Hutchmoot was a beautiful quilt, sewn together with the ties of common bonds and uncommon love. Like a homemade quilt, lovingly crafted from swatches of familiar patterns, and recycled from classic old dresses, I witnessed a living and breathing piece of art.
There was the memorable material known informally as Andyland (the Andrew Peterson Message Board). I finally met Allison and Gaines at the Counting Stars concert. They are a young couple with whom I’ve felt a special spiritual bond watching their family grow in the cyber world. How odd that this was my first real meeting of these delightfully kind and sincere young people, and yet I have long felt the compulsion to pray for them routinely.
A passage worth reading from Thomas Wingfold, Curate, on making a living while following Christ:
“‘Jesus buying and selling?” said Wingfold to himself. ‘And why not? Did Jesus make chairs and tables, or boats perhaps, which the people of Nazareth wanted, without any admixture of trade in the matter? Was there no transaction? No passing of money between hands? Did they not pay his father for them? Was his Father’s way of keeping things going in the world too vile for the hands of him whose being was delight in the will of that Father? No; there must be a way of handling money that is noble as the handling of the sword in the hands of the patriot. Neither the mean man who loves it nor the faithless man who despises it knows how to handle it. The former is one who allows his dog to become a nuisance; the latter one who kicks him from his sight. The noble man is he who so truly does the work given him to do that the inherent nobility of that work is manifest. And the trader who trades nobly is nobler surely than the high-born who, if he carried the principles of his daily life into trade, would be as pitiful a sneak as any he that bows and scrapes falsely behind that altar of lies, his counter.’ Read the rest of this entry »
There’s a moment in George MacDonald’s Phantastes in which food makes all the difference.
…it not only satisfied my hunger, but operated in such a way upon my senses, that I was brought into a far more complete relationship with the things around me. The human forms appeared much more dense and defined, more tangibly visible … I seemed to know better which direction to choose when any doubt arose. I began to feel in some degree what the birds meant in their songs, though I could not express it in words, anymore than you can some landscapes.
Food can do this sort of thing. I’m sure you’ve experienced a baser version of his: not stumbling through Fairy Land trying to get a grip on what’s around you, but the simple grumpiness and crankiness that results from being late to get your meal. Tricia and I went through this in our experience at Hutchmoot, and in the moment our plane landed back in Rochester. We had spent all weekend having amazing meals courtesy of the cooking artistry of Evie Coates. On the way home, our first flight was delayed, and we did not have time in the layover to get dinner. We were starving by the time our plane landed in Rochester. We got in the car and drove directly to get Rochester’s most famous meal: The Garbage Plate. (If you’re ever in Rochester, I’ll take you out for one of these.) We were revived (though I admit, the next morning I regretted the decision to eat such a plate at 10:30pm). Read the rest of this entry »
An airplane is such a sterile but dirty environment. It’s sterile in an aesthetic sense, plastic and vinyl and white luggage racks, like a line of drawers in a morgue, or bunks on a Navy battleship. It’s dirty because everyone is breathing the same air in a closed environment, and thousands of hands that have been who-knows-where have touched everything.
On an airplane one has absolutely no control over one’s life. It is a total act of faith to get on a plane, especially these days. We use our reason to determine that most planes make it to their destination; we subconsciously calculate the risk of malfunction or fire or the captain suddenly becoming a paranoid schizophrenic. We mentally and often subconsciously calculate these risks, then make a leap. Any action is a leap; it’s just that some see more risk than others, and some folks lack the faith necessary to leap. Read the rest of this entry »
The power of story. The beauty of community. Those, I would say, encapsulate the dominant themes and conversations from the initial Hutchmoot gathering. Both are sexy. Both require work.
The common bond between so many convening around the Rabbit Room these days is a love for story and a feeling that God has given them a story to tell in the process. I met several burgeoning songwriters and authors over the weekend who mentioned they felt empowered to create what was within them. The community at Hutchmoot provided the impetus needed for these works waiting to be brought to life. And that’s a wonderful thing to be celebrated.
But Hutchmoot is temporary. And the Rabbit Room is digital. We have certainly found inspiration and encouragement to this point (or else we wouldn’t be here), but a longing emerged from those present at Church of the Redeemer for a deeper level of artistic community. The friendships between various songwriters and authors were highlighted and then prodded, “How do I form what you have formed?” Read the rest of this entry »
As the protagonist of Phantastes awakes under the beech tree (which wants to be a woman), he reflects on his desire to stay with her, and then narrates, “I sat a long time, unwilling to go, but my unfinished story urged me on. I must act and wander.”
Isn’t that a great summary of almost every moment of life? My wife wrote some beautiful words about Hutchmoot, which I cannot even begin to parallel. Please read the whole thing, but let me quote the ending:
I am home. And while my time on this street has been short, I can clean up this neighborhood in what little time I have left. I can plant trees and I can teach people to garden and I can paint buildings. But closer to the heart of what it means to revitalize, I can tell stories. With words, I can shape a context for those roaming this bleak landscape. God comforted me with story. I will care as I have been cared for. Read the rest of this entry »
So, after all these years I’ve got my own blog: Jonathan-Rogers.com. It’s live as of today. Have a look if you have a minute, and offer your feedback. The story below is the first of the “Amusing Anecdotes” features that will be an important part of the blog. I hope it will whet your appetite.
Think of all the amusing anecdotes you know about junior high football. I’m guessing 75% are set in that “magic hour” when the boys have arrived at the practice field but the coach hasn’t. Thirty junior high boys, no adult supervision. Something’s bound to happen.
In eighth grade, my cousin Brett got his pants pulled down at football practice. The coach was elsewhere–wrapping up bus duty or finishing one last cigarette in the teachers’ lounge before facing the barbarians. Frank, the starting fullback, snuck around behind and snatched Brett’s pants in front of God and everybody. It was a beautiful pantsing, not one of those awkward affairs where the victim clamps his knees together and goes into a squat, clutching at his britches and his dignity. No, this was clean and quick. Brett’s pants went right to the ground. Read the rest of this entry »
Rewind one week. Hutchmoot 2010, there is much bustle and chatter in the sunshine-yellow kitchen…Saturday evening’s Moroccan Spiced Chicken, not to mention many other tasty foodly items, would not have come off in as timely or seamless a manner if not for one…(kindly insert lively drumroll)…Redhead Kate.
Our acquaintance began with a string of emails about baking ingredients and an offer of a suitcase full of sweet potatoes. “Good thing I’m traveling Southwest!” she said, since two pieces of luggage are allowed, bless that airline’s heart. I knew I liked this girl, a real thinker, expeditious. She works for her family’s sweet potato company in North Carolina and brought with her quite a large box of the beauties as well as a deep, wide knowledge of the product. She laughed as she watched the gems get run through the dishwasher before roasting. Nothing but the best, cleanest sweet potatoes for our guests. Read the rest of this entry »
Last night I wrote a fable. It’s fabulous. And by that I mean it’s a fable.
With me?
Words really mean things. I want to be someone whose appreciation of this fact fuels more intentional investigation into word origins.
I only have one book on my shelf that I can think of right now about word origins in English. That book is pretty amazing (now I’m thinking of what amazing history the word “amazing” might have), but I ought to have more. I almost have aught.
I remember hearing Ken Myers talking to some fellow about how he was grading a student paper where it was said that a boat had “arrived half-way across the ocean.” The fellow was objecting to this use because the word “arrive” has in it the notion of coming ashore. So one cannot arrive half-way. It means to get there. Specifically to “come to shore.” Read the rest of this entry »
This is an attempt to collect all the posts out there referencing the inaugural Hutchmoot. It also attempts to present websites/blogs of Hutchmoot attendees. It further attempts links to those weirdos what made some kind of presentation at the 2010 Hutchmoot. I’ll continue to update it, so just comment if you wish to be included. I hope it’s helpful. –sam
What a double feature! First we get some indie cred with the well reviewed but barely seen Winter’s Bone. (If you’ve actually seen this little flick, I hope you enjoy the hommage to the film’s color palate). Then we move on to the broad comedy Dinner for Schmucks. Steve Carrell and Paul Rudd are (imho) comic geniuses. However, they don’t always make good movies. What about this one? Is it worth seeing? Let the OMR give you the good news and the bad news to help you decide.
As I write this, Taya and I are on our flight home from Hutchmoot 2010, set to arrive just in time for our twin boy’s birthday party.The Hutchmoot was delightful!
We feel so privileged and grateful to have been a part of it and for all the people who came from all over the country to participate in the weekend.Our only regret is our exhaustion that made it difficult for us to be as present as we would like to have been (this weekend was the last stretch of a marathon summer schedule, and Taya and I remarked that we can’t remember a time when we felt more exhausted than this week).I wish I could have given more of myself, and for all of those I wish I could have been more present for, I do apologize.The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.(Taya just said to me, “I’m afraid I may have disappointed just about everyone at the Hutchmoot.I was just too tired to have a conversation with anybody.”)
But in spite of that we met some wonderful people and enjoyed our conversations, though too brief.
In preparation for the Hutchmoot, I kept trying to think of what we were aiming for. What were we gathering around?The Rabbit Room is such a varied place it was hard to say–were we gathering around the arts?Books? Music? Storytelling? Cultural commentary?Jesus?Yes on all counts, I’m sure, but as we gathered to pray for the weekend on Friday, the larger answer began to emerge for me.I think for all of our talk about music, stories, and whatever else it is that Rabbit Roomers are inclined to talk about, we were gathering around Christ centered, story focused community. Read the rest of this entry »
And lo, in the year 2010, an idea stepped out of the realm of theory and into the realm of time and space.
I’ve been sitting here trying to think of what to say about the weekend, but my heart and brain are still so jam-packed I don’t know how to do it. I’m waiting on some pictures from Grant Howard (the guy with the fancy camera who walked around all weekend) before I write an official play-by-play, but in the meantime I thought I’d ask you guys to post your thoughts. What did you like best about the weekend? What were the surprises? What did you learn? Did you make any connections with future good/best friends?
If you have any photos, would you mind emailing them to me at photos@rabbitroom.com? I’ll pick the best ones and include them in a post for everyone to see.
What a weekend. I’m grateful to each of you. Stay tuned for info about next year.
As I sling imperfect measurements of flour and brown sugar into a big enamelware bowl this morning, as I sip my coffee out of the Swede coffee cup (”you can always tell a Swede but you can’t tell him much”), as I drag my brushes through the vibrant liquid colors and commit them to the paper, my grandma is with me in the kitchen today. Hazel was my mother’s mother. Her middle name was Fern.
She loved her family and was a consummate homemaker. She loved the nothingness of the Arizona desert. She loved the pink, cloudy evening skies of the West. In her opinion, the Tetons were God’s most extravagant gift to his children. She was an artist and took painting courses by correspondence. She had a real gypsy spirit and didn’t mind moving around, wherever the winds of opportunity blew her and her family. She was a rascally tomboy when she was young, and kept a healthy portion of that feisty nature as long as she lived. Read the rest of this entry »
Talk about a line to get a writer thinking. The minute Dom, a major character in the movie Inception, said it, I sat up straight and wished I had a pen in hand. I went to the theater expecting an action flick, I came out feeling that I had taken part in a swift, sparkling debate; the sort you have late at night with best friends, drinks and elbows on the table, eyes alight with big ideas. I love a movie that makes me want to be a philosopher. I love it even more though, when the movie is philosophizing about what I, as a writer, love best: the telling of a story. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s a day that I look forward to. The first of its kind was three years ago when my brother and I harvested our first real batch of honey, about 10 gallons, from our beehives. Last year, we got about 20 gallons and we estimate that, today, we got around 24, a respectable yield for 4 hives.
All year long, I saved glass jars in anticipation of this day, saved them as an act of faith that they would be filled with something sweet, beautiful and valuable at summer’s end if we did our part and the bees did theirs. And what I ended up with was an assortment of containers, in all shapes and sizes, each cleaned multiple times before being lined up, sparkling, to catch whatever honey might be extracted from the hives.
From 9 this morning until almost 9 o’clock tonight, we worked in sweltering heat doing the messy but rewarding task of filling our jars, almost a hundred of them, with the sweetness of a year’s work from 200,000 bees. By day’s end, the empty containers glistened with pure gold – some darkened with the early nectar from the tulip poplar trees, some lightened to translucence with the nectar of wildflowers – each a monument to hard labor and a compelling instance of transformation. They represent millions of foraging flights and the microscopic contributions of no-telling how many blossoms from trees and flowers in the area surrounding our home place.
The honeybee, and the harvest, is a tutorial in wonder. From empty to full; from barren to sweetness; from labor to rest. The season is over and a new one begins…
Last night, my dear friend, Benjamin “Shorty” Floyd, whom some of you know from my album People in my Town, died, just a couple of weeks past his 86th birthday. Read the rest of this entry »
A little boy approached me after a recent concert with something clearly on his mind. He had waited till the crowd dispersed, and his parents sat in the pews at the back of the auditorium, wanting to give him his space but unable to avert their eyes. He wrung his hands and shifted his weight from sneaker to sneaker. He wanted to ask me a question, he said. I said that was fine, and uncapped my Sharpie marker for the autograph I thought I was about to sign.
Then he surprised me. He didn’t want an autograph, and he didn’t want to ask about songwriting. (I’m embarrassed at my presumptuousness.) He asked me, “How can I be sure I’m saved?” I blinked. I glanced across the room at his parents, then back at him, and saw that he was dead serious. I bought myself some time by answering his question with a question. I sat on the stage steps and asked him why he was asking. Read the rest of this entry »
I love my wife. I love my kids. And I love the call the Lord has on my life to proclaim His word in the context of the local church.
Seriously, I feel like I’m getting away with something. I am one of the richest people I know, and I’m grateful for it. Time with my wife nourishes me in ways time with no one else on this earth can. Time with my children brings to me a sweet mix of untold joy and sober reverence when I think of who they are and who I hope they become. Hours spent at my work reminds me again and again how precious and rare it is to be a man who is blessed to work at something I love.
As it happens right now, my work has called me away from my wife and kids, geographically, for a season. One of the weird struggles I didn’t anticipate is the work of navigating how to explain why I am here apart from my family, without it sounding like a full-on plea for sympathy, or worse, a complaint. Read the rest of this entry »
A few weeks ago I reposted a blog that my wife, Taya Gray, wrote. It went over so well I decided to post another one! She’s a wise and reflective woman, but very modest about her blogs, quietly posting them and letting who will discover them. But I thought readers here might be encouraged by this and with her permission I’m posting it here. I shared this story of the wrong box of cookies with Andrew (Peterson, in case you didn’t know) late one night at his house a couple months ago and we were both struck, as parents, how even the slightest and most innocent off hand comment can be so consequential… I’ll admit that in that regard it is a cautionary tale that made us terrified, but also all the more committed to keeping short accounts with our kids and most of all, dependent on the grace of God to fill in where we will inevitably fall short. But enough about all of that, there are more significant treasures to be mined here… Rabbit Roomers, a word from Taya Gray:
I really like Girl Scout Cookies. If the truth be told, I can eat an entire box in one sitting. It’s good that I have kids now, so that they can share the burden of eating the darn things. As if that burden needed to be shared. The chocolate peanut butter cookies are our favorites, but Samoas are sneaking up behind. I actually put the Thin Mint cookies in the freezer. It gives them an extra icy crunch that I love! Actually, I love them all, except for the Lemon Chalet Cremes. I don’t care for those, which is strange since 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.
There was the memorable material known informally as Andyland (the Andrew Peterson Message Board). I finally met Allison and Gaines at the Counting Stars concert. They are a young couple with whom I’ve felt a special spiritual bond watching their family grow in the cyber world. How odd that this was my first real meeting of these delightfully kind and sincere young people, and yet I have long felt the compulsion to pray for them routinely.
There’s a moment in George MacDonald’s Phantastes in which food makes all the difference.
The power of story. The beauty of community. Those, I would say, encapsulate the dominant themes and conversations from the initial Hutchmoot gathering. Both are sexy. Both require work.
So, after all these years I’ve got my own blog: 
Last night I wrote a fable. It’s fabulous. And by that I mean it’s a fable.
As I write this, Taya and I are on our flight home from Hutchmoot 2010, set to arrive just in time for our twin boy’s birthday party.
And lo, in the year 2010, an idea stepped out of the realm of theory and into the realm of time and space.
It’s a day that I look forward to. The first of its kind was three years ago when my brother and I harvested our first real batch of honey, about 10 gallons, from our beehives. Last year, we got about 20 gallons and we estimate that, today, we got around 24, a respectable yield for 4 hives.
A little boy approached me after a recent concert with something clearly on his mind. He had waited till the crowd dispersed, and his parents sat in the pews at the back of the auditorium, wanting to give him his space but unable to avert their eyes. He wrung his hands and shifted his weight from sneaker to sneaker. He wanted to ask me a question, he said. I said that was fine, and uncapped my Sharpie marker for the autograph I thought I was about to sign.
I love my wife. I love my kids. And I love the call the Lord has on my life to proclaim His word in the context of the local church.
A few weeks ago I reposted a blog that my wife, Taya Gray, wrote. It went over so well I decided to post another one! She’s a wise and reflective woman, but very modest about her blogs, quietly posting them and letting who will discover them. But I thought readers here might be encouraged by this and with her permission I’m posting it here. I shared this story of the wrong box of cookies with Andrew (Peterson, in case you didn’t know) late one night at his house a couple months ago and we were both struck, as parents, how even the slightest and most innocent off hand comment can be so consequential… I’ll admit that in that regard it is a cautionary tale that made us terrified, but also all the more committed to keeping short accounts with our kids and most of all, dependent on the grace of God to fill in where we will inevitably fall short. But enough about all of that, there are more significant treasures to be mined here… Rabbit Roomers, a word from Taya Gray:
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.