I’m not cranky, truly. Just jet-lagged. I couldn’t be more thankful to be here, safe and sound, with my sweet wife and three sweet kids in this little borrowed Stockholm flat, all four of them sleeping much better than I can right now. And so I give up on rest this first night of our adventure, and my thoughts turn to what led me here. There’s a long version and a short version, but I’m going to give you the ultra-short version: sometime late last year I realized that I was exhausted. There’s no better rest for me than being alone with Jamie and the kids, so we kicked around the idea of making this Sweden tour a family affair and trying to book enough concerts to pay for all of our plane tickets this time (this is my seventh tour over here).  We realized furthermore that Aedan will be 15 this year, which means we’re running out of time for a trip like this. Well, one thing led to another, and we decided that if we’re crossing the dadburn Atlantic we may as well make it count, which led us to booking concerts in England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. In addition to the shows (fifteen of them, I think), I’m trying to finish The Warden and the Wolf King while I’m here, and I’m really hoping that walking these ancient lands will season the story in the best way. “So much for rest,” I hear you thinking. But just having the family close by will be for me like riding the eye of the hurricane.

The trip only began yesterday, but I’ve already learned so much about life and the Lord and how faith might work. See, I’ve wanted to play in the U.K. for more than a decade, but it’s never worked out. I’ve wanted to bring my family to Sweden since my first visit ten years ago, but it’s never worked out. This year, though, we felt such urgency about the trip that we decided not to wait for the concerts to show up. Rather, we looked at the calendar, chose a window of time, then told as many people in the U.K. and Sweden: “We’re coming this summer and we’re looking for help.” Not, “We’d love to come, but we can’t unless we get X number of gigs.” Not, “Let’s wait and see how this pans out, and maybe it’ll work.” We just decided to make our plans as if it was a done deal. This isn’t a blog about how to book a tour in Europe, of course, because what worked in this case might not ever work again, for you or for me. But now that I’m sitting in the half-light of Stockholm at 4:56 a.m. listening to my family sleep, I think back to a meeting with my manager and booking agent in January in which we decided that we weren’t going to wait for this to happen. We were just going to do it. It felt like Indiana Jones and the leap of faith.

I know some of you guys have always wanted to write a book. You’ve always wanted to ask that girl to marry you. You’ve always wanted to actually build a friendship with that neighbor, or start that ministry, or right that wrong, but things just never worked out. You’re waiting on the Lord, when maybe the Lord is waiting on you–he’s not waiting to bless you; he’s already done that and will continue to, regardless of your zeal. And he’s not waiting to “show up,” because he’s already there. I mean, what if he’s waiting for you to have a seismic shift in your understanding of what it means to be his child, what it means to  trust him, to finally realize that the sky’s the limit–like the father of the prodigal son saying to the self-righteous one: “All that I have is already yours.”

Finally, I want to ask you to pray for us. In sixteen years of touring I’ve never left home for two solid months. Nashville never seemed so beautiful than the day we left, and I had to resist the urge to hug random strangers on the street. Leaving for this long is an awfully romantic notion, but in the end I’m really just a homebody who travels for a living. And if this is as crazy of a trip for me, imagine how crazy it must feel for Jamie and the kids! Crazy, indeed. So yes. Pray for us. Pray for the audiences, for safety, and most of all please pray that we would be ever mindful of the great love of God as we carry that love to everyone we meet.

That’s what I’m thinking about here in Viking land today. Or tonight. Wait, what time is it in Nashville? Aw, forget it.

(Skye’s face in this picture is hilarious, by the way.)

If you live in Sweden or the UK and you want to know where we’ll be, click here.

If you want to follow me on Instagram, where I may or may not post pictures from time to time, click here.

How do I win? you ask? Take to the Twittersphere and share a link to the book’s discussion post using the hashtag #leifmoot. That’s it.

The link to use: www.rabbitroom.com/2013/04/discussion-so-brave-young-and-handsome

The hashtag to use: #leifmoot

The winner will be selected at random and announced next Monday.

Fine Print: Neither Leif Enger nor Charlie Siringo are allowed to win this contest. Neither is Pete Peterson.

One Minute Review: Man of Steel from Thomas McKenzie on Vimeo.

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“Are there real fairies in the world?”

I looked up from the mushrooms I was chopping to study my five-year-old daughter’s face. The cock of her head and squint of her eyes matched the skepticism in her voice.

Not long ago, a Christian man who my daughter loves told her that fairies don’t exist. She’s been afraid to believe ever since.

She was waiting for my answer. “I don’t know,” I said. It was the truth.

*      *      *

Our little family has been watching the BBC’s Planet Earth series. It is chock full of stunning photography, incredible facts, and fascinating creatures. We cannot take our eyes off the screen, except when the fascinating creatures start eating each other. At those times my daughter and I always become engrossed in some important task like picking lint off the couch cushions.

One thing I’ve learned from Planet Earth is that I know next to nothing about the natural world. The more discoveries we make, the more deliciously mysterious and miraculous the world becomes. My favorite moments of the series are when the narrator says things like, “No one knows why,” or “We aren’t sure how.”

I have nothing against good science that studies the world’s processes and phenomena. My father retired from a career in science and now teaches it to middle schoolers, so I grew up in a home that respected the natural world and encouraged learning about it.

But I’m instantly skeptical of anyone who says, “We’ve got this completely figured out.” Or “We know everything there is to know about this.” Or, if you like, “Fairies don’t exist.”

I think a more honest response to learning about the world around us is to say, “I know enough now to see that the world is more miraculous than I ever imagined. I wonder what else might be out there.” (The last thing I want to do is suggest that wonder has any meaning apart from its proper faith-direction. S.D. Smith wrote beautifully about the dangerous “mirage of Godless Delight.” I hope you’ll read it if you haven’t already —  its truth underscores everything written here.)

Holding onto that kind of wonder takes some effort. It takes humility. It helps to hang around children.

Children have a gift for pressing us for the why until we come to the inevitable conclusion: “I don’t know. It just is. God just made it that way.” I think it’s good to be stumped. It’s a way to peek through the wardrobe doors, to open our minds to powers too terrible to understand, to remember how small we are. It’s a way to reawaken wonder.

I also think it’s good to return the favor.

Ask a child what light is made of. How is it made? Ask her why she craves it so.

Ask a youngster how the 17-year cicadas know that seventeen years have passed.

Did you know that the water in a typical cloud weighs more than a whole herd of elephants? So how do they hang in the sky?

How can a spider spin silk so fine that it floats on the slightest breeze, and yet fiber for fiber is stronger than steel?

Have you seen the waves and the sand glow at night with the light of tiny creatures? How do they make their light?

At the moment of conception, how do those two cells know what to do? How do they know to multiply and cluster and form into complex organs and tissues? And 22 days later, how does the cell cluster that has decided to be a heart know that it’s time to start beating?

Humans like to give names to these phenomena. Some we call instinct. Others are chemical, electromagnetic, or atmospheric events. But naming a thing, studying it, and even understanding something of how it works does not diminish the miracle of it. What makes it work the way it does? What and where and when is the source of its power?

You know the answer. It’s the same answer the Lion gave to Lucy to explain how he was alive again after she had seen him die: Magic. Not magic of the dark, sorcerous, forbidden variety, but of the “Let there be light” variety.

If I were from another world and walked through a wardrobe to find myself on Planet Earth, I would be convinced that I had discovered a magical place. I would marvel at the sparkling, frozen crystals falling from the sky, no two of which are the same. I would wonder why the sea reaches for the moon and what prompts a caterpillar to build a cocoon. I would let the world’s magic carry me away into wild imaginings, into dreams of what other delights and dangers such a place might hold. I would write a song, or a story, or a poem.

But I was born here. I have learned the names that humans use to tame the world’s wondrous phenomena. If I’m not careful, I can quickly grow accustomed to the magic around me.

Then I read about Narnia, and I long to step into such an enchanted place. I peek my head into wardrobes standing in dusty corners of antique shops, straining my ears for a distant horn blast. Or for the roar of the Lion. Admit it — you’ve done it, too.

But in all our trudging along, wishing to be swept up into a wondrous world, have we ever stopped to think that maybe we’re already on the other side of the wardrobe doors?

*      *      *

The world is full of living things that feed on light without consuming it, that drink the dew, that adorn themselves with opulent colors and intoxicating scents, that brighten gardens and bewitch lovers, that cover the earth with golden sneezing powder, and that send out their wispy-winged children to float on gentle spring breezes.

Are there real fairies in the world? I don’t know. But I’m not going to stop my girl from looking, because in her wide-eyed search for hidden wonders in the world, she’s sure to find some magic.

Photograph by Doug Perrine, Alamy

I watched the ceiling tiles pass overhead as the radiology nurse wheeled my gurney into the room where she would perform my echocardiogram. I remember thinking the dimly lit room felt familiar. This was my first echo and I knew I hadn’t been in this room before. But I had been in one like it. More than once, too. But when? And then I remembered—my babies.

My wife and I have four beautiful children. During the doctor visits leading up to each of their births, she and I were taken into rooms just like this one—peaceful, spacious, warm, and clean. We’d take our places—she on the paper-covered bed, me in the chair beside her, both of us wide-eyed with nervous excitement waiting for the doctor to come in and show us something we could hardly believe was possible—a live video of our unborn child kicking away in my wife’s womb.

The first time we went in for an ultrasound I remember being surprised that the equipment wasn’t larger, given the task it was built to perform. The sonogram machine stationed next to the bed didn’t look like much more than a low-profile computer cart with a few unfamiliar accessories neatly resting in their places. Surely a wonder like the one we were about to experience would require my wife to be squeezed into some sort of giant hi-tech tube. Or if not that, shouldn’t there at least be a luminous belly-shaped dome on a large mechanical arm controlled by a technician behind a wall of glass? This room had neither. There was just a computer, a display screen, a moon-shaped wand, and a squeeze bottle of warm lubricating gel.

I’ll never forget one particular visit late in the pregnancy with our first child. The doctor pressed the jelly-covered magic wand against my wife’s side and we saw our baby’s face as plain as day. We saw two eyes, a button nose, puckered lips, and wisps of hair swirling in the amniotic fluid. Next the doctor showed us tiny little legs and arms, knees and elbows, fingers and toes. Then, with a bit of flourish, she showed us the evidence of our baby’s gender. This little stranger was my son.

This was too much to absorb. A son. My son. What would he need from me? Everything. What could I give him? Not nearly enough. But there in that room, in that moment, a confidence arose in me that whatever this little boy needed I would find a way to get for him. I was going to have a son.

Everything was happening so fast I wanted to stop time. But the doctor resumed her tour of our son’s still forming body and showed us something I can even now close my eyes and see. She showed us his heart. We all stopped talking for a sacred moment and watched it fluttering away there behind his little ribs. The chambers pumped in such a precise rhythm that it had to have been made and set in motion by a master clock-maker—one little heart beating in the womb just inches away from another beating in his mother’s chest, keeping him alive. What a wonder.

***

Long ago Jesus said, “As the sower sleeps and rises night and day, his seed sprouts and grows and he doesn’t know how.” ^{(Mk 4:26-27)} I had no idea how my son’s heart knew to beat. But it did. It looked so meticulous yet so fragile. If it stopped, who could start it again? When did it start to begin with? Seeing my little boy’s chambers and valves keeping time to some mysterious cadence no ear has ever heard awakened a new kind of reverence in me for the Author of Life, and with God as my witness that reverence remains.

***

I heard the door open behind me. Someone else was in the room with me now. The radiologist came around to the foot of my gurney before saying hello. She had a kind face and a motherly way about her. She asked for my name and birthday. These were the two questions every nurse, doctor, or staff person were required to ask to make sure they had the right patient. The correct answers, of course, were written on their charts. They were also on my armband. We both had cheat-sheets.

I thought it was funny that these routine questions were two of the most profound, existential, and eternal questions one human being could put to another: “Who are you?  When did you come into this world?” But I knew she wasn’t asking for my hope and dreams here. She just needed a name and a date.

I said, “I’m Russ Ramsey and today is my birthday.”

“Really? Well, it is, isn’t it?” she said looking at her chart. “Happy birthday then. What brings you here on your birthday?”

I’d been running a fever for three weeks. For the first ten days I assumed it was a virus. But after the standard seven-to-ten day lifespan of a virus came and went, the fever remained as strong as ever. A few days later I made an appointment with my doctor but couldn’t get in for another week. When my appointment eventually came, my doctor listened to my story with a look of concern. He told me no one should have a fever that long. When he checked my vital signs, he discovered that I had a heart murmur. He asked me if I knew about it. I did. Doctors found it during a routine physical when I was in High School. Back then they weren’t too concerned. I had a misshaped valve but my heart seemed to be working fine. Overall, I was a healthy seventeen-year-old boy.

But that was twenty-two years ago. My doctor explained that it was a rather pronounced murmur and was concerned that one of my heart valves might be providing a place for a blood-born bacterial infection to grow. The human body is designed to be an inhospitable place for pathogens, but in those places where our physiology decided to break with the norm, as with, for example, a misshaped heart valve, bacteria can sometimes find a place to hang on and multiply.

My doctor sent me over to the lab to have enough blood drawn to run some cultures to see if this was what was going on with me. Those cultures came back positive, meaning I did have bacteria in my blood. As soon as he saw the results, he called and told me he wanted me to go to the ER. I needed to be admitted to the hospital because an infection like this could only be treated with IV antibiotics.

That was what brought me in to the hospital.

What brought me in for the echocardiogram was another story. In the process of going through all the tests and physician consults, my doctors—a team which had quickly grown to include representatives from internal medicine, intensive care, infectious disease, cardiology, and, to my surprise, cardiac surgery—shifted their focus from the bacteria and fever (which they were now successfully treating with IV antibiotics) to that murmur everyone wanted to hear.

My hospital was a teaching hospital—one of the best in the country. This meant I was in the hands of some of the best physicians around. It also meant I rarely if ever saw just one doctor at a time. Usually four or five of them would come in together—residents and attending physicians. They’d take turns listening to my heart—often two at a time—and almost all of them would say something like “Wow. That’s quite a murmur.” as they stepped aside to let another sortie of stethoscopes come in for a landing.

On the third day of my hospital stay, a small team of cardiologists came in to see me and broke the news that there was a possibility I might need heart surgery. If that bacteria had attached itself to my heart valve, it might have done some damage. They wanted to have a better look. That was what brought me in for the echocardiogram.

***

I am a pastor. I spend time tracing my way through the old, old story of God’s redemption—from the foundations of the world to where I and the people I minister to live today. I pray. I study Scripture and try, by God’s mercy and help, to communicate what’s there in such a way that it hides itself in the hearts of the hearers. I counsel people. And I administer the sacraments. A sacrament is an outward physical sign of an inward, spiritual reality. I can think of no better word to describe what happened there in that radiology lab than to say it was sacramental.

***

The nurse covered the wand with the warm gel, like a priest preparing the elements. As soon as she touched it against my side the sonogram screen, which up until now had been blank, filled with indecipherable swirls and streaks of gray. Then, as though coming into a clearing, we saw what we had come to see—my heart beating in real time right there on the screen. Neither of us said anything. She made some notes and took a few measurements and I just watched in amazement as it pulsed away with clock-like precision.

I could see the distinct chambers on the right side of my heart contract and relax. I watched the tricuspid valve open as my aortic and pulmonary valves shut. Then, as quickly as they shut they opened again as my tricuspid closed. This was what my heartbeat looked like. The valves worked in perfect union, each functioning in their intended role to draw blood from my lungs and send it through the rest of my body. I doubt I will ever forget the wonder of what I saw on that screen.

The radiology nurse stayed on the right side of my heart for what felt like a few minutes measuring and taking notes before moving over to the left side. That’s when I saw what had brought me in to see her. I saw my mitral valve—the valve that lets the oxygenated blood into my left ventricle, the heart’s main pumping chamber. Once the left ventricle is full, the mitral valve is supposed to close up tight to keep the blood from regurgitating back into the heart. That’s what is supposed to happen.

When we saw my mitral valve, my nurse stopped taking notes and measurements, and we both just watched it in silence. My mitral valve looked nothing like the others I had just seen. Those looked like tiny little gates opening and closing to a metronome. But my mitral valve looked like two pieces of spaghetti flapping around with no apparent purpose or design. This wasn’t right. She knew it, and I knew it too.

I said, “That’s my murmur, isn’t it?”

She kindly rebuked me. “You know I’m not supposed to read this for you. That’s for your doctor.” The force of her response was an overreaction to what she was seeing and we both knew it.

I told her, “I’m not asking you to read it for me. But you and I both know a murmur brought me here and all I’m asking you is if that’s it.”

She eased up, “Yeah. That’s it.”

“It’s sacramental,” I said as she went back to her measurements and notes.

***

The physical reality there on that screen told me two things: there was a problem with my heart and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I thought about the spiritual parallels. If I left my heart alone, who could say what would come of me. But to fix it I needed help, someone who understood the heart, how mine worked, how it was meant to work, what specifically in mine was broken and what of it could be redeemed.

I thought about how the Psalms say we’re fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderfully, our bodies are filled with redundancies that keep us alive when parts of us are failing. After he had a chance to look over my echo, my cardiac surgeon told me I might as well not have a mitral valve for all the good mine was doing. My other chambers and valves were working four times harder than normal to make up for it and they were under constant pressure, stretching and squeezing to compensate. But they were getting the job done, and probably had been for years now, he said. Might for years to come too. Maybe.

Fearfully, we’re also fragile. My particular blood-born bacteria latched on to that misshapen valve and chewed it up. One doctor, while talking to me about how active I should be until surgery said, “You need to understand that the heart you have now is not the same as the one you had before you got sick.”

I said, half-joking so I could digest what he just said, “Wow. If this had happened a hundred years ago…”

“You’d die. No question.” he said, finishing my sentence.

***

But this is not a hundred years ago. This is today, and today I live a few miles away from one of the best hospitals in the world with a team of physicians and surgeons who have seen guys like me come through their operating rooms many times. They tell me that while it is major surgery for me, it is very routine for them in the sense that the surgery I need is one they perform often.

Still, to think that I with my failing heart can fall as I did into the hands of someone who not only understands how to fix me, but then has the courage to dare to open up my chest and do it is a fearful and wonderful sacramental thought that points me to the unmerited grace of God and reminds me that this has been done for me once before.

Ron has composed and arranged his way across centuries of folk and popular lineage with his nuanced knowledge and modern ear, putting his playful spin on Celtic balladry, old-time romps, soul-searing Appalachian modal melodies, nimble folk tunes, tradition-steeped bluegrass, groove-driven newgrass and contemporary singer-songwriter fare. The music finds a perfect match in Rebecca’s elevated use of imagery and rhyme, her strikingly poetic, period-appropriate word choice and their shared interest in writing songs that speak to a rich range of human experience, the fun, fervent and contemplative moments alike.

It’s hard to imagine a singer sounding any more natural than Ron does delivering these lines, his phrasing crisp and his timbre light and warm. That’s to say nothing of the eloquent communicating he does with his hands; for him, playing is “a means of helping the song say what it wants to say.” And, for the first time, he’s playing all of the guitar and banjo parts, from the lighthearted solo runs laced through “Ivy” to the deliciously droll licks that give “Sunshine Billy” its spunk and the soulful simplicity he brings to an instrumental reading of the hymn “What Wondrous Love Is This.”

As for Ron’s accompanists, they’re every bit the dream team you’d expect from a picker/singer/songwriter of his stature: Sam Bush, Mike Compton and Sierra Hull on mandolin, Stuart Duncan on fiddle, Jerry Douglas and Rob Ickes on Dobro, Barry on bass and no less than Alison, Dan Tyminski, Kate Rusby and Suzanne Cox singing harmony. Those familiar with the lineup of Union Station will read that abbreviated list of guests and know that it means sometime between the opening and closing notes, everyone in Ron’s longtime band gets a chance to back him while he does his own, singular thing.

Pre-orders begin soon.

A few years back, I taught woodworking to teenage boys. They’d come into my shop with big ideas about the table or the bookshelf they intended to make and they’d start cutting wood and hammering nails and glueing boards and as they went I’d see a growing sense of dissatisfaction in their faces. That crestfallen look was there because the final work wasn’t as pristine as the glimmering idea they’d walked in the door with. So I’d help them. We’d backtrack and talk about drawing workable plans. I’d introduce them to important tools like the tape-measure because “No. You can’t just guess.” I’d show them the importance of structural support and strong, solid joints. Later, rather than sooner, most boys would end up with a functional version of their original vision. But in the end, a table (or a bookshelf) is a lot more work than a teenage boy envisions.

Without any doubt, though, there was always one part of the process that was the hardest to teach: Sanding. In woodworking, sanding is something that is almost impossible to do enough of. It’s also tedious. Trying to get a teenage boy to sit down and sand a board thoroughly is a trial. Heck, trying to sand thoroughly is hard even for me. It’s just not much fun. But a fine job of sanding will elevate an acceptable piece of work out of the swamp of the hobbyist and onto the higher ground of the artisan.

In writing, we’ve got another word for sanding; it’s called revision.

For the past month, I’ve been knee-deep in editorial work for The Molehill Vol. 2. I’ve read a lot of great essays, short stories, and poetry. I’ve also written a lot of notes and letters about what needs to be sanded down, refined, reinforced, and polished. Revising is a skill, and it’s one that anyone who writes needs to spend time learning, because revision is the abrasive force that rubs the burrs and imprecisions out of a piece of work so that its texture, grain, and natural beauty can shine.

The following are a few notes on things that I, as an editor, find myself repeatedly trying to sand away. I hope they’ll be useful to anyone who wants to look more critically at their own writing.

1. Writers’ Tics: Most writers have certain words, phrases, and sentence constructions that they unconsciously lean toward. Over the course of an entire work these “tics” can become repetitive to a reader, though the writer may not notice them at all. For instance, one of my own “tics” is that I often lean heavily on the use of a “series.” In other words, I tend toward constructions that list, delineate, or present multiple examples, arguments, or iterations that will support, reinforce, or underscore my point. Other people may just use the word “really” a lot, or “dappled,” or “blackness.” The important point here is that none of these things are wrong taken alone, but when they evolve into patterns, they become distracting. Learn to recognize your own “tics” and cull them.

2. First Sentences: This one usually applies to essays. Often the first sentence is clearly the writer trying to get himself into the work by telling himself what he’s writing about. This is fine if it helps you begin the process of writing, but don’t forget to go back and delete that sentence once you’ve finished.

Example: “Well, after last year’s topic, I thought it would be fun to go ahead and write something different. It occurred to me in early May that cicadas might taste good with ketchup.”

I’m not sure that sounds like a winning essay (or maybe it does) but it certainly doesn’t need that first sentence. It’s nothing more than a ramp the writer has built in order to propel him toward what he really wants to say. No problem. But once the essay is done, take down the ramp. We don’t need it anymore.

3. Adjectives and Adverbs: First let me say that I’m not quite as militant about these as Strunk and White are (if you haven’t read The Elements of Style, get thee to the Rabbit Room store and buy a copy without delay!). However, a writer needs to consider each and every one of them with suspicion. A sentence is usually not enhanced by the addition of a bunch of modifiers. Choose yours carefully. Above all, though, be sure that your descriptive words and phrases are not getting in the way of the meaning of your sentence. If in doubt, try removing all your adjectives and adverbs; strip your sentence down to its most basic subject and verb and see if it’s making sense. I sometimes see writers getting lost in their own labyrinthine constructions. And if the writer is getting lost, you can bet the reader is too.

4. Subtext: This is where revision becomes your best friend. When we write, we often end up saying exactly what’s going on, exactly what characters are thinking, exactly what characters mean. We explain the importance of events or symbols or metaphors. We do this because we, as writers, often need to remind ourselves what we mean while we are in the act of writing. But it’s of utmost importance that during revision we go back and cut out all of those reminders. If we’ve done our jobs properly, reminders won’t be necessary. The meanings will all be planted firmly in the subtext, between the lines. The reader will intuit what the writer has left out—and that’s a mark of good writing.

Simplified example: “Mary glared at Tom. She was angry at him but all she said was “Thank you.”

This example is greatly simplistic, but if the imagined scene leading up to this sentence is well written, all that is required of the sentence is: “Mary glared at Tom. ‘Thank you,’ she said.”

Or potentially even just “‘Thank you,’ she said.”

Good writing doesn’t tell the reader how a character feels. Good writing shows the reader how a character acts and reacts, and then the writing gets out of the way. Trust the reader to infer the subtext.

In addition to all these things, remember that editors are fallible–even me–especially me (as anyone who’s sent me an email about a typo knows). So if you’re working with someone to revise your work, be bold, be confident, stand up for what you’ve created, but don’t defend your work merely for the sake of pride. Think carefully about why you’ve made certain choices—you may be right, but there may be a better way. Think carefully about why an editor may disagree—he or she may be wrong, but may also be sensing an issue that needs to be addressed. Every minute you put into these considerations is a minute well-spent. It may be tedious—sanding usually is—but if you’ve taken the time to create something, it’s worth taking the time to love and refine it as well.

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My kids and I saw quite a sight at the library the other day. It was an impressive display of mimicry and showboating by a rather cocky young fellow on the rooftop patio. He strutted around with his chest puffed out, trying to impress a girl. He was unabashed in his affection for her. She was playing hard-to-get. Undeterred, he preened and posed and rattled off every pick-up line he had ever heard in rapid succession.

He was a mockingbird.

I could tell he was a city bird because his song was a masterful blend of police siren and multi-tone car alarm. He was just doing what he was born to do: imitating a song that had already been sung, adding his own voice, and making the song his own.

Mockingbirds aren’t the only mimickers out there. Here’s a video of an Australian lyrebird imitating everything from magpies to power tools.

Such masterful mimicry can sometimes be troubling. Some folks found a similar lyrebird in the wild—the wild!—doing a perfect rendition of a chainsaw. It turns out he had learned the sound from a group of foresters whose work was approaching his home. So this remarkable creature, capable of mimicking any number of sounds, was singing the song of its own habitat’s destruction.

People are mimickers too, of course. Babies learn to talk by imitating sounds. Children learn social behavior by copying their siblings or peers. Every act of creation we do—whether it’s making a meal, or decorating a nursery, or writing a poem, or saying a prayer, or constructing a Lego castle—at some level everything we do builds on what we learned from someone else.

Our contribution, then, is not so much to write new songs as it is to add our voice to old ones.

And hanging on our every word are little people who don’t know how not to go astray. By what they hear from us, they are finding the notes and rhythms for their own song. And the song they will hear most clearly from us is the one we sing with our everyday lives.

What do my kids learn about love from the way I talk to their Daddy? The way I do their laundry and cook their meals? What do they learn about God from how I discipline or comfort or enjoy them? What story am I telling with the things I don’t say?

These are the songs that will sink down deep inside them and frame their very souls. And soon they will add their own voices, repeating the themes we have written in their hearts.

“Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” – Eph. 5:1-2

Must we be perfect, then? Not perfect, but truthful. That means telling the truth even about our mistakes. It means singing of forgiveness even in our failure. It means declaring restoration and not destruction.

Because Truth tells us that we were made for more than the song of the chainsaw.