[Earlier this week, Patheos ran this incredible article by Jennifer Trafton that everyone needs to sit down and read immediately. It has proboscis monkeys. Need we say more?] “At the back of our brains, so to speak, there was a forgotten blaze or burst of astonishment at our own existence. The object of the artistic and spiritual life was to dig for this submerged sunrise of wonder.” —G. K. Chesterton As a children’s book author and a creative writing teacher for kids, I have the honor—and challenge—of spending my days both digging for the submerged sunrise in myself and basking in the blazing sun of others. It is a perilous adventure at times, fraught with ninja-kicking dei ex machina and discombobulated spelling. Even as I write this, in fact, I am also faced with the daunting task of drawing an imaginary creature that is the composite of strange body part descriptions by twenty kids—including sixty-five multicolored ears, fifteen moldy toes, elbow-macaroni-and-cheese spines, and a tail that has a fair chance of being ranked among the world’s seven wonders. Since I am neither a parent nor a pastor, nor even a traditional sort of school teacher, I often feel that my relationship to children has a slightly different flavor from that of many of my friends and colleagues; I feel less like a guide or caretaker and more like an imaginative cohort, a co-conspirator in all things monsterific or dragonesque. And therefore when someone mentions the innate spirituality of children, I do not at first think of their innocence, their unsettling questions about life and death and the immortality of pet hamsters, or their spontaneous bursts of insight that seem to confirm Wordsworth’s suspicion that they came out of the womb “trailing clouds of glory.” I think of my students’ stories about talking cats, magic portals, giant sloths from outer space, adventurous pizza delivery boys, treasure chests, princesses who go on quests, fiddling skydivers, and bizarre creatures. I think about the astonishing phrases that proceed from the pencils of elementary-age kids—fish eyelashes, bellowing volcanoes, the toenails of dolphins, a song of silver and ice, fairy whispers, the distant explosion of a marshmallow, icicles shivering and shuffling across the sky, the spicy sound of wind by the sea cliffs, or extremely rare petrified slurps. [Read the entire article at Patheos.]

Last Hutchmoot, Jonathan Rogers and I explored what it means to write out of where we’re from, which you can read more about here. This summer, starting on June 6, I’ll be teaching a 12-week online class based around this idea of writing as a means of discovering place. Here’s a brief video introducing the class:

“Our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it.” Henri Nouwen Vincent van Gogh painted his interpretation of Eugene Delacroix’s The Good Samaritan while living in an insane asylum in St. Remy de Provence only months before he took his own life. During that period, Vincent would occasionally make his own versions of other people’s canvases. He interpreted two Delacroix’s – this one and The Pietà. Interestingly, both of the Delacroix’s Vincent copied involved broken people being held by those who loved them – one, a beat up traveller by a stranger and the other, the Savior of the world by his mother. When I see this painting, I imagine the artist sitting at the easel in his room in the asylum. I hear the tormented cries of Vincent’s fellow patients echoing down the stone and plaster halls. I imagine the painter studying the Delacroix and the page of Scripture from which it was drawn as he places the Pharisee and the teacher of the Law further on down the path, backs turned. I can see him mixing a touch of orange into the Samaritan’s beard, as he would often do to paint himself into his work. I imagine dozens of what would come to be some of the world’s most treasured canvases stacked and leaning against the walls of his room. It is such a lonely picture. Several years ago, I went to see a traveling Van Gogh art exhibit when it came through my town. The exhibit was designed in such a way that we had to exit through the gift shop, which was filled with gag gifts poking fun at Vincent’s mania. There was a coffee mug with an ear for a handle, gummy ears, a plush doll with one ear attached by velcro, and so on. It was a terribly sad display of profiting from someone’s brilliance while simultaneously mocking their weakness. The Gospel frees us from such ugliness. Christ does not celebrate our strength while mocking our weakness. He picks us up in our broken condition and lives to be strong for us. Vincent wanted to be like the Samaritan—generous, compassionate, and joined to others in suffering. But he ended his life more like the wounded than the hero. As an artist, he spent his entire life being passed by. Vincent would not come to be revered as a painter until a few years after his death. The beautiful irony in this painting is how, all these years later, The Good Samaritan (and the rest of the art he produced) lifts up and cares for the beaten down artist. The tragedy is that he never knew. About the Art: Vincent Van Gogh (1853 – 1890) The Good Samaritan (after Delacroix), oil on canvas (73 × 60 cm), 1890, Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo.

Culture critic and religion professor David Dark wastes no time getting to the provocative claim of his new book, Life’s Too Short to Pretend You’re Not Religious. His statement is right there on the cover, bright red as a warning sign, but that’s only the beginning of a brief, entertaining, and thought-provoking book you’ll want to take your time pondering. Through a short and readable blend of memoir and cultural analysis, Dark is all about nuance and taking time to ruminate on the big questions: What is religion anyway? How does it shape a supposedly post-Christian culture? Can you truly escape it, dismiss it, disown it? Everybody has a weird religious background, Dark claims, opening his personal story with some amusing anecdotes from his own youth (particularly an incident involving guilt-induced, makeshift communion in a Nashville Kroger parking lot). All of us Christian kids love to swap stories about our wackier beliefs that we’ve presumably abandoned, but Dark isn’t doing that here. He owns it, and informs the reader that yes, actually, you are religious. “If what we believe is what we see is what we do is who we are, there’s no getting away from religion…. religion might be the best word we have for seeing, naming, confessing and really waking up to what we’re after in all we do, of becoming aware of what’s going on in our minds.” From there, he builds his argument, often wandering into unexpected territory, but always returning to the central thesis that religion runs through all we do and are. He holds our culture up for examination, devotes a whole chapter to the common searching spirit in religion and science fiction, defends the vital importance of community, and raises questions about how our life liturgies shape our policies — ethical, political, or otherwise. He wades through the depths of philosophy, ponders pop culture from Doctor Who to Radiohead, and confronts our inner tendencies to label others and isolate ourselves. The world is charged with the grandeur of God, and religion is always weaving through our lives and stories whether we like it or not. Last year, James K. A. Smith’s Desiring The Kingdom was a perspective shifting book for me, and I can’t help but see Life’s Too Short as an excellent companion. Like Smith, Dark argues that our lives are shaped by forces all around us — nationality, culture, religion — whether we want them to or not. And as Smith would say, “you are what you love.” Religion compels us on a level deeper than intellect: “I’m not sure anyone’s ever experienced enlightenment, been born again, been called to repentance or decided to sell their belongings on account of a system. The voice, the tale, the image, the parable that gets through to you — that wins your heart — religiously is the one that makes it past your defenses… Religion happens when we get pulled in, moved, called out or compelled by something outside ourselves.” Dark’s book asks us to slow down, and really consider how we label each other, how we look at ourselves, and how the religious impulse runs through all we do. If you’re feeling a little worn down, and all the negative feelings that come with the word “religious” rub you the wrong way, this book could provide the fresh perspective you need. [Life’s Too Short to Pretend You’re Not Religious is available in the Rabbit Room Store.]

I have to admit, I usually tune out podcast recommendations—listening to people talk just puts me to sleep (my college classmates can attest to that). But I’m making an effort to learn to listen, because I spend a LOT of time at my drawing board, and my music just ain’t cuttin’ it. The Bancroft Brothers podcast! If you’re an animation geek like I am, you’ll love the interviews with animation legends (Andreas Deja! Glen Keane! Pete Docter!) and discussions on the history and future of animation (is 2D animation dead, or just sleeping?). If you’re not, there’s still plenty to love here—insight, honesty, and encouragement on maintaining creative discipline and perseverance. Check out their most popular podcast episode, “Failures, Flubs and Frustrations,” in which they discuss some of the most difficult experiences of their careers. …and now it’s your turn. What podcasts do you recommend? Anything is fair game, but if you share podcasts related to creativity or the arts, I’ll compile some of them into a future post.

[This is part 3 of a series by Walter Wangerin Jr. from his blog, Between Us.] Second Covenant — The covenant with the conventions and the community of my chosen craft. I can be briefer about this covenant, though it has required a lifelong attention. The conventions of my craft are the forms and patterns of literature’s various genres. This covenant was established even before I knew it; I entered an apprenticeship of sorts when I, who read continually, became conscious of the words themselves, and loved what they could do, and started to question how they did it. “Getting it right” in this case means making the words works as best they can. Making the poem a poem indeed—and besides that, a good one, too. Sentences. Lines of verses, the sounds of those lines, the shape of many lines put together according to certain anticipations: sonnets, lyrics, hymns. Alliterations. Dialogue. Descriptions. Suspense. The episodic progress of a narrative. Stories. Novels. Each literary form has its definitions. Click here to read the rest of part 3. Part 2 Part 1

I’m more than a little excited today. I’ve wanted you to meet Brandon Kinder for a few years now. Brandon calls Austin, Texas, home but grew up in the gritty and grindy city of Memphis, a city we both love. He was raised at the church my family is now a part of in East Memphis and graduated from Harding Academy, the school at which both my wife and I now teach. I remember the first time I heard Brandon’s music. It was at a little pub in here in town almost 10 years ago. When I first heard his primary band, The Rocketboys, play I realized I had found a sound I’d been looking for. His vocals, and later his lyrics, struck a chord with me. I caught up with Brandon for dinner at his parents’ house right after a show his solo project, The Wealthy West. Rusty: Thanks for spending some time with me so The Rabbit Room can get to know you. I want to start with an observation and question. You must be a tremendously busy guy! You’re the lead singer of The Rocketboys, have your solo project The Wealthy West, help with worship ministry at the church you go to in Austin, have a wife, and spend most days being generally awesome. How hard is it to manage it all? Brandon: You find a way to do the things you love doing. At this point in my career I’m fortunate enough to do music as my sole vocation. Ten years ago I was working at a coffee shop five days a week and finding any hole I could in my schedule for performing or creating music. As far as balancing The Rocketboys and The Wealthy West, Rocketboys is definitely my main focus and I squeeze in Wealthy West when I get opportunities. My wife and I are currently going on a road trip and so I’ve scheduled some solo shows around where I’ll be on the trip. The Wealthy West came about because I would write songs that didn’t fit The Rocketboys. Our managers in L.A. encouraged me to do something with the songs, but I resisted for a while. I always wanted to do something with them, but I was scared to add another thing. In 2011 a couple of the songs I sent our managers got picked up by some television shows and then Paste Magazine wanted me to be part of SXSW. Then I was like, “Okay, I guess I’m doing this.” [Laughs] At that point I didn’t have a name. I didn’t want to go by Brandon Kinder and I didn’t really have any good ideas. So I called up one of my friends from a band I was in while growing up in Memphis and said, “Hey, you had a really cool name for a band back in high school. Umm, can I have it?” So that’s how that started. I did an EP in 2011 and then got busy until this year and decided this time I wanted to do a full-length record more professionally and with more pride. It’s been fun, and it’s different than playing with five guys. And this time I’m driving around with my wife, which is an added bonus. Rusty: That’s a great way to pay for vacation as you go. Brandon: Yes, for sure! I am really just playing small living room shows. No one really knows who The Wealthy West is, so it’s great to get a small group of people who do know you and care and have that intimate moment. Rusty: The first song on the new album is called “I’ve Gotta Go.” In it, you identify that voice that says “we won’t matter when we leave this world.” In the chorus, you respond “I’ve gotta try. I’ve gotta build something. I’ve gotta try. I’ve gotta make something good with my life, and I will not stop until I run out of time.” As someone in his late 30s, that is something with which I identify. I was wondering where that song came from. Brandon: You know, its always interesting to consider your legacy. I’ve always felt like I wanted to do something important with my life. I’ve always hoped I could. I wrote the song when The Rocketboys had half the band members quit and we were uncertain what was happening next. I began asking a lot of questions like “What is the point of music and writing songs when there are homeless people? Why invest in the arts? Is this career worth it?” Luckily, I’m not good at anything else, [laughs] so it kept me going. I wrote the song as a positive reminder because I do think the arts are important and music does something good in the world. Rusty: Yeah, tonight my wife and I were sitting at your show and that value was apparent. My wife lost her mom a few weeks ago. You sung a song where you reference someone you strongly desire to see and beautifully sing “I’ll meet you on that silver line.” I think my wife needed that line tonight. It did something. Brandon: Wow, thanks. That means a lot. That’s been a big thing with me in songwriting. I’ve always wanted songs I write to mean something. There is a lot of fluff out there. I want to write things that connect on a deeper level. I don’t want that to be arrogant or cocky. I can and have written goofy songs as well. Rusty: One of the things I’ve noticed about your lyrics is that you tend to write about weightier things connected to family and friendships. You write about faith and love — not just superficial romance, but more the nuances of love. I don’t know if that goes against the grain of the rock genre, but it does give it some added depth, which makes me think about your song “Stormy Weather.” That song is about your family. I don’t get to interview people very often, in fact you’re the first, in which I know the artist’s parents and am friends with them. Since you reference them in your songs, can you tell me a bit about how you think they’ve influenced you musically and as a person? Brandon: Well if you look around the room we’re sitting in [the room is the front room of Brandon’s parent’s house in Memphis] you see all these instruments my parents play [piano, guitar, dulcimer, some other stringed instrument I don’t event know the name of]. I just found out my granddad sang in a quartet on the West Coast. My mom played the guitar while I was in the womb. I don’t remember it happening, but I’m guessing it made an impact. Rusty: I wanted to ask about your song “I’ll Get By” because its incredibly catchy and it begs for background information. Were you writing that song when you were struggling to make ends meet or facing some kind of intense challenge? Brandon: That song actually came from a writers group I’m a part of in Austin. Whoever is facilitating at the time will usually send out a line, phrase, or word from which we find inspiration to write. This one week in particular, we read an essay from the singer who led the band The Verve Pipe [Brian Vander Ark], which was commercially successful in the ‘90s. In recent years he has had to find other ways to keep his music career afloat. He will do house shows and that sort of thing which is very different than the big shows. I remember him saying that when you love what you do you find a way to “get by.” That phrase stuck with me because it’s true for me. I don’t know what it’s like to “make it” in the music business but I do know what it’s like to work hard to “make it by” because I love doing what I get to do. Rusty: Can you tell us about some musical influences? Brandon: I grew up listening to a lot of the vocal group Acapella. Still there is something so awesome to me about that group and that kind of music. I’ve also always liked this sort of epic music by some bands like Radiohead, Sigur Ros, Arcade Fire. That sort of thing. It’s weird. I haven’t always been into the folky, singer-songwriter stuff I do now. But I have always loved songs that mean something and make you feel something, and I think the genre I’ve landed in is a good space in which to do that. David Ramirez is also a good friend of mine in Austin and is also doing some good music. Rusty: I’ve never heard anyone who said they like both Acapella and Radiohead in the same sentence. [Laughs] But I’m coming from where you’re coming from so I get it! [Side Note: both Brandon and I grew in an a cappella Christian tradition. Both his parents help lead our singing time. His mom has an incredible tenor voice I’ve loved for years.] Brandon: Yeah, what’s actually really funny and cool is growing up in a cappella churches you’re kind of a black sheep if you can’t carry a tune in a bucket. That’s actually been really helpful for me in my career. Also I come from a family that is always singing and I was in choir in high school. Rusty: You have one or two songs you’d like to tell us about? Brandon: Yeah! The song “We Painted Pictures” [from The Wealthy West self-titled EP] is one I proposed to my wife with. I tried to incorporate some things from our first few dates into the song and into my proposal. On our first date we just rode a bus around Austin and got to know each other. On another date I brought this book over and when I met up with her I said we can’t talk on this date, we can only write to each other in this book. So we went to Benihana’s for dinner which was odd because you’re sitting at this table with a bunch of other people while you aren’t talking. Just writing. Then we went ice skating. So when I proposed we took a bus ride and I brought some headphone splitters and when the lyric “Will you be my wife?” played I awkwardly got into proposal posture on a crowded bus and I wrote “Will you marry me?” in our little book, and the rest is history. That’s a song I didn’t rerecord because I want people to hear what she heard. Another song is “That Silver Line” [on most recent EP Long Play] which we mentioned earlier. It is about having that person we can go to who can be that silver line and show us that silver line we all need. At the time I was feeling sort of lost. It’s easy to get down on yourself and wonder if music is what you want to do and if it is sustainable. It’s a song that is important to me because it reminds me I haven’t fallen down so far that I can’t get back enough. #BrandonKinder #TheRocketboys #TheWealthyWest

Two weekends ago I visited an Amish greenhouse with my parents. To get there you have to wind through the back roads of Cadiz, Kentucky — past the rock quarry where they do all that blasting, past those yellow fields shining-full of canola — then take a right turn by the big aluminum mail box, and pull your car up the long, crackling gravel driveway that divides a white, two-story farmhouse from three round-top tents full of plants. An eight-year-old boy uses that same driveway for his family’s horse wagon. The animal is strong-shouldered but compliant to a gentle command. The child wears a straw hat with a wide brim, and his little bare feet have soles that are black and thick from outdoor wear. He keeps his balance by pushing his arches into the singletree, which leaves his toes free to bounce according to the jostle of lane. A girl about fifteen, with short, dirty fingernails, no makeup, and cheeks flushed from the afternoon heat, works the greenhouse cash register. The front of her navy cotton dress doesn’t have any buttons; it holds itself together by a line of straight sewing pins, and I’m not sure how she manages not to snag her arms on their sharp tips, laboring as hard as she does. Her mother tends the same tent, and all around her there is the scent of busy hands stirring pots of herbs — lavender and lemon thyme, and also the smell of a human body working. The smell of a body doesn’t bother me, and it never has. It reminds me of old people from my childhood — the sort who wore long cotton sleeves in August and kept their shirt tails tucked in. The Amish greenhouse is offering a new product this year, little fairy gardens, baskets full of succulents and tiny figurines. I say “fairy garden,” but that’s not quite right. There are no dragons, elves, wizards, or fairies — just tiny replicas of everyday farm life in miniature. One basket has a wee clothes line, and another a wooden bench the size of a paperclip. There is a well (for drawing water, not wishes), and a one-room church building. When I asked the teenage girl if she had fun deciding what should go into each scene, her eyes got so lit up I could barely look at her. Innocence is all things bright and beautiful in this world where young women her age have learned to be vain, silly, and severe. I wondered if quiet, simple labor could make the feet of a soul thick enough to walk barefoot on sharp earth without getting cut. An old Shaker song that I have always loved says: “’Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free, ’tis a gift to come down where we ought to be. And when we find ourselves in the place just right, ‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight. When true simplicity is gained, To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed, To turn, turn will be our delight, Till by turning, turning we come ’round right.” It’s a fine sentiment, but is it possible to live this way without living down a gravel lane and two miles back in time? How do we choose simplicity in a culture like ours? “I want you to be wise as to what is good and innocent as to what is evil,” says the Apostle Paul, though I can’t check the nightly news without finding stories that make my ribs hurt. There are so many days I want to run away from it all, to go Thoreau (or go Amish?), to live off the earth and read books by the dozens in a quiet room. But Jesus prayed for His disciples to stay in the game, saying: “I do not ask that you take them out of the world, but that you keep them from the evil one.” He seems to want us to carry the ring to Mordor against all odds of our own flesh and nature. He presses us to lean in to a church so broken that not even a flurry of holy epistles repaired it entirely. I don’t like the disappointment of all that because I am an idealist. However, maybe there’s something healthy about the let down. Bonhoeffer writes: “The sooner this shock of disillusionment comes to an individual and to a community, the better for both.” This process isn’t going to be pretty — a startling message to a generation that groans and complains because we have been disappointed by messy believers. We get hurt, and sulk, and want to withdraw, not realizing that it’s actually a good thing to find the ends of ourselves, and the ends of our most trusted friends. It’s a good thing because it pushes us to keep going until we find the very bones of the grace of God. When I was twenty-two, and wide eyed, and hopeful, I decided to bank everything I had on this journey. I didn’t know how dangerous it was out here, and I didn’t expect to fail as much as I have, or to have others fail me. Pain has tempted me to doubt God and everything else. While trying to be the older brother, I became the renegade, and then while being forgiven for running off, I’ve grown proud and angry about the next youngest son shaking the dust of this dirty little town off his feet and going to see the world. All that time, the love of God has sustained me. My scars tell the story of my Father’s love. As a child, I’m thankful for the persistence of the Abba who pursues me, but as a mother, I want something different for my own children. I want to be the sort of parent who produces  kids who only make good choices in a safe and easy world. I want my children’s most difficult moral dilemma to be an episode of Leave it to Beaver. I want their biggest adventure to be a solo run down to some Main Street soda fountain, and for their curiosity to lead to a Google search on “sea turtles” that never leads to a porn site. I want a Wordsworthian paradise, a Tasha Tudoresque sanctuary, a Shire, and a Green Gables . . . one of those gentle places we all keep expecting to come home to every evening when the tides of darkness roll in. We’ve never known Rivendell, of course, but somehow we remember it anyway, and until we find our way back to coordinates that make more sense than 2016 does, we are going to feel displaced. We are going to feel the need to be wary and fierce. This morning I texted my He-Man brother and said, “Hey, what kind of martial arts class should I enroll your niece in to make her college-proof?” “Krav Maga,” he said. I laughed, imagining my 16-year-old as a lethal weapon. We landed on Jujitsu, because learning self defense feels like like one thing and learning how to murder somebody  feels like another. This is one of those lines I draw in the polluted air of a fallen world, looking for ways to make my kids strong but pure. I’m not sure I’m doing that right, or if it’s even possible. And I’m not sure how to help them know deep hunger for the Lord without knowing what it’s like to fill their bellies with husks left for the pigs. If I could choose for them, I would give my children the way of Enoch, that man who walked small and honest beside God until he found one day that he was walking inside of Him. ‘Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be Enoch, and his is the path I’d want my children to take if I held the game controls of their lives, though I’ll admit it’s mostly fear which drives me there, not faith. Parenting messes with your vision, see, and hindsight isn’t 20-20 at fourty-four. There are people my age who write books on raising kids right, and doing marriages right, and living life right, but I guess I’m just slow, because it’s too early for me to tell where I won and where I lost. I can speculate, of course, but I’m not fully sure if I sent my little ones too much into world, or if I kept them back too far from the edge of the cliff. Maybe I should have found a farm house out in the middle of nowhere and taught them how to drive a horse cart. Maybe I should have sent them off for a summer to work in an orphanage in South America, or let them go to those midnight swimming parties with no chaperones, or bussed them off to the roughest public schools. I don’t know any of that yet, but I do know that, “Go ye therefore” is risky, and so is “Stay here close to Mama.” And I know sometimes kids who seem tidy at twenty blow all four tires at forty, and sometimes young rebels grow up to become martyrs and saints. There’s no way for me to carry all that. I’m not strong enough. I’m not smart enough. I can’t get far enough off the earth to see life in miniature.  I need God to complete what He began. I planted as best as I knew how, and others have watered, but it’s going to take the Lord to cause the growth. My husband keeps reminding me that the fatal flaw of most writers is to try and make sense of things before they have come to their natural end. It’s the dark side of the creative nature to jimmy-rig the regular progression God has ordained, to hover over the chaos of our own lives and force light from dark, to pull the moth out of her cocoon three days too early, and KABLAM!, command her to fly. No matter what we believe about the origin of the physical universe, writers tend to be young earth creationists when it comes to the themes of their own stories, compressing billions of nuances of grace evolving through mystery into our own six days and six paragraphs, rushing through the fiery demise of our giant, reptilian sins, through the embarrassing crude lines of our first cave paintings, through our Renaissances, through our nuclear winters, jumping straight into “They lived happily ever after. The end.” We want to zoom out and make a fairy garden of what hurts to see large and up close. We don’t like the way plain bodies smell while they are doing their daily, dirty work. We get nervous and look for the punchline before the joke is told out, because patience is too often scratchy like faith. And yet, what freedom waits for the creative soul who is willing to walk back into the mess of itself, willing to depend upon a God who lives, and moves, and forgives, and upholds. He will give moments of clarity, bits of wisdom and beauty. We will learn to preach the gospel to ourselves and to others in small, honest ways. But when too much around us is too complex to untangle, when we begin to grope and fear, reliance on the I AM is a dot on the horizon, a lodestar. ‘Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free, ’tis a gift to rely upon the strong arms and wide heart of God. ‘Tis a gift to be a holy fool, come down where we ought to be. (To be continued…) NOTE: To prepare for Part 2 of this series, you are welcome to read through Flannery O’Connor’s “The River” and “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.” Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie will also be referenced, so if you haven’t seen the version with Katherine Hepburn playing Amanda Wingfield better than anyone will ever play that character, go ye thereforth and find it as fast as your little legs can carry you.

“A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered.” ― C.S. Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet Today Doug McKelvey and I launch a Kickstarter for the picture book The Wishes of the Fish King – a lyrical and wonder-filled story told by a father to his two-year-old daughter in hopes that it will help her to remember this magical season of her life. The illustrations are visual reflections of what she hears, and so are a blend of reality and her blossoming imagination. This project is about capturing and communicating that time in a child’s life when reality is fluid and wonder is born. So, for example, in the opening scene we see the child at play on the floor with blocks and various toys and books. But the floor is also a fantastical landscape with mountains and trees, above which are tiny birds in flight. This is clearly her world, a world that makes sense to her, burgeoning with unlimited possibilities. Doug penned this story for his daughter eighteen years ago, when they were at this stage in their life together. And I’m illustrating it as my son just begins to move into this same formative time. Doug was—and I am—keenly aware of the magic of this slender sliver of life, and we want to present a picture of it because it is glorious and full of wonder and worthy of our consideration. We want to capture it and share it because people so briefly experience this magical time with their children or grandchildren, nieces or nephews, and then, like a dream, it’s gone. We’re creating something that will remind people to treasure the season while they’re in it. We hope it will also serve to stimulate and recapture some of those sweet memories for parents and children who have already lived them. If you’ve ever viewed the opening sequence of the 1985 Geraldine Page film version of  The Trip To Bountiful, which portrays the old woman’s memory of being a young woman and running through fields of blue flowers with her little son, then you’ll have some sense of what we’re hoping to capture in The Wishes of the Fish King. We invite you to join us as we work to bring this project to life. Click here (or the image below) to visit our Kickstarter campaign. Thanks!

G.K. Chesterton called him “one of the three or four greatest men of the 19th century.” Madeleine L’Engle said he was the “grandfather of us all—all of us who struggle to come to terms with truth through imagination.” “George MacDonald gives me renewed strength during times of trouble,” she wrote elsewhere, “times when I have seen people tempted to deny God.” Oswald Chambers wrote in the early 20th century that “it is a striking indication of the trend and shallowness of the modern reading public that George MacDonald’s books have been so neglected.” Perhaps most famously of all, C.S. Lewis looked upon George Macdonald as a spiritual father. “I dare not say that he is never in error;” Lewis wrote, “but I know hardly any other writer who seems to be closer to the Spirit of Christ himself … I have never concealed the fact that I regarded him as my master; indeed, I fancy I have never written a book in which I did not quote from him.” For myself, I have never encountered a writer who has convinced me more plainly—or more poignantly—just what the love of God looks like. From his fairy tales, to his novels, to his sermons and essays, MacDonald never veers from his central truth: that God loves the people He has made, and will do whatever it takes to be reunited with them. The Gospel flashes on every page, yet his stories are never preachy. They are hard at times, requiring painful obedience on the part of his characters, but it’s an obedience born out of love, not legalism. At face value, George MacDonald’s stories are rip-roaring yarns, most of which are set in Scotland, with a dash of Highland wildness for good measure and more than a generous helping of brogue. But it doesn’t take more than a casual acquaintance with MacDonald to realize that there’s much more going on here than meets the eye. Like the fire of roses in The Princess and the Goblin, there is an irresistible fragrance and warmth at the heart of his tales, drawing us into the essential comfort of the good news they bear. From the wells of a limitless imagination, Macdonald draws us unforgettable pictures of an active salvation; his words are a bracing draft of Kingdom wine to cheer the heart, and a stiff breeze of Kingdom freshness to clear the mind and open the eyes. And I’ve found that the longer I sit with his stories, the more they mean—and the more I see. I read Phantastes (the book that Lewis credited with the “baptism of [his] imagination”) upwards of ten years ago, but the images contained therein are of such a continually recurring vitality, it seems like I read it only yesterday. It would be unfortunate, however, to read only his stories and miss his sermons and essays. While MacDonald’s fiction is thick with imagery and quotable lines, there’s a straightforwardness about his non-fiction that collars the heart with its insistence on the greatness of grace, and the unnecessary hardship of resisting it. When C.S. Lewis compiled his famous Anthology of MacDonald’s work, he pulled heavily from the author’s three-volume collection of Unspoken Sermons: “My own debt to this book is almost as great as one man can owe to another,” Lewis wrote, “and nearly all serious inquirers to whom I have introduced it acknowledge that it has given them great help—sometimes indispensable help toward the very acceptance of the Christian faith.” But, oh, how I love his stories! Being of an imaginative turn of mind, that is where he meets me best, among his gallant Highlanders and goblin-defying princesses and haunted castles and agelessly immortal great-great grandmothers. And while I appreciate the fact that recently edited versions of MacDonald’s fiction have brought dear Grandpa George out of total obscurity in this day and age, I really think it’s a shame to miss his tales in their original language. To be sure, the brogue can be a bit of a challenge at first, like reading Shakespeare for the first time, but once you get its cadences in your head, it fills your mind with music. And in a brisk world of complicated ‘conveniences’ and short attention spans, I’m convinced that a little mental workout is as good for the soul as it is for the head. George MacDonald is a treasure for the seeking heart. And it is for this reason that I am absolutely thrilled to be able to offer today some exquisite, heirloom-quality editions of MacDonald’s works. These books are produced by a small family press, using printing plates made from antiquarian originals, some of which are first editions. The books are printed on a Heidelberg press, using archival paper and soya-based ink—and, what’s more, these books are bound by hand. Being a bookbinder myself, I simply cannot get over the quality and craftsmanship of these volumes. They are simply beautiful. Not only that, they are durable, having been coated with the same waterproofing material that was used in 19th century bookbinding technique. These books are as close as you can get to what a brand-new edition of an original George MacDonald book would have looked like. (And I will go ahead and say that I’m fortunate enough to own personal copies of all of these books…there’s no way I could part with them otherwise!) There are selections of sermons and literary criticism, in addition to several of his novels, among them my personal favorite (of the non-fantasy fiction variety), What’s Mine’s Mine. There’s also a copy of the beloved Sir Gibbie (“It moved me the way books did when, as a child, the great gates of literature began to open and first encounters with noble thoughts and utterances were unspeakably thrilling,” wrote MacDonald’s editor Elizabeth Yates) and it’s deliciously inscrutable sequel, Donal Grant… among others! To see all of the George Macdonald in inventory, you can click here. And as an added little bonus, I’m listing a pretty reading copy of MacDonald’s beloved fairy tale, At the Back of the North Wind. It’s a much-loved volume, in a rather Skin Horse kind of way, but the binding is sound, and the illustrations are enchanting. If you’re interested in reading a bit more about George MacDonald, you can read my review of Lilith here. Ron Block wrote a wonderful review of Donal Grant for The Rabbit Room. And here’s a long passage I love from Phantastes that gives a glimpse of the greatness of this great man’s heart, and the tenderness of his imagination.

Walt Wangerin is working on a great series of posts at his blog. They make for a fascinating window into the mind of a world-class writer. He’s laying out his case for craft and it’s worth paying attention to. Here’s an excerpt: As far as I am concerned, art occurs. It happens. It is always an event rather than an object — though it is by means of objects that art takes place. The painting, then, that hangs in a nighttime darkness on the museum wall is not itself art. It is a medium for art. When the light comes on, when a viewer steps before the shapes, the textures, and the colors composed upon the canvas, when the viewer enters the thing by playing her sight from part to part of the painting — that progressing event is art. Likewise, when this post is closed and unread, it has the potential to become art, but it still awaits the moment of its happening. It waits for a reader. It waits for you. Art is its own peculiar form of human communication. Read the full article at his blog via the links below. An Ethic for Aesthetics (Intro) An Ethic for Aesthetics: What Is Art? (1/6) An Ethic for Aesthetics: The First Covenant (2/6)

[Fantasy adventure and slapstick cartoon humor. Martin runs from dragons and bandits, while Marco tries to break out of a desert camp. The River Fox, volume two of The Dragon Lord Saga is now premiering one episode a week at Webtoons (also check out volume one, Martin & Marco).]

If you haven’t watched this yet, take 20 minutes out of your day and enjoy this conversation between two icons. They discuss the effect the Psalms have had on them, including great thoughts about the importance of art and the need for approaching art with honesty. If nothing else, it’s worth it just for Eugene Peterson’s infectious smile and his introduction to the mash pit.

To my beautiful daughters, Last night in our church, surrounded by so many of the people we love, I watched you stand up together and publicly share your faith in Christ. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I cried. Not just last night but countless times over the past week. I cried again this morning as the reality of it hit me. You know that I cry easily and often. It’s been that way for a long time. Happy things. Sad things. Beautiful things. They all make me cry. You’ve been around me for long enough to know that. However,  as I reflect on what took place last night, I want to take a moment to explain why the emotion that has overwhelmed me this week has a deeper root than I suspect you fully understand. I know what it means to follow God and I know that sometimes it is hard. I know that we live in a broken world with sharp edges which pierce your heart and leave you breathless with pain. I know that sometimes the questions in your head scream so loudly you can barely think. I know that who you want to be is rarely who you are and that the reality of it can all too easily drag you down. But. I also know that God is faithful. That, despite the failures and the pain and the disappointments, He can be trusted with your heart. I know that, often when you least expect it, He will surprise you with joy that is richer than anything you have ever felt before. I don’t know what life has in store for you. If I could, I’d wrap you up and protect you from every shadow that falls across your path. I’d fight every dragon and banish the darkness with words of love. The truth is, amongst the rich tapestry of life, there will be dark days. Days when you feel lost and alone, adrift in a world where you don’t quite belong. I need you to know that my tears are not for the heartaches you will face, although I would spare you them if I could. I cried because I was overwhelmed by the absolute certainty that you are going to be ok. I don’t know what you will face, what choices you will make or how long I will get to walk beside you on the road but I know this: The God you have trusted has been faithful to me through every moment of my life and He will be faithful in every moment of yours. I knew I didn’t deserve to sit there watching as my deepest prayers were answered. Your Dad and I have failed you so many times. You see the side of us that no one else sees. You know that we are far from perfect. You know that we argue sometimes and that it’s not pretty, that I can be unreasonable and unforgiving. You know the things we do can contradict our love for God. Yet, despite our stumbling, God has managed to captivate your hearts. We see that in you and we are deeply grateful. My prayer is that you remember our flaws, not so that you can copy them but so that you will always live with the freedom of knowing that God still uses imperfect people. I was reminded again yesterday that we are not the only ones who love you. You have so many people in your life who are cheering you on, supporting you and standing beside you. We are so thankful for all the friends who have had the courage to show you what it means to live as part of a community of God’s people. Never forget the lessons they have taught you. As you grow, don’t be afraid to be extravagant with your love, just as they have often been with theirs. Just as God has always been with us. As I listened to you speak with confidence and watched you step out of the water dripping wet, yet grinning with happiness, my heart was pierced with a joy so deep it almost hurt. Whatever you achieve in life, whether great and noble or seemingly insignificant in the eyes of the world, I need you to know that nothing will ever matter more than this choice you have made to follow God. If you only ever remember one thing I have told you, remember this: To pursue God is to pursue life. Out of that one choice, repeated in the countless moments of every day, will flow a life that is full of purpose and rich with joy, even in the shadows. That, above all else, is our desire for you. —Mum

The advent of YouTube in 2005 created an unprecedented opportunity for average people to create content and share it with the world. Of course, a lot of people took this opportunity to just create cat videos (and where would we be without them). Ten years later though, it has led to the rise of a new kind of entrepreneur and celebrity—the YouTube star. These are creative people who have found a niche and created a following, sometimes of millions of subscribers, by producing regular content of some form, whether that’s makeup tutorials, video-game playthroughs, or humorous vlogs. A rare group of these people have even become successful millionaires, as companies have tapped the advertising potential of their large audiences. My favorite YouTuber isn’t one of these millionaires. He only has about 840,000 subscribers—which is a pittance considering that the top channel on YouTube has 43 million subscribers. He also doesn’t take advertising deals just for the sake of earning money off his fan base. His name is Olan Rogers. I don’t remember when exactly I saw my first Olan Rogers video, but I remember that it was one of his storytime videos, called “Ghost In The Stalls.” By the end of the six-minute video, I’m pretty sure I was crying of laughter until my stomach hurt. Olan’s larger than life personality and enthusiastic storytelling ability had won me over. I subscribed and began following Olan’s regular video updates. Having followed Olan for awhile now, I’ve noticed several qualities about him that I admire and make me wish I could know him better as a person. The first thing I notice about Olan is joy. When you watch Olan tell a story or act in a comedy sketch, you see an open, childlike wonder and joy about life that is contagious. Olan isn’t exactly hip, or cool, or edgy, but he’s genuine and fun. He’s often reduced to laughing at his own ridiculousness, but in a way that invites you to laugh with him. The second thing I appreciate about Olan is that he encourages people to embrace themselves in all their awkwardness and weirdness by being his own awkward and weird self, whether that’s constantly referencing his love for 90s cartoons and video games or telling hilarious, embarrassing stories about his childhood. The third thing I love about Olan is that he seems genuinely interested in connecting with other people. Whether it’s doing a nationwide free pizza party like the Eat a Slice With Me tour, hosting free movie nights in the park, or creating The Soda Parlor in Nashville, Olan has utilized what can easily be an ego-centric medium to foster a community. The last thing I really appreciate about Olan is that he uses his platform to encourage others. He shares the hard realities of pursuing his own dreams but still has a buoyant optimism about life that is inspiring. The great Christian author G. K. Chesterton writes in Orthodoxy: “Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the uproarious labour by which all things live.” To me, Olan Rogers, who is himself a Christian, is one of the best embodiments of this kind of joy. To some, the idea of creating silly videos on YouTube may seem frivolous, but it’s often the seemingly frivolous acts of faithful people in the small corners of life that make or break the world in the long run. As Olan himself has said, “The world will feel like it’s out to get you, and that’s because the world isn’t a nice place. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be nice. And with a little charm, maybe we can make it a little bit nicer.” If you are an inhabitant of the lands of the Interwebs, check out Olan on YouTube. And if you live in the Nashville area, be sure to check out the awesome Soda Parlor and their delicious floats. Disclaimer: The author cannot be held responsible if you find yourself having used several hours of your day watching Olan Rogers videos.

We planted a new garden this year. We tried once before at another house, but the yard was nearly all in the shade. We spent months worrying over it and weeding it, until it all paid off when we harvested four pieces of okra and a cherry tomato. Lesson learned: Don’t plant a garden in the shade. I learn most things the hard way; gardening is no different. But this year we found a nice sunny spot, fenced it in to keep the deer and chickens out, and built seven raised beds. Big hopes. I mentioned deer and chickens—but let me be thorough. We have seven hens (Babs, Clementine, Henrietta, Wynona, Goodness, Mercy, and Early) and two roosters (Tom Bombadil and Shirley (Yes Shirley. Don’t ask.)), in addition to our three guineas (the Swat Team), six ducks (Mr. & Mrs. Meatball, Mrs. Waddlesworth, Mrs. McGillicutty, The Colonel, and Miss Peggy), dog (Penny), and a rabbit (Gus McCrae). Yes, we own a rabbit; no, I can’t explain why (Jennifer’s defense will no doubt entail a measuring of the exponential increase in cuteness when multiplied by a factor of cuddliness). If you count all that up, you’ll find we have twenty critters in our little parish. So each morning I get up and set the ducks loose in the yard, feed the chickens, walk the dog, feed the dog, and mostly ignore the rabbit (I leave him to Jennifer). Then I walk through our newly planted garden and inspect each seedling, noting its growth, attending its health, pulling a weed if necessary, and when I’m finished in the garden I walk the rest of the property, inspecting the trees and flower beds and piled-stone walls, the lawn, the outbuildings, and other such things. Often Jennifer accompanies me and we talk of the apples we hope to eat in a few years, or the ways we hope to reclaim and reinvigorate various areas of the property. Each morning I get up and repeat these rituals, and I’ve begun thinking of them as a form of liturgy. This repetition of tending and watching and waiting has grown beyond labor and become a comfort. In fact, I’ve suspected for a while now that these rites have been tending me as much as I tend to them. That was one of the thoughts tumbling through my mind as I drove north to Grand Rapids for Calvin College’s Festival of Faith and Writing. Truth be told, as I drove I was already anticipating my return home in five days, anxious to see my plants and animals again and appreciate how they’d grown while I was away. Spring was abloom in Tennessee, and I was sad to miss even a little of it. Still, if you’ve got to leave, an awesome writing conference is a good reason to do it. If the words “faith” and “writing” have any intersection in your life, you should put the festival on your list of things to do. It’s a great event, drawing together authors, poets, and filmmakers from multiple faiths and cultures to discuss and celebrate a huge range of issues. I can’t recommend it enough. It’s no Hutchmoot, but that’s a good thing because it’s a wholly different animal. One morning, I walked into a session titled “Crafting a Christian Creation Imagination.” Sounded interesting. I hadn’t heard of the speaker, but here’s how the program described the topic: “Norman Wirzba explores the difference between narrating the world as “nature” or as “creation.” The grammars of these two terms can be vastly different depending on context, and Wirzba proposes that a “creation imagination” gives us access to a new vision of life’s movement, meaning, and purpose.” It didn’t take long to be amazed by how thoroughly Wirzba was ringing my bells. His thesis was that when we think of the physical world as “nature” we put up a barrier between ourselves, our human world of culture and technology, and the world of plants and animals, earth and soil. But when we recognize our surroundings as an all-encompassing Creation, we are forced to reckon with our integral place within it—and that should necessarily change the way we interact with the world around us. Yeah, but that sounds like a bunch of hippie talk. What does it actually mean? It means he’s putting a sound theological foundation beneath all the stirrings I’ve had while planting my garden and tending my animals. It doesn’t do his session justice to boil it down, but let me try. When we divorce ourselves from our appointment as the caretakers of Creation, we suffer consequences. We lose an entire set of complex sympathies and skills that have been a vital part of the human experience for millions of years. So when I plant a seed and watch it grow, when I worry about the soil, when I hatch a chick and nurse it into a rooster named Shirley, I’m reacquainting myself with those nearly-lost traditions, and suddenly the whole world begins to look like a garden. When that veil is pulled back, I find there’s a holy responsibility that I can no longer so easily shirk. Think about this: Wirzba points out that in the beginning, God created a garden and set us within it. He walked with us, tending us, training us to garden alongside him. We screwed that up pretty soundly, but when God arrived once more in the flesh, in the person of Christ, we find that he spent much of his time here engaging in acts very like those of a gardener: tending his creations by healing them, giving them wine to drink, food to eat, casting out disease, pulling up weeds. And then, on Easter morning, whom does Mary mistake him for? Is this a random act of mistaken identity? Or has she seen to the truth of the matter? God in the Garden once more—only this time Christ is the gardener of a newly planted Creation, one of which he is himself the first fruit. If we are the Body of Christ, are we not also called to be gardeners and caretakers of the New Creation? When you tend a thing and pour yourself into it, it loves you back with the fruit it bears. It loves you, literally, when it feeds you, giving its life so that yours may thrive. Pete Peterson Scripture is rife with the metaphor of God as gardener (seriously, it’s everywhere). So is it any wonder that when I turn my compost pile and look with awe at how my table scraps have been transformed into rich black soil, that I’m moved by a mystical sense of communion? Or when I raise a chicken from a hatchling, caring for it, feeding it, tending to its welfare, should I wonder that I weep when I find it’s been attacked by a predator and has to be put out of its suffering? Or think about this (again, Wirzba’s wisdom, not my own): Because so many of us have left the land, left behind those peculiar sympathies and skills so long a part of who are, because we’ve forgotten how to love the land in an intimate and physical way, we’ve denied ourselves the opportunity for the land to love us back. Yes “love.” When you tend a thing and pour yourself into it, it loves you back with the fruit it bears. It loves you, literally, when it feeds you, giving its life so that yours may thrive. The scriptures tell us to “taste” and see that the Lord is delicious. Isn’t that amazing? Creation is one of the biggest ways in which God is expressing his love for us, and we are cutting ourselves off from the possibility of experiencing that expression. After Norman Wirzba’s session, I was full of questions he didn’t have nearly enough time to answer. I snatched up a copy of his book, Faith and Food: A Theology of Eating, and I’ll be back with a more thorough recommendation once I’ve finished, but I can tell you it’s good—very good. As I drove back home from Michigan, I passed, in a matter of hours, from the gray, leafless pre-Spring of the North into the verdant full-swing Spring of middle-Tennessee. It was like watching Creation happen right in front of me, and thanks to the festival and Norman Wirzba, I was seeing it with new eyes. I brought home a lot of great things from the festival, but this was by far the best: Each morning when I wake, I am the celebrant in a liturgy that leads me through the sacrament of Creation. I process through garden aisles. I pastor the beans, and the grape vines, and the apple trees, and, yes, even the chickens and ducks. They sing praises in crows and quacks. They make offerings of eggs, or fruit, or even simple beauty. They come forward to partake of the food I offer, and I leave them with a blessing. Among my little flock, I am at once priest and parishioner. They minister to me, I to them. Together we are co-participants in Creation, gardener and garden, watching, waiting, working toward a Garden yet to come. World without end. Amen. I can hardly wait for the harvest. “The Sower’s Song” by Andrew Petersonhttps://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/The-Sowers-Song.mp3

Welcome to the Mouse Territories. Blacksmiths, masons, healers, and craftsmice ply their trades in grand cities and small townships, from the libraries of Lockhaven to the homey inn in Barkstone. But who seeks out the safe ways from village to village? Who patrols the borders and defends the paths from savage beasts and the weasel armies? The Guard. Mouse Guard is a graphic novel series by David Peterson, published by Archaia comics. The series has won four Eisners and hit the New York Times bestseller list, as well as garnering the greatest award of all: a cult following of loyal fans. I am one of those fans, and a recent rereading of the series gave me a new appreciation for the power and artistry at work here. The animal-fantasy premise draws inevitable comparisons to Redwall and Watership Down, but Peterson’s main inspiration was the medieval role-playing games he fell in love with as a kid. He blends animal stories and high fantasy in an immersive illustration style that speaks of his background as a printmaking major, crafting a thoroughly and lovingly detailed mouse civilization. The result is a visual feast, evocative and cinematic, rich with themes of loyalty and betrayal, hope and despair. Mouse Guard has spun off a fantastic anthology series, an award-winning role-playing game and some really sweet legos. But the main story (thus far) is contained in three gorgeous hardcover editions from Archaia: Fall 1152, Winter 1152, and The Black Axe. FALL 1152 WINTER 1152 THE BLACK AXE I can’t wait for more. Peterson has a new volume in the works, a story set during the great Winter War of 1149. In the meantime, if you haven’t entered the world of Mouse Guard yet, there’s plenty of time to catch up on the first three volumes, and the Legends of the Guard anthology books are a smorgasbord of comics from some of the most skilled artists working today.

I’ve been traveling through a strange season for the past few years. It’s been heavy with snow and cold. In my struggle to keep stepping forward, I decided to fill my time by becoming a Certified Master Gardener. Even though my life has always involved gardening, I still lacked a vast amount of knowledge. And the more I learned, the more I saw how closely plants and seasons resemble the cycles of human life. Some seeds literally cannot grow until they have waited through a period of cold, hoping for the spring. If you plant this type of seed in the spring, even in the most perfect of conditions, it will fail to germinate, rot into the soil, and disappear forever. It must undergo the pressure of freezing and thawing. It must be weighted under the silence of thick blankets of snow, left all alone. Then, and only then, can it grow to its full potential. Spring has a way of coming without notice. It can be desperately cold forever and then an unexpected warm day brings early flowers pressing up for light. These perennials are my favorites! Even though many perennials are considered weeds, wild and of no use at all, I connect with them deeply. Their strength, resilience, grace, and beauty speak to me in a way few words can. Last fall, I began to notice whispers and signs, signaling to me that it was time to wake up, that spring was trying to come to my life again. It seemed that over and over a reoccurring theme of “again” was happening all around me. Last October I was attending Hutchmoot for the second time and Walt Wangerin Jr. spoke about a lady from his church. She had passed away and the children in his congregation were angry! So one Sunday, he called them up front to tell them a story. His tale about a lily drew me in, just as it had the children, and when he reached the final lines the room was blanketed in silence. Those few moments seemed like an eternity. I felt a panicked choking back of tears until the applause erupted and helped me regain composure. Winter doesn’t always lift as quickly or as easily as we would like. But sitting here, these months later, with spring bursting forth all around me, I can’t help but think back on Walt’s story. It’s okay to hate the darkness, because we have hope. As much as I dread the winter, without it spring would not be as glorious. In these seasons of freezing and thawing, of cold and silence, things are happening to prepare us, to make us ready, to give us strength to shake off the snow and stretch toward the light, again! “Lily” –by Walt Wangerin, Jr. Transcribed from his Hutchmoot 2015 address [Used with permission.] Way up in the north, where the north forest ends and the ice begins, all the way to the North Pole, right there, there lived three sisters. The oldest sister was called Bean Plant. She thought that she was fairly important—no, very important—in the world because she produced food. She produced food that other people could eat and satisfy themselves and get nutrition. “I am important!” The second sister was named Marigold. Marigold said, “I am a knockout! The world needs beauty! I fulfill the world’s needs! Art is beauty, beauty is art.” But their third sister was Lily, and Lily had almost nothing to recommend her. No blossoms, she was just a thick stem, vestigial leaves, and a silliness that drove her sisters crazy. She talked to the Sun! “Oh, Lily! Sun doesn’t talk! Sun is a ball of heat!” Older sister: “Sun helps me make green beans. Sun serves me!” “The Sun,” said Marigold, “shines on me, let’s everybody see my great beauty. Sun doesn’t talk.” And Lily said, “Maybe not. Maybe so.” Here’s how Lily talked to the Sun. The Sun would rise and sit upon the eastern horizon and its effulgence would say, “GOOD!” and Lily would say, “Morning!” And that’s how they talked together: “GOOD . . .” “. . . Morning!” And the Sun would become as high as it gets in the sky at noonday and the Sun would say “GOOD . . .” and Lily would say “Day!” And then the sun would sit on the western horizon and just before it went to bed it would say “GOOD . . .” and Lily never said “Bye,” but always “good Night” in order to see him the next morning. And so it went, day after day. And the sisters put on a party. And everybody came: the squirrels came, the birds came, little mice, trees came, stones rolled up, everybody having fun. Until Lily came to the sisters and said, “There’s something wrong with the Sun!” And everybody in the party looked at her and the sisters said, “Don’t mind her. She’s so silly! She knows nothing about good work and prettiness.” “No!” Lily said. “The Sun is getting lower and lower. He gets up later in the morning. He can hardly make it up in the sky, and he goes to bed really early in the evening! I think he’s dying!” “Oh, Lily! Sun doesn’t die! And even if it did,” said Bean Plant, “look at me! I got all these beans now! Dried out, but enough for people to eat. I’m a worker, Lily! Don’t need the sun when you got me!” And there was Marigold, same sort of a thing: “Well even if the Sun isn’t here to glorify my beauty, I’ll be the sun for everybody!” But Lily was angry. Sun was lower and lower and the last time that it sat, now on the southern horizon, it said to Lily one word. It said one word that Lily would hold onto. And now all the birds began to fly for the south, and mice went into their holes deep in the ground for the winter, and the leaves tore off the trees, and they were all saying, “The Killer is coming! The Killer is coming!” They said to the sisters, “Get out of here! The Killer kills by kissing!” and the whole place cleared out. The trees, no leaves, they just stood there, dark silhouettes against the horizon. The Killer kills by kissing. Bean Plant said, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! I’ve worked all my life! I’ve done exactly what I could! I did what was required of me! I—it’s not—” Lily said, “It’s—wait!” She said, “Bean Plant, I—” “It’s not fair!” said Bean Plant. “It’s not—” and the Killer had killed her by kissing her. And there was Bean Plant, all alone in the field, shivering and dry and dead. The Killer kills by kissing, and it doesn’t only go through the air! Marigold said, “It’s not fair! I am so beautiful! Certain things like me ought to live forever. It’s not fair!” Here came the killer. Lily said, “Wait! Wait, I have a word . . .” “It’s not fair!” Marigold shoved her head into the ground, and even through the ground came the Killer, and the Killer kissed her and she was dead. And then the Killer came for Lily, and she said, “I hate you! You took my sisters! I hate you!” With all of her heart, she screamed “I hate you!” and then allowed it—and Lily herself went into the ground and didn’t come out. Come around Easter time, I can take you to that point, the northern most edge of the northernmost forest and I can show you something growing there as the sun comes up and up and up. I will say, “Look at that white blossom. What do you see inside of it?” And you will say, “Aw! A drop of water!” And I say, “What do you think that water is?” And you might say, “Well, I don’t know. A dew drop?” I’d say, “No, that drop of water is a tear drop. Because this is how the Sun raises things. By kissing. The Sun kissed Lily under the ground and Lily grew. And there she is with that beautiful blossom. “And the word, the word that the Sun gave her, the word of hope that allowed her to hate the Killer, that word was: “. . . Again, again, again, again. Again.”

On Walt Wangerin’s blog there’s a fantastic series of posts about children and the power of stories. If you love stories (for adults or children) this is a great opportunity to sit at the feet of a master and soak in some wisdom. One:  Wild Things Maurice Sendak once told me of the furor that followed the publication of his children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are.  By pictures and elementally simple language, the story follows a small boy to bed, and then into his vivid, funny, and sometimes disquieting imagination as the bedroom itself morphs into a terrible woods and frightening creatures appear: the wild things.  Many parents and some reviewers were downright upset that small children would see such stuff.  They believed it would damage the children, implanting frights and fears in innocent brains, inspiring nightmares.  Sleep?  Sendak hath murdered sleep. [Read the entire series at Walt’s blog.] Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Around this time last year I received the manuscript for Book 2 of Dr. Critchlore’s School For Minions, tentatively titled The Search For The Great Library. For anyone who does not know, this is a 4-book, middle grade series written by Sheila Graw that I am illustrating for Abrams/Amulet. The first thing we always do with these books is begin designing the cover. Some reasons for this are because the cover is then used in sales meetings, sales materials, and other ways to get everyone excited about the book, long before my interior art is complete. After I read the manuscript I began to compile a short list of important or prevalent aspects of the story to be hinted at in the cover image. For you to get a look at my thought process, I’d like to share my list, which looked just like this: —Outdoors, unfamiliar territory —Sunset or moonlight? Maybe high noon for a “the heat is on” feel —Giant ape / winged creatures (Ahools) silhouettes – Danger! Surrounded! —Facial expressions of fear, wonder, awe, mystery —Swamps? Jungle? —Map in hand? For Book 1, our heroes were shown at a bit of a distance to show their small size in a huge world with huge challenges. This time I envisioned a cover that was up close and personal, zoomed right in on our heroes faces. That way we can really connect with their emotions (hopefully). As for the gorilla, I went with the classic Ray Harryhausen puppet of King Kong as my reference. I’ve chosen classic movie monsters, and even muppets, as reference in these books rather than any modern horror in an effort to keep things fun and lighthearted. Next, I did a quick digital color painting using the approved sketch to decide on the color pallet. (I strayed some from this in the end, but stuck with my overall values and lighting) Again, I went with my old mystery stand-by: fog. I love fog. Also, I kept the map to show that the characters are working together with a plan, although Syke (the female character) is looking in the opposite direction to hint at the heroes not always being of one mind. Last, but not least, I threw in some fun. teal backlighting to give a mysterious blue glow, with no known source. I transferred the sketch to board and did the final painting in acrylic and gouache. I finished the cover off by adding 2 new stone pillars in the arch, with one final nod to Harryhausen in the form of his cyclops from The 7th Voyage Of Sinbad. As with Book 1, we wanted to continue our character cameos on the bottom corners of the cover. I decided to showcase the 2 rival characters most closely involved in the plot. I will let you figure out what that significance actually is by reading the book. Finally, I turned the Photoshop file over to my AD who made all the final color decisions for the arch and logo. The title of the book was actually changed to Gorilla Tactics which I found to be perfect, even though I love the sentiment of a mysterious library being searched for. (Don’t worry, that’s still a central plot point.) OK, that’s a wrap! Dr. Critchlore’s School For Minions, Gorilla Tactics, by Shiela Grau, is in stores now.

[Fantasy adventure and slapstick cartoon humor. Martin runs from dragons and bandits, while Marco tries to break out of a desert camp. The River Fox, volume two of The Dragon Lord Saga is now premiering one episode a week at Webtoons (also check out volume one, Martin & Marco).] Several time a week, I would beg for a trip to the public library or the bookstore. I’d come home with a book containing Peanuts comics by Charles Schultz. I would read and re-read the book until bedtime; then, after lights-out, I would sneak a flashlight under my blanket and read it some more. That covers most of my childhood. The only other thing you need to know is that when I was a few years older, I gained an appreciation for Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson and added that to my endless re-reading. While Peanuts founded my love of comics and drawing, Calvin and Hobbes was the inspiration that drove me to pursue building comics of my own. The Dragon Lord Saga is inspired by those two masterpieces of comic storytelling, but here are a few other inspirations that factor heavily into the adventures of Martin and Marco Millar: – The Duck stories of Carl Barks are whirlwind adventures that invented Scrooge McDuck, inspired the Indiana Jones films and embody my mantra for Martin and Marco: “Fun meets fantasy!” – Pogo by Walt Kelly is a wonderfully idiosyncratic comic strip that ran from the 1950s-1970s. The illustrated linework and the humor-filled expressiveness of the characters are the ideal I’m trying to achieve in my own comics. – Bone is a graphic novel series by Jeff Smith, who drew his inspiration from both Carl Barks and Walt Kelly, but threw a new element into the mix: an epic, Tolkienesque fantasy world. – Ben Hatke’s Zita the Space Girl stories opened my eyes to how a wild adventure like Bone could be tempered with a light, whimsical touch and quirky flights of imagination. – Roger Langridge has astounding visual shorthand and illustrated precision, along with a love of old cartoons and comics that feels nostalgic in every new project that he draws. Oh, and of course Looney Tunes humor keeps creeping into the Dragon Lord Saga. Because let’s face it, the work you produce can’t help but reflect your deepest obsessions.

Knoxville-based Adam Whipple is no stranger to most of you. But check out this fantastic video from Ghost Motel. This is Adam at his best. Check out the Ghost Motel website for more great music.

The folks at Laity Lodge just can’t seem to stop making awesome videos in their Box Canyon series. Claire Holley fell in love with The National’s “Start a War” when she heard it while watching the movie Warrior with her family. “I didn’t know what the song was about . . . but it was pitch perfect,” she says. “Not every song I fall in love with I want to sing, but I just decided that was one I wanted to do.” Claire, accompanied by Dan Phelps, played several songs on the day she ventured into Box Canyon, but her cover of “Start a War” stood out for the way she made it her own. For more, visit theboxcanyon.org

[Fantasy adventure and slapstick cartoon humor. Martin runs from dragons and bandits, while Marco tries to break out of a desert camp. The River Fox, volume two of The Dragon Lord Saga is now premiering one episode a week at Webtoons (also check out volume one, Martin & Marco).] I don’t have any multi-million-dollar toy deals, but when I discovered the sculpted art of Jenny Dorf last year, I knew that I needed to commission her to sculpt my characters for the following reasons: —Jenny’s sculptures are fun and awesome. Yup, that’s it. Just one reason. Check these guys out: Check out more of Jenny’s brilliant work at her web home, Whim’s Workshop — she’s loves what she does and she’s awesome at it!

Meaninglessness and meaninglessness and meaninglessness mixed with a good bath towel and conveniently placed feelings of right and wrong. Such is the world portrayed by Douglas Adams, best-selling author of the 1979 classic, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Hilarity in the face of irreverence in the face of randomness in the face of general upsidedownedness. It’s an intoxicating cocktail if you’re looking for a laugh or some quick nihilism, but downright disheartening if you’re hoping for some sort of purpose in life, the universe, and everything. I’m not a Douglas Adams scholar. Are there Douglas Adams scholars?* Do they present at the same conferences as Tolkein and Lewis scholars or do they prefer to share space with Trekkies and Star Wars experts? Whoever and wherever they are, I’m not one of them. Nevertheless, I imagine the following assertion put forward by characters such as Frankie the Mouse and Slartibartfast is indicative of Adams’s irreverent materialism: the now-destroyed earth was a manufactured planet created to find the Ultimate Question, the answer to which must be 42. A factory-built earth is not a philosophically edifying prospect, to say the least. And yet. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m listening to the audiobook of Hitchhiker’s Guide, and that audiobook is read by Stephen Fry, Jeeves himself. Perhaps it’s because the name Slartibartfast makes me laugh every time I hear it. Perhaps it’s because Adams’s whimsy reminds me of Victor Hugo’s early chapters of The Hunchback of Notre Dame: “Who is that pale-faced man at the foot of the [scaffold]? Why, courteous readers, that is poor Pierre Gringoire and his prologue. We had all quite and clean forgotten about him; and this was precisely what he was afraid of.” Whatever the reason, The Hitchhiker’s Guide has a refreshing snap to it. There’s something delightful in how it portrays the world, even if the world is meaningless. Even Christians find Adams’s commentary, his characters, his cleverness amusing. Why? We certainly don’t want to live in a world where the Earth is a blip in the cosmic scheme, and the only record of its existence is the entry “harmless.” We must have meaning and purpose, right and wrong, celebrated life and well-mourned death. In fact, we humans are so highly skilled in finding meaning that we can understand noble purpose in a traffic jam, a sickness, or even a death. After all, if we must have suffering, one of our few comforts is that there’s a higher reason for it. We must have laughter. But laughter requires a level of ridiculousness that can’t be true. In fact, it often stems from a situation so untrue that we who are “grounded and steadfast in the truth of the gospel” can enjoy the contrast, just as we enjoy a toddler wearing adult sunglasses, a cat barking like a dog, and a venerable 5-million-year-old-man named Slartibartfast. If Adams truly is suggesting that the world has no meaning, he’s standing on the shoulders of giants he doesn’t believe in. And he’s giving them a good laugh. *If you’re curious about this, check out Nicholas Jolls’ Philosophy and the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012).