"If a nightingale sings with her breast against a thorn, why not we?"

                 Susan Gilbert Dickinson to Emily Dickinson, 1861

Most people I know have written a song at some point in their lives. My husband wrote one about skipping rocks. My first was co-written with my brother, Jim, as we sat in the bathtub on a Sunday evening. I was six; he was five.  It was titled, “Tim is in the War.” The melody was similar to Hi Ho Nobody Home, a song our family sang on weekend drives -- uncomplicated, somewhat somber. The lyrics were simple, we repeated, “Tim is in the war…” over and over and over until we got tired. The song helped us deal with our fear of war, and what life must be like for our cousin, who’d been drafted.

              The year was 1968. We didn’t know Tim well, but we did know were afraid for him. WAR. It was as serious as a word got. It was the card game to end all card games. What we knew of war, we’d learned from television. It was dark and scary. It was a place we never ever ever wanted to go. Our way of dealing with it was to play it, or sing about poor Tim.

             I’d rarely thought about that song until the other day. I was sitting across the table from a young soldier who was talking about his experiences in Afghanistan with an old friend of mine, Darden Smith, a singer songwriter from Austin, TX. Darden had brought his songwriting workshop to LifeQuest Transitions, a Colorado non-profit that offers programs for wounded soldiers. When he first told me he was helping soldiers tell their stories through song, I said, “I need to go. I want to write about what you are doing.”

             As I set out on my journey, I had forgotten something: the reality of war. When I arrived, it didn’t take long to hit me. In spite of the brilliant creativity and the music being made, war was the story.

             “What’s it like now?” Darden asked the soldier, looking him straight in the eye, quietly strumming his guitar.

             “A battlefield inside… it’s the worst at night…”

            The soldier talked; Darden listened. Occasionally strummed. And suddenly, a melody emerged and a story unfolded about the fragile line that separates a veteran’s nightmares and his potential bedroom beatings… between his memories of a kid strapped with a bomb and his own kids playing hide and seek in the living room…

             “Tim is in the war…” my heart remembered as I watched the two men sing together. I had known, felt, deep inside, what war really meant, as a child. Here, I was learning it as an adult.

I knew right then that I had to do what I could to help other adults learn, again, what we knew as wise children.

     "If a nightingale sings with her breast against a thorn, why not we?"

                 Susan Gilbert Dickinson to Emily Dickinson, 1861

Most people I know have written a song at some point in their lives. My husband wrote one about skipping rocks. My first was co-written with my brother, Jim, as we sat in the bathtub on a Sunday evening. I was six; he was five.  It was titled, “Tim is in the War.” The melody was similar to Hi Ho Nobody Home, a song our family sang on weekend drives -- uncomplicated, somewhat somber. The lyrics were simple, we repeated, “Tim is in the war…” over and over and over until we got tired. The song helped us deal with our fear of war, and what life must be like for our cousin, who’d been drafted.

              The year was 1968. We didn’t know Tim well, but we did know were afraid for him. WAR. It was as serious as a word got. It was the card game to end all card games. What we knew of war, we’d learned from television. It was dark and scary. It was a place we never ever ever wanted to go. Our way of dealing with it was to play it, or sing about poor Tim.

             I’d rarely thought about that song until the other day. I was sitting across the table from a young soldier who was talking about his experiences in Afghanistan with an old friend of mine, Darden Smith, a singer songwriter from Austin, TX. Darden had brought his songwriting workshop to LifeQuest Transitions, a Colorado non-profit that provides special programs for wounded soldiers. When he first told me he was helping soldiers tell their stories through song--  I said, “I need to go. I want to write about what you are doing.”

             As I set out on my journey, I had forgotten something: the reality of war. When I arrived, it didn’t take long to hit me. In spite of the brilliant creativity and the music being made, war was the story.

             “What’s it like now?” Darden asked the soldier, looking him straight in the eye, quietly strumming his guitar.

             “A battlefield inside… it’s the worst at night…”

            The soldier talked; Darden listened. Occasionally strummed. And suddenly, a melody emerged and a story unfolded about the fragile line that separates a veteran’s nightmares and his potential bedroom beatings… between his memories of a kid strapped with a bomb and his own kids playing hide and seek…

             “Tim is in the war…” my heart remembered as I watched the two men sing together. I had known, felt deep inside, what war really meant, as a child. Here, I was learning it as an adult.

             I wandered the grounds and saw veterans huddled with the other songwriters, Radney Foster and Jay Clementi, who had arrived from Nashville the day before, fresh from non-military worlds, like me. I heard phrases like “collided in the dark” and “I’m standin’ up for you.” Within minutes these phrases were wrapped inside a melody, being sung, repeated, and tweaked. 

             I was captivated by the faces of the veterans, their eyes sad, yet intent. Their lips tight, or quivering.  Many rocked back and forth as they sang -- releasing, chanting, a deep connecting going on. I couldn’t help but think of ancient rituals, of mourning, of spirits releasing pain and sorrow… and of the basic human need for support.

             “I took their last living picture,” said a combat photographer as she scrolled through several photos on her laptop.  “I send them to the families.”  Darden and Radney exchanged glances and chords. A chorus emerged and soon they were singing:          

             

                         I took the last living picture for a soldier’s family...

                        It was the burden of the camera and the blessing God gave me…

             Dark eyes sparkled through tears. And, the writing continued. One after another, the veterans shared stories of that place I never ever wanted to be. I heard bits and pieces, rarely the full stories, unintentionally guarding myself, wary of what the full truth might do to me. I was afraid of falling apart in front of those very real men and women who were expected to be so strong, to simply carry on after what they had seen and been through. Eventually, I became determined to take in what I could, not sure of the outcome, but sure I needed to pay attention.  To me, these men and women were now all  “Tims”… after the war.  I felt a strong need to honor them.

             As the days went on, I watched Darden listen with the heart of an angel, the ears of a lion. I watched Radney and Jay pierce through the anguish of others (and likely, some of their own) to pull out beauty and love and hope.  I watched the veterans loosen up and cry freely, laugh deeply, and eventually, exchange ideas for future projects.

             As the songs flowed, it became harder for me to talk.  Music had found its familiar way inside, the comfort that lessens the demands of language. I found myself in awe of the courage I was witnessing all around me, in awe of the desire to share, to do something that might be helpful to others.  

The lure of creating powerful music had drawn several of us there and the need to connect had drawn others. What resulted was a tight, universal chord of humanity. The human spirit soaring on the backs of songs.

             It changed me. I am ready, now, to take that fear head on. I’ve re-written my song:

             “Tim’s home from the war… Tim’s home from the war…”  

            How can we help you, Tim?  What do you need us to do?

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Songs from the retreat were performed at Faces of Freedom  event held at the World Arena in Colorado Springs on September 11, 2011. These songs were then recorded in Nashville by various artists and are now available on the Faces of Freedom album, which is available on iTunes.

http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/faces-of-freedom-ep/id460671403

The Songs

1.Standing Up For You

Recorded by Radney Foster, co-written by Radney Foster, Jay Clementi and veterans Helen Rosario and John Wall

2. Hell on My Heart

Recorded by Suzy Bogguss and co-written by Jay Clementi and veteran Rebecca Stinksy

3. Face of Freedom

Recorded by Radney Foster and co-written by Darden Smith and veteran John Wall

4. Scars

Recorded by Darden Smith and co-written by Darden Smith and veteran Jordan Dailey

5. Predator Road

Recorded by Jay Clementi and co-written by veterans John Wall, Herman Herrera and Jordan Dailey

6. God Challenged Me

Recorded by Ashley Arrison, co-written by Radney Foster, Darden Smith and veterans Stacy Pearsall and Helen Rosario

Watch the making of a couple of the songs, below: