Some of you may have heard of the community of singer/songwriters known as the Square Peg Alliance. Our newest inductee is Ben Shive, as you know from a few posts ago. Thanks to everyone who placed orders for Ben’s upcoming album. If you’re on the fence about ordering the record, maybe this little video will push you over the edge.

My wife has a gift for spotting pheasants when we are driving. It’s a skill she learned from her dad and I’m always amazed at how she can spot these birds - so well concealed by their environment - as we speed by at 65 mph. “If you just keep your eyes open, you’ll always see something” she told me once when I asked her how she did it. I have found that this is great advice for more than just pheasant sightings, and offers no end to wonder and delight as I learn to keep my eyes open for the God who, as it turns out, has a knack for showing up in the most unlikely places.

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I’m going to cast off all reserve and gush about the songwriting of one of my best friends. Ben Shive, the newest member of the Square Peg Alliance, wears a lot of hats. He’s a husband, a father of three (soon to be four) children, a prodigious musician, a record producer, a songwriter, and I’m proud to say that for the last 6+ years he’s been my riding in my gang, the Captains Courageous.

Ben is responsible for such lines as this one, from “Canaan Bound“:
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Matt:

The summer movie season. I can sum it in two words: endlessly mindless. Three months of raunchy comedies and flying stuntmen, formulaic romances and exploding aliens. And I can’t say I’m excited in the least.

My favorite time of year is Oscar season. I love a good story. I appreciate memorable acting performances far more than speeding cars. I enjoy beautiful cinematography or clever camera angles more than soft-core porn and fart jokes. And my wish for this summer movie season is that some studios would offer something worthwhile in the middle of the endless drivel.

Curt, are you with me?

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I just got a proof for the audiobook of On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness and posted the first few tracks at http://www.myspace.com/andrewpetersonmusic. Peter Sandon, a bona fide British guy is the reader–they asked me to read it but I always imagined it being read with a British accent so I begged until they succumbed and tracked down Mr. Sandon. The only thing I don’t love is that he pronounced Gnag and Gnorm like “Ga-nag” and “Ga-norm”. Ah, well. But he’s a great reader, and as soon as the audiobook is available I’ll let you know.

Enjoy!

From Jason:

I had the pleasure of having a conversation with Michael Card and Wayne Shepherd at Mole End, Mike’s studio in Tennessee, for his radio show. I had lost my voice the week prior and it was just barely coming back by the time I flew into Nashville, but maybe it was appropriate considering that our conversation was about the virtues of weakness.

I sang a few songs and Mike even joined me on piano for “Everything I Own” - which was a great moment for a guy who grew up with Michael Card as one of his heroes! I hope you enjoy listening to the conversation I had with Mike and Wayne. If you missed it when it aired on the radio, you can listen to it here (the interview is the second half of the program).

I just stumbled on a copy of O’Connor’s complete short stories at a used bookstore here in Nashville and listed it in the Rabbit Room store. Years ago a friend bought me this same edition and I read it with a sense of creepy amazement; it was like nothing I’d ever read. I knew Chris Slaten was a big fan of her work so I asked him to write a recommendation for the book. We only have one copy, so if you click here and can’t find it, someone beat you to the punch.

———————-

This collection is essential to both long time fans and first time readers interested in the work of Flannery O’Connor. My first time to read a handful of her short stories I was helpless to interpret them. One would expect that reading the 1950’s work of a female “Christ-centered” southern fiction writer would be a simple, modest or at least predictable experience.
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Hey, folks. Today I had a radio interview with Cindy Swanson of 101 QFL, a station in Rockford, Illinois. Here’s a link to her blog, where she reviewed On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, and here’s a link to download or listen to the interview.

I’ve been hiding out in the local coffee shop most days, writing furiously to meet my deadline for book two (the title hasn’t been decided yet), enjoying myself but at the same time remembering that writing takes a lot of work. I’ve been consoling myself with Anne Lamott’s freedom-giving advice for writers: You have to be willing to write a crappy first draft before you can get to the (hopefully) good final draft. I keep wanting to go back and self-edit, to worry over sentence structure, to liven up the dialog, but the book would never get written if I did that too much.
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Question of the Week: “Can you identify a common thematic thread that runs through your work– something that separates you from other artists in your field? Or, in regard to work other than your own, what kinds of themes are you particularly drawn to?”
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I just returned home from a joyous, frustrating, exciting, confused, fun, boring week in Nashville. It’s properly called GMA Week and it stands for Gospel Music Association’s week-long event of seminars, interviews, luncheons, dinners, concerts, schmoozing and culminates in the Dove Awards (the Christian Grammy).

It’s an adjective-filled week (see above) for myself because I’m mostly there to interview approximately 25 bands and artists of various types - Tooth & Nail screamo acts to worship leaders. And the process is either thoroughly enjoyable or a Job-like exercise in patience and slow mental torture.
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Two new releases this week that make me happy and cost me money:

Leif Enger’s second book, So Brave, Young, and Handsome.

———-You may remember Enger as the author of Peace Like a River, one of the first books discussed here in the Rabbit Room. I haven’t read the new one yet, but it’s next on my list. Actually, I’m having a hard time not putting the current read on hold so that I can dig into this one.

The Weepies record Say I Am You was my favorite discovery last year. Their music is breezy, sweet, melodic and delightful, like what you’d listen to at the outset of a good road trip. And some of the lyrics are brilliant, deeper than you may think on the first listen. I haven’t had time to listen to this new one all the way through, but so far I’m digging it. And I love the album cover, by the way.

This week, GMA week, is notorious in Nashville and in the Christian music industry. Thousands of people, from record label employees to signed bands to bands that wish they were signed to songwriters to radio programmers to retailers, descend on this fine town and swarm the convention center and the downtown area wearing lanyards and carrying duffel bags full of free stuff.

Like most things on this good earth, GMA week has its good points and its bad points. One of the good points for we Petersons is the Swedish Invasion. A group of friends from the land of my ancestors (who work in Sweden’s music business) visits Nashville every year. They stay busy during the convention until Wednesday night, when the Dove Awards are happening. They’re not too interested in going. So for the third year in a row they’ve come over to the Peterson house for Jamie’s best version of Swedish meatballs. It’s now early Thursday morning and I’m about to go clean up the paper plates and empty water bottles, but first, in honor of our Swedish friends, I thought I’d share with you the video Andy Gullahorn made during our last tour in Sweden. Enjoy. And beware.

Last week I benefited from Derek Webb’s sickness.

Derek lost his voice and had a fever and hives and seven corns on the knuckles of his toes. Everything in that last sentence but the part about the loss of his voice is conjecture on my part. Anyway, Derek wasn’t able to do a show with Don Miller at the last minute and was kind enough to suggest that I fill in for him. I had a great time. The audience was gracious even though they were expecting someone shorter and balder with a cooler voice, and after my set I was able to listen to Donald Miller speak for about an hour about Story.
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After the mad rush surrounding the Oscar Nominations from late last year and a bushel of great movies like “No Country for Old Men,” “There Will Be Blood,” “Into the Wild,” “Away from Her,” “Juno,” “La Vie En Rose” “The Kite Runner,” “Once,” “Lars and the Real Girl, “Atonement,” and others, there was a dry spell that lasted too long. Sometimes the selection of interesting movies is like a banquet table. There’s so many choices, it’s hard to decide. Other times, I can’t find even one movie of interest at my largest local multiplex, the AMC Oakview Plaza 24 (with stadium seating and popcorn that has become far too expensive). And that coming from a guy that has fairly eclectic taste in movies.

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My son is in bed sleeping peacefully, finally. After several days of him being lethargic and downright cranky with a cold, I did a fatherly thing and took him to the doctor’s office this morning, whereupon the boy was diagnosed with a pair of ear infections. “Oh, so THAT’s the problem!”, both parents cluelessly exclaimed. Antibiotics underway, he is sleeping quietly, the first in quite a few nights. Parents are tired, but still awake.

Danielle is sitting at the dining room table - currently a makeshift sewing workspace - and is making a few burp cloths, baby blankets and a hooter-hider (for the discreet nursing mother) for a friend’s baby shower tomorrow.
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One of the things I love about being a part of the Rabbit Room is the permission it gives me to be a little self-indulgent. I can talk about the real stuff that moves me or tickles my mind that I don’t really feel like I can talk about anywhere else. I only hope that it’s useful to at least some who take the time to read and that, like me, they find an unexpected treasure that helps bring clarity in a world of numbing chaos. I don’t take your time or trust for granted!

So in the spirit of a little self-indulgence, I want to talk about my new Tom Waits record.
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You’re about to be sentenced to a Siberian gulag for a year. You can take one book, one CD, and must eat the same meal every day. Barring the Bible, any Paula Abdul album and anything that includes fresh cobra blood as an ingredient, what do you choose? And yes, as a matter of fact, this is one of those new state-of-the-art gulags with electricity, easy-on-the-eyes reading lights, free CD players, and a crazy French chef to do your bidding.

[Editor’s note: Should the need arise (and it will), an incredibly precise translator can be found here. ]

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In a recent email I sent out to those on my email list, I talked about Centricity’s recent decision to release “Everything I Own” as a radio single. We are offering you the radio version for free and I thought for long-time fans it warranted a little explanation. So here’s the longer version of what I wrote in that email:
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The air is full of an earthy, livestock smell that is somehow both horrible and wonderful. Small children stare goggle-eyed at carnival games or beg to ride the carousel as impatient mothers jerk them along behind. Teenagers strut around, haughty, obnoxious, hand-in-hand, others, lurking behind, engage in the silent and awkward battle of adolescence. An electric firmament wheels overhead carrying angels up, down, and around, its raucous, momentary gleam outshining the antediluvian glimmer-light beyond. Mad, calliope sounds and the din of a thousand-thousand voices wrap us all in waves of clamor-induced deafness and somewhere nearby a motorcycle’s guttural belch punctuates the night.
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Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.

Several people in the last few weeks have commented to me about how glad they are that they discovered Wangerin’s The Book of the Dun Cow here in the Rabbit Room. It really is a remarkable book, and I still can’t recommend it highly enough. It won the prestigious National Book Award when it was first published in 1978, and was only the beginning of Wangerin’s career.

I just stumbled on his most recent novel, Saint Julian, and was so captured by it that it bumped aside the other four books I’m reading. Last Sunday afternoon–a perfect Spring day–I sat on my front porch swing and read the last half of the book, savoring the careful prose, the pastoral tone, and even the look and feel of the book itself. The cover illustration fits the epic, vivid quality of the story perfectly, and the fonts (I’m a sucker for a great font) added just the right atmosphere.
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Yesterday I had the pleasure of speaking to the students at Lipscomb University, here in Nashville, for a convocation series called “Stories of Lived Discipleship”. You’ll notice right off the bat that the introduction was inspired in part by a discussion here in the Room from last week. Here’s the manuscript, for your reading pleasure (or displeasure).

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After last week’s ridiculously fun introduction to the On the Table feature, I’m a little worried that the real deal will never measure up. I have confidence in our illustrious contributors though and am sure it’ll be a piece of–wait for it–cake. Golf clap please. Thank you, thank you.

What do you do to jumpstart the creative process when the juices aren’t flowing?

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Many years ago, I was involved in a conversation about Jesus junk. Like most here in The Rabbit Room, I’m as offended by Jesus junk as I am moved by its counterpart, art that magnifies the glory of God with beauty and truth. The question we posed was, “Of all the Jesus junk on the market, which piece has the most redeeming value?” I chose the WWJD bracelet. Hey, if I had to pick one thing, the WWJD bracelet seemed as good as any.

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My wife has been laid up for a week recovering from surgery, and her mom drove up from Ralph, Alabama to help out. Of course, “help out” pretty much meant, “do everything.”

Amy was in the bed, and I was slammed with two church services in one week on top of my typically hectic schedule when Grandmama checked in and took over like Michael Jordan. Family dirty laundry disappeared into the morning mist. The children received nourishment and attention, but not from me. “What happened to the mini-van?” Grandmama got out the shopvac and had her way till the Sienna cried mercy, and then she put it in a figure-four leg-lock. Now all the turn signals work.
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I wrote a post a while back that never saw the light of day–and for good reason. It was written in a fit of depression as I tried to express my exhaustion with the burden of hope. In it I suggested that hope was something I didn’t want anymore.  In fact, I said that I wanted to crush it dead and rip it out of me. It took a while for me to realize that what I was really exhausted by wasn’t hope, it was myself.
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From the Proprietor: A sure sign that you’re friends with someone is when you don’t mind if they make fun of you. The Captains Courageous and I were on a trip a while back and we decided over dinner to figure out what each person’s worst physical feature was. One had to sit and watch the other two examine him, debate, and conclude which feature a caricature artist would exploit–like G.W. Bush’s pointy ears and upper lip in political cartoons. Only in the company of good friends can you sit and feel loved even while you’re being ridiculed. I’ll post more on that later, because there’s a drawing of each of us with the bad features exaggerated, and seeing it just might brighten your day.

That brings me to today’s post. After a few days of really heavy thinking about really heavy issues, I’m going to post something Pete threw together. We’re going to try something new. Once a week, Pete will pose a question and each of the Rabbit Room contributors will post a short answer or thought. Think of it like that show The View, only not annoying and shallow.

So for an example Pete worked up the following, in which he posed a question and imagined how some of us might answer. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

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Here’s a great article by our own Jason Gray. Every time I speak with Jason, be it on the phone (like I did today) or when he and his sweet family are at our house watching Ninja Warrior, I’m struck with what a clear, precise thinker he is. He’s a few years older (and a few inches taller) than me, and so I look up to him in more ways than one. God gave him a good mind (not to mention a lot of talent) and I’m glad he gives us these peeks inside it. Happy reading.

First of all, Andy P, thanks for writing a post that is longer than any of mine. I’ve long been insecure about that, and now you’re the long-winded one (until I write this post, anyway). And secondly, thank you Marc for getting the conversation going; you’re speaking out your convictions, and that’s good. I have some thoughts on the whole thing.
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I’m hesitant to enter into this sort of conversation in an online format. There’s a lot to be said for body language, tone of voice, and the way someone’s heart can pour out of a face-to-face exchange in a way that surprises even the speaker. But I guess I was the one who opened up Pandora’s box (no offense), so I’d better offer a reply, feeble though it may be.

For those of you who didn’t read my post or its comments from a few days ago entitled “What Connects Us All,” here’s a recap. I recommended Once, the independent Irish film about a songwriter, with one caveat: if you’re bothered by the F word, avoid this movie. One brave soul spoke up and questioned the propriety of subjecting oneself to any film that included [expletive] thirty nine times. I’m assuming the commenter knows that because there’s a website somewhere that keeps a tally of such things for discerning viewers.

So the issue is language. Specifically, the foul kind.
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I spent a day last week at the Harn Museum of Art and aside from being a lot of fun, it reminded me of some things about myself that I don’t usually like to acknowledge. While I toured the main gallery and considered its theme of “Paradigms and the Unexpected” one of the boys I was with (the security monitor actually) tugged on my arm and dragged me into a small video alcove. “Mister Pete, you’ve got to see this!” The child’s level of excitement convinced me that surely he had found a depiction of something blowing up, or something involving zombies.

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The musical bumper sticker on my car during the ol’ college years would have definitely read “I’d Rather Be Listening To Acoustic Music.” Therein was my initial foray into the early careers of Square Peg artists like our own Proprietor. I found great enjoyment in the Texan college worship scene (early Crowder, Robbie Seay, Justin Barnard, anyone?). And the great unknown (acoustic) rock over which I stumbled came in the form of Jill Phillips.
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“Hope, at the end of the day, is what connects us all.”

So said Marketa Irglova at this year’s Academy Awards after she and co-writer Glen Hansard won the Oscar® for Best Song. As of the award show I had seen the movie Once, uh, twice. Jamie has a knack for falling asleep during movies, no matter how much she likes ‘em. She’ll be wide awake one minute, and all of a sudden all those motherhood responsibilities from the day–homeschooling and cooking and teaching piano lessons to the neighborhood kids–sneak up on her and knock her out cold. (Have I mentioned that I think my wife is a remarkable person?)
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“The Problem of Pain” by C.S. Lewis isn’t a comfort type book in the conventional sense, but it does provide an intellectual exploration of why a loving God might allow his children to suffer with pain, seemingly ignoring their prayers. Though it’s a more complex issue than I have the intellect to understand–to put it simply–what I’ve learned is that pain is for my own good.

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Easter is breathing in the east.

After downing victuals of mildly grease-soaked Mississippi country sausage bathed in Creole mustard aboard a two-week old onion roll, the remainder of a sweet tea from today’s lunch, and a pair of chocolate peanut butter eggs, I can feel my mind slowing to a stock standstill, eager for the pillow. College basketball is hovering on the muted television, today’s newspaper – a less than stellar daily – is scattered across the couch ad hoc to my right, my son is fast asleep in his cradle, and the family cat, Gurdy, as obese as a pumpkin, flopped down from the foot-high perch on the rocker she’s been curled up in for the better part of the evening.
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I am a verbal processor. The tangible outcome of being such a person is that sometimes you don’t discover things to be true until you’ve already said them–as if I’m some prophet who makes things come to pass just by speaking them (i.e. Zummi Gummi of the Gummi Bears). And I had such a moment in the last few days.

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Most families will start playing their favorite Christmas music starting Thanksgiving on through Christmas Day. But what about Easter? Christmas gets all the press, but the older I’ve gotten (meaning the less I care about the presents!) the more I’ve come to love Easter as possibly the more substantive holiday. There are fewer Easter albums to choose from (unlike Christmas with baby Jesus meek and mild, it’s much harder to sentimentalize Easter’s story of Christ’s victory by way of a brutal death by execution), but there is one that the Gray family returns to every year with gratitude: At The Foot Of The Cross: Volumes 1 (Clouds, Rain, Fire) and 2 (The Seven Last Words Of Christ).
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A week ago my new friend Jim Horning, the youth pastor at Grace Community Church in Newton Kansas, invited my wife and me out to be his guests at Andrew Peterson’s “Resurrection Letters” concert, which they hosted. I know many of you have questions about this tour. And since its first leg was fairly limited in its geographical scope, I thought I’d tell you about my experience at one show.

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Somehow Eric Peters regularly finds his way to my home state of Nebraska. It’s one of those happy little curiosities that evolve over time, that isn’t really easy to explain. When Peters makes his way to these Midwestern plains, I make every attempt to catch as many of the shows as possible. In his latest Cornhusker State appearance, he brought Randall Goodgame. Can you imagine? Eric Peters and Randall Goodgame on the same ticket? As a passionate supporter of both artists, I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

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Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.

But once a year the Sea Dragons sing just off the coast of Glipwood. With their song, life reasserts itself in the hearts of Skreeans who have long since learned to numb themselves:
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One of my favorite things in the world is going to the art museum. It doesn’t really matter which one. They’re all wonderful. But the one I frequent is the Harn Art Museum in Gainesville, Florida. I love the quiet atmosphere, the open spaces, the slow pace, and the cute little old women that wander around smiling and randomly explaining the gallery pieces to anyone that looks particularly interested—or particularly confused. Part of me always cringes when I arrive with my small platoon of teenage boys. They don’t know to be quiet, or that they shouldn’t be smacking each other on the back of the head, or that they shouldn’t pick up that 12th century ritual dagger from dynastic China. Without fail, we always end up being watched closely by security. I don’t blame them. I’d watch us too.
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I have a problem. Not that it is inherently harmful or detrimental or that it shall become your problem. It is certainly not a problem in the “please help me fix this” sense of the word, if you follow. It is more like a benign obsession. For books. Specifically, used books. I am newly addicted to used book stores. OK, I know exactly what you’re thinking: Boring. [Flip the channel].
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Spring is coming to Tennessee.

I made it home in time last night after band rehearsal to sit on an old bench in the woods behind my house and write for a spell, something that hasn’t happened for too long.

I’ve been writing on the laptop so much lately that I’ve forgotten how good it is to feel the scratch of pen on paper, the rhythm of making the forms of letters and words rather than just pounding them out on a keyboard.

Here’s what came out.
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“Make that chicken as big as the paper will let you,” urged Miss Coates, “and remember that your audience needs bold, full color, hefty size, and strongly drawn lines to be able to clearly see these marvelous players of the play which you are creating!” It was puppet show week, and Ms. Smith’s class was planning to perform Beauty and the Beaks. Joe was busy coloring the wall-eyed farmer’s overalls a lovely flesh color, Gordon was busy cutting blue fabric “jeans” to glue on to his character’s stubby legs, and Chloe was decking out her hen with long eyelashes, a lovely skirt, and all the feathery finery. Hayden, one of the most enthusiastic gals in the class when it came to art, was fearlessly charging ahead with her representation of one of the story’s beauty shop regulars, Hattie the Hen.
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I took a break from teaching today and had a chance to sit back. It’s nice for a time such as this and our guest speaker, Beth, did something quite different from the norm. Set up front was a potter’s wheel and all accompanying materials - a bowl of water, tools for scraping and shaping, a towel and more - and she was prepared to speak on the obvious subject ahead.
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Technorati Profile

There is a rare joy that comes from discovering a treasure of a book that you’re sure few have ever heard about. It’s like you’re in on a delicious little secret, and it makes a good book even better. It feels like it is increasingly difficult to find these rare gems, and once you do, you become a sort of evangelist, telling everyone who will listen: “You gotta read this!” That’s what happened to me when I discovered the fiction of Russell Kirk.
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I’ve only read pieces of a few of Peterson’s books, but it’s enough for me to know that he’s an admirable thinker and writer. Several years ago I had the honor of performing at the book release of The Message, in Anaheim, California, and was disappointed to learn that my fellow Peterson (no relation, of course) wouldn’t be there.

That he chose to stay at home with his wife in Montana rather than attend the big hoo-hah of such an impressive, difficult work increased my appreciation of the man. My friend Ben May sent me the following link to an interview with Peterson, in which I became an even bigger fan at the mention of Wendell Berry, who is perhaps my favorite living author. After seeing this, I’d love to know which Eugene Peterson books you would recommend to a newbie like myself.

Since nobody here has weighed in yet on the passing of Larry Norman, I thought I would post some thoughts. Interestingly (perhaps only to me) I felt reticent about discussing Larry Norman here, wondering if his work would be considered relevant to the rabbit room culture. But as I’ve been slaving over a piece about Mark Heard I hope to post soon, I realized that I only know of Mark Heard because I discovered him through Larry Norman. The same is true of Randy Stonehill, whose records I learned how to play guitar to. I discovered Rich Mullins because I heard he played the hammered dulcimer, an instrument I fell in love with on Mark Heard’s records. Later, I fell in love with Andrew Peterson’s music because he reminded me of Rich Mullin’s. I eventually became friends with Andrew, and there you have it: I’m a part of the rabbit room because of Larry Norman. As I reflect on Larry Norman’s life and work, I’m beginning to realize that I may be deeply indebted to him for so much of what my life looks like now.
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Hey, folks.

Here’s a link to an online store that’s helping promote my book. We’re not selling them here in the Rabbit Room because the other booksellers like Amazon, Barnes and Noble, BooksChristian.com, etc. report to the bestseller lists. After the first week or so of sales, at which point you kind people I’m sure will have helped push the book into bestseller-of-all-time status, we’ll start carrying them in the Rabbit Room.

As always, I can’t thank you enough for your support.

AP

I’m afraid of you. And I hate to admit it.

I was just talking about this concept earlier today. I’ve been teaching each Sunday morning for the past (nearly) four years within the church we started in that course of time. And some people from our church community and I were discussing that, in those early days of the first year, there was a boldness and confidence (authority, even?) in what I would say compared to today.
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Lost, oh how I love thee! Did you see last week’s episode? Wow, what a perfect example of why this show is the best thing on TV. Lost is actually the only reason I subscribe to a television service (I can’t get broadcast reception where I live.) I hadn’t paid for cable or bothered watching anything but movies for ages until one day a few years ago I rented and watched the first season of Lost. Hook, line and sinker. Gulp. Three years later it’s still reeling me in.
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Tuesday night my wife and I watched American Idol on our DVR. We fast-forwarded full speed through the commercials and Ryan Seacrest’s Mary Poppins perfect delivery, and wondered aloud how all that fast motion might be re-wiring our brains.

The performances ranged from forgettable to uber-cheesy to impressive, which seems about right with 20 people still left in the competition. Then, for the finale, seventeen year old David Archuleta of Utah walked out to sing the last verse and chorus of John Lennon’s Imagine. I did not expect to be moved.
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UPDATE: The folks at Waterbrook Press have informed me that we’re already at capacity for bloggers. She said in her email, and I quote, “What great fans Andy has!” I’m inclined to agree. Thank you guys for the great response. I hope you like the story.

AP

I am unsettled today. Between the pauses in snowfall, briskly three-dimensional and aloof, I sense a strange lag inside my own skin. Just now, I feel foreign to my space in the world. I am weary of winter and the gray concoctions that inhabit seemingly every second. I find myself longing for more than just the temporal warmth and spring and rebirth of earth and its mavens. The snow is blowing parallel to the ground, north to south, and is as dense as I’ve ever seen in these southern United States. The only green color within my vantage point is the small cluster of longleaf pines across the avenue, now hosting small pockets of cold.
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In Rainbows was it for me. The (over)hyped release of Radiohead’s latest masterpiece was so far beyond any other release I heard last year that I dubbed it #1 on the Top Ten I had to write for several publications. In fact, it wasn’t even close. It was numbers 2-9 that took me significant time to develop because Radiohead was such a no-brainer.
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“I think writers with actual intentions generally end up saying things they already thought they knew, and I’m not much interested in reducing my vocation as a poet to something like propagandist. I write poems to find things out, not to communicate some previously ossified conclusion.”
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Howdy, folks.

A few new additions to the Rabbit Room store this week.

First, I’m excited to be able to offer Square Peg Alliance member Jeremy Casella’s newest record, RCVRY. It’s an excellent album and was lauded both in the media and among his peers. You can download it here for a whopping $10 or order the real thing for $15 with free shipping. If you want to hear samples, visit Jeremy’s website.
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“You can say it’s my job to fight [evil] but I don’t know what it is anymore. More than that, I don’t want to know. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He would have to say, okay, I’ll be part of this world.”

So muses Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) in the opening of No Country for Old Men. I saw the film a week ago and I still can’t stop thinking about it. It does little for me to say that it’s a good movie–anyone knows that by now–but it’s the type of film that divides people and provokes differing interpretations and I thought I’d share some of my thoughts. I’m not going to dance around spoilers here. If you haven’t seen it or don’t want anything spoiled, you might want to skip this post.
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More creative goodness from my friends at Portland Studios. Cory Godbey, whose delightful illustrations populate The Ballad of Matthew’s Begats, worked long and hard on this video for Zune Arts. You can find out more about the concept behind the video at Cory’s blog. What do you think? (Sorry about the weird spacing, by the way.)
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Through a glorious but all too brief break in the typical winter weather pattern here in middle Tennessee, I took my family to the Nashville Zoo yesterday. Sunny skies, temperatures a balmy 60-degrees, we loaded up the car, and after eating lunch at McDonald’s (I’m just now beginning to understand the “beauty” of eating at Micky D’s with children), we finally made it to the zoo parking lot, and thereupon quickly discovered that apparently many other folks in Nashville had reached the very same conclusion: get outdoors while the rain and cold are temporarily departed. Winter will soon be back upon us. False springs are so cruel.
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Good, beautiful and true. Those are the three words the interview subject told me, the interviewer, were the standards for meaningful art. Those are the words that he used to measure art and its value. Of course, his explanation flowed with eloquence and brilliance and I found the entire discussion stimulating. And those terms are obviously subjective, but they give us some sort of guidelines for measurement, which is needed, right?
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It’s a little sad, but I’ve had to learn to selectively muffle my enthusiasm with family and friends when it comes to music and movies that move me. Sometimes I fear I’m pushing too hard. Sometimes I wonder, am I sharing from a pure heart or from some latent competitive intention bubbling beneath the surface like a volcano ready to erupt?

Sometimes I expect my audience to get it–see what I see–without prompting. More than once, I’ve felt quietly and maybe self-righteously indignant when they don’t. Sometimes I fear I push the art with what might seem like a salesman offering faux Rolexes from the lining of his coat. The harder he pushes, the more human nature wonders, “What’s wrong with him?,” or “What’s wrong with his message?”

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“Be regular and orderly in your life so that you may be violent and original in your work.” Gustave Flaubert

I just read this quote and was quite taken by it simply for its right-on-ness. The writer side of me has endless ideas for books, articles, essays and even blog posts forever lost, aborted by a lack of time and/or remembrance. Fictional plots and non-fictional rants are constantly lost due to my lack of organization. Distraction kills small bits of life that attempt to grow during the few times I actually focus.
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I was reading through the responses to the Sigur Ros video and decided to grab a line or two from each one. It’s remarkable to me how varied the reactions were to this piece, and it’s taught me something about the way we all approach art differently.

I’ve so often been exasperated by the lack of widespread success of some artists, wondering why more people don’t rush out and buy this or that songwriter’s albums when the music is so clearly powerful and emotive. But then I see the responses to this video and I’m reminded of the almost mystical nature of art and imagination. God has created music, words, visual art to carry a kind of spiritual power. They speak to us in ways that can be as profound as anything we might come across in this world, much like magic beckons and guides in fairy stories.
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We have a surplus of T-Shirts left over from the Christmas tour this year, and they’re on sale. They’re American Apparel shirts (which are the most comfortable, high-quality kind on the market, says me), and we’re selling them for $10 plus shipping, which is barely more than what we paid to have them made. The back of the shirt lists the names of all the artists on the tour.

Once we sell a few of these, Rabbit Room shirts will be made available, forthwith.

After seeing some of these responses, I’ve decided to edit my approach and see what you think of the video objectively.

Like I said, the band is Sigur Ros, and the song is called Glosoli.

Enjoy. Or not.

Mother knows best. As a narrow-minded teen-ager, I jostled with my mom over the radio dial. If it was country, I didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to be associated with it. With a friend in the car, I protested even more vigorously. At the first sign of a musical drawl from Merle Haggard or George Jones, I reached for the dial, in one motion hoping to change the station and avoid my mother’s semi-playful hand slap. With a knowing smile, she always told me, “Someday you’re going to like this music.”
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Ever hear a song lyric that stopped you dead in your tracks, stirred something deep within you, or excited your imagination, or even made you chuckle with delight at the gift of the artist? I thought so. And now’s your chance to share it.
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When I graduated from college, I remember my english professor Fred Ashe walking at the front of the procession carrying this huge winged sphere on a pole that looked straight out of The Jetsons. I remember thinking, “What is that?” It was a mace. Evidently, once the use of heavy armor went out of style, men came up with a ceremonial use for their proud battle club. And I’ll get back to that in a minute.
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Every Tuesday morning, I sit in a circle of other pastors and discuss and debate (and sometimes yell and point) the Bible for our weekly sermon. We call it the Teaching Pool, a fancier name than “study circle”. Still, for the last four years or more, this same group of 10 or so has taught chapter by chapter through the Bible, crafting our sermons together and challenging each other.
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At the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, I present a new craft or art project to our eighty-two boys every month. In the past years these monthly projects have spanned the range from soapbox derby cars and tie-dying to oil painting and macramé. I love my job and I love teaching but during January one of the frustrations I deal with on a regular basis has really begun to bother me.
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Music

We’re proud to now carry in the store both of Ron Block’s solo albums. They each feature Ron’s band, arguably the best bluegrass/country band in the world, Alison Krauss and Union Station, not to mention Ron’s virtuosic musicianship. Some of it is high and lonesome, some of it is toe-tapping bluegrass, and all of it features Ron’s honest, accessible, meaningful songwriting.
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Thanks for all the entries, folks. Next year’s race is going to be beyond pretentious if you guys are right. I finally got around to seeing There Will Be Blood this weekend and I’m wondering if there isn’t some way to canonize Daniel Day Lewis. That guy is my hero. So after finally seeing that film, Keith gets big bonus points for making me spray tea out my nose for his suggestion of a musical version starring Robin Williams and Eddie Vedder. Who wouldn’t pay to see those two break into a song titled You Stole My Milkshake and duke it out with bowling pins? That’s just genius. (The Dude should make a cameo.)
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With much fear and trembling, I’m posting a recording of my fourth ever speaking engagement. Some folks at the Belmont University Songwriter’s Association were kind enough to invite me to speak for a convocation last month and several of the students asked me for a copy of the recording.
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Ellis is one year-old now and is in a mighty good state.

He must be growing something fierce because he sleeps a lot these days. 14-15 hours a day. Oh, what I would have given for him to sleep that kind of sleep those first few months of his life. Oh, what I would give to be able to sleep that much every day. How times change. He weighs nearly 20 pounds - a regular bantam featherweight boxer - and crawls around like the ground were his and his dominion alone. I suppose that is the way God intended it.
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