Yesterday afternoon, I loaded up the tour bus (i.e., minivan) with guitars, gear, iPod and a cello. Genial cellist and all-around cordial gentleman, Hitoshi Yamaguchi, offered to tag along with me for a show I had in Pinson, AL last night. As I’ve grown weary of the long, lonely hours of solo trips, I was all too thankful for not only the company, but the musical sonic glue as well. For this trip, however, I would not require the person sitting in the so-called navigator’s chair to actually do any navigating thanks in large part to this year’s Christmas present from my wife, a GPS unit.
In general, I’m pretty solid with directions and driving, but it sure seems easier to have someone, especially someone speaking with utmost confidence and certainty, to calmly command me to turn hither, thither or to continue forth X number of miles into the vast blue yonder of unfamiliar terrain. Or, if I choose to ignore the commands or take a detour, that very same voice politely recalculates the route and proceeds to guide me anew with alternate directions. The gizmo has not let me down yet. Read the rest of this entry »
I don’t watch the evening news. The white noise of so many busy-body blabbermouths saying the same things over and over again usually lacks luster for me. I’d rather have quiet or music. This evening when I got home, mom called and said, “Evie, I know you don’t watch the news, but you have got to turn on the TV and watch some of what happened today.” She proceeded to give me the Cliffs Notes version of the crash of US Airways Flight 1549 out of LaGuardia. “What?!!” I said with a breathless smile on my face. Since the larger part of the American population actually do watch news and own computers, I will spare you my version of this incredible story.
But do you know how relatively narrow the Hudson River is?? Or how close the plane came to the George Washington Bridge as it flew overhead? Or that the plane was at just the perfect angle to avoid an end-over-end catastrophe? Or that it’s possible for geese to take down an entire aircraft? Or that there were business men in their nice suits aiding the people in quickly escaping the frigid water? Read the rest of this entry »
This is a journal entry I posted on my site on the 13th that generated a lot of interest, so I thought I’d include here as well:
Today was one of the harder days of the Christmas tour. Our host was very kind, but the day began with Taya (who is now the road manager since Jeremy had to leave the tour when his wife went into labor 3 weeks early) having to sort out some unfortunate miscommunications at the venue about things like load in volunteers, hotel rooms, and showers that conspired to complicate our daily schedule with more complications to follow throughout the day, including a massive headache that gripped my skull like a vice.
But the breaking point was when one of the security guards sexually harassed Taya by making extremely lewd propositions to her when she walked past on her way to prep us for the concert that was about to begin in 10 minutes. Read the rest of this entry »
Families, bible study groups, home fellowships and churches can easily make advent a part of their corporate celebration of Christmas. The following is a template you can follow in order to adapt the meditations in this book for use in a group setting with an Advent Wreath. Read the rest of this entry »
The tour ended a few days ago. Josh and I rolled up the long gravel driveway to our house at about 1:30 am after having covered eleven states and almost 5,000 miles. Jamie had left the pumpkins lit and the porch light on, and my little house on the hill looked as warm and comforting as a poundcake fresh out of the oven.
I walked around the yard for a while, looked at the stars, said a few words to Moondog, whose tail thumped lazily on the porch wood, and thanked God in Heaven that I was home.
I wasn’t home for long, though. I had to get up in about six hours and visit a wonderful school to play the children a few songs and read a chapter from On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. I was sleepy, but seeing all those little boys and girls hugging my book to their chests was well worth it. The next night was Halloween, and after the kids went trick-or-treating (Aedan and Asher as Clone Troopers, Skye as the most adorable spider you ever did see), we lit a fire in the chimnea outside and ate chili with good friends while the kids stuffed their faces.
After being gone for weeks, I was giddy at the memories being made, the sweetness of the homestead, the sound of the kids giggling; all my roadweariness evaporated. I saw the moon lifting over the junipers and hackberry trees and sighed. I commented that everything was just about perfect, and I wondered aloud who would soon be going to the hospital. I was chastised for the cynical remark, and I confess I have a habit of waiting for the other boot to drop. Well, in about three hours I found myself in the emergency room, pressing a towel to the side of my bleeding head.
I was breaking a branch for the fire, and when I kicked it the long end flew up and whacked me in the ear. It gashed me in one place and cut my earlobe clean in two. I got seventeen stitches. I’m not complaining, really. Even as I bled on the way to the ER I appreciated that it would make for a good story. And you know me, I’m a sucker for a good story.
Anyway, the next morning I left for yet another show, this time with Andys Gullahorn and Osenga. It was a great time, but somewhere between Canton, Georgia and Nashville I reached the threshold of my car-travel endurance. After the tour, then a hospital visit, then another four hour drive for Saturday’s show, I was officially finished traveling. I wanted to go home, and that’s all I wanted to do.
I got in late last night and crawled into bed, thankful beyond thankful that I only have one show this month before the Christmas tour begins.
So what did we do today? We rushed out the door for church, drove about five minutes, then turned around. We decided that instead of church we’d drive to the Smoky Mountains to see Tennessee in all its autumnal glory. We packed a change of clothes, and drove four hours east into the mountains. That’s right. More driving. But this was different. This was with my two boys and my sweet daughter. This was with my bride. We read stories aloud in the car and stopped for candy at the Shell station. We talked in funny accents and listed the top five things we hoped to do before we died (Aedan said he wanted to visit Sweden; Asher said he wanted to dig a tunnel to the center of the earth; Skye giggled and chewed her gum). We walked the sidewalks of Gatlinburg in light jackets and marveled at how red a maple leaf can be. We listened to the bluegrass band play Rocky Top at 78 rpm. We ate caramel apples.
The last thing I wanted to do today was sit for one more minute in the car, or to travel to another city that wasn’t Nashville. I’m writing this from a little motel, hours from the Warren. But with these children and this wife in my company, the world can spin anyway it wants to and my home will glide atop it like a gull on the water.
I know this isn’t the normal fare for the Rabbit Room, but it’s too cool to pass up. Today there was a total solar eclipse visible in certain parts of the planet. This was taken in Siberia.
This weekend I took Garett Buell (percussion), Jeff Irwin (bass) and Andrew Osenga (Fender Strat) to Columbia, S.C. It would be my 3rd summer in a row to visit Ft. Jackson - the Army base located there (last year I made the trip AP).
We aimed to hit the road at 9:00 Saturday morning, but packing the trailer proved to be quite an ordeal, and then once we finally got on the road, I couldn’t find my wallet. Ft. Jackson will not admit soft spoken, forgetful musicians with no I.D., even big stars like me, so we had to double back to retrieve it. Of course, it was in the shed. That didn’t take long to find at all. Read the rest of this entry »
There was some bleeding. The heart was taken from the great black beast last night around 9:30, with much finger-crossing and many whispered prayers. My dear, dear cousin was sweating like a hog in heat as he worked the leveler (a neat gadget that can tilt the engine to get it around/through those tough spots) and inched it out of the bay (that’s the cavern that’s left when the heart’s gone — looks kind of lonely in there). He worked it just right with enough tilting and coercing and then we encouraged the hood a little higher and some metal softly scraped…..and she was finally free! This was monumental as it meant that we didn’t have to take the entire hood off to complete the extraction. I held the flashlight, I asked questions, I even got to pump the hydraulic lift on the engine hoist a couple of times. It was fascinating. I was nervous, giddy, shell-shocked, and a little sad. Adrenaline was pumping and mom and I kept warning him through clenched teeth, “oh don’t hurt yourself pleeeeease!!!” No appendages or digits were harmed or lost in the process, I am glad to say.
We cleared the grill with the behemoth engine (probably about 700 pounds) and then lowered it slightly and got it lined up with the engine stand that stood ready and waiting. It is unfathomable to me that this whole piece is held onto the stand with four 3-inch-ish bolts attached on only one side. Unbelievable. Takes a whole new brand of faith to stand next to it and not expect it to falter and render me footless. Yikes. That’s the stuff of nightmares. So now it falls to me to order the new engine (which I’ll be doing shortly) and to disassemble a few things on the old one.
They are:
- valve covers
- exhaust manifolds
- fuel pump
- harmonic balancer (doesn’t that sound way too lyrical to be a part of an automobile??)
- water pump
Can you believe I even know what any of those things are?? I can’t! This project is giving me such an education, and Jason is just the ideal teacher. I’ve always wanted to know what I was looking at when I popped the hood of my pick-up, and it’s all starting to make sense to me now. He wants me to be aware of what’s going on and tells me everything that he’s doing while he’s doing it, I’m sure I ask some stupid questions but he answers them patiently and encourages me when I get something right. This is really fun. I think I may have missed my calling.
The clock is ticking. It’s about time for the much-needed surgery that will surely, eventually, save the life of my dearest friend.
Her name is Ol’ Black. She’s my pick-up.
Before my trip out west, on the way to church on Sunday morning, she made some truly frightening noises, and screamed to a smoky halt. It has been determined that she threw a rod (either number 3 or 4, we’re not sure). What we are sure of is that she is worth saving. By “we” I mean me, my cousin Jason, my auto artisan Mark Lambert, and anyone who knows how much love I have for this machine. We all deem her more than worthy of the work it will take to bring her back to life on the road, and it all starts today. Jason’s on his way over and our first step will be taking out all of the “extraneous componentry.” That’s just the beginning of the shop-talk I’ve learned that you’ll have to endure in any of my writings of which my lovely truck is the subject. Get ready for some serious mindless blathering.
Say a prayer for sweet Ol’ Black. May she grace the road once more with new energy in her lovely guts, and very soon at that.
I’m not sure how to title this one because I’m sitting still as a stone and am headed neither West nor East. How sad. Our travels brought us safely into the drive at 10pm. Dad had a nice little tray of snacks ready for us out at the gazebo when we got home — fresh-made tabouli, avocado salsa and hummus, all wrought by his own hand. Yum. He brought out our favorite wine glasses and a chilled decanter of white for me and mom. I mention all of these little details because it all served in making the re-entry not quite such a let-down as it has been in the past. Another thing that helped was the fact that the weather in Nashville is unusually GORgeous and cool. I am praying with all my might that God would allow whatever forces are at work to make this beauty possible stay in control for a lot longer than a couple of days. Read the rest of this entry »
The people at Inspired To Action invited me to be a part of the 40 day fast by picking a day to fast and blog about my passion for the poor and why I work with World Vision. Today (July 1st) is my day! Here’s my blog entry, and if you like it, please visit inspiredtoaction.com and post a comment. Also, check out the other blogs for exciting and inventive ways you too can make a difference and live beautifully. Here’s my blog, I hope it inspires you to action:
Ministering To The Broken Heart Of God
My name is Jason Gray and I want to tell you why I’m passionate about serving the poor and my work with World Vision. My partnership with World Vision came at a time when I knew there had to be more to Christianity than cultivating and dressing up my personal faith. I read in James where we are told that true religion is this: to look after the orphan and the widow in their distress, and I knew this was the “more” of the gospel that I’d been hungry for. Read the rest of this entry »
“East.” I’ve always thought it an uglier word than “west.” “West” has so much promise and has such a moving, refreshing, almost whooshing sound. “East” just sounds flat and whiny. Nonetheless, we have left Pike’s Peak behind us and are now in the flaaaaaaaaat landscape of Kansas, headed back east. We decided that we’d like to take something other than I-40 back home, so I-70 is our return path. There’s something a little more poetic about Kansas than about Oklahoma, although I can’t really put my finger on it or words to it. I suppose I could try. The air, today at least, cool and tempered by a breeze that never seems to falter. The colors. The pale, whispery, light butter color of ripe grain, the lush, dark green carpet of almost-there corn and alfalfa, the soft, powdery, cocoa brown of the stubbly fields that have already born their crops and been hacked low for the next tilling….I’ve tried to photograph it millions of times, but I’ll be darned if I can’t get on the paper what I see with my eyes.
After a morning’s drive from Canon City through some desolate and beautiful terrain, and then more time than I’d have liked spent kvetching over trying to get connected to the wireless internet at our Colorado Springs KOA, we are now wearing perfume and cowboy boots and are on our way north to check out a few points of interest. Historic Manitou Springs, which we just drive through, is like Gatlinburg and Estes Park and Epcot Center all mushed together, and with the Rocky Mountain foothills as the backdrop. It’s a cool and overcast afternoon, and we’re in search of an early dinner in just the perfect little mountain niche. Read the rest of this entry »
Homemade spumoni, a real bed, as in ‘with a mattress,’ hijacked wi-fi, Dave Letterman, air-conditioning. All things for which mom and I are almost crying with gratitude. We had reserved a campsite in the foothills (not having a tent) and were determined to sleep in the Ford. We pulled up at the Royal Gorge KOA (just west of Pueblo, CO) which had boasted a pool, being “right on the Arkansas River,” charming little groves of Pinon trees and a cafe on site. When we finally found the place, after rolling past the boarded-up cafe and go-kart lanes, and after a drive through the dusty, scrubbish, awkwardly sloped sites, I sized it all up as looking much like the perfect setting for some B-grade horror film, “KOA: Killer On the Arkansas.” The story line of this movie would have been well fortified by the fact that the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility was a few miles away. We made our getaway. Read the rest of this entry »
We have made the official shove-off from town life. Albuquerque has been left, quite literally, in the dust — lots of it. We have traveled north on I 25 and are now on a bbbbbuummppppyyyy road, headed east to pick up the Turquoise Trail, which will wind us north again through lots of little mining towns until we finally reach Santa Fe. We have opted for the rougher road. It is becoming clearer as we drive further into the pinon trees and the sagebrush, and as the road gets rockier. It’s not working so well for me that I just drank an entire 32 oz. Nalgene of water. There are barbed wire fences along the way. The vertical portions of the fence are mostly branches and sticks — really, just sticks — that the wire has been crudely attached to. I think the wire is even attached to the odd tree that happens to be in its path. Okay seriously, my teeth are about to fall out of my head with travel on this pock-marked road. My contacts might even pop out of my eyes and the dashboard might dislodge from the impact, so I’ll be chiming in again when we’ve reached a smoother surface. Read the rest of this entry »
I’m at a total loss as to where to begin. This was a great day, but it began with the not-so-fun farewell to a few family members. We sent Bob, Amy and Wade back to Wyoming, but before we did, and much to Wade’s chagrin, we took more group pictures than could ever be necessary. Marion and Nadine took great pains in directing/fussing/bossing about who should go where and who should smile how. We hugged and kissed and laughed until our bellies ached, then hugged and kissed some more. Read the rest of this entry »
On the seventeenth of July, Eunice Amalia Norberg (Sorrells) will be 101 years old. She has lived for over a century and yet today when we visited with her, she could recount specific details about her days in District 43 where she was both teacher and window washer. After a day of educating one room full of children (”the seats were all filled” she said), she’d wash the windows and sweep the wooden plank floors. She took Uncle John’s hand when he extended it to her and said, softly and slowly, “I know you…” Her short-term memory is long gone so this surprised me, as did the tears that sprang to my eyes when I heard her speak, for so many other reasons I couldn’t have predicted or known. I had to duck behind the tree and pull myself together so that when I touched her cotton-soft, timeworn hand and introduced myself to her vacant face, I’d be able to speak. Read the rest of this entry »
Lloyd, Melvin, Metta, Philip, Eunice, Iola, Ralph. I think I’ve gotten that right. Pictured on the right is Aunt Iola. IOLA. As in eye-o-luh. Unfortunate, don’t you think? She was a towering imposition of a woman, scared Uncle John when he was little, she never married, and was always pestering my grandpa about being as likable and handsome as he was — she just called him a show-off. I think she was a little bitter. But this picture of her…I could stare at it for hours. Her eyes are just full of indignation. Could be because she was in a play about gypsies and she was still in character…but still, I think there’s something to it. Read the rest of this entry »
I thought folks in the rabbit room might like to know about a special opportunity to discover some new music - for free!
I’ve had the pleasure of touring with Canadian pop rock group Downhere for the last three touring seasons. During that time the Gray family has become not only close friends with the Downhere fellows, but also big fans. Before I really heard their music, I confess I was tempted to dismiss them as just another CCM band for youth groups. However, after listening to their last record “Wide Eyed and Mystified” I discovered that carrying all those monster hooks were deceptively intelligent and literate lyrics. Those are the hardest kinds of songs to write, by the way - catchy, 3 & 1/2 minute pop songs with a brain. Read the rest of this entry »
Is it really only day three? We’ll see if I’m still saying that on day twelve. After a morning poolside, a little jaunt west on Central Avenue (also known as Route 66) took us into the Nob Hill district where there are lots of cool shops and restaurants. Not to mention all of the bygone-era signage all along the main vein. Again, I am guilty of photographing while driving. I’ve gotten really good at it. We had lunch with Uncle John and Aunt Sharon on the patio of a little Italian place, which, I must admit, felt like blasphemy seeing as how we are now in Green Chile Territory. Read the rest of this entry »
The Fiddler’s Gun, A Review: Making History Come True
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Shive Arrives: A Song by Song Commentary on The Ill-Tempered Klavier
One listen to Ben Shive’s debut The Ill-Tempered Klavier will provide obvious evidence of why this young man has secured the respect of peers and colleagues on the inside of the Nashville music community. With The Ill-Tempered Klavier, Shive’s skills are now planted in the public garden.
Heretofore, there have been unsubtle hints: Andrew Osenga pronouncing Shive as his favorite songwriter, Andrew Peterson naming him as producer of The Far Country, his ubiquitous presence as a studio piano ace on a wide range of mainstream CCM records, Sara Groves choosing him to produce her next record, and the majestic arranging of the strings for Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God, The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ. Like a fast growing wildflower, Shive seems to pop up everywhere, though always in the background. Now, the secret is out. Raise the curtain on Ben Shive.
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.
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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.
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.
RELEASE DAY REVIEW: On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness
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:
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
Arkadelphia from Randall Goodgame: Music in Motion
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Walt Wangerin is a name I’ve seen in print many times. My dad had Ragman and Other Cries of Faith lying about at home for years and I remember thumbing through it at Christmas or Thanksgiving, reading bits here and there, and being intrigued by the style of writing; the words on the page had a canter to them, and a sparseness that gave them strength.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Do you have any CD’s in your collection that will be forever associated with some event or season of life—like the soundtrack to your last high school summer or what you listened to over and over again on that one road trip to wherever it was?
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Yesterday afternoon, I loaded up the tour bus (i.e., minivan) with guitars, gear, iPod and a cello. Genial cellist and all-around cordial gentleman, Hitoshi Yamaguchi, offered to tag along with me for a show I had in Pinson, AL last night. As I’ve grown weary of the long, lonely hours of solo trips, I was all too thankful for not only the company, but the musical sonic glue as well. For this trip, however, I would not require the person sitting in the so-called navigator’s chair to actually do any navigating thanks in large part to this year’s Christmas present from my wife, a GPS unit.
I don’t watch the evening news. The white noise of so many busy-body blabbermouths saying the same things over and over again usually lacks luster for me. I’d rather have quiet or music. This evening when I got home, mom called and said, “Evie, I know you don’t watch the news, but you have got to turn on the TV and watch some of what happened today.” She proceeded to give me the Cliffs Notes version of the crash of US Airways Flight 1549 out of LaGuardia. “What?!!” I said with a breathless smile on my face. Since the larger part of the American population actually do watch news and own computers, I will spare you my version of this incredible story.
Families, bible study groups, home fellowships and churches can easily make advent a part of their corporate celebration of Christmas. The following is a template you can follow in order to adapt the meditations in this book for use in a group setting with an Advent Wreath. 
This weekend I took Garett Buell (percussion), Jeff Irwin (bass) and Andrew Osenga (Fender Strat) to Columbia, S.C. It would be my 3rd summer in a row to visit Ft. Jackson - the Army base located there (last year I made the trip AP).
There was some bleeding. The heart was taken from the great black beast last night around 9:30, with much finger-crossing and many whispered prayers. My dear, dear cousin was sweating like a hog in heat as he worked the leveler (a neat gadget that can tilt the engine to get it around/through those tough spots) and inched it out of the bay (that’s the cavern that’s left when the heart’s gone — looks kind of lonely in there). He worked it just right with enough tilting and coercing and then we encouraged the hood a little higher and some metal softly scraped…..and she was finally free! This was monumental as it meant that we didn’t have to take the entire hood off to complete the extraction. I held the flashlight, I asked questions, I even got to pump the hydraulic lift on the engine hoist a couple of times. It was 
Before my trip out west, on the way to church on Sunday morning, she made some truly frightening noises, and screamed to a smoky halt. It has been determined that she threw a rod (either number 3 or 4, we’re not sure). What we are sure of is that she is worth saving. By “we” I mean me, my cousin Jason, my auto artisan Mark Lambert, and anyone who knows how much love I have for this machine. We all deem her more than worthy of the work it will take to bring her back to life on the road, and it all starts today. Jason’s on his way over and our first step will be taking out all of the “extraneous componentry.” That’s just the beginning of the shop-talk I’ve learned that you’ll have to endure in any of my writings of which my lovely truck is the subject. Get ready for some serious mindless blathering.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
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.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.