Songwriters

A Song for the Season: Christmas to Me

Steve · December 13, 2013 · 3 Comments

Dusting — A light dusting of snow. SJG photo

A little something special for the seasons of Advent and Christmas…another song from my Christmas CD, “Home Again with You,” produced a few years back with my friends in the band Nathanael’s Creed.

Next up is our jazzy “Christmas to Me,” inspired by a beautiful poem by the (now) Rev. Katie Cooper Nix and by the Christmas recordings from pop-jazz heroes like Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett. I know it’s early on a Friday morning as I post this, but this one is perhaps best enjoyed in front of a fire with your favorite beverage and your favorite people…

To listen, click here: Christmas to Me

Christmas to Me

Words and music by Phil Cooper, Steve Givens and Jim Russell, based on a poem by Katie Cooper Nix.
© 2007 Potter’s Mark Music (BMI)

Christmas to me, isn’t the lights on the tree
The wrappings and the bows
A reindeer’s glowing nose.

Christmas to me, isn’t so easy to see
In endless games and toys
For little girls and boys.

And no matter where I go
All the trappings and the snow
It just isn’t merry
It just isn’t Christmas
‘Till I am home again with you.

Christmas to me, echoes the mystery
The sacred holy night
A grace so pure and bright.

Christmas to me, lives in the memory
Of family and friends
A love that never ends.

And no matter where I go
All the trappings and the snow
It just isn’t merry
It just isn’t Christmas
‘Till I am home again with you.

The players
Lead vocals: Steve Givens
Guitar: Jim Russell
Piano: Phil Cooper
Percussion: Pat Dillender
Bass: Gerry Kasper
Background vocals: Phil Cooper and Jim Russell (I think!)

[If you’re looking for stocking stuffers, the CDs are available for $15, which includes postage and handling. Drop me an email or send a check to: Steve Givens, 51 High Valley Dr., Chesterfield, Mo. 63017.]

Today’s Word: Well

Steve · September 27, 2013 · 2 Comments

“You do not even have a bucket and the cistern is deep…” John 4:11

When I was a child, we spent many weekends at a “country place” owned by friends. This was back in the 1960s and early ‘70s, and the simple cabin on 80 acres in Gasconade County, Missouri didn’t have indoor plumbing or running water. So if we wanted water, we had to pump it from the old red cistern well, a crank-type contraption that usually required eight or nine good turns before water would come flowing from the spigot. I can still feel the handle in my hands; can still count the turns in my mind. You had to go deep, but it was worth the work and the wait. The water was cool, fresh and clean. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to fetch water on my own, for that was a sure sign that I was growing up.

In John’s gospel, Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well and asks her for a drink, even though he had no bucket in which to catch the water. This story is really about Jesus offering her “living water,” that will make her never thirst again, but within that story, for me, is this idea of the well as prayer, as a place that we must go as we mature in Christ, a place that takes a little work and some patience, a place that delivers Jesus himself, becoming for us both the water and the well, the sustenance and the source. We must go to this source often, armed with a bucket to catch the life-giving water that comes from deep within, left there for us to fetch by the giver, the creator, the spirit of life. Or if not a bucket, at least outstretched hands ready to receive.

Ask yourself in silence: How often do I go to the well? What’s keeping me from going deep?

Holy as a Day is Spent: Our Awareness of the Sacred Around Us

Steve · July 1, 2012 · 5 Comments

flower — The fecundity of life, by Steve Givens

I got out this morning for a walk in the woods near my house before I found myself in the midst of yet another scorching, humid St. Louis summer day. The temperature peaked at 108 the last few days, and more of the same is promised for today.

I was accompanied on my walk this morning by the music of singer-songwriter-teacher-activist Carrie Newcomer, with whom I have had the pleasure to work and learn a few times. As I entered the canopy of the woods, I was greeted in my ear buds with Carrie’s beautiful hymn to the sacred all around us, “Holy as a Day is Spent,” a song that never ceases to make me stop and consider where I am and how I’m taking up space on the earth at the moment. More than anything else, though, the song asks us to see the sacred in the ordinary, beautiful things of daily life. Near the end of the song, Carrie sings:

Holy is the place I stand
To give whatever small good I can
The empty page, the open book
Redemption everywhere I look

Unknowingly we slow our pace
In the shade of unexpected grace
With grateful smiles and sad lament
As holy as a day is spent.

The Spirit of a Piece of Land: Nearer My God to Thee

Steve · October 31, 2010 · 2 Comments

Sue and I own a sloping patch of land in central Missouri where we have a small, 50-year-old weekend cabin on the shore of the Lake of the Ozarks, a sprawling, man-made, spider of a body of water, created by the damming of the Osage River back in 1931 and dotted now with houses and jet skis. But it’s a nice quiet getaway, especially this time of year, when the crowds and most of the loud boats have disappeared for the season. It’s our favorite time of year.

The dam created one of the Midwest’s favorite (and most beautiful!) summer playgrounds, but it no doubt took with it the history and culture of those who lived here before, and I do think of that often. What exactly was right here on our little plot before the dam I cannot say. Maybe just a shady corner of a majestic and ancient forest akin to that which still exists as you move in all directions away from the lake, but perhaps more. Maybe someone’s home, someone’s church, someone’s grave.

And before then? Before the coming of the white man? Perhaps where I sit right now typing on my laptop a young tough-skinned Osage Indian crouched in his very first hunt, his bow drawn and his eyes locked on a 16-point buck making its way gingerly through the trees to drink from a sliver of a stream.

The point is this: We don’t really own the land. We are given the blessing of calling bits and pieces of it “home” for a while, but it belongs to the creator and to the lives of all who have touched it and worked it and walked it over the years.

Tim Grimm performing at our house concert series. Photo by Fred Volkmann.

If you don’t like the culture, make your own…

Steve · January 30, 2010 · 2 Comments

Me, emceeing a house concert, photo by Fred Volkmann

I awoke this morning with this thought swimming through my head. It’s not my original thought and I don’t know who said it first, but it’s an appropriate one for this weekend. Here’s why.

Tomorrow night is the Grammy Awards — that annual celebration that has become unequal parts glitter, popular taste and, and to some extent anyway, excellence in the musical arts. I grew up watching the show, dreaming someday that I might own my own little golden gramophone. Hasn’t happened yet.