Rachel E. Watson

Earlier this year, one of my favorite folk rock bands, The Lone Bellow, released their second album, "Then Came the Morning." It's a beautiful showcase of the band's abilities, which already were so strongly evident in their self-titled first album.

I love this band for many reasons: visceral emotion (they really put their hearts into their performances); their beautiful three-part vocals; use of upright bass, violin and piano; and the way I find these bits and pieces of scriptural themes in their songwriting. I don't know whether the latter is intentional or if I'm just seeing it because I'm looking. Either way, I love it.

Here's an example from their current album. In Psalm 30, there's this beautiful verse, "Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning." That's a verse I think of often on nights when I'm feeling at my worst — I hold onto the knowledge that the morning brings a rested mind and a fresh perspective.

I don't know the story behind the title song, "Then Came the Morning," but it sounds like a break-up song, whether of a marriage or longtime relationship, I don't know. But the line that's repeated is one of relief, of light and water rushing in to wash away heartbreak.

"Then Came The Morning," by The Lone Bellow

Then came the morning
It was bright, like a light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Take the dog with you when you leave
Wash my hands of all this broken heave
Never forget what you thought you’d never be
If you ever let me
Break the spell and try and
Leave it when we couldn’t find it

Then came the morning
It was bright, like a light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Take my words, breathe them out like smoke
Burn every single letter that I wrote
Let the pages turn to ash, I don’t want them back
Everything you always said to me
Starts to sound like broken glass on streets
Spreaded out all over places where I sleep

Now you finally left me
Done with all your lying
Joy comes in the morning
You won’t see me crying

Then came the morning
It was bright, like the light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Then came the morning
It was lost when you left when you took what I felt
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning

Then the storm breaks the cold
Not towards the line I thought you stole
Start to feel what I felt way before
You broke down my front door
Popped my heart up off the wooden floor
Now I don’t need your smile anymore

Then came the morning
It was bright, like a light that you kept from your smile
Then came the morning
Like a flood from the storm that you kept from my heart

Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
Then came the morning
If you liked that, you might also like a song with scriptural threads from their first album, "Teach Me to Know." It echoes a line from Psalm 39:4, which says "Show me, Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is."

"Teach Me To Know," by The Lone Bellow

First born
Carried promise of the old one
You're the same but somehow different
Bared the burdens of the line

It breaks in
And you never see it coming
Seems like every other morning
Like a secret you can't tell

And you get carried away
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)

Out there
Thousand years into the future
Almost nothing of it seems sure
Things so rarely stay the same

Right here
In these burning simple seconds
Living out all your best guesses
Someone's calling out your name

And you get carried away
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)

Teach me to know my number of days
Hold out my heart from getting carried
[x3]

Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)
Carried away (carried away, carried away)

Buy the music

I’m thankful this story was my first venture into Atwood Land, because now I’m hooked. I certainly will read “The Handmaid’s Tale” and some of her other classics.

First, a forewarning: If you undertake to read this book at my recommendation, don’t be surprised if you find yourself, like one Goodreads reviewer noted, tempted to abandon ship because “the story moves too slowly.” I promise, the slow burn is intentional on Atwood’s part. The tale builds as new layers are added, and the payoff will be worth every moment you spent wondering whether the dust jacket copy had it right: that events will “follow one another at a breathtaking pace.”

On the novel’s first page, we learn Laura Chase has died of an apparent suicide, ten days after the end of World War II, and left behind her sister, who is narrator Iris Chase Griffen. Just as the story starts to unfold through Iris’s perspective, we are diverted to a novel within the novel, “The Blind Assassin,” which was published posthumously on behalf of Laura by Iris.

From there, the story alternates between the larger narrative – Iris, in her 80s in the year 1998, writing a memoir about her and Laura’s life and what led up to the suicide – and the novel-within-a-novel, a sci-fi story a young man tells to his lover as they meet in seedy places.
Read more posts in the Storytelling Sunday series here.

You'll know you're a '90s kid if you can name this TV show.

’90s Kid

By Rachel E. Watson

I am asked to sing at a ’90s throwback party.
The guests will wear acid wash jeans, unbuttoned
flannel shirts, crop tops, high tops and flat tops,
scrunchies securing towering side ponytails.

I search YouTube for a suitable set list:
perhaps Destiny’s Child or Spice Girls,
Britney or TLC, Smash Mouth, Barenaked Ladies,
'N Sync, Boyz II Men or Backstreet Boys.

I don Hammer pants and a windbreaker,
and try to relax as memories of how very,
very uncool I was then sweep past me
like one of the fast kids at the roller rink.

I cling to one important thing as I ring
the hostess’ doorbell and walk into a
living room that looks like the Huxtables’:
I lived through this once. I can do it again.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.