Inside Nichole Nordeman’s Brave New World

by Nichole Nordeman

Here's a behind-the-scenes look into each song on Nichole Nordeman's latest release, courtesy the Brave press kit.

Brave

I think I expected motherhood to make me soft. Not a wimpy, weak kind of soft, but you know, I had seen all these pictures in magazines of mothers in rocking chairs snuggling with these little pink and blue bundles in their arms, or reading bedtime stories and you just get the feeling that somehow that lady’s lap would be a very comfy spot to lay your head down. I’m not saying that I didn’t experience this “softness,” I did. I really do believe that God hard wired mothers to be nurturing. But I guess what really surprised me was how empowered I felt by the whole experience, (after the sleep deprivation and hormonal assault subsided, that is).

I kept looking at this little life and marveling that God trusted me to take care of it physically, emotionally and spiritually. This was an especially astonishing revelation since there is only one small plant in our home that I haven’t killed. The realization that God really believed that Errol and I were up to the task made me look in the mirror differently. I did feel brave suddenly. And a little nuts. There are days that I look at my little boy and want to suddenly strap a cape around my neck and start leaping from tall buildings, just to make the world better for him. Or to make our home more loving for him, or our marriage stronger. Or to make my heart less selfish. I think he would probably be content with another fistful of cheerios to grind into the carpet, but I want more.

I wrote this song when I realized that the same old, status quo, ho-hum stuff of life that I’d settled for in the past wasn’t going to be good enough any more. Charlie makes me feel brave, makes me want to be brave–Jesus actually makes it so.

What If

I’ve never felt comfortable arguing about God. That’s not to say I haven’t done it. Trust me, I’ve engaged in more than my fair share of full blown, take-your-corner, gloves up, ten full rounds of Bible beating with people. It’s so embarrassing and humiliating to remember. Especially since my victims probably never set foot in another ring, (and not because I was such a formidable opponent, I just had this nasty habit of always hitting below the belt). Winning an argument for God was a big deal.

When I was a young Christian kid, the arguments were about creation vs. evolution. I memorized every angle (and verse) in my arsenal, and would lay in wait for some unsuspecting Darwinian disciple. (“I’ll show you a big bang–.”) In college, the arguments became about politics. My best friend was a bleeding heart liberal, and still is (my best friend and a bleeding heart). She tortures me lovingly with memories of how I used to attach God’s love to right wing politics in many heated dorm room discussions, late into the night. Miraculously, she found something redeeming about my friendship, and now we can both stand on the common ground Christ offers, and just agree to avoid certain topics every four years in November. These days, people are fully entrenched in arguments about how to reconcile “religion” with stem cell research, gay marriage and the complicated choices we make in a time of war.

Because I am a follower of Jesus, and I believe that the Bible is a timeless and true roadmap, I tend to head there for my answers. Sometimes they are written plain as day before me–other times I close the book with more questions than when I opened it. But I don’t argue any more. Nobody ever got argued into the arms of Christ. Nobody gets brow beaten or humiliated into a relationship whose very foundation is mercy and grace. And I know there are still many preachers behind too many pulpits around the world who are still trying to scare the hell (quite literally) out of people and into the kingdom of God, but I don’t buy it. When every argument and piece of well defended evidence sounds empty to a hurting heart, it is the love of Jesus that comes rushing in and changes things. I wrote this song for a friend who I believe strongly will run out of arguments one day, and straight into the arms of Jesus.

Lay It Down

I’ve always loved the story of the prodigal son (see Luke 15, if you’re unfamiliar).

Such great imagery. Such a beautiful tale of love and forgiveness. I love that somehow the son knows in his gut that his dad will always leave the light on at home, which must be why he starts limping in that direction eventually. I love the jealous brother (he is such a portrait of my own heart when I watch God lavish love on some chronic screw up). And I really love the party scene. You just don’t read about a lot of big, blowout, confetti tossing, champagne popping parties in the gospels. A few loaves of bread and a couple fish sure, but only the most wealthy and privileged knew about the parties. And that wasn’t exactly the crowd Jesus drew during parable-hour.

It must have shocked this dusty, weary, simple crowd when Jesus told them that the father in the story broke out the fireworks and the all-you-can-eat buffet for this loser kid of his. I mean, sure–let him come home, make him a sandwich, give him a good talking to–but a party seems a bit much (See? I’m so the jealous brother).

Anyway, I got to thinking about the son–. the prodigal–. and what kind of shape he must have been in. We know he had blown through all of his cash. He was probably filthy and exhausted from the long trip home. Or maybe he was exhausted not so much from the journey as he was from the load he was carrying. Something much heavier than all the riches that once filled his greedy little pockets. He had to carry his heart. He had to drag that heart and every ounce of shame and regret, all the way up the driveway. He probably couldn’t even lift his foot to go one more step, much less his eyes. He probably didn’t even notice the balloons.

We know that the father runs out to welcome him, but at some moment between all the kissing and carrying on, I bet he whispered, “Son–just lay it down.” And they both would have known he wasn’t talking about luggage. “Lay it down. Just put all that extra weight of shame and fear in the corner for a while and come be the guest of honor. Let’s party.” And he says no less to us.

Real To Me

This song was, in the truest sense, an evolution.

I lost track of the number of re-writes, title changes, melody transformations and re-structuring that took place during the writing of it. It started with a series of late night phone calls with my good friend, Jill. Since I am currently trying to juggle a career, a home, a family and a toddler who has attached himself to my leg screaming, “OW-TIDE!!!” (let’s go play outside immediately)–I don’t really have time for life’s little luxuries–like showering– or long phone calls with friends, unless they happen after 10pm. So my conversations with Jill were a rare treat.

She started telling me about this tension she’d recognized in her life. There seemed to be this giant disconnect, she’d noticed, between how meaningful and inspirational Christian books/music/Bible study/church services can be–but how irrelevant all that seems in real life. It’s like when you walk out of your church on Sunday morning (regardless of how you felt inside) and back into the sameness of your everyday, the genie disappears back into the bottle somehow, or at least that’s how it feels. This totally made sense to me. I’ve even felt that way walking off stage after a concert–knowing that God had done something really special in the room, and somehow just wondering if the evening would really change anything or anyone for real. Even worse, some nights I care more about what after-show food will be on the bus than I do about any lasting spiritual impact on anybody. Sorry, the ugly truth.

We talked for hours over the course of several days about how some days we just feel like hollering up to God “Listen. I really appreciate all the stuff that’s being written, and spoken, and sung about you–it’s great, really–. but just for one minute, could you be really REAL to me?” Jill ended up reading these beautiful passages and entire chapters out of Brennan Manning’s Lion and the Lamb book to me, until I could locate my own dusty copy, and then we read together. All of these wonderful late night talks, and longings, found their way into this hopeful song. It means a lot to both of us.

Crimson

I fell in love with the writing of Donald Miller this past year. I first read Blue Like Jazz and was so moved by his “take no prisoners” approach to truth telling, that I devoured it. It was the kind of book that you stuff in your purse when you have to run an errand and pull it out when your car stops at a red light. It’s that good (And I really don’t recommend the whole reading at a red light thing–it’s not that safe, but then, neither was the book). This probably isn’t the place for an endorsement, but I’m supposed to be writing about what inspired this song, which would be impossible to do without begging you to read Donald Miller. If you haven’t discovered him yet, your soul is probably really thirsty, you just don’t know it.

Miller’s next book, Searching for God Knows What, was no less compelling. For me to try and paraphrase how he “re-framed” the way the story of Adam and Eve is so connected with the great loneliness we experience, and all that is so foundational to understanding the choice Jesus made on the cross, would be impossible. But ultimately, Miller gave these stories new roots and meaning for me. This was the inspiration for the lyric in Crimson. The pieces that broke in the garden were ultimately glued together by the love and rich, red blood of God’s son.

The music is borrowed from one of my favorite classical pieces of all time, Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor. It has always moved and haunted me, and I was desperate to find a place for it on this record. Originally, I wrote this really strange but cool lyric taken from the Latin mass. It sounded like something from some chanting monk record– but that was before I read Miller’s books. The chanting monks are relieved, I’m sure. I had to really practice my butt off to play the Chopin piece. That whole thing about “reading music being just like hopping back on a bike” is a total lie. I never should have stopped taking piano lessons in high school (I can hear the collective cry of “THANK YOU” in the distance from all the moms). You’re welcome.

Hold On

This song might be the most important to me on the whole project.

It pretty much sums it all up for me. We spend so much time talking about our search for God, our journey, what we’re looking for, what we hope to find–and we give very little thought to the notion that God is searching for us. He is in fierce pursuit. And He’ll stop at nothing to find us.

I met a girl a couple of years ago. She drove me crazy. She was intensely needy and did a really bad job at hiding her desperation. It wasn’t attractive–it made me want to run and hide whenever she was around, which is exactly what I did. She was hyper. She overcompensated socially. She was exhausting. She was trying to reach out, and so I pulled back. Everyone around her pulled back, because to give her an ounce of your attention was to be swallowed whole. I normally consider myself to be a compassionate person, but I was blinded by self-protection and self-love. We were on a tour together, so our interaction was for a season. And when it ended, I breathed repeated sighs of relief.

Not too long ago, I learned from another friend on that same tour that she had taken her life.

Even now, it is very hard to keep typing because the guilt and shame weigh down on me so heavily. She was reaching, reaching, reaching for anything–anyone who might throw her a line. I never did. When I get to heaven, the first thing I will do is ask God for directions to her house. I need her forgiveness. I need to tell her how ugly my heart was.

Until then, this song will have to do. It is a love song for anyone who feels like they can’t hang on. It is a last ditch plea for anyone who is certain they’ve exhausted every option, and every avenue for happiness and love.

It’s everything I wished I’d said and so I am saying now. God is bigger. The voice that tells you that life is pointless and empty and that everything good and beautiful will always stay just beyond your reach, is the voice of the greatest liar that ever was. And he will keep on lying. And Jesus will keep on loving you and reminding you that the only reason he ever suffered and died and walked out of that tomb to offer you life, was because you are worth it. You really are. We all are.

Someday

I’m finding myself clinging lately to a certain promise that Paul claimed in 1 Corinthians 13. Most of us know this as the “love chapter.” I probably wasn’t the only one who had it read at my wedding. It is a long list of descriptions about all that love is–and is not. It is a thorough account of what love does, what love values, and what it avoids and overlooks. It’s a beautiful and humbling passage. But the promise I really am leaning into lately comes at the very end of the chapter, after all the love stuff. It states simply in the 12th verse that what we might see a poor reflection of now, we will someday see face to face. What we know only in part, we will someday know in whole.

Perhaps the single most uttered question by most of the world in a time of crisis is, “Why, God?” Why does a 35-foot tall wave in Asia take out hundreds of thousands of lives in a matter of minutes? Why is evil being permitted to run rampant in Sudan, eliminating generation after generation without intervention? Why do children suffer? Why did one of my dear friends lose her baby just months into her healthy and hopeful pregnancy? 1 Corinthians 13:12 is the only answer that brings us any comfort. We just don’t know–yet. Someday we will. Someday all that is blurry and unclear and unfair and unjust and confusing and tragic and broken–will be wholly understood. This song is about clinging to that. I think it’s interesting that this promise comes on the heels of the “love chapter.” It is, after all, the ultimate limb that love asks us to step out on–trust.

No More Chains

I have this friend. More like a sister, actually. It’s scary–we could finish each other’s sentences most days. We have the same sense of humor. We have the very same strengths. We have identical weak spots. We were separated at birth, I believe. She even introduced me to my husband, because, well–she “just knew.” We both have this very strong and stubborn misconception (okay, illusion) about how self-sufficient we are. We like to carry people. We hate to be carried. We like to rescue. We hate to cry publicly. We both genuinely feel privileged to listen to a friend pour out the pain of their lives, but would rather privately journal about our own. She is one of those very rare people in life that I believe I could not see for ten years, but the second we sat down over coffee, our hearts would somehow reveal a thousand things before we ever opened our mouths.

So it should not have surprised me that we both hit rock bottom around the same time–for very different reasons. Depression can be a “look out below” kind of crashing down of one’s spirit, or it can fill you up gradually, like a faucet that somebody left dripping. Both of us woke up drowning one day. I’m still trying to figure it all out. I think we would call ourselves fairly strong people–so this sudden admission of total, suffocating weakness was, in itself, reason for hysterics (If you don’t know a Type A, control freak, you should really consider sponsoring one or at least sending some prayers our way). I wrote this song for her–for both of us. Depression (whether it is short lived, or relentless over a long time) can make you believe that you have been given a life sentence of slavery; tethered to the ground by the strongest of shackles, when everybody else seems to growing beautiful, weightless wings. This song came out of a time when both of us were trying to say to God, “No more chains. Please. Not even one more day of this. I should let you set me free–” He wants to. He’s always trying to.

Live

This was another one of those songs that seemed to be ever evolving and changing. It was always in process. I love listening back over the earlier demos–it sounds worlds away from where we started. And that’s a good thing, trust me. Jay (Joyce, producer extraordinaire) has this unbelievable ability to turn something rather blah into something you can’t stop singing. This was one of those songs that I was pretty much ready to toss in the garbage many times, and he kept digging it back out, believing in its potential.

Lyrically, it addresses something that most Christians have probably encountered–the mountain top experience. Most of us can point to a time where God felt particularly close. Summer camp. Weekend retreat. An intense time of prayer and fasting with someone. We’re sure, after these moments that we will be able to hold on to the emotional high, only to find ourselves trudging through the “Monday” stuff of life.

That’s one reason not to get too attached to the emotional frenzy that a lot of spiritual experiences tend to stir up–sometimes they are genuine, other times they have been outright manipulated (Just grab your TV remote if you need a reminder about spiritual and emotional manipulation in the name of evangelism).

I don’t think that God intends for us to sustain some “emotional high” all the time. I don’t see that evidenced in the life of Christ. And I’m always suspect of Christians who are “too happy,” if you know what I mean. But the life that we have in Christ should show evidence of joy. Not the kind of joy that lands some annoying ear-to-ear grin on your face 24/7, but the kind that draws from a deep well of security and knowledge that things are different now.

Gotta Serve Somebody

Bob Dylan wrote and recorded this song in 1979. I was seven years old. From what I understand, he had recently come to know Jesus around this time, and must have been wrestling with what all of that meant. I think this is one of the bravest songs ever written. It’s so true. And it’s straight out of scripture (“You can not serve two masters”). I think it’s also true that you can’t serve no master, either. Pretty rough grammar there, but you get the point. So did Dylan. Every minute of every day we make choices about whom we serve.

A few months ago my pastor handed out this little hairnets to the entire church, and made us wear them for the whole sermon. Somebody from Luby’s cafeteria had donated them. He spoke about service. He spoke about the ladies who stand behind the counter at Luby’s and literally ask the same question all day long, “May I help you? What can I get for you? How can I serve you today?” He asked us to think about that, and I really did. I thought about it so hard I finally forgot how stupid my bangs must look in that net. The model for a great leader is always a servant. Jesus tried to hammer that home so many times. Serve. Serve. Serve. Think of others as better than yourselves (And I really don’t think he’s talking exclusively about other believers here). Service. Sacrifice. The ladies at Luby’s have it right.

We Build

Christians are an odd group. We model our lives after this total revolutionary, a rebel who turned the whole system of religion on its ear. We follow the teachings of this man who pulled people out of the closets where they hid, and singled out the most broken and unlovely, the lowest of the low, to make a point. God loves every last corner of your dark and terrified heart. We write books about coming clean before God. We write songs about not pretending anymore. We use words like intimate and vulnerable to describe the way we should interact with one another.

And then. We hide. We go home and shut the door and hide the worst of it from God and each other.

Have you ever noticed that nobody stands up in church and says, “I have bulimia. I can’t stop. I don’t know how.” Have you ever noticed that nobody looks across the table from you at lunch and says, “I have a real problem with internet porn,” or “ Lately, I can’t stop lying. I lie about everything.” But you will hear about all that later. You’ll hear it about each of those stories and more on the other side of deliverance. It’s okay to stand up and say, “I used to have a problem with bulimia/internet porn/lying, but God has freed me from that bondage and I’m here to testify about it.” And then everybody has a big Hallelujah moment and claps for you.

Not too long ago, my husband and I hit a really rough patch in our marriage. Not the “go to bed not speaking” kind of rough patch, but more of an “I don’t know if we’re going to get through this” kind of crisis. It had been building for some time, and the issues were deep and painful for both of us. I sat down to write a song about us, and what love requires. I wanted to write about staying (because neither of us felt like it)–and building something (because we both were systematically tearing it down). I wanted to remind myself that I made promises that weren’t attached to emotion (because neither of us “felt” anymore). I wanted to tell the truth about the situation as it was, not after it was better.

If I had waited, I probably would have written a far more beautiful song. It would be an inspirational song, probably with a bunch of imagery about how our love, with God’s help, can weather any storm, blah, blah. Maybe people would have sung it at weddings, I don’t know. But it felt better not to hide this time. It felt better to come clean to our friends during the crisis, and not after. It felt better not to wait until we could give a testimony about it, until God had saved the day (which He did). Marriage is hard. It is also a total joyride. But it’s hard. Errol and I have both said that we wished somebody had prepared us a bit more. They probably tried, and we were too busy picking out dishes. Maybe this song is a step in that direction. Any roof worth living under is gonna take some work to build.