There are no unsacred places;
There are only sacred places
And desecrated places.
–Wendell Berry, from “How to Be a Poet (to Remind Myself)”
Just a few miles from my house there’s an intersection that always makes me happy. If you ever want to go there, it’s a four-way stop at the intersection of Old Franklin Road and Cane Ridge Road. Here’s the link, if you want to see it on Google Maps. If you end up doing the Street View you’ll notice that it’s not terribly interesting. This isn’t a scenic overlook. The houses aren’t gigantic. But it’s a strangely pleasant place. I don’t know why, but I feel a rightness every time I pull up to that intersection, and I tend to look around as if I’m on the verge of solving some bright mystery—until the driver behind me honks and I’m forced to putter up the hill.
I’ve mentioned it to Jamie and the kids, and they agree. It’s a nice spot. To them, it’s probably just that. But my mental wheels start turning and I want to know what about it makes me feel that way. Is it the shape of the land? Is it the fact that the stop sign forces me to pause for a moment and consider my surroundings? Does it remind me of some lovely childhood drive? I can’t put my finger on it. There are other intersections in more beautiful locales that don’t make me feel the way this one does. Psalm 16:6 says, “The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.” I know the psalmist wasn’t thinking of country roads when he wrote this, but I always think of this verse when I sit at that intersection. “This, surely, is a pleasant place,” I think to myself. And in some ways, a pleasant place is better than a breathtaking one, isn’t it? I love the Grand Canyon and have hiked into it a handful of times over the years, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
I wrote “You’ll Find Your Way” (from Light for the Lost Boy) for Asher, my second son. He turned 13 last month, and I wrote him a letter for part of his birthday (the other part was a drumset). Here’s a little excerpt from what I told him:
You’re thirteen today. I know you know that, but it feels kind of weird and wonderful to sit and think about it, doesn’t it? I remember being that age, and beginning to realize more than ever before that growing up was an inevitable adventure. “Inevitable” means it’s coming and there’s nothing you can do about it as long as you’re drawing breath. And I don’t just mean getting older and taller, either. I mean your heart is growing up. You’ve experienced some pain, some loneliness perhaps, some sense of your smallness in the great big world. It’s a scary thing, isn’t it? There’s no shame in saying yes. But it’s not all the bad kind of scary, either—it’s also the good kind of scary, like roller coaster scary: you’ve been clicking up, up, up toward the top of the ride, and any minute now the coaster is going to peak and plunge you down into the wild and holy speed of life. Throw your hands in the air and scream.
But one of the grand things about growing up, I’ve learned, is that you’re already ancient. Your soul, whatever the “soul” is, will live forever in Christ, and God exists outside of time. That’s a crazy thought, isn’t it? God looks at us and sees the beginning and the end at once, kind of like a song or a story. When you hold a book in your hand, you’re holding that character’s whole world—the terror, the joy, the lostness, and the final good ending. But if you think about it, the character in the story doesn’t see the ending, doesn’t know his story is something that can be held in one hand. The character is feeling whatever he’s feeling when you read that sentence. But the reader, a little bit like God, can flip to the end and see how it all works out. Maybe that’s how God beholds our lives. He sees the ending, the middle, and the beginning as one good story. Right now, you’re thirteen and wondering where you’re going to work, who your friends will be in twenty years, where you’ll live, who you’ll marry, what your kids will be like. But in some mysterious way, God knows all those answers even now. Every day is another page in that story, and you can’t know how it’s all going to turn out, just like riding a roller coaster for the first time—except that because of Jesus, because he has made you his son, you can embrace all the twists and turns with joy because you can be confident that he built the ride and loves you more than you can presently know. You will survive until the end of your life (whenever he has decided that is), and then you will continue on into the next book of your life in Christ. That’s Heaven.
I guess that’s what I’m saying. Your soul and your body are mysteriously connected. Your body, like Mr. Clarence’s body, which you saw at the funeral a few weeks ago, is going to waste away, but you, Asher Jesse Peterson, will live on. After your body dies, your soul will happily await the day when Jesus will return to earth and raise us all again. Then, like moving into a new house, your soul will inherit a new, perfect body that is neither old nor young, and will go on living in a perfect world without disease or the great shadow of death. So in that sense, you who were made from the mind and imagination of God himself, were born on December 15th, 1999, but what you are made OF has always been, and, because you placed your life in Jesus’ hands a few years ago, you will go on living forever and ever. So yes, you’re thirteen. But in God’s eyes you’re already as old as the stars, and indeed, you will outlive them. Is that a crazy thought, or what? Your experience and age and wisdom are merely catching up to the eternal nature of your redeemed soul. And I believe that you’ll go on catching up to that eternal age, well, for eternity. Our lives will unfold and unfold and unfold forever into the Kingdom of God, the expanse of which is infinite. That means you’re already old, and you’ll continue growing younger as God’s son forever. Does your brain hurt? Mine does.
Here’s a quick list of some good films/television shows I saw this year. (Asterisks signify availability on Netflix Instant View.)
I just watched this for the third time. Yes, it’s that good. I paused it a few times when we watched it as a family—mainly to point out where I thought George dropped the ball with his marriage. (The film gives the impression that his marriage was already doomed and he would be better off abandoning it. Obviously that doesn’t jibe with what I want to teach my kids.) Other than that, it’s storytelling at its best: funny, heartbreaking, imaginative, entertaining, inspiring. Re-reading this, it’s a good time to point out that every one of these films probably has moments that might offend more sensitive viewers. Please don’t throw a brick through my virtual window. I’m a bit neurotic about recommendations like this because I’m a pastor’s kid who’s always assuming that something he says will get him into trouble. I’ll do my best to voice any caveats you should know about if you plan to watch these with your family. There. Disclaimer over. I exhaust myself, honestly.
I’m a big fan of Wes Anderson films (Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Life Aquatic, The Royal Tennenbaums, The Fantastic Mr. Fox), and if I had to give one reason is this: he’s a great storyteller who seems to care about the audience. His attention to detail is staggering, and it feels like he’s bending over backwards to delight us with his stories. That said, most of his films have a moment or two that make me shake my fist and say, “Now why did you have to go and do THAT?” Moonrise Kingdom, in addition to having one of the most magical titles ever, is the perfect vehicle for Anderson’s prowess. But it has one scene that, frankly, ticked me off and, in my opinion, kept it from being the classic it might have been. Anyone who’s seen the film knows exactly what I’m talking about.
The BBC knows how to do television. There are two three-episode seasons of Sherlock so far, and each episode is about 90 minutes, which gives the story time to develop in ways most feature films only dream of. From a parental perspective, these are probably PG-13, though the first episode of season two, with the Irene Adler storyline, was racy enough that I fast-forwarded quite a bit of it. You wouldn’t be missing anything to just skip it altogether. I watched the last two episodes of season two with my teenagers and we loved them. The ending is ridiculously good.
Hello, rabbits. Here’s a short list of a few books I read and liked this year, very few of which were published in 2012. They’re not in any particular order, and a few may have actually been read at the end of 2011. Here goes.
I stumbled on this one at Goodwill and picked it up because I had the creepy feeling the title was describing me. I had, after all, just spent thirty minutes with my head cocked to the right so I could read every single spine of a hundred yards of used books. I’m a sucker for a good detective story—if it’s based on actual events, then even better. One of my hobbies on the road is visiting used book stores, so learning about not only the world of rare book collecting but the world of rare book thievery was fascinating.
I’ve read every book by Larson—first Devil in the White City, then Thunderstruck, then In the Garden of Beasts. He’s a great writer, and has carved a niche by unearthing relatively obscure bits of history and humanizing them as deftly as he researches them. His books are usually about two things: Devil in the White City isn’t just about the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, it’s also about a serial killer who was in the middle of it; Thunderstruck isn’t just about a famous English murder, it’s about the invention of the radio; and Isaac’s Storm isn’t just about the tragic Galveston flood of 1900, it’s about the beginnings of meteorology and the anatomy of hurricanes. Anyone who’s interested in American history and is awed by the power of storms will love this book.
It is no secret that Flannery O’Connor is one of the great American writers. I have read and appreciated many of her stories without going bonkers over them. I find that O’Connor only appeals to me when I’m in a certain mood, and I’m seldom in that mood. But Jonathan’s book changed that for me. I found that after reading The Terrible Speed of Mercy her stories feel deeper, more human, less eccentric—no longer do they feel like they’re written by the fierce, intellectual lioness of Georgia who doesn’t much care what I think, but by a weak, lovely and lonely girl who sees her writing as a way to wake the world to the glory of God.
This isn’t the greatest book ever, but it’s one of the most interesting. Lindskoog died a few years ago, having gone perhaps a little crazy trying to get the world to believe her theories on corruption in the C.S. Lewis estate. I finished the book feeling like Lindskoog was truly out of touch with reality on some points and yet raised some excellent questions about others. If even 10% of what she proposes is true, then I’d love some straight answers from the C.S. Lewis camp. It would make for an amazing documentary film.
Merton lived and wrote at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, which is where I spent the weekend in 2002 that led me to a song called “The Silence of God.” The Seven Storey Mountain is probably his most famous work, and I’m sad to say I’ve never read it or anything else by him until now. I found a first edition of Jonas at a bookstore on the road (I forget where) and started it one afternoon when I was feeling particularly sinful. It was just what I needed: the journal entries of a man in love with the mystery of God, who is discontent with his own sin and yet gives thanks for his suffering as the Lord’s loving discipline. Giving thanks for my own suffering is a virtue I hope to practice in the coming year. There’s so much to learn from Merton, and I’m excited that this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Sometimes you don’t feel like reading a book written by a Trappist monk. Sometimes you read a book just for fun. If a tale about a Houdini-esque magician on the run from FBI agents who think he killed the president isn’t fun, I don’t know what is. I think this is Gold’s first book, and I think they’re making it into a film. I’m not the kind of guy who thinks every great book would make a great movie (Narnia is a case in point), but I kept thinking while I read this that it would make for a great ride in the theater.
A few of the songs on Light for the Lost Boy were influenced by this book—“Day by Day” is probably the most obvious, and I had the honor of singing it for NTW himself at a Rabbit Room event earlier this year. Chapter after chapter I found myself thinking, “I hope this is true,” and because Wright uses so much scripture I then found myself thinking, “It is true.” I’ve read a few theologians’ critiques of this book, but even the harshest admit that there’s much to be learned from it.
Every October I get out my collection of spooky stories, and Russell Kirk is at the top of the list (thanks to Jason Gray). I’ve read most of Ancestral Shadows, his collection of ghostly tales, but this was the first time I read Old House of Fear. If you’re ever in the mood for foggy moors, old castles, dashing heroes, ancient mysteries, and shipwrecks, then this is the book for you. And if you haven’t read Ancestral Shadows, it’s great. Search for Jason Gray’s excellent review of it.
Cartoonist Jonny Jimison was at Hutchmoot this year, and we talked a bit about Doug TenNapel. I had heard a lot about him (and knew of his creation, “Earthworm Jim”) but hadn’t read any of his graphic novels yet. Then at a local bookstore I was arrested by the cover of a book called Cardboard. I thumbed through it and loved what I saw: big, bold lines, cartoony but artful and bursting with energy—at times the panels felt like the best Bill Watterson drawings. I was sold before I ever realized it was a Doug TenNapel book. And it’s so good! I pushed it on my kids immediately. Then I went on a TenNapel binge and read Ghostopolis, Bad Island, and Monster Zoo. I grew up reading comics and graphic novels, but I’ve never read stories quite like his. He’s unabashed about being a Christian, and yet is well-respected in the comic world. That’s saying something. (His newer books are kid-appropriate, but Creature Tech, for the record, isn’t. I’m working my way through the back catalogue.)
There’s my short, off-the-top-of-my-head list. If I think of more I’ll tack them on. What about you guys?
Justin Gerard created this Christmas card a few years ago and posted it on his site today. It was too good not to repost here, in light of our rodential leanings. Thanks, Justin, and all you Rabbit Roomers for another great year.
Be sure and visit Justin’s blog for mounds of artistic inspiration. (But don’t worry–no recipes.) Also, for you Tolkien fans, he’s got an amazing array of original Hobbit pictures here.
You’ll notice that in addition to Dr. DeWitt and Dr. Rogers, they’ve lined up some great folks, including my pal Josh Wilson who will be doing some music.
The Rabbit Room exists in part to encourage this kind of conversation, community, and thought, so we’ve partnered with the seminar to offer an exclusive Rabbit Room discount to you guys. The registration for the day is $35, with lunch provided—but if you register here we’ll give you a $5 discount (registration now closed).
Have fun at the seminar. Be sure and heckle Jonathan for me, and know that as you listen to smart dudes talking about fauns, I’ll be in Texas listening to smart dudes talking about hobbits. Ah, the life.
Last week Jamie and I sat in a small, classy theater in downtown Franklin, Tennessee and listened as one of the finest songwriters in America blew my mind.
I first encountered Marc Cohn’s music in 1991, my junior year of high school. I was steeped in heavy metal, hair metal, pop rock, swamp rock, prog rock—basically, [choose any adjective] rock. (I know, I know. Shocking. I’m saving my Tesla/Extreme post for another time.) But when “Walking in Memphis” strode through the airwaves back in 1991, I experienced something altogether different.
I liked the emotion and the musical high I got when I was listening to straight-up rock and roll, but I often rolled my eyes at the lyrics (except for those of the aforementioned Tesla and Extreme). Lyrics mattered to me even then, but not enough to make up for my disdain towards what I thought of as Easy Listening music. Basically, if it was on my dad’s radio station, I avoided it like homework. This included James Taylor, Paul Simon, Jim Croce, Jackson Browne, and others I’ve come to love.
So, I kept looking for stories and deeper meaning in rock and roll, but I just couldn’t seem to find it. Then one day I heard a pretty piano part dance out of the car stereo, and a raspy, warm, and welcoming voice sang,
Put on my blue suede shoes and I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues in the middle of the pouring rain.
I sat up straight and paid attention. It was as if I had happened upon a deer in the woods. I froze. I don’t remember the exact moment I first heard that song as a seventeen-year-old kid, but I was probably driving my dad’s Pontiac station wagon with the volume cranked, wearing a look of dumb delight. Like a great film or a great book, that song goes everywhere your heart wants it to go, and yet you’re still surprised by it. It’s no overstatement that “Walking in Memphis” feels like a moment of grace.
Hey, folks. I’m writing from North Carolina, where I’m doing a few shows this week. The fall leg of the Light for the Lost Boy tour is over, which is sad, but just around the corner waits the 13th annual Behold the Lamb of God tour, followed by—I’m pumped about this—a tour with Jason Gray in February, followed by—and I’m also pumped about this—a spring Lost Boy tour, once again with CALEB.
But as much touring as we’ve been doing, there are still pockets of the country (nay—the WORLD) to which we haven’t come, not because we don’t want to but because no one in that part of the country (nay—the WORLD) has booked a show yet. In the meantime, though, we have the interwebs. And thanks to a cool thing called StageIt, I can put on a 30 minute concert in my living room. It isn’t recordable (computer hackers, please comply), ensuring that what you’re seeing is a legitimate one-time event, which you can watch from the comfort of your couch or Starbucks chair. There’s even a real time chat room, where you can make requests and say hello to each other. Hook it up to your TV, invite your friends and family over, pop some popcorn, and enjoy some live music. I’m not saying it’ll be better than whatever sitcom you usually watch, but I suppose that depends on the sitcom. It’s pretty cool, and it’s only $5.
So. This Sunday night, November 11, at 6 p.m. Central, join me (and perhaps a surprise guest) from wherever you are for what promises to be a slightly awkward but entirely live and raw concert. Click here to get your tickets, and reply to this post to make any requests. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to accommodate them. Thanks for supporting me and mine, everybody.
This week I checked out Wendell Berry’s The Country of Marriage and stumbled on a poem I hadn’t read before. Just a few days ago my kind neighbor Tommy gave me permission to harvest a few maple seedlings from his property and I spent an afternoon replanting them around the Warren with these same hopes for the blessing they might be to my children’s children. Once again, the sage words of the Mad Farmer gave me a clear picture of what it means for us to be keepers of his creation, standing amidst a breadth of old beauty that we didn’t ask for and don’t deserve. I’m tempted to draw out a metaphor, like I did in my song of the same title, but I think maybe it’s good (especially in light of the glorious autumn all around me in Nashville right now), to let the trees in the poem stand in their own bright significance as members of God’s creation.
In the mating of trees,
the pollen grain entering invisible
the domed room of the winds, survives
the ghost of the old forest
that was here when we came. The ground
invites it, and it will not be gone.
I become the familiar of that ghost
and its ally, carrying in a bucket
twenty trees smaller than weeds,
and I plant them along the way
of the departure of the ancient host.
I return to the ground its original music.
It will rise out of the horizon
of the grass, and over the heads
of weeds, and it will rise over
the horizon of men’s heads. As I age
in the world it will rise and spread,
and be for this place horizon
and orison, the voice of its winds.
I have made myself a dream to dream
of its rising, that has gentled my nights.
Let me desire and wish well the life
these trees may live when I
no longer rise in the mornings
to be pleased by the green of them
shining, and their shadows on the ground,
and the sound of the wind in them.
A few years ago I had to bid farewell to one of my favorite haunts in the interwebland: Portland Studios, an illustration and story company. I went there for inspiration about six times a week, but after a good run, the folks there decided to dismantle the company and, more or less, to go freelance. I’m sure it was the right decision, but I was sad. It was a company that felt more like a community, and among its many artists and web developers and storytellers were three guys whose work I’ve loved for years—guys whose websites I still visit almost every day, just to see what cool pictures they’re cooking up.
There’s Cory Godbey, who illustrated the first Slugs & Bugs CD, as well as the amazing video for the equally amazing Stephen Delopoulous song “The Ruin of the Beast”, which we featured here; Chris Koelle, who did the cover for Andrew Osenga’s The Morning, not to mention the tour poster for the still-underway Light for the Lost Boy Tour, the stunning Revelation App, and John Piper’s JOB; and finally Justin Gerard, Hutchmoot alumnus, illustrator of my Wingfeather Saga books and covers, as well as my 2006 album The Far Country and Phil Vischer’s Sidney and Norman. Whew. That’s a healthy portfolio for these guys, and that’s just with the stuff we’re associated with—the tip of the far corner of the iceberg, so to speak. They’ve done gobs and gobs of great work for publishers and film companies the world over.
You get the point. I’m a fan. So check THIS out.
Cory, Chris, and Justin are putting together an online illustration course called The Lamp Post Guild (a name of which I heartily approve). If you’re like me and you’ve always wanted to spend more time learning to draw, or if you’re like my son Aedan, who’s very seriously pursuing a life of illustration, this little video might geek you out. They’re raising money to develop the class, and for a relatively low contribution you can take a serious step toward doing better—maybe even excellent—work. As a homeschooling dad with a kid who’s into art, this was a no-brainer for me. It’s hard for me to imagine a more perfect scenario for my boy. Thank you, Justin, Cory, and Chris for doing what you do.
Let me tell you a quick story about something cool that happened to me over the course of about twenty years. I promise it has to do with Hutchmoot 2012. It all started at church camp. I was working as a counselor at North Florida Christian Service Camp in the 1990’s—the same camp where as a guilt-ridden kid I rededicated my life to Jesus every year—when one night, while everyone was hanging in the gym playing carpetball or foursquare or Audio Adrenaline songs, the high schoolers suddenly went crazy over a video that featured talking vegetables. It was the first time I had ever seen Bob and Larry, and I was delighted that whoever had put the film together seemed to take the Gospel very seriously while not taking themselves seriously at all. (This is something I would love to be said about me behind my back or at my funeral.) I laughed and I learned, and I was proud that the folks behind this video were Christians and genuinely funny.
Fast forward to when Aedan and Asher were toddlers. We fed them a steady diet of VeggieTales and bought every episode when it came out. I looked forward to the “Silly Songs with Larry” segment every time, thinking how fun it would be to write one of those songs. (I was also thinking how fun it would be to pay some bills by writing one of those songs.) One night in Estes Park, Colorado I was performing a short set for Compassion International (along with Phil Keaggy, of all people), and after I finished playing I bumped into a guy wearing a VeggieTales cap. I mean, come on! First, Keaggy and now VeggieTales? I introduced myself to the guy (who turned out to be Kurt Heinecke, the brains behind the Big Idea music for years), and told him my kids loved the videos. He gave me his card and told me that if I was ever in Chicago I should come by and play some songs for the employees at Big Idea.
Last night I tromped down the hill with a hammer, six wooden stakes, and a spool of fishing line to do battle with deer. But it’s not what you think. As far as I know there are no vampire deer in the neighborhood. No, our deer are the usual docile, graceful, and enormously frustrating sort. Frustrating because I’m a wannabe gardener, and they seem to think I’m doing all this work for them.
I planted a pumpkin patch down in the lower part of the yard, just past the young willow tree. I’ve never had much luck with pumpkins, so this year I went all-out. My kind neighbor brought his tractor down the hill and turned the ground, revealing darker soil than further up where I plant my corn. When it rains a lot (well, when it used to rain a lot) I can’t even mow this spot for fear of getting stuck in all that soggy grass–which is why I planted the thirsty willow tree there last year. I’m guessing all that moisture and runoff has been feeding this little section of the yard for a hundred years. Now, by golly, that soil was going to feed my pumpkins.
The lame duck period is, well, pretty lame. The months during the making of a record are equal parts exhilarating and exhausting, and the months of touring and supporting the record are the same. But the period of time between the two, when the artwork is finished, the album is mastered, it’s sent off to the presses, then packaged and shoved into a Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse to await its eventual shipment—that part is fairly maddening.
I don’t write songs just for my own pleasure, after all; these are for you. Sure, I may get some enjoyment out of the process, and there are residual blessings that come from the writing and production of the music, but the real thrill for me has always been the mysterious way songs (and whatever light lives in them) have the potential to find their way into the world, into your ears, and, hopefully, your hearts. That you would give them that chance is a great honor, and my great hope for the album.
When I was a boy my dad consistently called on a wrinkled old sage named Mortimer Hawk to offer the closing prayer at church. He was so old that the congregation’s stillness deepened as soon as he opened his mouth. “Most Holy Father,” he quietly boomed. (I know that sounds impossible, but that’s how I remember it; he boomed—quietly. Honest.) “We thank Thee for Thy bounty, and humbly seek Thy guidance as we depart this place to proclaim in word and deed Thy merciful affection.”
So he began. That’s not verbatim, but it’s the general vibe of Mortimer’s weekly supplication. The way he pronounced every “Thee” and “Thy” assured me that in his mind they were capitalized. He transported the whole church back about a hundred years, and reminded us how rich and humble a prayer could be. And that was the weird thing—he didn’t speak that way in normal conversation; he reserved his King James prayers for church, but somehow it never struck me as pretentious or put-on. It was merely this humble old saint’s way of honoring the King to whom he spoke. He didn’t pepper his prayer with mindless repetition (“FatherGod, we pray, FatherGod, that you, Jesus, FatherGod, Jesus, would be with us, Jesus, God”, etc.), a habit many of us have acquired which strikes me as dangerously close to “babbling like the pagans do” (Matthew 6:7). My guess is that this odd repetition that’s so pervasive in our prayers is either nervous habit, an oratory device employed to buy us time to think of what to say next, or maybe we’ve grown up thinking it’s just what you’re supposed to do. I’m sure someone out there will demonstrate that I’m wrong to reference that verse here—but hopefully you see what I’m saying: sometimes our public prayers are padded with nice sounding words and phrases that don’t mean a whole lot. (This is what is known on the Internet as “opening a can of worms.”)
The Peterson family just started reading The Lord of the Rings aloud this summer and I’ve been nerding out a bit more than usual (which is saying something). I thought I’d re-post this piece from four (four!) years ago.
So my nine-year-old son Aedan just finished reading Tolkien’s The Return of the King for the first time.
He came downstairs after he finished and we talked about the ending, about the mysterious Undying Lands to which the elves were compelled to go; about how happy and sad he was for Sam, who had a family and a home in a restored Shire but who had to go on without his dearest friend; the bittersweetness of Frodo’s farewell at the Grey Havens. I can’t imagine a more poignant or complete ending to the story.
I told him that Ben Shive wrote a song about the Grey Havens, and I played him that song from The Far Country while he read through the lyrics. (I don’t normally push my own music on the kids, so he wasn’t too familiar with it.) I was impressed all over again at what a great writer Ben is, not to mention Tolkien.
What is it about that idea of being wounded and ill-at-ease in our present condition that resonates with me so? Obviously, it’s because I’m wounded and ill-at-ease. Much of the time I feel content with my lot, and why shouldn’t I? Most of the people reading this have been blessed with the means at least to own a computer, and the leisure at which to browse websites with it. You have the ability to read, to see, to think, to type. What could we complain about? Well, about the fact that our hearts are crippled and weak. Our literal eyes may be able to see, but the eyes of our hearts are often so bloodshot and weary that our souls trip and fall.