What are you looking for?

Hello, folks. I’m writing this from a train. It’s carrying me across the Swedish countryside to Stockholm, where I have one last concert before I set my sights for the West, and my family, and my country, and my church. And my Las Palmas chimichangas. It’s been a great tour. My favorite in Sweden so far. I’ll upload the pictures later and let you see a few reasons why I’m proud to have descended from this fine country. But first, I wanted to tell you a few things: Pictured here are two freezing Nashvillians at the ruins of a castle that was probably built by the elvish slaves of a local giant. Just a hunch. 1) I met a woman named Maret (I think that’s the right spelling) at last night’s show. She’s from Norway, but is currently living in Sweden. She found out about last night’s show in Kalmar and took a 2 hour train ride to see it. But that’s not the only fun part–she also told me right away how much she loved the Rabbit Room. She discovered it through Travis Prinzi’s site, then through the Rabbit Room found a lot of music and writing she connected with. It was pretty cool. So thanks, Maret, for making the trip, and for joining us. If we were in the real Rabbit Room I’d buy you a plate of fish and chips. 2) Jamie and I will be in London for a few days this weekend, and I thought it would be fun to meet up with our British constituency. If you’re near London and want to meet up for coffee Saturday morning, email me or comment on this post and we’ll settle on a place. I’ll have my guitar, so if an impromptu set ought to happen somewhere I’m game. That’s it. I’m having a great time in Europe, but I can’t wait to get home to the Warren and my children. And Las Palmas. The Proprietor

This is part 2 (and the conclusion) of our interview with our very own Eric Peters (though he is a free man). Part 1 is right here. Read it and watch out for the unicorns. Stay tuned at the end of this interview for a chance to win your very own copy of Chrome for free. SDS: How can those of us who are “way in” support your work and is there anything in particular we can pray for you and your family for? EP: Sure. Work. Preferably in the form of shows and concerts. I don’t want to rehash a dead horse (a rather disgusting and ghoulish image) here, but 2009 has been something akin to sheer crumminess, work-wise, for me. If I’m supposed to be doing this with my life — I’m still trying to figure that one out — then encouragement (not to mention income) comes in the form of bookings. To know that somewhere out there some person connects enough with my songs to invite me to play at their home or church or chili cook-off, that is affirming and edifying. The lack of those bookings combined with what seems like the effect of running into a brick wall in terms of approaching other folks (inviting myself) to play at their church or wherever, has been less than sweet dreams. Personally, it’s been a roller-coaster year; from career, to finances, to news of marriage troubles. I sure don’t want to wish away the days, but I can only hope that 2010 brings brighter light. How can you pray for me and my family? Pray that I can find identity in Christ. Alone. I’m no good to my wife and my family if I don’t know and believe the richest things that God says about me, how he sees me, how safe I am with him. I need to rely, depend, and rest in this. I’m struggling to do that what with the ongoing conflict of faith, art and commerce. SDS: Talk about what it’s like to have friends like AP and the Square Pegs in your life. Is it as awful as it seems? People want to know what it’s like when all you mega-super stars hang out. Tell the people. Give us an anecdote, or an antidote. The disease we have is curiosity. EP: Truth is we rarely hang out together all at once. We’ll see each other here and there, sometimes randomly, sometimes planned, but we seem to all be in similar spots in life with very young children, struggling to pay bills, just trying to survive and make ends meet. Just like everyone else in America. In some sense, this recession is no different than every other month of every other year of our lives: life as an artist is rarely one of stability, whether financial or emotional. But when we DO hang out together, it feels like family. I can’t imagine a more pleasant group of folks to be associated with professionally and to call friends. A superwoman fan in Maine recently gave us a very valid excuse to gather together in celebration of Chrome‘s release; she overnighted me twenty fresh, live Maine lobsters, and that evening we – all 31 of us, including children – gathered at the Peters’ 1100 sq. ft. craftsman home to partake of freshly steamed seafood, replete with drawn garlic butter, dessert and drinks. Other than seeing one another from time to time in random path crossings, occasionally planned, that meal, though hectic (imagine many people wanting a glimpse of the contents of four large steaming pots going at once, inside a somewhat tiny kitchen), was as tiring and as enjoyable as it might sound. Short of it is I don’t get to see these folks nearly enough in my week to week. If you’re Andrew Peterson, you enjoy playing games, games like throwing tennis balls at your host. If you’re Jeremy Casella, you enjoy browsing my library shelves taking in the nearly complete Buechner collection sitting high atop them. If you’re Randall Goodgame, you arrive late, but everyone is thrilled you finally made it. If you’re Jill Phillips, you drive last-minute to get pizza takeout because your hosts are more than slightly under-prepared for such a crowd. If you’re Andrew Osenga, you show up in shorts and sandals and nine toes, and everyone loves you for that. If you’re Ben Shive, you arrive alone, but are visibly pleased when your wife and children arrive unexpectedly. If you’re Eric or Danielle Peters, you’re a couple of scamper-busy Marthas in the kitchen, preparing and serving food, making sure guests have what they need, and that all feel welcome and at home amid the chaos of a floor full of flung toys, used diapers, and peaked decibels to accompany it. But not a one of them cares a lick about college football, and that, to me, is a sad thing. SDS: You always have amazing love songs on your records and Chrome is no exception. “It’s So Sad to Watch You Wave” is another endearing, unusual love song oozing with poetic word-pictures and a kind of nostalgic fog. Tell us about where that material comes from. EP: I’ve kind of gotten into my head that I need/want at least one song on each of my records to be, at the very least, a nod to my wife, whose unwavering support for ten years and counting is more than just something artificially sweet. She has enabled me over the course of my career to continue doing this, traveling with me during those early years, sleeping on crummy couches and in beds with shards of broken glass (true story from Tallahassee, FL), enduring miles upon miles of utter repetition, and experiencing firsthand what a touring life is like. I enjoy writing these songs. Land Of The Living had “May Your Tenderness”, Miracle of Forgetting had “The Maginot Line” (she’s a seamstress, if you happen to have no idea what the reference is), Bookmark had “Take This Joy” (a song about adoption), Scarce had “You Can Be Yourself”, and Chrome has “Sad To Watch You Wave” (among several other references on this, what amounts to a very personal record for me). I admit I have a bit of a sappy streak in me, and I also don’t hesitate to try and make you cry, as well. I’m an emotional person, tearing up at either myself or at movies, such films as Cars. But I rarely hesitate to write my wife into the songs, especially since most of them are personal to me to some degree. Having said that, I would no more know how to write a traditional love song if it approached me with a flaming angel in its mouth, bit me on the calf, and then barked out a tune. That might actually make a really nice love song. If I wrote mostly generic love songs, then it seems like they wouldn’t be FOR my wife, if you catch my drift. I have to make them personal or else I’m singing into nothing. Now If I could only figure out how to write mostly generic love song material, and then sell it for oodles, then I’d be able to sit in my backyard, sip on wine, and pluck U.S. Grants as needed from the lowest branches of my flourishing money tree (which is a country song I wrote a few years ago — “If Money Grew On Trees”). SDS: I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who teared-up at Cars. We should never watch “UP” together or someone might take a photo and then we’d be “in the soup,” as the kids say –kids from the 1930’s. So, for a final question (sing it “The ending is where we start”) I’d like to ask about finishing. Chrome drips with honest self-assessment and a coming to grips with life in all its disappointment and wonder. There’s a longing to be connected with that which does not break down, them that do not abandon. When someday you look back on your career as a genuine “Pappy,” what do you want to have been true about what you did? What’s the hoped-for abstract for the life and work of Eric Peters? EP: Gee-willikers. Yep, cried at Up, too, alongside my wife on one of our egregiously rare date nights. Those Pixar folks know how to get it out of me. That I wasn’t a waste of time. That what I brought to earth – I can only hope it is worthy of being classified as “art” – was something worthwhile, beautiful and edifying. And, lastly, I hope that my work will survive longer than I do, meaning I hope that one day my music actually catches on and proceeds to make my children and their children rich. Thanks to Eric for a fun view of the inter. Do yourself a favor and get a copy of Chrome (buy here). I have listened to it more times than should be possible without getting sick of something and, as with every one of EP’s records –it is un-get-sick-of-able. I love it. In fact, I want to give an autographed copy of Chrome away right now (it will be Eric’s autograph –not, as was offered before, an autographed copy of my autograph.) Just make a comment and you are entered to win. I’ll announce the winner soon.

Some things are not well served by explanation. This is one of them.

I had the best day I’ve had in a long time yesterday. But to understand why, you need to know that of all the commandments in the bible, the one I’m the most guilty of breaking is the one about taking a day of rest. Especially these days on account of the new record releasing. So much to do… a lot of plates to keep spinning… I could tell that I was feeling the burn from the schedule I’d been keeping because my crankiness had a hair trigger and it didn’t take much to send my attitude off the deep end. I’d like to think that I’m usually very pleasant under normal circumstances 🙂 (smiley face employed to depict my generally pleasant demeanor).  But by the end of this last weekend, my mood took a darker turn. For starters, we did two outdoor festivals. Now, I’m often asked why I don’t play more outdoor festivals, and while I know they are a lot of fun for concert-goers, I try to avoid them since they tend to be challenging for a guy who does what I do. Festivals have kind of a social gathering/party kind of atmosphere, and it’s hard for a guy with an acoustic guitar and penchant for earnest storytelling to achieve the desired kind of intimacy that gives my work the best chance at connecting. I need four walls and a hushed low-lit room to coax people’s hearts out of their myriad hiding places. Maybe I take myself too seriously by expecting such a level of attention, but this is the kind of environment that I seem best suited for. Deep connections are always the goal.  Without that, I’m always suspicious that I’m wasting the time of everyone involved. Both events were youth-centered outreaches, which is totally cool, and which Sanctus Real and even Phil Wickham are well suited for. But get a guy with an acoustic guitar up there trying to talk about the virtues of weakness, God making sad things come untrue, and serving the poor, etc. and watch me flounder. It’s especially hard when there’s a group of kids in the back hollering “you suck!” about 30 seconds into my first song (Taya took care of them). Or when someone throws beach balls into the crowd for people to bounce around in front of me when I’m singing lyrics like: “In Rwanda’s killing fields Forgiveness blooms and heals As the power of love reveals The Kingdom come today…” Or: “The Son of God woke in the ground The angels laid the soldiers down To bring the King His crown I believe!” POW! – a beach ball bounces off the end of my mic stand and all of a sudden I’m back in the eighth grade wearing ill-fitting gym shorts and playing dodge ball. The truth is, I just can’t compete with a beach ball. I mean, I try to be funny and tell jokes and stuff, but in the end the beach ball will always win. So… I got a little grumpy about it. On stage. It didn’t help that I’d had a video chat the day before with my boys that left me feeling homesick and wondering if this work I do is worth the price we pay for it. Most times the answer is yes, but I start to doubt when I’m being heckled by teenagers in the back row or the beach balls start flying… Taya was back at the sound-board shaking her head at me, with a look that was pleading with me to not say something awkward and grumpy from the stage. I managed to restrain myself for the most part and just snuck in a snarky little comment before my last song that went something like this: “hey, how would you like it if I came to your workplace or classroom and bounced a beach ball around while you’re trying to work?” Kind of funny, but kind of grumpy and miserly too, I know. The supplier of the beach balls didn’t mean any harm, I’m sure. Everyone’s just trying to have a good time, I should lighten up, I know. And I know it sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself when I play the “missing my kids at home” card. But all this to say that though these things are normally not that big of a deal – par for the course kinds of things, really – on this particular weekend they put me in a bit of a funk. The beach balls became larger than life – looming, symbolic rabid scapegoats for everything that is difficult and disappointing; giant beach balls of doom like the one that nearly mashed Indiana Jones in the opening sequence of Raiders Of The Lost Ark… Nipping at my heels, threatening to crush me at any moment… I grumped about it afterwards on the bus for a bit, and seriously began considering a change in vocation. Again. But then I recognized that I might be a little burnt out and shouldn’t make any rash decisions. Phil Wickham is a pretty positive guy and hanging out with him is good for me. He’s always helping me look on the bright side and count my blessings. I used to be very much like that, but lately feel more like that 70 year old guy who yells at people for walking on his lawn. Clearly I needed some rest. So when the bus pulled in to Toledo, OH at 4:00am and we drove to our friend’s house 3 hours away in Clare, MI, our heads hit the pillow at 7:30am and we slept til 1:00pm on Sunday. With a mixture of panic and relief I discovered that I left my phone on the bus and, cut off from the rest of the world, I took a day off with my favorite person in the world: Taya. Our friends were away on a trip so we had the place all to ourselves. Taya and I anonymously went shopping at the local grocery store to get the fixin’s for tacos. When we got back I played guitar for pleasure – wow, how long has it been since I’d done that? Years? – for a couple of hours on the couch while Taya made some fresh guacomole. Then, with our tacos, guac, and pineapple salsa we sat down and watched TV for like three hours. We watched three episodes of Flight Of The Conchords followed by one of my favorite movies of all time: Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, an artful film that to me always feels like a good dose of marriage counseling – to know the worst that you could feel about a person and then choose to love them anyway… isn’t that the most challenging and beautiful part of marriage? And then, off to bed early. I even got to read some. What a great day. I didn’t do a thing. I didn’t have to be anybody. I got to be a bump on a log, vegging in front of the TV.  I’m not sure this was entirely what was meant by the commandment to observe the Sabbath, but I think I was in the ballpark because it felt like exactly what the Doctor ordered. This morning I got back to work, but my head was clearer. The weekend of shows became less about beach balls and a small group of disruptive kids in the back and more about the kindness with which I was received by those who attended, those who talked with me after the shows sharing their stories with me and generous words of encouragement. I found several kind remarks on my facebook page and in my inbox from new friends who attended the events. Maybe, by God’s grace (again!), my songs connected after all. I thought of the kids who were sponsored through World Vision who might not have been otherwise. I counted my blessings for the friendships I get to have with cool guys like Phil and Matt, Pete, Chris, Dan & Mark from Sanctus Real. I smiled thinking about Phil teaching me some new chords… And I called my kids who were doing pretty good, too. I get to see them next week when we fly home for Gus’ birthday. I can’t wait. Maybe things aren’t as bad as I thought. And maybe those beach balls aren’t as big as I imagined, either. For all the ways they burdened me and felt like they carried the weight of the world in them, maybe they were only full of hot-air after all. Dare I say it? I’m even looking forward to getting back out on the tour this week. And what’s more it looks like there aren’t any more festivals on this leg. See, I’m already counting my blessings again. I’m also already looking forward to my next day of rest…

I can’t remember the first time I heard someone say it.  I never said it until my thirties, when the realities of life quietly ushered in a more melancholy mood to supplant my youthful optimism.  I watched friends marriages fail.  I spent time in the Third World.  My wife got sick.  Friends let me down.  And I took advantage of friends. Darkness began to claim what seemed like his rightful place in the hierarchy of presuppositions.  Things will be bad, or they will be good.  Or they will be so-so.  All the while Facebook reigns, and I am busy, so under the influence of my low investment friendships I settle for a shorthand way to communicate big things, and so I say, “It is what it is.” But what does that even mean? Here in the Rabbit Room, words matter, and they matter here because they matter out there–in the world–where the Amish fear to tread. When I said, “It is what it is” for the first time, I knew that I was posing.  Right now it makes me think of Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride: “You keep using that word.  I do not think it means what you think it means.” But in this case it is both more subtle and more consequential.  I was posing because that phrase pretends to make a definitive claim that assumes insight on the part of the speaker.  In fact, it assumes so much insight that the speaker need not even elaborate.  I see the situation, it looks like something I’ve seen before, so I want to lump it together with all those other things I’ve seen and call a spade a spade or a thief a thief.  Quite unlike what Jesus did on the cross. If it is what it is, what is left for Jesus to do? Jesus defines every moment, every relationship, every success and every failure, and his Spirit gives believers insight if they seek him.  But the goal of his insight is always Love.  “It is what it is” seems to strip the hope of Love away from the conversation.   Lately, whenever I hear “It is what it is,” I get this picture of someone slicing corn off a corn cob right into the trash can. I can understand “It is hopeless” or “It is a mess” or “It is a sandwich,” but “It is what it is” seems meaningless at best, and at its worst reduces Jesus Christ to irrelevance. It’s not that I think we need some kind of word police.  I just know that I’m already prone to missing opportunities to see God at work all around me.  I’m usually thinking about myself, not what he might be up to.  But if God is truly always on the move, and my role is to keep watch and not judge, then the discernment required to confidently pronounce “It is what it is” starts to seem more and more…inconceivable.

Note: As I am about to demonstrate to the world, I have no idea how to do a real interview. But Eric Peters, in his mercy, agreed to do one with me. Now I’m thinking of a lot of questions I should have asked, but they aren’t really good ones either. So the dumb stuff is my fault. Yet I love that this interview does reveal Eric’s sense of humor and humility and made me even more of a fan than I was previously. EP is rare indeed, like a bloody, tasty steak. If you haven’t bought his new album, Chrome, yet (which I somehow failed to ask enough about) then you should remedy that soon. Some of the songs will appear on the soundtrack for the upcoming film Smith/Peters directed by Opie Taylor. The interview will be posted in two parts. The films will be an endless franchise making millions of buckskins.  –Sam SDS: All right EP (this is SDS, by the way), some easier questions may follow, but first things first. What is your favorite color and what do you want to be when you grow up? EP: Red in the fall. Black in winter. Green in spring. Purple in summer. I’d like to be you when I grow up. You’re Sam Shepard, right? Do I have to grow up? SDS: Sam, I am. Occupation: Shepherd. And, keep aiming high; follow your dreams and any unicorns which you may see. Speaking of unicorns, on a scale of one to two, how fun/effective was it to work with Ben Shive in making the new record, which, correct me if I’m wrong, is called “Life in Puebla Georgia As Seen From A Book-shaped Heap of Coal?” EP: Few people know this about Ben (Shive), but he’s an avid unicorn hunter. It’s slightly different than snipe hunting in that the hunter must first offer a reed of salt-cured bamboo to the male unicorn, otherwise, you’ll get no closer than 100 yards to either sex. Or, wait, maybe it’s a Twizzler. Aside from hunting fantastical forest creatures, working with Ben in the (non-fictitious) making of Chrome (This is the correct album title; you might have had me confused with Erik Estrada) was definitely a 1.9 out of a possible 2. I laughed more making this record than I have in a long time. Since laughter is in short supply these days, I was glad for it, and welcomed it like I would a leprechaun riding a unicorn dragging behind it a pot of gold. Ben is immensely talented, as creative as anyone I know, and, in the case of Chrome, was a giant for me in the way of encouragement and seeing through some of the dark lyrics to the soul of what I was trying to say, even finding and instilling hope in those places. Ben is absolutely an artist, and is one of the hardest working dudes I know. I am deeply grateful to him for taking on my project even on a shoestring budget, and for treating it as if it were making him wealthy and famous. Which it didn’t. Which it won’t. SDS: OK, That was the best answer ever in the history of journalism. Probably because of my penetrating question and the presence of unicorns. In the first question’s answer you joked about not growing up, but is that you? I don’t know how old you really are, but your music sounds like something a much older person would make. Not to say it isn’t fun –it’s almost incongruously fun music with all these layers of gravity beneath. There’s no pretension, a lot of memory, a sense of place, a battle against being cynical, a heaviness tempered with hope, etc. I think that’s something that makes me feel connected to it. Is that a fair assessment and if so, is that why people call you Pappy? EP: I suspect I’m older than you think. By “growing up” I mean accepting life’s fullest responsibilities; things like setting aside my own dreams and rickety music career for the sake of adequately providing for my family. Yes, the weightier meaning of “growing up”, which involves doing quite little fun things such as waving goodbye to your old life in the rearview mirror. I’ve not adjusted well, just ask my wife. I have much growing up to do, but I have to figure out what “growing up” means…. Problem is, I tend to take life too seriously almost to the point of depleting it of its joy. Cajuns (I’m a native south Louisianian, but a far cry from a true cajun) have an attitude of take-life-as-it-comes, a certain joie de vivre that somehow escapes me in my weird, fearful, anxious way of living. It’s hardly noble, nor is it God-honoring — I fully admit such things — but I can only hope that what God has started in me, he will ultimately see to completion. And perhaps with the assistance of good counseling. Your assessment of my songwriting is one of the greatest compliments I can possibly imagine. As an artist, if I can’t, or don’t, connect with people on some level, then everything up until now has been mere entertainment, nothing more, nothing less. We all need hope, especially in these dark days. We all need to know we’re not alone in our delightful and despicable humanity. I’m willing to plumb the dark and light of my soul if it means there’s one other person on this planet who will find themselves in my own story, who will discover a grain of hope where before there was only wasteland. This, essentially, is the essence of Chrome the album. Andrew Peterson and Ben Shive dubbed me “Pappy” in 2002 on AP’s Clear to Venus tour on which Ben, myself and Laura Story were the backing band. My inner old man came out many times during that tour: always tired and in need of a nap, occasionally grumpy, hungry at odd hours, religiously donning Mr. Rogers sweater jackets, and carrying a coin purse in my pocket. I was an easy target. Much like a unicorn is an easy target if you happen to have some salt-cured bamboo on hand. SDS: You said “delightful and despicable humanity.” So apt. Isn’t it true that the Christian story is so comprehensive that it accounts for both the rebellion and depravity of man as well as the glory on the edges? The Truth is both narrow (in a sense –exclusivity of Christ) and wide (this is my Father’s world, all of it). You seem to draw from areas of experience and history that don’t get discussed much in “Christian” music. Do you intentionally look for different real estate, or is that just you being EP –whoever that is? EP: I think I’m just being me. That is perhaps both a good and bad thing. Good for my art, I should hope. Bad for gaining a wider, more populous audience. Even though I’m far from an anarchist, a certain part of me loves to go against the grain, to look for strange angles, to say what nobody else seems willing to say, especially in the world of Christians who are making music or perhaps writing books. This is not to say that I’m breaking any new ground here, nor is it a rant against the industrial Christian complex. I doubt anyone will ever accuse me of being overly creative or inventive. All evidence, in fact, points to the contrary. But there are things that I have to say – MUST say – and I cannot snuff these things out or else my spine will turn to jello. Nobody wants to see that. These songs – and they have always been this way – are my hymns. My songs won’t hold up for hundreds of years, but for me not to voice the achings and groanings of my beating heart (thank God for allowing the Spirit to translate them at the throne!) would be hypocritical of me. Music buyers will always have final say as to whether they support an artist or not, but I should hope there are a few folks out there who can and will relate to my little-big psalms (lower case “p”) and follow me on the journey. I find a certain freedom and grace in discovering a part of myself in the stories of other people or inanimate objects who otherwise cannot or will not tell their story. Like bicycles, onions and rabbits, for example. We are fools to think our story is ours alone. To believe that no one, not even Christ, knows what it is like to ache, to sour, to long for reclamation is folly ad nauseam. I can only be myself, full of foibles, full and empty of hope at various times. I cannot pretend to be anyone else, and I’m old enough to know better by now. EP: There is no remedial cure for awkwardly placing common phrases inside confining “quotation marks”. Also, I do not own a lasso. I have no idea what’s wrong with you, but whatever it is, I probably have it, too. We should play golf some day. After all, the only good medicine is a pipe smoke and 18 holes of fall golf. Other than that, I have no idea how to answer your “question.” (Thank you for your kind comments.) SDS: “Thank you.” Don’t you love the ill-usage of quotation “marks?” EP: You wouldn’t know a quotation mark if it came up and bit “me.” SDS: It seems like the people who are into your music are way in. I know that there may not be as many of them as, say, for that guy Jonas or his brothers. Most people say it’s your “honesty,” or “amazing, melodic songwriting” that draws them in, but I still think that it’s the subliminal messages that are working. What do you think about how people get way into your music? EP: Oftentimes I think it’s just you and that bald-headed guy in Delaware who are one of the Way-Ins (now THAT’s a good name for a band side project). But I’m slowly gaining on those brothers whose name I shall not speak. Unless I’m the only delusional, misguided and completely out of touch performing singer-songwriter on earth, I would suspect that each of us wishes for a growing, rabid and lifelong fanbase. For those who claim that they don’t care who or how many folks listen to their music, I might wish to politely lean into their ear and tell them to quit lying in public. I think that sort of stuff sounds cool and sounds nonchalant, but it simply cannot possibly be true all of the time. Every artist I know has an ego, and egos need to be assuaged. We all want to deeply communicate, it’s one of our basic human needs; to speak and to be heard. Of course, doing what we do as public efforts, even though it’s generally categorized as entertainment, deep down we all want to be liked – admired, even – and we aspire to public and critical acclaim. I don’t think I’m too far off my rocker in saying or admitting these things. I write these songs certainly having a thoughtful and reflective audience in mind, but also with the hope that somewhere at some point a lyric, or a word, or even just the way a word is sung will stick with them forever. If you’ve happened to pay attention to Chrome yet, then you also know that I reference more than once my disappointment with the way my career has gone these ten years as a full-time occupation, regretting that I’m not more successful, acclaimed, and, yes, even more famous. I used to think I could change the world. You see, I’m an earthworks of hypocrisy. Subliminal messages, huh? BUY. It is not my job to tell anyone what to think or do (except maybe my 2.5 year old). I can only hope to paint an adequate picture, let you decipher and find its meaning for you, personally. MY. It is the listener’s active participation with music that affords the greatest insight. ALBUMS. Hear me now, I’m not getting on the art-for-art’s-sake bandwagon; far be it for me to fling mud up on a canvas and call it “art”. There’s a mighty big difference between art and apathy. NOW. I cannot be lazy with words, but I also can’t afford to serve it to you on a silver platter. Art is a two-way street. When it is done well, or with an active heart, then its interpretation is as much yours as it is mine. I’ve had folks years after an album came out, write me to tell me that they “got” a line in such and such song. Those moments give me great joy, even as delayed edification. If you want a direct, tell-me-what-to-think “message” served up on a bed of roses, and a proverbial apple stuck in its mouth, then my songs will probably not be all that enjoyable for you. But if you’re willing to follow the narrative, digging away at the surface, rooting away at the sometimes arcane, cryptic root system, reading between the lines, then perhaps my songwriting will be fertile soil for you. There is always something there for the taking, whether it is noticeable at first listen or the last. At least, that’s the way I see these songs of mine. Hopefully that doesn’t come across as arrogant. OPRTRS R STNDNG BY. PRCHAS NOW! Part II coming soon. #Chrome #EricPeters #LSUwilllosetoWVU #Unicorns

I saw Iron Man for the first time a few months ago. I like superhero movies; my favorite ones exemplify a desire to do what is right no matter what the cost, to help those who can’t help themselves, and to show some sort of growth toward goodness and a sense of humble sufficiency in the job of wiping out evil. I like the reluctant messiah, pushed into the job by bad circumstance and revelation of the desperate need of others. Tony Stark, weapons genius, gets that revelation and has a change of heart. A harrowing encounter with terrorists who have acquired a stockpile of his weapons is his catalyst. As he sees the harm they’re inflicting on innocent people with his own Stark Industries weapons, his entire focus changes from being a self-getter to being a self-giver. During his experience his physical heart is damaged and he builds a small reactor that fits inside his chest wall to power it – a fitting symbol. With his new identity as a self-giver he begins to dream up a way he can undo some of the damage his weapons were doing. He builds a titanium suit, powered by that reactor in his chest. The suit is nearly invincible. He can fly, shoot missiles, and has a heads-up display in his helmet that can target the bad guys and spare the innocent. This movie has given me a visual in my relationship with Christ that has lasted for months. After seeing it I realized that for years my focus has been too hard on one side of a paradox. I had a revelation 15 years ago. Christ is in me as my life, my power source, my new heart. That’s amazing, wonderful. It has revolutionized my life. But how would Tony Stark fare against the bad guys with just the reactor in his chest and no titanium armor? There have been many times where I’ve been knocked down, even though I know Christ lives in me. That Fact is what has always given me power to get up again. But I realized, partly through Iron Man, that I was not always putting on my titanium suit. I had over-emphasized Christ in me to the exclusion of me in Christ. He is my rock fortress, my hiding place, my shield and buckler, as King David said. Christ is the armor that we must put on – we must hide ourselves in Him, and in that we truly become Iron Men. I now know I’ve got a titanium suit that has a divine tracking system to target evil (the demonic) and spare the innocent (people), weaponry (the Word, faith, prayer) that can take care of any situation I’m in. This is an invincible suit of armor I own. All I’ve got to do is put it on every day and make sure the power is on. “Having done all, to stand.” The freedom I’ve experienced since I’ve learned this is priceless. One more thing: Stark puts the suit on by surrendering; he lifts his arms and offers his body as a living sacrifice, and the computer-driven machine puts the suit on his body. Iron Man stimulates me to think, to reason, to feel, to act. That’s one testimony to the power of story.

I’m tendering my resignation. Well, that actually sounds like some pre-cooking method (i.e. marinating or poaching), but the point is I’m finished. Not that this will actually work, but a declaration is needed here, so this seems as good as any. No matter what scenario you picture, my point is: I’m done with fear. It should start with me, of course, but I prefer to point out the flaws in other people first. So I started with my “friends” who posted anything fear-driven on Facebook recently (at least that I could see in the last 24 hours). Any person who recently posted one way or the other about the health care industry was zapped from our cyber-friendship (some of us can make it up over real-life friendship outings later). After all, nobody ever posts “Hey, I’d love to intelligently discuss the pros and cons, so check out this helpful chart I found.” It’s always venomous, the other side is always scheming their dastardly deeds to lure us in, etc. And, being done with fear, I certainly can’t have any of that. I also altered my reading list. My own fear-mongering started early in college. I found people like Anne Lamott and Donald Miller, which should have led me into new, fresh ways of thinking about and embracing faith. Instead, in my immaturity I swung the pendulum completely to the opposite side and scoffed at all of my “small-minded” conservative friends who still gasped audibly at profanity. If you hadn’t read or weren’t willing to read such material, I labeled you as the enemy and was happy to go to war with those who are certainly wrong. That reading list has only continued for the last decade and a half. I’m now 32 and pastoring my own church for the last five years and I still think the exact same way. My reading material concerns social issues, (usually) liberal politics, anti-war books and the like. And I all-too-often jump at the invitation to hit the ring–like a rookie pro wrestler waiting for his intro music and pyrotechnics (guess that’s not a good analogy for such a thinking circle as the Rabbit Room readership, but you get my point). In the process, I “comment” on some online blog or post in a harsh tone I would never use in daily life. My computer brings a level of confidence that’s really nothing more than an obnoxious attitude that needs a quick dose of repentance. I hold on tighter to the issues than my brother and to my beliefs more than my sister. And in the process, I run contrary to the gospel. I’m also done with fear in my religion. I’m done leading people into the Kingdom of God through a culture of fear: where would you go if you were to die tonight? Not that I’ve ever honestly said those words in my five years of teaching every week, but I’m done with a religion that encourages it. The kingdom deserves more than its only participants backing into it instead of running, participating only out a fear of the alternative. I won’t be guilty of painting it that way and robbing it of its beauty. Each and every day I see fear robbing me of my joy and my community of its vitality. We’re afraid of the other side of the coin–of a different viewpoint than what we hold. We’re afraid that people won’t accept us or our beliefs, so we bully them into the Kingdom or we make ourselves martyrs for the cause in case we’re rejected (so I still get my reward). We’re afraid of living counter-culturally and defining a modern life of faith, and in the process we neuter the living witness of the gospel. Fear leads to death. And right now, it’s killing me.

To those who have enjoyed and understood the late Professor Tolkien’s most famous literary creation for what it is, as opposed to what pop-culture has made it in the decades following its publication, this book is a rare and precious treasure. Outside of these readers, and some scholars of medieval literature, it is likely to find only a very limited audience—but a lack of popularity will be no deterrent to those who are most likely to enjoy it in the first place. Tolkien’s mastery of the Old Norse alliterative verse form, and skillful employment of it in modern English, is a shining testament to his tremendous aptitude for linguistic endeavours (as if we needed further!), and, while it is so sparsely worded as to demand unusual focus in reading, the resulting poetry is a thing to be richly savoured. What he has created here is far from a translation of its disparate sources, but neither is it an updated, bowdlerized modernization—it is, rather, a thing which can stand very comfortably alongside those sources, hewn as it is from the very same substance. And that, in itself, is extraordinary. The stories and characters of the two closely related poems comprising the main portion of this new book are largely drawn from two 13th century Icelandic texts—the Poetic Edda and the Völsunga Saga—which, although compiled and committed to writing long after the Christianization of Iceland, form the main primary sources of Old Norse mythology. It can be heady stuff for non-scholars, but a basic familiarity with those legends, gods, heroes, and villains is almost essential to the enjoyment of these new poems. Thankfully, Tolkien’s son and editor, Christopher, has provided readers with typically meticulous and thorough notes—but it can be handy to have a couple of other references available as well. Some critics have suggested that Christopher Tolkien is attempting to “cash in” on his father’s unpublished work, and this is really a point which deserves answering. As Dr. Michael Drout (a noted Tolkien scholar from Wheaton College in Illinois) said after the publication of the elder Tolkien’s last posthumous work, ‘The Children of Húrin,’ “Christopher Tolkien has more money than God, and he’s 82 years old. He simply wants the textual record and the reputation of his father to be as complete as possible.” And for that continued service, I, for one, am grateful.

There’s a character from The X-men, known simply as “Beast.” His name is actually Hank McCoy, and he was a public high school teacher before his beastly form took over and he had to take up residence at the Institute – a private school for teenage mutants. My oldest son, Sam, has several episodes from the cartoon version of this comic on DVD. (Yes, you can blame my husband for turning him into a comic book nerd at such a tender age). One of the episodes tells how Hank was permanently transformed into Beast. When he was just a teenager, he discovered his mutant power: a beast type person with incredible, hulk-like strength and power would emerge whenever Hank found himself in a tense or frustrating situation. When Hank’s rage subsided, he would resume his normal body. Why am I telling this story in the Rabbit Room? Because I am a regular person who sometimes morphs into a raging monster and finds herself in dire need of an intervention, just like the one in that final scene; and I have the distinct feeling I am not alone. I can totally see the shocked looks on all of your faces, but let’s pretend there are no church people watching or listening and I’ll share an example. There are days. When I’m exhausted from being up all night with my baby boy who refuses to sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time, and my oldest son brings home notes from his school teacher that make me feel like I’m raising a delinquent, and the little, middle, girl child (which is incidentally who I was) is playing alone in the corner cutting up tiny pieces of paper–and oh yeah, it’s dinner time and I don’t have anything cooking. Yeah, those days are not very nice around this house. And the volcano usually bursts a few minutes before my husband walks in the door.

That’s when I have to get alone and give myself a little pep talk. These are only feelings, Janna. This is not the real you. You love your kids. You don’t really want to trade lives with the blonde in the jaguar who sped past you in the Wal-Mart parking lot this morning. You’re just really tired. Tomorrow will be a better day … I promise.

And it usually is, especially when I reach out to other friends in my life who say even more things I need to hear. But since we’re being brutally honest, I’ve been know to have beastly moments on good days too. Days when I’ve had plenty of sleep, and my kids are well and playing nicely, but still need me enough that I don’t get to sit at the keyboard for an hour or so; that’s when the me-monster shows up, and my skin starts to feel a little furry yet again. It would certainly be nice if there really were a serum I could drink to make my beast disappear forever. I believe the apostle Paul was also hoping for a permanent cure when he kept asking God about that little thorn. I can’t speak for Paul’s answer, but what I’ve been learning is that “daily” can mean hourly, and “bread” is not just about physical nutrition. My spirit and soul need just as much food, every day, as my body does. So, like Hank, I am learning other practices to keep my beast at bay. I do not know any Shakespearean passages by heart, but I intentionally try to fill my life with artistry and beauty. Yes, prayer and scripture make the healthiest breakfasts, but sometimes it’s the song I hear in the afternoon that waters those seeds and helps them take root. Also, reading a good book, even if it’s only minutes at a time in the bathroom, goes a long way on a rough day. And soaking in the sunshine or the view from my back porch is like conditioning for a marathon. I’m not sure where the finish line is in this race of life, but I hope when I cross it, my transformation will be more than physical.

Derek Webb said a bad word. And the chaos has ensued. Of course, chaos is relative, so that might be overstating it a bit. But the blogosphere, if you will, certainly has picked up on the “controversy” and laid out its thoughts on one side or the other. Various sites post their reviews, their essays, their op-eds weighing in on both Derek’s use of the word s— on his new disc, Stockholm Syndrome, and its overarching themes of the church’s position on race and sexual orientation. As for me? I couldn’t care less. Let’s break this down quickly, because Webb’s formula is quite simple. As someone easily bored with a rebellious streak, he’s bound to create the music that he does. The inner child he describes as constantly getting into trouble, even into high school, is naturally geared to bring up the topic that everyone’s avoiding. And the evaporating musical interests lead him to jump from bluegrass to art rock to plaintive acoustics to lap-pop on Stockholm. And THAT is the beauty of Webb’s artistry. There’s no fancy flow chart in Webb’s house lining his home studio walls with himself on one side and the church on the other – with keen war-like strategies to take down the religious establishment. There’s no glorious campaigning to expose the wrongs of society. There’s no representative, six-foot-long spoon on the wall, reminding him to daily “stir the pot.” (That’s a bit ridiculous, I know). Instead, Derek Webb is a guy who has followed his heart and his talents without allowing fear to keep him from movement. And that’s taken him to this very place. If you think about things this way, that means Derek Webb is simply doing what he was created to do. And it’s not some self-prescribed notion of “changing the world” or some righteous quest to overturn the tables in the modern temple. It really is just about following the interior interests and passions and seeing what comes out – and then being unafraid to release those results because “someone might be offended.” Our churches are full of people afraid of that very last line. And instead of following Webb’s example and doing the same thing (not mimicking his artistry, but being unafraid ourselves to release what’s inside), it’s easier to stand and scoff or mock or start a debate. After all, if everyone is looking at Derek Webb then that distracts me from having to look at my own self. And, by default, we usually choose the safer, more secure option. But who really wants to think about all of that. After all, Derek Webb just said a bad word.

“Smoked pork chop, brined in tequila and chipotle, served with poblano skillet corn, haricot vert, and oaxacan molé.” So read the menu for the entreé I ordered last Friday night, while my friends enjoyed similarly delectable entrées. And yes, it was every bit as mouth-watering as it sounds, especially when paired with a glass of red wine. What was the occasion, you ask? We were on our way to see Julie and Julia following our dinner. And we realized it would be a bit obscene to eat at a fast food joint before seeing a movie that tells the story of someone trying to cook through Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,”–all five hundred and twenty-four recipes–in just one year. Meryl Streep is great as Julia Child, and many of the best scenes are her interactions with her husband, played by Stanley Tucci. And it may just inspire you, as it did for both me and my friends, to order your own copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. But the point of this blog post is not to talk about the movie–I mean to spend more time talking about food. Just before heading out for dinner and the movie, my friend Clint and I drove a couple blocks away to another house in our neighborhood to pick up our weekly order from a local CSA—Community Supported Agriculture–grown by an Old Order Mennonite farmer in Kentucky. Every Friday afternoon, we get approximately a quarter bushel of fresh produce and split it between Clint and his wife, Anna, and myself (this week’s bounty pictured above). I’ve had friends telling me about how great the CSAs they’re a part of are for the last couple years, but it was watching the documentary Food, Inc. six weeks ago, about the state of the American food industry and the methods used to produce much of the food you find in your local supermarket, that finally provided the impetus to research those close to me and sign up for one. As Clint and I were leaving the theatre after watching Food, Inc., I mentioned that I owe much of my thinking about food to the writings of Wendell Berry, and as I’ve tried to explain to other friends in the following weeks why I think being mindful of what you eat is so important, I’ve found myself quoting longer and longer passages from him. Berry opens his essay, “The Pleasures of Eating,” from What Are People For?, by writing, “Many times, after I have finished a lecture on the decline of American farming and rural life, someone in the audience has asked, “What can city people do?'” His answer? “Eat responsibly.” A central idea in Food, Inc. is that you vote three times a day about what kind of food you want and how it should be produced, how the workers involved in the harvesting and distribution of that food should be treated, etc. But does it really matter?  Why would we change our eating habits? So we have another way to feel superior to those not as “enlightened” as us? No; not for me, anyway.  I view eating locally–and by doing so supporting a local farmer instead of a faceless corporation, spending more time in the kitchen, and having more fresh food around that will go bad if I don’t have friends over to share it with–as all part of trying to live a more holistic lifestyle. In Berry’s aforementioned essay, he goes on to say this: “But if there is a food politics, there are also a food aesthetics and a food ethics, neither of which is dissociated from politics. Like industrial sex, industrial eating has become a degraded, poor, and paltry thing. Our kitchens and other eating places more and more resemble filling stations, as our homes more and more resemble motels. “Life is not very interesting,” we seem to have decided. “Let its satisfactions be minimal, perfunctory, and fast.” We hurry through our meals to go to work and hurry through our work in order to “recreate” ourselves in the evenings and on weekends and vacations. And then we hurry, with the greatest possible speed and noise and violence, through our recreation– for what? To eat the billionth hamburger at some fast-food joint hellbent on increasing the “quality” of our life? And all this is carried out in a remarkable obliviousness to the causes and effects, the possibilities and the purposes, of the life of the body in this world. One will find this obliviousness represented in virgin purity in the advertisements of the food industry, in which food wears as much makeup as the actors. If one gained one’s whole knowledge of foods from these advertisements (as some presumably do), one would not know that the various edibles were ever living creatures, or that they all come from the soil, or that they were produced by work. The passive American consumer, sitting down to a meal of pre-prepared or fast food, confronts a platter covered with inert, anonymous substances that have been processed, dyed, breaded, sauced, gravied, ground, pulped, strained, blended, prettified, and sanitized beyond resemblance to any part of any creature that ever lived. The products of nature and agriculture have been made, to all appearances, the products of industry. Both eater and eaten are thus in exile from biological reality. And the result is a kind of solitude, unprecedented in human experience, in which the eater may think of eating as, first, a purely commercial transaction between him and a supplier and then as a purely appetitive transaction between him and his food.” It would be a transgression of the highest order to conclude a blog post about movies and food without mentioning Babette’s Feast, but instead of taking up more space here, let me point you to a recent essay by my friend Jeffrey Overstreet, written for Christianity Today Movies: Feasting on Film. Jeffrey begins by mentioning great scenes about food in a couple of films, including the scenes about a cup of hot coffee in Wings of Desire (one of my favorite films) and some highlights of Chocolat, before focusing on three of his favorites, Ratatouille, Sideways, and Babette’s Feast. It is, as with everything Jeffrey writes, well worth your time. Here’s the link. And to leave you with some practical advice: Eat responsibly.

Let there be rejoicing and CD buying in the streets, and in stores, and upon amorphous internet music-selling entities, for today marks the release of Eric Peters’s new album Chrome. Last year, Eric invoked a modern form of the old artist’s patronage system as an experimental way to manage the financial burden of going back into the studio.  He humbly asked those who believe in and love his music to make a small donation to offset to cost of the album’s production.  In return, his patrons received two copies of the album a few weeks early (one signed), and inclusion in the special thanks of the liner notes. In Eric Peters that faith is well-placed. His new album is a beautiful, fluid collection of songs about finding faith and hope amid the brokenness and heartbreak of everyday life.   Chrome (produced by the ubiquitous Ben Shive) is full of Eric’s catchy melodies, his vulnerable falsetto, and the wealth of insight he’s gained from his own struggles with issues like pain, doubt, and fatherhood. So Eric, as one of your many patrons, I want to say thank you. Job well done. If you readers didn’t get the chance offer your patronage at the beginning of the journey, I hope you’ll offer it now.  Head into the Rabbit Room Store, or over to Eric’s website and secure yourself a copy of a fantastic album.

This week, 119 years ago, master horror writer H.P. Lovecraft was born. Lovecraft believed imaginative fiction to be “art in its most essential sense.” While Lovecraft was an atheist, there are surprising commonalities between his own view of art and that of J.R.R. Tolkien, as brilliantly expounded by scholar Amy H. Sturgis in “New Shoggoth Chic: Why H.P. Lovecraft Now?“. Dr. Sturgis has a collection of Lovecraft links at her blog in honor of his birthday. Lovecraft can be difficult to get into at first. Dr. Sturgis gives some helpful tips for “Getting into the Lovecraft Zone.” Some recommended starting places, in my The Outsider,” “The Music of Erik Zahn,” “The Rats in the Walls,” and “The Colour Out of Space,” as well as the lengthier “The Haunter of the Dark” and the novella “At the Mountains of Madness” (del Toro has plans to make a film version of this, though I’m guessing The Hobbit has much delayed his original plans to have it done by 2010).  Lovecraft is best known for his Cthulhu stories, including “The Call of Cthulhu” and “The Shadow Over Innsmouth.” Our own Pete Peterson, you might remember, has been inspired by Lovecraft. Lovecraft’s view of supernatural horror in literature informed my analysis of the theme of Fear in the Harry Potter stories in chapter three of Harry Potter & Imagination: The Way Between Two Worlds. #HPLovecraft

I spent two weeks in July with my family up at my in-laws’ ranch up in the Peace River country of Alberta, about an hour from Dawson Creek, BC. My father-in-law came up to the Peace River and homesteaded with his dad at the the ripe age of seven years, back in 1929, to settle on this very spot. He speaks casually of trappers, of delivering mail by snowshoe, wild people, horse thieves, stolen cows, and hunting and tracking moose through hip-deep snow. At 85 he still cuts his own wood with a power saw, an expert log splitter. I’d only been there in December’s subzero temperatures for about ten years. Minus 40 isn’t pleasant. I remove my glove to take these kinds of pictures, and my fingers begin to go numb in less than a minute. But this was summer at 75 degrees. I saw things I hadn’t seen in ten years – a stern bald eagle standing at its nest, watching us, in a tall dead tree on the edge of the flat field above the river. My boy wanted to build a raft, so I gathered and sawed logs while he built a wickiup and my daughter sank her feet into the deep and squishy Peace River mud. The lake up on the next level was serene with floating deadwood and a beaver dam. The old log cabin, dating probably from the 1930s or 1940s, was overgrown and fallen in much more than I remembered. My son and I built a lean-to out of big poplar branches, spruce boughs, and twine. Tracks were all over the ranch – bear, moose, and beaver tracks at the river, wolf tracks out on Moonlight Canyon, and deer tracks everywhere. It is so still and serene there. God’s creation is; it’s just simply being itself. There is an immutable silence in nature that mere noise and activity can’t eradicate; the silence is always there under the noise, patiently waiting. On the ranch there is no noise. Out on Moonlight Canyon, or by the lake, or out on the big flat, the silence is tangible. It pours in your ears and digs deep into your soul, bringing forth things long forgotten. There is something I recovered there this summer, a boy I used to be, barefoot, fishing, swimming, or digging clay out of the hillside to make model dinosaurs. I lived a Huck Finn existence that was mostly lost when I turned thirteen and moved to middle class suburbia; playing music and escaping into books took Huck’s place, and life was never the same. Plenty of good things happened in my teens, of course; waterskiing trips, playing banjo and guitar, working at my Dad’s music store, and eventually bluegrass festivals, bands, and more. Without these things my life’s track would have been radically different. But Huck Finn, that kid who lived every day by dirt and creek and frog and catfish, he had to shut his eyes and sleep for the eighties and nineties and beyond. Something in us gets cooked by microwaves, drowned by iPods, blinded by laptops, a thing recovered outdoors in the cool morning air, in the heat of a sun that makes us feel so small but so alive.At the edge of a cliff, looking over an ancient river rolling for centuries to the sea, a truth in us wakes up. This inner truth is fed and watered by nature, by fresh air, by silence; technology and hustle-and-bustle and malls and traffic seem to starve it. There is an aspect of self-importance and self-absorption in modern life that is wonderfully crushed by nature. Hills and rivers and trees and grass make me feel so humbled and awed and yet significant; they’re immense and soulful, and artistic, God’s gift to man as a sign of His love. Something came alive in me during those two weeks that isn’t going away.

The big day has arrived. NORTH! OR BE EATEN is on the shelves. It took a year to write, and it clocked in at about 120,000 words. I wrote at home, on the road, and more than anywhere else at a coffee shop down the street. I read it aloud to my wife and children and took out the boring parts. I drew seven illustrations, two maps, and put the book through three edits. August 18 has been marked on my calendar for a long time, and it’s arrived at last. I Amazon or to the Rabbit Room Store and pick up a copy of North! Or Be Eaten. (The ones in the Rabbit Room are autographed, by the way, and you can buy books one and two for a deal, in case you aren’t caught up). You can also head to your local bookstore and pick it up (though I’d call before you made the trip, in case they don’t have any in yet). I hope you’ll find a comfy chair and a cup of coffee or curl up in the bunk bed with the kids and lose yourself in this story. But beware. The toothy cows are on the loose. As are the horned hounds, snickbuzzards, and Stranders. Thanks for supporting me and mine. Sincerely, AP P.S. Here are a few blurbs from some authors with impeccable literary taste: “Peterson deserves every literary prize for this fine book. It is obvious that his musical talents have been put to good use as his use of words, plot and narrative read like a well scored film script. A very fine book, by a very fine writer and future talent. Amazing – thrilling and well worth reading again and again.” –G. P. Taylor, New York Times best-selling author of Shadowmancer and The Dopple Ganger Chronicles “Toothy cows are very dangerous. Andrew Peterson convinced me and shivers run down my spine at the very thought of meeting a toothy cow face to face. The author spills characters like Podo and Nurgabog onto the page, then weaves a tale of danger that holds the reader captive. Believe me, you will relish being held captive by this master storyteller. But be sure you don’t get caught by the Stranders. Those people just ain’t civilized.” –Donita K. Paul, author of The Vanishing Sculptor “In a genre overrun by the gory and the grim, Peterson’s bite-sized chapters taste more like a stew of Gorey (Edward) and Grimm (the Brothers). North! Or Be Eaten is a welcome feast of levity–and clearly a labor of love. Andrew Peterson has awakened my inner eight-year-old, and that is a very good thing.” –Jeffrey Overstreet, author of Auralia’s Colors and Cyndere’s Midnight “An immensely clever tale from a wonderful storyteller – filled with great values and even greater adventure!” –Phil Vischer, creator of VeggieTales “Thrills, chills, spine-tingling mystery, and lots of smiles. It’s not easy to combine heart-pounding danger with gut-busting laughs and make it work, but Peterson pulls it off. For readers who want nonstop action infused with powerful, life-changing themes, North! Or Be Eaten is a must-read.” –Wayne Thomas Batson, best-selling author of The Door Within Trilogy, Isle of Swords and Isle of Fire “Andrew Peterson is a gifted storyteller, scene painter and wordsmith who takes you on a rollicking white-water ride of adventure. Readers of all ages are sure to find North! Or Be Eaten worthy of a big mug filled with a favorite beverage and a cozy nook near a crackling fire for hours on end. Here there be tales within yarns within stories. Listen, reader, bend your ear, but keep an eye peeled lest the dreaded Fangs of Dang be near!” –R. K. Mortenson, author of Landon Snow and The Auctor’s Riddle

So I was having a bad day. I woke up, for no apparent reason, at 5:30 in the morning, and my brain was already two hours ahead of my body. It was the kind of day that usually lands me in front of the mirror with a mental baseball bat. But on this day, I did not have the wisdom to walk away in defense. Instead, I moved in closer for a beat down. My arms would not reach up to fight, but remained stubbornly, helplessly at my sides. My face, totally unprotected from the oncoming head blow, narrowly dodged clear at the very last second, and I closed my eyes in relief. A minute or two passed and I gained strength enough to push away from the glass and head for the safety of my computer. I put my head down and got to work, hoping to shake off the shadows, but an hour later I found myself crying through the proofread because I hated every single letter on the screen. Not the time for happy, drummy rock bands, but certainly not come-to-Jesus-worship-time either. What’s left? How about a little Eric Peters? Yep, he might just do the trick today. Maybe he can silence the zombies in my head. So I popped in the disc, and was greeted by a catchy, familiar “Dooh dah do da doo, Dooh dah do da doo” beat. Followed by the words: One of these days I’m gonna shed my skin Become somebody who I might have been Look outside and jump right back in The very next day Of their own accord, my fingertips drummed the steering wheel, and the scene through my sunglasses grew brighter as I pulled out of the driveway. Scarce became the perfect soundtrack for that day, each song digging a little deeper to pull me out of my funk. And by the time I reached the restaurant, this human had seen the grace in the sky and was ready to point another in the direction of hope. My husband first tried to interest me in Eric’s music years ago, when he bought a Ridgely CD after seeing them in concert. I liked a song or two, but it connected more with John than me. Later, when Eric went solo, John kept tabs on him and would always tell me when a new album came out. The thing is–my husband always has something new for me to listen to. That’s what happens when you spend lots of time in a car alone, commuting to and from work. Conversely, what happens when you spend time driving a minivan filled with small children is that you never listen to said music, until you’re really ready. My readiness came last year in the form of a concert we held for the young married life groups at our church. John had recently joined the church staff and had the idea to bring Eric over for a show. I did not want to be totally clueless in the audience, so the week before, I listened to our CDs enough to know a few choruses. And the concert experience that night won me over. Imagine sitting in the same room you’d visited a hundred times as Kindergarten leader for children’s worship where you sang words like “higher, higher, higher, higher, higher, higher, lift Jesus higher,” and hearing a short guy in faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt sing “faith feels just like murder.” Not something you’re likely to walk away from without pause. But the way Eric delivers the line is what makes the impact last. Here’s a guy who writes melodies both the Beach Boys and James Taylor would envy, with meaningful lyrics to boot, whose demeanor and humility suggest someone sincerely seeking affirmation and encouragement. That’s not to say you feel sorry for him (you can’t help but admire a man brave enough to sing falsetto), it’s just that his presence on stage is a serious one, despite the jokes and jibes he makes. Perhaps it’s seeing the emotion he still shows for a song he must have sung a hundred times, and knowing it’s not contrived, that fills your tank equally with amazement and thankfulness. I left the concert that night determined to make time to get to know this music, and Eric, a little better. And the months of driving (and reading) time it took have certainly paid off. The content and honesty of songs like “The Maginot Line” and “Dust to Dust” impress me every time I hear them. While the sweetness and light of tunes like “Waterloo” and “You Can Be Yourself” help brighten the darker days of my life. The collection is more multifaceted than five CDs should allow, but for me, the best thing about Eric’s music is his questions. There’s a familiar saying: to get the right answers, you have to ask the right questions. If the saying is true, then I believe Eric Peters has a head start on the rest of us. My favorite of his songs, “Kansas,” asks weighty ones like these: How deep is love? And how long and how wide? Can there be living, when we’re all dried up inside? Of course questions and struggles, though not often found in popular Christian music, are really nothing new. But rare is the seeker who can relate the answers God has given him in a lyric like this: A picket fence with a gate that freely swings wide Out here is Kansas where the groom takes his bride Nice, huh? Eric and I have exchanged a few e-mails over the last few months, and it seems to me he is as genuine as his music. Of course, the only way you can find out for sure is to invest some time (and maybe even money) in Eric Peters yourself. If you’re a regular Rabbit Roomer, you’ve probably read a pleasant little essay or two by Eric and are no doubt aware of his impressive vocabulary as well as his upcoming album release. For the rest of you out there, Eric’s new record is called Chrome and you can check out the cover art, as well as the rest of his music, at his main website, here. Eric has also detailed, with more than one fancy word, a bit of the recording process for this album on a blog located here. Oh yeah, and for the “already fan”s, be sure and leave some comment love for EP below.

The following was written for the Your Jesus is Too Safe blog tour. Thanks to Jared C. Wilson and Kregel Publications for a copy of the book to review. It seems fairly evident that the Christian faith is about Jesus. But that this is obvious doesn’t mean it’s not neglected or distorted. We are prone to place all sorts of other priorities above getting to know our Savior. As bad, we have a bent toward remaking him in our image. As Michael Card wrote, “We’ve made you in our image, so our faith’s idolatry.” Two books in the past have helped me get a better handle on how we read our culture into God, instead of bring God to our culture: Donald McCullough’s The Trivialization of God, and Erwin Lutzer’s Ten Lies About God. Jared C. Wilson’s book, Your Jesus is Too Safe, is a welcome addition to volumes that set our thinking straight about our faith, and it’s focused on Jesus. And that is the greatest value of this book: It sets our thinking right about Jesus in an age in which he’s been fit into every other mold we can think of, and there can be nothing more “relevant” to our culture than presenting the “not safe but good” Jesus. If Christians get Jesus wrong, we get everything else wrong. Every generation of Christians needs to know and love Jesus, and every generation has its own challenges and obstacles to doing that. Wilson’s book faces these obstacles head-on with chapter after chapter of lucid writing about Christ. The book lends itself very well to use in Sunday School classes or smaller group studies, and I can’t recommend it highly enough both for personal and group study. It’s the kind of edifying book about Christ that we all need. There is one, and only one complaint I have about the book, and it is very serious: In a footnote on page 51, he insults Alf. That is almost unforgivable. Apart from that heresy, you need to read this book.

Vincent van Gogh put the barrel of his pistol to his chest and pulled the trigger. Earnest Hemingway, three weeks shy of his 62nd birthday, used a shotgun and aimed about a foot higher.  Heroine and cocaine took Belushi and Farley.  It appears, at least in part, that small armies of sycophants with the power to prescribe presided over the waning moments of the lives of Michael Jackson, Anna Nicole Smith and Elvis Presley. But you knew that, didn’t you. Truth is this world is filled with celebrity meltdowns.  Some huge.  Some you saw coming a mile away.  For others, the collapse hasn’t happened yet, but you know its only a matter of time. In this world, you can’t just be a celebrity.  You also have to be human living in a relational world.  And relationships are hard work. What broods beneath the surface of every public spectacle of self-destruction lies buried in all of us, like the plastic explosive C4–stable until the right charge sets it off.  Then, look out! There’s the man who quietly packs his bag and abandons his family because they aren’t fulfilling him as he thought they should. (He’s been thinking about this for over a year now.)  Or the woman who builds an artificial community through her online social network, logging hours each day checking and commenting on statuses and pictures, but never emerging from her home to speak to actual living souls.  Or the boy in the hoodie with his headphones. Or the mom who can’t help but see her kids as the thieves who stole away the best years of her life and can’t wait until they’re out of her house. What about you?  What are the reasons you want to blow up?  Or bolt?  How close have you come?  And under what refuge would you have to flee to make a clean break? Have you ever felt that maybe becoming a bomb specialist overseas would be easier than your current domestic gig? The Hurt Locker is a story about a group of specialists in Iraq charged with the job of diffusing improvised explosive devices (IED’s), often in broad daylight and quite possibly while the architect of the bomb in question looks on, casually fingering the disposable cell phone he married to the detonator in the specialist’s hands. Still, with no margin for error, the members of the Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) squad volunteer for their work.  They sign up for it!  Would you? Jeremy Renner, the lead actor, gives an oscar-worthy performance as an ordinary civilian and glorious warrior who can’t figure out how to be both at the same time.  His work in Iraq is about one thing–diffusing bombs–and if he adds anything else to it, he’ll die.  His mission is clear and his work is suited to his skill-set and personality type.  People in authority over him are in awe and those beneath him are dumbfounded by how he could still be alive. He’s happy as a pig in mud. Technically, the film is riveting.  Borrowing from Roger Ebert quoting the Master of Suspense: “Hitchcock said when there’s a bomb under a table, and it explodes, that’s action. When we know the bomb is there, and the people at the table play cards, and it doesn’t explode, that’s suspense.” This film is about the game on the table. But it’s also about Van Gogh , Hemingway, Belushi, Farley, Jackson, Smith, Presley, the man leaving his family, the woman in isolation and the mother who quietly resents her children. It’s about public excellence and personal failure.  It’s about what it takes to detonate stability. The Hurt Locker is about how hard it is for so many of us to be about more than one thing at a time. Most of us, at some point or another, want to run.  We dress this urge up in our best rationales: no one understand us; we’re not appreciated for who we are or what we do; we’re not the same person we were before; we’re not being our “true selves” anymore.  For many of us, this comes when we’re chin deep in our vows before God and witnesses to have and to hold until death do us part. Or in parenthood. So we sit alone in our garages, at our desks, in our studios, or wherever thinking life is passing us by while we waste our formidable years chained to another person’s wants or needs. Life isn’t what we thought it would be.  Our work isn’t clear or suited to our skill set or personality type.  What we wouldn’t give for some det-cord–blow the whole thing to hell. We begin to think we’re losing our identity because that child or spouse or job seems to demand that we be about just one thing. But we dreamed we were going to be so much more. If this is you, here’s where you’re dead wrong.  No one is asking you to be just one thing.  They’re needing you to be more than one thing at a time–and some of it you’re not that good at.  The rock star butts up against the reality that every night unknown fans reach for him on stage, but his own daughter seems to just want mommy. The brooding writer easily enters the tunnel which takes her deep into the world of words, ideas and characters, but feels detached at the dinner table and gets uncomfortable and annoyed when asked about her day. The salesman lives for the pitch, knowing he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to hit it out of the park, but tries to spend as little time as possible tucking his own kids in so he can be done for the night and zone out to SportsCenter. The network specialist can’t fix his own leaky faucet, and wonders if his wife respects how hard he works as he dials the plumber’s number. Tragically, rather than deal with the inadequacy, many surrender to the temptation to just leave the hard stuff in favor of the glory.  The problem is the hard places are usually where our relationships attach. Jettison the hard stuff and what’s left?  Glory? _____________________ Full disclosure: I am going to Texas to visit my only brother Ryan next week so we can get some time together before he deploys for his second tour in Iraq.  The first time he went, his daughter Reagan (yep, named after the other Reagan) was a toddler.  She didn’t know what was happening then.  She barely understood the passing of time.  Now she cries most days because she doesn’t want her daddy to leave. And I don’t either. Please pray for them, for his wife Nancy, and for all our soldiers. Some don’t come home, but none come home unchanged. Pray for the soldiers coming home, that they’d love the home the return to.

Well, as if my asinine original post wasn’t inflicting enough stupidity on you, here’s an unlooked-for follow up. It’s sort of comforting, and sort of disturbing, to think that there are so many of you who have weird imaginations. I feel at home. In a weird home with weird people like me in it. You guys make me laugh. Also, I see many of you are brilliant namers of things. I might actually post a little blurb about my own novel sometime and ask for suggestions for names because you guys obviously can come up with some names. Also. It must be noted that while I judge this stiff competition of thousands of entrants I am listening to/sort of watching Beck on Austin City Limits. This is something I taped a few years back on a device called a VCR. Beck is weird. So is/are the Flaming Lips, who back him up. I love it. Now, to the competition. At stake, one hug and one autographed copy of my autograph –as promised. I have no idea how to fulfill this guarantee, but we’ll give it the old college try (the new college try never works). There were so many amazing entries. I assume getting a hug from me is like, one of the top things. Or you people just have pent-up brilliant silliness that is oozing out and you need a place to put it. I’m here for you. Note: I posted this here at the Rabbit Room and at my website, so I chose from the pool of both. OK, without further ado. Here’s the top five in descending order, along with some honorable mentions (though many more were hilarious). Honorable Mention: The Fancy Timepiece –Aaron Roughton An Unencumbered Beard -Matt C Breaching the Ordnung –Chad Ethridge So You Think You Can’t Dance –Russ Ramsey’s much cleverer wife 5. Hannah Yoder: Elf-Queen of Arcola –Rob “Highfive” Dunbar 4. Mennonite in Black –Aaron “The People’s Choice” Crossley 3. Love’s Light-Reflecting Triangle –Jessica “On the Medal Stand” Crossley 2. Obadiah’s Wormhole –Aaron “Bridesmaid” Roughton 1. Matthew Lapp and the Enchanted Hatband –Kevin “No Relation” Smith I ended up going with ones that truly had both the Amish and the Fantasy elements. Congrats to Kevin, get ready for that hug. And the writing sample. Also, just to update, Beck is now dancing while some guy follows him around with flashlights. “Bottles and cans and just clap your hands.” Fin. 8.10.09 11:50 PM

I read here and there about what publishers are publishing a lot of now. Those can sometimes be opportunities for despair. A down-side of a market-driven approach is that broad readership is not always the best indicator of quality. Though, to strike back at the snob in us, it’s not always an indication of tripe either. This book called The Lord of the Rings has sold a few copies. One of these popular categories for fiction these days is Amish Romance. You heard me: Amish. Romance. The Romance category in general mystifies me somewhat, and I have many memories of scoffing at the titles of some books of people I’ve been around–in ignorance, it must be admitted. Historical Romance was always a big hit with many ladies I knew growing up. Just make some combo of the following words and you can come up with a title. Love. Wind. Hope. Promise. Prairie. Softly. Gently. Whisper. Choice. Season. Did I already say Wind? Anyway, I think my sister was reading some Historical Romance one day when we were kids and I was making one of my usual forays into misnaming the book using some combination of the words above. And I got it right on. First try. Having never seen the book.  That was a happy day for me. I think my sister even laughed. I will allow that Fantasy probably sounds just as strange to people who don’t read it as Amish Romance sounds to me. Anyway, the point of this isn’t to alienate the entire reading public, but to announce my intention to almost totally cave to trendiness in publishing and yet hold on to something of my own inclinations. I am starting an Amish Fantasy series. Your mission? To help me name my first book. Best Amish Fantasy book title in the comments section gets a hug from me, and an autographed copy of my autograph (that’s right, I will autograph my autograph and give it to you). So help me out here. What’s a good name for the first in the series? Note: This post was not intended to be hurtful either to Amish people, Amish Romance readers (which apparently is everyone), or Fantasy readers, or the readers of the Lost Ark. The views in this post do not necessarily represent the opinion of the staff and management of the Rabbit Room, S.D. Smith, or any of his slush funds, shadow governments, or multinational corporations, or his chain of hot-dog stand/tanning beds.

THE ALLIANCE The farmer stood on the side of this hill Lord knows how many years ago, Before anyone ever heard of Normandy Or Iwo Jima or the Bridge Too Far. The man scratched his whiskery chin, Brushed a fly from the brim of his hat, And decided the cattle needed a pond. He ambushed the creek and raised a dam, Built a brick chimney that led to a heavy stone pipe Under the embankment, an overflow so the bravest Waters stood a chance at escape. Then he waited for rain. For years the deer and cattle drank here, The frogs and songbirds and waterbugs came And rested on the banks like tourists In the sun on summer vacation. But late one night, when no one was watching, The seeds on the dam broke open. Carefully upward they crept. Seedlings stretched tall like waking children. Before the farmer knew it, they were trees With deep roots, fingers in the earth That wrapped around the stone drainpipe Like a soldier grips a gun. One night, a storm descended. The bending trees on the dam grew bold, And squeezed till the pipe burst. The creek rejoiced and ran free. In the morning the cattle complained. The frogs and birds and waterbugs Packed their things and left. Catfish cooked in the mud. The elder waters gurgled their thanks To the trees on the dam, then nodded And ran home eventually to the sea, Where they wanted to go all along. The farmer, old now, woke to discover His work undone. “Hmm,” was all he said. The cows looked away to allow him his dignity. When it rains now, the pond fills partway Then drains away overnight, Young waters pausing to honor their forbears, Who bought their freedom. But the birds and the frogs and the fish and I Have been meeting in secret. The creek doesn’t know it yet, But the old trees are thirsty. ———————– There’s no deep meaning in this one, so don’t bother looking. There’s an old dry pond at the Warren, and whenever I sit in the woods I dream of repairing the dam and stocking the pond with catfish.

Vampires seem to be more popular than ever. Underworld, Twilight and True Blood are the newest expressions of the vampire story, and at this year’s Comic Con it was announced that Tim Burton and Johnny Depp will be reincarnating Dark Shadows in movie form after the Alice in Wonderland project is complete. The vampire is a great Gothic figure, if we consider Gothic literature as that which gives us stark images and symbols of fallen humanity. Having lost immortality in the Fall, the vampire is a picture of humanity seeking deathlessness by taking the blood of others – a stark contrast to the gospel, wherein Chris gave us deathlessness by letting others take his own blood. Three links might be of interest to the fan of vampires (via The Kibitzer): Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan: Why Vampires Never Die. This article takes a shot at explaining out love for the creepy immortals. The current vampire pandemic serves to remind us that we have no true jurisdiction over our bodies, our climate or our very souls. Monsters will always provide the possibility of mystery in our mundane “reality show” lives, hinting at a larger spiritual world; for if there are demons in our midst, there surely must be angels lurking nearby as well. In the vampire we find Eros and Thanatos fused together in archetypal embrace, spiraling through the ages, undying. Neil Gaiman explains that we’ve become over-saturated with them already, and it’s time for them to take a rest in the coffin for about 25 years. And here’s a list of vampire novels.

Here is a small excerpt from John Piper’s excellent book Don’t Waste Your Life (which you can read here for free, or buy here for a pittance) wherein he expresses thankfulness for Clive Staples Lewis and details some of the ways he has cleared a path for us all. I’ll only add that I vigorously concur, and that JP is among the very few men who rank with CSL for impact in my own life. -sam Someone introduced me to Lewis my freshman year with the book, Mere Christianity. For the next five or six years I was almost never without a Lewis book near at hand. I think that without his influence I would not have lived my lfe with as much joy or usefulness as I have. There are reasons for this. He has made me wary of chronological snobbery. That is, he showed me that newness is no virtue and oldness is no vice. Truth and beauty and goodness are not determined by when they exist. Nothing is inferior for being old, and nothing is valu¬able for being modern. This has freed me from the tyranny of novelty and opened for me the wisdom of the ages. To this day I get most of my soul-food from centuries ago. I thank God for Lewis’s compelling demonstration of the obvious. He demonstrated for me and convinced me that rigorous, precise, penetrating logic is not opposed to deep, soul-stirring feeling and vivid, lively—even playful—imagination. He was a “romantic rationalist.” He combined things that almost every¬body today assumes are mutually exclusive: rationalism and poetry, cool logic and warm feeling, disciplined prose and free imagination. In shattering these old stereotypes, he freed me to think hard and to write poetry, to argue for the resurrection and compose hymns to Christ, to smash an argument and hug a friend, to demand a definition and use a metaphor. Lewis gave me an intense sense of the “realness” of things. The preciousness of this is hard to communicate. To wake up in the morning and be aware of the firmness of the mattress, the warmth of the sun’s rays, the sound of the clock ticking, the sheer being of things (“quiddity” as he calls it). He helped me become alive to life. He helped me see what is there in the world—things that, if we didn’t have, we would pay a million dollars to have, but having them, ignore. He made me more alive to beauty. He put my soul on notice that there are daily wonders that will waken worship if I open my eyes. He shook my dozing soul and threw the cold water of reality in my face, so that life and God and heaven and hell broke into my world with glory and horror. He exposed the sophisticated intellectual opposition to objective being and objective value for the naked folly that it was. The philosophical king of my generation had no clothes on, and the writer of children’s books from Oxford had the courage to say so. You can’t go on “seeing through” things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. It is good that the window should be transpar¬ent, because the street or garden beyond it is opaque. How if you saw through the garden too? It is no use trying to “see through” first principles. If you see through everything, then everything is transparent. But a wholly transparent world is an invisible world. To “see through” all things is the same as not to see. (CSL) Oh, how much more could be said about the world as C. S. Lewis saw it and the way he spoke. He has his flaws, some of them serious. But I will never cease to thank God for this remark¬able man who came onto my path at the perfect moment. #CSLewis #DontWasteYourLife #JohnPiper

Rachelle Gardner, who runs a great blog called Rants and Ramblings (On Life as a Literary Agent), ran a post last week that I thought would fit in well here at the Rabbit Room. She graciously gave me permission to cross-post it but be sure to check out her blog as well (CBA-Ramblings.blogspot.com). Finding Truth in Unlikely Places by Rachelle Gardner How many Christians can deal with that? How many people can deal with that? One of the biggest themes on the program is secrets. Characters are always hiding things from each other – and often from themselves – but never without consequence. The pitfalls of secret-keeping and living a double life are made abundantly clear. Over and over the characters learn that it’s best to live in the light rather than the dark. Even though Desperate Housewives has a reputation for being raunchy (and parts of it definitely are), the themes are solidly on the side of good morals. Characters don’t have affairs without major negative repercussions. They don’t lie without it coming back to bite them. They don’t embezzle millions of dollars and then go on to enjoy living off the money. They don’t screw up as parents without learning their lessons and having broken hearts over it. The show consistently delivers the message that being married and having an intact family is better than divorce or promiscuous singlehood. It also repeatedly portrays the significance of the family in shaping children’s lives and futures. Most of all, the show is built on the friendships between these women, always coming back to the theme that we all need each other, we’re not meant to be alone. I was particularly impressed with the show’s handling of faith in a couple of the episodes. One of the housewives, Lynette, has no heritage of religion, but has been through countless traumas. One Sunday morning she suddenly decides, “We need to go to church!” She realizes she can no longer handle life on her own. She wants help, and she wants answers. What transpires is a funny but insightful series of attempts to find a church and find faith. Most of the other characters on the show are regular churchgoers; Lynette’s struggle exposes the roteness of this, and encourages at least one other character to examine her faith more deeply. Viewers see the difference between religion and real faith. We hear a minister explaining, “Faith is not about answers; it’s about the questions.” In the touching conclusion to one of the episodes, we see Lynette and another housewife sitting on the porch, heads together, sticky-note-laden Bible between them, deep in conversation. It gave me chills to watch it. This writing comes from the “secular” world but reinforces that the divisions we Christians create between “religious” and “secular” are artificial. Here are some of the things I’ve been pondering while watching Desperate Housewives: 1. Christians may rob themselves of potentially life-altering insights (and possibly some worthwhile entertainment) when they try to insulate themselves from the secular world of art, television, movies, and books. 2. As writers, we should be paying attention to the best writing wherever we can find it – television, books, movies – and examining how and why it works. 3. As writers, we can’t be afraid of the truth. Sometimes it feels too messy for Christian writing. Sometimes it may seem too dark. But we must grapple with human experience as it actually exists, not as we wish it were. That’s where our best writing will come from. 4. We might shake our heads at the portrayal of upscale, spoiled housewives as desperate. But that’s the point of the show. The outer trappings of our lives are unimportant; inside, we’re all humans, we all struggle with faith and friendship and marriage and living lives of integrity. In our quiet moments, every single one of us has moments where we feel desperate. (If you haven’t yet, perhaps you are not old enough or have not experienced enough of life’s hardship.) 5. Finally, as Christians, it’s important to be discerning about what kinds of entertainment we allow into our lives. But we need to be careful that our discernment doesn’t turn into fear. We can’t be afraid of the world. God has a way of making Himself seen and known in the most unlikely places. So what about you? Found any spiritual truths in unlikely places lately? I’d love to hear about it.