eight
BRIAN ROLLED OUT OF BED IN HIS HOTEL ROOM EARLY Saturday morning with music on his mind. Nothing tangible—no beats or hooks—just the very real fear that if he didn’t focus and come up with something, he’d be in trouble. His second album was due in a month—well, actually this month, but he’d gotten an extension. Songs should’ve been recorded by now. His industry buddies should be listening, giving feedback, helping him sift and weigh which ones to include. Instead, he had nothing.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t trying or praying hard, but every time he thought he had something, it sounded silly next time he listened. He didn’t even have a guiding theme. He wasn’t used to this. With his first album, the theme and the songs came quickly. Now, when expectations were higher, he was struggling.
He groaned as he brushed his teeth. In some ways it was easier to focus on problems with the album than the bigger picture. He’d been praying hard about that too. The last two years had been stressful as he attempted to navigate between biochemistry and the music ministry God kept growing. Problem was, if music became the priority, so long, PhD. His academic advisor had sat him down at the end of spring semester and reminded him that he was in a world-class research program that required intense dedication. If he couldn’t commit in that way, he needed to rethink his plans. Given the three years he’d already invested, if he left the program, they could award him a master’s degree.
The ultimatum—long time coming, he knew—hit him hard. He wasn’t ready to abandon his dream of a doctorate in science, a dream long nurtured by his grandmother. And yet he couldn’t deny the strong pull he felt toward ministry in music—not to mention the album hanging over his head. So he’d asked his advisor for the summer off to contemplate his future, which she reluctantly granted, taking his fellowship money to hire two undergraduates to assist in the lab.
Deep down Brian had felt he wouldn’t return. With time to concentrate solely on music, things would jell. The album would get done early in the summer. Promotion and marketing for the October release would fall into place. And he would know for sure that he was doing what God wanted him to do. But two months into summer, nothing was jelling . . . and he couldn’t be more confused.
He showered and dressed, his head beginning to ache as he examined his life every which way. One day at a time, he told himself finally. He’d get on the road and get home, devote the rest of the day to writing lyrics in the studio. He was packing his bag when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and sighed. Definitely not in the mood.
“What’s up, Harold?”
“Why did I have to hear from your grandmother that you went to Indianapolis to perform at a songwriters’ conference? That’s why you turned down the gig at Solomon’s? Are you crazy? How much did they pay you for that?”
Brian looked out the window. “Monica asked me weeks ago if I’d appear with her, way before the Solomon’s opportunity. Everything’s not about money, Harold.”
“That’s debatable. It’s certainly about strategy. You turned down an opportunity that would’ve put you before a sizable crowd.”
“I had to honor my promise. It was my decision to make.”
“Your decisions affect me. I’m your manager. It’s a win-win for both of us when you make smart, strategic choices that elevate your career. Bad enough you turned down so many opportunities during the fall and spring.”
“I’m a grad student, Harold. I told you going into this thing that I wouldn’t be able to tour all over the place. I did what I could, and I’ve been making up for it this summer.”
“Not as much as you could be. Touring is how you—we—make money. What will you do this fall when the album comes out? Steal away to the lab again? You have a commitment to the label and to me to do everything you can to promote this album.”
“I know.” Brian squeezed his temples. This was what he’d been hearing from both sides—his academic advisor and Harold. He needed to be more committed.
“And speaking of the album,” Harold was saying, “I’ve been thinking seriously about this. You need to have one or two tracks that we can promote in the mainstream. They can be uplifting, motivating, all of that—”
“Just no Jesus.”
“Right. I mean, no. What I’m saying is, people will know Jesus is the underlying source for the motivation, without you preaching it. I just know it would take off and take you to another level.”
Brian crossed his arms, staring upward at the sky. “That would be fine, Harold, if that’s what I was called to do. I’m unsure about a lot of things right now, but that’s not one of them. I couldn’t care less about rap. I care about the Gospel, and God’s given me a vehicle through rap. When God’s done using me that way—which could be like, now—I’m back in the lab.”
“I knew that’d be your initial reaction. Just think about it.” He paused. “I also want you to think about changing labels. You only had a two-album deal with Revive. I can get you more money if you go secular. I just want you to pray about it.”
Brian felt like his head would explode. Why did he even take Harold’s call? “Yeah, I’ll be praying, Harold. I’ve got to go.”
He hung up, still staring out the window. His remark had been flippant, but with every passing second he knew how true it was. More than anything, he needed to keep praying. Keep pressing in. Things were plain weird right now. Between Harold and this dry spell, God had to be shifting things. Maybe He was through using him in Christian rap. He never promised that Brian would have more than one album.
Brian got his Bible out of his bag and sat at the desk. Suddenly he didn’t want to rush to get on the road. He was desperate for God to lead him in some kind of way . . . although lately he always ended up at the “wait on God” verses, which never got him excited.
He was about to turn off his cell when it rang again. Monica’s name lit up the screen.
“Hey,” he said.
“Heyyy, tell me you’re still here.”
Brian could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m here. Why, what’s up?”
“I wondered if we could have breakfast. I’ve got some time before the first session, and I’m about to order in the suite. My assistant, Laura, is up here too.”
“Aw, sounds good—and I’m definitely hungry. But I’m over here stressing a little. ’Bout to jump into some quiet time, hopefully get some direction.”
“About the album?”
“Album, school, plus Harold’s trippin’ as usual.”
“You don’t need direction about Harold. Stop being nice and let him go. It’s long overdue.”
“You’re probably right. I guess I felt I had to be loyal because he took me on and got me my deal.”
“But if you ask me, he was never straight up with you, saying he wanted to make a move to the Christian genre. You were his chance to get back in the game. But he’s wanted you to go mainstream all along.”
“He made that clear today. Wants me to leave Revive.”
Monica sighed. “It won’t hurt you to go without a manager, at least for a while. You’ll have more freedom to figure out what you want to do without him pressuring you this way and that. It’s one stress headache you can get rid of.”
Brian nodded to himself. “I can always count on you to tell me like it is.”
He and Monica had struck up an easy friendship from their first meeting a couple of years ago. They could kick around most any topic, but he especially liked having someone to talk to who understood the industry.
“Of course you can count on me.” The smile rang in her voice again. “I understand not coming to breakfast, but you’ve at least got to stop by the conference before you go—oh! I’ve got an idea. It would be fun if you could sit in on some of the workshop this morning, share some of your wisdom with budding songwriters. You know, give back a little.”
“Nice guilt trip.”
“Seriously, I know they’d love to hear from you. When I attended, my favorite part was hearing from people who were doing what I wanted to do. Just think—one comment from you could motivate someone to keep trying.”
“I don’t know about that, but . . .” He actually did like sharing about music and the industry. “I don’t mind stopping through,” he said. “Don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay, though.”
“Awesome.”
They wrapped up the conversation, but when he meant for his thoughts to land on the Bible he’d opened up, they landed on Kelli instead. He could see her here, mixing it up with songwriters. That had been her passion. Had she ever pursued it? Was she still writing?
He heaved a sigh. Five days had passed since he’d seen Cedric and Lindell, and just as he’d expected, Kelli hadn’t called. Being here only made him think of her all the more. How ironic that he’d be talking to songwriters today, when she was the first songwriter he’d ever known.
Lord, please help me get in touch with her. I want to talk to her. I . . . I miss her.
KELLI WALKED WITH STEPHANIE AND CYD INTO THE first session of the morning, coffee in hand.
“Aww,” Stephanie said, “I thought we were early. The first few rows are already taken.” She cast a disapproving glance at Cyd. “You just had to stop in Starbucks. That line was ridiculous.”
Cyd sipped her caffè mocha. “I’m not seeing the problem. There are scads of available seats.”
“I wanted a clear path to the panelists so I could snag one of them to tell about Kelli’s songs and see if they’d listen.”
Kelli huddled closer to them. “But Rita said we can’t do that.”
“We can’t shove demos in their faces,” Stephanie said, “and we don’t have one anyway. But what if I tell them how fabulous you are and they ask to listen? Rita didn’t say you can’t sing for them.”
“Oh. Yeah. They don’t have time to listen to a demo but an impromptu concert? No problem.”
Stephanie arched an eyebrow. “All things are possible.”
Kelli looked at Cyd, and they both shook their heads as Stephanie led them to the closest row available and planted herself on the aisle. They chatted with others around them as people trickled steadily into the room. None of the panelists had arrived yet.
Kelli wasn’t sure what she thought about it all. Until recently, her world was filled with résumés and query letters to public relations firms and corporate marketing departments. That was why she’d gone to graduate school. That was where she’d built her career. But for the past week, all she’d thought about was music. And here, all she’d talked about was music. Funny how it all seemed to coincide with her return to St. Louis—and to church. Was she to believe this was God? Or was she setting herself up for a giant fall?
And why was Brian popping up all over the place? She wouldn’t let herself process what happened last night, refused to talk about it with Cyd and Stephanie. When he entered her thoughts, she kicked him back out—though, admittedly, she had to do it several times. Brian? In the music industry? Even now, she had to admonish herself not to go there. His life was his business and none of hers. She hated that he was still in St. Louis, at Living Word, no less. But she’d made up her mind. She wouldn’t stop attending Living Word because of him. If she ran into him, she’d look past him. She’d do what she’d been doing the last seven years—pretend he didn’t exist.
“What is she doing here?”
Stephanie was looking toward the back entrance, so Kelli turned as well. In fact, many were taking a gander at the woman with the sleeveless deep V-neck top and skinny jeans and the long flowing hair.
“Who is that?” Kelli asked.
“Heather,” Cyd said.
“Hold up.” Stephanie shifted to get a better look. “Why is Logan with her?”
Heather. Kelli remembered the name. The one who had the affair with Scott.
Heather’s eyes connected with theirs . . . and fell. She whispered something to Logan and sat in the back.
Cyd turned back around. “So Heather’s a songwriter?”
Stephanie shrugged. “Who knows? Opportunist more than anything.”
Logan walked up from behind and whispered something to Cyd. She got up and followed him out of the room.
Stephanie stared after them. “What in the world?”
From a front entrance, Rita Miller walked in with her husband, followed by Monica Styles, Mallory Knight, and Ace Vincent. Everyone but Rita sat behind his or her nameplate at the front. Rita stood behind a lectern at the end of the table and waited as the room quieted.
“Good morning,” she said, her smile bright. “I’m so excited about our first workshop session this morning. Typically we focus on the technical and creative aspects of songwriting, the business of songwriting, and so on, and that’s all good. But this morning we’re going to take a step back. We want to talk about the most important aspect of this ministry of songwriting—and it’s not a pen, a piece of paper, or an instrument. It’s the heart.
“Songs of worship begin with a heart of worship and a life of worship. So we’re calling this session ‘Heart of a Psalmist.’ Our panelists are going to be open about their struggles in keeping a right heart in the midst of all the busyness and the disappointments and the successes. Temptations do come, and if we yield to them, we can be taken off track. If our focus is not ever and always on glorifying God—trust me—it’s easy to lose our way.”
Heads nodded around the room, Kelli’s among them. She remembered when songwriting was as natural as breathing, back when her relationship with God was strong. In all these “off track” years, she hadn’t heard a new melody or lyric in her head.
“Let me introduce our panel members,” Rita was saying. “To my immediate left is my husband, Jim . . .”
Kelli turned as Cyd slipped back into her seat.
“. . . and there’s Logan Duncan,” Rita said, looking toward the back, “who apparently had lost his way.”
The attendees chuckled as Logan gave a sheepish grin and took his place among the panelists.
Stephanie leaned toward Cyd. “What was that about?”
Cyd whispered, “Tell you later.”
“Was it about Heather?”
“Later.”
“. . . and lastly, Ace Vincent, drummer and songwriter for No Return,” Rita said. “Thanks, all of you, for giving of your time for this conference.”
The room applauded.
“Monica, I want to start with you,” Rita said. “You told me something just now in the hallway and said you didn’t mind sharing it with the group.”
Monica nodded. “But I have to warn you, I didn’t say I’d share it with a right heart—because it’s still fresh, and I’m kinda mad!” She laughed at herself.
Kelli smiled. She liked the way Monica kept it real.
“Last night I told y’all during the concert that I was still working on my album.” She took a breath, shaking her head. “I was supposed to be back in the studio next week to do the last song. Got a call thirty minutes ago that the song I thought I was doing was given to another artist, a secular artist. Excuse me?” Her hands flew up. “Is that legal? Can we sue? Those were my first—and second and third—thoughts.” She expelled a sigh. “I had planned to write all the lyrics for the album, but they approached me, and I happened to love the song. Now they leave me in the lurch?” She paused and pasted on a smile. “‘Heart of a Psalmist,’ that’s what we’re talking about, right? It’s times like these that really test me, and I know I have to keep my heart in the right place and trust—instead of going off on somebody.”
Stephanie leaned over. “See, I like her, and she’s better than me . . . ’cause I would’ve gone off and then got my heart right.”
Rita stood facing Monica. “Oh, that’s terrible, and yet it’s an excellent real-life illustration. Things will not always go as planned in this business. Sometimes it’s just plain wrong. It’s in those moments that we remember who we are as believers, and we have to ask ourselves how we will respond. Will we trust God? Will we believe that all things work together for good?” She looked back at Monica. “We’ll be praying for that to be resolved, dear heart. God’ll give you a song better than the one you had.”
“Amen!” several people said.
Stephanie looked at Cyd and Kelli. “This is our opportunity. The girl needs a song. Kelli’s got songs.”
“Me and everyone else in the room, not to mention thousands more in the world.”
“You know what, Kelli?” Stephanie asked. “Just go ahead and thank God I’m in your life, ’cause somebody needs some bold faith around here. You just watch. I’m believing I’ll get Monica to listen to your songs.”
Cyd was shushing her, so the three turned their attention back to the front.
“We’ve all heard tales of moral failure in this business—and by ‘moral failure,’ people usually mean an affair outside of marriage. But what about staying pure as singles? That’s a heart issue, isn’t it? Is it even possible to stay pure in this business?” She looked down the panel.
“We’ve got two good-looking single men right here—Logan and Ace. I don’t know how that happened.” Rita lifted her hands in an amused shrug. “Don’t mean to make you squirm, guys, but you signed up, so I’m putting you on the spot. Let’s start with Ace. You travel the country, play various venues. Tell us how you keep a right heart in the midst of that life.”
Ace sat back in his seat. “I guess I’ll admit it’s not easy.” He stroked his chin, half smiling. “People are attracted to what they perceive as fame and fortune, and—we can be real, right?—women throw themselves at us all the time. So, for me, it’s important to surround myself with people who keep me accountable, like my band, and stay prayed up and in the Word.”
Was it Kelli’s imagination, or was Logan staring down the panel at Ace with a funny look?
“It also helps,” Ace was saying, “to have a very special woman in your life, and mine is right there.” He nodded toward the front row. “When I think about her, no one else really matters.”
Kelli heard the back door open and turned around. Heather was heading out, but the door didn’t close right away. She seemed to be holding it for someone else.
Brian.
Kelli felt the breath get sucked right out of her. Her head snapped back around, and she hoped he didn’t see her.
“I love what you said, Ace,” Rita was saying. “Accountability, prayer, Bible—perfect ingredients for maintaining a right heart.” Her eyes lifted. “And lookie here, another good-looking single guy joining us. Come on up, Brian, or, uh, Alien.” Rita smiled. “Monica told me you might be coming. We saved you a seat at the front.”
From the corner of her eye, Kelli saw him pass. He took his seat at the end of the row, and someone brought him a handheld microphone.
“Brian, we’re calling this session ‘Heart of a Psalmist,’” Rita said, “and we’re sharing how we need to keep a right heart in this business, which can be a struggle. I don’t know how long you’ll be able to stay with us, so I’ll ask you now. Is this something you think about as an artist? Is it important for you to keep a right heart before God?”
“Absolutely,” Brian said.
He turned to face the people in the room, and Kelli’s heart reacted. The onstage Brian was a persona, someone she didn’t know, from whom she could distance herself. But seeing him this close and hearing his speaking voice had an altogether different effect. She remembered how much a part of her he’d once been.
“I think about it all the time,” he said. “It’s a huge weight, trying to represent Jesus like I should, not just onstage, but always. I don’t want to be a fraud or a hypocrite. You know?”
Really, Brian? Since when?
“So I’m constantly asking God to help me do the right things, make the right choices, be who He wants me to be.”
Kelli’s arms started to shake, and she held herself.
“One of my favorite prayers is from Psalm 24: Lord, give me ‘clean hands and a pure heart.’”
Kelli looked up now, her every fiber trained on him, and it was as if he sensed it. His eyes connected with hers, and she could tell he was stunned. She saw him lower his microphone—and it was the last thing she saw. Kelli scooped up her things and grabbed her bag, leaning over to Cyd. “I’m stepping out. I need to be alone for a little bit.”
She wanted to hold it together long enough to get out of the room, but the walk up the aisle seemed an eternity. She got to the door finally and opened it. Then she stood on the other side . . . and cried.