Facing the Music (19 page)

She made it clear to me that what she was offering wasn't so much an ultimatum, as fair warning. She was simply being honest, in her strong character, aware that rocky times might be ahead if I didn't find some way to resolve my response to those who didn't like my being gay. Christian or not, I was going to have to come to unabashed terms with my own sexual orientation. She spoke to the part of me that had become handcuffed by attempting to please all the people all the time. It was the same splinter that had lodged itself into my public life as much as it had my private one. I didn't want to be two people anymore. I wanted to find a way to be my honest self.

I knew I wasn't going to do that well in Nashville, so we began scheming about where we would move. Where could I find a place to figure all this stuff out? Maybe I would never figure it out. Maybe we would together. Maybe Karen and I wouldn't be long lived, but I would never know the truth of it here. I needed
a clean slate, a place where I wouldn't be tempted to be what others asked of me, but rather to find a way to stand in my own skin, my own character and personality. But where?

I imagined all the cities in America that I had ever traveled to and enjoyed. Seattle, San Francisco, New York, Portland? They made the list, but they had one fatal flaw. I stood a chance of being recognized. I jokingly talked about changing my name and adopting an English accent, erasing my past life as a Christian rock star, but Karen was swift to remind me that that was just an avoidance tactic.

“Okay, then what?” I felt like I was running out of options. Never in my life had I had such a limitless scope of possibilities before me. I could do anything, go anywhere, be anything. What, then, did I want? I didn't know. My entire adult life had been all about pleasing other people, all about jumping onto the next lily pad that God seemed to put in front of me. It seemed like a thousand years since I had a dream of my own. Now, there was nothing and everything all at the same time.

“What cities do you love in Europe? You could start over there,” she mused. It seemed ridiculous.

“There are a lot of intriguing places in Europe, but I've never been in any one city or country long enough to know if I really like any of it. It's always been fly in, work, fly out. I have no idea if I like Europe at all.”

“Let's go then.”

What?
The notion seemed extravagant and far too adventurous. How on earth was that even a possibility? I asked.

“Easy. We buy a plane ticket and an RV and drive around until we find a place to stay. Who knows what will happen? We don't even know if we can be
we
, but we could set out and see if
we can make a go of life together. You and I are no strangers to travel. You want out of Nashville, so let's do it. Let's travel!”

I thought she was nuts. I had heard of people backpacking through Europe and traveling the world in hopes of finding themselves but this hardly seemed like me. Surely such things were reserved for interesting folks, not frumpy country girls from Kansas? Music had taken me to many fascinating places over the years, and I had relished all of it, but my destination had always been assigned. Never in my life, except for our trip to the Bahamas, had I chosen to set out on an adventure without a plan. I needed a plan.

“How's this for a plan. Let's start in New England and work our way south until we run out of road. We can camp our way through all the national parks, eat, drink, and be merry. If we get through that together, then let's do the same in Europe. Who knows, maybe along the way we'll find our nesting place and never leave.”

I had nothing in Nashville tying me down. I had no debt, a bank account full of money, and royalties that continued to fill the coffers. I wasn't wealthy by any means, but I had enough money for Karen and I to circle the globe a couple of times, get to know one another along the way, and leave the rat race behind us for a while.

Before I knew it, the once capable Ford Econoline van I used for touring was repurposed for the American leg of our honeymoon travels. Karen kitted it out with all the supplies we would ever need: a tent, stove, dry goods, fishing gear, road maps and more. We knew only where we were to start—springtime in New England—and end, perhaps waiting out the winter in the Florida Keys. Beyond that was anybody's guess.

Now, let me say this: If you ever want to know just how good your relationship is with another person, go camping. There's nothing like losing all your creature comforts, getting exposed to the elements and having to problem solve at three in the morning, ankle deep in rising floodwaters, to sort out your character flaws! Whether you're hot or cold, tired, hungry or stinky, if you've got somebody who still manages to love you, and you them? Well, things may just pan out, but it takes work.

Through flat tires, freezing nights, and innumerable conflicts about how best to pack the van, we found our stride. I learned to compromise and encourage Karen's boundless need for physical exertion by learning to appreciate our grueling treks to the top of whatever mountain we were visiting, to see what was usually a dripping trough, hardly a waterfall. She came to accommodate my need for lazy afternoons, nestled under the shade of trees, doing nothing but being alone with my thoughts. There were times where she wished that I had brought a guitar to entertain us through the quiet, dark nights, but I was happy to say there was no room in the van for such a luxury.

“Still, I miss you singing,” she would say.

“I don't,” I'd say, trying to be confident in my reply. I couldn't speak about my past life. I felt music was the most painful casualty of my spiritual breakdown.
I wasn't God's anymore. He won't let a homo sing. Not this one, anyway.
I spoke nothing of it, not wanting Karen to think that my professional demise had anything to do with her. It didn't. I just didn't believe that I had a right to music any more.

“I believe in you, you know,” she said, breaking the silence. Her compassion reached into the depths I lacked the strength to explore.

“I know you do.”

With every new stretch of road, I put another mile between me and my past life. Through Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, and into Florida, the ache made its way into my bones. As long as I was moving, I was alright. As long as we didn't turn on the radio, and avoided scanning through the stations, so as not to hear a single Christian broadcast—or worse, one of my own songs—I'd be okay.
You'll be okay. You'll be okay,
became my only prayer. Upon occasion I would look down to the calluses on my left hand, poke at them with whatever sharp object I could find, and wonder when, if ever, they would disappear. If I wasn't going to play anymore, I needed no reminders the music that had, for so long, been my companion, but it was still hard. How long, I wondered, until there would be no trace of them?

eighteen

E
ventually, we reached a dead end at Key West. With winter approaching, we reluctantly decided to return to the only home I had, in Nashville. Like bears tucked away in a cave, we hibernated through the cold spell, using the long dark days to plan our next adventure. I despised being back in Nashville. I was too afraid to socialize and did my best to stay out of whatever harm's way I thought might be lurking in the real world. Coming home left me bound up in insecurities and obsessing about my supposed failures. I needed to keep moving.

Traveling kept me distracted and disconnected. These were the days before smart phones kept you tethered to the instant demand to communicate. There was no 4G network and usually, only patchy cell-phone coverage. On the road, I'd pop into an Internet café once in a while, to make sure the world wasn't about to implode, or that my house hadn't burned down, but that was about it. It was the ultimate expression of rebellion, to refuse to connect with anyone whom I didn't initiate a conversation with. Returning home, my computer only taunted me. It sat on my desk like a relic of the past, mocking my once busy and meaningful life. When I did bother to turn it on and tend to my affairs, I'd often find emails from my booking agent, attempting to send through offers for concerts on the off chance I would say
yes
. It
had been over a year since I had walked away and still, it seemed that few of my professional associates were taking my departure seriously. As long as I had to walk by my home office every day, I would be reminded that I had imposed this exile on myself. All I had to do was say
yes
to any number of the opportunities that still came my way, but the mere thought of it reduced me into a fetal position.
Stop calling! I quit already!
I'd scream, half angry, half miserable and near tears. Every moment I remained in Tennessee fueled my bitterness.

“Let's do it. Let's go to Europe,” I finally resolved. “I can't be in this place and survive it.”

In June 2003, Karen and I took off for London. There, we bought a used diesel Fiat RV equipped with all we would ever need. It was a rolling home on four wheels, complete with a working kitchen, refrigerator, bathroom, and sleeping quarters. Compared to traveling in the van back in America, it was supreme luxury. Though it barely reached a top speed of fifty-five miles per hour, we were in no hurry. Once again, we set out with little plan, except to keep going until we didn't want to go anymore. Perhaps, I thought, we won't ever go back.

We made our way through the south of England, making sure to stop by Stonehenge, and some of the more interesting historical remnants of Roman occupation. On into Ireland, to the Ring of Kerry, Dublin, Belfast, and points further north. We'd make our way through Scotland, Denmark, Germany, the Czech Republic, Hungary, and more. We did our best to leave no stone unturned. From the famed natural wonders like the Giant's Causeway of Scotland to the Athenian ruins of ancient Greece, we immersed ourselves in all there was to see, hear, and taste.

There would be times where we'd travel to a different city or
village every day, then weeks where we would find ourselves exploring every nook and cranny of a single destination. We reminded ourselves to be patient during our adventure. To take time to appreciate all that we laid eyes on.

I was beside myself with delight over the romance of it all. There was never a day when I opened my eyes untouched by the excitement of the possibilities.

I remembered the days back in Kansas, when I used to sit in my Grandma Knapp's house, leafing through her
Encyclopedia Britannica
, in awe of all the fantastic sights, history, and culture of other worlds. The Eiffel Tower might be a world away, the Roman Coliseum, the stuff of legend, but it was all there in those books. I would lose myself to imagination the way only a child can, daydreaming black-and-white picture into Technicolor, like Dorothy after the tornado, waking to the vibrant Land of Oz. Better still, I could peer into the magnificent 3D world of my favorite View-Master discs and stand on the very banks of Loch Ness, straining for a glimpse of Old Nessie herself. The delightful treats of postcards, history books, and educational toys inspired me to think of the expanse of the world beyond my own, yet often left me sullen, never believing that I would see such things with my own eyes. But now,
now!
I was standing atop Buda Castle, watching the Danube snake its way through Hungary!

There was more to the journey than seeing with my eyes. I began to reconnect with my passion for living. I had the privilege of getting to stand for hours in front of a single Picasso, searching every brush stroke for signs of his own artistic evolution. Whether he toyed with the impressionists, got lost in the monochromatic schemes of his Blue Period, or fractured the world through Cubism, seeing his creations helped the pilot light inside
my wandering heart keep a glowing vigil. I may have lost sight of my own calling to create, but I couldn't keep denying that I yearned to be divinely moved.

It wasn't just Picasso that inspired me. There would be cathedrals, tombs of knights, ruins once built for the mystic glory of ancient gods, and many stunning creations of mankind that continue to speak to the legacy of our human dreaming. Even the alien landscapes spoke to me. From the lush emerald rolling hills of Ireland to the arid Mediterranean landscape of Greece, I saw with new eyes a world I had been taking for granted.

I began to appreciate how one culture's people were shaped by their surroundings. The landlocked toiled on the land; those born to the coast braved the seas. The monuments to the gods illuminated how each people saw their human experience. The Romans made their empire through war and enslavement, their ingenuity, philosophies, and legends reaching out into all of Europe to scar the world with their shrines to human strength. Modern postwar Croatia was still nursing its national psyche while patiently waiting for renewed strength to rebuild yet again, contemplating just how many of the genocidal machine-gunned bullet holes to repair, knowing that it is the history that reminds us of who we are today.

Slowly, I began to appreciate that I couldn't erase my past, but I could learn from it.

When I stood in line for what seemed hours waiting for my chance to take a look at the Book of Kells, I complained the entire time about how my feet ached. Yet, when I finally laid eyes on the painstaking years of dedicated effort it took to finish, I had to step back, and became aware of the reverence that made it all possible. I recognized the impulse of that kind of spirituality. It
was my own once. Over a thousand years of theological evolution between us, but it was startlingly familiar. I began to wonder what had happened between then and now. Knowing loosely that the pagans were consumed by the Christians, the Christians bisected into the Protestants and the Catholics, the Americas religiously birthed from the radical offshoots of unrestrained spirituality. Europe's religious history wasn't just an isolated happening; its history was my own. The conservative, shiny, commercial success of the American megachurch wasn't born the way it was. It evolved. I both suffered by it and found benefit in it. It was hard to make sense of it. For every time I had wondered how in the world I had come to be so entrenched, so tangled by the theological tyranny of the religion that I had inherited, it never occurred to me that it hadn't always been this way. Maybe it wouldn't always be?

I began to read everything I could get my hands on. From modern religious historians like Karen Armstrong to Diarmaid McCullouch. Like an eager student, I poured over the early sermons of pre-Revolutionary America. I wanted to learn more about the religion that had affected my life so dramatically. Parts of me wanted to debunk it all; other parts hoped to find some ground to feel as though I wasn't the only fool moved by it. Rather than leaning on my own experience, I began combing through the highs and lows, looking for how others had made their way.

I read (and ate) my way through the Old World. America was a distant memory and I began to feel like a real person again. Our wanderings had led us by ferry from the port of Bari, Italy, to Peloponnese, Greece. We had tired of the months of touring the more familiar parts of Europe and longed for
more exotic flavors. It was a welcome respite from the Christian lands. Though Greek Orthodoxy is the modern religion, the mythological past is seamlessly celebrated without irony or disdain. We did our dutiful best to make our way through the muscular history of Olympus and Sparta, eventually making camp on the temperate shores of the Mediterranean Sea. After many miles, we were ready to relax and stay in one place for a while. Gone were the heavy meals of goulash and potatoes. The standard fare was a welcome bounty of fresh octopus, stunning feta, and the most savory lamb you can imagine. I practically bathed myself in the plentiful Greek olive oil.

The Greek attitude is infectious, not jarring, but gradual, like a soothing glass of red wine, lulling you into a sense of ease. Outside Athens, the pace is so much slower than my accustomed American freneticism. I had to learn to quiet my sense of urgency and take life as it so slowly came. A simple lunch could take hours, even longer, if we found ourselves, as we so often did, sidled up beside a local restaurant owner sharing the tales of our travels over copious amounts of regional wine. Occasionally, we would gather ourselves from the pebbled beach and venture to the odd tourist trap, but mostly we just watched the sun rise and set. The only clock we needed was our stomachs.

Finally, we were lost. It seemed a thousand years since I had been forced to stand in a line or suffer the honks of an angry horn. Longer still since I had read an email, or even so much as looked at a calendar. Complete, quiet, soul-soothing bliss. We hadn't realized it, but we had been in the same place for nearly eight weeks!

It was October and the days were shortening. We still wanted to make our way back to the yet-to-be-explored Spain, so we
pulled up our tent pegs, shooed the stray cats out from under the Fiat, and quickly worked our way through what remained of Greece.

I had acquired a sincere affection for the country, and leaving was like saying goodbye to an old friend. I loved it, but Greece wasn't the home I was searching for. It was time to make our way back across the Adriatic, catch up on Italy, and start considering how we were going to spend the winter. Christmas in Morocco, perhaps? We figured we had a few more weeks to travel through Italy and Spain before we would have to decide.

Reinvigorated, we planned on disembarking from the ferry in Bari, Italy, with plans of taking on the rest of Italy and Spain. Unfortunately, my back had other ideas. As I awoke from the rolling night's sleep aboard the ferry, pain suddenly shot through my entire body. I couldn't move a single inch without agony. I had struggled with a niggling back for many years, but this was another level of pain. Karen watched as the other passengers poured off the boat, encouraging me to get up, as I had so many times before. It wasn't happening. I was immobilized. If I was to make it to land, it was going to take a couple of sturdy paramedics and some narcotics to get me there.

In what I can only describe as the misadventures akin to the Keystone Kops, two orange overall-clad Italian boys unsympathetically loaded my shrieking person into a rickety wheelchair and haphazardly toted me through the endless stairwells of the ship and into a rusty white van marked
Ambulanza.
White-hot pain splintered its way down my legs and up into my skull on what seemed like an interminable journey through every cobblestone street of Bari. I moaned, wishing I knew the Italian for “Drugs please!” In my best broken Italian, I begged for anyone
who could speak English only to be replied with a universally understood
no,
dashing any hopes I had for a quieting opiate.

When we got to the hospital, the medics parked the van and crawled into the back. No mad dash into the ER. They just sat there. One of the young men smiled, fiddled with his fingers and questioned, “Americana?”

“Si,” I gurgled coolly. I wanted drugs, not chitchat.
Gimme the hard stuff
, I wanted to say. Instead, I got a cigarette. I attempted to smoke it, but such was my discomfort that I could barely lift my hand to my mouth. It smoldered down to the filter, my shaking hand littering ash into the back of the
ambulanza
, before I was finally taken inside.

Scans, more scans. Dark-haired men in aging white coats rolled me this way and that with enough English to make out the words
stay, hospital,
and
surgery
.

It would be nearly five days before I managed to make contact with a doctor who spoke enough English to help me understand that my back had three bulging discs pressing into the nerves that fed into my legs. They insisted that I stay bedridden; offering me little more than ibuprofen to ease the pain, and informed me that surgery was in order. After looking around my dilapidated room and watching the other patients moan through their postsurgical afflictions, I knew there was no way I was going to let this lot cut me open! The resident orthopedic surgeon didn't exactly inspire confidence when he grimaced, leaned to my ear and whispered “No here. Go America. Is better.”

Yikes!

It was a horrifying experience, but Karen was beside me through every minute of the ordeal. She suffered her own test of physical endurance, spending every night sleeping on the floor
next to my bed, determined to help me get back onto my feet. For two long, grueling weeks, she helped as we determined to force movement through my broken body until I was mobile enough to make my emergency flight back home. There would be no Christmas in Morocco. It was back to Nashville for another long winter.