Still Life With Woodpecker

So today, Taildragger’s live show drummer plays with the praise band—chick drummer! I guess we should just call her Sherri. I met her step dad last week, Greg Martin from The Kentucky Headhunters. How bizarre. I mean, it’s all part of my rock and roll fantasy! And it was a total accident, or rather, an accident of ministry. Sherri’s husband’s brother died suddenly, and a few of us drove over to Bardstown to be with him during the visitation.

I used to really like The Kentucky Headhunters, so it was weird to talk to the guy, and even more powerful to find that he is a believer. Yesterday (Saturday) he sent me 5 of his newest CDs—he’s behind a band I mentioned before, The Mighty Jeremiahs, a kind of Skynyrd meets Missisippi John Hurt gospel band. He knows Billy Gibbons (from ZZ Top) and Phil Keaggy plays on the album!

The praise songs today were awesome, but laid back, and one day I hope when Sherri’s up there, we really let her wail. I had her kids with me, and Meg mercifully came to help me restore order in the pews with them and John and Joe. I said to Evalina (Sherri’s girl), “It’s awesome that your mom is playing with us!” John says, “She rocks!” Yes, indeed. I long for the day when Taildragger plays a praise set at The Rock…

John and Joe have done pretty well at school, better than I thought they would with all the transition. I asked them about it, why are things going smoothly. They said they had a hard time at the school they were at before because they knew I was far away. So I guess the idea that I am right next door and anyone at the church could take care of them, too, has helped.

I had a powerful time of prayer with the Itoula family today. These Africans are something else. I had laid off preaching in French, because Cedrick was helping me. He is working Sundays, and anyway, apparently the Francophones did not really like listening to simultaneous translation on the headset. I don’t know how the English went, but the French sermon was pretty good. I think better than English. Madame Itoula told me, “ch’a prepare un bon repas pour nous--” “you prepared a good meal for us.” I had laid off preaching in French for, finally, a spurious reason. It messes up how I preach. I just kind of roll and don’t always know where it is going. When I have to stop to translate, it messes me up and the flow is bad. Norbert Itoula pestered me for a while. “I know people are murmuring when you preach in French, but if they knew how badly we need to hear…” Indeed, we lost some people who didn’t like it, and who would get lost between the pauses. Anyway, I was praying with the Itoulas this afternoon about how on earth do we connect the The Rock’s ministry to Africa, using the people God has brought us.

I guess I have been pretty fired up about that question, because I see here what I was seeing in Louisville. The Africans come here with a powerful faith, but the church in America can’t handle it, doesn’t have anything to push them further. We’re into the whole “whatever” spirituality. So in a few months, the Africans get weak or drift away. Somehow, it’s hard for us to be infected by them—so many of you in Louisville remember George sharing about Abraham Chol’s faith, when he joined the church. We all need that! I suppose I will probably choose to live or die in a fight over pushing the church to the point that it can actually be worthy of our refugees. Like I said, this comfortable American faith is killing me.

What would have been me and Melissa’s tenth anniversary came and went without incident. I did not think it would bother me, because no day was really particularly special to us. They were just generally good most days, so it’s incidental things that might bother me. I have quit talking much about it, like I said, except with one poor dude who gets dumped on, largely because there’s this place I end up heading with some people—they think I am a terminator (someone else’s word about me, not mine), somewhat inhuman, pushing on, driving hard, either in denial, or just callous. I cracked a long time ago, so don’t look for it now. You can’t imagine how hyper and strung out I would be if I were my usual self. Picture Dan Stokes after four or five Red Bulls.

Me and the boys are winding down after the service, listening to some RUSH. John asks about the drums, because Neil Peart is flat out the best drummer there is (when it came time to do a Buddy Rich tribute, jazz drummers asked him to put it together). Anyway, I made some comment about him being the best drummer. John and Joe both jumped in and said, “No, Sherri is the best!” John added the coup de grace: “She’s a better drummer than Alison Krauss fiddles.” Dang.