Just Back From Nashville

Hey, Siestas! My man and I hopped on a plane yesterday afternoon for Nashville and we're already back for crying out loud. It was meant to be a quick trip but it flew so fast that I'm not sure I didn't dream it. Travis, our LPL praise team and I were asked to be part of the Sunday morning worship service for the beginning of this year's GMA Week (the Gospel music thing that hosts the Dove Awards, etc.) When I got on the plane yesterday, AJ said to me on the phone, "Mom, come back with some blog-able moments. Remember your blog girls while you're up there. Remember your blog girls!" And I did! I never forgot you! The problem is, I didn't stay long enough to have something earth-shatteringly exciting happen BESIDES OF COURSE that I did get to serve servants in the merciful Name of Jesus which is a privilege I don't take lightly. I'm not exactly sure WHO I served because the lights were so dim on the audience and so bright on the stage that I couldn't see a soul. For all I know, Keith was the only one out there and I'm not sure he didn't go to Starbucks for a grande Americana with an extra shot while I spoke then haul himself back in there before I finished the last eighteen lines of my final poem (JK. Didn't really throw a poem on them). I think Travis escaped with him.

Keith and I did get to hang out in the lobby of the Renaissance Hotel and people watch for a few - I do mean a VERY few - minutes. And here are a few people we did not see.

Amy Grant. I've always liked her and kinda grown up with her through her music but I fell head over heels in love with her when I got to sit behind her at a Women of Faith conference a few years ago. Not only was she maybe the most humble, approachable person I've ever never expected to meet. She also had two very simple barrettes in that long gorgeous hair of hers and they didn't match. I was endeared forever. But I think she has forgotten that we are BFF.

Nicole C. Mullen (and, as her personal trainer, I really needed to check her progress)

Third Day. That's because I left on the First Day. I'm so bitter.

Casting Crowns. If we are the Body, where is the LOVE???

Michael W. Smith. I don't even get to call him Smitty.

Mandisa. She hates me.
Not really.

Kirk Franklin. Don't get me started. I did, however, hear "Stomp" playing over the speaker in the elevator of the hotel. It was the next best thing to seeing him live. I was coming down from the 20th floor so I got to answer the "GP, are ya with me?" Oh yeah... No one else in the elevator even sang it. I don't think they'd had much sleep.

Stephen Curtis Chapman. His wife and I are both "Beths". Does that count for a dang thing?


Most of the artists I did see were like twelve years old but I liked them. I liked them a lot. I wanted to be their friend. I liked their hair. And I wanted them to like me. But I don't think they did. I think it was my hair. I almost had really cool hair today though. When I got out of bed this morning in the hotel room and stumbled into the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror and, had I gotten a level three Mystic Tan instead of a level two, I would have SWORN I saw Prince. Not A prince. Prince as in the artist formerly known as. My hair looked exactly like his. I thought about just spraying it like that but then again, I didn't know if Keith wanted to escort Prince to speak at the worship service. I felt a sense of loss when I brushed it out though.

My personal highlight is that I really did get to hang around today after the worship service and hug women's necks (willing women, that is. I don't maul anybody unless she has popcorn) and get pictures made and, most of all, boast in the Lord and lay hands on a few and pray. The hardest part of the events being a little larger through this season is not getting to hug a whole passel of women and hear their God-stories and tell them eye to eye how much they mean to me. How dearly Jesus loves them. How He WILL redeem every loss. Every ounce of pain. Every season of sin. If we'll let Him.

But I sort of get to do that here. All but the hugs. But, then again, sometimes you give a hug and sometimes you write one. Consider one written.