Dad in the Doorway
Let me tell you a story...
When I was a kid, it was almost impossible for me to keep my room clean. Invariably, I would end up with a huge pile of my stuff in the middle of my bedroom floor. I would suffer because of it. Mom would give me a hard time, pressure me to clean it up. Dad probably did, too (though I don't remember that part so well). Nevertheless, it seemed I couldn't just go ahead and clean up my own living space.
What I do remember being a solution, more than threats of discipline, or privileges being taken away, or being grounded, or whatever, was Dad standing in the doorway. Now the picture you might get from that phrase might be one of domination, physical threat, or the like. But that's not what I mean. What he would do was to point to one particular item that needed to be put away. In my vague memory, I think I would often be already upset, probably because I should have cleaned things up, and was now in trouble for not doing so.
Anyway, Dad would stand there and isolate things, one by one, that I would then do, one by one. The overwhelming-ness of the job, of my own laziness, of my own irresponsibility and messiness that got my room into that state in the first place, would slowly disappear as things got put away. Dad certainly didn't do it for me. But his simple, one-at-a-time guidance helped me see the trees individually, until in the end, I had conquered the forest.
Why do I mention this? Well, for whatever reason, I'm burdened tonight with my inaction regarding my songs. Many days I forget I'm a songwriter. I get lost in the immediate responsibilities of my daily life. I get my personal reward by doing what makes other people happy, helping other people achieve their dreams, finding ways to tie my sense of success to making good things happen for others.
But what burdens me tonight is the imagined thought of me as an old man, say, 75 years old, more than 50 years after I wrote my first song. What if I get to that age, and I never did anything more with those songs God gave me? In short, what does God expect me to do with these songs?
I am reminded that, especially considering something so fickle as the music business, numerical or financial success has as much or more to do with luck as it does with talent, skill, or hard work. But can I honestly say I've given this thing a good faith effort when I don't even have any decent demos for any of my songs?
That's what I've claimed I've wanted to do for the past several years. Danielle agreed to let me purchase a digital 4-track recorder, a small mixer board, and other sundry toys and tricks, all with the assumption and agreement I would use them to more actively pursue the promotion of my songs in the music business. And while it hasn't all been a complete waste (the recorder is used at least one day a week recording services at church), I still have no demos.
And truly, I have no one to blame but myself. Danielle has never done anything to discourage me from promoting my music. I am the one who has found it easier to make other people happy than to pursue paths that might ask others to make sacrifices on my behalf.
And so, Dad comes to mind. In August it will have been ten years since he died. Even if he were alive, I can't imagine him playing the role for my songwriting, or my demo-making, that he did for my room-cleaning. But there is something within me that remains blocked, that keeps me from doing what I know I can do, that longs for someone to step in like Dad in the doorway, breaking down this overwhelming, daunting process into simple, one-at-a-time steps. But no one like that exists.
Do something for me, will you? Could you please pray for me? Pray that the block would be lifted, so I could get some demos done. Then, if an opportunity presents itself, at the very least I could have something a little more professional to offer that opportunity. Anything less (like where I am right now) would be less than a good-faith effort.