If you’re already a Counting Crows fan, then it’s likely you fell in love with the emotional displays of Adam Duritz somewhere along the way. I bought three copies of August and Everything After, the band’s debut album, my junior year of high school after wearing out several copies as songs like “Anna Begins,” “Round Here,” and “Raining in Baltimore” hit me with a strong emotional resonance. The trend has continued on every album ever since. No matter how old I get, Duritz’s ability to pierce my heart by unveiling his own has been the hallmark of the Crows for over two decades. Several weeks ago, a few friends in orbit around the Rabbit Room went to the Ryman to hear Toad the Wet Sprocket (which Andrew wrote about here) and Counting Crows. For me it was the 12th or so time I’d seen the band. The band played several tunes from their upcoming album, Somewhere Under Wonderland, alongside several covers and old favorites, and they all sounded great. But one song in particular, “Possibility Days,” struck me as hopeful, and it was one of the primary subjects of our recent interview at Stereo Subversion. “It’s kind of taken from the end of a Sondheim play, Sunday in the Park with George,” said Duritz. “It got a revival that my friend was in, and we went to see it several times. It was about the painter, Georges Seurat, and the last lines of the play are taken from what is supposedly his mother’s notebook. It says, ‘A blank page. His favorite. So many possibilities.’ I think those are the last lines of the play. All the color disappears from the walls and it’s just white. That can seem like nothing, but it also offers all the possibilities in the world. I think the song is just about that.” Duritz revealed that he was “barely conscious” during the recording of the band’s previous album, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings. It was a dark time marked by a cycle of depression, medication, and narcolepsy, but coming out of it near the end of recording, he came across the play and, consequently, the genesis of “Possibility Days.” “A year or two later when I wrote that song, it was really about trying to fall in love and then falling apart,” said Duritz. “It’s not a song about a relationship that works, but it’s a song about a relationship that can try, because it is possible. That’s worth living for. I’m not saying things are doomed. That’s the sort of relationship that doesn’t work, but it doesn’t matter. It’s okay. It could have worked, but it just didn’t work. And it’s not the same thing as being doomed. I think most of my songs are usually about hope. They’re not usually about success, but they’re about hope. That’s kind of all you need anyway. You don’t really need to succeed in life every day, you just need to not be doomed.” It’s positive and hopeful, but it’s also vintage Duritz. It’s also another reason why I’ve long been a fan of the band. You can read the full interview with Adam Duritz here. You can also catch the performance at the Ryman below:

“Before I can tell my life what I want to do with it, I must listen to my life telling me who I am.” —Parker Palmer I recently spent some time sorting through boxes in my parent’s garage in preparation for an epic yard sale (I have a healthy respect for anyone who has done this more than twice in a lifetime). The dust, barely visible on my hands and collected in drifts across the concrete garage floor, added a visceral grit to those hours that mirrored the inner work of re-living memories, sorting through boxes and boxes filled with the past. With an endless stack of boxes in front of me, I sneezed and shook my head, then settled myself on a tattered old towel to fight through tears and dust. This is going to take a while. There was a lot of junk uncovered during those hours. There were treasures, too. The junk tended to be objects we’d purchased; the treasures were the things made or enhanced with that personal touch. The treasures were often the things that might easily be mistaken for trash—like a piece of paper, wrinkled and creased into something like a tiny book. — Sometimes you read a book at the perfect time. I first read Parker Palmer’s Let Your Life Speak during the summer of 2008. I had applied and been accepted into graduate school while working more than full-time between two jobs to pay my way through the final semester of my undergraduate studies. All this, along with countless hours volunteered as a youth pastor and worship leader at a local church, left me in company with Bilbo Baggins, feeling “thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” In a desperate attempt to find some shred of identity and direction in my life, I called the Benedictine monastery in Pecos, New Mexico, and made plans for a five-day retreat. When visiting a monastery, it is essential to bring only what you must. Pack an extra jacket, and you probably won’t use it. Bring a short stack of books, and you’ll likely only crack one or two of them open. For clothing and hygiene, I stuffed the bare essentials into my backpack along with my journal and a handful of pens. I gave myself a limit of two books and scoured my bookshelf and finally settled on Let Your Life Speak. It was Wednesday when I arrived at the monastery, a place I had found time and again to be what Celtic spirituality would describe as “thin”—where the veil between heaven and earth becomes so translucent, both become more luminous. I picked up the room key at the guestmaster’s desk and walked the silent hallway to room 17 to stash my backpack before I took my familiar walk around the meadow, along the river. The first thing to do when visiting a monastery is to walk the grounds. Get a sense of the place, the land, the immense silence of it all. Pace yourself and breathe. Notice small things. I stepped out the back door and walked down the hill, onto the dirt pathway that leads behind the laundry room and around the pond to meander along the bank of the Pecos river. The way, specked all over with lavender and dandelions, borders a small marsh that houses a number of bird species and a handful of very vocal bullfrogs. Eventually, the path turns near a fence with a “NO TRESPASSING” sign and a clear gap where the ground is well-worn and leads beyond the fence, through a small patch of woody wilderness, to Monastery Lake (featured briefly in the film Crazy Heart). I decided to forego Monastery Lake that day. Instead, I made my way around the meadow, past a small cemetery, and behind the convent—home to Sister Miriam and Sister Helen. Sister Helen was in the garden, pulling the weeds that would mercilessly choke the medicinal plants she’d nursed along into the scorching summer months. I walked back up the hill, returned to my room to pick up the book I’d brought along. Enter Parker Palmer: “How often in the process we mask ourselves in faces that are not our own. How much dissolving and shaking of ego we must endure before we discover our deep identity—the true self within every human being that is the seed of authentic vocation. […] When we lose track of true self, how can we pick up the trail? One way is to seek clues in stories from our younger years, years when we lived closer to our birthright gifts.” Sometimes you read a book at the perfect time. In a particular season of your life, a book can know you. A book read at just the right moment in time opens itself up to you and opens you up to yourself. You can see. I sat underneath the branches of the willow tree, down by the pond, and saw my life. It opened up to me in little bits, through memories and long intuited desires. I thought about the many stories I’d written as a child, the lines of poetry that were more perfect than anything I’ve written since. I recalled the newspaper I started with two pen pals on the East Coast (with a mailing list of more than fifty names—it was a big deal back then), the delight of seeing my words in print. I remembered the many times I’d sat down at my polished particle-board desk with a blank piece of paper and a pencil, just to see what would come out on the page first: words or doodles. The first two days of my retreat were mostly spent under the willow or down by the river with the book, a journal, and a pen. The voices of so many expectations and demands slowly began to fade, one at a time, as the wonder of my life began to open before me. I could hear the whispers of vocation throughout my childhood. Vocation has never spoken to me through billboards or neon signs, but always through little growing things—little stories and drawings, ordinary conversations and workaday beauties. I watched in wonder as I began to see threads weaving color through my story. I was curious to know what my life would look like if those threads were free to complete their work. But wonder and curiosity soon gave way to analysis as I tried desperately to find a way to make to force those tender whispers into the angles and lines of my life as I’d constructed it. The many directions I was pursuing at the time, and would continue to pursue for a while longer, were not conducive to the way my life wanted to be cultivated. Something to understand when you plan to spend a significant amount of time at a monastery is that you will inevitably become restless and tired of being with yourself. Challenge those feelings, but be kind to yourself. Find something to do with your hands. By the third day of the retreat, I was itching for something to do. Televisions are scarce at the monastery and I’d already done so much walking and sitting and reading. I wanted get out of my head for a while. At breakfast that morning, Sister Helen eyed me from across the table as though she knew what I was feeling. She leaned over (meals were often taken in silence) to whisper, asked if I would help her in the garden. When a nun asks you to pull weeds…you pull weeds. Later in the morning, we met at the garden. She handed me a tube of sunscreen, a pair of gloves, and a floppy, wide-rimmed hat. I dutifully applied the sunscreen to my face, neck, and arms. I flopped the hat onto my head and pulled the gloves on as I knelt in the rocky soil and began the day’s work. It was easy at first. I started with the smaller ones without root systems. The larger ones would require the heavy duty shears Sister Helen was wielding. The higher the sun climbed in the sky, the more my knees ached and my fingers burned. I could feel blisters forming beneath the dirt-crusted surface of the gloves. The bell rang and Sister Helen handed me the shears, stood up to stretch her back and then walked down a footpath toward the chapel for midday prayer. I stayed, turned to contend with the larger weeds with shears in hand. The weeds had to go. They were not conducive to the health of the plants that needed to grow in this bit of earth. I pulled and twisted, pried and pinched, heaved every ounce of strength into my task. Half an hour into a particularly impossible patch, I wrapped both of my hands around a thick stalk and clenched. Leveraging my full body weight, I pulled one last time only to have my gloved hands slip, landing me on my backside in the dirt. The sun glared into my eyes as I laid  on my back and tugged the gloves off my hands, finger by finger. I sat up and pushed the shears aside, reached for my warm bottle of water and turned my attention back to the smaller weeds for a while. I thought about the whisperings of vocation I had been given the ears to hear. I thought about the wheels of my life that had already been set in motion, that had already gained too much momentum—like the impossibly strong root systems of those larger weeds. Tenacious, stubborn, stupid weeds. This is going to take a while. — Sorting through boxes for the yard sale, my mom came across a piece of paper, folded into the water-stained shaped of a book. Written in pencil across the front of that tiny book, in the wobbly scrawl of a preschooler: The garden by Barbara In the pages that follow, and in the barely decipherable spelling of a preschooler, we read that “the flairs are buttfl,” “the garden is goring bigr and bigr,” and “he gardn is groing betr and betr.” At the beginning of the long road to discovering a voice, it is good to be reminded that the desire has been longstanding. It’s just taking a while.

To Him who presses curiosities four-to-a-row across the dimpled backs of infant hands; Glory be. To Him who has made the dust of the hay barn settle in drowsy glory through a slant line of sun; Who has birthed three naked, new mice, just pink, bare thumbs, sucking out blind thirst in a mother’s tossings and tendings of the grasses of the earth; Glory be. Who has swelled the heavy teats of the cow? Who has made them drip milk in drops, sweet, white puffs and sighs on the dry brown barn floor? Who has wetted her brown, round, empathetic eyes? Who has given her a tail to smack against her meat? Glory be. To Him who has made the cool March wind snap the curtains to applause; Who hovers (might He even cluck or coo?), wing thrown round about His beloved, heady as the hot underside of a hen; Who opens up the earth like a lap, belly out, leaned back, arms thrown wide, feet planted in a father’s welcome, Glory Be.

“Clean your little corner up and see what starts to change” –Andrew Osenga, “Don’t Lose Heart” When I think of myself being “creative,” I default to my natural gifts, poetry and songwriting. But in the past few months those have been hard to come by. I had to prepare for one of the biggest changes of my life: finding a home and getting married. Back in February I was lucky to find a small third floor apartment from a kind old lady looking for good tenants. Jen and I stared at the blank walls and empty rooms, awaiting our touch like the unwritten days and weeks of our new life together. March was a month of hard labor and going to bed tired every night. You see, I’m not a tradesman by any means. I teach and read and write for a living, so while I’m not above physical labor, it’s just not what I’m involved in every day. But that month I did more painting than I’d ever done in my life. I also became a frequent friend of hardware and furniture stores. I became obsessed with this new domestic space—how to make it better, how to make it pleasing for my soon-to-be wife. And yet, it felt like it was taking me away from my “creative” endeavors. Almost every spare minute after work and other responsibilities was poured into it until I collapsed on my bed at night. Something felt missing, like life usually feels when I’m not writing something. But then one day, as I was in the apartment putting another coat of paint on the walls, a switch flipped on in my head, and I realized something that I put down in verse: I’ve never been a practical man, never a skill to work with hands except what the pen can do for me. But out of love I take up the brush, with clumsy hands I pick my palette, cover walls with color and love— a poetry of paint. I realized that, while I had for a long time mentally acknowledged the creativity of endeavors other than poetry, music, painting, etc, it hadn’t really sunk into my bones yet. But what I was doing really was just as much an exercise in imagination as sitting down to wrangle words into form. And are not the homes that we have been given empty canvases upon which to work? So while I may not have penned many verses lately, I’ve taken on many other roles, including color coordinator, painter, furniture builder, box hauler, and picture hanger. The fruit of such labors is sweet. As I type this, I’m sitting across from my wife, who’s sprawled on our lovely checkered couch, her face cast in the setting summer sun. This golden hour picks up the reds, greens, and golds scattered about the apartment and makes them shine. We love our cozy third floor home, which we’ve jokingly named The Flet (after the Elvish treehouses in Lothlorien). Sometimes we kneel by the window at night, watching the entertainment of the neighborhood. And sometimes I watch the stories passing by—drunks stumbling from the nearby liquor store, couples having very public fights, and crowds of rough kids. I think of the chaos represented there, in contrast to the peace and beauty of our home, and what the places these people live in might be like. I wonder how the light can spread. And I realize that sometimes the best poem is found in taking empty space, adding color, shape, and light, and then putting living souls inside to see what happens. [Editor’s note: Me too, Chris. Me too. #NorthWindManor #HashTagsAreUselessinBlogPosts]

To Him who permits the storm-torn hickory to cross upon itself, savage as thrown ink lines, Glory be. To Him who grants the turkey vulture a bare red face, so that she might reach between ribs of the dead and pick meat off their bones; Who beholds the rusted eye of Jupiter, blasting? (Like a woman in her fury? I cannot tell.) Even so, glory be. Nor can I tell if He ordains or simply allows hail to bruise the soft bodies of tree frogs; or why he does not stop the wild dog from laughing (by my judgment) overloud. Glory be to Him who shaped the teeth of the wolf in their sockets ‘ere any shepherd shaped his staff; To Him who planted a fruit-bearing tree then spoke, “You shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” Glory be. To Him Who has been from the beginning other, Who cannot be etherized, elucidated, abridged; Who grants to life gravity and resistance, Who is untamed by those who would harness Him, Who spins the moon round, round and round again, from dissonance to resolve until she flushes white and clean, shining like Moses fresh down from the mountain; Glory be.

Here is a literary exercise which might help illuminate a dilemma nagging my real life. When we are done with the exercise, hopefully, you can give me counsel. Think of one or more novels (or movies) that have shady characters. In the comments, list the title of the novel (movie) and the shady character. Now, by shady I mean to imply a character of doubtful reputation. A shady character is not definitely bad. Neither is she certainly good. Usually a shady character seems to be up to good but somehow gives the impression her motives are dubious. Sometimes they are. Sometimes they are not. Other characters are attracted to a shady character but never feel comfortable they should be drawn to her. Almost always, no matter how the shady character turns out in the end, the other characters are better off for having journeyed with the shady character for a time . . . but not always. A shady character can be as subtle as Mr. Tumnus leading Lucy Pevensie into the woods. A shady character can be as enigmatic as Sunday taking Syme on a wild goose chase. A shady character can be as unpleasant as Haymitch Abernathy mentoring Katniss Everdeen; Katniss herself is a shady character. Shady characters are most of the people sitting around Edna Spalding at church in that final scene of Places in the Heart. Got it? So now, name some shady characters and where you find them in literature or film. And do this, too. Tell me if you would like to journey through life with that person for a time. This is what I am wrestling with of late. When I do this exercise and keep it safely contained to books and movies, I think to myself, “It most certainly is not going to be pleasant hanging around that shady character. But, how could I not?” I imagine the discomfort and also the growth of my soul. I feel more adventurous, more alive, more streetwise, more capable of empathizing with others and even my own fretful heart. This little exercise works out well in the end, so long as I stick to books and movies. Not so when I invite real people from my real life into this imaginative experiment. There are some shady characters lurking around the margins of my life of late. They are the kind of shady characters who, if I met them in a novel, I would endure their company in anticipation of a worthwhile plot twist. But off the page, I keep my distance. So what is the difference? Should we extol the efficacy of shady characters, unless they are real? No need for risky plots in real life? How do you decide which shady characters make it into your life journey?

I recently had a conversation with my pastor about how visual art might be used to enhance or possibly expand the congregation’s worship experience at our church. He speaks to us every week, but what if I got up every once in a while to explain my visual interpretation of some of the themes that we’re studying? I already choose or create the artwork for our podcasts, so what if I talked about why I choose what I choose? My pastor thought this sounded like a good idea. And so this week I spoke about this image (click here to see it full-sized). This is a piece I painted years ago, well before we started going through Genesis, and even though the painting isn’t about Genesis, it is about two of the themes that we’ve been studying. This was the first time I had told anyone what the painting was about, and I want to share it with you as well. The first theme has to do with autonomy. In a lot of my work I paint objects hanging from threads, things hanging from strings. Here’s a good example of that – leaves hanging by strings from a stick (stick not pictured). The idea behind this motif is that in our brokenness and sinfulness, living in rebellion against God in this broken world, we humans attempt to fix it as best we can without surrendering our autonomy. We see that the world is broken and we attempt to make it right, but in our own strength. The result, however, isn’t the restored whole that we strive for – instead, it’s a broken version that is really only a pale imitation of the original. Dead leaves hanging by threads from a stick are a far cry from living buds bursting forth from a branch. We can imitate God – but our efforts fall short. So back to the image I used for Genesis – the sun is suspended from the sky on a thin thread, as are the stars. This is such a fitting image for Genesis because after the Fall, we see our efforts to make our way in this suddenly broken world, but to do so apart from God, in order to cling to our autonomy. Instead of turning back to God, we chose to live in a world that we pretended we had created. And so in this painting I’m communicating, “God made the sun, moon, and stars and suspended them effortlessly in the void, but when we cling to our autonomy, our independence from God, the best we can do is hang them with string.” And the result is not the restored whole that we hoped for. The second theme deals with memory. God, despite our rebellion and insistence on hanging our own suns, hanging our own stars – our insistence on autonomy and therefore pale imitation – despite all that, God offers a way back to him. He offers us relationship with him. In our rebellion, we chose to forget God and so forgot God… but God did not forget us. After Adam and Eve’s rebellion, God continued to pursue us. He spoke to and had relationship with Enoch, Noah, and Abram. He revealed himself to them and reminded them of who he was. Genesis is the beginning of the story of our fight to keep our eyes and minds and hearts on God. It’s the beginning of our fight to remember who he is and who we are. When the children of Israel entered the Promised Land, God had them set up some stones to help them remember who he was and what he had done. He knew their tendency to forget. And so he said, “These will help you remember.” In this painting, I put in a collection of stones on a hill. These stones reference that scripture, that idea of the importance of remembering. And so they fit what I see in Genesis: God allowing and inviting people to know him and come back to him. To remember him. So in this piece we have two elements, the two sides, of what humanity has grappled with since the beginning: first, our rebellion against God due to our desire for autonomy, and out of that our subsequent efforts to re-create the world without God – this is represented by the hanging sun and stars. But God has provided a way back to him – he invites us to relationship with him, and he invites us to surrender our autonomy. And so the other side is our struggle to remember God, to remember that he is God and we are not – this is represented by the stones on the hill. These are themes we see in Genesis, but really they’re themes we see everywhere in our world and in our individual lives. I want autonomy; I look inside myself and see that plainly. I don’t want to answer to anyone. But that doesn’t bring about the wholeness that I truly desire. Only God has that. Only God gives that. Only relationship with him can bring that wholeness about. And that begins with and is sustained by remembering; I must constantly look to the stones and be reminded of the Truth they represent.

This is a moving example of what Tolkien called “sub-creation”—in essence, using your gift to speak light into the darkness. This, by the way, is hand-drawn animation. Thank you, Glen Keane, for making something beautiful. (And thank you, Brannon McAllister, for the link.) And if you want to dig a little deeper into just how much work, thought, and attention went into the short film, watch this and be inspired.

Demandez l’étoile matinière et prenez aussi votre amour terrestre. My heart in grief’s a stricken dove which leans O’er hidden nest of given things, mild head Inclined unto dark mercies, awful means, Whereby kind Love woos living from the dead. For Joy, my pinioned soul takes leap in art Of blackbird’s liquid song, and blood-stained wing The blessed wound I bear from Love’s trained dart: Old earth but veils the heaven which I sing. From Love itself my frantic spirit flees In Fear, a maddened gull that won’t be tamed By peace, but lights on waves of doubt the sea Casts up, or flies in storm’s black face. Unshamed, Love sends my lover, in whose arms this wild Bird’s snared, content to be by love beguiled.

“Without the truths that are lodged in every life’s telling, the old narratives thin, become brittle, and shatter, and we are left in chaos, no trail to follow home.” —Kim Barnes The scratch and tap of pencils filled the room, punctuated by miniature drum beats pattering through a set of headphones. I was substitute teaching in a high school classroom. When I’d arrived that morning, the teacher’s scrawled instructions were waiting on my desk: Have them write a response—“If you were to create a self-portrait, how would you reveal yourself and what materials would you use?” After a collective groan, my students set about their task. I drifted between desks, answering questions along a trail of pencils poked into the air. With a distraught sigh, Sarah raised her hand. When I reached her desk, she looked at the floor and shuffled her feet. “I dunno what to write,” she whispered, fighting tears. “Besides, nobody’s gonna read this shit.” — In a culture requiring little more of our stories than a 140-character “tweet,” areas of language easily fall into misappropriation and disuse; our abilities to think critically and exercise imagination suffer. Stories are a primary means of establishing identity and forming relationships. But as I read through the pile of essays left on my desk that day, I realized that the limited capacity for language that so restricted the expression of my students’ stories was only a microcosm. I could see traces of the same limitation in my own use of language and hesitance to see my story as a thing that others needed to hear. We are immersed in a constant stream of language. The words never stop. As I write this, in a busy coffee shop in Santa Fe, there is a sea of words on the magazine stand to my left. Another body of words is stacked in neat rows on the menu board to my right. There are even words on the paper napkin beneath my (wordless) mug of green tea. Words are being spoken all around me—the table of police officers enjoying an early lunch, the manager interviewing a prospective employee, the older couple muttering a word to each other every now and then. There are words passing between the two deaf women who just walked by, signing vigorously to each other. There are words in orbit, invisible and silent, mulling about in my head and then clacking out—fingers to keyboard, keyboard to screen. There are words in the mind of the man sitting across from me with a stack of loose papers and a collection of highlighters, iced coffee within reach. We understand life in the context of the language that we speak. We think in words and images that are attached to words. We even have words for the wordless emotions that enrich and complicate our human existence. We live in an economy that capitalizes on words—slogans and jingles, an endless stream of marketing enticing me to buy that, go here, be this. The words never stop. Yet we lack adequate language to tell our own stories in deep truth. This is true of the most articulate among us—language will always have its limitations. It was true of Sarah as it is true of anyone who is unable to see the beauty of the story that is their own life. Without the truths that are lodged in every life’s telling… To articulate and share our own stories, to encourage and receive the stories of others—this is vital to our sense of self, of community, and of belonging. Simply and emphatically put: Your story matters.  Our capacity for language is something that needs to be cultivated, and that is a quiet process that unfolds over time—time in silence, time with a good novel, time in poetry, time in conversation. — Sarah refused to write the essay. Her peers gawked at her obstinance and I wondered if I should report it to the school office. But there was something behind her resistance. It was something similar to my own balking instinct when I sit down in front of a blank page, but it was more than that. Sarah’s resistance to finding words for her story was reinforced by her sincere belief that she had nothing worth telling. In an attempt to invite her to see that her story mattered, to show her now much I wanted this small glimpse of her life, I offered to complete the assignment myself. “I’ll write it if you will.” So I did. And then she did. Occasionally, I repeat the exercise as I find it helpful to notice the little things (and sometimes the big things) that are changing in my life. Sometimes I wind up with several pages and other times with a sentence or two. Sometimes I give up on the words and take to doodling instead. — If I were to create a self-portrait, it would be made of things I can find in the trash—things that don’t matter to anyone, but that can still be beautiful. I would appear to be sad, but I would also be smiling. My eyes would be very large, because I like to notice things. My mouth would be small on one side and large on the other, because I am gradually finding my voice. My hands would be open and reaching out, and over my heart there would be an empty space meant for a name. If I were to create a self-portrait, it would look just like me for a year or two, probably less, then it would look nothing like me.

The year was 1992. George H. W. Bush was the president. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Metallica, Def Leppard, and Bon Jovi were some of the biggest bands in the world. Wayne’s World was cracking teenagers up and Home Improvement was making their parents chortle. I had just graduated from high school in the little town of Lake Butler, Florida, had cut off my mullet a few months before, and was steeped in hair metal and southern rock—not to mention all the bands mentioned above. I had recently discovered Marc Cohn’s songwriting, and it would be another year or so before I happened upon Rich Mullins, but at the time my guilty pleasures were still bands like Slaughter and Steelheart and Stryper. Then one night while watching The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, I saw this: “Wait—is that a mandolin?” I thought. “And is he barefoot? And is he not trying to sing as high as possible? And none of those dudes have long hair. What could it mean?” Mixed in with all those thoughts was the dim awareness that “Walk On the Ocean” was a good, good song. It was evocative and utterly unique in my experience. Not only that, it told a story (“half an hour later, we packed up our things”). But the band was called Toad the Wet Sprocket. I would have assumed this music would be super-weird and/or eclectic, a la They Might Be Giants, but this—this was different. The internet wasn’t around yet so I had no way of learning that the guys had jokingly named the band in high school after a Monty Python sketch. (The name stuck and the Brits let them keep it.) Not long after this video aired, I bought the tape—the tape, mind you—of an album called Fear and listened to it for the next several months straight while the band I was in drove around the country. I loved the music, which was a mashup of folk and rock and pop, the melodies and chord progressions somehow seeming both simpler and more complex at once. But the lyrics, rather than being brainless and banal like so much of what I listened to, were lyrical and mysterious, flavored with enough of a narrative to keep me engaged.  Here’s an example, Bradley says it’s haunted The house up on the hill And if we met at 4 A.M. then we would know for sure We carried the ladders And leaned them against it And climbed them as we looked Someone kicked the ladder Bradley took a spill Said his leg was broken So we dragged him down the hill Through the door What do I see? Something is happening Is it for me? Not only was there real songwriting happening here, the sounds were organic and warm—neither the slick pop-metal of Def Leppard nor the gritty grunge of Nirvana. The metal bands that I gravitated to in high school seemed mainly to be about the coolest riffs, playing the shreddiest solos, finding the highest screamers, every song striving for some climactic awesomeness that makes you want to mosh. On the other end of the spectrum were the emerging Pearl Jams and Nirvanas, great bands in their own right, whose music seemed to be chiefly expressing raw (and typically less than cheery) emotion, giving voice to the angst of high schoolers all over America. The songs represented a new generation’s personal zeitgeist, riding the wave of the shifting cultural tide so that in the end the song itself was secondary the Great Social Statement being made, whether explicitly or in the greater context of the band’s cultural influence. But then came Toad with their B-3s and accordions and mandolins, their short hair and poetry, their baritones and songcraft and utter lack of pretentiousness (indicated by an utter lack of eyeliner). It’s surprising now to think about how odd it was to see a band in the nineties actually being themselves. Now that I think about it, other than the simple joy of discovering a pleasing batch of songs and sounds, I was intrigued by the fact that Toad was less about self-expression (grunge) or musical indulgence (hair metal) and more about (dare I say it?) beauty. They seemed to want to write good songs, to come up with great parts to embellish those songs, to make something excellent rather than something cool-right-now. Of course, my 40-year-old self has the advantage of perspective and reflection. I never would have articulated it this way then. All I knew was that, the moment I first heard Toad, I had suddenly outgrown whatever music I was into before. I would love to give you a play-by-play of the album Fear (1991), but I won’t. It features the song “All I Want,” which is perhaps their most recognizable song (along with to “Walk On the Ocean”). I sat around with my roommates in college playing these songs over and over, sometimes on the street corners of downtown Orlando. Fear also features “Hold Her Down,” the subject matter and language of which is as dark as the title implies. Toad has worked to support a local rape crisis center in their hometown, and Glen had this to say about the song in an interview: It’s uncomfortable to have the song released as a single at all…it has the potential danger to be taken at face value because of its somewhat graphic nature. It’s not a pleasant song. It’s angry and ugly, but sexual assault can’t be portrayed as anything but ugly. It is, however, a very personal piece, and not a contrivance. It should be a disturbing song, but it’s not without hope. The album as a whole, however, even though it’s titled Fear, doesn’t strike me as dark, maybe because it ends with such a joyful, epic song. “I Will Not Take These Things for Granted” is one of my all-time favorites by anyone, ever. Picture this: I’m a freshman in college in 1993. My girlfriend Jamie and I are at her parents’ house. I think she’s beautiful and I’m afraid to date her because I know it will lead to marriage. She knows I play guitar and that I sing when I’m alone, so she asks me to play her a song. I demur, telling her that I never sing in front of people. She insists. I agree to play her something on one condition: she can’t look at me. She has to face the other way. I took a deep, trembling breath, and sang “I Will Not Take These Things for Granted.” One part of me just wants to tell you everything One part just needs the quiet But if I’m lonely here, I’m lonely here And on the telephone You offer reassurance I will not take these things for granted I will not take these things How can I hold the part of me that only you can carry It needs a strength I haven’t found But if it’s frightening, I’ll bear the cold And on the telephone, you offer warm asylum I’m listening: music in the bedroom Laughter in the hall, dive into the ocean Singing by the fire, running through the forest Standing in the wind, rolling canyons I will not take these things for granted The next day I discovered a note from Jamie in my college mailbox. It had a smiley face and the words, “Awesome singing!” I still have it somewhere. I had no idea how true those Toad lyrics would ring twenty years later when I’m traveling the country with my guitar, calling home to speak to the woman who knows me best and offers me reassurance and warm asylum—whose love is a constant reminder to never take for granted things like “singing by the fire,” and “running through the forest,” and “rolling canyons.” In 1994, Toad released their fourth album, Dulcinea. You literary folks will remember the name Dulcinea as Don Quixote’s true love, which is part of what makes the song “Windmills” so awesome. “I’ve spent too much time raiding windmills,” it begins, and Randy Guss’s drums drive us the rest of the way home. (Here’s a live clip of Glen Phillips and the great Chris Thile performing it.) As good as Fear was, Dulcinea surpassed it. Song after song after song—hits like “Something’s Always Wrong” and “Crowing” stand out, but I’m pretty sure every single song on this album is a non-skipper, starting with the rousing opener, “Fly From Heaven,” which seems to be about the Apostle Paul, though I’m not certain. It was also around this time that I first heard Jars of Clay and thought, “I bet these guys are Toad fans.” (Turns out, they are.) Already Toad’s influence on music was coming to bear, and it would continue to do so—especially when it came to the electric guitar parts, thanks to Todd Nichols. My buddy Andrew Osenga, one of my favorite electric players, has played on almost every record I’ve made, and every single time we’ve been in the studio together I’ve said at some point, “Hey, Osenga, I was kind of hearing a Toad type guitar part on this one,” and Andy, bless his heart, knows exactly what I mean. (You can hear it on “You Came So Close” and “The Havens Grey” and “So Long, Moses,” for example.) At some point in the early 2000’s I remember hearing a producer mutter, “Everybody wants that ‘Toad’ guitar thing right now,” just like how a few years ago everybody was shooting for a “‘Coldplay’ sort of thing” on the drums. In 1997 they released Coil, which was as good as anything they ever did. It was grittier in places, but in the best way. The band seemed to grow and grow with every release, and then I got the news that Toad was breaking up. Truly I say unto you, it was a sad day. I even called a few buddies to share the news. I only have a few artists that I go bonkers over: three of them are Rich Mullins (who died in 1998), Marc Cohn (who releases approximately one album per orbit of Halley’s Comet), and Toad the Wet Sprocket who were now calling it quits! But WAIT. Glen, the lead singer, wasn’t finished. Turns out he released a few solo albums. Then I found out from Sean Watkins (of Nickel Creek) that Glen and Nickel Creek recorded an album together called Mutual Admiration Society. (Sean gave me an unreleased copy of it when he and Sara Watkins played the Christmas show back in 2002.) Then I heard that the other guys formed a band called Lapdog. Toad may have officially died, but the ghost still haunted the premises. Several years back my friend Justin McRoberts called to tell me that Toad had reunited for a concert with Counting Crows in California, and I seriously considered cashing in some frequent flyer points to see it. My last little anecdote about Toad. About twelve years ago Glen Phillips played at a little Nashville club called 3rd and Lindsley, and I slunk around after the concert to give him a CD of my yet-unreleased album Clear to Venus. As it usually goes in situations like that, I made a dork of myself and I sincerely hope that he’s forgotten all about it. But I did have the bizarre experience of thanking the guy who wrote “I Will Not Take These Things for Granted,” because in a weird way that song not only paved the way to my marriage but got me into songwriting and provided the first of many opportunities for Jamie to be the ruthless encourager that she is. That’s something I will never take for granted. Last year I toured with a great band called Colony House, and I told them one night on the bus, “You guys sound like Toad sometimes.” They looked at me blankly, and we figured out that some of those guys weren’t even born yet when I was driving around Lake Butler listening to Fear. These young guys are carrying around an influence without even realizing it! That, to me, is a testimony to the legacy of this band. So I suppose this little essay is me saying thank you to Glen, Randy, Dean, and Todd for the music you’ve put out for the last twenty years or so. Some of us never stopped listening, and for the small army of Toad fans out there, it’s easy to hear how your work has seasoned a new generation of artists—artists who weren’t even born yet when you were California kids recording Bread and Circus for $650. In closing, I’ll say that last night I sat with Andrew Osenga, Pete, Matt Conner, Arthur Alligood, John and Janna Barber, and a few other Rabbit Room friends at the Ryman and listened to Toad the Wet Sprocket and Counting Crows. They played so many of my favorite songs, and it turns out some of those favorites are from a brand new Toad album called New Constellation—their first record in sixteen years. The new songs sound both new and old, and are just as good as (if not better than) the early ones, which is inspiring to a 40-year-old dude like me who’s supposed to be writing for a new record. The concert last night was the best kind of reminder to keep working, to keep growing, to remember that there’s no way to ever run out of things to write about. It’s also good to remember that you don’t have to reinvent yourself—rather, when it comes to music and art and good work, you can just be yourself. Let time do the reinventing for you. ——————————– If you want to check out their music, I’d start with New Constellation, then go back and try Dulcinea.

I’ve come to write today in a downtown coffee shop where books line the walls and the air hums with slow, jazzy music. I haven’t accomplished a single useful thing. Instead, I’ve cupped my coffee close, sipped it slow, and let my sleepy eyes roam over the rim of the mug. Mostly, I’ve spied on my neighbor. A scholarly air hovers about her along with heaps of textbooks, stacked notebooks, and four different kinds of pens. She’s working very hard; eyes down under her fringe of dark hair, pen at a swift scratch, earbuds wedged in tight against the lazy aura of this place. But every so often she stops. With a distinct sigh, she reaches for her mocha and sets down her pen. And as she sips, she stares. For propped against the nearest pile of books is a vivid photo of Audrey Hepburn. The girl beside me fixes her eyes on that photo, never blinking as she takes a long sip of coffee and chocolate. Then she sets down her mug, wriggles up a little straighter in her seat and sets to work again. I cannot help my surreptitious stare. The strength she obviously takes from that photo fascinates me, as if in fixing her eyes upon it she receives some new shock of courage. I turn reluctantly back to my own book-piled table and cappuccino. A blank computer screen and a blank notebook are open before me. I ignore them. I open the topmost book on my pile, a series of essays by the poet Denise Levertov. My good friend Ruth is my source for modern poetry and when she tells me to seek out a poet, I go for it as I trust both her taste and also her navigation of the current age of poetry (a sphere of which my knowledge is slight). When she quoted Levertov and I found this book the very next day, I bought it. I am only one paragraph in before I stop, eyes arrested by these words: “I believe poets are . . . makers, craftsmen: it is given to the seer to see, but it is then his responsibility to communicate what he sees, that they who cannot see may see, since we are ‘members one of another.'” I have studied many facets of the writer’s vocation, but this idea of Levertov’s startles and even stings me. She seems to class writing with spiritual imperatives like loving your neighbor and telling no lies. I squirm in my seat, abruptly uneasy in conscience. I think I do see as she describes—imperfectly and with wandering attention. The scenes and people that brim my imagination, the joy glimpsed like light on a far-off hilltop, the story worlds that come to my mind more as gift than anything else, these compel me to write. But I rarely share them. For every one essay or story I do show the world, a dozen more lurk behind my eyes and in forgotten computer files, unknown to a single other soul. I’ve never thought of sharing my writing as a duty; perhaps I’ve seen my best pieces, the ones I actually like, as glimpses of beauty I simply must pass on, but I’ve certainly never thought of that sharing as an imperative in the same class as adherence to the golden rule. I like the luxury of considering my inner world a private one to be shared only when, and if, I desire. I sip more cappuccino and feel stung by Levertov’s words. The truth is that writing often terrifies me. Not the easy kind of freelance work and editing projects and countless small jobs. Those I can accomplish with mind alone, thankful to earn my bread, and grateful, I admit, to avoid those clamorous dreams that beg to be told. Because oh, I don’t know how to begin to set the best things forth. I half begin then draw back in fear. My imagination blazes with pictures begging to be written, but my words seem too frail to bear them. I’ve set down countless sentences, cast dozens of hours to typing away only to scrap the whole thing in sheer frustration. My pride cringes to admit that, but Levertov’s words add the sting of conscience to my discomfort. I tell myself I will get to them soon, that when I have quiet or rest I will finally tell that one story that glimmers and sings, unwritten in my mind. The truth? I’m afraid I cannot do that story justice. I doubt my skill. I doubt my vision; I wonder if the worlds I know within myself might be deemed just silly by a reader. I don’t want to be mocked. So the story stays locked in the little room of my head and fear is the bolt on its door. I glance again at the girl next to me to escape the discomfort now burning in my throat and I wonder. What does she “see,” what true vision does she touch through her contemplation of Audrey Hepburn? Did Audrey know she was embodying an ideal, and did she offer it willingly? I glance down at my own table, and my eyes wander to the pile of books I have toted with me. Again, my heart burns with conviction. For each of the books before me has been the sort of gift that Levertov describes, stories that allowed me to see, to taste, to grope my way forward when I felt blind. I would not have made several hard, defiant decisions this year without the vision provided to me by a few generous writers. In my moments of crisis, when the landscape of my own mind and soul were fogged and dim with confusion, several writers kept me in hope. I opened their stories in the evenings, when my heart and mind were exhausted with the over-thinking required by major decisions. The worlds they had made and the people they presented were a refuge to me. Wendell Berry’s Port William. The Eliot family and their home of Damerosehay in Elizabeth Goudge’s Pilgrim’s Inn. The artistic grit of Thea in Willa Cather’s Song of the Lark. Nouwen’s story of God’s mercy traced through his contemplations on Rembrandt’s painting of the prodigal returned. They sheltered me. When I was blinded by doubt, I journeyed on by the vibrant light of their created worlds. As I struggled toward wisdom, feeling homeless in soul as I teetered between several possible futures, those stories were my refuge. I was nourished by the power of what they presented as possible. I sheltered within their scenes, stood beside their characters, then stood back on my own two feet to reclaim my own vision and walk the long road required to bring it to life. As I mull this, I pull out my journal and page back through my last months of notes, skimming the quotations I jotted down from those companion books. At one particularly long quotation, I stop, reading again a favorite passage from Song of the Lark. In it, the heroine Thea, like me, feels battered by the wide world in which she is fighting to establish her own vision of life. But Dvorak’s New World Symphony revives and steels her for the challenge. I read the scene again: Something had got away from her; she could not remember how the violins came in after the horns, just there… A cloud of dust blew in her face and blinded her. There was some power abroad in the world bent upon taking away from her that feeling with which she had come out of the conference hall. Everything seemed to sweep down on her to tear it out from under her cape… Thea glared round her at the crowds, the ugly, sprawling streets, the long lines of lights, and she was not crying now… Very well; they should never have it. As long as she lived that ecstasy was going to be hers. She would live for it, work for it, die for it; but she was going to have it, time after time, height after height. She could hear the crash of the orchestra again, and she rose on the brasses. She would have it, what the trumpets were singing! And just like the girl at the table next to me, I sit suddenly straighter in my seat. Here I am, reading about another person sheltered in trial by the vision offered by an artist. Dvorak’s music sheltered Thea (and no doubt Cather, Thea’s creator) when she doubted, renewed her strength to fight, to acknowledge the beauty she knew as the real thing over against the clamor of the world. I flip the page of my journal. There, in like manner are Nouwen’s words about Rembrandt’s painting of the prodigal son, telling how the color, line, and form so faithfully painted by one man ushered him into the arm’s of the Father’s mercy. Rembrandt’s vision sheltered Nouwen. And that encounter produced Nouwen’s book, whose vision now shelters me. And suddenly I am breathless. Every work of art reaches out across the centuries, and each is a vision that casts a flame into the darkness. The wonder is that one great light wakes another. The song of one wakens the story of another. The story she told becomes the poem he made that kindled the painting in yet another’s hands. Each is a work of obedience. No artist can cast their flame of vision without a twinge of fear that it will simply fade or even pass unseen. But each is also a work of generosity, precious, private worlds offered in a self-forgetfulness that pushes aside vanity, insecurity, perfectionistic pride. Levertov is right. The visions set forth in the books (and paintings and songs) we turn to for hope are offerings of love, given in the recognition that we truly are members of one another. We all bear the same hunger for eternity. We all walk forward in the dark of doubt, reaching for something we can’t quite name. We yearn to discover who we are meant to become, what it is we hunger to find in those midnight hours when our hearts will not be sated. But the artists and storytellers and makers of song offer the inner vision they have known as a sign of hope to the hungering world. They invite us into the sacred, inmost rooms of their minds and let us stand at the windows of their own imaginations where we glimpse, ah, wonders we might never have dreamed alone. I glance again at the girl next to me. She is unrelentingly diligent. Who knows what she is writing, perhaps in response to the beauty she has seen? I brush my hand over the books whose weathered covers bear the scuff and dent of my many readings. The life within them crackles under my hand. I meet the stare of my own silent notebook, blank before me, and my pen sitting lonely on the page. I sigh and wriggle up a little straighter in my chair. I pick up that pen. At the very least I can write what I have just seen. A tiny gift, but a good place to begin.

Since creation, God and the earth have seen a lot of stuff, gone through all of human history, and for a while I’ve wondered, “If the earth could talk to us, what would it say?” This song, “Before a Fall,” was written just after Hurricane Sandy. In New York, a lot was destroyed in the rain and flood of the storm’s passage. It felt like the planet was against us, like the tides and the rain and the wind could not be stopped nor tamed in any way. But things were not meant to be like this at all. Just like us humans, the earth too is falling apart and wreaking havoc everywhere—ruining things. But unlike us, the earth can remember a time before the fall, a time when it, and we, were not falling apart and nothing was ruined yet. So this song is from the perspective of the world God made—our earthly home. “Before a Fall” from the album Hope Tonight by Melanie Pennhttps://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/BeforeaFall.mp3 There used to be an angel choir that would sing in the evening with a band There was a cool kind of fire, you would hold it in the center of your hand But now the night is cold and the fire’s hot And angels live above The ground quakes from my heartache I’m overcome and all my tears’ll form a flood I am the one who saw it all Nobody tells you everything you stand to lose before a fall There used to be gold-covered clouds in a field of fog to walk across And there were speaking trees, a forest full of poetry and talk Now the clouds hang high and empty And leaves wither up The ground quakes from my heartache I’m overcome and all my tears’ll form a flood I am the one who saw it all Nobody tells you everything you stand to lose before a fall Tonight you’ll lie awake and think the world’s a cold and lonely place Oh please, believe, I never meant to be this way So I will spin around again, hoping when we wake we will be new But my colors of mourning every day, another shade of blue I am the one who saw it all Nobody tells you everything you stand to lose before a fall [Hope Tonight is available in the Rabbit Room store.]

Western Kentucky is riddled with underground coal mines. When I was five or six, somebody told me that there was a big one dug right under the Dorris’s farm place, and I never could let that go. If I was sprawled out on the rug of Mammaw’s living room, I wouldn’t move around too hard, afraid I might shake us all loose into the underworld where men like my grandfather rode by iron gear into tunnels that made their lungs and fingernails black. It took us eight hours to drive to Providence from Marysville, Ohio. This was 1977, back when you could throw a foam mattress in the bed of a Ford pickup and let your kids bang around with boxes of puzzles and a stack of books while you made miles. After the sun would go down, I’d lean my head up against the the back of the cab and stare out through the green, concave windows of the LEER truck topper, watching the earth grow wild. The yellow fields turned silver at night, and natural gas pumps cranked like old men digging holes. Those pumps smelled sour, and if I fell asleep somewhere along the way, I knew we were close because of them, even before I opened my eyes. The old people in Western Kentucky kept coal buckets on their front porches. Coal buckets were shaped like a lady pulling out one side of her skirt to curtsey. They had a thin wire handle that folded down when it wasn’t being used. Coal is blacker than black, and oily. If you touch it, it will get dust all over your fingers. My great grandmother on my mother’s side painted her long fingernails slick orange, so she kept a pair of white, cotton work gloves folded over the bucket so she could grab a couple of pieces to throw on the fire. Coal fire smells thicker than wood smoke, and I always thought it burned hotter. It feels wet burning instead of dry. Coal fire hisses and whines, like a bunch of tiny little flat whistles are caught inside those rocks, and when the flame dies down, it turns into a village. The houses are divided by seams, red and blue with yellow windows, and orange streets sigh between them. A coal town is a living thing. I’d inch nearer and nearer and end up burning my pants from the heat. I knew that coal had come from living material, some plated prehistoric beast perhaps, and somehow that made the burning sacred as a funeral pyre. Those were mammoth eyes compressed into rock, and maybe I could see through them, back into a world riddled with four-foot dragonflies, and giant ferns, and saber-toothed tigers. That was the Denton house. My great grandparents on the other side were the Dorrises, the ones that lived over the mine. They were quiet people, and their house was a little way out in the country. When I remember it, I see this big wide tree with sleepy branches swishing out front, and I want to eat one of those little sour apples, the ones that grow on real trees, the ones where you have to cut around the worms with a pocket knife. And I want to be quiet. My great-grandfather kept a detailed journal of the seasons, penciling in when the birds and the wildflowers would arrive and how the moon affected the garden. He knew the world around him by proper names, the hickory nut tree, the titmouse, the tiger melon. He kept his long sleeved shirts tucked in, and he wore a belt. The Dorrises were clean people. Mammaw did the crossword every day to keep her mind sharp. She wore shirtwaist dresses, and she kept her white hair modest. Her food was cooked with patience, and she’d spread it out in pretty glass bowls on a lace tablecloth. It wasn’t fancy lace, just regular, but she liked to make sure her people knew that they were important to her. You always knew that a bite wasn’t going to go wrong there like it does at some old people’s houses. Mammaw embroidered, and she made tiny, even stitches on her quilts. All the great-grandkids wanted something she’d made after she died. I wanted the crocheted Lord’s Prayer, and mom has it now. It’s hung it in the upstairs hallway, so you can see it every time you go down from sleep to meet the day. During the Great Depression, Mammaw Dorris walked through the woods to gather edible wild greens in a basket. She took them to the families with poor children. She knew there were nutrients in those leaves. With whatever earth she was given, she was generous from the earth. Someday I’d like to have a couple of Buff Orpingtons, because she loved them. Her daughter, my father’s mother, held my hand and told me that the biggest thing her mother had given her was permission to be curious. If you asked my great-grandmother how something worked, even something like your body or somebody else’s body, she would tell you. She didn’t make a joke of it or tell anybody you’d asked. She didn’t make it dirty that you wanted to know. She respected you and told you the answer humble and straight. She thought it wasn’t a shameful thing for a child to be curious, and that saved a lot of grief, because having questions is natural for children. When my grandmother told me this, I got the feeling that being raised without shame back in those days was something to have. I also knew that she was telling me that my questions weren’t dirty, either. The Dorrises had a television, but they kept it off so people could talk. Instead we played with carved wooden blocks and crayons. I’d get drowsy listening to the grownups switching stories about people I didn’t know, and then I’d crawl up near the window to watch the big tree outside, the one with the glimmery leaves, catching the gold evening light. Then we’d hug everybody, and kiss them, and pile up in the truck. Before we would drive away, Pappaw would walk out to the garden and cut me the prettiest Abraham Lincoln rose he had. Then he’d pull a stick of Wrigley’s gum out of his pack for me to chew during the ride. I would lean into the back of the pickup, smelling that rose, then the gum wrapper, back and forth, feeling a little shy, thinking that someday somebody might fall in love with me and cut me roses. And I wanted to be a kind person who listened to the earth, who gave good gifts, who trusted Jesus, who lived clean on thin soil, because I’d seen again how beauty ran in my blood.

The Rabbit Room has surprised me once again. One of the questions I’ve gotten quite a bit about writing (and one I’ve also asked many times) is whether or not it’s a good idea to have an outline for the story. Every writer is different, but my answer is that yes, it’s good to sit down early on and map out—in the vaguest terms—the outline of the story. However, that outline is only a tool to get you started. Once the real writing starts, the story will suggest itself to you, and if you’re determined to adhere to the outline at all costs, it just might cost you the story. The story, you’ll discover sooner than later, wants to be something, and there’s a good chance that that something is better than your outline. In the words of that one .38 Special song “Hold On Loosely,” uh, “Hold on loosely, and don’t let go. If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control.” The best thing about this philosophy of songwriting and/or storytelling is that you, the writer, get the blessing of surprise along the way, of serendipity and excitement. I honestly had no idea how The Warden and the Wolf King would end until I got about twenty pages from the last chapter. It’s scary, but it’s way more interesting. Writing can be a way to discover not just what will happen to your characters, but what’s going on in your own heart, soul, and mind. Well, the Rabbit Room—this mystifying corner of the internet, which encompasses Hutchmoot and Rabbit Room Press and used books and concerts and music and theater and conversations about Jesus—has been an act of discovery, too. We had no idea what a sweet fellowship of friends it would nurture, or that we would publish The Molehill, or spawn Dude Breakfast (our weekly Waffle House hang). We held on loosely, we didn’t let go, and voila, Pete and I are here scratching our heads in delight at what God has done. Some of you know that my family and I (because of the book Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry) moved to the hills just south of Nashville about seven years ago. We basically traded our generic house in a subdivision for a smaller house on a bit of land. We wanted our kids to grow up with tick bites and poison ivy, with honeysuckle and tomatoes on the vine. It was a lateral move, financially, but what we got out of the deal was a wealth of experiences as I learned how to garden and keep bees, how to cut trails in the woods and identify trees and migrating birds. I can’t overstate what a blessing it has been for us to sink into a property that defies transience, a place where Jamie and I just might grow old together. I say “just might” because of that whole .38 Special song’s philosophy; we’re here and we love it, but we’re also doing our best to keep an ear to the ground in case the Lord decides to surprise us with a different chapter. And a new chapter is what I want to tell you about. Our neighbors just sold their house. To us. And when I say, “to us,” what I mean is, more or less, to the Rabbit Room. This past weekend a gang of friends helped me move all my books and music gear out of the cabin I’ve called my office for the last three or four years; then we helped Pete and Jennifer move out of their condo; then we drove the moving truck to the Rabbit Room office and loaded it up with boxes and boxes of books, music, packing supplies, and furniture. Those three places—my office, the Rabbit Room office, and Pete and Jennifer’s home—are now housed in that one rambly old farmhouse we’ve named North Wind Manor. (You George MacDonald fans will appreciate the reference, and the dictionary definition of manor is, “a country house on a large piece of land.”) It needs a TON of work, but, nestled as it is on the property adjacent to the Warren, it couldn’t be in a better spot. Right now it’s full of boxes and paint cans, and it features walls, ceilings, and floors that are delightfully warped. There’s no central heat and air. It has problems, much like a song or a book that you’ve started but can’t quite see the end of yet. But right now, from the porch at the Warren, I can see the shadowy hulk of North Wind Manor across the field and I can imagine the stories that will be written there—literally and figuratively. It won’t be open to the public (for obvious reasons), but my prayer is that this new chapter of the Rabbit Room’s story, not to mention Pete and Jennifer’s story and that of my own family, will lead to great blessings for our little membership. So if you’re inclined, say a prayer for us. We’re excited about where this story will lead, problems and all, because we’re trusting that the author’s intentions are good. I know that some of you out there have thought long and hard about how the Rabbit Room might acquire some actual property, and now that we have we’re already wondering how in the world we’ll pay for what needs to be done. We’ll keep you posted. North Wind Manor, like the Warren, was prayerfully dedicated to God’s Kingdom, and, mere days after we closed on the house, God called our bluff. Before we moved in a traveling family band broke down just outside of Nashville and crashed on the floors for a few days this week. They set up their gear and recorded a few demos, then they happily pitched in and helped us on moving day, which now strikes me as the perfect way to have inaugurated the new space. The place, according to the former owners, is haunted. Not only does that make Pete and me happy (because of the wealth of stories I’m certain Pete will write about it), it makes me glad that new spirits inhabit the house—ones of joy, new beginnings, good work, and service. Thanks for supporting us these last several years. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Last week I was invited to tag along as C.S. Lewis scholar and writer Sandy Smith took a group of men from our church on a tour of the local C.S. Lewis landmarks. I’ll be honest; I was more than a little excited. Actually I was as excited as a child on Christmas morning. There is something oddly refreshing about becoming a tourist in your own city. Somehow looking with fresh eyes gives you a chance to notice things familiarity had obscured from view. In Belfast, if you know where to look, the legacy of C.S. Lewis is on every corner. Tucked away a short distance from a busy intersection is a monument in the shape of a wardrobe. On the back, reproduced in bronze, is a letter to a young girl who had written to Lewis in distress after reading of the death of Aslan. In another spot, if you look down, you will find that the pavement itself carries a quote from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”, engraved like a concrete tattoo on the streets of a city that is proud of its celebrated son. Hidden amongst the leafy suburbs, marked only by a small blue plaque, is Little Lea, Lewis’s impressive childhood home. On the top floor is a small window marking the attic where at the age of ten, when most of us were lost in adventure stories, Lewis was reading Milton’s Paradise Lost and writing his own response. Or creating the imaginary land of Boxen. Or counting the rafters in an attempt to find his bearings in the rooms below, just as Polly and Diggory would do in years to come. Further down the road is the rectory where the young Lewis would often visit his grandfather. If you look closely you will notice that the oversized handle on the rectory door carries the face of a lion. Not far from that, on the corner of Dundela Avenue, is the site of the little house where Lewis was born. While I enjoyed every bit of the morning, it is the house at Dundela Avenue that has been on my mind ever since. Not so much because it was the site of Lewis’s birth, but because it was there that he had an experience which turned out to be one of the most formative of his life. An incident that has resonated deeply with me since the first time I read it, drawing me back again and again to his writings. In “Surprised by Joy” he describes the moment his older brother “Warnie” brought into the nursery an old biscuit tin which he had filled with moss and decorated with twigs and flowers. For some reason, presented with this simple toy garden, the young Lewis found himself overwhelmed for the very first time with a deep sense of longing for something he could neither name nor trace; a feeling he would later describe as a “stab of joy”. For Lewis, the search for the source of this longing became a lifelong quest. He said himself that the central story of his life was about nothing else. Standing there, I found myself retracing my own journey. Like Lewis, I have found my life punctuated by these stabs of joy, the ebb and flow of longing shaping the landscape of my story. Sometimes it comes like an old friend on a perfect summer’s day, invited in by sunshine, friendship and the pink clouds of cherry blossom. For just a moment the joy is bigger than I am and I know without doubt that it comes from somewhere deeper than picnics and good conversation. Sometimes it comes apparently out of nowhere, an unexpected gift on a grey Thursday in February when my head is bent and my heart is ready for anything but joy. Sometimes it’s in the small things. Laughter that makes your eyes water and hangs in the air between good friends, even when the moment has passed. The silence that comes after snow. Watching the sunrise while the rest of the world sleeps. The moment you first read a poem or hear a piece of music that cuts through your defences and leaves your soul bare. Waking up to the sound of the sea. Undeserved forgiveness. Over the years the list has grown. The first time I held my baby daughters. The moment they took their first steps. The nights I have watched them reach for God through tears, finding Him more than worthy of their trust. Most recently of all, and this one is new for me, there are the stabs of joy that are found in the presence of grief. The moment when all around is thick and dark and then, like a splash of colour on an empty canvas, comes the realisation that this is not how it will always be. That God is present in our pain and moved by our tears. That grief is so deep because it is foreign to souls that were created for joy. Sometimes just knowing this is enough to kindle fires of hope in the midst of darkness. These, and many more, are the stabs of joy that keep me longing for a home I haven’t yet known. They are whispers in the language of my soul reminding me that what we see now is just a shadow of all that is to come.

Given an opportunity to contribute something here at the Rabbit Room, this piece came immediately to mind. Why? For starters, it’s inspired by some things C.S. Lewis (The Patron Rabbit? The Grand Hare?) wrote about worship and pleasure. Second, it’s also about Mexican food. I can’t explain why, but I just have a feeling that quite a number of the folks who hang out here understand the importance of quality TexMex. So, while this piece was originally published in Christianity Today a while back, it gives me a particular pleasure to share it here. I hope you feel likewise! –Carolyn There’s a TexMex restaurant in Houston I have visited on three occasions. Each meal has begun with chile con queso. The cheese at this particular restaurant is the most delicious food I have ever tasted. Each time, the queso has ushered me into a worship experience. With every bite, I have been overcome with gratitude to God for creating taste buds, cows, and human ingenuity. And that gratitude has led to praise. I get varied reactions to my testimony of worship-via-queso. Some folks understand. Some think I’m kidding. And others are skeptical that such a carnal thing as a TexMex appetizer could facilitate genuine worship. We Christians have a long history of mixed and sometimes openly-hostile attitudes toward sensual pleasure. Saint Augustine is the fourth-century poster boy for our dilemma, struggling in Book X of his Confessions to reign in each of his five senses. He attempts, for example, to “take food at mealtimes as though it were medicine” and to “fight against the pleasure in order not to be captivated by it.” Augustine is ever-vigilant that the pleasure we find in created things never replace our desire for the Creator. His caution is well-taken. But lately I’ve been discovering an emphatically pro-pleasure voice in the writings of another Christian guide, albeit one from a much later century. C.S. Lewis is known, of course, as a literary scholar, novelist and Christian apologist. He is also, consistently, a Curator of Pleasure. Where there is beauty to be received, music to be heard, laughter to be welcomed, or (especially) food to be eaten, Lewis attends, celebrates, scrutinizes, describes and partakes. In Letters to Malcolm, Chiefly on Prayer, Lewis argues that the pleasure we receive from enjoyments like forest moss and sunlight, birdsong, morning air, and the comfort of soft slippers are “shafts of [God’s] glory as it strikes our sensibility.” Our task is not to guard against sensual enjoyment, but to allow our minds to run “back up the sunbeam to the sun”—to see every pleasure as a “channel of adoration.” Lewis even argues there is no such thing as a “bad” pleasure—only pleasures “snatched by unlawful acts.” But he is not blind to the propensity for “concupiscence” (lustfulness) that so haunts Augustine. When our response to pleasure is greed instead of adoration—when we seek to grasp and possess rather than receive—our healthy cry of “This also is Thou!” distorts into “… the fatal word: Encore.” In his introduction to The Four Loves, Lewis distinguishes between “Need-Pleasures” and “Pleasures of Appreciation.” The enjoyment we feel upon receiving a Need-Pleasure—water to quench urgent thirst, for example, or the scratching of an itch—-is intense but short-lived. When the need is met, we move on. But Appreciation-Pleasures—things we don’t need but awaken us to delight, like delicious smells, extraordinary tastes, and scenes of beauty—engender a lingering sensation of pleasure that intensifies over time. Greed—the repeated cry of “Encore!” to, say, rich black coffee or extra-creamy queso—may transform a Pleasure of Appreciation into a Pleasure of Need, draining all the lasting enjoyment out of it. The answer, Lewis contends, is not to avoid pleasure but to “have” and “read” it properly—to receive it, open-handed, as both a gift and a message. “We know we are being touched by a finger of that right hand at which there are pleasure for evermore. There need be no question of thanks or praise as a separate event, something done afterwards. To experience the tiny theophany is itself to adore.” In many respects, Augustine and Lewis are arguing two sides of the same coin. But there is a major point of divergence at the heart of their opposite orientations to pleasure. Where Augustine sees our sensuality as a liability to be managed until God “consign[s] both food and belly to destruction,” Lewis (despite his own Neoplatonism) views every earthly pleasure as an apprenticeship in adoration for the sort of thing that will go on forever in heaven. Biblical writers seem irresistibly drawn to an image—part metaphor, part promise—of “the sacred meal with God.” From the table prepared for the Psalmist (Ps 23:5), to Jesus’ Lukan story of a great banquet, to the Revelation 19 vision of a wedding supper, the Scriptures are haunted by the idea that we will one day feast together—in the presence of God—forever. The prophet Isaiah (25:6-8) takes particular pleasure in this vision: On this mountain the Lord Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples, a banquet of aged wine— the best of meats and the finest of wines. On this mountain he will destroy the shroud that enfolds all peoples, the sheet that covers all nations; he will swallow up death forever. For Lewis, earthly meals are opportunities to practice the gratitude and adoration that will accompany our everlasting feast with God. Just as trials train us in patience, pleasure trains us in worship. Every sensual enjoyment (properly received) is a “tiny theophany”—a chance to “taste and see” that God is good, and a reminder that there is a whole lot more where that came from. I rest my queso.

This subject deserves more attention, but consider this a timid foray into a field with tall grass and various lurking beasts all of which this adventurer cannot hope to see. A friend recently bemoaned the apparent problem that many of our leading theologians are disconnected from good storytelling and that many of our leading storytellers are disconnected from good theology. I share that concern. Of course, there are notable exceptions and I think this might be changing. But it is, in my mind, a persistent problem. If you’ll allow the point, I’ll offer some thoughts at least on why I think many young preachers might be disconnected from good storytelling today and offer a couple of suggestions from an amateur, armchair quarterback. First, let me announce myself as an advocate of Theology. There is so much hostility toward Theology (especially among “enlightened creatives”) that one might assume it is the root of all evil, instead of the essential study of the living God. So, I speak as a friend to young preachers who are concerned with truth, who are concerned with seeking God in his Word and with communicating the Word of God well. This isn’t going to be another missive from an artistic apostle of Doubt-as-Creed, hammering his 95 thesis of why Theology is, like, so dumb and stuff, to the wall of the Witlessburg Cathedral for Zeitgeist Studies and Hugs. With that understood, onward. I think we do well to interpret Scripture by Scripture and to let the Bible teach us itself how to be read. The Bible is masterfully organized and profoundly coherent. It is best read together and understood within its own framework. To illustrate from an opposite, if we try to assume our own cultural and literary framework when we approach the Bible, we will project onto the text so much that we will disguise much of the reality in front of us from ourselves. We do this without knowing it, usually. So, in that sense, it’s helpful (maybe essential) to read the Scriptures as they come to us. Where we may err in this is that we fail to recognize the very basic reality that the Bible is a book, not only the “book of books,” but a book of books. When I read one good book, it helps me understand every other good book I will read. There is a momentum to reading with understanding that comes from accumulation of familiarity with the material of those experiences. Words. Words and all their different kinds of coherent combinations. We must find them and get to know them if we hope to understand the Bible. We do well to let the Bible guide us in how to read it, but we must not think we can understand everything in the Bible without reading outside the Bible, widely and seriously. We should read from the biblical era (treasure troves of ancient Near-Eastern lit, also Homer, Gilgamesh, etc.), but also in the forms the Bible is written in: poetry, history, epistle, etc. Most people know this, of course, but it never hurts to repeat it. Do you know how much of Scripture includes poetry as a form? It’s what scientists like to call a majorly-humungous amount. Read inside and read outside the Bible to understand better what’s inside with faithfulness. The other observation comes with a musical example. It’s a tale oft-told that if you want to “be like” one of your musical heroes, it’s important not only to listen to them, but to listen to who they listened to. So, if you want to understand and appreciate (or imitate) Bob Dylan, you must listen to Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly, etc. Because these were the people who influenced him. Go back in the ancestry to get a better picture. The same is true for many preachers. Many young preachers enjoy reading the writing of famous preachers of our own and past eras. They devour every one of the latest books by the preachers and eat up their theology and their books about the Bible. That’s fine, of course. Great, maybe. But I find there’s something weird happening when that is all that’s being read. Not only is there a danger in being caught in a subculture of self-confirming, partial-picture narratives, but there’s also the danger of missing what the very preachers you are reading have had. My point is that many of the truly great preachers of every era were not people who only read other preachers. Part of what made them great communicators was a facility with language, an understanding that storytelling was at the heart of what moves people. In our own language, they were rich in Shakespeare, full of Milton, well-versed in verses outside the canon. My advice is to do what the musician does. Go beyond the artist/preacher you admire and go their own sources. I think we will all be richer if you do, because you will be richer. Finally, thank you, preachers, for speaking to us the Word of God. I know your job is often hard and heavy and that the enemy loves to see you discouraged. May God our Father bless you from on high and give to you an enduring courage.

Some mornings you wake up and you know you’ve tossed and turned the heavy covers right off the bed in the night, and you wonder “What is this weight on my chest?” and then you realize—it’s THE ENTIRE WORLD. I was having one of those. I don’t remember the exact circumstances. I just know it had all been too much for too long without a break or a breakthrough, and I was worn out. This must have been three or four years ago. On my way to the Beehive that morning, aiming myself into the day, my phone dinged with an email from Melanie Penn; it was a voice-memo demo of a new song. Melanie and I were just beginning conversations about making a new record together—a follow up to her dear-to-my-heart debut album, Wake Up Love. As I hit play, a scan would have revealed the critical center of my brain opening its doors for business while my emotional core slept off a bad hangover. Little did I know this memo-demo was about to bring my emotional core breakfast in bed. It’s a long year already, And only February 4. The days are hard, Who are we kidding? Older we are, we suffer more. And I think we deserve a song. I don’t know about you, but I can start to feel like a beast of burden—like my only purpose is to work long hours until my brain is mush and then sleep not quite enough only to wonder where the money went at the end of the week. I know it’s not the truth. Actually, I’m quite convinced it’s a lie of the devil. And Sabbath is the word for God’s answer. And Jesus is the word for Sabbath. Still, I can get to feeling that way. I know for certain I was feeling that way when I first heard Melanie sing these lines. “We deserve a song!” It still brings tears to my eyes to hear my small sufferings identified with and dignified in such a way and then answered with, of all things, a song. My heart recognized it at once as God’s song over me. And yet, throughout the remainder of Melanie’s gorgeous song “Turnaround” (which now appears as the opening track on her brand new album, Hope Tonight) it’s you and I doing the singing. Singing to gray skies with winter birds. Singing all manner of songs to befit all manner of occasions. Is it our duty to keep singing, Whether funeral songs or hymns, Whether lullabies or battle cries Until the spring? I think it is. Sometimes I’m not sure if I can keep singing when it seems so futile. Why? Why keep singing? Who will hear? Who will care? These questions are ever-present to me. Sometimes when I finish an album for an artist, I feel like I am handing her an enormous burden. “Go now and make these songs heard amidst an ocean of noise, all the while wondering if it’s been utterly vain to write them in the first place.” And yet how can we stop singing? Jesus our Lord did what he saw his father doing—and Jesus’ father is always singing! Singing the song of belonging to the orphan, freedom to the slave, salvation to the sinner. God’s people will never stop singing God’s song in the world. I would love to tell you more of the joyful moments of making Hope Tonight with Melanie, and perhaps I will in further posts. But I could think of no more fitting way to convey to you the quality of Melanie’s songs than to share with you the way that “Turnaround” came out my car speakers one morning and helped restore my faith. “Turnaround” by Melanie Penn from Hope Tonighthttps://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/Turnaround.mp3 It’s a long year already And only February 4 The days are hard, who are we kidding Older we are, we suffer more And I think we deserve a song The love affair from fall is over It dissolved into the snow The crowd of comfort from November Went onto problems of its own And I think we deserve a song A song with no surprises in the form That doesn’t force the rhymes, simple chords That won’t stay unresolved Or forget the one it’s written for And it’ll turn around, things will turn around I don’t hear it in the city But I know from where I came That in the winter while they’re wingin’ They’ll spin a tune to skies of grey And I think we should sing along A song that doesn’t take too long to learn That won’t use any complicated words A song just for the sake of being sung Not bein heard And it’ll turn around, things always turn around Is it our duty to keep singin? Whether funeral sighs or hymns? Whether lullabies or battle cries – until the spring? I think it is We deserve a song [Hope Tonight is available in the Rabbit Room store.]

[Author’s note: I originally wrote this in February during my first chance to process life after the birth of our first child. It also happened to be the one-year anniversary of our move to Nashville. A couple friends recently asked about the emotions of such a transition and whether I had any advice for their own. This feels appropriate to share in light of all of that.] Thousands of years ago, my ancestors set up monuments for these kinds of moments. Rocks were carried then stacked then ordered, row upon row until a pile was formed. And then it was named. A monument was created to mark a specific place, a specific time, a specific event. We are a forgetful people whether we live in the ancient world or use iCal on our smart phones. I need this monument to mark this moment. It was a year ago today that we wept like we’ve never wept before. Our final friends stopped by to see us off, the moving truck revved outside due to the subzero temperatures. We were leaving Indiana after nearly a decade of leading church and community development efforts in the post-industrial town of Anderson. A tight-knit community of like-minded folks had developed in that time. We’d laughed. We’d cried. And on this day, we cried once more. Our friends stopped over, said a quick prayer and a communal sigh was felt. Then they left. As I closed the door, I turned around to face my wife and conduct a final sweep of a now-empty house. We burst into tears. To be honest it was more convulsing than crying. It was an unexpected wave of emotion and a sign of just how seismic the shift was for our lives. After nearly a decade, we were finally done in Indiana. It’s been one year since we landed in Nashville. One year into a new network of friends, a new lifestyle, a new network of streets and shortcuts. It’s been one of the most difficult years I can ever remember. It’s also become one of the most rewarding. My wife and I laughed tonight for a long time about our first year in Nashville. I could have cried just as much. A lot has changed, but the emotions remain. * We dropped our maternity insurance coverage shortly after we moved here because we never planned on having a child soon after landing in a city with so much to do. While I write this, my wife is holding my precious son, Elliot, born nearly a month ago. * After leaving a network of close friends, we now find ourselves lovingly surrounded on all sides by a new group of wonderful people who have made Nashville feel like home. Weeks of meals met us after coming home from the hospital with Elliot, and we look forward to the continued development of this new community. * The shift to step into full-time writing has been a rather easy move, and Nashville has been great for business. In fact, the challenge has been figuring out how to pare down on freelance work to carve out personal space to write. * Plus, I’m pretty sure we saw Pauly Shore at a Chinese restaurant. The past year has been marked by more ups and downs than any single year that I can remember. Confusion over community, identity, and purpose have dominated our conversations. Yet in key moments, we’ve found ourselves on the receiving end of grace and love and hope at moments when needed it most. There have been several times when I didn’t quite know what to call this monument, this new space upon which we’ve carried, stacked, and ordered once again. Now I do. It has a name. I call it home.

Almost nothing is as refreshing to parents as someone who will come alongside you in the fight to love and shape your children. This informs the mission we’re on at Story Warren, so I try to be attuned to this happening. But life gets hectic and heavy, and our kids can suffer in the tumult. When we feel besieged, there’s nothing like the feeling of allies arriving. Many of you know that Jennifer Trafton teaches creative writing classes for kids. We have wanted to have our kids in the on-line version since it became available, but have only just now been able to do it. (We don’t live close to Nashville.) The six-week class just wrapped and I wanted to share some things about it. First off, I didn’t get to be in on all the details. Like many dads, I got to hear excited updates and tantalizing summaries, but didn’t really dig in like I had hoped I would. My experience was as an interested observer, albeit a heavily-invested one. My wife and I have been talking about the class and what it’s meant for our kids and here are some thoughts that came out of our experience. Jennifer Models Creativity She is a wonderful writer and our whole family are fans of her debut novel, The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic. Jennifer’s writing and her approach to teaching are obvious evidence of her abundant creativity. Her approach involves far more than the passing on of information, but the sharing of her life and loves. She is sharing more than a class, but herself. Jennifer Inspires Creativity She has the cleverest and funnest (yes, funnest) ways of engaging the kids in projects. I don’t want to give away her trade secrets, but our kids were giggling with glee and bubbling with excitement as each new assignment came out. Our kids are homeschoolers, and they have a bent toward writing and drawing, but still, these were assignments with deadlines and our kids were eager to do them. The kids felt free, happy to be doing this work. It was a window into possible futures for them. It was an answer to prayer and the fruit of time invested. Jennifer drew so much out of them that was there but needed her touch to bloom. We didn’t really help the kids at all. Their stories and maps and artwork were all from their own minds, drawn out by an excellent teacher. Jennifer Shapes Creativity It’s all well and good to model and inspire, but she has done more. Jennifer shapes children’s creativity. She provides banks for their energetic flood of inspiration to be bound in and channeled through. She gives direction, focus, and clarity. She channels their imaginations in ways that serve the children and the parents who are working to give their creativity shape. Her assignments are hard enough to challenge, but accessible enough to stave off deflation. We are delighted with how Jennifer’s work has given our kids a model who is inspiring and has been instrumental in shaping their imaginations. Jennifer is a real ally. Jennifer and Community The format she has chosen to use and the methods she employs allows a positive community of children who are excitedly working individually on their projects, but with group isights and encouragement. It’s a positive writing group, where kids can be kids and use a thousand exclamation points to say that this or that book is “aaaaaaawwwwwessssooooommmmeeee!!!!!!!!!” or mention it’s their birthday today, but can also comment on each other’s art and stories. For our kids, this was a first foray into any kind of on-line interaction like that. It was safe, positive, uplifting, and fun. Jennifer has fostered a community of optimistic, young sub-creators. Jennifer and Kindness She has been kind to our children. She has listened to their tales. She has encouraged them. Artful Allies Being a parent is hard. Let’s be honest and say that being a mom is very, very hard. I am so proud of my wife, Gina. She homeschools our kids and, like everything in her life, she works very hard at it. She always has a to-do list miles long and is almost never “off the clock.” In school this year, our oldest daughter, 11 years old (and Gina), worked hard to achieve a noble distinction in the area of memory work. This came at the close of the school year when the finish line felt like it couldn’t come soon enough. Jennifer’s class meant so much to Gina as the school year wound down. To have an encouraging, intelligent, competent, and creative ally investing wisdom and inspiring creativity in these kids was a real gift. Our eight-year-old son also loved the class. And it seemed to come at a perfect time for him. While a lot of attention (and justified praise) came to his big sister, he got positive attention and encouragement and was able to do something special that tracked with his deep desire to tell and illustrate stories. I have seen smiles from these two kids, and their mother, over and over during this class. To me, that’s better than silver and gold. So, I want to say a hearty “well-done” to my friend, Jennifer. Thank you for what you do. God bless you as you carry on this wonderful work. We are grateful. And to my fellow-parents. Do consider giving your children the gift of being included in one of Jennifer’s classes. You won’t regret it. It’s aaaaawwwwweeessoooooooooome!!!!!!!!!!

[Editor’s note: Melanie Penn’s album Wake Up Love was an instant hit for me, and it’s also one of my very favorite of Ben Shive’s productions. Ben and Melanie have been working on this second record for a long time, and I’m so glad the rest of you finally get to hear it.] In 2000-something, I read an article in which Michael Card was asked, “Who is the greatest Christian songwriter alive today?” He said, “Andrew Peterson.” (I bet AP hates that, but it happened dude.) Back then I’d never heard of Andrew Peterson. So I found his website and bought every CD that I could. I had a train trip coming up, and on that ride I listened to The Far Country on a . . . discman (good grief what year was this?). I just ate it—I mean, it’s like I ate all of the songs on that album while I sat on that Amtrak train. I gobbled them up. I just loved that record. I had a feeling then, This guy might be my people. I wonder if his people are my people? You see, I am always looking for my people. Turns out, Andrew would become a friend. And so would Ben Shive, the producer of that record, The Far Country. Turns out, Ben Shive would produce my two solo records. The first, Wake Up Love, and now this one Hope Tonight. Turns out, many people are Andrew’s people—musicians, Rabbit Roomers, and lots of other incredible folks. And we have all found each other, and loved songs, and loved the way that songs can bring us together and create a tribe. I wrote the title song for this record, “Hope Tonight,” when I felt like I had no tribe. I wasn’t making ends meet very well, and I wasn’t meeting demands very well. I started throwing a pity-party for myself in my New York City apartment—just my guitar and me—like I do. “Here’s the thing, it’ll chill ya to the bone …” But no sooner did I get into the guts of this song than all the blessings, promise, and hope of life came pouring back in—back into my heart and back into the lyrics. “There must be more than I / See with my naked eye / Some underlying design / Will make things right.” Turns out our tribe has a lot more in common than songs, and artists, and the Rabbit Room . . . we have hope. And not just hope tonight—but hope right now, today, tomorrow, the next day, until the very end of the end when time stops and there is no more end. I hope this record reminds you of that. I guess what I mean to say is, Hello from Brooklyn. Ben and I made a new record. We hope you like it. [Hope Tonight is now available in the Rabbit Room store.] “Hope Tonight” by Melanie Penn from the record Hope Tonight https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/Hope.mp3 Here’s the thing, it’ll chill ya to the bone Make you wish ya could be frozen over Numb to the cold It’s getting harder, and we’re nowhere near the end There’s trouble behind, maybe trouble up head So it goes, over and over again But I refuse to change my mind I’d be more lost without a light So I will choose to hold on tight To hope tonight Lot of nerve, who am I to raise a complaint? I got a life in the west, and only an ache in my soul But it won’t go away And I am awake, I’m aware, I know the news There’s hunger and thirst Who am I to feel it too, in my soul? But it won’t go away I refuse to close my eyes I’d be more lost without a light So I will choose to hold on tight To hope tonight There must be more than I See with my naked eye Some underlying design Will make things right And I knew the truth, I saw a light I’d be more lost, if I denied it So I will choose to hold on tight To hope tonight

It happened driving home the other day and I am nearly sure it was not my fault. Yes, I was on the phone and the conversation was a touch heated. But, like always, I talked hands-free and cut my usual path northbound in the next-to-fast lane without swerving in and out of traffic. Moreover, I was such not a distracted driver that I heard the honk and therefore checked my mirrors. Her tiny reflection was in the fast lane several cars behind me. She was waving one-tenth of her manicured fingers and repeatedly mouthing a short phrase that ended with the second person singular pronoun. “South Pole elf,” I thought and turned my attention back to my phone conversation and to the road in front of me. But she pursued. Let it be known that I did not swerve in and out of lanes in order to get close enough to her to make eye contact. She did. When her Mercedes pulled adjacent to my passenger-side window, she crowded the lane enough that I could see her roots had grown out. I could read her lips. I could see the polish on one of her fingernails. After she said and signed her peace, she accelerated away, doing more swerving in and out of lanes, in order to get off at the very next exit. I wondered if that was really where she planned to leave the freeway. This happened several days ago and I still cannot figure out why. Yesterday, I checked the back of my car wondering if perhaps someone pranked me by affixing an offensive bumper sticker on it, like, “Don’t Blame Me, I Voted For Ross Perot.” Nothing there. I have been thinking maybe she thought I was someone else. But what could he have possibly done to her to warrant more than a freeway mile of pursuit and obscenities? Then again, maybe she did recognize me. It is possible she knew exactly who I was. Maybe she is one of the many excessive cat lovers who read the first few pages of my book and now she wishes me dead. I will never know. All I know is that out there somewhere between Solana Beach and Carlsbad on the California coast roams a woman who, at least for a stretch of time, hated me. Likely we will never have the chance to reconcile. “I am really sorry; did I cut you off?” “It’s not that.” “Aaah. Is it about the cats?” “How could you be so insensitive?” “Seriously, it was just a joke. Honest, every morning I feed the cat who survived and scratch her between the ears. Really, I like cats. Mostly.” “Well, I guess I am sorry I overreacted.” “Don’t worry about it. We’ve all done it before. Well, I mean, I have never pursued another motorist for over a mile spitting obscenities at her through our cars’ windows. But I understand.” “Yeah.” “Yeah.” We would find some awkward way to finish the conversation, excuse ourselves, and go our separate ways, both forgiving and forgiven. I have no idea who that woman was. As I replay the incident in my mind, I have no idea who I am. I cannot figure out who any human being is. What kind of creatures have invented gestures and words to represent obscenities and then use them on strangers while driving seventy-eight miles an hour in a sixty-thousand dollar car on a California freeway? Who can explain the mystery of who we are and what we have come to be? Not I. Yet, I do suspect the riddle of humanity is both more ridiculous and more magnificent than I can imagine this side of eternity. And we surely all will have a good laugh at ourselves when the mystery is revealed before the face of Christ.

This is what joy looks like: It looks like walking over the lawn in that time of late winter’s striving with early spring, when afternoon and evening brush fingers in passing, throwing careless glances over shadowed shoulders, and all the wealth of the sun’s bullion lies heaped in treetops, mounted and piled among far-flung boughs like plunder, forgotten— or abandoned—in sudden flight. (Boys once sought a piece of this prize, training their darts towards all that opulence, aiming to see an arrow gilded before falling to earth once more, transfigured.) All earth holds its breath, waiting, for that one, clear, cold note; for the ache of the thing that is surely coming; for the nativity of the world. (You have forgotten to wait for it, sitting indoors with your fingers interlaced, or kneeling to blow on bloodred coals yet smoldering upon a bed of grey ash. But now you remember, stung alive by that keen air, bearing tinctures of delicate things for all its rude handling—violets and tiny white feathers and bits of blue shell at the foot of a tree. Forgetting takes time, but remembrance is the matter of a moment.) It is then, when you have finally opened your eyes that the miracle steals on tiptoe, lifting with smallest hands the bank of heavy cloud which has sullened and saddened the earth all day, throwing out in one radiant glance enough glory to christen the world. Thus known and named, all things sing back themselves for sheer gladness, in flashes of birdsong and music of color: Glory to thee and all thanks to thee, O Namegiver! In that light, all is canticle and verse; all is wild tumult of praise: leaping serum of veining sap and homing dove and bright cacophonous rooster’s crow! And yet, the bird in the hedge falls silent, checked in his mad virtuosity by that strange creeping splendor decanting itself like summer wine, casting a holy blush over every living thing. It is in that moment, poised in perfection upon the very doorstep of eternity, that you catch the echo of scarce-dreamed-of desire, resonating down darkened vestibules, haunting the ventricles and chambers of your heart. For one searing instant, you prize past all equal the spangling of sun-shot tears trembling from the naked branches; the rising incense of mist is more costly than gold, and that one aureate wisp caught among the dark tresses of the pines far more precious—and then you know: You are more alive than flesh and bone could ever hold; more vital than body and blood and thought. You are made for more rapture than one life can contain.

You may recall that I’m on a mission to write a short story each month this year. I started in February, and that story was released in March—The Timely Arrival of Barnabas Bead is available here. I know, I know, I’m already running behind, but the next one is finally ready to go. It was written in March and April and not a sentence of it came easy. Like squeezing blood from a stone, I tell you, but such is the work of writing. This one’s called The Oracle of Philadelphia, and it revolves around an expedition into the Arctic Sea. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been fascinated with polar exploration. Annie Dillard’s “Expedition to the Pole” is one of my favorite essays of all time (it’s found in her book Teaching a Stone to Talk). Josh Ritter’s song “Another New World” has some of the most magical lyrics in this or any world, and, like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn to any book or documentary about the Shackleton expedition. Heck, I’ll even thrown in John Carpenter’s The Thing as a reference (that movie scared me to death when I was a kid). So consider this my humble entry into the hoary canon of polar literature. Hope you enjoy it, and I assure you, it’s much lighter fare than any of the aforementioned works. Special thanks to Daniel Sorensen for providing an illustration for this month’s story. Check out his website. He’s a talented guy. The Oracle of Philadelphia is available as a PDF and ePub file in the Rabbit Room store. It’s also available on Kindle (God bless those who leave reviews!) and (soon) in the iBookstore. Click here to read a preview. (Note: the observant reader may spot direct ties between this story and Fiddler’s Green.)