What are you looking for?

No, that is not a picture of Haley Joel Osment. No, that picture was not Photoshopped. That’s a little something I stumbled on in Andy Gullahorn’s childhood bedroom last fall. And like the man who found a treasure hidden in a field, I would not rest until I had made it mine-all-mine. And so, after a long absence, the Rabbit Room Song of the Day rises again like an orca off the Alaskan coast. Brand New Song If you came expecting to get nothing back You’ll get nothing back What did you expect But deep sleepwalking is a state of mind Wake up to find The door wide open And the curtains drawn If you choose to listen To a brand new song If you’re only looking to find something wrong You’ll find something wrong If it’s right or not Depends on the lens that you’re looking through But there’s a lovely view through the Chorus What are we afraid of? What are we afraid of? What are we afraid of? Why are we afraid of The door wide open And the curtains drawn Is it the light that can shine On the depths of the dark in our hearts? Through the door wide open And the curtains drawn When we choose to listen To a brand new song Be sure and check out Andy’s website here. And, as with all our CDs, you can purchase a download or a disc here in the Rabbit Room.

In his new book Hear No Evil: My Story of Innocence, Music, and the Holy Ghost, releasing February 16th from WaterBrook Press, Matthew Paul Turner tells the story of the time God called him to be the Christian version of Michael Jackson. Of course music made by non-Christians like the Beatles and U2 was evil; that wasn’t even up for debate. But what many of my friends didn’t know was the danger of listening to music by people who called themselves Christians but used a style of music that was indistinguishable from the world. They didn’t realize the peril they were putting their souls in by listening to sounds that came straight from hell, music that caused natives in the depths of Africa to become possessed by Satan. Fortunately for them, I did. I’d read all the books explaining exactly how and why rock music is evil, the most influential one having been written by the music minister at a church my great uncle pastored. I wrote twenty-page e-mails to friends, under the guise of a Bible study, sharing the information I’d learned. I’m sure they counted themselves lucky to have someone watching out for their souls. Matthew’s story of when God called him to be the Christian version of Michael Jackson started when his family was at Sea World. For one of the shows, an otter named Ollie went through a routine set to Michael Jackson’s Bad. When the music started, his sister was the first one to realize what it was. ‘”Cover your ears,” she said in her demanding Christlike tone. “That’s a syncopated beat if I ever heard one.”‘ After the show, realizing how catchy the tune was, Matthew realized that there needed to be a version of Michael Jackson that kids like him could listen to and look up to. “I imagined God’s Michael Jackson being exactly like the Devil’s Michael Jackson, except without catchy drumbeats, sexual dancing, and changing skin color.” When Matthew finished high school, he knew that to follow God’s will for his life, he needed to attend Belmont University in Nashville. Upon arrival, he found he wasn’t alone in his reason for being there. Matthew writes, “During college, my friend Shawn was incredibly sensitive to onions, dairy, and the Holy Spirit. But unlike his allergies to food, Shawn bragged about his susceptibility to God’s earthly essence. When he and I met, one of the first things he told me was that the Holy Spirit had led him to Belmont to become a church music major. I wasn’t surprised, considering God’s spirit called me to go to Belmont, too. Belmont was a Christian school, so lots of us attended because the Holy Spirit told us to. It was such a common occurrence that sometimes I wondered if the Holy Ghost worked part time in Belmont’s admissions office.” Even though God had told him to go there, he didn’t immediately fit in because, he writes, “I couldn’t play guitar, which for a believer at Belmont was like being Jewish and uncircumcised.” The rest of the book chronicles Matthew’s adventures at Belmont, the first time he went to a movie theater at the age of nineteen, his time as the manager of the coffeehouse/music venue Jammin’ Java, and his days as editor of the CCM Magazine, among other things. Chasing Amy, the chapter that documents his love for Amy Grant’s music growing up–when he was finally allowed to listen to “rock music,” that is–and the behind-the-scenes story of a time Amy appeared on CCM’s cover only after Matthew’s boss made up statements that he attributed to her because she didn’t fit his version of what a good Christian should be, is among Matthew’s best writing, and worth the price of the book for that chapter alone. Matthew sent me the manuscript for Hear No Evil when he finished it back in late October, and I immediately cleared my calendar for the evening and dug through my record collection to select the requisite soundtrack for the evening, LP’s by Sandi Patty, Amy Grant, and Michael W. Smith. I loved Matthew’s last book, Churched, and have recommended it countless times, but when I turned the last page of Hear No Evil a couple hours later, the general impression I was left with is that Matthew’s writing has somehow become more compassionate. Maybe it’s due to being another year or two older; maybe it’s a clearer focus that has come from the stories Matthew gets back from readers who find permission in his story to process and heal from their own religious upbringing, messed up as they often are. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for it. And don’t worry, it’s still at least as funny as Churched. Still plenty of satire, still plenty of stories that will have you nodding along in agreement and familiarity. As for my own journey with music, thankfully, I’ve come a long way in the past 10 years. I no longer believe that God only approves of music created by dead white guys or that I’m supposed to write a book advancing that point of view. And the music of Steve Green and Michael Card ended up opening up a new world to me–I even ended up touring with Mike for a season, as a part of his road crew. Like Matthew, I’m thankful that we don’t stay who we were as children, thankful for grace to grow, thankful for hope. Read the first chapter of Hear No Evil. Buy the book from Amazon. Matthew’s son, Elias, convincing you to buy the book.

Ron Block is an amazing musician and a regular smart alec. Also, he’s got mad insights. This is part one of two posts featuring a mere 5 questions for RB. 1.      I made fun of Twitter, then joined. You made fun of it (called me a Twaitor), then you joined. Is there a group that ends in “Anonymous” for guys like us? I, uh, joined because I got free air miles on..uh…Southwest. Yeah, Southwest. I find 140 characters to be extremely limiting to my inner child, who has a very copious supply of words and phrases and doesn’t like to edit. By the way, it’s RonBlockAKUS. Not that I ever use it, except every few days. 2.      Is it more important for artists who are Christians to convey truth or to create with excellence? (Note: Answer may not contain the words “False” or “Dichotomy.”) There is often a false dichotomy constructed between those two concepts. On creating with excellence: Artists who are Christians should first of all create art that is excellent. It should resonate with realness, honesty. There are many secular musicians who do this; Bonnie Raitt, Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Pat Metheny, Tony Rice, to name a few. I have a friend, a great musician. A songwriter gave him a cd of a gospel song and told him, “The Lord gave me this song.” When my friend listened to it later, he said his first thought was, “Wow, God must be a really crappy songwriter.” That’s technique. We should do our best to play, sing, write, paint as well as we can, and go on improving the talent we’ve been given. That songwriter may have had a real God-moment, but the technique didn’t allow it to come through. I’ve, uh, never experienced that, myself. On conveying truth: If an artist experiences truth on a regular basis, rather than merely reading about it in the Bible, and is honest, his work will begin to show it. It will be conveyed. I hear this a lot in the music of Andrew Peterson and his Square Peg buddies, and also Fernando Ortega. 3.      Why was it important to write the song, “He’s Holding On To Me?” I have rarely written a song with the concept of “What I Want To Say” in mind. I’ve done it a few times for Alison Krauss when she has an idea of a song she wants.  But even then it has involved the following method. Usually I start my writing with humming melodies over guitar chords (or, in many cases, attempting to). One day a bluegrass sort of tune and feel started up. I used my quick little recorder to capture each little bit of it until I had a verse and chorus recorded, played and hummed with nonsense syllables (you should hear it. It sounds ridiculous). When that was done, I did what I usually do; I put the guitar down, sat at my laptop, and played the tune over and over. Quite often the nonsense syllables suggest words to me, and the song and subject begin to take shape. When I do it this way, at least in the past, I often get whole lines pop into my head. Then, later, if they need a little editing, I try not to be lazy about it. I don’t have a lot of song-craft; often I get stuck and don’t know where to go with it, so I’m always learning as I go. Many times I’ve wished I’d gone to some school or other and studied composition and all that. But that’s what I get for spending way more time practicing banjo and guitar than writing songs or going to school. Gospel songs are my primary output probably because I read a lot in that direction. I have often lamented (and I think my wife has, too, secretly, while sleep-talking) that I haven’t written one of those huge country songs. I just want to own a Scottish castle. Just one. I’m not greedy. Songwriting is like a faucet. It has to be opened up frequently or the water turns to brown sludge. I’m finally writing again; sludge was first, then rusty water. Now it is less rusty but still doesn’t taste that good. Part Two to follow. Meanwhile, see Ron at these places: RonBlock.com Ron on Facebook Ron on Twitter Ron’s posts here at The Rabbit Room Ron at Banjo Hangout Hear Ron perform with his band, Alison Krauss and Union Station, here and here. Buy records here. And of course, here at the RR store.

Several years ago, I was part of a ladies group that decided to read through a book called Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World. Many ladies in the group really connected with that book and learned a lot from it. I was not one of them. That does NOT mean I’m super spiritual and always “choose the better part.” It’s just that I am in no way a Martha, not the kind that book describes anyway: someone who is always organized and on time, someone who loves hosting parties, making crafts, and baking food. No, I need the complete opposite of that book, something called Surviving in Martha’s World When You Have a Mary Heart. I’m the mom who’s always last in the kindergarten pick-up line, the leader who thought the Girl Scouts ceremony was next week, the wife who always makes her husband late for church, that’s me. So when I first heard Jill Phillips sing, “Do you have a place for losers in this race?” I knew I’d found a kindred spirit. It was at a concert last spring where she sang with the Captains Courageous, a group made up of her husband Andy Gullahorn, Andrew Peterson, and Ben Shive. Jill and Andy told a few stories about their kids that night and when the show was over I just had to meet her. When I got to the front of the line, I reached out for a handshake and Jill leaned in for a hug, then we switched. We both laughed nervously and finally hugged like old friends. That was also the night I passed AP a letter offering (read: pleading) to write for the Rabbit Room, something that felt quite un-Mary-like at the time. But looking back maybe it is a bit like Mary to take risks and be vulnerable. Those are the same words I thought of when reading over Jill’s responses to my e-mail interview. And whether she feels like a Mary or a Martha, Jill Phillips has definitely chosen the better part. Read on to see how. JB: Ok, Jill, first things first. How much longer do we have to wait for the Christian version of Lillith Fair? Don’t you agree that the time for mimicry is now, before everyone forgets all about the secular counterpart? There’s a rumor on Facebook, which I may or may not have started, that Sara Groves is putting together a tour headlining you, Sandra McCracken, Karin Behrquist, and Lori Chaffer. Comments? Jill: I have talked to Sara a few times about some kind of group project with Sandra and Lori and I think it would be incredible. We’re all so busy I think the main obstacle would be finding a time when we could all be in the same place but it isn’t out of the question. It would be a dream project. I don’t know Karin personally but I love her music as well. Her voice is beyond beautiful. JB: I must admit I am a new fan of yours, and have only seen you perform a few times. When I listen to your records and concentrate on the sound and style, artists like Shawn Colvin and Jewel (the early days) come to mind, as well as Amy Grant and Sara Groves. I’m just curious if you grew up in church and what sort of music you were exposed to. Was secular music embraced or frowned upon in your home? Jill: I did grow up in the church and grew up mainly listening to folk music. My parents loved James Taylor, Harry Chapin, Peter, Paul and Mary, and many other singer-songwriters who came out of the 60’s and 70’s. They also began to listen to Christian music when I was young and Amy Grant became a staple in our household. They listened to all kinds of music and never made me feel like “Christian” music was the only thing I needed to be listening to. They took me to James Taylor concerts and Amy Grant concerts alike and I am very thankful for that. When I was in high school and really interested in becoming a better singer I listened to a lot of Susan Ashton. In college I was exposed to a plethora of new female singer-songwriters (new to me, anyway) like Patty Griffin, Jonatha Brooke, Patty Larkin and Shawn Colvin. I was just soaking it all in and trying to learn from people who I felt were great at their craft. JB: You’ve said there’s no secret formula for successfully living out your roles as wife, mother and artist, but practically speaking, what’s your schedule like? Are you most creative in the early mornings, or late at night? And do you spend most of your time working completely alone, or do you work better bouncing ideas around with fellow artists? Jill: To be honest, I’m in a phase of life where being creative musically is a constant challenge.  I think mothers are incredibly creative people, but a lot of that energy in my life is going to parenting and sometimes there is very little left over for music. I try to give myself a break and understand that this season is short, otherwise I can make myself crazy and do a bad job at both things. My two oldest are in school and my youngest will be before I know it so I’m trying not to rush that. Right now I try to set aside one day a week for writing, I find that is a realistic goal for where I am. We’re also taking practical steps like moving another piano into our dining room so I can try and write more during their naps, etc. Even with guitars in the house I was really missing a piano, ours was in our office which is detached from our house. Having another one in the house has made a huge difference and helps me make the most of those short bits of time throughout the day. I think writing during the day is best for me because usually by the time the kids are in bed I’m completely exhausted! I guess I work best in the mornings. Most of the time I write alone, but lately I’ve been pushing myself to write with new people. Randall Goodgame and I have been working on a song and I also wrote a little bit with Matt Wertz this fall. I think it’s really good for stretching myself and hopefully it leads to songs that I wouldn’t have written by myself. JB: One of AP’s popular songs is “Family Man,” where he talks about struggling to settle into domestic life, but what a blessing it turned out to be. It’s a great song, but it’s not all that surprising to me. I’ve often wondered how church people would react if a woman penned a similar song. Have you brushed up against negativity or admiration concerning your career moves, for instance, keeping your recording name Phillips? Jill: That’s a great question. I don’t know that I know the answer, but I do feel a different expectation placed on me at times versus my male artist friends. I often have people come up to me after shows and ask with great concern about my children and how they manage when I am gone. In the reviews of my records, even when they’re being incredibly complimentary, the reviewers tend to spend a lot of time talking about the different guys that helped me on my record and made it what it is. The comments are subtle and many are very understandable, but my husband does not deal with these same issues. Keeping my maiden name for music never seemed like a statement to me because I started doing music and meeting with my first record label before I was married. In some ways it has been really helpful because if someone calls or approaches me using the name Jill Phillips I know they know me through music. At church, with friends, and just about everywhere else I go by my married name. JB: There’s a scene in Walk The Line where Sam Phillips asks Johnny Cash what’s the one song he would play if it were his last song ever. Is there a song you’ve written, or perhaps sung, which feels quintessentially “Jill”? Jill: I feel connected to most of my songs, with the exception of a few from early on that I rarely play. I have to say that “Nobody’s Got it All Together” sums up a lot of what I want to say through my music and a lot of where I am as a person. “Grand Design” feels incredibly personal because in my mind I always see my father when I’m singing it. It takes me back to that day we lost him and the message speaks to me as much today as it did then. I played it recently at a retreat with Eugene Peterson in Texas and cried like a baby while introducing the song. It really took me off guard, but I think there’s something about that message of God’s sovereignty in the midst of tragedy that resonates deep within me. JB: Is it just in the bag of tricks for good performers, or is it pretty hard to sing intensely personal songs, like “Any Other Way” and “How Precious Life Is” without turning into a blubbering mess on stage? Jill: I find it can be very hard for me to sing intensely personal songs. Andy wrote “How Precious Life Is” for our dear friends who lost a son and I think it can be easier to go there emotionally when you’re doing it on behalf of someone else.  It took me a long time to want to sing “Any Other Way” live. It’s about a difficult season in our marriage and admitting that to a group of people feels like you’re opening yourself up to scrutiny. At the same time, that’s the very reason I have to do it. It’s at the core of what I believe about songwriting and telling my story truthfully. Going back to the theme of “Nobody’s Got it All Together,” if I pretend my life is perfect I can’t fully express what the gospel has meant to me. JB: Have you and Andy publicly shared how you met and fell in love? Would you consider humoring us with a sweet little Valentine’s Day stroll down memory lane? Jill: Andy and I met at Belmont University when we were both students. I was 17 and he was 18. We were babies!  We had classes together every day because we were part of this experimental interdisciplinary program where you would get all of your general ed credits in one big class. So I saw Andy every day at 8 am and over time we got to be great friends. I think we both realized pretty early on in our relationship that we would spend the rest of our lives together. We started dating when I was a sophomore and dated all through school, even got engaged on Belmont’s campus. JB: We’ve heard Eric Peters is the old Pappy of the Square Pegs. Is it safe to say you play Mom on the tour bus? Are the rest of the guys just overgrown boys? Is there a moody, rebellious teen in the bunch? Jill: I definitely have a “mom-ish” role on the bus. I’m always telling people who are sick to take their medicine, I work on my Christmas cards on the bus, I tell them to get good sleep. That is really mom-ish now that I think about it. I also feel a bit like the younger sister in that I have to endure jokes, ridicule, action movies, whatever else they might throw at me. I have a brother so I can take it. Everyone does have a role on the tour and very different personalities, but there’s no crazy moody or rebellious one. I think there’s something about being on the bus that brings out the inner college student in all of us. Most of us are married and many of us have children so having food prepared for us, getting to sleep until we wake up, having fewer responsibilities than we would on a normal day at home can be like a vacation. You’re also forced to live in community so there’s a lot of laughing and playing games and then sometimes deep conversations about life and faith. There are no egos in this group. Everyone is so glad to be a part of this tour and a part of telling this story that is bigger than all of us. JB: And the last thing I believe all Rabbit Room readers are dying to know, Jill: If you were Bella Swan, what would you choose–vampire or werewolf? Jill: Vampire. Any day of the week. Now I’ll just sit back and wait for the angry theologians to chastise me. —————– Visit Jill’s website here, and be sure and check out all her CDs in the Rabbit Room store.

The last couple of months have been incredibly busy. The release of The Fiddler’s Gun and the Christmas season at the Rabbit Room kept me ragged and tired for the month of December, and January has been filled with the rigors and long hours of my day job where I’m away from home and often too tired at the end of the day to get my mind in the right place for serious writing. With the arrival of February, there’s an end in sight. I’ll be back home in Nashville soon and hope to have a few weeks, if not a month or so, to really buckle down get some work done. Fiddler’s Green, currently at around 50,000 words, is about half-written. With my typical writing goal of 1000-1500 words a day that means I’ve still got well-over a month of non-stop, butt-in-chair work to do just to get it all down and ready for rewrites, revisions, and edits. My hope is to put it in your hands by Christmas so I really need to get busy. I might have to bump that word goal up into the 2,000 neighborhood. Experience has taught me that the absolute enemy of a writer is inconsistency. Writing, and more accurately, long form prose, requires a schedule. It requires the writer to put words on the page on a regular and predictable basis. It’s like the famous quote: “I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at 9am sharp.” It’s a labor that relies on a well-exercised muscle and when that muscle falls into atrophy it’s no quick task to bring it back up to operating level. For the past months, I’ve rarely put the writing muscles to use and now that I’m sitting here trying to flex them again, it shows. The words you are reading right now are, in some ways, little more than procrastination. In other ways, however, they are the stretch before the marathon. When I get back to Nashville, I intend to run. Time to write. And I’m looking forward to it. The road ahead leads through some dark and beautiful country and the miles may leave my feet blistered and swollen. Wish me well; Fin’s gone far astray and I’m anxious to bring her home.

Today in church, Randy spoke about freedom. (Hooray!!) As believers, we need to be reminded (at least I do, often) that the written laws were nailed to the cross and that we are now called to live as free people. Sometimes I fear (for good reason, I think) that our culture believes that the words “Christian” and “freedom” are diametrically opposed, irreconcilable. That’s another [huge] discussion for another time. “He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross.” (Colossians 2:13) Well hey, free ticket, right? Sa-weet. Now that we’re free from the law, unbound, we have a choice. The obvious, more pleasurable avenue would be to live it up, to run rampant with this freedom, to push the limits and inch our toes to the edge of the precipice under this umbrella of forgiveness. Either that or we can live in the deepest, fullest reality of our freedom and endeavor to love each other with the compassion that was extended to us, to mirror our Father’s greatest act of love. One of Randy’s illustrations was the following story (from what I believe he said was the 17th century), one of a young woman and her desperate plea and act of selflessness for her lover’s life. Tears came instantly to my eyes as he relayed the end where she lays her bruised body before Cromwell and pleads on behalf of her dear condemned. In this particular legend, the law was beaten. By love. Slowly England’s sun was setting oe’r the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,– He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night!” “Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,– “I’ve a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset;” and her lips grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night!” “Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart), “Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right: Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!” Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, “At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must “die. And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; One low murmur, faintly spoken. “Curfew must not ring to-night!” She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door, Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before. Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro; As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!” She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell; Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!” Out she swung,– far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,– There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro. And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell. “Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white, Stilled her frightened heart’s wild throbbing: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!” It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before, Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white, Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night. O’er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow, Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. “Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!” Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky, Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet; Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night.”

PORTENTS OF DOOM (In which Gully, Ben, and I get apocalyptic with accordions.)

One of the books a friend gave me for Christmas was Brennan Manning’s The Furious Longing of God. As I was reading the last chapter a couple days ago, I came across this paragraph: “By entering human history, God has demolished all previous conceptions of who God is and what man is supposed to be. We are, suddenly, presented with a God who suffers crucifixion. This is not the God of the philosophers who speak with cool detachment about the Supreme Being. A Supreme Being would never allow spit on his face.” I immediately thought of another passage from a book I read last year that I first heard about here on the Rabbit Room, Walter Wangerin, Jr.’s Book of the Dun Cow. Although this tale about a rooster and his coop is not an allegory, it is still possible to see in this story hints of what I think is one of the great truths of Christianity, the idea that God has come near. Reading this, I am comforted that, though we ache with the knowledge that things are not as they should be, we know, in the midst of our suffering, that we are not alone. The dark land everywhere held still, as if on purpose before such a ringing, echoing cry. The dark sky said nothing. The Rooster, with not an effort to save himself, sagged, rolled down the roof, slipped over the edge of the Coop, and fell heavily to the ground. Wind and sobs together were knocked out of him; he lay dazed. And then it was that the Dun Cow came to him. She put her soft nose against him, to nudge him into a more peaceful position. Gently she arranged his head so that he might clearly see her. Her sweet breath went into her nostrils, and he assumed that he woke up; but he didn’t move. The Dun Cow took a single step back from the Rooster, then, and looked at him. Horns strangely dangerous on one so soft stood wide away and sharp from either side of her head. Her eyes were liquid with compassion – deep,deep, as the earth is deep. Her brow knew his suffering and knew, besides that, worlds more. But the goodness was that, though this wide brow knew so much, yet it bent over his pain alone and creased with it. Chauntecleer watched his own desolation appear in the brown eyes of the Cow, then sink so deeply into them that she shuddered. Her eyes pooled as she looked at him. The tears rose and spilled over. And then she was weeping even as he had wept a few minutes ago – except without the anger. Strangely, Chauntecleer felt an urge to comfort her; but at this moment he was no Lord, and the initiative was not in him. A simple creature only, he watched – felt – the miracle take place. Nothing changed: The clouds would not be removed, nor his knowledge plenished. But there was this. His grief had become her grief, his sorrow her own. And though he grieved not one bit less for that, yet his heart made room for her, for her will and wisdom, and he bore the sorrow better. The Dun Cow lay down next to the Rooster and spent the rest of the night with him. She never spoke a word, and Chauntecleer did not sleep. But for a little while they were together. At dawn Chauntecleer crowed lauds; and then he went alone into his Coop.

As I mentioned in my last posts, Josh Petersen (marketing, Centricity) and I hit the road for a week to meet with radio stations between TX and MN in January.  If you’ve followed my career over the past few years, you’ve heard me talk about Josh. This most recent trip was to introduce my new single, “More Like Falling In Love” to our friends at radio, a trip we began in Houston and then worked our way North to Minnesota.  Whenever Josh and I travel, we try to see historical landmarks along the way.  This time, we visited the place where JFK was assassinated and went to the museum in Dallas.  But that was about all we had time for on this run… it was an aggressive schedule with non-stop driving, arriving at the hotel late at night and leaving early the next morning.  We’ve done these trips before and over longer periods of time, but both of us remarked how we’d never felt more tired than we were on this one, dragging ourselves across the finish line in MN where I was reunited with Taya and the boys and Josh readied himself for his flight back to Nashville Standing on “the grassy knoll” in Dallas Josh often jokes that he eats like an eighth grader – mac & cheese and PB&Js usually – but we ate pretty good on this trip and I was proud of him for expanding his palette. We had Tex-mex in Texas, Italian in Oklahoma, Mongolian in Iowa, and finally classic American malts and cheeseburgers in Wisconsin.  We talked a lot about the relationships that mean the most to us, we had our hearts broken over what was happening in Haiti, and we listened to a lot of good music.  I discovered Wyclef Jean on this trip (I’m a little late to the party, I know), fell in love with Johnny Cash all over again, and even got hooked on Josh’s audio book of Sarah Palin’s, which I thought I would hate but actually really enjoyed (not to mention, it was way more entertaining than the old Ronald Reagan speeches that Josh used to make me listen to when we were first on the road together. Josh’s passion for music is matched only by his improbable passion for fiscal conservatism.)  We had a great time on the road with each other.  After weeks and weeks of being on the road with Josh over the years, he may know more about me than anyone else.  Scary thought? Ah, not so much.  Josh is a good keeper of honest conversations. Driving with Josh… and taking pictures Over the last few years I’ve made some great friends at radio with Josh’s help – never trying to pressure anyone to play my songs, but grateful to get to share my story and give them a chance to hear the heart behind the songs, with a face and a story associated with them.  As I mentioned in my previous post, radio music directors receive hundreds of singles each year, but can only add tens of them. I’ll be honest and confess that in my younger years as an indie artist who couldn’t get airplay to save his life, I was often tempted to think of Christian radio as the bad guy.  But that was before I understood their world, and I’ve been blessed to meet some of my favorite people these last few years in the world of radio – people who work hard to serve their listeners – and the real fruit of these radio tours have been the friendships that have come out of them. As much as I’ve gotten to share my story with them, I feel like I’ve gotten to understand their stories a bit better myself. There have been many music directors who took a chance on me and added songs like “Blessed Be” and “Everything I Own” when nobody else would.  I’m grateful for them, and their early support has helped “More Like Falling In Love” do as well as it is right now.  We’re so grateful for everyone who’s playing the song right now and hope that it continues to connect. I should add that Josh has also been Andrew Peterson’s biggest advocate at Centricity, too. Josh may be his biggest fan, and beneath all his bulldog conservative bluster is a guy with a tender heart who cares about art and spends himself on the artists he believes in.  Josh is a delightful contradiction.  I’ve witnessed in wonder how he will blare good ol’ boy Hank Williams Jr anthems for hours and then sit in the front row of an Andrew Peterson concert with tears in his eyes, calling out requests of some of his most tender ballads.  I’ve never feared for my life more than when his team was losing as we listened on the radio, and the worse they did, the more aggressive his driving (and language ;-), but then when we got to the venue, he’d be just as aggressive in the way he would serve me, constantly checking to see if I had everything I needed. Last week Josh resigned at Centricity. It was quite a blow, honestly, and Andrew and I have lost one of our biggest advocates in the music industry.  It’s a good move for Josh, and we’re happy for him, but I know we’ll both miss him and we’re so grateful for all he did for us while he worked there. I think I’ll even miss the Ronald Reagan speeches and conservative political audio books. Josh & I on top of Chicago in the Hancock building Some of my best memories from this season of my life involve Josh.  Our road trips were marked with heated debates, dangerously honest conversations, and lots of laughter.  Josh and I couldn’t be more different from each other – ever watch the odd couple? that’s us – and because of that, spending so much time on the road with him was like having one of those side mirrors held up at an angle next to the main mirror – it helped me to see parts of myself I’d never seen before, revealing blind spots and giving me a new perspective on my own life.  Besides that, it was also fun.  When Andrew Peterson was about to go out on a promo tour with Josh, I told him that Josh “will be the most colorful and outrageous character in this chapter of your story – enjoy him.” AP, JP, and JG I have a lot of great memories, but one of my favorites was when our promotional tour brought us through Minnesota and we stayed the night at my house. Gus would reenact entire scenes of Nacho Libre for Josh, and my older boys gamed with him all night.  When one of their friends came over to play too, Josh could sense he was a bit of a bully, and so he ruthlessly dominated him at Mario Strikers to teach him some humility.  He got sick that night (we think it was food poisoning from our last visit that day) and spent the whole night becoming intimately aquainted with our bathroom.  I tried to get him to cancel the next day of traveling through Wisconsin, but he wouldn’t hear of it. We had a job to do. He threw up so violently in the middle of the night that he popped the blood vessels around his eyes!  When we left that morning the circles under his eyes were so dark that he looked like he was wearing a bandit mask.  We had successful radio visits that next day, but I’ve always wondered if those stations added my song because Josh looked so scary and intimidating.  I could go on and on, but I’ll leave it at this and encourage you to check out our video blogs on you tube that Josh and I made from the road over the last few years. Thanks Josh for all you’ve done, be blessed in this next chapter.  I’ll miss our road trips. Because of his work and the rest of the crew at Centricity, we’ve been able to get some good momentum on “More Like Falling In Love” – a song that Josh has championed from the start calling it one of the strongest radio singles he’s gotten to work on.  He told me that it was his personal mission to do everything he could to break this song at radio. And now we are enjoying the fruit of our labors and are grateful for the reception the song is receiving at radio, praying that it keeps gaining momentum.  These are the stations now playing the song, and if there’s one in your area playing it, you’d be doing us a big favor by letting them know that you’re glad they are.  Thanks all. KLTY / Dallas, TX WWWA/Augusta, ME WAFJ / Augusta, GA WSCF / Vero Beach, FL WAKW / Cincinnati, OH KLRC / Fayetteville, AR KXOJ / Tulsa, OK WGRC / Williamsport, PA WBHY / Mobile, AL WCVK / Bowling Green, KY WJIE / Louisville, KY KCVO / Columbia, MO KNWS / Waterloo, IA KKJM / St. Cloud, MN WCSG / Grand Rapids, MI WAYR / Brunswick, GA KBIQ / Colorado Springs, CO WCTL / Eire, PA New Life Media / Illinois WQME / Indianapolis, IN KSLT / Rapid City, SD WNWC / Madison, WI WGNV / Wausau, WI WPER/Fredericksburg, VA KSLT / Rapid City, SD KJIL / Meade, KS WWIB / Eau Claire, WI WMUZ / Detroit, MI KGCB / Flagstaff-Prescott, AZ KZKZ / Ft. Smith, AR KSOS / Las Vegas, NV WHPZ / South Bend, IN WCLN / Fayetteville, NC WLGH / Lansing, MI WJQK / Grand Rapids, MI KPEZ / Austin, TX WBSN / New Orleans, LA KHZR / St. Louis, MO WBYO / Sellersville, PA Sirius-XM / Satellite
Radio KFIS / Portland, OR WFFH-Salem / Nashville KBMQ / Monroe, LA KADI / Springfield, MO KXGM / Cedar Rapids, IA KNMI / Farmington, NM

I’d seen him despondent a few times as of late. Sometimes the answer that loves gives is the hardest one to take. Thus begins the Bill Mallonee (Vigilantes of Love) song, “Skin“, about artist Vincent Van Gogh’s self-inflicted removal of a portion of his left ear, and eventually what the artist removed from the earth — himself. Last fall, I played a show at a tiny downtown venue in Birmingham, AL with songwriter Bill Mallonee, one of my earliest folk-rock heroes. The venue, complete with a pair of worn-out couches, an upstairs used-bookstore, delicatessen-style tile flooring, and overhead fluorescent lighting – hardly a rockstar arena – was that of my dreadlocked friend, Beau, whom I’ve known for nearly a decade, back when I called Birmingham home. Beau recently began hosting occasional concerts and, knowing I was a fan, asked if I’d want to open for Bill. My wife said I’d be dumb not to do it, even though my temp job required a late-night drive home afterwards. Bummer, since I was hoping to grab some Surin West Pad Thai while in town. First, a little bit of history. I started playing guitar in college around 1991/92, and wrote my first song in 1993 (A stick of gum to the person who can name the title of that one). I, an inexperienced and impressionable neo-Christian, was a fan of radio-friendly mainstream Christian acts (*Little known fact: I once came *this close* to auditioning for the rap part in a Steven Curtis Chapman song when he visited my hometown during The Great Adventure tour. Will you mock this?) I had little to no experience with introspective, heart-on-the-sleeve music, so when a college friend made me a mix tape of a variety of under the radar artists (Vigilantes of Love, The Choir, Lucinda Williams, et al.) I found myself awed by the new world opened unto me with its gut instincts, lyrical poetry and spiritual honesty. For the first time, I related not because I was spoon-fed a message, nor because I was admonished to aspire to unattainable perfection or to someone else’s sense of right and wrong, but because of the artists’ willingness to speak of their own brokenness, their own dreams, their own failures and successes, their own altars to hope. This non-mainstream art was like discovering an entirely new solar system, a parallel world to that which I’d known. It was fresh with breath and breadth, and I, at the time, could not get enough of it. From my previously well-worn seat, I suited up, opened the hatch, and dove into that cosmos. When the opportunity arose to hear Bill again, much less open for him, I was all too eager. I played my six or so songs, took a seat on the tile floor beneath the scalding hot coffee tap, and listened as Bill and wife, Muriah, played old and mostly new material for an hour or so. I watched as he animatedly pointed a finger at his skull or heart, or waved with his pick hand at the invisible air, visually portraying a lyric. This, I have always loved about his shows, especially in those early Vigilantes of Love days when his seismic band awed audiences, and Bill cascaded, guitar in hand, from standing to a kneeling position in one swift, free-fall motion. Aside from the hooks, watching his shows was half the fun. I’ve had the opportunity to share a few email, phone and face-to-face conversations with Bill over the years, our last one circa 2003 when Miracle of Forgetting had just come out, and he had some nice things to say, not just about my music, but to me personally in offering counsel and insight in the form of his many grueling years of experience as a touring, album-making, songwriting artist whom nobody ever really “got.” We talked about commercial success, commercial failure, perseverance, and carpal tunnel syndrome. To this day, I am grateful to him for those veritable shots in the arm. Years later, at this tiny downtown venue in Birmingham, AL, while we each set up our respective gear and merchandise, I noticed that, while we chatted and compared notes on the year 2009, I felt comfortable in my own skin, and though I was most definitely a fan of his, I felt more a peer than a college-aged scrub. Years and miles, I suppose, have a way of changing you, of placing true reality on the horizon. You know you come with empty hands, or you don’t come at all. You deal your best hand out in the marketplace, and then wait for the axe to fall. At the end of the day, when you “come with empty hands” – when your soul is on display for all to glare at, to laud, to criticize, to slice open – the unflenching hope of any artistic vocation is that these doings are less an act of squalid entertainment, but an act of obedience by the lifelong act of decreasing oneself. The sadness of Vincent Van Gogh is that, long after any ego trip he might have had was over, long after he stopped believing himself a decent painter, Van Gogh decided that his own life – and earlobe – were inconsequential, and he eventually removed them both. There isn’t a single soul on earth who isn’t better for having experienced the art of Van Gogh. And that is the way I feel about Bill Mallonee and his lifelong work, a solar system that I’ve had the privilege of glimpsing through hazel eyes for the better part of the last twenty years. Be sure and check out and support Bill and his music here.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/Skin.mp3 Skin now i’d seen him despondent a few times as of late sometimes the answer that love gives is the hardest one to take i know he was prone to paint the voice of his own fear so vincent he picked up the blade and he put it to his ear look at yourself in the mirror you’re all rumpled red stubbled and gaunt you walk a dead end path in a dry corn field and now this morose response your princess she don’t wanna see you no your princess she don’t wanna hear so vincent he picked up the blade and he put it to his ear now look if you’re gonna come around here and say those sort of things you gotta take a few on the chin you talking about love and all that stuff you better bring your thickest skin sometimes you can’t please everyone sometimes you can’t please anyone at all you sew your heart onto your sleeve and wait for the ax to fall you there with the paint box you there with paper and pen me i got this blunt instrument i’m gonna play on ’til the end and you know you come with empty hands or you don’t come at all you deal your best hand out in the marketplace and let the chips fall the package it comes wrapped up there is a lesson here vincent he picked up the blade and he put it to his ear now look if you’re gonna come around here and say those sort of things you gotta take a few on the chin yeah you’re talking about sin and redemption well you better wear your thickest skin sometimes you can’t please everyone sometimes you can’t please anyone at all sew your heart onto your sleeve and wait for the ax to fall Written by Bill Mallonee for Irving Music, Inc., Allegiance Music, Russachugama Music and CyBrenJoJosh (BMI) ©1995

First, let me give you just one little glimpse of why I love it here. I just walked up the stairs from my classroom and outside, around on a winding path that leads to the door to the teachers’ lounge. (It’s time for my morning tea.) The gym, where kids are having PE right now, is across the courtyard from where my classroom is. There is a giant magnolia tree in the courtyard and a nice grassy patch, and a sweet little bronze sculpture of a child reading on a bench under the tree. Flowing loudly from I was working as a freelance graphic designer/artist/portrait painter/whatever I could get my hands on, and had been doing so for about two years. I believe that God gives us, a lot of times, what we don’t want, so that it’s really obvious when we find what we do want. So I was made really certain of the fact that I cannot be my own boss. I’m not motivated enough, or even if I am, I just can’t do the manager’s job as well as the artist’s job. It’s just too much to ask of a creative soul to tell her that she has to produce the work but then also get out there and hock it. It’s exhausting. I know that people do it, and I think those people are freaks of nature who consume way too much caffeine and probably don’t sleep as well as I do at night. That’s entirely unfair and insensitive of me, but I think you understand where I’m coming from. SO. I had just returned from working all summer in the kitchen at Kanakuk Camp, the one out in Durango, Colorado. Good times. That’s actually when I was working on the Behold The Lamb of God artwork in my free time when I wasn’t cracking 400 eggs or hovering over the tilt skillet making scads of pancakes. (More on that later.) So here I sit, six years later, planning lessons on Chinese Dragons and the psychedelic art of Peter Max and adhering paint stir sticks to puppets for the second graders’ upcoming show. Little blessings, they’re made of paper and glue.

I’m happy to announce that The Fiddler’s Gun: Letters has finally gone to print. I approved the proof on Friday and the presses are rolling. The book is a collection of sixteen letters and other documents that detail some of the further adventures of Fin Button and her shipmates during the course of events recounted in The Fiddler’s Gun. Also, included is a sneak peek at an excerpt from Fiddler’s Green that includes the first appearance of an important new character. This special companion to The Fiddler’s Gun is being printed in a limited run of 100 signed and numbered copies. Each of my Tier 2 Patrons will receive their copy in the mail, free of charge. The remainder will be for sale, exclusively at the Rabbit Room store and when they’re gone, they are gone forever (though I do hope to make a digital version available at a later date.) Here’s a look at the introduction: Regarding Letters Found Herein During my research for The Fiddler’s Gun, I came across countless references to letters alleged to have been written by Fin Button to her childhood companion, Peter LaMee. In my recounting of her flight from colonial Georgia and the subsequent rise to her now legendary station in maritime tradition, I have, regrettably, made only passing mention of her espistolary efforts. Unfortunately, I was unable to do the considerable legwork necessary to unearth the letters themselves during the writing of the book. In the time since my completion of the manuscript I have taken up the quest of tracking down as many of these letters to Peter as possible. I have scoured the musty old libraries of the eastern seaboard in search of words and papers fallen out of the memory of even the most studious and bespectacled of librarians. I have crept among stacks of papers and boxes of long-forgotten correspondence in small harbor-village archives. I have ventured to the ghost town of Ebenezer in the wilds of eastern Georgia to pry up floorboards and search amid the webs of a thousand scattering spiders. I have braved the dank blackness of cellars dug when whispers of revolution filled the houses above them and have peeled back secret doors that once hid the frail and the young from soldiers fierce to quell murmurs of independence. And though I often met with disappointment and failure and many times came away from some time-worn repository of documentary gold empty-handed and weary, I have, in the end, spirited away a precious small number of treasures. These hand-written letters have defied the threat of decay and neglect to find themselves in my careful hands and I shall do my best to honor their long-suffering by diligently transcribing their nearly-lost tales. Though most are letters written by Fin Button and addressed to Peter LaMee, I have found others that bear mention as well. By entering these postal-borne treasures here in one binding I hope they will find their rightful place with Fin and her tale. In the end we shall see what stories they tell of their authors and those age-old days of revolution. —A. S. Peterson Raider of Postal Antiquities Note: I thought I was going to be home next week to sign these so they could be shipped out but I’ve just learned that I’ll be stuck in Texas until the 19th of February. I’ll keep the book up in the store and you’ll have to consider the purchase a pre-order. They will ship just as soon as I can get back to Nashville and sign them. If you’d prefer the book to go ahead and ship unsigned, just send an email to orders@rabbitroom.com and I’ll make sure it gets sent right out. I apologize for the delay.

The oldest song on my new album is also the title track. I wrote it in Pennsylvania in 2008, after spending a few days at Lancaster Bible College, a fine establishment that flew me in to talk to the students about writing and to put on a concert with the Captains Courageous the next day. (Psst! Lancaster! I had a great time and would love to come back.) So there I was in Lancaster, feeling as sorry for myself as I ever had, languishing in the hotel room alone, wishing Andy and Ben’s plane would hurry up and arrive. The road is, of all lonely places, one of the loneliest. There’s a certain thrill in the beginning of the trip. I love seeing the sights, exploring new towns, feeling for a while like an observer of life rather than a liver of one. Of course, that’s a dangerous place to be. Soon the excitement fades, and before you know it every face you see is a reminder of the faces you left behind. Every house looks sad. You start paying attention to the weather in your hometown. My heart literally aches sometimes when I hear my children’s voices on the phone. Along with the homesickness, on this particular trip I was shadowboxing some old familiar demons. I’m susceptible to a particular set of lies, voices that ring in my ears, voices that would have me believe a thousand things of myself and my God other than the truth to which I cling. When my faith falters and I forget my God, when I forget that his undying love now stands guard against all condemnation, I hold myself in contempt. I can hardly look in the mirror because all I see is sin, sin, sin. All I see is a fool. I see a failure. This is the point in my little essay when I stop and make a disclaimer. I don’t loathe myself every day. When I’m with my family, when I’m on a plane with Ben and Andy, when I’m at church, most of the time I’m doing shows and talking to folks afterward the voices are silent. I don’t hear them because Christ himself has my attention. I don’t hear them because I am forgetting self and remembering the holy Other. Because I felt this way in Lancaster doesn’t mean I’m in a constant funk. Joy marks my life in Christ. In many ways happiness does, too. Still, there are moments of despair. That reminds me of this woman I met after a concert once. I opened for Michael Card, and at the end of my set we played “The Silence of God” together (another lament). She found me after the show and with a smile as big as her purse said, “You should be happier. Be happy! Don’t be so sad! Be happy!” I tried and failed to hide my annoyance. “Why?” I said. “Was Jesus happy all the time?” She blinked, smiled her immovable smile, and repeated after a moment, “But you should be happy!” Here’s the thing: God wants more for us than happiness. In fact, of all our emotional postures, happiness might be the most fleeting and inane. What do we learn about holiness through happiness? Compassion (literally to “hurt with”), joy, gladness (which is not the same as happiness, I don’t think), contentment, sorrow, and even righteous anger are all more sanctifying than mere happiness. There’s nothing wrong with happiness. It’s a good thing. But it’s not the only thing. You won’t be healthy if all you eat is cake. Back to Lancaster. I, like Westley in The Princess Bride, was in the Pit of Despair. I hated myself. I disbelieved that God could love such a worm as I. That day, that little hotel room was as dark a place as I could remember being. The room was thick with sorrow seasoned with fear–a potent combination. My soul cried out against all hope that it would be heard. And then, though I hardly knew it at the time, I was. The King of Heaven heard. He stooped down from Heaven and loved me in my lowly state. And that, of course, is the story dripping like dew on all creation. He loves to tell it. I started this song that long, dark night without knowing where it would end. I didn’t know what I thought, or what I believed. I didn’t know what I was trying to say. I was lamenting. I knew that much. By the time the final refrain appeared I believed again, weak as I was. The Lord reached deeper than my anguish and my disbelief and lifted me into the truth. THE LAST FRONTIER (A NEW LAMENT) Why don’t the mountains make me cry no more? They don’t sing the way they did before They’re just piles of stone, as dead as bones Like corpses on a field of war And they just don’t make me cry no more And the highway’s like an old sad song People moving through their lives alone On the run from grace, from place to place Like fugitives without a home And the highway’s like an old sad song And my heart is black as coal It’s been mined and there ain’t no gold It’s so dark in there, but I don’t care I will lay down in this empty hole Where my heart is black as coal And oh, there is nowhere left to go from here I have fallen past the last frontier But at the bottom of this well I hear you breathing: Love below me Love around me Love above me Love has found me Love has found me here So lay me down Oh, lay me down in a field of gold and green I got up in the morning, washed my face, and picked up the guys from the airport, ready to sing my songs and tell my stories to whoever would listen. It wasn’t until later that I remembered King David’s words: Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.

You’ve heard the phrase before: “It’s all good.” People toss it out there all the time. I’ve caught myself saying it to try to smooth over situations where something bad has happened. Andrew and Randall tore down the notion that everything is “all good” with their realistic but hopeful writings. Bob Dylan satirized the phrase “it’s all good” recently in song: The widow’s cry, the orphan’s plea Everywhere you look, more misery Come along with me, babe, I wish you would You know what I’m sayin’, it’s all good All good Not to harp on the subject, since we’ve already had two posts on it, but it’s an important one. This is why Tolkien wrote, “Anyway, all this stuff (his reflection about his stories) is mainly concerned with Fall, Morality, and the Machine … There cannot be any ‘story’ without a fall – all stories are ultimately about the fall – at least not human minds as we know them and have them.” There was, as Andrew and Randall both said, a time when death wasn’t inevitable and evil wasn’t a part of the stained fabric of our world. But that time cannot be, and as such, there can be no story without conflict, without a fall. All stories that have a fall are reflecting on the simple, inescapable reality (not matter how hard we try to escape it!) that the world is not as it should be. The Lord of the Rings is so real a story to us both because the evil of Sauron is very real and potent, and the evil inside Frodo the same. The Chronicles of Narnia are so powerful because each character has to deal not only with evil witches and deceitful enemies, but with deceit and evil within. Thankfully, Aslan is gentle and merciful, for all his terror and holiness. I have a suspicion that the real reason the anti-hero has become so popular is not because we’ve become more depraved in our thinking and in what we want from our heroes, but because we know we’re every bit as bad, as fallen, as those anti-heroes. The anti-hero, or the Gothic hero-villain, represents our hope that despite the gigantic mess we’ve made of our lives, it can all be redeemed. It’s not all good. But it will be. Every sin and blasphemy will be forgiven. ~ Jesus

Our guest contributor today is Elijah Davidson. He is a long time Rabbit Roomer and some may remember him as the winner of our Theolo-Vision (TM) contest a couple of years ago. He’s also a student at Fuller Theological Seminary and a contributor to the Brehm Center’s blog where he often tackles issues at the juxtaposition of theology and art. I hope you’ll give this Theolo-Visionary a warm welcome. -Pete Peterson “The worst slave-owners were those who were kind to their slaves, and so prevented the horror of the system being realized by those who suffered from it, and understood by those who contemplated it.” -Oscar Wilde Where is your source of stability? What do you depend on? In the midst of the turmoil of life, where is peace? What is your hope? For many, financial security is the bedrock of their lives. We work hard in our chosen fields. We go to school to obtain a higher degree and become more skilled. We save and invest. We do all of this in hopes that these practices will ensure a pleasant, peaceful life. Then one day we find ourselves sitting across from a man like Ryan Bingham, and he has come to tell us that our foundation is being ripped from beneath us. We are losing our jobs. “Your hope,” he says, “is no hope at all. Take this packet, and let us begin helping you rebuild your life.” Ryan Bingham, played by a never-been-better George Clooney, is the central character in Up in the Air, and his job is traveling around the country letting people know they have been let go. He is the god of wealth’s angel of death, flitting through the clouds and descending only to bring judgment on the unsuspecting worshipers below. He does this coolly, calmly, and without remorse. But he is also human, and to become Mammon’s harbinger of doom he has had to detach himself from all consequential relationships. He loves and is loved by no one. Women are play things, other men are adversaries, and family is an annoyance. “Relationships are weight,” he says, “To carry them is to be slowed down, and to move is to live.” The narrative’s central crisis is created when Bingham learns that like the thousands he has spent his life firing, his way of life is in jeopardy. A hot-shot young woman (Anna Kendrick, wonderfully liberated from the Twilight franchise) has arrived on the scene to revolutionize the way Bingham’s company fires people, and he isn’t going to be able to live disconnected any longer. He’s going to have to land in Omaha, a place where he has no reason to be except that the city houses the headquarters of his employer. Up in the Air is essentially two films in one. On each end of the film and interspersed throughout are montages of people reacting to the news that they are losing their jobs. In these moments the film becomes a lament over the economic storm that we have weathered through the past year. Many of the people pictured in these moments are not actors. They are people who have recently lost their jobs. We see their actual reactions to finding out their hope has failed them. The audience lives vicariously through these people. We commiserate with them in their angst. We ask with them, “When our supposed hope fails us, to what do we hold?” The second foci of the film concerns the purpose of relationships in our lives. “Make no mistake,” Bingham chides Nathalie, “We all die alone.” Why then, should we invest in one another? “Ah ha!” you’re thinking, “I know where this movie is headed. The second question answers the first.” You’d be right in most films, but Up in the Air doesn’t offer such easy answers. Like Ecclesiastes, Up in the Air admits that loving relationships are a balm to life’s bruises, but also like Ecclesiastes, the film doesn’t picture love as a cure-all. This film as a whole is more honest that most others. It is a brave work, because it is willing to point out our brokenness and to admit it’s inability to provide an answer. It is truly compassionate both to the character of Ryan Bingham and, by way of the people in the film who lose their jobs, to the audience. This is not a trite film in any way. Like the slave masters who were kind to their slaves, most movies freely give false hope to their audiences. Up in the Air doesn’t want you to remain in slavery, and so it doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t lie to its audience by saying that romance solves all problems. Some will see this film as sad and depressing and unsatisfying. It is these things, but the filmmakers should be applauded for honestly saying, “This is the world as we see it and as we surmise our audience sees it as well. It is a broken place, and we mourn over that, and we have no answers.” This is the place where we, as bearers of the hope of Christ, must step in and give the Answer that has found us. We have true Hope in the face of economic misfortune. We have a reason for relationships. We see past death. “Saints love beyond Time’s measure,” the hymn sings (“All Flesh Is Grass”). It is our duty to answer Ryan Bingham’s cynicism with, “No, Ryan. We don’t all die alone, because we know One who has already died for us.

Conan. Dude, I love that guy. Watching his last show was hard to do. You see somebody so good at what they do and you watch it get thrown away, it’s just sad. Like so many things in this world, you see something great unrecognized and wasted. Sure, he’s not Beethoven or anything, he’s just a funny dude who is worth a ton of money, but to see a man handed his dream and then crushed, no matter the circumstances, is and should be painful to watch. However, that last few minutes with the pseudo-all star band playing “Free Bird”? It was odd, no doubt, and felt like it wasted some precious time, but when Conan, who is NOT a lead guitar player started taking solos, I started crying. The ZZ Top dude looks at this 45-year old gangly redhead who just got publicly humiliated and gives him the nod, the sound guy turns it up, and this guy, holding back tears, just goes for it! No one needs to tell me that playing a guitar solo is a holy moment. Few things in life are more spiritual, more honest or more fun. My perspective on this may not be universal, but just watching this guy miss notes left and right, bad tone, no phrasing, going out in his own bizarre blaze of glory? How can you not love that? I ask you, America! How can you not love that!? I loved it, anyway. Obviously. And I feel about Conan like I felt about so many bands I loved, who were truly great, and were misunderstood and cast aside for something that would make a company more money. I feel this peculiar sense of longing. I’ve been cynical, and he’s right, it’s a waste of time. I don’t want to be cynical. I want to believe that there will come a day when the people who really put themselves out there, exploring their craft and their heart to the best that they can, will be embraced and celebrated. I want to believe there will come a day when we will all “get” the misunderstood genius and all enjoy the catchy pop hook with the same level of holy intentionality. I saw in the last few nights of that show what I feel when I hear Achtung Baby or A Liturgy, A Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band. I saw what I felt the last few shows we played as The Normals (not necessarily because we were so great but because of how fully “present” we were in those moments). I saw a glimpse of the divine that is so precious and so true that it reinforces my belief in a Holy God. Rich meant to show me that. Conan didn’t. Who knows what Bono meant. But I saw it nonetheless, and my heart responds: “I have seen Your creation amid the fallout, and yes, it IS good. Thank you. And come soon.”

1. I have no real news. 2. Except to say that it’s so good to be home. We’re taking the next few days off, and we’ll start up in earnest on Monday. 3. Also, this is an old Ben Shive song that I added a few lines to. He wrote it years ago, before he had children (I think), and I’ve always loved it. The Last Frontier has several family songs on it, so it was the perfect chance to record it. Well done, Benjamin.

Some friends just opened a coffee shop not far from my house, so I’ve been trying to support/loiter as much as possible in recent days. The place looks spectacular, the coffee tastes wonderful and I can still get a considerable level of work done in such a friendly (both for my social life and laptop) environment. But there’s something at work today that’s inspiring on an entirely different level. One thing to know about the coffee shop is that they pride themselves to the highest degree on the quality. I don’t mean using good coffee, because that’s a given. I mean, it’s making sure to pour latte art with every drink. They constantly test the quality of their own product through cupping and use chemic sets and other coffee nerdery to make this an exact science. From content to execution, it’s watching true masters at work and the awards speak for themselves, as a few of the baristas have finished in the Top 10 nationally a few times. So back to my inspiring day. A culinary school is next door to the coffee shop, and today a mustachioed man is standing in front of me talking to the head barista here. They’re trading “shop talk” if you will about their craft. The man’s barbecue was apparently the substance of lunch, and everyone’s buzzing about the recipe. He’s been telling his secrets for the last four or five minutes, describing the smoker, the sauce, the timing. Then the chef wants to know about the coffee, so the barista fires back – the exact temperature, the acidity, the timing. I realize I’m watching two artists describe their work. It’s like overhearing a conversation in an art gallery or at a music festival. Here, these men are taking such pride in the work of their hands and it’s to the point where others can notice, others can tell a difference between what others around them offer and what happens when they are at the helm. And sitting here trying to write, it’s a reminder to me that my deepest desire is not to churn out yet another article, but to somehow inhabit it at a level that others take notice.

I read The Book of the Dun Cow a couple of years ago at Andrew’s urgent recommendation and it has since become one of my very favorite books. It’s a difficult book to recommend because it’s so hard to describe. After all, it’s about a rooster. And yet it’s about pain, and heartbreak, and the cold, disastrous march of evil through the world. It’s about war and heroism and sacrifice. It’s playful and funny and then by turns bloody, violent, and horrifying. It’s a thing almost unique unto itself and it is wholly excellent. Rarely a day goes by that some aspect of Chaunticleer and his coop doesn’t cross my mind. The book so thoroughly affected me that upon learning of the existence of its sequel, I was mortified. I didn’t think I could bear to read it for fear that it wouldn’t live up to the promise of the original. I was desperately fearful that Walt Wangerin, Jr. might find himself fallen into the same nest of subsequent mediocrity so completely mined by pioneers of hubris like George Lucas. So a lot of time has gone by and The Book of Sorrows has sat lonely upon my shelf, warding me away with promises of disappointment. But a few weeks ago, I gave in and took down the book. I sank into the warmth of my couch on a cold winter night and returned to The Coop once more to learn what had become of the lordly rooster and his hens and what adventure might still await them. The story that greeted me was nothing like what I had anticipated. Something terrible and beautiful lay in wait. Wangerin’s masterstroke is not that The Book of Sorrows is another tale of the same cast, but that it is an outworking of the epic consequence of the resolutions in The Book of the Dun Cow. (If you haven’t read The Book of the Dun Cow, you might want to do so now. The rest of this post will contain references to the events of that book, although no major spoilers.) The book opens as winter is falling across the land and the Animals are struggling to recover from the War. Although Wyrm is defeated and Cockatrice is dead, innocence is lost. The Animals, the Keepers of Evil, learn that the world is not what it was before. They are without a home and evil, though overcome, has left fear in their hearts. The dying do not heal. The living grieve. The frozen earth refuses to accept the dead. And Wyrm, though blinded, has studied his defeat and is devising a terrible purpose in the deeps of the earth. From the first page, Wangerin drops the weight of consequence in the reader’s lap, the weight of the world’s broken nature. Gone is the notion that the Animals themselves can triumph over evil. The reality is that Evil must be borne. It must be kept. And the keeping of it is a matter of eternal significance. “Ah, but Keepers of the universal evil can never retire to a quiet insignificance. They participate in the universal; the good order of the whole creation looks to them, and what they are gives heaven pause, whether they know it or not. No: never, never did the stars influence the lives of the Keepers; that is a fiction. Rather, the Keepers, when they so much as walk, tip planets. It’s a terrible responsibility, but there it is. The sobbing of a Mouse, that tiny privacy, shudders the empyrean; and though he’d never ask such a vast importance upon himself, yet there it is; he keeps evil. He needs to keep it well. So his well-being becomes a matter of cosmic discussion.” The central conflict of The Book of Sorrows is played out in how the Keepers, and Chaunticleer primarily, struggle to bear that weight. The result is a book that is almost unbearably painful. So great is the consequence of Chaunticleer’s pride, and guilt, and his need to find redemption through his own suffering and his own action that there are times when I was scared to keep reading. The emotional landscape of The Book of Sorrows is much like that of one of my favorite films, Magnolia. It’s textured by the pain and suffering we bring on ourselves and on those around us when we are too weak to admit we need help. The weight of evil is too much for any one of us to bear alone and short of that admission, the world itself is lost. The beauty of the book is that its relentless and heart-crushing emotional blows are essential to its revelations of healing, renewal, and forgiveness. “When I was hurting the most, this beautiful Cow came to me…she loved me. Isn’t that a mercy? She touched me, she fed me, she washed me, and that is how she loved me. Then this is how she forgave me…all the hurts, every one of the hurts, she took away from me with her eyes and with her tongue, and there was no reason for that. But she did it. Do you know this beautiful Cow? She knows you…she said that she loves you. You especially… You didn’t listen to her when she came to you, but that’s okay, too, because look: she sent me. This is the main reason why I came. To forgive you. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. See? I forgive you.” I won’t spoil the revelation of who’s forgiving and who’s forgiven. I won’t dare the disservice of telling who lives or who dies, who fights, or loves, or is mended. But let me tell you that I struggled to read the final pages through the blurry sparkle of tears because even in the darkest, most frozen winter, spring is coming. I can hear it singing in the air. Despite all my expectations, Walt Wangerin, Jr. did it. He wrote a sequel that, while wholly different, is the equal of his National Book Award-winning original. It’s not an easy book by any means; its movements are often slow, its prose dense. Where children might enjoy The Book of the Dun Cow as much as adults, The Book of Sorrows is wholly adult in its tone and its depth. But don’t let the struggle and heartache dissuade you. The Author is in control. Renewal is set in motion. Dawn is sure. The Dun Cow awaits. If you haven’t yet discovered Wangerin, I beg you to do so. I’m convinced that he is one of the Kingdom’s great storytellers. The Book of Sorrows and The Book of the Dun Cow are available in the Rabbit Room Store.

1. We’ve shot a lot of video that we just haven’t had time to edit into bits yet. Hopefully when we get home the pace will slow enough that we can goof around with the videos more. 2. We’re finishing up a Ben Shive-penned Christmas song for Centricity’s upcoming sequel to their Bethlehem Skyline compilation. It’s called “Long, Long Ago,” and it shore is purty. 3. This afternoon we drive 4.5 hours back to Seattle, then tomorrow we fly home. As beautiful as the Cascades are, I miss my family and our little hill at the Warren. 4. I’m humbled and amazed by Ben, Andy, and Gabe. Awesome fellas, excellent musicians, and great friends. May we still be making music together when we’re octogenarians. (And Todd Robbins is pretty awesome, too.) 5. Did I mention that the title of the album is The Last Frontier? Here’s the potential song list, which will be pared down to ten. What doesn’t make the cut will appear on Appendix D, or J, or whatever. Many Roads Fool With A Fancy Guitar Dancing in the Minefields The Same Song God of My Fathers The Reckoning The Magic Hour The Last Frontier Planting Trees World Traveler You Came So Close In the Night My Hope Lives On The Isle of Skye

At first, this post is going to seem like a rebuttal to the Proprietor’s recent entry, “All is Not Well.” But things are not always as they seem, which is kind of what this post is about. It’s not so much a rebuttal as a companion piece to Andrew’s beautiful post. For the Andrew Peterson Christmas Show at the Ryman each year, we regulars get to pick one song to perform for the sold-out crowd in attendance. What a wonderful problem. For me, the process of choosing the song for the Ryman show starts somewhere in March or April, and continues through the sweltering Nashville summer. In 2005, I still hadn’t decided what to sing when my wife Amy and I walked out onto the Ryman stage. I had recently written a song about The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe with Pierce Pettis, and I really wanted to play it, but I also had this new song called “Bluebird” that I thought would be cool. Halfway from the curtain to the microphone, I whispered to Amy, “Bluebird,” capo’d my Taylor and off we went. Turns out, you really want to give your wife more prep-time than that if you’re going to be singing at the Ryman. Live and learn, I hope. In 2009, I picked my song about two weeks before the event. I had been trying to finish a song I’d worked on all year about Africa, but it wasn’t coming together right and my new song “With Jesus” had recently come together after months of waiting. The chorus of the song sings, “With Jesus, everything is alright.” It’s harrowing to say and even more-so to sing, especially in the light of deep personal tragedy or global catastrophe like what we are witnessing in Haiti. I wouldn’t recommend it as a slogan for the local church plant, or even as advice to be parceled out to loved ones in times of trouble. But it is as true as “all shall be well”, and it deserves as much attention. As I was writing the song, the chorus came first, which created a great challenge. I was singing the lyrics before I was sure if I even believed them. But this is how songs get you in trouble. They lead you down paths you’d never have taken and then leave you to find yourself out. It is true that with Jesus, everything is alright because “we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” Everything is not happy, nor is everything simple or easy or understandable. But if Jesus is making all things new, and we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, we can call our hearts to rest in Him, for as all shall be well one day, so also is everything in his hands now. This is important for me to remember because it reminds me that not only is God on the move, but he is here and he is up to something good. He is present and active in the middle of our desperate pain. I can rest because I cannot slip from his grasp, he cannot be distracted from his purpose and he can be trusted to see me through. If, in times of trial, I only ever resort to hoping in the future that heaven holds, I may miss out on the words and purposes God has for me through the present experience of my relationship with him. I may hope for heaven, but my hope is in Christ–and he’s right here. If my daughter is reading a story and she runs to me, scared by a troubling scene, which statement is more true for me to say: “Keep reading, sweetheart, it’s going to be OK,” or “It’s OK, sweetheart. Just keep reading.” Is it going to be alright? Or is it alright now, in the middle of the sorrow and danger? Or is it both. I know the end of the story, and it is powerful, beautiful, and true. The lynchpin of the gospel is that Christ himself dwells within his people by His Spirit. His Spirit is called Counselor and Comforter, and those are things that happen in real time – not in the future to come, but right now. Part of the reason “Do not fear” resonates is, we have been given power beyond human comprehension to reflect and glorify the God of the universe today. He is with us, and he is making himself known so that Love will prevail both now and forever. I wrote this as a companion piece to AP’s post because the Gospel assumes our participation in both perspectives, and I need more than the hope of what is to come to make sense of “give thanks in all circumstances.” It would be loveless to preach this message via bumper sticker.  But in my life, Jesus has used this truth of God’s present grace as a powerful comfort in troubled times.

As I write this, it’s my birthday and I’m writing this from several miles up in the air as Taya and I fly to Nashville to join the WAYFM tour with Jeremy Camp, The Afters, and Chasen.  It was hard to say goodbye to my boys, but it’s a short run and we’re so grateful to be a part of what will be the highest profile tour I’ve ever been invited on. We’re so grateful.  Being on a tour with rock acts gives me a nice little niche as the introspective singer/songwriter guy who gets to bring a unique contribution to the evening. I can’t wait to see old friends in the audience and make some new ones on this tour.  It’s a pretty decent birthday gift, really – and a great way to start the year. The best birthday gift I got, though, was when Gus climbed into bed with us in the early hours of the morning and snuggled up beside me before I had to get up to go.  I didn’t even think I’d get to be home at all before late February, but things worked out for me to spend a couple days in my own house, eating my own food, sleeping in my own bed, and of course hanging out with my boys.  (We played video games and built snow tunnels) I want to update you on some exciting developments with my new single, “More Like Falling In Love”.  I’m going to break it up into three parts and give you a little peek into the process of releasing a song to radio. I’ll begin the story here…. Last week, Josh Petersen (marketing, Centricity Music) and I were on the road again making our way from Texas to Minnesota – 10 states in 5 days – in support of the new radio single, “More Like Falling In Love”, thanking the radio stations that have added it to their playlists and giving those who haven’t yet a chance to give it a good listen and hear the story behind the song.  We always hoped and believed that this particular song had the potential to connect with a larger audience, and I’m so grateful to see that this is proving to be true. I’ve always felt blessed to have a strong connection with my audience over the years when I play live, and I’m grateful that I’ve always had consistently favorable reviews from critics, but the one thing I haven’t had is a solid presence at radio. Here is the challenge and reward of radio support: 1. Radio airplay is hard to come by – radio music directors receive hundreds of songs for consideration each year but can only add tens of them. 2. Radio support is really important – it’s kind of like the gas in the tank for my ministry, helping us get where we could never get without it. That kind of exposure would grow our ministry and help me to keep making music for a long time to come (the Lord willing).  Think of some of the most lauded and critically acclaimed artists you love or have heard of – even if they’re not currently the kings of radio – and more often than not there was some song of theirs that connected at radio and gave them the audience they have now, artists like Sara Groves, Derek Webb, Andrew Peterson, etc. I’ve never really had that, and with this new record it was our hope to change this.  “More Like Falling In Love” seemed like it might be the song that could do it. And so far, “More Like Falling In Love” has been enthusiastically received at radio since we released it only a few short weeks ago – more so than any of my songs in the past!  And the response from listeners has been great making it one of the highest rated debut songs.  You can’t imagine how grateful I am for its warm reception. It was the highest debuting single the week it was released and recently broke into the top 20 on the AC indicator charts.  We are praying that it keeps gaining momentum while connecting listeners with the idea that a relationship with Christ should look, as G.K. Chesterton has said, “less like a theory and more like a love affair.” If you’ve heard it on your local station, I’d be grateful if you let them know that you appreciate them playing it (assuming you do, of course Here are some of the stations playing the song right now: WWWA/Augusta, ME WAFJ / Augusta, GA WSCF / Vero Beach, FL WAKW / Cincinnati, OH KLRC / Fayetteville, AR KXOJ / Tulsa, OK WGRC / Williamsport, PA WBHY / Mobile, AL WCVK / Bowling Green, KY WJIE / Louisville, KY KCVO / Columbia, MO KNWS / Waterloo, IA KKJM / St. Cloud, MN WCSG / Grand Rapids, MI KADI / Springfield, MO KXGM / Cedar Rapids, IA KNMI / Farmington, NM WCTL / Erie, PA WGNV / Wausau, WI WMUZ / Detroit, MI WQME / Indianapolis, IN WWIB / Eau Claire, WI KJIL / Meade, KS KLTY / Dallas, TX New Life Media / Illinois network WAYR / Brunswick, GA KSLT / Rapid City, SD WJYO / Ft. Meters, FL KCBI / Dallas, TX WCLN / Fayetteville, NC WHPZ / South Bend, IN KBIQ / Colorado Springs, CO WPER / Fredricksburg, VA KSOS / Las Vegas, NV WNWC / Madison, WI KZKZ / Ft. Smith, AR KGCB / Flagstaff-Prescott, AZ Thanks to all these stations for adding my song, and thanks to you for listening! (NEXT UP: Part 2 – What It’s Like To Be With Josh On The Road)

1. It’s Sunday, so we’re taking it a bit easier than the last few days. Doing our best to honor the Sabbath when there’s a hard deadline staring us down. The last few days, however, have gone more or less according to schedule. That means we’re making good progress, but it also means we’re getting tired. We finished up a little (only a little) early last night and slept in a little (only a little) today. 2. I don’t know why I’m numbering these paragraphs, but I kinda like it. 3. Someone asked a few days ago why we’re making the album here instead of Nashville, where of course there’s an abundance of studios. Here’s why. 4. When we made Resurrection Letters II we hopped back and forth between Paul Eckberg’s Studio (which Osenga dubbed The Metropolitan Museum of Modern Paul), Gully’s home studio (The Night Owl’s Nest), and Michael Card’s studio (Mole End Studios). It was a blast hanging out together pretty much every day, and we sampled some of Nashville’s finest eateries for lunch many of those days. But we’re all family men. There are 10 kids between us, and wives who are bravely holding down the fort while we’re off on our hunting/gathering raids in the studio.  That meant being home for dinner most nights. This was a good thing. It meant we got to pretend we had normal lives for several weeks, with 9 to 5 jobs and a semblance of routine. Routine is a rare thing in this self-employed life. 5. But that also meant that the album took months. Literally months. So this time around, I decided to try something different and sort of old school. My label, Centricity Music, which I’m very grateful for, has a studio deep in the mountains of the Northern Cascades in Washington. It’s available to their artists, which is awesome, but there’s one catch: it’s deep in the mountains of the Northern Cascades in Washington. It’s not easy to get here. It’s more than four hours from Seattle, assuming the roads are clear, and flying with all our instruments and gear is tricky, too. 6. So to avoid the fabled Resurrection Letters-three-months-of-recording fiasco, we carved out eight days of intensely focused studio time, hoping to return home with a mostly completed album, like Inuit tribesmen with a slain moose. 7. Never mind the fact that while we’re slaving away, we happen to be in one of the prettiest mountain ranges I know, cozied up in a log cabin. Don’t tell our wives, lest they slay us like moose when we come home. 8. Right now I’m outside the control room listening to Ben and Andy working on a rhythm track for a new one called “The Reckoning”, so I have to go. Thank you for encouragement and prayers. I hope this music is a blessing to you. Have a good Sunday.

The video says it all:

My eldest –though, not-elderly- son recently stomped through the house singing “…with the angelic host proclaim, Christ is born, in battle home.” He likes weapons, so I guess he has militarized the Holidays. He warns us all, with gentle pleas and political rallies, to keep the longbow in Christmas. We’re making bumper stickers and getting mad at people who try to take it out. But for those with normally-functioning stomachs there is the possibility of swelling beyond desired bounds. According to Twitter and Facebook research, 106.3% of my friends are engaged in an activity called “P90X.” As a pretend investigative journalist, I decided to get to the fat bottom of this “P90X” phenomenon without asking anyone anything about it and without using the internet search engines for accurate help. Pretend I’m in China. P90X. What is it? At first I believed this to be a science-fiction movie wherein a cyborg, the “P90X,” has gotten out of control. And believe me, a cyborg out of control can seriously cut down on the body weight. There is usually a lot of running, often loss of limbs. How much do arms weigh? Or… Could this be a new cult wherein personhood is minimized? Everyone is given an alphanumeric designation (the same one?) and a collectivist attitude is cultivated. “P90X, welcome to the Unit. Please sit over there by…P90X.” This might lead to depression, which causes weight loss. Or… A lot of weight is in fluid, which is why if you don’t drink anything you will not weigh much (and also die). Often older folks have to get up in the night and “P 90 X.” This reduces fat, but it can cause curmudgeonry. I think we can conclude that the P90X is a hoax. Both end in “x” and then there’s Roswell, the moon-landing, inside jobs, birth-certificates and all that. Some things are meant to be known and understood, like predestination. Others, like the so-called P90X, are best left to the wild wanderings of the wandering wild wanderingness of man.