What are you looking for?

by Kevan Chandler, with Tommy C. Shelton In the wake of the Great War, J.M. Barrie spoke to the 1922 graduating class of St. Andrews in Scotland and said, “Your God is watching to see whether you are adventurous.” But he wasn’t talking about fighting pirates, inventing something life-changing, exploring a new world, or even rebuilding the old one. The author of Peter Pan was referring to the adventure of loving people—choosing joy, forgiveness, and care in the face of a world full of anger, bitterness, and self-preservation. One hundred years after this speech was given, I called my friend Tommy Shelton, a pastor in Tampa, and asked if he would consider writing a book with me about this very adventure.  There’s been a lot of talk over the past few years about isolation and “the disease of loneliness.” Community has become more of a buzzword than an actual solution, trending in church small group programs and meeting for coffee or having a meal together. I grew up on the living room floor of a small group meeting long before it was cool, so don’t get me wrong, there is value in these things. But is it actually sustainable in and of itself? True community isn’t found over a cup of coffee but in interdependence and is fostered through mutual vulnerability. And this can only happen when we step into others’ needs and invite them into our own. The trouble with this idea is that we are a fiercely independent people born and bred in an image-centered pop culture of pride and social media. Our needs are often either burdens to be hidden or met by outsiders to not bother those closest to us, or they are idols to be flaunted or forced upon others as priority. In short, we either say everything is fine, or we say everything is wrong and the world should revolve around that fact. But what if our needs could be more than that? What if they could be tools for us to delve deeper into true community with one another? This was the idea I proposed to Tommy—we could love others, not in spite of our needs but through them. That sounds like quite the adventure! It’s not an entirely foreign concept, though I didn’t have words for it until recently. I’ve spent my whole life in a wheelchair and almost fully dependent on others. Not a day goes by, maybe not even an hour, that I don’t ask for help in some way. Walking is the least of my concerns. I need help with using the restroom, showering, getting dressed, turning over in bed at night, preparing food, and eating it, opening doors, blowing my nose, scratching my head when it itches, grabbing a book from the shelf, and positioning my hands just right on a table so I can hold that book open to read it. This is the story of my life and the common narrative of needs. Whether I’m traveling or at home, because of my disability, pretty much anything I do is going to require more of me and others. Admittedly, I don’t like this fact for myself or for my friends who jump into my needs. Everything takes longer. Everything takes more forethought and effort. Everything involves more people and also disrupts more people. There’s a temptation to assume this is a bad thing, but maybe it’s a grace, as Jesus saw it. Being so acquainted with the need, I have often struggled, wondering if I am, more than anything else, a burden. There are only so many ways to ask for help before you start to wonder. Then I read about how Jesus asked a Samaritan woman for a drink of water, how a sinful woman washed his dusty feet, how his disciples gave him something to eat after his resurrection. And through these needs that he took on as a man, the people serving Jesus were served in ways far deeper than physical thirst, dirt, or hunger. He saw the need as a door to be opened into fellowship, healing, and wholeness. There is a special element of need that God designed us with, and Jesus exemplified while in human form. That is, the element of hospitality. Whether we are inviting others into our need or being invited into theirs, if together we approach it right, we can enjoy walking through the door that Jesus opened with his own human needs. We might find there the fruits of fellowship, healing, and wholeness, which are coincidentally the same fruits of our common understanding of hospitality, aren’t they? In the idea of hospitality, we say to our guests, “Come in and give me your time, attention, and presence, all for your sake.” We want our guests to find restoration in our space and company. On the other hand, with the idea of need, we traditionally say to our guests, “Come in and give me your time, attention, and presence, all for my sake.” But that’s not what Jesus said. The Creator of Everything asked a Samaritan woman for a drink of water, giving her the authority to pull him out of the ditch of thirst. And so, walls came down for a far greater conversation. He related to her; he condescended to her; he even, in a way, submitted to her for her sake and ultimately her salvation. He then defended a prostitute who washed his feet. Jesus honored her, a woman he shouldn’t have been seen with culturally, and defended her against those he should have striven to please culturally. So, this sweet woman, who lived in dishonor, was given a profound sense of dignity at the feet of her Lord. And when he had risen from the dead, Jesus saw the disciples and asked them for a snack. He asked for a plate, not for its nutrients of sustenance, but for the sweetness of fellowship and assurance for his friends. The resurrected Christ could do anything. If He could appear in upper rooms, He could surely have appeared in Pilot’s chambers or the Pharisees’ council or before astonished crowds and demanded to be lifted high. But instead, He went to His friends and lifted them out of their fear and despair. So, what does this look like for you? What does it look like for me and my inability to use the restroom without the help of others? My circumstances may be more extreme than yours (or they may not be), but it’s the example I have, so let’s start there. Because I have these needs, to be bathed by others, dressed, fed, and so on, my situation calls for a depth of connection that not many friendships lead to.  The friends who step into my needs with me are fed by the experience, by the time spent together, the conversations, the sense of purpose, learning, shaping, laughter, and challenge. I am fed, too, in the same ways, and I have the same responsibilities as they do when I step into my needs with them. My needs may be what brought us together for the occasion, the door that leads us into the room, but the people who meet my needs have needs as well. And just as they are attentive to mine, I must be attentive to theirs. Just as they enter into my needs, I must enter into theirs. My needs may be considered more outward and demanding, but theirs are just as important and hospitable, and we will find the same depth together as well. We all have needs, great or small, and they beckon us into the same intimacy. The question is whether we will step into these opportunities; this hospitality so that our needs not only call for a deeper connection but foster it as well. We can love our brothers and sisters; we can care for others, not despite our needs but through them. And maybe it’s not just that we can, but that we are supposed to. The need existed before sin. Long before the fall, Adam needed a helpmate; trees needed sunlight, and fish needed the sea. Back then, every need pointed creation back to its Creator. What Tommy and I are suggesting is that every need still does. Every need—whether help with a shower, tutoring for math homework, or a ride to the grocery store—is all meant to draw us closer to one another and to God. It is in the vulnerability of need that we can overcome the disease of loneliness that plagues a generation. It is in the fellowship of need that we can find true community. And it is in the hospitality of need that we can experience the wonderful adventure of loving one another. Kevan Chandler grew up in the foothills of North Carolina. He was the second of his siblings to be diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy, type 2, a rare neuromuscular disease. In 2016, he and his friends took a trip across Europe, leaving his wheelchair at home, and his friends carried him for three weeks in a backpack. An avid storyteller, he is a writer and speaker worldwide about his unique life with a disability, being a featured speaker for Tedx and Google, as well as various conferences, pharmaceutical companies, and universities. Kevan has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Counseling from John Wesley College, and is also founder of the nonprofit We Carry Kevan. He and his wife Katie live in Fort Wayne, Indiana, where they enjoy growing vegetables, making homemade bread, and reading to each other. Tommy Shelton, Jr. grew up joyfully as the son of a pastor in North Carolina, and is thrilled that God called him to follow in his father’s shepherding footsteps. He loves his wife and six children. He also loves to preach the Bible, pray over people, and build things. Tommy is the pastor of Live Oaks Bible Church in Palm Harbor, Florida.

by Caroline Cobb Scene 1 :  I am standing in his hospital room, overwhelmed with the feeling that death is just so…. wrong . My dad passed away just moments ago, but the “most natural thing in the world” seems terribly unnatural. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. In the weeks that follow, I will feel more awake than ever to the “curse of sin and death” we read about so often in the Bible. To the mortality of everyone I love. To the fleeting nature of things. But in my imagination, Jesus’s death and resurrection will expand too. The “good news” matters even more now.   Scene 2: The kids and I are sitting on the grass at Flag Pole Hill in Dallas, a park just minutes from our house. I’d pulled them out of school, and now we are surrounded by hundreds of people skipping work and shirking everyday responsibilities to look up expectantly at the sky. A little boy across the way shouts, “one more minute!” and the murmur of anticipation around me grows. Someone in our group begins counting down the seconds: “Ten! Nine! Eight!” Suddenly, the afternoon sky transfigures into a dusky darkness. We take our glasses off and stare directly at the sun, a black circle wreathed by a glimmering crown of light. For over four minutes, we are collectively transfixed by the magic of 2024’s total solar eclipse. All around me, I hear gasps of awe. My friend who had just minutes earlier been asking, “Is this really that big of a deal?” blurts out “Oh my gosh! Wow !” Some people even start applauding! They’re laughing out loud and literally whooping with wonder. It’s involuntary; they can’t help it. Beauty has stopped us all in our tracks and forced us to respond. Suffering and beauty. Death and wonder.  For us, these two very opposite experiences often produce the same effect. They are watershed moments. Wake-up calls. Invitations to stop and consider again. Both suffering and beauty confront and interrupt us, lifting the veil of ordinary life that we might see reality anew. We blink awake, lift our eyes up out of the weeds and see – even for just a moment – what really  matters, what’s really  true. How Beauty Lifts the Veil According to poet Samuel Coleridge, beauty and art can awaken “the mind’s attention to the lethargy of custom… directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us.” And yet, he says, both “the film of familiarity” and “selfish solicitude” keep us from seeing. Expounding on Coleridge, Malcolm Guite writes, “it is as though there is a film or veil between us and the radiant reality of things.” ( Lifting the Veil , 12)     One could argue that the modern digital age has made this blind “lethargy of custom” even more pronounced. We seem to hurry along at a frenetic pace, constantly staring at the small computer screen we carry around in our pockets, lulled to sleep by a stream of incessant chatter. In the rush, we forget to look up and look around. Perhaps this is why the experience of 2024’s total solar eclipse felt so extraordinary; it seems we rarely stop to wonder anymore. In Exodus chapter 3, a burning bush interrupted Moses’s ordinary day of shepherding, compelling him to “turn aside and see this great sight.” (Exodus 3:3) In the same way, the beauty we find in nature and in the arts can shake us awake, if only we will cultivate the eyes to see. As I wrote in the song “ Burning Bushes Everywhere :”  I don’t want to miss the mystery The bright ache for eternal things Lighting up all these fires in me Even though it hurts God, would you open our eyes to see Burning bushes  How Suffering Lifts the Veil When my dad died, a familiar scene from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix  struck me in a new way. In this book Harry is suddenly able to see Thestrals – the “bat-winged horses” pulling the Hogwarts carriages – for the very first time. These magical creatures appear invisible to almost all of the students, but because Harry has experienced death up close and “gained an emotional understanding of what death means,” the veil is lifted. He finally sees the truth of what had been there all along.  In the months after my first up-close experience with death, I felt like Harry. Everything looked different, reality laid bare as the “film of familiarity” was abruptly removed. Encounters with death and real suffering change the way we see the world.  The Lion King  famously imagines life and death as a “circle of life,” but I beg to differ. As I wrote in a recently released song , death is not a natural thing but a terrible thing . In my experience, both Christians and non-Christians who find themselves confronted by real suffering and loss feel deep down that “it’s not the way it’s supposed to be.” As a Christian, I believe we feel this way because the sentiment is true ; we were made to live forever!  But even for the Christian, death and suffering lift the veil. These experiences usher us into a moment of crisis, forcing us to answer hard questions about the meaning of things: What’s really true? What actually matters? What is my hope in life and death, really? In this way, death and suffering are burning bushes too. Artists of Faith at the Crossroads Artists, poets, songwriters, and storytellers deal in both beauty and suffering. These topics are our currency, our content, our muse. For this reason, I believe Christian artists are uniquely positioned to come alongside these “burning bush” experiences, creating work that lifts the veil and points to the “radiant reality” of Jesus in both explicit and implicit ways.  Both poet Malcolm Guite and artist Makoto Fujimara have pointed to the burning bush as an “essential paradigm” for the Christian artist. Fujimara writes, “There are burning bushes everywhere… and our lives can be just as miraculous. Our Making can be a visible marker of God’s gratuitous love.” ( Art + Faith , 149) Our lives and our work as Christian artists can serve others by helping them “turn aside” and experience something sacred, calling them to take their shoes off like Moses and “see with a gasp of wonder that the ordinary has been transfigured, that the veil has been lifted and the glory of God's presence has been shining through" ( Lifting the Veil , 49)  Although some view “art” as an escape from reality, the Christian artist has the opportunity to point to a deeper  reality – to awaken rather than merely entertain. With our words and paintings, we can point to the wonder and beauty woven into the world around us, and even beyond visible nature to the Maker himself… to the Architect behind total solar eclipses and Grand Canyons, to the joyful Source behind each bright bird and blossoming flower. We can write songs and tell stories that point to a Jesus who suffered and faced “the terrible thing” too, who never triumphalized about death but wept with sorrow at his friend’s grave – and then rose again on the third day. We can interrupt the “lethargy of custom” with a prophetic voice or picture. By giving words to the feeling they could never quite put a finger on. By unveiling a hard truth we’ve all been trying to avoid.  As we allow God’s Story to permeate and rekindle our own imagination, we will find it permeates and rekindles our work as well. And so we pray: God, allow our work to lift the veil, to come alongside the suffering, to point to your inexhaustible beauty. Ignite our words and brush strokes and melodies, that they might become burning bushes for your glory. Amen. Caroline Cobb  loves to tell God’s Story through music and writing, helping you rehearse and respond to it as you go about your everyday life. In just over ten years, she has released five “Story-telling” albums, including Psalms: The Poetry of Prayer, A King & His Kindness, and A Seed, A Sunrise. Look for her first book, Advent for Exiles: 25 Devotions to Awaken Gospel Hope in Every Longing Heart (B&H), in September 2024. Caroline and her husband Nick live in Dallas, Texas with their three children Ellie, Harrison, and Libby. Find more of her work & music at carolinecobb.com .  If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Chris Badeker As soon as we crossed the threshold of our apartment door, we dropped our luggage on the carpet, stared around our living room. Then we started crying. It could have been exhaustion after the twelve hour drive from Nashville back to Maryland. It could have been a cathartic release after wrapping up a month of intense recording sessions. But it wasn’t either of those things. I stood amongst the baggage and guitar cases holding my wife and not knowing what to say. Whether it was spoken or not, we both were thinking the same thing.  “We don’t fit here anymore” The clarity of knowing where you want to be is both a wonderful and terrible thing. We had wrestled for years with where we saw ourselves living long term. Nashville had certainly been on our radar, but in our mind’s eye there was a brick wall around it. Ceding that we wanted to live there meant contending with the many voices that sought to check us at the door. “So you think you’re a good enough songwriter to warrant moving to Nashville?” “Does Nashville really need one more songwriter?” “Nobody wants you to move there, it’s already so crowded” “So you're trying to get discovered or something?” The truth was, we wanted to move to Nashville to be a part of what all of the artists we admired were doing. Living, creating, and working in community. Sharing in little victories and keeping each other’s heads above water when need be. Spending a month there amongst creatives, writers, musicians, and poets had shown us a glimpse of how things could be. If that meant becoming a “small fish in a big ocean”, as many at home had put it, that was fine by me. Being a small fish in a big ocean beats feeling like a fish on dry land any day of the week. In the interim between admitting that we desperately wanted to move and actually moving (a span of two years) , we tried to identify what aspects of our “idealized life in Nashville” we could actively incorporate into our current day to day. I didn’t want to spend the rest of our time in Maryland idolizing a lifestyle while simultaneously doing nothing to foster it at home. It was with this naive chutzpah that we sent out invites to a “Songwriter Night” to every songwriter we knew in the area. The core idea was to give local songwriters a chance to gather and talk about what inspires them, commiserate in their shared struggles, and share the songs they’re working on. On the night of our first meeting, we set out a kettle of hot water, every tea bag we owned, and a bit of bottom shelf whiskey to make hot toddies. The only person who came was our friend May, who traveled the distance of one staircase between her apartment door and ours. They were never large, but our gatherings were beautiful opportunities to sit at the feet (sometimes literally)  of other creators and give them a gift that had become increasingly rare, our attention. I don’t know if they made me a better artist, but they made me feel more interested, curious, and empathetic. A pleasant change from the usual “stressed, self-conscious, and jealous” that often served as my baseline in that season. It was February of 2020 before we finally moved to Nashville, and within a month any thoughts I had of regularly gathering with other artists quickly went out the window. We got to town and then promptly locked down for the next year and half. Around the time Nashville was starting to re-open, the Rabbit Room was also in the midst of doing a grand opening for North Wind Manor, their newly built operations and event space. It was a joy to live so close to such a fantastic space, and before long my wife and I had attended everything from wine tastings, lectures, concerts, and art shows there. I assumed it would only be a matter of time before someone qualified was brought in to host the sort of songwriter meetups I had always imagined happened in Nashville every hour on the hour. When I looked into whether there were plans to start such an event, I was told that the idea had long been a hope for the space, but that no one had been able to commit to leading it as of yet. I’m sure you can guess the ending to this story. I have very little memory of how the discussion went, but by the end of the day, I was planning a season’s worth of gatherings for local songwriters. We’re now in our third season of meeting at North Wind Manor and it has become a highlight of my week to sit and talk with so many fantastically creative minds. Like the gatherings we hosted back in Maryland, there are chances to share music we’re working on and get much needed feedback. Equally importantly, there’s a chance to sit amongst other artists who are at different points in their journey and find common ground. We get to discover that the things we struggle with in our art are the things our neighbor struggles with too. It seems counterintuitive, but for as much as artists want to feel unique in regards to our creativity, we also want to feel ordinary in regards to our imperfections. And so in addition to sharing our music, we spend time normalizing the highs and lows that come with the territory.  I believe in gatherings like this because I think that at the end of the day, our life as an artist will be more defined by the community we surround ourselves with than by the quality of our musicianship. Don’t hear me wrong, I think pursuing excellence and mastering a craft is a wonderful use of time. I also think there are a lot of lonely singers out there who would happily trade their left eyebrow just to sit with another human being who knows how it feels. Ironically, it’s the sitting and listening part that ends up making us better musicians in the process.  Photo by Daniil Zameshaev  on Unsplash

by Lara d'Entremont I never picked goldenrods for my bouquets. In spring and summer, this was easy; I found beautiful flowers of purple and pink each time we went for a walk. But as fall began to lurk in my backyard, goldenrod became one of my few choices.   I stood with my hands on the stroller staring at the rows of goldenrod on the side of the road. Would I rather have an empty pitcher in my bathroom than have those flowers in my home?   In elementary school, I took up a hobby of picking bouquets of wildflowers for my mother. While she worked on training the young horse, I ran around outside the fence gathering flowers for her. Irises, ferns, daisies, and, yes, goldenrod. One night as I proudly handed my mom my latest creation, my father scoffed. “What are you doing picking that old ragweed for? Go find something better.”   I never forgot those words. As a little girl, I took them to mean that I didn’t have an eye for beauty like my father did, and that I had failed yet again—just like when I struggled with math, picked up my mother’s accent, was too slow to understand his horse-riding instructions, and my anxiety made me “act the fool.” Choosing ragweed for a bouquet was yet another way I didn’t match up, so I decided I’d never pick it again—that was at least one “fault” I had control over.   After that walk on the road, I saw a picture someone had shared of a vase full of goldenrod, and its simple beauty captured me. At that moment, my mind tied off a loose thread. I’ve done a lot of work to re-tie and weave what my father tore apart in my mind and, in that moment, I drew together more of those loose ends.   One of the questions I had to answer: Who defines beauty? Is beauty simply in the eye of the beholder? Or, is there something definite about beauty so that we can collectively declare this  is beautiful but that is not?   Is Beauty Subjective?   My four-year-old son thinks that everything small and tiny is cute. A puppy, a kitten, an itty-bitty toad, a mosquito, and even a red spider the size of a pen tip are all “so cute.” As someone with a fear of spiders, I disagree—just because it’s small doesn’t mean it’s cute.   Like my toddler, who reduced the definition of cute to anything small , I fear we have reduced our definition of beauty to what can only be seen with our eyes or causes a feeling within us. I wonder if we’ve compromised—that we settled for something less than true beauty in our desperate pursuit of it. The psalmist declared, “One thing have I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to inquire in his temple” (Ps. 27:4 ESV). If the pursuit of beauty should lead us to God, is it possible we have forgotten His definition of beauty?     In The Picture of Dorian Gray  (a novel by Oscar Wilde published in 1890), the word beauty is often mentioned, but not in its true sense . Dorian Gray is a young, rich, and beautiful boy who fears growing old and losing his charming good looks as an older friend convinces him that youth and beauty are all that we should desire in life. In a moment of grief over this realization, he wishes for a painting to absorb all his blemishes —from both aging and from sin—while he remains young and handsome.    When this wish comes true, Dorian throws all wisdom, prudence, and virtue away and pursues what he defines as beauty and happiness, while the portrait of himself grows uglier and more grotesque with each passing day. To distract himself from guilt, shame, and fear of being found out, he fills his home with “beautiful” things, spending his immense wealth on whatever fancies him for that year. This pursuit of beauty leads him further and further away from any kind of virtue or goodness. While Dorian remains young and attractive on the outside, his portrait grows viler and uglier each day, reflecting the true state of his soul.   Is what Dorian Gray and his friends define as beauty truly beauty? Could the pursuit of beauty lead to corruption? The world will raise up its own definitions of beauty, like it did for Dorian Gray. We can choose the kind of beauty that leads to discontentment, greed, and other vices, forming us into something grotesque and ugly, like the portrait of Dorian. Or we can choose to run after beauty that is also true and good, and let that form us into Christ-likeness.    The Inseparability of Truth, Beauty, and Goodness   Truth, beauty, and goodness have been considered transcendent, objective realities for hundreds of years. The concept can be traced back as far as Plato and Aristotle in some form. Christians have since grasped this saying, considering it to be part of the attributes of God that are reflected in creation, especially man and woman. While truth, beauty, and goodness all rely on one another, truth must always be the foundation, because things can appear beautiful without being true or good   Our definitions of truth, beauty, and goodness must always begin in Scripture. I’ve read “beautifully” written heresies and watched the world twist an idea to appear good when it was far from it. Consider the world’s claim that to be beautiful is to look young—dye or pluck every gray hair and smooth out every wrinkle. Another example is how some theologians eloquently deny Jesus’ perfection, distorting the wonder of the gospel. These may have the appearance of beauty and goodness, yet lack truth. If we set truth as our foundation, there we can see beauty and goodness more truly and clearly. This isn’t to lessen beauty and goodness, but to hold them to the highest standard that God intended for them. We dilute beauty and goodness when we don’t hold them to the standard of truth—because to be good and beautiful, they must first be true. And truth is not ours to decide, but to find in God by what he’s revealed in his Word and his natural world.  There’s nuance in this. Dorian Gray is a beautiful novel, not only for its message but also for Wilde’s witty and gripping prose. Yet many over the decades have declared this novel one of grotesque sin due to its content of murder, drug use, carousing, selfishness, and sexual immorality. What those critics have missed is that Wilde’s book, despite the fact that his own life much resembled that of Dorian Gray, is an indictment on such darkness (albeit a hypocritical one), and that cannot be missed as Dorian’s portrait takes on the ugliness and horrors of Dorian’s lifestyle and heart. Sometimes beauty looks like entering the darkness to show how vile this world can be on this side of Genesis 3 to show our need for a Savior. In discussing objective beauty, a friend of mine said, “I dislike yellow flowers; I don’t think they are pretty, and I won’t have them in my home. But because they are made by God, I know they are beautiful.” We all have preferences (which is human and good), yet objective beauty always remains the same. In a similar way, some passages of Scripture aren’t as clear as others, and we must do our best to interpret them in light of what is clear, such as the gospel and doctrine of God.   Ultimately, beauty must direct our gaze out from ourselves and towards God and the virtues he calls us to. As Vigen Guroian writes in Tending the Heart of Virtue , “St. Augustine speaks of a form of love that he calls frui , a Latin word. The value of this love is not in any use to which its object be put. It is, rather, a love for the sheer pleasure or delight an object brings and the transcendent beauty that reaches one through it.” He says the absence of this kind of beauty likewise creates a longing within us for it, but “in the end, this love and longing set the individual on a ‘road right out of the self’” and straight to God himself.   Do we desire beauty because it leads us to God? Is the beauty we are seeking the kind that even could lead us to God, or is it all simply vanity like what Dorian Gray pursued? Beauty must be selfless—it’s not about drawing attention to ourselves, earning praise for our lovely homes or well-styled closets, but bringing glory to the most beautiful Person of all. This isn’t a kind of self-loathing where we never think of or care for ourselves, but rather a turning from pride. At times pride draws us to desire fleeting or external beauty so that we can impress those around us. Yet the pursuit of true beauty should lead to worship of the Most Beautiful.   The Pursuit of True Beauty   When my husband and I first got married, we lived in his parents’ summer camp. My sister-in-law and her husband had lived in it previously, and we often joked that it was like living in a space shuttle with its tinfoil-like insulation covering the walls. The floors were painted plywood. It was perfect for a camp, but Pinterest left me feeling discontented. I ogled at the beautiful, white kitchens and hardwood floors of others. I knew I should find my contentment in Christ, but I also longed for a prettier home.   Throughout that year, I took for granted the beauty of nature just outside my door.   We lived on a dirt road in a low-populated part of our community. We were encased in trees on every side, but those trees opened to the river that roared only a few meters from our deck. In the forest behind our home, an old rock wall built years ago stood covered in moss and lichen-like castle remains. A tree with a dizzying amount of rings towered back there as well. Across the road to the part of the river that raced under the bridge, trees stretched over the flowing waters and fields of tall, golden grass swayed in the breeze.   I searched for beauty behind a computer screen and wished for what the world at that time had declared beautiful. Meanwhile, God’s timeless, hand-crafted beauty beckoned me from outside the space-ready walls of my home.   That was around six years ago. I miss that home sometimes—and wish I could sit out on that deck again. I now live in our third home. I still don’t have the bright white kitchen cabinets.   One recent day, when that discontentment gripped me again, I stepped outside and crossed the road to the old railroad tracks. I jogged down the flower-brimmed hill, past the sagging apple trees, across the tracks, and through the winding paths by the seaside to the shoreline. I walked along the paths where the bramble and wild roses waved at me in the wind. I breathed in the salty air.   That day, I refused to miss out on the beauty God had put around me this time. I decided that discontentment would no longer keep me from witnessing God’s goodness and creative hand. As we walked these trails as a family again, I stopped my husband on the side of the road and asked him to pick some goldenrod for me. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t question. He plucked the goldenrod and placed it in the bottom of our stroller, and I put them in the pitcher in the bathroom.  I’ve learned that my dad doesn’t know everything, and he definitely doesn’t get to define beauty. Beauty is defined by God, and he created this world and called it good—and that includes the goldenrod that grows on the side of the dusty roads. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

We're continuing our "Best of 2023" mini-series with top picks for favorite books from Rabbit Room friends and contributors. Ned Bustard This is the Year of Every Moment Holy Vol. 3 , of course, as well as when my S aint Patrick the Forgiver and Ordinary Saints books came out, but the top books that were not by me, but that I enjoyed the most were " Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell —a book that made me want to believe in Faerie—and Everything Sad is Untrue —one of the best books I ever read. Houston Coley Rumours of a Better Country by Marsh Moyle. Rumours of a Better Country is a remarkable book written by a dear mentor of mine from L'Abri Fellowship in England named Marsh Moyle. Marsh's experiences in Eastern Europe have given him a unique cultural perspective that makes his insights about moral imagination one-of-a-kind and profound. American Prometheus: The Triumph & Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer by Kai Bird. American Prometheus is the biography that inspired Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer this year, and while it is a weighty tome, it's also one of the most gripping and engaging history books I've ever read. Mark Meynell Francis Spufford's Cahokia Jazz: A Novel . Jeremy Eichler's Time's Echo: The Second World War, the Holocaust, and the Music of Remembrance Dave Bruno I have enjoyed reading Karen Swallow Prior's The Evangelical Imagination . I finally got around to reading Cormac McCarthy's T he Roa d and appreciated it. Alastair Gordon Stephen King's Dark Tower series was an epic slog but worth it. Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus books too. Reading a lot of Neil Gaiman and Iain M Banks as well. Amelia Freidline The Chronicles of Prydain series . My nephew lent me his Prydain books and I read the last one during Advent, which makes it especially poignant. Winters in the World by Eleanor Parker. Winters is a fascinating look at how the Anglo-Saxons thought about time and how they marked the various seasons of the year (I am definitely going to sing to my trees at Twelfth Night now). Michael J. Tinker My Life in Dire Straits: The Inside Story of One of the Biggest Bands in Rock History by John Illsley. Reading books by musicians reminds you that it's not all overnight success or out-of-the-blue ability. It's hard graft, practice, and slogging it out for little or no money (Dire Straits would play to 10's of thousands and sometimes not earn a penny), more practice and hard graft. Helps me keep going! Dave Trout My fave was Say Yes by Scott Erickson. The subtitle alone might pull you in: “Discover the surprising life beyond the death of a dream.” Chris Wheeler Bringing it to the Table , Wendell Berry. Faith, Hope, and Carnage by Nick Cave and Seán O'Hagan Caitlin Coats Salty: Lessons on Eating, Drinking, and Living from Revolutionary Women by Alissa Wilkinson tells the stories of nine women in history (of varying degrees of fame but equally noteworthy) and their particular beliefs in the power of food as an agent for hope, justice, community, joy, etc. It reads as a dinner party in written form—cozy, inviting, and inspiring. You Are Not Your Own by Alan Noble The first half of the book unpacks why it is so hard to feel at peace or even human in our modern world. The second half then offers a reminder of the grace available in belonging solely to God. I will be reading this one again. Macy Laegeler Reforesting Faith by Matthew Sleeth, MD. It is a book about how trees can remind you of God and His goodness! Matt Wheeler How It Went by Wendell Berry. Berry, in his late eighties, is continuing to masterfully tell the story of the Port William membership. Leslie Thompson All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot. Jo Tinker The Elliots of Damerosehay by Elizabeth Goudge. Elly Anderson East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Here is one of my favorite quotes from Steinbeck's masterpiece, "But the Hebrew word timshel—'Thou mayest'—that gives a choice. For if 'Thou mayest'—it is also true that 'Thou mayest not.' That makes a man great and that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice.” I mean...COME ON. This quote doesn’t even scratch the surface of all the goodness encapsulated in this classic tale. Full of characters you cannot forget, this drama (heavily influenced by the book of Genesis) tells a thought-provoking story of the power of choice, generational curses, and humanity's quest to be great. I don’t know if many moments in literature have clung so hard to my soul than Chapter 24 (a commentary on the Cain and Abel story). I could chew on that chapter alone for a decade. This is required reading, folks! Rachel Donahue The Many Assassinations of Samir, the Seller of Dreams , by Daniel Nayeri. We listened to this one twice (the second time as a whole family) and then bought a hard copy. When the characters stopped for rest in the shadow of " two vast and trunkless legs of stone ," I geeked out. Such a fun read! Imaginary Jesus , by Matt Mikalatos. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of this story and couldn't put it down. It gives theological discussions flesh and bones in action-packed scenes (like inner-tubing down a ski slope between Meticulous Jesus and Free Will Jesus while being chased by a bear) and leans into hard questions. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

"My illness has established an empire within me, and it will advance by certain arcane secrets of state, which it is not bound to declare."   —John Donne That is a quote from author Philip Yancey's new book, Undone , a modern rendering of poet John Donne’s Devotions, a 400-year-old collection of Donne’s meditations on his own suffering. For a month in 1623, Donne and his doctors believed he was suffering (and likely dying) from the bubonic plague. He was able to do little more than write, which he did—journaling a series of meditations on his wrestling with God. Simply titled "Devotions", the collection is considered one of the great works of nonfiction literature.   Donne described his illness as an empire builder the 12th day of his worsening condition.   The Doctor Becomes the Patient In 2004, I also suffered an illness that established an empire within me. Mine was not a physical illness, but a mental one. Frankly, I would have preferred a physical illness or injury. And a month’s illness would have seemed like a short visit from a rude guest in comparison to my prolonged sickness. A debilitating hybrid of depression and anxiety established a beachhead and then slowly and steadily moved inland, conquering more and more territory until I was forced to surrender.  I didn't have a history of depression or anxiety. Perhaps that's why, even as a counselor, I didn't recognize the storm clouds in the distance as something systemic within me, but instead viewed the struggle as something situational and temporary. I kept waiting for the absence of energy, enthusiasm, and motivation to pass. It did not. Instead, lethargy, apathy, and discouragement hardening into despair took up residence.  Depression has a way of sitting down heavily on your back and reclining on it like a sofa, signaling that it plans to stay a while.  I resonated with the opening line of Dante's Inferno: "In the middle of the journey of my life, I found myself in a dark wood where the straight way was lost."   Now, almost two decades later I relate to the next verse, "It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh, and impenetrable that wood was..." The Counselor Becomes a Detective Through the lens of Philip Yancey's writing, we see that John Donne reacted to his suffering as do most of us when tragedy occurs or when evil strikes—he asked God “Why?” Why me? Why this? Why now? Those were certainly my unanswered and unanswerable questions. I was like an amateur detective desperate to solve a mystery in which I was both the victim and the suspect. I say “suspect” because depression has a way of interrogating you and implying that you did something to cause it or failed to do something that could have prevented it.  I’ve since discovered that our completely normal “Why?” is not really a question that is looking for an answer because an anxious mind is not easily quieted by reasons and facts.  Rather, the bewildered, protesting “Why?” is voiced by the wounded and frightened heart that is crying out, “God, where were you?” Unlike John Donne, I did not wonder if God was “nailing me to my bed” as a delayed punishment for my younger sins. Instead, I felt abandoned and ignored, that my suffering was happening behind God’s back. One of the worst lines I read during that period was from a blogger who wrote, “Rather than God using your depression to discipline you, perhaps He is using it to disciple you.”   Seriously? Did I miss the memo that Jesus had contracted with Debilitating Depression to form a new and innovative discipleship program?   I wrote in my journal, “If I’m not being 'disciplined' (i.e. punished) and this worsening sickness is a test, then I’m failing the class. Or if this terror is being presented as a gift to transform me, then God, I hope you kept the receipt.” As I would later write in my book, When Will My Life Not Suck? Authentic Hope for the Disillusioned , at some point the question “Why me?” must transition to the question, “What now?” But at that time I was not ready or able to shift my inquiry.  The Patient Becomes a Scribe I've consistently journaled from my teen years up to the present. I trusted that I would journal my way through my depression to the other side. The journal entries from that period of my illness reveal a growing fear that I wouldn't see the other side. I often asked, "Will I ever get  me  back?"  John Donne wrote to a widowed friend, “I am afraid that Death will play with me so long, as he will forget to kill me, and suffer me to live in a languishing and useless age.” Yancey further tells us that as Donne’s illness progressed “he saw himself as a statue of clay, its limbs and flesh melting off and crumbling into a handful of sand. Soon nothing would remain save a pile of bones.” A living skeleton.   I was afraid of living in an elevator stuck between the two floors of life and death. I feared living ever suspended in the miserable present between a pleasant history and a pathetic future, languishing with shame as a constant companion. As Yancey writes in Undone,  “A measure of shame seems to accompany disability or illness.” Donne experienced and wrote about such shame. My journaling expressed my own deep shame, a shame rooted in my belief that I was now weak, flawed, and a failure. Yancey further describes this dark hovering cloud of shame as “an innate shame in inconveniencing others for something that is neither your fault nor your desire.”   Together, depression and anxiety are a two-headed monster. When depression, anxiety, and shame link arms, the days are a downward spiral.  The Pastor Becomes a Protestor  On top of feeling bewildered, discouraged, and ashamed, I began to feel angry. Very angry. Anger is the natural human response to perceived injustice, unfairness, or mistreatment. I felt that being blind-sided by depression and anxiety was unfair and undeserved.  Like John Donne, I had devoted myself to ministry and faithfully served Christ and his church. And this was the reward? I let Upper Management know how I felt about the compensation package for one of his best employees. Like Peter, I was inclined to remind Jesus that I’d left everything to follow him, adding that depression and anxiety was a crappy way to thank me for my obedience and sacrifice.  I echoed the remarks Teresa de Avilla made to God following an accident crossing a river in which all her belongings and supplies were ruined, “If this is how You treat Your friends, it is no wonder You have so few of them.”  Undoubtedly Psalm 69 was a soundtrack for Donne during his physical, emotional, and spiritual suffering. It was for me. I jabbed the verses on the pages of my pocket New Testament, as if poking and provoking God to react: "Save me, O God, for the floodwaters are up to my neck. Deeper and deeper I sink into the mire; I can’t find a foothold. I am in deep water, and the floods overwhelm me. I am exhausted from crying for help; my throat is parched. My eyes are swollen with weeping, waiting for my God to help me... Rescue me from the mud; don’t let me sink any deeper! Don’t let the floods overwhelm me, or the deep waters swallow me, or the pit of death devour me."                                                                ( from The New Living Translation ) Like John Donne, I grappled with God. I was Jacob wrestling with the angel. I was a protesting Job, a complaining Jeremiah, and an angry Psalmist. I echoed Gideon in telling God, "Oh yea, well if this is what it's like for the Lord to be with me, I'd hate to experience what it's like for Him to be against me." Forced to take extended medical leave from my job, I shouted at God along with Bruce Almighty, "The only one who isn't doing his job around here is you !" I regularly pounded on God's chest with my fists before falling into His  arms sobbing.  I didn’t mean to be irreverent; I was just raw. God can only meet us where we genuinely are. Not where we wish we were or where we think we should be. When you call 911 in an emergency and need police or paramedics to show up, you give the operator the exact location where you are, not some place you wish you were, or an address where you should be instead of this one, if only you had made better choices. The good news is that God will meet us at our honest coordinates on the map, and the even better news is that he will not leave us in the same spot unless we insist on staying there.   Wrestling with God is very intimate. You cannot truly wrestle another person without lots of touching and holding, gripping and grabbing, pushing and pulling. While it's certainly not romantic, there is nevertheless almost constant physical contact during a wrestling match. And you cannot truly wrestle with God without a lot of human-divine contact.  The Mourner Becomes a Dancer My recovery was snail-like, slow, and gradual, but I discovered that even the slightest sustained improvement gave me hope. And hope, I learned, is oxygen.   It’s been almost 20 years now since my fight for life. There are many things about that dark season that I can’t remember and plenty of moments I wish I could forget. The bottom line is that I have felt so good for so long now that it seems like it was all just a bad dream or that it happened to someone else. But it was real, and it happened to me. Therefore, I feel blessed and am grateful to say today with the Psalmist, “ You have turned my wailing into dancing;   you have removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (Psalm 30:11 NIV) As a byproduct of that season, I’m more understanding and have more empathy and compassion for people who struggle with grief, despair, depression, or anxiety. I’ve always had great empathy and compassion for hurting people, well before my depressive crisis. But now the empathy and compassion is informed by personal experience.   I more fully grasp the meaning of Paul’s words, “ Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God”  (2 Cor 1:3-4).   This is part of what I believe Donne and Yancey mean by “the redemption of pain.” In the words of Japanese novelist and poet Kenji Miyazawa , “Don’t waste your pain; rather burn it as fuel for your journey.” I now understand Henri Nouwen calling us to be “wounded healers.”    And if I am a wounded healer, who having fiercely wrestled with God, now dance with a slight limp, then so be it. Turn up the music.  Ramon Presson, PhD, is a licensed marriage & family therapist in Franklin TN.  ( www.ramonpressontherapy.com ) An ordained minister, weekly newspaper columnist, award-winning poet, and the author of several books, including When Will My Life Not Suck? Authentic Hope for the Disillusioned, Presson can be reached at ramonpresson@gmail.com   Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here. Photo by Kier in Sight Archives  on Unsplash

[Editor's Note: This post resumes Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music  which ran from 2020-2021. Taking a different theme each time, we offer five  short pieces (or extracts) followed by one  more substantial work.] The pilgrims who trudged to the Passover in Jerusalem often had to pass through barren, inhospitable terrain. Then, on top of the dangers inherent to being out in the wild, they faced the frequent threat of bandits or hostile inhabitants. It is no wonder that such dangers feature in the poems purposely written for these journeys (the Songs of Ascent: Psalms 120-134). No wonder they put their trust in the God who neither slumbered nor slept, nor who let feet slip (Ps 121:3-4). For they had to endure the scorn and mockery of the worldly (Ps 123:4), hostility from oppressors (Ps 129:2-3), not to mention raging waters and enemy’s snares (Ps 124:5, 7). But such pilgrimages invariably provoked an introspective turn as well, forcing the individual to face not just the terrors of the world but the darkness of the heart. They saw both their brokenness and defiance of God. So, as the pilgrims walk through the desert, they sing Psalm 130, expressive of their spiritual danger. Jesus went into the desert before his ministry went public, facing the demon and the deep cost of his mission. And the church calendar uses his 40 days to remind us of our own need to face inward and upward. We see our sin and our need. It can be intensely painful. But it can also be profoundly cathartic and liberating. This is why music has proved to be integral to the experience of Lent for so many. Over the course of the 5&1 series , we have already had three choral lists for seasons in the church year: for Advent , Christmas  and Easter . It is no surprise that the season of Lent has inspired composers to craft some of the most poignant and affecting choral music in the repertoire. So it is to this theme we now turn. One word of warning at the start though. These pieces are definitely not wallpaper music. To get the most out of them, I suggest you take time out to listen carefully (perhaps with the texts printed out to focus reflection) and use as part of your devotions (how about each day?). Hear my prayer, O Lord (for 8 voices, 1682) Henry Purcell (1659-1695, English) The Cambridge Singers, John Rutter (cond.) Henry Purcell is widely regarded as the greatest English composer in three centuries, leaving an astonishing musical legacy before his premature death in his mid-30s. He wrote for all kinds of settings, from the rarefied world of opera to bawdy pub musicians, from the royal court to church choirs.  This anthem lasts less than 3 minutes but packs a punch. It is likely that Purcell intended it for a longer work, but never completed it. All we have is one line from the Psalms, but in Purcell’s hands, it becomes one of the most concise and intense cries to God I know in music. Think of it as wave upon wave of heartfelt appeals to God to listen to us. Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my crying come unto thee. (Psalm 102:1) St Matthew Passion: (BWV 244, 1727) 'Erbame Dich' (part 2 no. 39) Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750, German) Andreas Scholl (counter tenor) , Collegium Vocale Gent, Philippe Herreweghe (cond.) If the Purcell anthem is a precious gemstone, Bach’s epic musical account of the final days of Jesus’s life in Matthew is one of music’s crown jewels. It is monumental, coming in at roughly 2¾ hours, written for two choirs and orchestra, plus several soloists (including Evangelist, a tenor, and The Voice of Christ, a bass). The way it works through the biblical text forces one to slow down and meditate on each step of the action. No wonder many people make it central to their annual Holy Week devotions. We must make do with just one tiny extract, one that picks up on the theme of pleading to God. In context, the alto (or in this recording’s case, counter-tenor) sings one of the most achingly beautiful arias in all music, pleading for mercy in response to the agony of Peter’s denial. Have mercy, my God, for the sake of my tears! Look here, heart and eyes weep bitterly before you. Have mercy, have mercy! De Profundis: Psalm 129/130 (1981) Arvo Pärt (1935- , Estonian) Theatre of Voices, Dan Kennedy, Christopher Bowers-Broadbent, Paul Hillier (cond.) We are in a very different sound world now, a piece composed in the months after Arvo Pärt left the Soviet Union for the West in 1980. It is a setting of Psalm 130 (Ps 129 in the Vulgate/Latin translation), in a style for which Pärt has become famous. It is slow, methodical, even plodding, perhaps. But this is deliberate, to force us to think about each word. The theme and harmonies move in incremental steps, with a beat per syllable and no great leaps or jumps. It uses only men’s voices, accompanied by organ and percussion. It starts right in the musical depths (taking the text literally) but gradually works its way up the scale until the 4 voices come together in unison. The percussion players are instructed to play ad lib , responding to the musical textures with sounds that somehow give a sense of timelessness and vast spaces. Ps 130 in English here Timor et Tremor from Quatre Motets pour un temps de pénitence (FP 97, 1938-39) François Poulenc (1899-1963, French) The Sixteen, Harry Christophers (cond.) There are similarities between this piece and the Pärt: both take texts from the Vulgate, both draw on the Psalms (in this case, from Psalms  54  and  30); both appeal for God’s mercy as a result of facing up to our sinfulness. But there the similarities end.  While Pärt’s is a lilting meditation, Poulenc stops us in our tracks. It is a piece of impassioned urgency that manages to include several  sudden mood changes within a total length of under 3 minutes. He uses sinuous melodies and shifting harmonies that mean we never quite know where he is going with it. But it is superb word-setting that warrants careful relistening. I first sang it 35 years ago, and I still hear new things in it! Timor et tremor venerunt super me,et caligo cecidit super me:miserere mei, Domine, miserere mei,quoniam in te confidit anima mea.Exaudi, Deus, deprecationem meam,quia refugium meum es tu et adjutor fortis. Domine, invocavi te, non confundar. Fear and trembling have come upon me and darkness has fallen upon me: Have mercy on me, Lord, have mercy, for my soul trusts in Thee.   God hear my prayer,  for Thou art my refuge and my strong help. Lord, I have called upon Thee, that I may not perish.     I Thirst and It is Finished. 5&6 from 7 Last Words from the Cross (1993) Sir James Macmillan (1959-, Scottish) The Dmitri Ensemble, Graham Ross (cond.) Regulars may have spotted that James Macmillan has already featured on two of the previous choral lists. And here he is again! So, yes, he is one of my favorites, without a doubt.  Here are two movements from a larger work, his setting of the seven words of Christ as he was dying on the cross. Unusually, it was commissioned by BBC TV with movements to be performed on consecutive evenings during Holy Week. It was not designed to be acted out as such, but Macmillan composes something that seems entirely fitting for visual broadcast. He does not simply capture the drama of the crucifixion, but its agonies and even violence. This is no serene, rosy-tinted impression that you might associate with an old master painting. It is visceral and deeply unsettling. I thirst  conjures up the utter desolation of the cross. The music is spare and bleak. Beyond the simple declarations of his physical need, the rest of the choir intones words taken from the old Catholic liturgy, the Good Friday Reproaches . They drive home the gruesome irony of the moment. It is Finished  then shatters this desolate atmosphere, with violent, aggressive hammer-blows in the orchestra. It is shocking but evocative. As with the previous movement, the choir weaves around the title text with a more traditional Good Friday liturgy. But we are unable to forget the horror of the scene for long, because the hammer blows return before the movement ends. I would certainly recommend giving the whole work your time (it lasts roughly 45 minutes)   Ego te potavi aqua salutis de petra: et tu me potasti felle et aceto. I thirst. I gave you to drink of life­giving water from the rock: and you gave me to drink of gall and vinegar. (Good Friday Reproaches)     It is finished. My eyes were blind with weeping, for he that consoled me is far from me:Consider all you people, is there any sorrow like my sorrow?All you who pass along this way take heedand consider if there is any sorrow like mine.  (Good Friday Responsories)     Miserere mei Psalm 51 (1630s) Gregorio Allegri (1582-1652, Italian) Tenebrae, Nigel Short (cond.) We’re now on much safer ground at last (for many, at least), back in the chapels of late Renaissance Italy. It is another psalm, this time King David’s great song of repentance after his adultery with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah. It was written for two unaccompanied choirs (one on each side of the chapel, one in five parts, one in four) which take turns responding to the plainsong settings of the even verse before finally coming together at the end.  Allegri composed the piece exclusively for the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican and it quickly gained a mythology all of its own, not least because only three copies w``````````ere apparently permitted beyond the Vatican confines. The story was put about (by his father!) that after hearing it only once, the teenage Mozart was able to write the whole piece down from memory. That’s unlikely to be true, not because it would have been beyond his abilities, but because the piece had leaked far and wide and was sung in many places by the time Mozart was alive. One particular feature that makes the piece so affecting and admired is the soaring soprano/treble line that keeps leaping high above the choir (right up to a ‘top C’ in some arrangements). In contrast to many of the composers shaped by the Reformation, the point of this kind of writing is not so much to focus attention on individual words as to sweep us up in whichever posture before God is appropriate. Here, we come before him in deep sorrow and heartfelt yearning. Here for the full English text . Mark Meynell is Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring Hutchmoot to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here. Photo by Jean Carlo Emer  on Unsplash

[Editor's Note: This post resumes Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music  which ran from 2020-2021. Taking a different theme each time, we offer five  short pieces (or extracts) followed by one  more substantial work.] Just weeks after the Second World War broke out in 1939, the renowned pianist Dame Myra Hess organized lunchtime concerts in the empty halls of London’s National Gallery. All the art had been whisked away for safekeeping deep in caves in the Welsh mountains. So instead of visual beauty, Londoners had the chance to savor its aural equivalent. The concerts continued five days a week, for six years throughout the war, even during the horror of the Blitz. There were nearly 2000 concerts. They kept people going. Music does that. It has the power to connect with people in their darkest moments. It provides escape, certainly: a few minutes to be transported or replace fear and despair with lighter emotions. At the same time, it can achieve the precise opposite, somehow articulating that very fear or despair in such a way that gives comfort. It communicates that we are not alone to feel what we do. And then it can lift our spirits to higher realities far beyond the challenges we face. We are reminded that the darkness engulfing us need not have the last word, that there are reasons for hope in the sublime and beautiful. Composers have sought to achieve all three, and sometimes they manage to do that simultaneously. But that is the miracle of music: contradictory emotions and thoughts can be expressed together. This list offers what a handful of composers have done while living through the crises of their own times. See how the Cawood dragon looks / Have mercy on us, O Lord (Ps 67) William Lawes (1602-1645, English) The Ebor Singers, Paul Gameson (cond.) Crisis: The English Civil War The English Civil War was one of the first wars in history fought on the basis of ideology rather than ethnic or national allegiance. The result was that brothers and fathers might find themselves on opposite sides. It was brutal. Some would argue that the repercussions of this horrific period (which led to England becoming a republic for two decades) still shape British politics. William Lawes was a composer working during the reign of Charles I. When war broke out, he joined the king’s forces and was in York (a royalist stronghold) during its siege by Parliamentary forces in Spring 1644. He was killed the following year in a battle near the city of Chester. These two works respond to the crisis in different ways.  The first was actually written during the siege itself. Cawood Castle was about 10 miles from York and Oliver Cromwell’s forces had captured it, and the song is a round in which two or more groups sing a melody just a few beats apart, but it is composed in such a way as to harmonize despite the time lag. The drums in this performance evoke the threat of the ‘Cawood dragon on the Lord of York. This is a rallying cry of defiance at a time of existential threat. Dragons might evoke fantasy and fairy tales, but the danger for the citizens was all too real. "See how Cawood’s dragon looks! Which frights from far the parliament rooks Which, like to fatal ravens cry Pork! Pork! Pork! To prey upon my Lord of York!   But we have guns against their plot And they that cry Cawood! Cawood! Cawood! Fear you not." As might be expected of a church musician, Lawes also sets a biblical prayer for protection (in this case a metrical version of Psalm 67 ). A soloist leads the congregation in an affecting and yearning cry for mercy. After all, you only beg for mercy when you have absolutely no alternative. It is not hard to see why this ancient prayer might have deep resonance to a city under siege. Tosca, Act II: "Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore" (1900) Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924, Italian) Leontyne Price (soprano, Tosca) , Giuseppe Taddei (bass, Scarpia) , Vienna Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan (cond.) Crisis: Italy in 1800 (Napoleon invades) and 1900 (political chaos) Italian politics has probably always been very complicated and I certainly do not pretend to understand the half of it. The country we now know of as Italy is a relatively modern phenomenon, forged out of many city-states that had fiercely guarded their independence for centuries.  Perhaps as a direct result, it has often experienced real turmoil, both from internal and external pressures. Puccini is regarded as one of Italy’s national treasures, the composer of expansive, lyrical, and highly melodramatic operas. He wrote Tosca, one of his most famous, during a period of renewed turmoil. It is set in Rome on just two days in June 1800 with Napoleon’s domination of Europe in the background. France has already invaded once and will again, but its troops temporarily withdraw from Rome, leaving behind a chaotic situation. Baron Scarpia is the chief of police and an all-round rotter. Tosca is the heroine whose lover, Cavaradossi, is an artist and friend of Angelotti, the former consul. Scarpia is desperate to find Angelotti so he arrests and tortures Cavarodossi for information. Tosca is desperate and sings one of Puccini’s most famous arias, an angry and despairing prayer, accusing God of abandoning her. But despite its theme, it is one of the most glorious pieces ever written for the female voice. This is a translation of the Italian text: "I lived for art, I lived for love, I never harmed a living soul! With a discreet hand I relieved all misfortunes I encountered. Always with sincere faith my prayer rose to the holy tabernacles. Always with sincere faith I decorated the altars with flowers. In this hour of grief, why, why, Lord, why do you reward me thus? I donated jewels to the Madonna's mantle, and offered songs to the stars and to heaven, which thus did shine with more beauty. In this hour of grief, why, why, Lord, ah, why do you reward me thus?" Seven Songs of Latter Days: No. 4. Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (1901) Gustav Mahler (1860-1911, Austrian) VOCES8, Mary Bevan (soprano) , Nick Deutsch (oboe) , Barnaby Smith (cond.) Crisis: Personal Heartache A crisis is, of course, no less real when experienced by an individual rather than a population. Gustav Mahler was a man who faced acute heartache during his life, because of the pain of antisemitism, agonies within his marriage, and the loss of a child. He is able to articulate in music what so many feel but have no means of expression. We now hear the human voice in a very different world, accompanied in this arrangement by the haunting voice of the oboe. Mahler composed music for a number of poems by the German poet Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866). This one is particularly affecting, expressing a profound world-weariness and despair at life. "I am lost to the world With which I used to waste much time; It has for so long known nothing of me, It may well believe that I am dead. Nor am I at all concerned If it should think that I am dead. Nor can I deny it, For truly I am dead to the world. I am dead to the world’s tumult And rest in a quiet realm! I live alone in my heaven, In my love, in my song!" Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005) Praeludium & Allegro (1905); Berceuse Romantique (Op. 9, 1916) Fritz Kreisler (1875-1962, Austrian/American) Joshua Bell (violin) , Paul Coker (piano) Crisis: The First World War A catastrophe as seismic and terrible as the First World War is too vast to evoke through any one medium. So many of the twentieth century’s greatest artists, musicians, and writers were profoundly shaped by its horrors and they responded to it in a myriad ways. Fritz Kreisler was a virtuoso violinist (regarded as one of the greatest of all time) who composed and arranged many works for his instrument. He was Jewish but in imperial Austria, it made sense for him to be baptised as a Christian at 12. Of course, this would never protect him Nazi race laws and he managed to escape to the US. He wrote his beloved Praeludium and Allegro before the First World War. It is a majestic statement of confidence and hope (he often had fun claiming that he was unearthing works by lesser-known composers - in this case, one called Pugnani!). The piano works through a sequence of chords that are reminiscent of the Baroque period, especially the work of Bach, while the violin weaves around them with a little bit of swagger. Then it leads to a joyous allegro. But just a few years later, he composes Berceuse Romantique in the middle of the war. It is more wistful and lyrical, perhaps dreaming of a world now lost in happier times. The natural response to agony is to long for better times. It is an escape and as such can bring great, if temporary, comfort. Sleep (arr. Gerald Finzi) from Five Elizabethan Songs Ivor Gurney (1890-1937, English) Dame Sarah Connolly, Tenebrae, Aurora Orchestra, Nigel Short (cond.) Ivor Gurney was a brilliant man, a poet of great profundity and a gifted composer who was taught and mentored by Ralph Vaughan Williams (he regarded himself as composer first and foremost). But he battled with bipolar disorder for much of his life at a time when such afflictions were barely understood, let alone treated sympathetically. He suffered a breakdown in 1913 but he recovered sufficiently to return to the Royal College of Music in London. However, he joined the army in 1915 and was sent to fight in the trenches in Flanders. He wrote poetry during this time but ended up being gassed in 1917 and was invalided home. His recovery was slow and incomplete. Tragically, he would spend the last 15 years of his life in mental institutions. This piece is a gorgeous setting of a poem by John Fletcher (1579-1625), a cry for relief from the pain. "COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence All my powers of care bereaving! Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought Through an idle fancy wrought: O let my joys have some abiding!" Mass in a time of War (No. 10 in C ma, Hob. XXII:9, 1796) Josef Haydn (1732-1809, Austrian) Joanne Lunn (sop.) , Sara Mingardo (contralto) , Topi Lehtipuu (tenor) , Brindley Sherratt (bass) , Monteverdi Choir, English Baroque Soloists & John Eliot Gardiner (cond.) Crisis: Austria after the French Revolution It wasn’t only Italy that was affected by the fallout from the French Revolution (1789). The whole of Europe was convulsed by turmoil, a reality that Napoleon was easily able to exploit. The Austrian empire hastily mobilized troops and found itself fighting the French in Italy and Germany. Things were not going well and there was a real threat that Vienna might also fall to the French conqueror. And in fact, this is what precisely happened when Napoleon captured Vienna in 1809. Joseph Haydn was a devout Catholic and one of the most highly regarded musicians of the era, greatly respected by the likes of Mozart and Beethoven. He was also a gregarious person with a real sense of fun and humor. He wrote several settings of the Catholic Mass, and this is one of the most popular. It follows the standard liturgical pattern, with 11 sections. As such, there are no explicit references to the invasion threat. However, it was an expression of turning to God in the crisis and leaning on his mercy during a service focused on the sacrifice of Christ. Still, there are musical hints of the context towards the end of the Mass. Listen out for this in the Benedictus  and Agnus Dei  sections, where there is a sense of foreboding in nervous voices and ominous drums (the mass in fact has a nickname: Paukenmesse, literally the ‘Timpani Mass’). The final appeal for peace ( dona nobis pacem ) has obvious relevance too, but the music sounds an optimistic note, full of joy and expectancy. Mark Meynell is Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring Hutchmoot to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

[Editor's Note: This post resumes Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music  which ran from 2020-2021. Taking a different theme each time, we offer five  short pieces (or extracts) followed by one  more substantial work.] Architecture and music don’t always feel like natural bedfellows. In fact, you might think they were mutually exclusive. One is characterized by solidity, permanence, and physicality; great buildings make us gaze in wonder in 360 degrees. The other is, by definition, fleeting and impermanent, supremely abstract (especially if without words) and invisible. So this playlist probably seems rather futile. As someone once  said of all music criticism, ‘writing about music is like dancing about architecture.’ But here’s the thing: not only is it entirely possible to say some  intelligible and helpful things about music, but dancing actually is often about a sense of space and, yes, architecture. The German poet Goethe once said, ‘I call architecture frozen music.’ That is fascinating and revealing about both art forms. Music, especially if complex, often needs architectural metaphors to explain it; big themes or chord sequences might only begin to make sense if understood as the invisible infrastructure holding up a cathedral or great hall. But we’re also going one step further here. We’re considering music written about particular buildings or places, designed to evoke in fleeting sounds the solid grandeur of some great edifice (s). Think of this as a bit of a magical mystery tour. Má Vlast ‘My Fatherland’: I. Vyšehrad ‘The High Castle’ (JB1:112, 1872-4) Bedřich Smetana (1824-1884 , Czech) Czech Philharmonic, Jiří Bělohlávek  (cond.) Smetana was born around 100 miles east of Prague, today’s Czech capital, but then in a province of the Austro-Hungarian empire. He grew up speaking German but would become identified with the growing sense of Czech national identity and in time would be named the father of Czech music. His major work My Fatherland , is made up of six movements, each depicting something core to Czech culture (whether a place, legend, or event). This, the opening movement, describes Vyšehrad  (literally ‘the High Castle’), a medieval fortress not far from Prague’s center, but not to be confused with Prague Castle itself. Vyšehrad  now also contains a large cemetery for Czechia’s great and good, including Smetana himself. Two harps begin the proceedings, creating a sense of anticipation as well as evoking the castle’s origins deep in the mists of legend. They introduce a simple 4-note phrase (right) which is the castle’s signature in this and the later movements as well. Things speed up to give a sense of its history with military marches and assaults, culminating in its destruction. But it still has a life after that, a glorious ruin standing proudly on a bluff over the Vltava river (you can hear that in the music too), and still retains its grandeur and beauty. La Cathédrale Engloutie (No X. Préludes - Book 1, 1910) Claude Debussy (1862-1918, French) Jean-Yves Thibaudet (piano) From the Czech lands, we are now whisked away to an island off the Brittany coast in northwest France. Or rather, we would be if L’Isle d’Ys  existed today. It is the stuff of myth, an island town now lost forever to the ravages of the ocean, all because of the actions of a king’s wayward daughter. Debussy seems to hint at its great cathedral now fully submerged ( engloutie ), depicting the sea and mist through which we must peel back our eyes and ears to grasp what he can see.  Debussy uses haunting, half-filled chords (for the musical nerds, often in parallel fifths) which seem unmoved by the movement of the water. The cathedral then seems to rise above the waves, giving us a glimpse of its majesty, only to fall back into the deep. But it is all so fragile and fleeting - these are just musical hints, after all. We are left wondering if perhaps we could also hear the ghost of a chanting choir accompanied by an organ and the tolling of the bell despite being far out to sea. And before we know it, the vision is lost in the fog. Quiet City (1940) Aaron Copland (1900-1990, American) New York Philharmonic, Leonard Bernstein (cond.) We have now crossed the Atlantic and transported to the Big Apple, perhaps in the early hours or soon after dawn. Aaron Copland’s initial version was written as incidental music for a Broadway production of Irwin Shaw’s play of the same name. Unfortunately, that flopped so Copland rearranged it as an orchestral piece. The play’s protagonist is a young Jewish boy in New York who finds his trumpet to be his only solace and antidote to a profound loneliness. So the whole piece is constructed around the meanderings of a trumpet. It then seems to enter a melancholy conversation with a cor anglais , as if the young man hears his own echoes while wandering the deserted streets of Manhattan.  Even if the piece is unfamiliar, you are bound to recognize all kinds of elements that subsequently became clichés of film music. Copland captures the peculiar isolation of modern urban life so powerfully, one in which we can be lonely despite being surrounded by millions of others.  I can’t help but see some of the New York paintings of Edward Hopper when I hear this piece. His masterpiece Nighthawks  (which is truly breathtaking if seen ‘in the flesh’) was only finished two years after this piece. Nor do I fail to imagine the glistening sunrise reflecting off soulless skyscrapers as the city yawningly begins yet another day. X. The Great Gate of Kiev, Pictures at an Exhibition (1874 Ravel orch. 1922) Modest Mussorgsky (1839-1881, Russian) Les Siècles, François-Xavier Roth (cond.) This track is one of several in a larger work portraying a visit to an exhibition of works by the Russian painter and architect Victor Hartmann. The last in the sequence is of a design Hartmann had drafted for a new gate for Kiev (today’s Kyiv, in Ukraine) which he hoped to be furnished with great Russian domes and a peal of bells. So we are listening to Mussorgsky aurally depicting the experience of seeing a painting which is itself a depiction of a great building yet to be imagined. It was originally written as a suite of piano pieces, but the music is so vivid that it is just asking to be arranged for the full spectrum of orchestral colour. In this case, it is the brilliant orchestration by Maurice Ravel (he of Bolero  fame). It has it all: the grandeur, a sense of triumphant arrival, the pealing bells, the feeling that you are entering a great destination in its own right. As the music builds, I can just imagine a camera-drone slowly ascending into the air as it takes in more and more of the building and then the whole city. Carillon de Westminster (from Pièces de fantaisie (Suite No. 3; Op. 54) Louis Vierne (1870–1937, French) Olivier Latry (organ of Notre Dame, Paris) Occasionally, a building already has its own jingle. The Houses of Parliament in Westminster, central London, certainly does. The chimes of the bells of Big Ben (or as it is now called, The Elizabeth Tower ; and in fact, to be seriously pedantic, Big Ben is technically only  the big hour bell that goes BONG) have been as universally recognizable as the Nokia ringtone or the old MS Windows startup would become. But its musical simplicity has made it very easy to evoke musically. It is comprised of four tones in two bars, played with developing permutations at each quarter of the hour. Then on the hour, we hear four variations followed by the deep bongs that tell the time. (If interested, you can find out more here !) Louis Vierne was one of organ music’s greats, as performer and composer (he was organist of Notre Dame in Paris for nearly 40 years). In this piece ( carillon  is French for a peal of bells ), Vierne has great fun with the Westminster jingle. He lets the rest of the organ flutter and flurry, in and out of the main theme with increasing volume and complexity, reaching a glorious climax that demands its performer make the most of the organ’s vast range. One can’t fail to be blown away by the majesty and sheer power of both instrument and place. Symphony No. 8 in C minor (WAB 108) Anton Bruckner (1824-1896, Austrian) Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, Rafael Kubelík (cond.) This symphony is a mammoth, full of huge outbursts, glorious melodies, as well as the sense of vast open spaces. It is not a depiction of a building or place but is music on a vast scale (the whole piece lasts roughly 80 minutes, split into four movements). This is one of the compositions that has prompted many critics to herald Bruckner for creating ‘cathedrals in sound.' Bruckner was a deeply devout catholic from Upper Austria, the schoolteacher son of a schoolteacher whose home was filled with parental love but also tragedy. Aged only 13, he sat beside his father’s bed as he died of TB. He witnessed the deaths of 7 of his 11 siblings in infancy. But like his father, he helped out in the parish church on the organ and his musical ability enabled him in time to leave teaching. He never married, though would often have inappropriate and unrequited crushes on young girls; there is always the sense of a deep melancholy and social awkwardness around Bruckner. But he was a genius whose time would primarily come posthumously. This symphony is complex but it works best if you allow yourself to be fully immersed in it, to let the composer transport you into spectacular halls, over Alpine peaks and into unexplored corners of human experience. The four movements are: Allegro moderato (C mi)     14:40  mins Scherzo: Allegro moderato — Trio: Slow (C mi → C ma, A♭ma)    14:25 mins Adagio: Solemnly slow, but not sluggish (D♭ ma)     22:37 mins Finale: Solemnly, not quickly (C mi → C ma)     22:14 mins Mark Meynell is the Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring Hutchmoot to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Cindy Anderson I have been fortunate enough to have grown up surrounded by people who were always ready to recommend a book to read. I have several aunts and uncles who were always reading and they always shared suggestions with me and each other. My one uncle was a theology professor and he had a personal library with thousands of books. I was in awe as I perused the shelves every time I was in his home. My grandmother was an insatiable reader. My aunt and I would shop at garage sales and purchase boxes of books and bring them home to her. She would sort through them and save different ones for specific people in the family. On my eighth birthday, she gave me a book of poetry illustrated by Tasha Tudor. I read that book every night, memorized the poems, and studied the illustrations. I fell in love with poetry because of that book. Because of these wonderful people, I became the kid who read with a flashlight under my covers because I couldn’t go to sleep until I found out what happened next.  Although I appreciate books of all kinds, I have always had an affinity for children’s books. The combination of carefully worded texts and the art of illustration has always captured me. In college, however, I learned to read books through a more reflective lens. One of the best assignments I was ever given was to read 100 picture books and record my thoughts. It was then that I realized that there is a vast variety in children’s books. It was then that I decided to keep a record of all of the books I loved. I still check out children’s books from my local library and have been keeping a record of all of my favorites ever since. I share these lists with young families and teachers, and now with the Rabbit Room community.  I believe the best way to foster young readers is to present them with the best of the best in children’s literature. Below you will find just such a list focused on the theme of gardening. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, spring has arrived and the weather is beckoning us outdoors. The books are worthy of your bookshelves. They are beautifully written and they honor and respect their reader. They are written for children and are also enjoyed by adults. They have beautiful art and illustrations throughout, the kind of art that makes readers pause to take in the page. I hope these books inspire you to work in your garden, plant some flower pots, and go for a walk through a park.  The Gardener by Sarah Stewart This is one of my favorite stories. It makes me think of my own grandmother who always sent me seeds from her plants. Young Lydia Grace lives during the Great Depression and needs to leave the country and live with her uncle in the city. She packs her suitcase with everything she needs, including seeds. She exchanges letters with her family discussing plants, seeds, and how flowers are brightening up her new home. Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney Alice Rumphius, who longed to travel the world and make it more beautiful, scatters lupine seeds everywhere she goes. The countless lupines that bloom along the coast of Maine are the legacy of the Lupine Lady, Miss Rumphius.  Celia Planted a Garden by Phyllis Root and Gary Schmidt This beautiful book tells the story of Celia Thaxter; an 18th-century gardener, writer, artist, poet, and designer. When she was 12 years old her family moved to Appledore Island off the coast of Maine where her father built a hotel. While there she planted beautiful gardens and met the likes of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathanial Hawthorne, and other famous writers. The vivid illustrations with hand-drawn samples of her writing make this book a keeper.  Harlem Grown by Tony Hillery This is the story of Tony Hillery, founder of Harlem Grown, who leads the way in taking an abandoned, litter-filled lot and turning it into a lush urban farm. Students join in on the project and a big idea transforms their neighborhood. There are now 12 of these urban farms in NYC. The illustrations fit this inspiring, and educational story perfectly.  We Are the Gardeners by Joanna Gaines This book by Joanna Gaines describes the steps it takes for her family to take care of their garden. She shares the ups and downs of planting a garden, and teaches that hard work brings a great reward. This book has sweet, simple text and charming illustrations.  The Secret Garden of George Washington Carver by Gene Barretta This is a beautifully illustrated biography of George Washington Carver. Born a slave, he grew to be a brilliant scientist, botanist, professor, inventor, and agricultural expert. He started his education by creating and observing the plants and animals in his own secret garden.  And Then It’s Spring by Julie Fogliano It’s the end of winter, and a boy and his dog decide they no longer want to see brown everywhere, so they decide to plant a garden. This is written with simple text for young readers. It’s a sweet story about the anticipation of spring and seeing growing things.  A Seed is Sleepy by Dianna Hutts Aston This book (and all the books in this series) have eye-catching, detailed illustrations (Even the endpapers are thoughtfully done.) It’s an excellent introduction to seeds; how they grow, develop, and disperse.  Up in the Garden and Down in the Dirt by Kate Messner Here is a book for pre-schoolers that teaches what is above and below the dirt in a garden. Join a young girl and her grandmother as they work together to grow and harvest their garden. This book has charming illustrations and great information.  I wanted to mention a few favorite chapter books that take place in gardens or around gardens. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett The Vanderbeekers and the Hidden Garden by Karina Yan Glaser The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall And here are some wonderful resources for parents and teachers about plants and gardening with children. Roots Shoots Buckets & Boots by Sharon Lovejoy Grow: A Family Guide to Plants and How to Grow Them by Riz Reyes Easy Peasy: Gardening for Kids by Little Gestalten  If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

[Editor's Note: This post resumes Mark Meynell's 5&1 series on classical music  which ran from 2020-2021. Taking a different theme each time, we offer five short pieces (or extracts) followed by one more substantial work.] During our four years living in Uganda, one of the things I never really got used to was nice weather almost constantly. But then I am English. It was nearly always shirtsleeves' weather, hot but not usually unbearable. Downpours, when they came, tended to come in big bursts with what we called 'fat' rain; but normality quickly resumed. If the temperature did fall, the most one would need was a light sweater (which I would have to retrieve perhaps 2 or 3 times a year). It was perfect. Apart from the fact that it doesn't change much. There were supposedly rainy and dry seasons, but climate change has messed all those up. So while we loved it out there, I did miss the seasons. I missed the variations in light, colour and temperature. I missed the anticipation of the next season as it began to turn. I missed the way each season had its own version of perfect days. There's a reason that Brits always talk about the weather; there's simply so much to discuss! No wonder the seasons have inspired composers. So this is the first of a 5&1 miniseries on the seasons, helping us to get in the mood for what is coming (for those of us in the northern hemisphere that is). Sumer is icumen in Anon (13th Century) Dufay Collective, John Potter (cond.) This song is old; I mean, mind-bogglingly old. The earliest available manuscript dates from around 1260 (which means the song itself could be considerably older). The words were written in Middle English (modern translation attached) and sung as a 'round'. That means the singers stagger when they start, with each new part coming in from the beginning while the others continue with their lines. In this case, it happens 6 times, giving an accumulative effect of musical sophistication. That's astonishing when we remember that it is perhaps 800 years old. But more than that, we can sense the sheer joy, excitement, and perhaps relief, once the summer has arrived. It's infectious. Summertime (Act 1, Porgy and Bess, 1935) George Gershwin (1898–1937, American) Cynthia Haymon (sop. ), Glyndebourne Festival Chorus, London Symphony Orchestra, Sir Simon Rattle (cond.) There is no way of omitting Gershwin's classic from this list, a song that has become a staple of the Great American Songbook. Porgy and Bess was unlike any opera before it, one that pioneered the depiction of impoverished African Americans in Charleston without condescension or caricature (mostly). It has always attracted some controversy and divided opinions. But it was based on the novel, and then play, Porgy, by the white Dubose Heyward, who was hailed by the great Langston Hughes for bringing the characters to life. Heyward then worked on it again with help from George Gershwin's brother Ira, to produce the opera's text. The song is a lullaby which comes very early in Act 1. It is sung by Clara, a young mother who is desperately trying to sing her baby to sleep, while other members of the community gradually stroll onto the stage. It is lilting and evocative of the pleasantly soporific effect of summer heat. Summer from The Four Seasons (Violin Concerto in Gmi, Op. 8 No. 2, RV 315) Antonio Vivaldi  (1678-1741, Italian) Brecon Baroque, Rachel Podger (violin) Now for a purely instrumental depiction of the summer's heat, this time from Antonio Vivaldi, the famously red-haired Catholic priest from Venice. In around 1720, he wrote a set of 4 violin concertos which were ground-breaking (each evoking a single season and comprised of 3 movements). It is not hard to imagine the intense Mediterranean heat in Summer . 1st movement: We alternate between indulgent lethargy (you can almost see the heat haze) and frantic activity caused by the sense that a storm might be brewing. 2nd movement: Imagine a shepherd lying in the heat with his flock, vainly swatting at the flies and other insects buzzing around him. Now the storm is clearly on its way as we can hear thunder rumbling in the distance from time to time. 3rd movement: The storm breaking at last, with wind and hail wreaking havoc on farmers' fields. On the Nature of Daylight (Entropy) (2018) Max Richter (1966- , German/British)   Max Richter, Louisa Fuller, Natalia Bonner, John Metcalfe, Chris Worsey, Ian Burdge Max Richter originally wrote On the Nature of Daylight for his 2004 album The Blue Notebooks , which he described as a 'protest album about Iraq, a meditation on violence—both the violence that I had personally experienced around me as a child and the violence of war'. He made a revised version of the album in 2018, with more or less the same musicians (the version here), which if anything intensified the power of the original. This track is powerful in part because it is so restrained. It is not strictly about summer per se , but to my mind seems to waft us gently into the longer evenings of summer. It is meditative and wistful, even melancholy. No wonder it has been used in countless soundtracks (including Stranger than Fiction , Shutter Island , Arrival , plus episodes of The Handmaid's Tale and The Last of Us ). The Seasons: III. Summer (Op. 67, 1900) Alexander Glazunov (1865-1935, Russian) Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Vladimir Ashkenazy (cond.) Glazunov was a titan of Russian music who taught and led the St Petersburg Conservatoire for many years. Among many, his most famous student was the teenage Dmitri Shostakovich. While many thought him old-fashioned, with a style that seemed nostalgic for the nineteenth century rather breaking new musical ground, he somehow managed to navigate the hazards of the Russian Revolution and his music remained popular. He continued as director until leaving for France in 1928 (citing ill-health as the primary reason), where he remained until his death. The Seasons is one of his most popular works: an allegorical ballet in a single act, split into four scenes. The third scene has 5 short sections to convey a sense of the exuberance and vitality of the natural world in Summer. It is full of resounding orchestral colours and lush harmonies, topped with gorgeous melodies. What's not to love? And if you spent half the year enduring the harsh winters of ice-bound St Petersburg, it's no wonder you would want to let your hair down when the world warmed up. Summer scene Waltz of the Cornflowers and Poppies Barcarolle: Enter Naiads, Satyrs and Fauns Variation on the Spirit of Maize Coda Les Nuits d'Été 'Summer Nights' (Op. 7, 1841) Hector Berlioz (1803-1869, French) Brigitte Balleys (mezzo-soprano) , Orchestre des Champs-Elysées, Philippe Herreweghe (cond.) Berlioz was a French maverick, in both life and music. His wore his turbulent heart on his sleeve and defied the customs of the bourgeois world into which he was born. He graduated from medical school in Paris but immediately walked away from it despite his father's protestations. He soon returned to student life, this time at the Paris Conservatoire. He composed the cycle of six songs, Les Nuits d'Été (Summer Nights), in 1841, setting poems by the esteemed poet Théophile Gautier. Initially the mezzo-soprano was accompanied by piano, but Berlioz gradually wrote orchestral versions over the next few years. The result is one of his most popular works. The first and last songs are exuberant and rich, but these bracket the more melancholy, middle 4. Berlioz expresses the agonies of unrequited love or an ache, rather akin to our old friend sehnsucht . These darker feelings seem at odds with the beauties and glories of the season, but in true romantic fashion, they are ever-reliable in inspiring a great artist. Villanelle [a poetic form associated with rustic life and pastoral subjects] Le spectre de la rose (Ghost of the Rose) Sur les lagunes: Lamento (On the Lagoons: Lament) Absence Au cimetière: Clair de lune (In the Cemetery: Moonlight) L'île inconnue (The Unknown Island) Mark Meynell is the Director (Europe and Caribbean) of Langham Preaching. He was ordained in the Church of England in 1997 serving in several places including 9 years at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London, (during which he also served as a part-time government chaplain). Prior to that, he taught at a small seminary in Kampala, Uganda, for four years. Since 2019, he has helped to bring Hutchmoot to the UK and in 2022 completed a Doctor of Ministry (at Covenant Theological Seminary, St Louis) researching the place of the arts in cultural apologetics. Mark and his wife, Rachel, have two grown-up children, and they live in Maidenhead, Berkshire. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Cindy Anderson I recently had the opportunity to spend a few days at the beach. There is nothing quite like being close to the ocean to take away the stresses of life. I went for long walks, collected shells and rocks, watched the sunrise, and enjoyed the cool waves.  Since returning home, I have been rereading my worn, dog-eared copy of Last Child in the Woods   by Richard Louv. It has been an excellent reminder of why we all need time outdoors to reconnect with nature. Louv writes that “time in nature is not leisure time; it’s an essential investment in our children’s health (and also, by the way, in our own).” Louv furthers this point in his second book, The Nature Principle, Reconnecting with Nature in a Digital Age , when he wonders,   “What would our lives be like if our days and nights were as immersed in nature as they are in technology.”  Since it is the season of summer holidays, this book list points us toward outdoor adventures, specifically chosen for the warm days of summer. This time of year often brings us the gift of a slower pace, more unscheduled time, and more connection to the outdoors. These beautiful books cover various topics: hikes through meandering trails, trips to the lake or pond, walks through our neighborhoods, and simple times spent in nature with family and friends. The Hike  by Alison Farrell This book is full of lovely art, creative ideas, and discoveries in nature. Three young sisters prepare for a hike in the woods. They bring sketchbooks, a poetry book, binoculars, feathers, a flag, their dog, and everything needed for an adventure in their local woods. Every page labels the animals, flora, and fauna they encounter on the way, and the back of the book shows their final sketches, complete with labels and fun and engaging information.  (Recommended for ages 3-7.) The Night Walk  by Marie Dorleans The depiction of this family’s nighttime adventure is awash in deep blues and dark shadows, with just the right illumination, bringing a sense of calm and wonder. The family creates a magical memory together, and the story expresses an awe of nature and respect for the nighttime landscape.  (Recommended for ages 3-7.) Dark on Light by Dianne White  This book is another on exploring nature at night. Three siblings go search for their lost dog. With flashlights in hand, they discover nature in all its nighttime beauty. The words are rhythmic, and the illustrations are enchanting.  (Recommended for ages 3-7.) Blackout by John Rocco One hot summer evening, the power goes out in the city. A family has to make their fun without technology. They end up going to their rooftop to watch the stars, and then go to the street to see neighbors creating their own fun. What will happen when the lights come back on?  (Recommended for ages 3-8.) And Then Comes Summer  by Tom Brenner This book had me with its introduction to summer on its first page, “When the days stretch out like a slow yawn, and leaves and grasses sparkle with dew, and the cheerful faces of Johnny-jump-ups jump up…” This book celebrates the simple joys of summer: bike rides, camping, popsicles, parades, and late bedtimes.  (Recommended for ages 3-7.) Everything You Need for a Treehouse by Carter Higgins  Everything You Need for a Treehouse  has the power to fuel reader’s imaginations as it connects them more deeply to what is possible in the natural world. Each page introduces a new creative type of treehouse. The illustrations are the best part of the book, filled with children playing, climbing, imagining, and enjoying time outside.  (Recommended for ages 3-8.) The Little Blue Cottage  by Kelly Jordan The little girl visits the little blue cottage every summer. They keep each other company and the cottage looks forward to her arrival every year. One year she doesn’t show up, and then another, and the cottage has to wait and wait. I won’t ruin the lovely conclusion of the story, but it is worth reading. (Recommended ages 4-9.) The Relatives Came  by Cynthia Rylant  I am a huge fan of Cynthia Rylant. Her books are always gentle and heartwarming. In this story, relatives drive up from Virginia to spend the summer with their aunts, uncles, and cousins. It is filled with the joys of meals together, outdoor games, working on projects, and family members simply enjoying time together.  (Recommended ages 3-8.) Jabari Jumps  by Gaia Cornwall  This is a sweet and engaging story about a summer day at the pool. Jambari has passed his swim test and is ready to jump off the high dive. Or is he? With the help of his encouraging father, he finds the bravery he needs.  (Recommended ages 2-5.) The Raft  by Jim LaMarche  Nicky is not excited about spending his summer at his grandmother’s house in the woods of Wisconsin. One day, however, he discovers a raft and decides to spend his summer exploring the river. Nicky’s connection to the outdoors helps him see the world in a completely different light. The book has beautiful illustrations and would be an excellent read-aloud for older children.  (Recommended for ages 4-10.) River  by Elisha Cooper This book takes its reader on a woman’s solo journey traveling the Hudson River on her canoe. The text describes the adventure in detail, showing the beauty of nature and the hardships she endures. The watercolor drawings enhance the story, showing the natural world in thoughtful detail.  (Recommended for ages 4-10.) Blueberries for Sal  by Robert McCloskey  Blueberries for Sal  is a classic story, first published in 1948. Sal and her mother go out to collect blueberries for winter. Sal wanders off and meets a mama bear, and Sal’s mother meets a baby bear. (Recommended for ages 2-6.) Are you Ready to Play Outside?  By Mo Willems Gerald and Piggie are best friends. They have big plans to play outside, but will the weather cooperate? All the books in the Elephant and Piggie series are fun to read, have lovely illustrations, are full of adventure, and paint a beautiful picture of friendship.  (Recommended for ages 2-6.) Flashlight  by Liza Boyd Wordless picture books are great for pre-readers who can make up their own creative stories by observing the details in the illustrations. In this book, a young boy takes us on his nighttime camping trip. He uses his trusted flashlight to illuminate the animals, plants, and trees hiding in the darkness. (Recommended for ages 2-4.) The Rabbit Room has recently added some beautiful collections and editions of classic stories to their online book store. I wanted to mention a few that would be perfect for reading aloud as a family this summer. Although the stories do not take place solely in the summer months, they are all based on spending daily time outdoors for play and work.  Brambly Hedge: The Classic Collection  by Jill Barklem This collection of stories about the mice of Brambly Hedge is an absolute treasure. This volume includes a story for each season and four other stories. Readers will pause at the pages to enjoy the beautiful illustrations filled with beautiful, mouse-sized details. This larger edition is perfect for reading aloud and makes a great gift.  (Recommended for ages 3-7.) James Herriot’s Treasury for Children  by Ruth Brown and Peter Barrett This lovely collection brings the stories of Yorkshire veterinarian James Herriot to children. It introduces them to wonderful animals and shows how Herriot cared for each of them. The stories are charming and endearing, and the illustrations bring the characters to life. Children will return to these stories over and over again.  (Recommended for ages 4-10.) The Penderwicks Series  by Jeanne Birdsall I mentioned the first book in this series on my last booklist, but each book in this collection is special in its own right. These books are charming, humorous, and are full of adventure.  (Recommended for ages 8-14.) The Wind in the Willows: Illustrated Edition  by Kenneth Grahame This classic was first published in 1908. This edition is decorated with Robert Ingpen’s illustrations. The descriptions of the natural world and the friendship between Toad, Mole, Badger, and Rat are timeless and touching.  (Recommended for ages 8-14.) *Note: I have included approximate age ranges for the book recommendations on this list. However, I want to mention my firm belief that a well-written picture book is for all ages, whether one or a hundred. Cindy has been an educator for over 30 years, including work in environmental and nature education. She consistently uses stories and books, including picture books, with all of her students from elementary to high school. Most recently, she taught high school humanities, as well as creative writing and science classes for middle school. On any given Saturday, you can find her in her garden, the local farmers market, and her local library.  If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.

by Jessica Smith Culver & Douglas McKelvey With election day approaching, please enjoy this short liturgy reminding us to love our neighbors well. If you would like to share this with a church or group, see the PDF bundle on the Rabbit Room store . If we are pleased with the results of today’s election, let us yet in humility remember that every earthly authority must one day give way to your eternal rule— so let us in grace love all our neighbors well. Or, if we are disappointed, let us resist all fear, anger, accusation, and bitterness, but instead renew our trust in you— and let us in grace love all our neighbors well. Whatever the outcome of this election, let our citizenship and our hope be rooted first in your heavenly kingdom, that we might live in exile here as winsome ambassadors of our soon-returning King— always in grace loving all our neighbors well. This liturgy is taken from PDF Downloads: Liturgies of Petition & Provision  from Rabbit Room Press . You can find more liturgies like these at EveryMomentHoly.com .

Happy Thanksgiving, folks! We’re thankful for all of you and want to offer a few words and songs you might find useful during today’s festivities. Now turn off your phones and computers and feast (right after you read this post). First is this video of an excerpt from “A Liturgy for Feasting with Friends” from Every Moment Holy . Download a free printable version of the whole liturgy here. It wouldn’t quite be Thanksgiving (for me, at least) without a reading from Robert Farrar Capon’s Supper of the Lamb . You might find, as I do, that it’s a great blessing over a feast. From Chapter 16 of The Supper of the Lamb by Robert Farrar Capon “For all its greatness (trust me—I am the last man on earth to sell it short), the created order cries out for futher greatness still. The most splendid dinner, the most exquisite food, the most gratifying company, arouse more appetites than they satisfy. They do not slake man’s thirst for being; they whet it beyond all bounds. Dogs eat to give their bodies rest; man dines and sets his heart in motion. All tastes fade, of course, but not the taste for greatness they inspire; each love esacpes us, but not the longing it provokes for a better convivium , a higher session. We embrace the world in all its glorious solidity, yet it struggles in our very arms, declares itself a pilgrim world, and, through the lattices and windows of its nature, discloses cities more desirable still. You indict me, no doubt, as an incurable romantic. I plead guilty without contest. I see no other explanation of what we are about. Why do we marry, why take friends and lovers, why give ourselves to music, painting, chemistry, or cooking? Out of simple delight in the resident goodness of creation, of course; but out of more than that, too. Half of earth’s gorgeousness lies hidden in the glimpsed city it longs to become. For all its rooted loveliness, the world has no continuing city here; it is an outlandish place, a foreign home, a session in via to a better version of itself—and it is our glory to see it so and thirst until Jerusalem comes home at last. We were given appetittes, not to consume the world and forget it, but to taste its goodness and hunger to make it great.” And a benediction from Chapter 15: “I wish you well. May your table be graced with lovely women and good men. May you drink well enough to drown the envy of youth in the satisfactions of maturity. […] May we all sit long enough for reserve to give way to ribaldry and for gallantry to grow upon us. May there be singing at our table before the night is done, and old, broad jokes to fling at the stars and tell them we are men. We are great, my friend; we shall not be saved for trampling that greatness under foot … Come then; leap upon these mountains, skip upon these hills and heights of earth. The road to Heaven does not run from the world but through it. The longest Session of all is no discontinuation of these sessions here, but a lifting of them all by priestly love. It is a place for men , not ghosts—for the risen gorgeousness of the New Earth and for the glorious earthiness of the True Jerusalem. Eat well then. Between our love and His Priesthoood, He makes all things new. Our Last Home will be home indeed.” And finally, I’ll leave you with two songs. First up is Son of Laughter’s “The Meal We Could Not Make” from the new album No Story Is Over . And the second is maybe my favorite song my brother’s ever written, “Don’t You Want to Thank Someone” from Light for the Lost Boy. “The Meal We Could Not Make” by Son of Laughter from No Story Is Over https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/07-The-Meal-We-Could-Not-Make.mp3 “Don’t You Want to Thank Someone” by Andrew Peterson from Light for the Lost Boy https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/ThankSomeone.mp3 I hope you all have much to be thankful for this year. I know I do.

by Jeffrey Overstreet On my way to the office to write this review, I passed Grumpy D’s coffeehouse and saw that it had closed. This place too? So many neighborhood “third places” have disappeared during these past few years of pandemic, lockdown, and economic hardships. It got me thinking. How many once-essential communities have I lost or missed in the last few years? After two years of “Zoom church,” my Episcopalian congregation began congregating in-person again only recently (and several friends have not re-appeared). COVID canceled a Santa Fe gathering that for 16 years had been the highlight of my yearly calendar: Image journal’s arts retreat, The Glen Workshop. A society I started 30 years ago focused on the joy of reading aloud—we didn’t miss a year until the pandemic. And I’ve been longing to reunite with my kindred creatives at Hutchmoot. In each of these sacred places, I’ve known love, purpose, and a strong sense of belonging. Being together transforms our separate experiences into a whole, a harmony, as if we are one large musical instrument. Eager to fill the void, I “masked up” last April to join a packed house at the Seattle International Film Festival. What an adrenaline rush—this communal experience of big screen art after two years of isolation! The movie made us laugh early and often, and then moved many of us to tears. I stayed through the end credits, savoring the buzz. I suspect that experience was enhanced by the fact that the film— Marcel the Shell With Shoes On , my personal favorite film of 2022 (so far)—is about a young dreamer’s loss of community, his longing for reunion, and the challenges that he and his grandmother face in going on alone. Wait. Did I just admit that I cried through an animated movie about a talking seashell? Speaking of community: Marcel the Shell’s origin story begins, appropriately, in a crowded place. Actress Jenny Slate explained it on The Drew Barrymore Show like this: At a 2012 wedding, she “felt so small” in the crowded hotel room where she and her friends were staying that she started speaking in a goofy, quavering, high-pitched voice to express how she felt. Her partner at the time, animator Dean Fleischer-Camp, decided the voice needed a character; so he combined a tiny shell, a single googly eye, and some pink doll shoes. The voice and the figurine were a perfect match. The videos they made together were a whimsical, improvisational project that became a viral sensation and led to a couple of children’s books. And now, at last, we have a feature film that is luminous with love. Marcel’s movie is an achievement as inspired, as enthralling, and as wholesome as anything ever imagined by Jim Henson, A.A. Milne, or the storytellers at Pixar. Jeffrey Overstreet If you aren’t familiar with Marcel yet, you might guess that Marcel’s power is just a case of cuteness and sentimentality—something “just for kids.” But no—unlike the saccharine simplicity that makes so much children’s entertainment forgettable, Marcel the Shell With Shoes On respects its audience’s intelligence and emotional capacities, revealing how, through the eye of this curious mollusk, a world that might seem mundane and unremarkable to us is actually alive with beauty, mystery, and possibility. Marcel’s movie is an achievement as inspired, as enthralling, and as wholesome as anything ever imagined by Jim Henson, A.A. Milne, or the storytellers at Pixar. And it has as much wisdom to impart to adults as it does to younger viewers. Marcel is not merely “cute.” His life inching around the AirBnB where he lives with his benevolent grandmother Nana Connie (exquisitely voiced by Isabella Rossellini) is filled with challenges and hardships. Some of them mundane: he throws up in moving cars, and he is frank about how much he hates dog breath. Some are more sobering: Nana Connie shows early signs of dementia, and Marcel is scarred from the nasty domestic feuds between the man and woman who once owned the house he lives in. It’s because of the film’s honesty about hardships, trauma, mortality, and grief that this movie is likely to mean as much or more to adults as it means to young viewers. But what I find most affecting about Marcel the Shell With Shoes On is its timely narrative about change and grief. The film is framed as an improvisational documentary by Dean Fleischer-Camp (playing himself), following these tiny shells as they move about the nooks, the crannies, the houseplants, and the backyard of the AirBnB. We learn along the way that they were once a part of a flourishing community. (Imagine Toy Story, but instead of living toys, Marcel’s creators have breathed life into all the odds and ends —the snack pretzels, the pencil nubs, the cracked peanut shells — that you might find under the couch cushions or in that one miscellaneous drawer of your desk.) And then, one day, that community vanished in sudden and mysterious circumstances.  The fewer details I reveal about how that community disappeared, the better. (Hint: It does not involve a purple supervillain snapping his fingers.) From this point on, it’s best that you follow Marcel’s quest on your own as he seeks to fill the hole in his heart and find his missing loved ones. I suspect you’ll want to see Marcel the Shell With Shoes On more than once. I’ve already seen it three times on the big screen, not only to laugh out loud for 90 minutes with my neighbors, but to feel my spirits renewed by the beauty, the light, and the intricacies of Marcel’s secret world. After you see how director of photography Bianca Cline and stop-motion director Eric Adkins merge animation and real-time footage into luminous images—curtains lifting on a breeze, a sunlit spiderweb, birthday candles as lamps around Nana Connie’s dinner table—you’ll find it easy to believe their testimony that Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life was a primary influence on their work. As Marcel stares out the window into a world vaster than his tiny imagination can comprehend, wondering if he will ever be reunited with his family and friends, I found myself in that rare and elevating experience of cinema as prayer . Even though the film avoids specific religious terminology, I sense something sacred in Marcel’s vision of a world restored. But Nana Connie, in her wisdom, impresses upon Marcel (and us) that the path to healing is not without its risks, and not without its costs. It leads us forward into something new, not backward to recover what once was. In a moment of fear born of trauma, Marcel trembles and asks, “But what if everything changes again?” His grandmother, in a voice of courage and inexplicable joy, answers: “It will!” As I was editing this essay, I learned that a friend of mine had passed away suddenly, unexpectedly, from aggressive cancer. Stunned, I looked up my most recent message from her. She had written to ask if I thought it was likely that the Glen Workshop might bring us back together again in person soon. Strangely, I thought of Marcel. And that was an encouraging thought. In the making of all things new, Marcel finds hope beyond the here-and-now reunions I hope we are all experiencing. His epiphany—which we experience with him at the film’s glorious conclusion—offers us a profound image of an ultimate reconciliation. Like Jim Henson before them who gave ping-pong-ball eyes to a sock puppet and changed the world for “the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” these artists have breathed life into a tiny shell. And the character who springs to life onscreen gives moviegoers of all ages a new frame within which to wrestle loss and grief with faith on a path upward into hope. In the words of a song that Marcel performs with deep sincerity, you’ll “want to linger a little longer” in his world, even as you learn to lean forward, courageously anticipating how love is making all things new.

If you are a poetry lover and have not signed up for the Rabbit Room poetry newsletter , now is the time. It has been a rich, busy year on the newsletter. We have published over 100 new poems. We have launched an interview series featuring conversations with well-known poets of faith . We have built up our archive of classic poetry that can act as an introduction to poetry for the poetry-curious. And we have invited several established poets to take over the newsletter for a few weeks as we take a deeper look into our poetry, most recently Angela Alaimo O'Donnell's Flannery O'Connor poems. If that sounds inspiring, encouraging, and refreshing, sign up here. We have chosen ten of our favorite poems from the year to share with you as a sample of the regular fare on the newsletter. Enjoy! Paying Attention by Andrew Peterson Pay attention to the little things. Pay attention to the big things too, Because both are easy enough to miss, And are one and the same more often than not. Pay attention to the eerie silence When the air conditioner cycles off And the only sound is the creak of the house. Pay attention to the clank and rumble Of the freight train as it wobbles by. Pay attention to birds—the ones that tweet, The ones that honk, and the ones That lie dead in the road. Notice them. Notice the level of the creek before the rain And after. Remember that the water Rushing around your ankles was a cloud Not so long ago, a cloud that began Somewhere in Alaska, perhaps, and before that, A dark, frigid, and silent subterranean sea. Then notice the minnows pecking at your toes. Pay attention to the turns your life has taken To bring you to the place you now stand. Most blessings sprout not from the plans We make, but from the soil of their sad ruin. Watch their slow, unstoppable unraveling, Their disassembly, the final shudder, and Their collapse, and the dustcloud that follows. Pay attention then to the way your heart Breathes a sigh of relief when the work That was never yours anyway is lifted From your tired hands. Pay attention, When you clean up the mess, to the treasure That the wreck unearthed, and give thanks For your folly and God’s favor. Andrew Peterson is a singer-songwriter, author, a lover of literature, an inveterate anglophile, and the founder of the Rabbit Room. Elijah asks, "What have I done to you?" by Anna A Friedrich Far off, I knew your once-white robe from local lore— rusted red, since Carmel. Now you come?  A storm of a man, barreling down towards me—plough in hand —in father’s field. Twelve yoke of oxen leaning, heave, mastery— impossible, but I am apprenticed in making each move known through hand and hide and will. Two fields away, I knew you would not turn, and true, you fixed your gaze— ( eyes like Yahweh ) on the rope that led from beast to beast to me. They say the flames that fell—the flames that felled Baal, by your own tongue— stained you, your clothes. Burnt? No, each thread caught up, undone, remade, in heaven’s answer. You wear the story everywhere you go. Here your stride slows just enough for that same cloak to fall on me, unbidden. Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. Her first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock. You can subscribe to her poem-a-Wednesday Substack at annaafriedrich.substack.com .   Boxing by Zack Eswine This bell, my alarm, sounds. This morning, my corner of the ring, begins. This day, my opponent, war cries in the center, of this taunting crowd motioning for me, with gloves raised. This life, roped in, a bucket for my spit. This clock, my referee, grates upon my ears and shouts, “its time.” It’s only round one. But already I’m thinking about it, feeling it. Maybe, just this once, I’ll take a dive, no bribes necessary, we just count to ten. This spectacle would end, and we could all go home. Zack Eswine (Rev. Ph.D.), serves as lead pastor of Riverside Church in Webster Groves, Missouri. Zack's books include Recovering Eden: The Gospel According to Ecclesiastes and The Imperfect Pastor and he writes poems and stories at The Good Dark. Zack and his wife Jessica co-founded Sage Christianity ( sagechristianity.com ) to create hospitable spaces for bringing honest questions into conversation with the wisdom of Jesus. Pangs by Kirk Jordan "For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." (Romans 8:22 KJV) It’s the sound of flailing. Ten-thousand beetles on their backs, stuck to the tar of Route 66, shells splitting like popcorn. It's the sound of a braking, thick thud and swerve, the doe in the ditch, but not done for. It’s the sound of popping umbrellas, vulture kings with fingered wings cupping a hot thermal stench. It’s the sound of breaking strands, the twang of a spastic web, moth in the mouth of a powdered orb-weaver. It's the curdling anguish of ten thousand wolves, the howl of a Syrian wife. It’s the dead plinky plink at the end of the scale, the clink of porcelain on glass, beak upon bone. It’s a low steady moan -- A groan in the wind in the trees, in our ears in the atoms, in our backs It’s a long pregnant pause, the push of creation jammed in the pelvis, waiting waiting waiting. Kirk Jordan is a photographer for the Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage, and Tourism--.where he mines light, and revels in the glories of the Natural State. He is dad to three grown daughters, and resides with his nurse-educator wife, Dr. Kerry Jordan, and her elderly parents in Conway AR. Psalm of Pressing by Sarah Crowley Chestnut Then, the given line was a word I did not resist. Then, the tambour of the line was liquid amber. Then, I understood hesitation is only itself. Then, I sat in the September grass and said: “So be it.” Then, each line was a table, a bowl, a cup, a spoon. Then, both moon and meal were simply the way forward. Then, I stopped fretting over paths and pasts. Then, the voice that drives and rides my breath was unburied. Then, I simply replied. Then, the fraught edge of myself was hemmed. Then, I was gathered like a foraged meal. Then, I was fed. Then, I was clothed. Then, I slept and slept. Then, I heard the Lord in the given line. Then, I wept, you are blessed, you are blessed. Sarah Crowley Chestnut lives and works at L’Abri Fellowship in Southborough, Massachusetts with her husband and two children. She keeps a small vegetable garden, a sourdough starter, and a messy desk. Sarah’s poetry has appeared in CRUX, Red Rock Literary Journal, LETTERS, Christian Century, and elsewhere. After Bells, After Drums by Mischa Willett after Marvin Bell It’s faith that’s easy: praying, reading, fasting, loving, feasting are hard. It’s faith that falls like fog around us, everywhere softening the edges, filling our bodies with the cool, wet, web of existence and extra-sensory presence that is. It’s faith, not ethics, that stretches the ankle strap of a sandal, opens the hand to offer a benediction, coaxes the dough to rise. And it’s faith, just faith, that makes you stand straight in a city that hunches along its river, its concrete spine, because the column of air that supports you is a gift and an orientation, a heaven inside. It isn’t doubt when suffering seizes the hilltop of your heart or when the fireplace of ashes misses the heat that made it—when in the traffic you simply can’t hear a thing or the way is unclear—none of that is doubt. It’s faith, when you come to it, that asks of us everything, that empties and empties until we are full, that fills the gnaw in the gut, dispels the cloud of mind, that runs out the money-changers in the forecourt, that names. It’s faith, not duty, that takes the self off the altar of worship, leaving both open to occupation. Mischa Willett (Ph.D.) is the author of two books of poetry, including The Elegy Beta (2020) and Phases (2017) as well as of essays, translations, and reviews that appear in both popular and academic journals. A specialist in nineteenth-century aesthetics, he teaches English at Seattle Pacific University . Expectation by Sarah Spradlin The earth in birthing is broken twice: once to bury seeds she is torn open to make room for what is barely breathing then again to multiply, she is disrupted by emerging seeds disturbing the empty air to prepare the way for a flood of feasting. I measure the distance between the breakings and the reapings through many radiant and dark hours: even as I watch the sun callus the earth against resurrection, beneath the surface she is yielding— seeds soften and swell, then break out of darkness into life. The first breaking is inevitable; the second is a miracle made no less remarkable by patient expectation. Some seeds never reach the surface a sorrow borne by soil and sower alone yet, devoting ourselves to what may be lost is perhaps the bravest thing we do and I am still surprised at the violence of love alive, willing even to receive death so that something might take root and rise. Sarah is a farmer and storyteller raised in Georgia. Now, she lives in Central America where she's worked in cross-cultural ministry since 2020, which pretty much boils down to planting things, talking to people, and writing poetry on long bus rides. Her poetry has been published on Story Embers, Kingdom Pen, and Ekstasis, and you can read more of her work on her Instagram, @sarah.spradlin. Current Events by Jen Rose Yokel So maybe it’s true. Maybe the world burns. But in other news, I stopped for coffee on a foggy day, then went to the chiropractor to get my spine realigned. Later we replaced the broken-hinged toilet seat (“I bet you didn’t plan to spend your Tuesday between the wall and a toilet bowl,” I joke, holding pliers to bolt.) After that, we make quesadillas, watch a show, turn in by ten, reading by burning lamplight. Maybe the world burns too, and nothing is guaranteed. but still, it is so good to be here. Jen Rose Yokel is a poet, writer, and spiritual director. Her words have appeared at The Rabbit Room , She Reads Truth , and other publications, and she is the author of two poetry collections. She is also the co-founder of The Poetry Pub , an online community for poets. Originally from Central Florida, she now makes her home in Fall River, Massachusetts with her poet/professor husband Chris, their rescue dog, and an assortment of books and houseplants. Her latest book, Beneath the Flood , is available now from Bandersnatch Books. You can find her on Substack at Alongside Journal or on Instagram @jroseyokel . Life Without Internet by Liz Snell We didn’t know what to call these birds that swerved along the last light of the summer equinox. At first we thought them bats but bats dance erratic and these flew deft-winged, dove by sight, not sound. They were blunt-tailed, not forked like swallows, who also love the dusk. We searched our separate lexicons, fell silent in the lack. The old sun slipped behind the hackled hills, red scattered on the sea. Pipe smoke crocheted around the stars. We would wait ‘til one arrived who knew their name. Liz Snell lives on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. She studied writing at the University of Victoria and is now studying psychology. She works with adults with disabilities and in her spare time gardens, hikes, knits, and makes awful puns. Mannequin by Heather Cadenhead My sister and I played beneath the circular racks, listening to the swish, swish of clothes hangers gliding across metal rods. My mother pulled out a pencil skirt to examine the pattern. Then, I spotted her: a mannequin, draped in 1980s fashions. My mouth gaped at her soulless face. Be still, girls, my mother hissed. I stretched a palm to feel her silk dress. She wobbled, no longer a form but a sound: an ocean wave, collapsing onto itself, again and again – the roar of fiberglass shattering against tile. The fashionista lay, unrecognizable, in jagged, uncountable pieces. I peered into her vacant eyes, now mingled with broken shards. My mother gasped; an employee shuffled over with a broom. My cheeks burned scarlet. I’ve killed her. The writing of Heather Cadenhead has been featured in  Wild + Free, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, Literary Mama,  and other publications. She publishes  a monthly newsletter  about mothering her non-speaking son through the lens of the Christian gospel. If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here. 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by the Rabbit Room An event series aimed at the intersection of music, food, and hospitality, hosted by The Orchardist and sponsored by The Rabbit Room. The best music invites the listener to stay awhile, be nourished, and be known. Favorite songs are like gracious hosts inviting us into their familiar space, giving us room to breathe and remember who we are. Music has a peculiar way of restoring tenderness within us, setting us up to receive healing like nothing else can. The story of The Orchardist has been one of becoming more and more deeply acquainted with the hospitality of music, both as host and guest. Most recently, our mission of making music to feed and be fed has led us to its most practical conceivable embodiment: Supper & Songs . Beginning April 6th 2018, The Rabbit Room is partnering with The Orchardist to organize cozy events in Nashville every other month. Each event will be hosted by a unique location—some homes and some venues—include a delicious meal, and feature a guest artist whose music has given us hope. With Supper & Songs, we hope to provide a regular occasion for nourishment in our local community in as many dimensions as possible. We hope for friends to be made, stories to be shared, songs to be sung. If you are interested in supporting Supper & Songs, there are several ways you can lend a hand: First, consider liking and following its Facebook and Instagram pages. Second, check out this year’s subscription options for supporting Supper & Songs or buy a ticket to the first show . Third, consider purchasing one of The Orchardist’s pre-sale packages here . All proceeds go towards making Supper & Songs happen, and they’ll only be available in the month of March.

by Andrew Peterson Hey, folks! As of today you can pre-order the Deluxe Edition 2 CD set of Resurrection Letters, Vol. 1 (which includes Prologue ). And because the Rabbit Room is awesome, if you pre-order here you’ll get a special, exclusive 60 page eBook called Resurrection Letters: Annotated Edition.  Sixty pages of what, you ask? It includes all the lyrics, along with footnotes and scripture references, for all the songs from all three Resurrection Letters records. The idea is that you can listen to the albums while following along with the lyrics and reading all the scriptures that undergird the songs. The eBook was designed by our friend Ned Bustard, who did the artwork and design for  Every Moment Holy , and it looks lovely. Thanks, Ned! I’m also excited to finally share the music video we made for “Is He Worthy?” (directed by Max Hsu). Max (who took the cover photo for The Burning Edge of Dawn ) and his film crew worked for days to make this deceptively simple video a one-camera-shot deal. We had members of the Nashville Youth Choir (who also sang on the record), a group of string players, and an audience of good people who answered our casting call a few weeks back, all running around like crazy for hours while I just sort of sat there at the piano. I was lip-synching and playing as serenely as possible while I tried to ignore the director yelling for lights to be turned up or down, the shuffling of feet while the congregation rushed in from the wings, the setting up of chairs while string players got into position just before the camera swung around—and the cameraman lithely moving through it all, aiming the lens and focusing on just the right things at just the right time. It took several hours and about ten takes with the whole gang before we finally nailed it, and what you see is the final take. I have to say, there’s one moment where the camera moves in close to the piano, blacking everything out, just in case we needed to splice two of the takes together, but in the end we didn’t need to. What you see is one continuous take . Pretty awesome, methinks. Many thanks to Max and the crew, as well as all the extras, for hanging in there for hours until we got it right. As fun as it was to make the video, though, the real hope is that it draws attention to the song, which is meant to draw attention to Jesus. We have sheet music available for “Is He Worthy?” (as well as the rest of the songs) in the Rabbit Room store in case you want to use this song during Easter (and I hope you do!). I can’t wait for you guys to hear the record when it releases on Good Friday. You can now pre-order  Resurrection Letters: Volume I  here. All pre-orders include an instant download of “Is He Worthy?” as well as the annotated PDF booklet. And while you’re at it, check out the sheet music here.

by Jonny Jimison Click through for this week’s Getting Ethan comics. Follow Getting Ethan on  Patreon , Instagram , Facebook , and Twitter ! And check out The Dragon Lord Saga in the Rabbit Room Store.

by Sandra McCracken [Editor’s note: Throughout Lent, Sandra McCracken is sharing weekly writings, each of which is tied to a song from her new EP,  Songs from the Valley, available at her website . Below you will find the sixth of these writings, to be read alongside her song, “Parrot In Portugal,” which you can listen to here .] A couple of years ago, I visited Portugal on a trip with A Rocha International. We gathered together near the coast for eight days. This group of scientists, environmentalists and Christians from all around the world helped me to tune my senses to pay attention to the world around me, considering what it looks like to participate in the restoration of people and place. In my hotel room in Lisbon, the night before my flight home, I sat with my guitar across my knees and the windows open to the courtyard. I heard some expressive birds calling outside and couldn’t imagine what creatures might be making those songs. Later that afternoon, I was walking with a friend from the A Rocha team on the city streets and we saw them. There overhead was a flock of bright green parrots chatting to each other in the trees. These were the birds I had heard making these intelligent sounds outside my window! I asked my friend about them, and he told me that they had been domesticated pets years ago, that had been released or had escaped back into wild. After a few decades of adaptation, these birds not only had learned to survive in this new, urban environment, but they even learned to flourish. As I heard the story, I found myself cheering them on, celebrating their joyful sounds and pondering the question of identity. Personality alone is not a full picture of who we truly are. Sandra McCracken At different times, we may be placed in different roles; daughter, son, student, wife, husband, sister, friend, teacher or parent. Sometimes we change our address. We start new relationships. We change careers. In our ever-evolving relational changes, we get to know ourselves from different vantage points. When our environment changes, we might notice new behaviors and we learn new ways to get our needs met. Our personality takes shape as we figure out how to survive in a new place. In all these externals of our habits and affections we get to know our personality, but personality alone is not a full picture of who we truly are. Psalm 139 begins with these words: “You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.” While the coordinates of our geography may change our habits, we each have been given a particular song that God has written on our hearts. Sandra McCracken God has made each of us like the parrots in Portugal. We have each been born into a particular habitat; some in freedom, some in captivity. We have each been brought through life circumstances and have had to pass through many changes that are beyond our control. While the coordinates of our geography may change our habits, we each have been given a particular song that God has written on our hearts. As we reckon with our true identity, we have the opportunity to come closer to understanding what it means to be loved and known by God not just because of where we live or how we behave, but because of who we are. In the desert or out at sea, in the city or out in forest solitude, God’s provision may take a myriad of different forms. God provides for us in all situations. We are known, heard, called and celebrated for who we are in every changing circumstance of our lives. Sandra McCracken Missing my kids and eager to get home to Tennessee, I came back to my hotel room that night in Lisbon and wrote ‘Parrot In Portugal.’ In it, the emotion of Psalm 139 is coupled with the melody of the parrots outside, resonating the assurance that we are known, heard, called and celebrated for who we are in every changing circumstance of our lives. “Oh I hear you, I hear you in the trees, in the trees…You can fly or you can stay, I’m holding out for you, my love.” Just a few weeks ago while I was visiting Fuller Seminary near Los Angeles, I visited Huntington Gardens with some friends. As we were ducking into one of the museum buildings, I looked up and saw, to my surprise, another flock of wild, bright green parrots. I delighted to see them again; another family of the same species, halfway around the world. This second wild-parrot sighting was the same week that Songs From The Valley came out, a full-circle reminder that God delights in us the way I delight in those parrots. “Sing out your song, dressed like the meadow at dawn.” You. Are. Loved. Invitation to Prayer: Make a list of some of the most shaping roles you have been assigned in your present and in your past (daughter, son, friend, student, parent, etc). Ask God to show you a glimpse of your true self beneath those relational roles and responsibilities. Pray through Psalm 139, asking for God to meet you in the questions.  Ask him to help you to sing your own song. Ask him to pour out an assurance of his love upon you here as we lean in toward the week of Easter. Click here to listen to “Parrot In Portugal” from Sandra’s new album, Songs From The Valley .

by Drew Miller We’ve compiled a Spotify playlist of the songs that were performed at March 19th’s Local Show , accompanied by Jared Malament’s description of what made the evening special. Click through for our third playlist of the season. (Note: Audrey Assad unfortunately was sick that night an unable to join us, so you will not find any of her songs on this playlist. In addition, none of the songs Jordy Searcy played have been recorded yet, so this playlist does not include those either.) “This week at the Local Show we unfortunately missed out on Audrey Assad due to sickness, but we were still treated to wonderful newcomers including Claire Holley , McKenzie Lockhart , and Becky Kinder . They were rounded out by Jordy Searcy , now a veteran of the show. As always, the stories they shared were just as important as their songs and we heard of everything from parenting and young marriages to youth ministry and aging. For my part, I would especially recommend keeping an ear out for McKenzie Lockhart, particularly her song ‘Where is the Hope?’ which I hope she releases soon. For the time being, we’ll have to settle for listening to the Facebook live stream.” —Jared Malament Set List “Three Little Birds,” Claire Holley (Bob Marley cover) “Ball and Chain,” McKenzie Lockhart “Revolution,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “25,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “Heat of July,” Claire Holley “Sleeping Mad,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Run,” Becky Kinder “Guys Like Me,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “The Ball Game,” Andrew Osenga “Love Never Came,” Claire Holley “Where is the Hope,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Alive,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “Andy the Nihilist,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “In the Bounty of the Lord,” Claire Holley (unreleased) “Walk Together,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) “Only You,” Becky Kinder (unreleased) “Favorite Days,” Jordy Searcy (unreleased) “Pasadena,” McKenzie Lockhart (unreleased) Click here to listen to the playlist from our second Local Show of the season on Spotify. . Note: We are currently looking into how we can make these playlists available on Apple Music as well. We appreciate your patience and are excited to make these songs as accessible as possible.

by Drew Miller Welcome to our new podcast led by Dr. Steve Guthrie: The Artist’s Creed. In a series of interviews with various artists in our community, Steve draws on the tenets of the Nicene Creed to develop a rich vision of the relationship between the voice of God and the voice of the artist—constructing an “artist’s creed” of sorts. This first episode features a conversation with leading George MacDonald scholar Dr. Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson about the first phrase found in the creed: “I believe.” Click here to listen to the first episode of The Artist’s Creed.

by Jonny Jimison [Editor’s note: To celebrate the reprinting of Helena Sorensen’s  Shiloh  trilogy with Rabbit Room Press, we are sharing this delightful article by Jonny Jimison, first published in 2016. Enjoy, and consider picking up some of Helena’s books at our online store. ] I hope you’ve encountered the writing of Helena Sorensen—but if not, I want to introduce you to a trilogy of novels that strike me to the core: Shiloh , Seeker , and Songbird . The Shiloh series is a thoughtful, lyrically written fantasy epic set in a land covered in a deep shadow, where the brightness and warmth of the sun is a wishful fable—and so is hope. Over the course of three books and several generations, we are introduced to the tortured Amos, the bold Isolde, and many other hunters and warriors, children and craftsman, including Evander. Evander is a natural leader, taking his band of hunters deep into the woods to find food for the village, but he is also detached, set apart from them in ways that he can’t quite put into words. Perhaps it’s born in him; his mother is one of the few in Shiloh who can dream. At the end of a day of hunting, Evander huddles around a campfire with the other hunters. They defend against the shadow and the wolves by the fanning the flames of their fire and by making music. And Evander sings: “Another day has died Another night descends, unyielding No strength ta watch the skies The breathless dark too heavy lies And I must close my weary eyes My fragile torch and lantern wielding” There was quiet around the camp. The flames crackled. The embers hissed. One thick log split open and tumbled to the ground in two red-gold slabs. It was Lorne who spoke first: “Was it yer ma, Evander? Did she teach ya that song?” Evander thought. “She sings some of ‘er own, but this one, I think, she learned from ‘er mother.” Lorne nodded. “I thought as much. I’ve heard it before.” “She still sees them, then? These night visions?” Alistair asked. “Dreams,” Evander said. “She sees lights?” Chase asked. The younger men shifted their weight, seeming as uncomfortable as Evander was with the increasing intimacy of the questions. “Just one light, mainly,” Evander said. “The sun, she calls it. A great light that hangs in the sky, a light that burns away the Shadow.” No one spoke at all, until Knox tossed a scrap of food into the fire and spat. “Visions like that would drive any man mad.” Muscles tensed all over the camp. The hunters waited, stealing glances at Evander and glaring at Knox. It took a moment for Evander to reply, but when he did, his eyes met Knox’s with a challenge. “It’s the darkness that drives a man mad.” — Seeker , by Helena Sorensen These Shiloh books are mighty dark stories, literally and figuratively. Vision is dim, death is always near, and the bleakness of the world seeps into characters like a poison. Even the happier moments are tinged with bittersweet longing. But for all their darkness, these are stories to reacquaint you with hope, because they tell the truth. The truth, part one: the world is a dark place, and hope often seems lost. The truth, part two: even when hope seems lost, it is the darkness that is doomed. All it takes to kill the darkness is a little light, and beyond the shadow there is light overflowing. We just forget it sometimes in the dark. Some stories celebrate the darkness. The Shiloh series names it: darkness is the absence of light. Pain and shame and fear are the withdrawal symptoms of our deep longing—our need—for “a great light that hangs in the sky, a light that burns away the Shadow.” Every shadow in the corner forgotten by the daylight where flecks of dust gather and hide in secret and every lengthening line that draws trees on the street on the opposite side of a horizon going up in flames holds in the weight of darkness proof of light and presence. — Shadows , from Ruins and Kingdoms by Jen Rose Yokel I see this kind of message everywhere in great works of art, especially in The Rabbit Room community of artists and storytellers. Helena’s Shiloh series, Jamin Still’s paintings, Andrew Peterson’s songs—they are all beautifully crafted pieces of work that stir my soul and awaken a homesickness for heaven. They are windows to eternity in a dark world. Then there’s me. Take a look at this excerpt from my upcoming graphic novel, The River Fox : Yup. My love language is slapstick. Despite my lifelong love of pratfalls and puns, this eager embrace of comic-strip humor is a new thing for me. Until recently, I saw my wacky comics as foolishness when compared to the delicate beauty of Ellen and the Winter Wolves or the brutal honesty of Andrew Peterson’s Light for the Lost Boy . The Rabbit Room community changed all that, fanning the flame of my stories by affirming my heart for cartoony humor. My pride always told me that the light tone of my comics made them frivolous, but this community has helped me see how that light tone is an asset, a blessing—a gift from the Creator! God calls me to spread fun and humor, but he also leads me in grieving and longing and seeking. He leads me through the Shiloh series and Jamin’s paintings and Light for the Lost Boy . He leads me through the books of Ecclesiastes and Galatians and yes, even Deuteronomy . He leads me through movies and paintings and conversations with strangers at work. He leads me every time truth is told. And what is art if it ain’t truth-telling? I want to affirm the beauty created by Helena Sorensen and Jamin Still and Andrew Peterson, because their truth-telling is a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. But they also affirm my comics, reminding me that my gleeful character humor is also a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. Just because it’s more wacky doesn’t mean it isn’t true. And just because something is commonplace, or unheralded, or scary, or even just plain weird, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Sin and grace, absence and presence, tragedy and comedy, they divide the world between them and where they meet head on, the Gospel happens. Let the preacher preach the Gospel of their preposterous meeting as the high, unbidden, hilarious thing it is. — Telling the Truth by Frederick Buechner So let’s keep telling the truth. Tell the truth in your doodles and symphonies and casseroles, in your woodwork and housework and yard-work, in your writing and teaching and performances and studies and vacation plans. Your truth-telling is a beautiful, essential part of the kingdom. Keep telling the truth and know that this place is home. And when I say “this place,” I don’t mean just The Rabbit Room. I mean the Kingdom. The darkness blurs our vision now, but it’s hopelessly—hilariously—outgunned! Shiloh , Seeker , and Songbird  are available in the Rabbit Room store.

by April Pickles One Saturday, my friend Rebecca Reynolds bundled herself in three coats and hiked up Roan Mountain with a jar in her hand. Standing on the mountaintop, she opened the jar, read a poem into it, then sealed it shut and carried it back down the mountain. As part of a recent online auction to raise funds for The Rabbit Room’s North Wind Manor project, Rebecca offered a simple glass jar. “Eight Ounces of Canned Poem,” she titled it. “You pick the poem. The jar will be labeled with a tag identifying the poem, the date of the reading, and the specific environment you choose for the reading of the poem.” While I had been dreaming about a cellar and Mason jars, Rebecca had been writing about them. She had crafted a work full of hope and promise, a tale of burial and longing for resurrection. April Pickle Rachel Lulich commented, “People said bottled water was a fad.” Jonathan Rogers asked if she had any more photos. Bill Smithfield wanted to know if there was an option in which the winner could choose what Rebecca drank before the reading. But Rebecca persisted, “It’s going to be the next big thing. First edition, collector’s edition right here, people.” And, “This is a 16-ounce jar, but it only holds eight ounces of poem. And some settling occurs during transport.” When I placed my winning bid, I knew just the poem I wanted her to read, and I told my friend she could choose the setting. Several years ago, my stepfather battled an aggressive form of brain cancer. All the doctors agreed Mo was going to die, even with steroids, even with radiation and chemo, even with two surgeries. And he did. Twenty months after his diagnosis, on the Wednesday before Easter, in a cemetery blooming with Central Texas wildflowers, my family mourned as our beloved one was laid into the ground. We took turns shoveling a bit of dirt onto his casket, an oak casket made by Trappist monks. Mo was a quiet, Jesus-loving man—slow to speak, slow to become angry. My mother chose a large natural rock for his headstone. When she asked their children what the headstone’s inscription should say, my sister joked, “Quiet.” Mama opted for a line from one of Mo’s favorite songs: “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” Back when Mo was in the throes of battle with the cancer monster, one night I dreamed I held a shovel. With the shovel I dug a cellar in my backyard. Then one by one inside the cellar, I set glass jars of fruits and vegetables onto a wooden shelf. The morning after the dream, I took my phone from the nightstand, opened the Facebook app and encountered Rebecca’s poem. While I had been dreaming about a cellar and Mason jars, Rebecca had been writing about them. She had crafted a work full of hope and promise, a tale of burial and longing for resurrection. Here’s the poem I read that morning, the same poem Rebecca Reynolds read into a jar atop Roan Mountain on Saturday: The sky was cool as a sunfish belly, by high heaven flesh-flecked, flushed and gilded. Fin-slit frolic, through iced glory swelling, made her leap, split those thin waters. Threaded by golden strands, dawn stitched God’s firmament to the red clay of Ticker farm where Blythe lined sea-blue Mason jars on a time-bent one-by-six under yellow cellar light. It was a room dug deep, though not very, a blank, earthen womb for harvest and babes kept through summer storm; sweet, hidden plenties, nestled against odds from middle wars waged. Longing like hope cast by hook and line, stretched from burial to whimsy.

by the Rabbit Room Recently, there have been a lot of conversations about how the Rabbit Room can best bring people together and support the work of creative communities across the world. We’re happy to tell you we’ve been listening, and today we are excited to lift the veil on the next frontier of the Rabbit Room experience. We believe social media is the key to shaping the world into a better place, and over the past few years, Facebook has worked alongside organizations like ours to develop a host of new tools and systems to provide communities ways to define themselves and serve their users in custom-built environments that cater to the specific needs of niche audiences. As you can imagine, the Rabbit Room communities are fertile soil for that ground-breaking development, and we’ve been delighted to partner with folks like Facebook whose goals so closely match our own. So it’s with with great pleasure that today we can finally announce an exciting new alternative to traditional community: Facemoot. It is our hope that Facemoot will provide a meaningful connecting place for those of us who are on the search for kindred spirits, but are tired of the noisy clamor of social media and awkward face-to-face interactions with strangers. Welcome to the Moot. Facemoot is simple, and even countercultural, in its design. Here are a few of its most exciting features: Tired of “Facebook statuses”? Try Facemoot soliloquies. Each soliloquy must include a minimum of 500 characters. No more small talk. Engage in real, meaningful conversations. Instead of “likes,” Facemoot offers four separate and distinct loves: storge, philia, eros, and agape. Are you tired of grammatically incorrect internet speak? Our Grammar Police™ filter will automatically correct abbreviated textspeak and fill in you’re every missed Oxford comma, incorrect apostrophe and dangling modifier. Don’t want other rabbits to know you’re online? Use the Ring of Power™ function to become invisible.* No friends online to chat with? Our AI-based chat rabbit named Chabbit™ is well-read and eager to discuss the intricacies of everything from Narnian cuisine to best practices in translating Russian literature. All-new emojis include Tolkien’s fireplace, smoking pipe, and Rabbit Trails comics characters. We are delighted to invite you into this new community. In the coming months, we’ll be working hard to roll out plug-ins for other popular online platforms. Our goal is to accommodate all your social media needs, including Instamoot, Mooter, SnapRabbit, and more. *(Caution: may fill users with dread and a paranoid sense of being watched.)