The other morning while Bill and I were having our coffee, I got a text from my friend and well-known songwriter Kenna West. When I finished reading it to Bill, we were both in tears. We thought what she said was too good to keep to ourselves, so I texted her back to see if she would let me share it with you as a guest blog. I hope you “get it”. It is the reason we write songs.
“Hey! Just wanted to say that I thought of you this last week. :) Mary Alice Lovelace, her daughter, and I went to hear Jimmy Webb at the Country Music Hall of Fame. He’s my songwriting hero and I’ve seen him on stage three times in the last ten years or so. He plays the songs of my childhood, yes, but he also tells the stories behind them… “Galveston”, “By the Time I Get To Phoenix”, “Up, Up, and Away”, “Didn’t We”, And my favorite song of all time, “Wichita Lineman”.
Long story, but Wichita Lineman was the song I would cry to when I was 7 years old and my parents were getting a divorce. I have a distinct memory of turning left at a big Orange Crush sign, which was halfway between both sets of grandparents where my sister and I would transition from one parent to the other. Over fifty years later, I still remember the feeling of being that little girl, and how my heart ached when we turned left at that Orange Crush sign. I still remember the sadness in the Glen Campbell song that was on the radio. And I still remember the ache in his words.
To be fair, I had no idea as a kid what he was talking about. In fact, I thought he said “Lyman,” which was a town in South Carolina where you would end up if you turned right at the Orange Crush sign. I truly thought that the guy in the song was from Lyman, and that’s how I sang the song for years. I had no idea. Yet even though I didn’t know the word Glen Campbell was saying, or even what a “lineman” was, I somewhat understood his feeling of “needing” and “wanting.” And it made me sad. And the sadness I felt as a little girl for the man I thought was from Lyman became the emotional space where I could be sad for me.
That’s the power of a song.
And as I sat there Friday night and listened to Jimmy Webb sing that song, my favorite song of all time, I didn’t even think about the lineman from Wichita. I sat there and remembered a little girl in the backseat of her grandfather’s car as it turned left at the Orange Crush sign. I remembered her sorrow. I remembered all of that as Jimmy sang. And I cried. I was literally wiping the tears from beneath my chin. It was this crazy mix of sadness and joy. I grieved for a little girl and her broken world, but I was also grateful for a song that became a safe space for me to feel my feelings and to let the tears fall. And I was thankful, as a songwriter, that— because of Wichita Lineman—I understand the power of descending chords upon the heart. And I was grateful that for the last 25 years, God has allowed me to co-create 3 1/2-minute spaces for folks to feel their feelings. Of course, it’s mostly all been Christian music, so what I am trying to say in a song is always framed by faith in Jesus, but my goal is still the same—to give folks a place to feel their feelings. And maybe it’s worship. Maybe it’s lament. Maybe it’s celebration. Maybe it’s conviction. Maybe it’s repentance. It’s always different. But every time, it tethers back to the first song I ever “felt,” which was “Wichita Lineman”.
As I drove home after the concert, I thought to myself, “I bet Gloria would have enjoyed the songs tonight.” And I bet you would have passed me a Kleenex. Which made me smile, so I thought I’d text.
Hope you are doing well.
I sure appreciate ya. And we’ve never even met. :)
Have a great week!
Kenna
