prices for the junk on their shelves. Now Target gets to imagine me buying underwear elsewhere.
     I'm done ranting. Your turn. Take your shots at me over the whole lazy church songwriting issue. I'm okay with that.
     In fact, you could even say I have a peaceful, easy feeling. And I know you won't let me down. 'Cause I'm already standin' on solid ground.