I got my copy of Belmont's student newspaper, The Vision, yesterday, and I instantly looked for the article that my friend, Melanie Bingtson, had written. I have fallen in love with her writing of late, and I thought I should share her article. I don't think she'll mind. She deserves the publicity, anyway :o). So please read on, it is worth it! And I promise you will understand my title.
A World Without Spring
Springtime at Belmont is a beautiful thing. The trees around the quad bloom in vivid green, flowers explode into brilliant colors all across campus, and musicians of every sort crowd the lawns and play their songs until the sun sets.
It’s almost spring here and I can’t help but smile as I step outside my door every morning and feel the warm sunshine. For the last week or so, though, there is a sadness that I can’t seem to get out of my head.
We joke about the “Belmont bubble” but it frightens me how transcendent that idea is. I fall into its trap daily, pretending that this is actually the real world and that the middle-school drama that consumes our lives will have an impact six months from now. I’ve been convicted by this false reality recently.
Zimbabwean musician Oliver Mtukudzi penned “Mambasa,” a song that asks wrenching questions:
“Tears run dry/We mourn quietly/Death has now lost its meaning/Funerals no longer have the necessary dignity/ Everyone around us is dying/ Who will sympathize with whom/ Since each of us has death in our homesteads daily?/ Who will mourn whom?/Who will bury whom?”
This is the song that plays on the radio in Zimbabwe – not “This is Why I’m Hot” (Mims) or “Beer in Mexico” (Kenny Chesney). Talk about a reality check.
The inflation rate in Zimbabwe is 1,700 percent. The average life expectancy of a woman is 35. Almost 25 percent of the population has AIDS.
Before you think that this is another spoiled American clamoring for help for Africa, finish this column. In all honesty, you can’t do anything to help the people in Zimbabwe. The government – and the country’s destiny – is controlled by Robert Mugabe, a ruthless and selfish dictator who has his opposition brutally beaten and has sworn off the rest of the world. Governments have tried to oust Mugabe through economic sanctions, which have starved the people of Zimbabwe. Economic sanctions are a traditional method to force rogue leaders to change, but they don’t work.
In the last week or so, Zimbabwe has finally broken into the news cycle. Mugabe has cracked down on his opposition, mercilessly beating leaders who have attempted to speak out against him. According to Mugabe, if Westerners dare to interfere with the situation, they will be removed from the country. (He did not specify whether they would leave alive or dead.)
Zimbabwe makes me sad. But there’s nothing I can do about it but tell you what is happening. I’m not asking you to do anything – Zimbabweans don’t need protests or pity or fundraisers or media blitzes. They need dignity. Hope. Prayer. Remembrance.
Robert Mugabe is 83 years old. He can’t last much longer.
Washington Post journalist Neely Tucker wrote a book called Hope in the Driest Season about his time in Zimbabwe covering all of Africa.Let me close with a passage from that book, which I want you to read.
“More than 1,100 people had flocked into the village’s Catholic church for sanctuary … We stepped on bare spots of the floor that were not strewn with debris. The pews had been ripped out, but the slats that had supported them were still there … I shifted my weight and a foot slipped off one plank, but I continued to write notes, racing to keep up with his account. I rocked my foot back and forth. It began bumping against something. At first, I thought it was a chicken’s rotted bones that had somehow not yet collapsed. Then I leaned down and peered closer. I blinked. It was the splintered remains of what appeared to be an infant’s rib cage. My toe was resting just inside, and I had been twitching my foot against the bowed ribs.”
Enjoy this season at Belmont. Walk outside, feel the sunshine and the breeze. But as you laugh and live and enjoy the blessings that God has given you freely, pray for springtime to come to Zimbabwe.
A friend graciously gave me two tickets to the Augustana and Vega4 show last night in Nashville at Cityhall, and I was willing to go. To be all that honest, I wasn't overly excited about it with their recent success with the song "Boston." I have been a fan of the band for a couple of years now since I heard their EP before All the Stars and Boulevards was released, but it's been a while. I had the irksome worry that I was about to see a pretty, glossy band that doubled for the album cover of the next Grey's Anatomy soundtrack. Not so. And it was incredible.
Vega4 is a multinational band, featuring a frontman and a bass player from ireland (think bono meets snow patrol to get a picture of the vocals), a drummer from Canada, and a guitar player from New Zealand. They were very good for an opening act, though, and their stage presence, albeit crude, was quite enjoyable. They ended their set with the lead singer taking the mic and walking through the crowd a good 20 feet out from the stage. The hit song is "Life is Beautiful," and if you're a fan of any snow patrol (somewhere in between Final Straw and Eyes Open), then you should fine the tune and listen to it yourself!
Augustana definately was different than I expected. Their frontman honestly reminded me mostly of Kid Rock in his appearance and mannerisms, sporting red boots, tight jeans, a simple white v-neck undershirt, a slight mustache, and a black cowboy hat covering his long, unmanaged curly black hair. He had an extremely low voice and had sometimes awkward interactions between him and the audience. Definately not a diva playing the crowd, he was in his own world of his own music. Which was perfectly fine when you have the voice that he does. Un-frickin-believable! He, along with the band, got lost in their songs, and you wish they'd never find their way to the end. Half the set was probably new songs the audience has never heard before, but it didn't matter. I wish I could see him again getting to the climax of a song letting his raspy voice take off and soar to crazy heights and his body being thrown into every word he sang. It was great. Halfway during the set, he brought up a steel-guitar player that he had apparently met earlier that day. They played a few of the most beautiful folk songs I have heard, and I wouldn't complain (probably the opposite) if they released a folk album next. Unfortunately, I don't think that'll be the case...but it should be! Anyway, if you get a chance to catch the tour before it ends, I would suggest it!
Congratulations Bao! We were all routing for you...
Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am obsessed with anything Rob Bell. I was of course then the first to pick up his newest book Sex God when it came out at the beginning of March. It was a quick read, and I easily finished it that week over Spring Break, but it is definately worth the high $20 charged for it. The book's title is interesting enough and certainly had me wondering, and its subtitle, "Exploring the Endless Connections between Sexuality and Sprituality," made me even more curious. Nevertheless, Rob Bell crafts a wonderful commentary on a new (or he would probably say really old) view on sex, love, and lust. Following on the heels of his first release, Velvet Elvis, this book has the same cordial and conversational style and feel but is a little more focused. It has something for everybody: for the single, the dating, the married, the never to be married, the married for 20 years. It's really fantastic and I can't wait to read it again to catch all the things that I missed (it's loaded with new info and insights in every sentance). Perhaps my favorite part was...hm... you know what, it's kind of hard to find a favorite part. It's all good!!! 
Page France -- Here's a Telephone
Bright Eyes -- Four Winds
Springtime at Belmont is a beautiful thing. The trees around the quad bloom in vivid green, flowers explode into brilliant colors all across campus, and musicians of every sort crowd the lawns and play their songs until the sun sets.
