
The oldest song on my new album is also the title track.
I wrote it in Pennsylvania in 2008, after spending a few days at Lancaster Bible College, a fine establishment that flew me in to talk to the students about writing and to put on a concert with the Captains Courageous the next day. (Psst! Lancaster! I had a great time and would love to come back.)
So there I was in Lancaster, feeling as sorry for myself as I ever had, languishing in the hotel room alone, wishing Andy and Ben’s plane would hurry up and arrive. The road is, of all lonely places, one of the loneliest. There’s a certain thrill in the beginning of the trip. I love seeing the sights, exploring new towns, feeling for a while like an observer of life rather than a liver of one. Of course, that’s a dangerous place to be.
Soon the excitement fades, and before you know it every face you see is a reminder of the faces you left behind. Every house looks sad. You start paying attention to the weather in your hometown. My heart literally aches sometimes when I hear my children’s voices on the phone. Along with the homesickness, on this particular trip I was shadowboxing some old familiar demons. I’m susceptible to a particular set of lies, voices that ring in my ears, voices that would have me believe a thousand things of myself and my God other than the truth to which I cling. When my faith falters and I forget my God, when I forget that his undying love now stands guard against all condemnation, I hold myself in contempt. I can hardly look in the mirror because all I see is sin, sin, sin. All I see is a fool. I see a failure.
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1. I have no real news.
2. Except to say that it’s so good to be home. We’re taking the next few days off, and we’ll start up in earnest on Monday.
3. Also, this is an old Ben Shive song that I added a few lines to. He wrote it years ago, before he had children (I think), and I’ve always loved it. The Last Frontier has several family songs on it, so it was the perfect chance to record it. Well done, Benjamin.
1. We’ve shot a lot of video that we just haven’t had time to edit into bits yet. Hopefully when we get home the pace will slow enough that we can goof around with the videos more.
2. We’re finishing up a Ben Shive-penned Christmas song for Centricity’s upcoming sequel to their Bethlehem Skyline compilation. It’s called “Long, Long Ago,” and it shore is purty.
3. This afternoon we drive 4.5 hours back to Seattle, then tomorrow we fly home. As beautiful as the Cascades are, I miss my family and our little hill at the Warren.
4. I’m humbled and amazed by Ben, Andy, and Gabe. Awesome fellas, excellent musicians, and great friends. May we still be making music together when we’re octogenarians. (And Todd Robbins is pretty awesome, too.)
5. Did I mention that the title of the album is The Last Frontier?
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1. It’s Sunday, so we’re taking it a bit easier than the last few days. Doing our best to honor the Sabbath when there’s a hard deadline staring us down. The last few days, however, have gone more or less according to schedule. That means we’re making good progress, but it also means we’re getting tired. We finished up a little (only a little) early last night and slept in a little (only a little) today.
2. I don’t know why I’m numbering these paragraphs, but I kinda like it.
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What a day! I don’t use exclamation points lightly. They are dangerous and are to be employed only after much consideration and when absolutely necessary. But today was a good day. I’d love to write an actual post about it, complete with paragraphs and sparse exclamation points, but I’m just so tired. So another list will have to do.
1. Woke up in the Northern Cascade mountain range. The world outside is white and majestic. I spent some time jogging on a treadmill next to Gabe and Gully, then scarfed a bowl of Raisin Bran.
2. Prayed and read the Bible with the fellas. The prayer was read from a wonderful book I got this year for Christmas, called A Diary of Private Prayer, by John Baillie. I recommend it.
3. Spent the next few hours setting up, which is a boring but necessary step towards actually making music. It means Todd (the engineer) and Ben place microphones, baffles, run cables, and turn knobs. It means each of us takes a turn sitting on a stool playing whatever song we can think of (mine was “Hello, Old Friends”, by Rich Mullins) while Todd dials in the sounds.
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Pictured here: Andy with a GPS, an iPhone, and a look of confusion. In the background, Todd and Ben.
Today was a long day. Here are the highlights:
1. Told my children last night to be my alarm clock by jumping on me at 7:55 AM. I woke at 7:54, shoved pillows under the covers in the shape of a 35-year-old male, then hid. When said children leapt upon me and were met with pillowy confusion, I jumped from my hiding place and didn’t scare them half as bad as I wanted. Perhaps I should have just breathed on them.
2. Ben Shive met me at the Warren at 8:30 AM, we loaded the car with instruments and drove to the Nashville International Airport.
3. Met Andy Gullahorn, Todd Robbins, and Gabe Scott at the Southwest counter, where we carefully divvied up the instruments: two acoustic guitars, dobro, lap steel, hammered dulcimer, keyboard, accordion, mandolin, and a few microphones. With our luggage thrown in the mix we had exactly ten bags to check, which was completely free because Southwest Airlines is far and away better than the competition and allows two free bags per traveler. They are also friendlier and have cheaper fares. I digress.
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“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
St. Julian of Norwich
One Sunday after church my family and I ended up at a craft fair. Under the big trees were hundreds of white tents, booths where local artisans peddled their wares. The weather was fine, people were everywhere, sipping lemonade and licking powdered sugar from their fingers. Every few minutes we had to stop so our kids could pet a happy dog while its proud owner looked on. It was a good day.
We spotted one booth that boasted wooden signs and swings, hand painted with the words “All Is Well”. Flowery vines looped the letters. The signs were pretty. They looked like something you’d find at your grandmother’s house, or at a Cracker Barrel. But there was something about the cute little signs that bugged me. It more than bugged me.
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Dear Reader,
I know you have it in you. I’ve seen the way you stare out the window at the steaming roof of the industrial complex across the interstate, full of longing. I’ve seen the doodles in the margins of your songwriting notebook, on the crumpled paper you tore out of the fifth draft of your manuscript. I’ve also seen the disdain with which you finger through the shirts in your closet, wondering what possessed you to buy the SPAM shirt at Goodwill, or the Neil Diamond shirt in Vegas, or why you bother to keep the FREE THE FIRE shirt you got at that youth convention all those years ago.
We both know the world would be a better place with a t-shirt bearing a well-designed, simple statement of Rabbit Room strangeness, or beauty, or awesomeness. So let the designs and ideas flow. The most creative, pleasing to the eye, and/or curious design (think shirt.woot.com) will become our first t-shirt designer and will receive a free shirt plus a book or CD of their choosing (from the Rabbit Room Store, of course), along with the satisfaction of knowing that they have thus stricken a blow against the forces of evil.
Email submissions to andrew@rabbitroom.com, and please spread the word to any artful friends of this esteemed competition.
Sincerely,
The Proprietor
Our friends at Portland Studios built this spiffy album player for Behold the Lamb of God a few years ago, mainly for the purpose of sharing the music, art, and lyrics with folks who haven’t been exposed to it yet. I just stumbled on it again as it sat quietly in the shadowy dregs of yesteryear’s interweb and thought some of you might find it useful.
In other news, we just finished our last run-through of the show before tonight’s dress rehearsal. The musicians on this tour always impress me, not just with their talent but their humility. What a blessing to be on the road with such fine folks. The tour launches tomorrow night in Elmhurst, IL, which I hear is near Wheaton, which is where the Marion Wade Center is, which is basically a shrine to the Inklings. Which I will visit if at all possible. Which is more information than you bargained for.
I hope to see some Rabbit Roomers on the road.
I was happy to see this excellent article/review in the Curator, an excellent online publication that’s pretty similar in purpose to the Rabbit Room. It was written by Jenni Simmons about Pete Peterson’s new book The Fiddler’s Gun, independent publishing, the Rabbit Room Press, and writing in general.
Here’s a snippet:
“As one who’d like to publish books myself someday, I find the artful layers of Peterson’s Fiddler’s Gun publishing saga to be inspiring. There are good books released under the big names, but as the publishing industry changes with almost every day, it seems, an author treks on precarious ground. Here we have a book that is a New York Times bestseller’s equal produced in the very fashion of redemption.
Against all odds, Peterson forged through rejection and confining genre labels to create a classic-to-be. He invites us to be a part of his story, Fin’s story, and the age-old story of artistic humanity: ‘tis good to give and receive and cultivate good art. And let us write great stories that ring true, and do so independently, if you have the courage of Fin Button.”
I just got back from a quick visit to Andy Gullahorn’s childhood home in Texas, and it was exactly as you would imagine it to be: a picturesque ranch house, ATVs, big trucks, wide fields pocked with cow patties, and Andy’s dad in the backyard teaching Andy’s daughter how to shoot a gun. I’m not joking.
If you’ve seen Gullahorn live, you’ve probably heard him talk about the fact that he’s from Texas. Most people from Texas can hardly stop talking about the fact that they’re from Texas. They brag about how everything in Texas is better than everywhere else, and how Texas was the only state that used to be a country, and how they’re allowed to fly their flag at the same height as the American flag, and how guns are cool and so is Texas. I remember, for example, George W. Bush responding to the accusation that he has a swagger by saying that in Texas they just call it walking.
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Hopefully in the next year or so Russ Ramsey and I will publish an Advent book loosely based on the Behold the Lamb album. You may remember Russ wrote a series of Advent pieces for his church (and for the Rabbit Room) last year. Well, he’s expanding those writings a little, we’re adding Evie Coates’s artwork, and part of my job was to write the foreword. In light of the release of the special edition of Behold the Lamb of God (which is hot off the press), and the upcoming 10 year anniversary of the tour, I thought I’d share the foreword. Many of you have seen this concert and heard me talk about this more than once, so this post may bore you to tears. But for those of you who haven’t, the following tells the story of how this tour was born.
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It’s not very often that someone stumps me with a question. That’s not because I know a lot of answers, because I don’t. It means I’m the kind of person who blabs too much. Too many times I have blabbed ineloquent when I should have just said, “I don’t know.” This time, though, I thought for sure I knew the answer, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. I tried again. I cocked my head and furrowed my brow and said “Well…” but nothing else came. I didn’t know. And that bothered me.
I was sitting at a table with Ben Shive, someone who probably knows the musical ins and outs of Behold the Lamb of God better than I do, and Sara Groves, a songwriter for whom I have the utmost regard. Sara asked me, “So what was it like writing these songs? How did they come about?”
I nodded eagerly and took a sip of coffee, settling in for a long, insightful discourse on the creation of this work–and was stumped. I sat back from the table a little embarrassed, wishing I had some colorful anecdote or spiritual insight. But after those few awkward moments passed the conversation turned to something more interesting (like the color of the carpet or the turkey sandwiches), and I was left wondering why I couldn’t think of an answer.
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That’s right, ladies and germs. We have heard your cries, your pleas for deliverance from clunky interfaces, pages that don’t load properly, organizational confusion. We have heard those cries, and because of the tireless (and aesthetically pleasing) work of Sir Jonathan Forsythe, we offer you this solution.
Here are some of the changes:
–It looks better. Way better. Thank you, Jonathan.
–Downloads. Downloads won’t disappear from your account after you’ve downloaded them. That way, if your computer crashes or something, you can always find your purchases in your Rabbit Room Store account and download them again.
–You can easily see new music and books. The three newest items we’ve added will be on the main store page. We also have a section for featured or recently reviewed items, and if there’s a corresponding Rabbit Room post you can link to it easily from the item in the store.
–Reviews! I’m excited about this one. Let us and others in the Rabbit Room community know what you think of the works we’re carrying.
–Artist/Author pages. If you click an item, say an Eric Peters CD, at the top of the store window you’ll see “bread crumbs”, like in the iTunes store. Basically, it’ll say “Rabbit Room Store > Music > Eric Peters > Chrome” If you click the “Eric Peters” link it’ll show you all of his products in the store. Neato. The same would be true if you wanted to see which C.S. Lewis books we carried after you’d clicked The Great Divorce: “Rabbit Room Store > Books > C.S. Lewis > The Great Divorce”.
–Podcasts. We’ll also have an easy interface for you to browse and download the Rabbit Room Podcasts, though it may not be ready for a day or two.
This is still a work in progress, so if you see any glitches or have suggestions for improvement let us know and we’ll do our best to accommodate. Jonathan at Makeshift Creative has worked hard on this, and not because we’re paying him the big bucks (we’re not). He’s doing it because he believes in the Rabbit Room and wanted to help. So thank you, thank you, Jonathan.
You may remember a while back we asked you for suggestions for improvement of the site in general. Well, we’re working on that too. We have plans to update the contributor pictures and bios. We also want to fix the category tabs so they make a little more sense. I don’t know about you, but I never click the Story/Art/Music/Trails tabs any more.
That night, I played a concert in a little church in Kalmar, and, try as I might, I didn’t see anyone that looked any more like me than than they do anywhere else (though their fingers might have been of the slightly floppy sort). Still, with a week or so of research I would almost certainly be able to find some distant cousins, mutual descendants of Nils Petersson. The people were warm and kind, and there was an audible response when I told them about my connection to Kalmar. I sang “Lay Me Down”, a song about my geographical roots in America (Illinois? Florida? Tennessee?), and realized, as silly as it sounds, that I need to add this little coastal Swedish town to that list.
It’s such a gift that these people from my past are in some measure knowable. I have seen their castle. I have walked the same stony ground. I have smelled the sea air in autumn. So often in the U.S. I meet people with striking surnames and ask them where the name came from–and they shrug. It’s never occurred to them once to learn about this name they’re marked by, this identifier they carry all their lives, which their children will also carry. Rich Mullins said once that we can’t choose which family we’re born into, so there’s a lot to learn from it. We should pay attention to it. Ask ourselves why God might have put us in that family, in that story, and not another. Ask your parents about their parents, and theirs before them. Learn their reasons for boarding the ship. Press in. Encounter the long suffering and secret joy of your forbears. Unearth the mystery of their silence.
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The ladies from the church dropped me off at my hotel around 4:00 that afternoon, and I had the night to myself. I checked in to my room, put on some warm clothes, and grabbed my pipe. I only knew vaguely where the castle was in relation to my hotel, but I didn’t ask directions. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and took to the streets of Kalmar with nowhere to be but the library the next morning. The roads were, again, cobblestone. I sat for a while in the courtyard where the state church stands, then I meandered through the streets past cafés, clothing stores, and residences.
Then I came upon an imposing rock wall with a tunnel leading through it at an angle. Sconces lined the walls and lit the tunnel dimly. On the other side of the tunnel I read that it was the old gate to the city, and I made out the little iron-barred door that led up to the gatehouse. On the face of the gate, just above the tunnel arch, were holes where the portcullis once raised and lowered on chains.
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My great-grandfather Ernest emigrated to Boston from Sweden, but I never knew him. I hardly knew he existed. My grandfather was a quiet man and never told me a single thing about his parents. Sometime in high school was the first time I considered how much I liked the idea that I could trace my last name (and a slice of my genetic makeup) to one particular country. And not just any country, but a country with a claim to two things that delight me: meatballs and vikings.
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So I was having a bad day. I woke up, for no apparent reason, at 5:30 in the morning, and my brain was already two hours ahead of my body. It was the kind of day that usually lands me in front of the mirror with a mental baseball bat. But on this day, I did not have the wisdom to walk away in defense. Instead, I moved in closer for a beat down. My arms would not reach up to fight, but remained stubbornly, helplessly at my sides. My face, totally unprotected from the oncoming head blow, narrowly dodged clear at the very last second, and I closed my eyes in relief. A minute or two passed and I gained strength enough to push away from the glass and head for the safety of my computer. I put my head down and got to work, hoping to shake off the shadows, but an hour later I found myself crying through the proofread because I hated every single letter on the screen.
Here is a small excerpt from John Piper’s excellent book Don’t Waste Your Life (which you can read here for free, or buy here for a pittance) wherein he expresses thankfulness for Clive Staples Lewis and details some of the ways he has cleared a path for us all. I’ll only add that I vigorously concur, and that JP is among the very few men who rank with CSL for impact in my own life. -sam
Heaven knows why it has taken me so long to write a little something about this album, the newest EP from friend and soul sister, Julie Lee. Julie and I met several years ago at a friend’s house and found immediate ease in conversation and a unique connection; sparks of light and magic hung lightly in the air around our collision. It was one of those instances where you know for sure that the God of the Universe meant for you to meet this one particular human being out of the millions that He created. I know that sounds a little dramatic, but I like drama (the good kind only, please) and am grateful when I find it happening in my little life.
Browsing the shelves of wicked-cool used bookstore here in Nashville, McKay Books, I happened upon Kathleen Norris’s (The Cloister Walk, Dakota, Amazing Grace) latest, Acedia & Me. Though I had no idea she had a new book out, the cheap sticker price for a primo first edition (Note: you will recall from a previous post that I have a more than slight affinity for used bookstores and, especially, first editions) was an easy decision. The title itself was mildly intriguing since I was vaguely familiar with the word, “acedia”, but of which I knew very little. The subtitle, “A Marriage, Monks, and A Writer’s Life”, though hardly an enticing, round-em-up, gather-em-in slogan, is true to Ms. Norris’ midwestern style, neither flamboyant nor melodramatic.
Is there a qualitative difference between learning a song from your Grandfather and downloading a song from iTunes, from getting a recipe online and pulling out the yellowing paper of an old, family recipe? Ken Myers answers in the affirmative, channeling C.S. Lewis when he discusses the need for thoughtful Christians to consider not only content in what we appreciate in art, but also how we receive it.
Mystery. Intrigue. Drugs, dark secrets, the decay of the will, and the transforming power of God’s love sown by a single man to a harvest of redemption.