When Songs Disappear Chapter 1: This Time I Needed to Win
Dear Reader,
Years ago, I wrote a book. I did it by myself—self-published with no real editors or feedback.
Below you have the first chapter of my second book, When Songs Disappear. I wrote this as my final thesis for my MFA in Creative Writing.
The book is 236 pages long, and I’m not ready to share all of it with the world. Mostly, because I do not believe the story is finished. Writing freezes you in time. And the person who wrote the words below no longer exists…completely. And at the same time, I am still creating the ending to this work as I live out every single day.
But, what I’m ready to share, I will—in bits and pieces.
What happens when we were designed to create songs, but they disappear?
Do you feel like you were created to do something, but missed the mark? Did life steal confidence or dreams away?
If you prefer listening to audiobooks, I created a video/ audio version of me reading chapter one here {you can enable subtitles} .
When we live a difficult story, may we teach others from the tears.
Much love,
Olivia
Chapter 1: This Time I Needed to Win
I am a pastor.
For years I tried to hide who I was. I hated the way the air was sucked out of the room when I said the words “pastor” or “missionary.” I especially found this to be true when speaking with US Embassy diplomats while living eight years in Yerevan, Armenia.
Alone in a foreign country, I hoped they would accept me; give me friendship and a piece of home. Life seemed easier for them—free Amazon shipments from America, special houses with extra- large refrigerators and freezers, a security detail that checked their kids’ school and homes, and access to my favorite TV channels.
And the walled embassy compound had every expat mom’s dream: an American-style playground with slides and miniature rooves in bright blues and reds; even a grocery store that sold boxes of pop tarts or Kraft mac-n-cheese.
A few expats, with a Christian background, smiled when I mentioned being a pastor and begged to know all the details. But most felt uneasy once I said the “P” word and looked for an easy way to exit the conversation.
“Oh...that’s my husband over there. Looks like he needs me,” quickly crossing the room with a wine glass and miniature quiche in hand. They avoided eye contact or any possible future friendship. I soon learned.
Living in Armenia allowed me to cover up my profession with a more socially-accepted title: “Humanitarian Aid Worker.” We did humanitarian aid work, so it wasn’t a lie. But it was not the main reason we were there. When I tried to say the title that would give me acceptance, it didn’t work either. People always sense when you are uncomfortable—the pause before you speak; the eyes that wander away when hiding something.
June 2003. I landed in Armenia. The marathon started that day. My husband, Nick, and I had prepared for this our entire lives. We were both pastors kids, aware of the great highs and lows of ministry. We fell in love at a Christian youth camp as teenagers, and during late night drives to Dairy Queen, planned a life of service.
Five years of study: Hebrew, Systematic Theology, Old and New Testament Survey, ministry courses and a one-year internship at a church in Arizona. To this theological core, Nick added an emphasis on cross-cultural ministry and church planting, while I completed two degrees in things I loved: music and English.
My mother says I was born with brown hair long enough to tie in a bow and the talent of constant wailing. Clipped into one of the very first bucket-like car seats of the 1970s, my desperate parents drove through the streets of Kansas City until the soothe movement of tires on pavement lulled me to sleep. They always felt I was frustrated about something. Perhaps I was trying to sing.
Authors sometimes say that it is impossible for them to not write. Words have been their constant companion; they were born to do it. Although I am a writer, I never felt the same about getting words on paper. Every day I wake up and, after drinking a warm chai laced with too much honey, make my fingers tap at letters until some sort of story emerges.
But, it was impossible for me to not sing. I was born with long hair; a stubborn soul; and a voice that had to make melodies soar. Those three things never left me.
The months before leaving for twenty years of missions work overseas, my weekdays were filled with 120 children at the local Yamaha Music School. I attempted to teach their munchkin fingers to tame the sounds of 88 black and white piano keys into some semblance of a beautiful song. Simultaneously teaching twelve children with twelve noisy pianos and twelve parents staring at me was never supposed to be easy. Some children attacked the piano and banged it into submission; becoming quite good players by the age of six. Other kids would allow their parents to press down their lifeless fingers to form a song while looking elsewhere—dreaming of being outdoors sledding or building a cock-eyed snowman.
On the weekends, I traveled with my husband to churches— some large and busting at the seams in the big city of Minneapolis; others small and struggling on the outskirts of Minnesota’s frozen tundra. Most Sundays, our golden Honda Accord pulled out of our apartment building’s parking lot at 6 a.m. We drove several hours to share in a pulpit about our calling to do missions in Armenia and raise the financial support to serve there.
No matter the number of clashing notes I endured in a day or the miles driven on the weekends, I kept one night a week for personal sanity. Tuesdays were a source of rejuvenation—watching the very first season of the reality TV phenomenon, American Idol.
I sat, legs crossed under an ivory knit blanket I had stolen from my childhood home on Felix street. Imagining myself, I sang some high chesty note in front of Paula Abdul, Simon Cowell and Randy Jackson and wondered: would I be good enough? But asking the question was useless. It was already time to board a plane to Armenia. I would never know.
I was young then; my voice still tamed by the operatic runs of Handel and arias of Mozart required for my degree in vocal performance. I didn’t have children yet; still free of the extra belly and stretch marks. That was the time to pursue my dream; not fifteen years later when my vocal prowess reduced to the ten-note range of a Sunday morning worship song. I already battled the thirty-seven-year-old crow’s feet gathered around my eyes with a nightly dose of Clinique’s newest anti-wrinkle formula. I was no longer anyone’s idol. I was halfway through life’s race and had hit rock bottom.
And I was no longer in Armenia. After eight years of buying sweet apricots in the markets of the capital city of Yerevan, we moved to another post-Soviet nation—Estonia. And in this forgotten nation, a few hours away from Russia’s St. Petersburg or the frozen streets of Finland, the dream was awakened—one I had thrown into a grave when I packed my life into suitcases, heeded the pilot’s instructions, and buckled in for a life in missions.
After leading the final song at our church’s Sunday gathering in Tallinn, Estonia, a stranger approached. He was a tall, blonde-haired Estonian man who preferred to sit, unseen, in the back row and act unmoved by one word or lyric sung. Estonians are not often lavish in adoration or compliments. He made a simple recommendation: “You have a good voice. You should try out for our Estonian Idol reality show. They’re starting a new season of auditions.”
I knew that dream was long ago embalmed and rotting below. “No. I’m sure I’m way too old for that. Don’t they have a maximum age to audition?”
“Not the Estonian version.” He said in the typical Scandinavian way that discourages any questioning of expertise.
“I’m still too old. I don’t have a chance.”
“I think you would. Consider it.”
I never saw him again. He returned home to his lunch of black bread topped with Baltic haring and sliced boiled eggs; yellow centers atop shiny silver scales. I returned to my apartment on Sakala street with the zombie of my dreams following my every move; arms outstretched trying to feed its death with my life.
I stirred that evening’s meal of mac-n-cheese and envisioned myself on the country’s main concert stage. I look ten years younger thanks to the show’s great wardrobe, hair and make-up department. My strong voice fills the hall from slanted floor to high ceiling. It obliterates the wispy folk-voices of my tall blonde opponents who still kept their day jobs as runway models.
While I washed the yellow cheese film off the evening’s dishes, I started to dream—something I had forbid myself since I agreed to follow Nick to Armenia. In my mind, I was already living on the stage and, above the soapy water, cracked a smile. One man’s voice roused an army of the dead ready to fight for some sort of atonement; for my sacrifice.
“I want to audition for Estonian Idol.”
We walked along the cracked cement boardwalk that lined the Baltic Sea. To our left stood a remnant of the Soviet Union’s lack of taste—a huge cement structure decorated in graffiti and crumbling at the base of something beautiful.
Nick was surprised by my declaration. Perhaps he too noticed the wrinkles that not even the best night creams could dissolve. His tall frame leaned down to grab my hand, “Sure, Liv. You can do it. But I also think you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”
“You don’t believe I’m good enough?” Compared to the masses lined up to audition for American Idol, I knew the small population of Estonia could render me a final chance to realize my dream before forty—the age when starting a music career seemed impossible.
“No. I know you will have one of the best voices in the competition; no doubt. But they’re not looking for the best voice.” His once blonde hair—now brown and speckled in grey—was no match for the sea wind bombarding us. “They’re looking for someone they can market—someone young; someone who they can make a lot of money off of; some twenty-year-old Estonian. It’s not really about talent.”
“I disagree. Look at Adele. Look at Celine Dion. They’re no Taylor Swift. Their voices move people, and the world recognizes it.”
The sea breeze made Nick’s hair flap back and forth; as if concerned. “I’m just afraid you’re going to get hurt. I think I know what they’re looking for, and I’m afraid you will take their rejection as a judgment of your talent. And, it’s not that. You have one of the best voices I’ve heard, Livy.”
I dropped his hand and made sure the distance widened between us. I stopped to lean over the limestone wall. The small beach was scattered with Estonians on a rare warm day. Some shivered or gave muted shrieks as they attempted to swim in the cold summer water of the far North. Young women in bikinis laid on their bellies, reading books, atop colorful towels; grandmas laid chest up and topless, big bellies and skinny legs exposed, to absorb every last ounce of sun before a long winter.
“I know I’m your husband, but I’m not just saying that, Liv.”
I couldn’t let him convince me to leave a dream again. When I was 23, I stood atop the old Stone Arch bridge over the Mississippi river and pleaded with Nick. Couldn’t we meet in the middle—do ministry in America instead of a far-off country? He could follow a portion of his dream and I could have a chance at a portion of mine.
But I was no match for Nick’s mastery of the art of persuasion. In another life, Nick must have been a top lawyer driving a BMW to and from work, earning green from his ability to argue freedom for the underdogs of the world.
My argument to stay safe in the United States, close to my family and within reach of my potential, disintegrated; no match for the defender of his dream. All I could do was rest my case, begin to pack suitcases and sell my furniture to the highest bidder
This time, I needed to win, and my refusal to back down resulted in the purchase of a roundtrip bus ticket to become the first American to win Estonia’s “Idol.”
To Be Continued…Look for Chapter 2 to arrive in your inboxes later.
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