What are you looking for?

I remember the first time I read The Princess Bride. I was a senior in high school and my sister was home from college for Christmas break, brandishing a thick paperback with the familiar title. Of course, I had seen the movie a handful of times, and I always assumed there was a book to go along, but I had no idea what I was getting myself into. “I’m going to read it to you,” Connie insisted, but the tables quickly turned. She came down with a case of pneumonia and I ended up reading the whole book to her instead. Fifteen years have passed since then and I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve read it together. It is, hands down, our favorite novel. Besides the witty narration and fun characters, what draws us most to this epic tale is its impossible challenges. As Connie and I deal with our own struggles in life, we are encouraged time and time again to see Buttercup survive the snow sand, Fezzik strangle the Arabian Garstini (snake), and Westley come back from the dead. Sure, it’s fiction, but it reminds us that “impossible” is a silly word, and you only say you’ll not survive the Fire Swamp because no one ever has (but that doesn’t mean you won’t). My sister and I share a love for reading, but we also share a disease called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. This essentially jumbles the message that runs from our brains to our spinal cords, causing our muscles to not work well and atrophy over time. We have used power wheelchairs for most of our lives, learned our way around a few hospitals over the years, and depended on others to take care of our personal needs for as long as we can remember. So it may come as no surprise that we like stories in which impossible challenges are overcome. It may also come as no surprise that we always have a good laugh at the absurd-yet-relatable antics of the gang as a rag doll Westley slowly comes back to life. “My brains, your strength, and his steel against a hundred troops? And you think a little head-jiggle is supposed to make me happy?” There is something silly and yet profound about watching Westley, Fezzik, and Inigo storm the castle gates by working together and getting creative with their unique skills. But it didn’t start here. This wasn’t the first disabled man Inigo had encountered, nor the first time he’d had to think outside the box in such a scenario. Impossible is a silly word, isn't it? Kevan Chandler There’s a minor character, tucked deep into a page that touches briefly on Inigo’s past. As he prepares to battle a hoard of king bats, the Spaniard recalls his time spent one summer with the crippled MacPherson, “the only Scot who ever understood swords.” MacPherson openly mocked Inigo’s formal training, showing how it was fine for a fancy sport but useless on a mountainside, or if your opponent threw acid in your eyes. Goldman explains, simply, “his legs stopped at the knee, and so he had a special feel for adversity.” He forced Inigo to break the mold of what was deemed proper strategy, and this affected the way Inigo lived his life, how he saw challenges and took on the world, all the way to the gates of Florin. So when even the problem-solving Westley, who days earlier wrestled an R.O.U.S., looks at their situation on the wall and announces, “It’s impossible,” Inigo steps in to say otherwise. He admits that he doesn’t know how it’s possible, but he knows it is and assures Westley they’ll figure it out—and they do! There’s a lot to be said here about disabilities, but I think the takeaway of MacPherson, Inigo, and the gang runs deeper. It’s a message we can all relate to because, at the end of the day, everyone faces impossible challenges, and the question is, what will we do with them? MacPherson had nothing below the knees, but his life didn’t stop there. He took on whatever obstacles stood in his way, from dressing himself in the morning to mastering swordplay on the side of a mountain. And because of his will to persist, his path crossed with Inigo’s for the learning Spaniard to grow in his skills. Inigo was always a caring and resolute achiever, but their time together honed this in tandem with innovation, so that by the time he sat on a castle wall with Westley’s limp-necked head flopped against his shoulder, there was nothing weird or impossible to him about the situation. I look at my own life and have to remember two reasons why I push through my own impossible challenges. First, God has given me life, to live to the fullest as best I can. It’s a gift to unwrap and enjoy, so I’m going to do just that! And it may not always be easy, but it is always worth it. Secondly, as a Christian, I am called to love others and pour into their lives. As I overcome (or even simply deal with) my own struggles, I invite others to learn and grow with me—and who knows what castle wall that will land them on in the future? My hope is that, as folks’ paths cross mine, they are enriched because of the impossible challenges I’ve faced and handled well. After all, “impossible” is a silly word, isn’t it?

While I was reflecting recently on Quentin Tarantino’s latest film Once Upon a Time In Hollywood, I was reminded of something T. S. Eliot wrote (unlikely pair, I know): “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal,” Eliot stated in his essay on Philip Massinger. “Bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.” For those unfamiliar with Tarantino’s filmography, the self-taught director’s entire career is steeped in this philosophy—stealing images, aesthetics, and even whole scenes from cinematic history in order to create something wholly innovative. In his most recent film (starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt), Tarantino reimagines the Hollywood of 1969 in a fictitious tale about a has-been TV western star, his stunt man, and the real-life events surrounding the Manson Family murders. But instead of merely imitating Hollywood history and the classic cowboy genre, Tarantino transcends his source material. He offers a mesmerizing pastiche, filled with snapshots from classics like Gunsmoke or The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly all sewn together into a cohesive patchwork quilt. This film (and much of Tarantino’s work) proves Eliot’s thesis: that art can never exist in a vacuum. Instead, artists combine, repurpose, and breathe life into an endless supply of “stolen” artistic ingredients in an attempt to make sense of our present world, situations, and stories. When I first discovered that artists were allowed (nay, encouraged) to heavily borrow from the past instead of attempting to imagine wholly novel ideas, it felt as though I was lifted from under the weight of every artist, musician, and author I ever admired. Now, I was able to stand firmly on their shoulders, hoisted by the strength of their collective creativity, knowledge, and wisdom. So although Tarantino’s films are often objectionable (and not recommended for those sensitive to crass language and gratuitous violence), I’m beyond thankful for his incomparable grasp on his art form and for his ability to transform borrowed and stolen experiences into something, well, Tarantinoesque. Yes, that’s a word in the Oxford English Dictionary. Now, the term “stealing” in this case may appear self-serving, but the thievery employed by Tarantino and described by Eliot is not a zero-sum game. Instead, it’s a powerful form of collaboration where the thief introduces his unique voice and the thieved artist is immortalized. While we do celebrate this collaborative connection to the past, it must be remembered that collaboration isn’t constrained to one-way conversations with dead poets. We live in community with other passion-filled artists—artists who help shape our worldview and whose collective voices are often louder, bolder, and more inspiring than a single voice. The most original parts of an artist's work may be those in which other artists, both dead and still living, assert their immortality most vigorously. Chris Thiessen The power of collaboration is displayed time and again in the music community. Most recently, I was blown away by its presence on Bon Iver’s album i,i. Just three years ago, Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon delivered a computery, inward-looking record titled 22, A Million. His experimental extremes throughout the album convey a feeling of isolation and wintry lonesomeness which remain haunting and beautiful today. However, on i,i, Bon Iver’s tone has shifted remarkably as Vernon steers the band into meaningful collaboration with a broader musical community to create something uplifting and transformative. The piano-driven, gospel-inspired song “U (Man Like)” is a perfect example of what I mean. The second verse reads, “Well, I know that we set off for a common place / And the lines have run too deep / How much caring is there of some American love / When there’s lovers sleeping in our streets?” The message is one of unity, of striving together toward a better “common place.” However, instead of just delivering this message himself, Vernon invited singer-songwriter Bruce Hornsby to sing the first lyric, art-pop artist Moses Sumney the second, and the Brooklyn Youth Chorus the third before Vernon is finally heard again. While it would be easy to think more collaborative voices would distort the distinct identity Bon Iver has crafted over their career, Vernon and company are more assured and confident here than they’ve ever been as they embrace the life-giving energy of community. Indeed, their identity is made all the more vivid because of the artists they’ve gathered around them—artists which have included Kanye West, James Blake, The National, and so many more in recent years. Often, individuality and originality are the most prized qualities to the critical eye, not collaboration. But if I may again paraphrase Eliot, the most original parts of an artist’s work may be those in which other artists, both dead and still living, assert their immortality most vigorously. I know that my arguments here for collaboration are just “stealing” and rehashing Eliot’s ideas as well as the Rabbit Room mantra that art nourishes community and community nourishes art. But I’m so encouraged that it’s not just something we say. It’s something I see in the work of Tarantino and Bon Iver. It’s something I see in hip-hop, a genre where you’ll be hard-pressed to find a project that doesn’t promote a deep sense of collaboration. Lastly, it’s something I see in my own work, even this essay which is the fruit of conversations, shared thoughts, and lots of encouragement from the community around me. So I apologize if you were hoping for some original, individualistic wisdom about art; I have none to share. Instead, I offer an invitation to create collaboratively and to steal confidently. Image by Tom Killion

Our first stop in Germany was to visit my brother- and sister-in-law in the small, industrial town of Hagen. We drove, we got lost, we got found, we ate, we visited, and then the next day we went to Cologne to see the famous cathedral there. The black facade of the church is the largest in the world, and the building took a staggering eight hundred years to complete. This means that for nearly a millennium, architects and engineers and masons and laborers spent their lives in service of a final work they knew they would not live to see. But when the building was finished in the late 19th century (still working off the original plans!), the king swung a ceremonial golden hammer and struck a ceremonial golden spike to mark the church’s completion. In his speech he proclaimed that after generations of back-breaking (and bank-breaking) labor, the work was finally done and the church would stand for millenia as a sign of the greatness of, wait for it, “our great city.” Do you hear that dissonant note? After climbing hundreds of tower steps and walking the cavernous nave and marveling at the craftsmanship and dedication involved in raising up something so beautiful, that speech landed on me like the final episode of Lost. Eight hundred years invested in a church building—and in the end it’s all for the glory of your city? That golden hammer went wide of the mark. How tragic to fumble the final act after such a storied history. I’d think about this a lot during our trip through Germany—the way that people and cultures so often stray over time, winding up at destinations far afield. We visited Wittenburg and stood at the door of the church and walked through Wartburg Castle where Luther fled in the aftermath of his defiance. We stood in the room where he translated the Bible into the language of the people. Eventually we’d even stand in Charlemagne’s throne room, the very seat of Christendom. Everywhere we went, the land was marked by history. The Church itself had marched through these ancient woods, through time, through space, always setting out with the grandest of intentions—often ending up elsewhere. Germany is a land built in the shadows of giants. And yet, those weren’t the shadows we’d come to see. We’d sometimes find ourselves talking to our AirBnB hosts, or to a local waiter or waitress, and they’d ask what brought us all the way from Tennessee. They’d inquire with a friendly smile and piqued curiosity, but upon hearing my answer, they’d change. “I’m doing research for a play. I’m here to visit a concentration camp.” Then followed the faded smile. And then the solemn nod, as if to say “Ah, that old spectre. Two thousand years of theology, and philosophy, and civilization, and music, and architecture, and art—but the swastika has blotted it out. We really messed things up. How long will it haunt us?” It was only ever an instant that I saw the disappointment, then they’d put on a good face and cover it up. But it was there, and I felt the pain of it, something like embarrassment. I wonder if the king ever felt that way after he swung his golden hammer. I suppose not. But the spectre of the swastika is what brought us here. A short drive north of Berlin, out in the wooded countryside, we entered Ravensbrück, the camp where Corrie and Betsie ten Boom were imprisoned in 1944. The SS command center sat like a crude industrial blight on the shores of a small lake, and the ruin behind the building spread across the ground like a salted field that would have to lay fallow for a generation before it could bear fruit again. I didn’t know what to expect. A few plaques? A memorial? A list of names? I had no idea. But I’ve come to think of the experience as a mirror image of the experience of visiting the Grand Canyon. The ground and stones themselves cried out, adding name after name to the same lament they sang for Abel. Pete Peterson When you go to the Grand Canyon the first time, you think you know what to expect. You’ve seen a million pictures of it. You’ve seen it in movies. You’ve heard people talk about it, oooh and aaaah over it. Maybe you’re just going to do your time and see it for yourself. But when you walk up to the rim and see the vast chasm of glories sprawling out below you, your jaw drops, you’re speechless, you can’t believe how big it is and all you can do is keep on looking at it as you try to comprehend its size. It’s hard to turn away. It’s so much grander than you ever thought it would be. The opposite is true at a concentration camp. You think you know. You think you’ve comprehended it. But the reality is so much darker. The chasm of horror so much deeper and wider and more incomprehensible than you imagined. You just keep looking at it in disbelief. You can’t fathom its size or its depth and it threatens to swallow you. Tragende (Ravensbrück Memorial) I stood in the crematorium where Betsie ten Boom was committed to smoke and ash, and I trembled under the din of the ghostly silence screaming from the oven’s mouth. Later I would stand with my back against a wall in Dachau where untold numbers of men were executed by firing squad. The ground and the stones themselves cried out, adding name after name to the same lament they sang for Abel. We spent about four hours at Ravensbrück, the same at Dachau, and we only scratched the surface. It was overwhelming—the artifacts, the photos, the documents, the testimonies, the terrible quiet, the evidence of a gradual and years-long build from a relatively pleasant place of political confinement to a swirling horror of death and suffering and hate. It’s hard to even know how to react. When we got back into the car, all we could do was cry. This is the creeping shadow under which modern Germany lives and breathes and goes about its life. Fifteen-hundred years of history is nearly obscured by it. It’s tragic on an epic cultural scale. As we retreated back into the relative safety of the world at hand, I grew more and more anxious. I’d agreed to tell the story of the Hiding Place, but the story of the Ten Boom family is so much more than their own. It’s the story of a darkness more vast than I can imagine—and of the light that pierces it. It’s a tale of ponderous weight, and tremendous hope. And I worry that it’s more than I can tell. I worry that I’ve been handed a golden hammer. Yet, thankfully, the insistent ghosts that found me at the Beje and drove me to Ravensbrück beckon me forward still. If it’s by story that the world remembers, then it’s by silence the world forgets. If I’ve learned anything of Corrie ten Boom, it’s this: she did not keep silent. She saw into the darkness of human suffering and evil. She saw what lay beyond it. And she spent the rest of her life testifying to what she she’d seen. The ghosts won’t let me keep silent either. Act 1. Scene 1. Time to write. I whisper a prayer for the Holy Spirit’s help. I close my eyes. And I swing my hammer.

The week after Hutchmoot last year, I did two things: bought a guitar I’d been eyeing up all summer and wrote this song on it. When my wife, Kelsey, went to bed, I was strumming five chords. When she woke up, I had five verses. Each of the first four verses explores a strategy as old as Eden for avoiding suffering: distraction via decadence, works righteousness, pedestalizing creativity, and the quest to eliminate mystery. When we reach the end of these dead-ends, life often drags us, kicking and screaming, into the darkness. Then the fifth verse presents another way—not a way out, but a way through. I’ll give you this spoiler alert: the darkness is not the enemy. The darkness, it turns out, is one of the greatest friends available to us, if only we have the honesty and humility to receive it. If you want to help me give this song its best shot in the world, then share it with your friends! Add it to a playlist. Sing it around your house. Songs love to be sung and heard. Listen on Spotify and Apple Music.

Speaking of The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkien wrote. . . it grows like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mould of the mind: out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long been forgotten, descending into the deeps. I think of this remark whenever people ask writers about their “influences.” Writers aren’t always aware of their most important influences. Their answer will always be incomplete because they can only speak to their conscious influences—to the writers that they are trying to be influenced by, that they hope to be influenced by. As Tolkien says, everything you observe, think, or read goes onto the compost heap that decomposes into a humus that ultimately nourishes new life. I’ve got a big leaf pile in my back yard. One thing I have learned from digging humus is that it isn’t really humus until you can no longer tell from looking at it that it used to be leaves. Its old life has to be forgotten. When I was in elementary school, we used to collect pretty leaves, put them between sheets of wax paper, and run an iron over them. (Do schoolchildren still do this?) It’s a good way to preserve a leaf as-is, but a leaf pressed between sheets of wax paper doesn’t have the potential to give life to something new. A leaf that decomposes to leaf-mould does. I’m probably mixing metaphors here, but if you think too much and too consciously about your influences, you may find yourself stuck in imitation mode. You can end up like a grade-schooler drawing a picture of a leaf preserved in wax paper. When The Secret of the Swamp King came out, a reviewer remarked that I was obviously influenced by Mark Twain, and especially Huckleberry Finn. I was indignant. I hadn’t spent ten minutes thinking about Huckleberry Finn while I was writing The Secret of the Swamp King. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the reviewer was right. Of course I was influenced by Huckleberry Finn. I love that book; and the fact that I wasn’t consciously thinking about Huck Finn while I was writing doesn’t mean I was free from its influence. There’s a whole lot of Mark Twain in the leaf-mould of my mind. One thing I have learned from digging humus is that it isn't really humus until you can no longer tell from looking at it that it used to be leaves. Its old life has to be forgotten. Jonathan Rogers I started thinking about all this because I’m revisiting Charles Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers for the first time in about thirty years. I have been astonished to realize how much that book shaped me as a writer. I would have never listed Charles Dickens as an “influence” on my work. But I can point to little things in all four of my novels that have Dickens’s fingerprints all over them. I’m realizing what an arbitrary question it is to ask a writer to name his or her influences. As it turns out, I don’t know who my influences are. Or perhaps I should say, my influences are everybody I’ve ever read. Your unique voice is shaped by everything that goes on the compost heap of the mind. Those conscious influences that you value so highly? Throw them onto the heap too, and let them decompose into something no longer recognizable, something that is mixed and mingled with everything else in a combination unlike the one in anybody else’s mind. This piece originally appeared in The Habit, a weekly letter about writing from Jonathan Rogers. If you’d like letters like these delivered directly to your inbox every week, then click here to sign up.

For those who aren’t familiar with Corrie ten Boom and her story, she and her family were watchmakers outside of Amsterdam. When Nazi Germany invaded, they spent two years hiding Jewish refugees in their home (saving some 800 people) until they were caught in 1944 and sent to various prisons and some, ultimately, to Ravensbrück concentration camp. After the war, Corrie would go on to travel the world and testify about her experience for the rest of her life. What stands out about Corrie, and is clearly evident in her book, is her family’s unshakable faith in the sovereignty of God and their uncanny ability to embody gratitude, even in the midst of the darkest days of the 20th century (if not the history of civilization). In the context of the genocide of millions and the suffering of millions more, gratitude and faith are difficult concepts to accept. After all, what kind of god allows such dehumanization and destruction? How can anyone in the midst of holocaust believe in God’s goodness? A story needs a meaty question to wrestle with, and this one is as meaty as they come. Humankind has been chewing on it for thousands of years and we still don’t have an answer we swallow entirely. As I sat down to write, it occurred to me that I’ve danced around these ideas before. My first play, The Battle of Franklin, took on slavery and war and the consequences of dehumanization. Then in Frankenstein, I wrestled with the idea of how we might be shaped either by kindness or by cruelty and how a relationship to our creator might ultimately damn or redeem us. Now, in The Hiding Place, I came to realize that the story was ultimately a journey of theodicy. What good can be said of a god that permits the extermination of millions? The question seems insurmountable. Unanswerable even. But maybe, in the shadow of the unanswerable, we’re called to enter the ring and wrestle, even if all we go away with is a blessing and a limp. In Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, the character Ivan puts forward an argument of unsettling power, suggesting that no matter what ultimate good God intends, it is not worth the suffering of even one innocent child. “I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: ‘Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.’ When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can’t accept that harmony. … You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that … I, too, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child’s torturer, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ but I don’t want to cry aloud then … It’s not worth the tears of that one tortured child … It’s not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony … I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don’t want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don’t want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him … the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive … Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. … too high a price is asked for harmony … And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket … And that I am doing. It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket.” What if the culmination of theodicy is not an answer, but an action? God doesn't tell us why. Instead, he shows us how. Pete Peterson If you’re anything like me, you can’t turn away from Ivan’s defiance without being haunted by it. It’s a demand for justice that we all carry around with us, and we feel it when we hear rumors of famine in far off lands and see pictures of children on the cusp of starvation. We feel it when we see videos of ISIS executions, or hear testimonies from refugees, or witness 70,000 people left homeless in the wake of a hurricane. And right here in America we’ve worked hard to deafen our ears to the cries of our victims but in flashes and gunshots and protests we’re gradually awakening to the screams of our own ghosts as they spill out of the past where we’ve tried to bury them. The world is swollen with suffering. We’ve all partaken—and we’ve all participated. It’s easy to shake a fist at the Almighty and refuse his ticket. It’s hard to listen. It’s harder to receive an answer that’s as difficult as the question itself. Visit a concentration camp, and you’ll find it’s your job to listen. It’s not a place to stage an argument. It’s not a place to stroll through and visit with scant attention. And yet, neither is it a place of despair. It’s a place to listen, to give ghosts their voices. Listen: “Our father who art in heaven And who sees our homeless life, Take your loyal children into your care, Staunch the tears that darken our souls. Hallowed be thy name here on foreign soil, Where, violently torn from our paternal home, We must pray secretly among our enemies. Thy will be done! We humbly cry In the belief that sorrow and joy must come from you, That you give us everything, great and Almighty God, And this deep faith will sweeten our misery. Give us strength to survive and the belief in our souls That our exile is not without purpose … Deliver us from all that is evil And give us a joyful homecoming.” —Urszula Winska, prisoner of Ravensbrück Listen: “O Lord, remember not only the people of good will but also the people of evil will. And remember not only all of the suffering they have caused but also the fruits that have been borne of this suffering: our friendship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage, our generosity. Remember the greatness of heart that sprang from this. And when we face the Last Judgement, let all of the fruits we have borne secure their forgiveness. Amen.” —Mother Maria (Elizaveta Skobcova), imprisoned and executed at Ravensbrück Like Betsie and Corrie ten Boom, many who went into great darkness found there a light that was greater yet. They sat in the depths of the pit, and they gave thanks. They prayed for their oppressors. They kindled love between one another. They sang and they suffered. And they saw something in all of it that most of us miss. They are witnesses, and we owe them a hearing of their testimony. In the writing of The Hiding Place and my wrestling with Ivan’s rebellion, I could find no answer to why God permits such things. But while I’m angry about suffering in the world and I cry out for vengeance, I also need to humble myself and hear the voices of those who have gone before and seen things more closely and more clearly. Listen: I happened across a story of the communion host being smuggled into the concentration camp by a Red Cross worker. Seeing this revelation, prisoners gathered around in wonder as if a miracle had come among them. Maybe it had. What if the culmination of theodicy is not an answer, but an action? God doesn’t tell us why. Instead, he shows us how. He answers mystery with mystery. His response to suffering is to partake of it himself, and he partakes of it still in each of us. He dies with us, groans with us, suffers with us. But to what end? In the mystery of Communion we acknowledge that we are not merely secured to Christ; he is also secured to us, the eternal intersecting with the temporal as he joins himself to each of us in our own suffering and death—and therefore joins us to his resurrection. To Ivan, I say yes, there is one who can forgive and atone and who has the right to do so, for the Creator suffers as we suffer. The child’s death is his death too, and therefore his resurrection will be the child’s. He takes all suffering into himself—and he transfigures it. His body, too, was broken. His blood, too, was spilled. Our bodies, too, will be made new. This is the testimony of the martyrs and saints. This is the light that shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. Betsie ten Boom saw it. Corrie ten Boom testifies to it. An empty tomb proclaims it. Listen.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Randall Goodgame, the mastermind behind the Slugs & Bugs franchise. Randall Goodgame is the creator of Slugs & Bugs, a family music and entertainment brand that includes eight albums, two books, and now a television show. It starts streaming on September 27. In this episode, Randall and Jonathan talk about the truth-telling of a childhood perspective, the relationship between silliness and sincerity, collaboration, and the sticking to one’s vision even when the other people in the room know more than you do. Preorder the Slugs and Bugs TV Show. Writers who make Randall want to write: J. R. R. Tolkien Kate DiCamillo Maurice Sendak Click here to listen to Episode 17 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

One of the great words of the New Testament, to which Jesus himself gave the greatest importance when he used it in instituting the Eucharist, is anamnesis, remembrance. Christ’s institution placed at the center of our lives a gift and a discipline. The discipline is recalling a Person from the back of our minds into the focus our mind’s eye. The gift is that the Person we recall is Christ himself. As a new father, I am just starting to see how parenthood likewise requires of us discipline in recalling and graces us with gifts in the remembering. As we watch our children wonder at things for the first time, we call to mind those times and places where we first found those very things wonderful. When our children confront challenges for the first time, we help them by recalling when we first faced those challenges. And when we remember the myriad guises in which grace met us in those challenges—whether to grant us success in meeting them, or to pick us up when we stumbled—we find fresh grace not only for our children but for ourselves. We often find that we are made better—wiser, kinder, more thankful and joyful—by the remembering that is a staple discipline of parenthood. In remembering we find ourselves just a bit better fitted to receive the Kingdom of God like little children. It may seem odd to begin a review of The Slugs & Bugs Show with meditations on anamnesis, but as I watched episode after episode the word kept coming to mind. The show recalls so many places I’ve been and, as it calls those things to mind, it spotlights things my daughter will soon encounter for the first time. The show finds those places where remembrance and discovery meet, and keeps coming back to them. Notably, its approach to these holy places is via the Gospel rather than moralism: the characters (sometimes despite themselves) find delight in music, thankfulness in feasts, understanding after confusion, satisfaction in collaboration through conflict, reconciliation after wrongdoing. Not all shows are so careful as the Slugs & Bugs Show in drawing out the practical, gritty ways that the Gospel of grace alone makes life in family and community possible. This is one of many reasons I am thankful that my wife, daughter and I will have the benefit of watching and learning from The Slugs & Bugs Show together. The show finds those places where remembrance and discovery meet, and keeps coming back to them. David Mitchel And I should add that, as we learn from The Slugs & Bugs Show together, we’ll be enjoying it together, because The Slugs & Bugs Show imparts its graces and the serious lessons of remembrance with a wonderfully light touch. Here great credit goes to the whole The Slugs & Bugs Show creative team. Producer J. Chris Wall (VeggieTales, The Wingfeather Saga film) saw in the Slugs & Bugs albums a little world (the show’s delightful Slugs & Bugs Workshop) from which such songs might have emerged, and the potential for a full cast of characters whose existence the Slugs & Bugs albums had suggested. Randall Goodgame, host of the show and communal hub of the Slugs & Bugs Workshop, holds the matter of the show together much the way he does on the Slugs & Bugs albums—fitting silly pieces to profound ones with joy, warmth, and understanding. The show’s writers—Wall, Douglas McKelvey, and others—deliver to Randall finely-shaped pieces to fit together. The principal characters (Doug the Slug, Sparky the Lightning Bug, Maggie and Morty Racoon) all appear with recognizably distinct personalities; the recurring characters (e.g. Amy Goodgame as herself and as Carla the Delivery Person) are memorable and fun; and both the writers and Randall as host draw forth fine performances from the various guests who appear on the show. The many songs featured in the shows are set appropriately and, as one would expect, the musical performances are both skillful and drenched in joy. It takes vision, artistic and literary craftsmanship, and a great deal of love to create a space where parents can remember things as their children discover them, where adults and children can satisfy together their “eternal appetite of infancy,” as they grow younger together in the graces of the Father who “is younger than we.” I am thankful to the creators and performers who have made The Slugs & Bugs Show such a space.

One of the most brilliant aspects of The Faerie Queene also makes this work inaccessible to most modern readers. For approximately 35,000 lines, Spenser writes in verse (tight poetic form). Because I’m a recovering English teacher, I’m going to explain a bit about how meter and verse function in this poem. (Lit nerds who already get it, move along.) In 2019, very few people seem to understand this stuff, so I’m starting at ground zero because I want you to see an important choice I’ve had to make along the way. Metrical Feet So, a stanza is a big chunk of poetry. It’s sort of like a whole verse in a song. These big chunks of poetry are broken up into two smaller units—lines and metrical feet. You know what a line is. We still use that term for music and poetry today. But a “metrical foot” is a little less common. This is a specific unit of stressed and unstressed syllables. To simplify that—imagine the name “Julie.” That word has two syllables, and the stress is on the first syllable. The name “Bernard” also has two syllables, but (at least in the US), we stress the second. Lit nerds have special names for all of these wee little metrical units, and Wikipedia has a decent chart here. Rhyme Spenser primarily used pentameter in The Faerie Queene, which means (for the most part) he had five of these metrical feet per line. He also used a very particular rhyme scheme as he put these lines together. Here it is: A B A B B C B C C Each letter there represents the ending sound of one line within a single stanza. So, lines 1 and 3 rhyme, lines 2, 4, 5, and 7 rhyme, and so on. Why did he do this for 35,000 lines? Well, because at the time, readers were used to looking for rhyme schemes and meter in poems. Just like the rhythm and lyrics of a modern song help imitate the song’s meaning, these tools helped a poem’s form enhance its meaning. (You can read more about this in Kaske’s “Introduction” to Book One of The Faerie Queene, if you’re interested. Photo below.) But the problem is that today, most Twitter-trained readers get bogged down trying to read such complicated forms. Not only is Spenser’s language archaic (which is difficult in itself), but the nuanced connections he tries to make between stanzas while holding to a very tight and complicated formula can make his work almost impossible to understand. I can tell these translators weren't just converting one language to another, but that they had a deep inner fire and respect for the story. Rebecca Reynolds When I first started transposing The Faerie Queene, I tried to keep to Spenser’s meter and rhyme. Very quickly, though, I realized that it would be impossible. Too many common words and phrases used in the Elizabethan era are not used by people today, so they require many more words to explain. In the end, I decided it would be kindest to complete a vivid, stanza-by-stanza, prose transposition that catches most of Spenser’s meaning while preserving as much of his musicality as possible. My Inspiration? As I thought about all of my favorite translators, I realized they had each chosen narrative heart over pedantic precision at times. I’ve loved Beowulf for decades, but Seamus Heaney’s made me weep in my kitchen. Dorothy Sayers’s Dante is electric. Les Mis is gorgeous in all forms, but (despite those few distracting too-modern idioms the critics gripe about), my favorite English Les Mis was given to us by Julie Rose. I can tell these translators weren’t just converting one language to another, but that they had a deep inner fire and respect for the story. They didn’t just translate denotatively but connotatively. Of course, some losses are inevitable with this choice—especially in a poem like The Faerie Queene. Not all double meanings, elements of wit, or bits of irony can be caught in prose. However, as I’ve spoken with people who’ve read The Faerie Queene in school, almost all admit to skimming over bits that were difficult to understand. So, I think there’s a huge value to preserving as much as I can, providing a segue into the main plot for the common reader, and then urging those who fall in love with Spenser to head back into the archaic text to discover what I could not capture. Consider me the salt on the oats.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Sarah MacKenzie, champion of the read-aloud revival. Sarah MacKenzie is the host of Read-Aloud Revival and the author of The Read-Aloud Family. In this episode, Jonathan and Sarah discuss the curious connection between the writer who works in quiet solitude and the family reading aloud together, the instructive power of life’s limitations, and Sarah’s recent forays into writing picture books. Writers who make Sarah want to write: Jeanie Birdsall (The Penderwicks) Karina Yan Glaser (The Vanderbleekers) Barbara Cooney (Miss Rumphius) Sarah Stewart (The Gardener, The Library) Click here to listen to Episode 18 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

In the spirit of fall, here’s a “lost verse” from Douglas McKelvey’s liturgy of “Praise to the King of Creation.” You are the King of Autumn, You are the Master Painter of trees, You are the Progenitor of Pumpkins. You are the Cider King, the Harvest King. You are the Lord of Gourds, You are the Emperor of Apples. You sit enthroned among the oaks, upon your brow a wreath of golden birch leaves, within your hand a staff of yellowed corn stalk, your robe a rich maple leaf red. You are the King of golden fields, You are the Lord of lengthened nights. You are the source of Hallowed delights. You are the King of Autumn. [Editor’s note: By “lost verse,” Chris means that he wrote this poem himself, inspired by McKelvey’s liturgy of “Praise to the King of Creation,” found in Every Moment Holy.]

You would have laughed to see it—that mound of walruses piled on the Russian coast. Laughter was my first inclination. I wondered when a male walrus would begin an awkward mating dance or heave his bulk at a pesky seagull. I was waiting for the comic soundtrack, the thumping of a tuba, when I began to understand. This was a story of suffering. The animals were struggling to find a place to rest. Behind them, each surge of water brought a fresh wave of walruses, so they lumbered over the bodies of their fellows to cliffs hundreds of feet above the sea. I held my breath and asked myself how they would get down. I watched them fall. For a few seconds they were weightless. It was almost funny—their huge bodies, so ungainly, all whiskers and tusks and flab. Until they landed. You would have wept to see them die. And when you turned and saw the tears on your children’s faces, what would you have said? They'll ask how we failed to see that we were crowned with glory and honor, how we failed to understand dominion. Helena Sorensen I am running out of time; a decision must be made. By accident, in overheard conversations, in news stories and library books, my children are discovering the darkness in the world. They’re catching glimpses of the wide, haunted eyes of children driven from their homes. They’re beginning to learn that people—bearers of the life and image of God—are bought and sold, used and discarded. They’re hearing rumors of genocide and death camps and girls shot in the head for daring to go to school. And what am I to say? Would you sit beside your little boy and tell him that the laws are bad, the governments corrupt, the systems broken? Would you tell him that the world is full of evil men who do not know who they are unless their hands are full of things to break? “My son, there are giants in the land.” They’re seeing pictures of little seabirds lying dead in their nests with bellies burst open. Diligent parents flew over the sea in search of food. They scooped bright offerings into their beaks and dropped them into the mouths of their hungry babies. They flew out and returned, flew out and returned, until the fragile chicks could hold no more and they choked on the pretty scraps of plastic I threw away and forgot. What do I tell my daughter when she finds that there is no such place as “away”? Do I tell her that creation groans, that the planet writhes in pain? Do I sit with her and grieve that we are trapped in the “not yet”? Do I tell her we are powerless and only God can fix the problem? That He will come to enact a grand rescue, undoing all the consequences of our choices on some distant golden daybreak? “My daughter, we are as grasshoppers.” I have only so much time. One day my children’s children will come to me and ask me why. I can imagine their confusion. “You must have seen the signs,” they’ll say. “How could you believe you had no choice but to dominate or wait?” They’ll ask about my generation and those that came before. They’ll ask how we failed to see that we were crowned with glory and honor, how we failed to understand dominion. What excuse will I give? Will I tell them we were small and nameless, that we waited for evil to crush us under its boot? Will I look back and see our great numbers? Will I remember how we descended on the earth’s abundance and the incomprehensible gift of humanity and devoured it, unthinking? Will I confess my unbelief when my children’s children reap what I have sown? My friend, there are giants in the land. And we are as grasshoppers in our own eyes. Numbers 13:33, Joshua 2:9, Psalm 8

Earlier this year, I had the privilege of attending the debut of Ella Mine’s concept show Dream War. The conceptual project delves into the depths of hopelessness, pain, and internal turmoil with such grit and vulnerability, yet it offers a beam of light to those who find themselves in the midst of similar fights. From beginning to end, the show’s poetic songwriting and diverse art rock sensibilities display Ella’s passion and intense dedication to the project. “I’ve given myself completely to this work,” she tells me at a local coffee shop. “I love all the music projects I’m involved in, but when I started writing Dream War I realized this is what I need to do.” Ella Mine is performing Dream War in its entirety on October 11th as part of The Art of Evocation’s Hutchmoot show titled “Well – Exploring the Healing Power of Art.” In anticipation of the show, as well as her Local Show tonight, I sat down with Ella to talk about the show’s origins and her personal journey through the darkness. Chris: Before we dive into your personal experiences, emotions, and struggles that led to Dream War, what were some musical or literary influences that informed the project? Ella: In middle and high school, I studied classical piano in a vigorous program in Nashville. So some of my earliest musical romances are with composers Frédéric Chopin and Claude Debussy. After that, I’d say the Waterboys, Glen Hansard, Lone Justice, and Beck. Waterdeep changed my world too. As for literary inspirations in Dream War, there’s one song (“Where Is She Now?”) taken from Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy right before she takes her life, and the next song (“Sound + Fury”) is based on Macbeth’s response to that news. Another song, “Wheel of Love,” is primarily taken from my reflections on the book The Mystery of Marriage by Mike Mason. It carries the idea that when you give yourself to anything, you’re opening yourself up to pain, which is essentially the premise of the whole work. Chris: So the show you’re performing at Hutchmoot centers around mental health and the healing power of art. How does Dream War engage that conversation? Ella: Well I’ve walked through a lot since age 17, and in Dream War I wrote what I needed to hear to help me through it. But really it’s about any struggle through darkness—wanting to love or dream or believe in something and then having that affection, hope, or trust ravaged. How do we move on into loving or dreaming again? Chris: To the extent that you’re comfortable, can you talk about some of what you’ve lived through? Ella: I was diagnosed with a pain condition called Central Sensitization Syndrome when I was 17. To help with the pain, I was prescribed an SSRI designed to treat depression, but commonly offered off-label for physical pain like mine. After two months, my personality was completely altered. It took me and the people around me completely off guard. We didn’t know that the medication would have psychoactive effects. I became apathetic and hateful, two emotional states I had never experienced before. It was terrible. I got off the SSRI slowly, thinking, “Now I’ll be back to normal.” Sadly, that’s often not how it works. Getting off of the medication was even worse. I experienced psychosis, a confusing, terrifying state where I didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t. Visual and auditory hallucinations made it difficult to know whether or not what I was seeing or hearing was real. The drug also caused akathisia and mild cognitive impairment that made math, logic, and even speaking difficult. I had compulsions and impulses that were completely foreign and terrifying. That’s hard to live through. At that point, it’s a choice to keep living. And five years later, I’m still on an incline of recovery. Chris: That is such a difficult journey. So how were the impulses and feelings and pain fueled into Dream War? Ella: I lived through a darkness that was so oppressive and surrounding and really inside of me that I could truly relate with and write a song from Lady Macbeth’s perspective, wondering if I’d ever be clean again. I had to fight so hard against the terrible things I thought and the terrible things I had impulses to do. The thoughts and impulses felt so organic and personal, and at the same time so foreign. But I knew this was wickedness, especially when harmful thoughts were directly correlated to the people I cared about the most. I can still feel the horror of thinking those thoughts. The chorus of the song “Dream War” is my weary white flag: “Calling off the dream war cause I Can’t keep the waves from breaking on this shore Calling off the dream war cause I Already lost the dreams I was fighting for” I couldn’t keep doing it. During that time, my dad (Douglas McKelvey) was talking to me about how fear works, how sometimes fear is the weapon. I didn’t get it at first, but now I realize that the fear itself was the dangerous thing. So the verse in that song which says “If I ran, then I ran with the fire of fear” speaks to the idea that I’m running from something that seems real, but maybe it’s just the fear. Chris: So dreams are a running theme throughout the show. Did that come from real experience as well? In those moments of clarity, it was like getting my head above water before being thrown back under the sea. I would take in the deepest breath of air that I possibly could. Then back under the waves, I would hold that breath as long as I could. Ella Mine Ella: Every night I’d have to make the decision between staying awake with akathisia in a dark house, not knowing what my tired brain was going to do, or go to sleep and experience the creepy, violent dreams I’d have. I would wake up and still be half in that awful dream state, and that was when I most wanted not to be alive. As real and organic as these experiences felt, I was aware that up until that year, I had lived as a completely different person in a different life. I had believed in goodness, loved living, loved people, known truth. So I recognized the difference. And I knew that of those two experiences, the one that I wanted to be reality was not the one I now found myself in. Dream War is full of ocean and water imagery because in those moments of clarity, it was like getting my head above water before being thrown back under the sea. I would take in the deepest breath of air that I possibly could. Then back under the waves, I would hold that breath as long as I could. In the recovery community, they call that sort of cycle “windows and waves.” In the windows, I would find truth and bury it inside of me. Not bury as in hide it, but as in secure it somewhere safe so that when I feel like I can’t reach it, I can still remember that it exists. Chris: What were those things you were able to hold onto? Ella: Scripture, love, moments where I knew God—I took those things that in moments of clarity I knew to be true and just held them tightly. And then in confusion, mania, and psychosis, when I was capable of it, I chose to believe what I in other times knew to be true. That took a lot of energy, and I learned how much I needed other people. Chris: So in other people, you found the energy to continue? Ella: Not necessarily. In other people, I felt the freedom to relax. It was like after a boxing match, where you’ve fought hard and you’re worn out and you can just fall into the arms of the person in your corner. In stages where I felt too weak to fight for myself, I knew that my family, mentors, and friends were supporting me. Sometimes we have to get to that point where we can’t take care of ourselves in order to recognize how much someone else can. Chris: So if they were the relief, what energized you in your fight? Ella: That’s a good question. I think we know that a fight for what’s good is worth the struggle. Maybe stories helped, being steeped in stories all my life. In stories, there’s usually darkness and a fight. There’s tension before resolution. If you can see your own life as a story, it helps to stay in the fight and maintain at least a shred of hope. Chris: In a lot of stories that portray the fight between light and darkness, light wins, and the darkness just goes away. That’s not the case with your show. I want the hope that's offered to be a hard-earned hope, not an easy answer. Ella Mine Ella: That was important to me in this work. I didn’t want to take my listeners through this intense journey and then slap on a happy ending or solution. Sometimes as artists, we just need to ask the question. But I also didn’t want to leave those who’ve walked through this journey with me in a dark place. I wanted the work to be as true and inviting as possible, but also as worthwhile as possible. If you see this show, I want you to be glad you did, even if it’s not easy listening. I want the hope that’s offered to be a hard-earned hope, not an easy answer. I want it to be the sort of hope that has survived the worst that darkness can throw at us. Chris: Was it hard to balance creating a hopeful story, but not a happy story? Ella: The biggest struggle I had in writing was moving from the place of “I don’t want to dream or love or believe in something again” to deciding, “I will dream again.” I spent months asking people the question, “As humans, how do we do this?” Often after being hurt we think, “I’ll never hope for the best again,” or “I’ll never be able to trust someone like that again.” But at some point, we go, “OK, I can do this again.” So what is it that causes that change in us? From that struggle, I wrote “Wheel of Love,” which is mainly asking those questions. It never answers them; it just invites the listener into the question. The decision to keep going comes later, and is made in the context of recognizing that the world won’t necessarily support me, and that people I love might still hurt me, and that love is something we’re going to have to fight for. But it is worthwhile. The most important lines of the show are the bridge of “Fire”: “I’ll lay down in my burning bed Though darkened thoughts run through my head I’ll focus on the light instead and Close my eyes and dream again” Living is painful, but I’m still gonna do it. I’m gonna focus on the light. As someone who still experiences physical pain on an everyday basis, I know that sometimes all you can do is shift the focus and accept that you’re feeling it, but it’s OK. Chris: It’s great that even though you wrote the things you needed to hear, the songs are able to speak into other people’s journeys. Ella: As I wrote, I was hoping and praying that this would be what it needs to be for myself, but that it would also meet the needs of others. I read recently, “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through, and it will be someone else’s survival guide.” That’s one of the redemptive results I’ve already seen from what I’ve gone through. So many people I know have experienced similar reactions to medications and gone through similar life patterns to what I experienced. And when nobody else in their circles can understand what they’re going through, I can. Chris: What is your hope for people who come to see the show at Hutchmoot or elsewhere? Ella: I want this experience to be an invitation for anybody who is hurting or struggling or in the middle of a fight to continue the walk through the struggle. I want this music to create space to feel what we don’t normally allow ourselves to feel. We often try to shut off our feelings because they’re painful or we don’t have time for them. I want to offer a space for people to enter into their struggle, and then in a kind way, walk with them until we’re again within sight of the light that’s always been there.

It’s time at last to announce some mind-blowingly good news: the North Wind Manor fundraising is complete. Thanks to a lot of extremely generous people (this means you), we were able to meet our goal just a few weeks ago—in fact, we exceeded it by a few thousand dollars. Do you realize how amazing that is? I’ll answer that for you. Very, very amazing. In case you’re new around here and you’re wondering, “What’s North Wind Manor and why all the excitement?” I’ll give it to you in a nutshell: For years we’ve been operating out of an old farmhouse on a few acres in Nashville, and though we tried hard to make it work, the place was in desperate need of a deep renovation. It was adequate as a homey office space, and we hoped it would be a sort of retreat from the noise of the city, a place where we could host lectures and Bible studies and small concerts. We’ve had a handful of events out here, and people seemed to like them—even though the house, despite our best efforts, never quite felt right, like the clothes didn’t fit. And yet, the location is perfect—there are walking trails along the creek, a front porch tailor made for Tennessee sunsets, and there’s an undeniable feeling of peace and restfulness, all just minutes from Nashville. So after looking around Nashville for a while to see if we could find a place that would give us office space, shipping and storage facilities, and room for hosting events, we realized the best place was right under our feet; the thing to do was to stay put and dig in, with a long view of the future of the Rabbit Room. We decided to renovate and the place in order to make it more hospitable, functional, and beautiful. But that’s not all. The plan had two phases that reflect two key aspects of the Rabbit Room’s work: 1) Build a storage facility/shipping office/publishing house for the operations required to do all the things we do. What things? Publishing books (we have more than thirty in print now), shipping CDs, books, and art that we support, organizing the Local Show, planning Hutchmoot—those sorts of things, for starters. We were also paying for a couple of storage units to house the books, and we wanted to bring that in-house to save money. Well, thanks to you we secured the funding to begin construction on the barn in January 2019 and completed the project about a month ago, to much celebration. With the help of an army of wonderful volunteers, we immediately moved all the shipping and operations out of the old farmhouse (and out of the storage units), and into the new barn—and morale immediately improved. Turns out, it’s nice being in a space without mouse nests in the cupboards or vines growing through the walls. 2) Phase two, of course, was to renovate the farm house, a.k.a. “North Wind Manor.” Once the barn was finished we started on the house. Well, as renovations often go, we found out pretty quickly that the problems with the house were deep, and went straight through the bones and into the foundation. The footprint and plans haven’t changed at all, but we had to start with a new foundation and take the place apart. This was awesome because we got to save a lot of the old, fat, century-old beams, fireplace mantels, and cool hardwoods so that we can reincorporate them into the new place. I just love that we’re carrying the old, beautiful stuff over into the new. We also saved a ton of good foundation stones that we’ll incorporate into the gardens and landscaping. Here’s my favorite part: now that the operations have moved to the storage barn/publishing house, the manor will be used solely for ministry. There’s a big kitchen for hosting, a library (with a fireplace!) for reading and study, and a large room that will seat about 100 people for things like writing groups, lectures, symposiums, concerts, and feasting. Until now, the Rabbit Room has always had to put on its events elsewhere. This new space will allow us to dig into a place, to season these acres and these walls with good stories of the New Creation. So after literally years of dreaming, followed by years of planning, we pulled the trigger on the fundraising campaign almost exactly a year ago. In just one year, you helped us raise more than $450,000 and the Rabbit Room is flourishing like never before. That’s why I say it’s very, very amazing. These are exciting times in the Rabbit Room. We thank God for you every time we walk into the new office space and hear the sound of construction on the farm house. Hopefully in another year the house will be finished and we’ll enter a new season in this ministry, one that will hopefully last till long after we’re dead and gone. All that said, there will certainly be some overages in the project, and we’ll of course need to furnish it (we’ll need a piano, sound equipment, chairs, tables, etc.), so if you’ve been meaning to help financially we still need you. It’s kind of like in The Lord of the Rings, when Sauron has been defeated, but there are still like 100 pages left in the book for the scouring of the Shire and the voyage to the Grey Havens. My, wasn’t that a nerdy analogy? Here’s one for you sports people: We’ve crossed the finish line of the marathon, but we still need help with the cool-down. (Not as good as a LOTR analogy, but it’ll do.) The point is, there’s a lot to be thankful for. There’s a real sense around here that this is Kingdom work, and after twelve years we’re just getting started. From the board, the staff, and the many people connected to this ministry, thank you so much. Sincerely, gratefully, joyfully yours, AP

You mumble a phrase. It’s gibberish, but it suggests a melody. You’ve gotten melodies in your head before, but this one feels different, like it’s made of something stronger and older. You notice this because you’re able to repeat it, and you like it, and you sing it again and again, enough times that you pull out your phone and record it. As soon as you get it down, you forget about it and move on. Skip ahead a few days. Now you have your guitar in your lap. Fear and self-doubt are taunting ghosts at either shoulder. You try to find some combination of chords that doesn’t sound like everything else you’ve ever played, or everything everyone else has ever played. But after twenty minutes you’re sick of yourself and your guitar and the weather and your lack of talent. Then with a thrill of hope you remember that voicemail message you left yourself in the moment of mumbled inspiration. You listen to the voicemail, and you’re disappointed. It’s not terrible, but it’s missing whatever magic it had before. With nothing else to do, you try and find the chords that the mumbling melody wants. You play it through on the guitar a few times in standard tuning, key of G—the same four chords you learned when you were in eighth grade. Then you capo it up and try it with a different voicing. You happen upon a little pull-off with your index finger, a slightly different way of playing the same old chord. That sparks a melody that suits the gibberish a little better, and like a dying man in the desert who discovers a cactus, you get just enough juice to keep crawling. “O God,” you pray, “I’m so small and the universe is so big. What can I possibly say? What can I add to this explosion of glory? My mind is slow and unsteady, my heart is twisted and tired, my hands are smudged with sin. I have nothing—nothing—to offer.” Write about that. “What do you mean?” Write about your smallness. Write about your sin, your heart, your inability to say anything worth saying. Watch what happens. And so, with a deep breath, you strum the chords again, quieting the inner taunts, the self-mockery. And you sing something that feels somehow like an echo of the music and the murky waters you’re wallowing in and the words you mumbled several days ago. Then, after hours and days of the same miserable slog, something happens that you cannot explain: you realize you have a song. Behold, there is something new under the sun. Writing about writing is precarious. On one hand it could be terribly self-indulgent, while on the other it could be terribly boring—both of which are cardinal sins when it comes to the written word. I spent way too much money on books about writing before Reed Arvin, a record producer-turned-novelist, told me, “Trash all those books about writing. Just sit down and write the darn book.” (Only he didn’t say “darn.”) I didn’t throw all the books away, but I did stop reading them. There are a few that did me some good, and even fewer that did more than offer up pointers on writing—they taught me to think about the creative act as a kind of worship, as a way to be human. At times, characters become aware that they're part of a story, and that brings the realization that, first, there is an author, and second, they are not him. Andrew Peterson Since we were made to glorify God, worship happens when someone is doing exactly what he or she was made to do. I ask myself when I feel God’s pleasure, in the Eric Liddell sense, and it happens—seldom, to be sure, but it happens—when I’ve just broken through to a song after hours of effort, days of thinking, months of circling the song like an airplane low on fuel, searching desperately for the runway. Then I feel my own pleasure, too, a runner’s high, a rush of adrenaline. I literally tremble. There is no proper response but gratitude. The spark of the idea was hope; the work that led to the song was faith; the completion of the song leads to worship, because in that startling moment of clarity when the song exists in time and history and takes up narrative space in the story of the world,—a space that had been empty, unwritten, unknown by all who are subject to time—then it is obvious (and humbling) that a great mystery is at play. I hope it’s clear that I’m not talking about the quality (or lack thereof) of the song itself. That’s irrelevant. The point is, time is unfolding like a scroll, and we’re letters on the parchment, helping to make up the words that tell the story. Each of us is a character, in both senses of the word. At times, characters become aware that they’re part of a story, and that brings the realization that, first, there is an author, and second, they are not him. This realization is good and proper, and leads into the courts of praise, if not the throne room itself. I wish I were a contemplative like Merton. I wish I could order my thoughts and follow them to their ends. I wish I could track an idea to its logical or illogical conclusion the way C. S. Lewis did. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I can’t learn without doing; I won’t know the story until I write it down. As long as the idea stays in the conceptual realm it withers. Click here to order Adorning the Dark at the Rabbit Room Store. If you buy before October 15th, you can redeem your purchase at AdorningtheDark.com to get an unreleased new song titled “Linnea,” recorded by Andrew Peterson. Learn more at AdorningtheDark.com.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews James K. A. Smith, author of the Desiring the Kingdom series. James K. A. (Jamie) Smith is a philosophy professor at Calvin College and the author of many important books, including Desiring the Kingdom, You Are What You Love, How (Not) To Be Secular, and (most recently) On the Road with Saint Augustine. In this episode, Jonathan and Jamie discuss Augustine’s account of human desire and its implications for fiction-writing; the ever-elusive mystery of the self; and the drama of redemption as the re-directing of our deepest loves. Click here to listen to Episode 19 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

[Editor’s note: Recently, the Rabbit Room staff has been struck by the sheer amount of awesome new stuff being released during the month of October. So this month’s blog content will be punctuated by posts that spotlight each of these exciting new works of art. We will begin with Rabbit Room Press’s reprinting of The Light Princess, complete with illustrations by Ned Bustard (of Every Moment Holy). What follows is the foreword included in the book, written by Jennifer Trafton. Enjoy!] Something magical happens when the wind blows through a wind chime. A moment before the arrival of that invisible wisp of breath, all is still. The wind chime is motionless and silent. No one would guess that its pendulous form contains the possibility of music. And then, a breeze. A dance. A sudden flurry of notes, as if the wind chime has been surprised into speech and, to its own utter delight and the delight of those listening, begins to sing. Put two wind chimes side by side, and the magic deepens. For the wind is the same, and yet the way it curls around each of them, the slight differences in their shape, the way the chimes respond to the movement of the air—all result in a unique song for each. Same breath, different music. For the writer of this fairy tale you now hold in your hands, each of us is a wind chime. Each of us, he believed, possesses depths of song none could guess, not even ourselves. And that potential inside us—that hidden music waiting to be awakened by the invisible breath of a story, a symbol, a beautiful image, a flicker of truth—is our God-given gift of imagination. . . . Like many others, you may have first encountered George MacDonald through the writings of C. S. Lewis—in Surprised by Joy, perhaps, as the author of the book (Phantastes) that “baptized” Lewis’s imagination and showed him the beauty of holiness, or in The Great Divorce as the narrator’s gentle Scottish guide through heaven. “I have never concealed the fact that I regarded him as my master,” Lewis said; “indeed I fancy I have never written a book in which I did not quote from him.” The more you read of both authors, the more you will see the truth of Lewis’s statement. But MacDonald’s influence extends far beyond Lewis. Typical of the prolific Victorians, he published over fifty volumes in his lifetime, including realistic novels, fantasies, collections of short stories and fairy tales, poetry, sermons, essays, translations, and literary criticism. A man of wide interests and gifts—preacher; literature teacher; humanitarian; actor; friend of theologians, artists, and orphans; father of eleven children; gentle patriarch of a home famous for its hospitality to literary luminaries and working-class neighbors alike—he was one of the most beloved Christian authors and thinkers of the 19th-century English-speaking world, on both sides of the Atlantic. Queen Victoria enthusiastically dispersed his novel Robert Falconer among her grandsons. Lady Byron, the famous poet’s widow, became one of MacDonald’s most loyal supporters and a lifelong patron. Mark Twain discussed co-authoring a novel with MacDonald and requested a second copy of At the Back of the North Wind because his children had worn out the first one. Lewis Carroll, a regular guest in the MacDonald household, shared his Alice stories with MacDonald’s children, who begged him to publish them. When G. K. Chesterton (who called him “St. Francis of Aberdeen” and claimed The Princess and the Goblin “made a difference to my whole existence”) presided over a centenary celebration of MacDonald’s life and work in 1924, Sir James Barrie (the author of Peter Pan) and the poet William Butler Yeats were among the many distinguished guests. J. R. R. Tolkien, Florence Nightingale, Oswald Chambers, Madeleine L’Engle, and Maurice Sendak have all spoken of their debt to him, and modern fantasy literature owes much of its revived interest and inspiration to his faerie creations. He was a magnet of a man and a writer whose power lay deeper than mere craft. His ability to view the world through the eyes of a child reflected his belief that a childlike approach to life is essential to faith, and his genius for conveying spiritual truths through symbols has few rivals. But he was a Christian who pondered the why of his art as well as the how. For numerous readers and fellow writers then and since, he articulated something about our human identity as imaginers that has fundamentally shaped our view of what it means to write a story, and also to receive one. MacDonald believed, with all his heart, that God’s revelation of himself to his children is a revelation that invites and enriches the imagination rather than suppresses it. God speaks to us through stories and metaphors in Scripture; he came to meet us not as an Idea but as a Child. Revelation is God reaching out to us; imagination is us reaching out to God. It is our own little mirror image of the Creator’s unique power to clothe thought in concrete form, to dream up and make something—in God’s case, out of nothing; in our case, out of the vast and rich universe that God made for us and filled with living poems that show us glimpses of his glory, if only we have the eyes (and the imagination) to see it. The truth stirred by story is the truth that slips into our hearts rather than the truth that marches into our heads. Jennifer Trafton “In very truth,” MacDonald wrote, “a wise imagination, which is the presence of the spirit of God, is the best guide that man or woman can have; for it is not the things we see the most clearly that influence us the most powerfully; undefined, yet vivid visions of something beyond, something which eye has not seen nor ear heard, have far more influence than any logical sequences whereby the same things may be demonstrated to the intellect. . . . We live by faith, and not by sight.” Therefore, the imagination is a gift that should be carefully cultivated in both young and old—baptized by the beauty of nature and art, nourished by stories that point to the Great Story, led further and further on the path to holiness. “It is God who gives thee thy mirror of imagination and if thou keep it clean, it will give thee back no shadow but the truth.” The purest expression of this gift, MacDonald believed, is fantasy, and what sets certain of his stories within the realm of Faerie is not the presence of fairies or even magic (though both may be there) but the quality of enchantment. The world shimmers with spiritual meaning that lies just beneath the surface, winking at us through stone or tree or bird or star. And because artists are not creating things so much as finding them, uncovering the truths God has already planted in His creation, then the writer of a fantasy story and the reader of that story are both, in a sense, on a journey of discovery—through a land where the joys and the sorrows, the longings and the wonders of human experience, are distilled into their simplest and most vivid forms. Such a story, MacDonald said, is not an allegory, not a secret code, but more like a sonata of images—golden keys, spinning-wheels, suns, moons, flowers, shadows, cleansing rose-flames, clumsy goblin shoes, water, wine, and bread—symbols that ring in us like little bells, reminding us of many things, arousing memories and emotions, nudging us to make connections. The truth stirred by story is the truth that slips into our hearts rather than the truth that marches into our heads. The unique power of a fairy tale lies in its ability, not to impart ideas or to teach a message, but to awaken our deepest longings—to cause us to desire the good, the true, and the beautiful that we have encountered during our sojourn in fairy land. It’s an encounter that forever changed C. S. Lewis, and it continues to change lives today. . . . First published in 1864 as one of the stories told to heal a depressed young woman in the novel Adela Cathcart, “The Light Princess” remains one of MacDonald’s most beloved fairy tales. It crackles with wit and wordplay, proving that all the weighty importance he gave to Faerie did not mean that for MacDonald a fairy tale must be overly serious. The double meaning of “gravity,” upon which the plot rests, allows him to spin countless puns and share a hearty laugh with his readers while at the same time gently drawing us toward graver themes, such as the redemptive power of self-sacrificial love and the kind of tears that cleanse and deepen us. Artist Ned Bustard has paid homage to all the multilayered themes and resonances in MacDonald’s writing by threading visual symbols throughout the illustrations, like little Easter eggs for you to discover. Some are images drawn from centuries of Christian iconography—seashell, dolphin, anchor, bread, wine, and more. He’s also hidden objects and elements from some of MacDonald’s other fantasy stories, such as The Princess and the Goblin, The Princess and Curdie, “The Golden Key,” and Lilith. To those of you who’ve read these other stories: look carefully! Do you spot the allusions? A final word before you begin: if the symbolism of “The Light Princess” sets off a symphony of little ringing bells in your imagination, let it. MacDonald steadfastly refused to explain what his stories “meant,” and that in part reflects his humility as a writer. The meaning you find may be better than mine, he says. An author may not know the full truth of what he’s writing, but the Maker of Stories does, and He will blow truth through the reader’s heart far beyond and even apart from the author’s intentions. “If a writer’s aim be logical conviction,” MacDonald wrote, “he must spare no logical pains, not merely to be understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where his object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him assail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it.” And so, the best way to read a story by George MacDonald is to be still and listen. Whether laughing or crying or both, listen. Wait for the wind. The Light Princess is available in the Rabbit Room Store.

We’re so excited for Andrew Peterson’s new book, Adorning the Dark, and we especially appreciate the way he engages with Tolkien’s notion of eucatastrophe as it appears in the creative process—the unrelenting search for a “pinprick of light,” even in the very heart of darkness. Click through to hear Andrew’s thoughts directly in a video interview.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Jonny Jimison, graphic novelist and author of the Dragon Lord Saga. In this episode, Jonathan and Jonny discuss visual storytelling, the age-old search for authentic voice, and board games. Click here to listen to Episode 20 of The Habit Podcast. This month, Rabbit Room Press is re-releasing Martin and Marco, Book 1 of Jonny’s Saga, in full-color. Click here to view The Dragon Lord Saga: Martin & Marco in the Rabbit Room Store. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them. Ray Bradbury said that in 1994, several years before the proliferation of social media and smartphone use began seriously hijacking our capacity for sustained reading. Now, his warning is more relevant than ever. The truth is, it’s always been a challenge to create the space necessary for the kind of reading that nourishes the heart. But in this current age of distraction, it can feel almost impossible. A couple of years ago, Philip Yancey wrote a piece for the Washington Post titled “The death of reading is threatening the soul.” He noticed that the online world of soundbites and clickbait was contributing to a troubling diminishment in his own reading life, and he resolved to push against the trend. I’ve concluded that a commitment to reading is an ongoing battle, somewhat like the battle against the seduction of Internet pornography. We have to build a fortress with walls strong enough to withstand the temptations of that powerful dopamine rush while also providing shelter for an environment that allows deep reading to flourish. Christians especially need that sheltering space, for quiet meditation is one of the most important spiritual disciplines. We think that Philip is right—that we need a “fortress of habits” to support a reading life. And it’s that conviction that’s making us particularly passionate about this year’s Renovaré Book Club, including and especially the fact that Philip is one of our facilitators this year. We’re convinced that when someone clicks the “Join Book Club” button, what they are really doing is beginning to construct their own reading fortress out of the building blocks of intentionality, encouragement, community, accountability … and really wonderful books! This year we’ll be reading together: Book One: Fearfully and Wonderfully: The Marvel of Bearing God’s Image, written by Philip Yancey and Dr. Paul Brand. This updated release combines two of Yancey and Brand’s modern classics to offer a profound exploration of the wonder of the human body. Philip will be facilitating our journey through this book—his first time in the Club! Book Two: Doors into Prayer, by Emilie Griffin. When William A. Barry says a book “makes prayer enticing,” we pay attention! It helps that Renovaré’s own Emilie Griffin wrote the book in question—a handbook on prayer that is as practical as it is eloquent. Plus, Emilie herself has agreed to facilitate. Book Three: The Interior Castle, by Teresa of Ávila. According to Renovaré Board Member and lifelong pastor Dr. Miriam (Mimi) Dixon, this sixteenth-century classic is “a field guide for any pilgrim in search of a deeper life with God.” Gladly, we have Mimi (who has spent many hours being mentored by Teresa’s writing) to teach us how to access this guide. Book Four: Life Without Lack: Living in the Fullness of Psalm 23, by Dallas Willard. Becky Willard Heatley and Larry Burtoft lovingly crafted Dallas’s recorded teachings into this wise and deeply encouraging treatise on living life without fear. We’re thrilled to have Becky and Larry serve as our facilitators. Photo by Anthony DELANOIX on Unsplash

It seems unreal that this is the tenth Hutchmoot (eleventh if you count HM UK!), but here we are. Some days it feels like things are a well-oiled machine and we know what we’re doing. Other days it feels like the first year and we’re sure we don’t have a clue. But if there’s one thing that’s constant, it’s this: we still can’t believe we get to have this much fun. And here’s what I mean: We’ve got a hoot of a show planned for Thursday night (just you wait). We’ve got Carolyn Arends flying in from the Great White North. We’ve got Michael Card coming in from just down the road to talk about Scripture. We’ve got Ruth Naomi Floyd and Mark Meynell reprising their legendary session from HM UK. We’ve got Buddy Greene and Odessa Settles telling tales and singing songs. We’ve got Sara Groves and Eric Peters and Andrew Peterson and Drew Miller and Jonathan Rogers talking it up and playing music in the Friday night show and Ella Mine bringing her Dream War to the masses. We’ve got guitars being built. Songs being written. Poetry being open-miced (no idea how to verb that). Gardens being planned. Ink to moot. Oh, and book releases like Adorning the Dark, The Light Princess, and Martin & Marco (not to mention the card game!). And we’ve got a special surprise for Sunday that we’re keeping hidden. Honestly, there’s so much going on that I’m giddy just thinking about it. One thing that became clear to us this year, though, was the realization that after a decade of Moots, we had grown in our interests and our sessions had stretched to encompass a huge variety of topics. So this year we’re taking things back to basics. We’re reminding ourselves why we started doing this in the first place. It was writers like Tolkien, MacDonald, Berry, O’Connor, Mullins, Saint Paul, and the Gospel-writers that played such a strong role in waking up our imaginations when the Rabbit Room was founded, and this year we’re going back to our roots. So if this is your first time, we hope you feel welcome and we hope you’ll go home with a deeper understanding of why the Rabbit Room exists and what brought it about. Because we are chasers after great mystery, we will never come to the end of our delight in the one who lights us. And if that's true, and this is only year ten, we've got a lot to look forward to. Pete Peterson If you’re returning for the second, forth, seventh, or tenth time, don’t worry, there’s plenty for you too. The great thing about the Gospel is that it’s inexhaustible. I think I heard Steve Guthrie (who is also leading a session this year) say once that when we talk about the “mystery” of God it doesn’t mean that God is a puzzle that we have to uncover and solve like in a detective novel, but rather, God is infinitely knowable. He can be known both intimately—and infinitely. I like to think that Hutchmoot embraces that idea. Because we are chasers after great mystery, we will never come to the end of our delight in the one who lights us. And if that’s true, and this is only year ten, we’ve got to look forward to. Travel safely. John is in the kitchen and it smells wonderful. There will be something warm and delicious waiting for you when you arrive. Let’s do this—again. Convene the Hutchmoot. Poster by Stephen Crotts

For more than twenty years now, my brother, Andrew Peterson, has been baring his soul in his music, and in doing so he’s shined a light into the dark corners of the souls of others, mine included. But he’s no ordinary singer-songwriter, he’s a novelist as well, and his Wingfeather books are beloved far and wide; they’ve lighted up untold numbers of faces and hearts of their own, and in their own ways. But today marks the release of something different. In Adorning the Dark, Andrew wades out into the waters of non-fiction, and the result is something that hews closer to his songwriting than to the wild imagination of his novels. Here he’s opening himself up to the world and showing us the dark reaches inside of himself. If you’ve paid attention to the Burning Edge of Dawn album, you’ll recognize some of the landscape of Adorning the Dark. The book covers a lot of territory, from the creativce process, to the difficulties of discernment, to discipline, to the importance of community, and Andrew does it all with the same keenness of language he employs to craft his songs. If you’ve read his writing here on the Rabbit Room, or if you’ve been to his sessions at Hutchmoot, or if you’ve heard him speak elsewhere, you won’t be surprised to find that his ability to tell a good story and winnow it down to an essential truth serves him as well in book form as it does elsewhere. What’s always made Andrew such a good writer is that he’s not afraid to plumb the depths and shine light on what he finds. Thankfully, he looks long and hard and what he finds is good. And this is a book filled with good, good things—trinkets and treasures in the form of insights and revelations mined during the hard work of thinking critically, and living faithfully, and loving well. I’m proud of him, and I’m proud of this book. He’s spent a lifetime adorning not merely the darkness but the people around him and the world itself—dressing us in light. That good and faithful work has taught him a lot, and I’m glad he’s taken on the task of sharing his experiences with those who will listen. I’m not too proud to admit that I have a lot to learn, even from my younger brother. I hope this book does you the same kind of good it did me. I hope you find an openness in it that brightens some dark place inside you. I hope it shines a light on the path in front of you. I hope it helps you find a light of your own to shine for others. Today is release day. Congratulations, Andrew. Now everyone else go find a copy and enjoy the journey. [Adorning the Dark is available in the Rabbit Room Store and wherever great books are sold.]

“‘No. You’re forgetting,’ said the Spirit. ‘That was not how you began. Light itself was your first love: you loved paint only as a means of telling about the light.’” —C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce Hello, dear fellow Hutchmooter. You are now experiencing reentry. Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, and wait until the car comes to a complete stop. Reentry is not pleasant for anyone. It’s a strange mix of feeling full, of having so much to talk about, to share, to process—and maybe you don’t have anyone to do that with. Maybe you have to hit the ground running with small children the moment you enter the door. Maybe you have an unforgiving boss who doesn’t care about your weekend. And you—you’ve been altered, you’ve been fed. You feel different and you wish you could put it into words. Maybe this was your first time at Hutchmoot, and you were astonished at the restful space that was given to you. You were unhurried in your heartfelt conversations with people who were once strangers, but now are dear friends. You lingered over your coffee, made with care and love and handed to you with a smile. You’re overwhelmed with the joy of a creative space like Hutchmoot, but you’re also exhausted and your brain and spirit feel full to the brim. While you don’t want to leave, you feel that if you had one more session to sit through and think through, you might slump over onto the floor out of sheer overload. Maybe Hutchmoot was a returning time for you. You knew the faces to expect, the hugs to anticipate, and the jokes to be told. You might have opened up on a new level and shed some tears with kindred spirits. You felt, as you have many years before, that this was a home-going of sorts. Yet every year is different, and there are new things to think about and sort through. Your heart feels uplifted and filled. You lingered in the parking lot and didn’t want to leave yet again. If I may, I’d like to remind you of one very hard thing: Hutchmoot isn’t a staying place; it’s a sending place. Wherever in the world you’re returning to, you’re sent there. You’ve been placed there by design. You aren’t there by accident. At least for now, and for most of us, Nashville isn’t where we belong. You, artist/creative type/appreciator, serve a purpose in the kingdom of God in your actual, local, geographic location. You are a part of the body, unlike any other part of the body where you are. You aren’t meant to be like everybody else. Part of the glory of Hutchmoot is that you feel like people “get” you. You ask them if they’ve read that book, and they have! And they loved it, too! Remember Lewis’ quote about how friendship is born the moment someone says, “What, you too?! I thought I was the only one!” Hutchmoot is full of those moments, and they are delightful and soul-nourishing. But back at home, you are a bit more unique. Not everyone thinks the way that you do. This, also, is by design. If everyone thought like I did, the budgets would never be balanced and the times tables would never be learned. But that’s because I serve a different function than someone else who excels at those things. Hutchmoot isn't a staying place; it's a sending place. Kelly Keller It’s easy to interact in that “you too” manner at Hutchmoot because some of the work has already been done for us. We know that when we make a Narnia reference, almost everyone will perk up. We know that people will want to talk thoughtfully about films and not cast them aside out of hand. There are relatively safe conversational spaces to occupy and know you will be welcomed. But that’s because the Proprietor, the Hutchmaster, and the staff have worked very hard to establish grooves for us to run in. The way has been paved, the example has been set, and the space has been made. At home, this is probably not true. May I suggest that you do some hard work to find those “you too” moments with the members of your local place? Not everyone there is easy for you to love. You’re not easy for some of them to love, either. Recall Paul’s teaching to the Corinthian church about the parts of the body. You might be an eye who has nothing in common with an ankle or a hand. Remember, you have the most important thing in common: you have Jesus! The body of which you’re a part is the very thing you have in common. Because you’re good at imagining, let’s imagine for a moment a group of eyes talking to each other. “What a night I had!” one says, “The Body left the contact lenses in overnight and it was a battle all night long.” The other eyes nod in agreement—they’ve experienced that as well. Another pipes up, “I saw the most beautiful meal the other night, but Stomach was a real downer and said we could only have a few bites.” Someone replies, “Yes, my Stomach is that way too. Why don’t they understand what we see? How beautiful it is?” It might take more effort for an eye to have conversations with stomachs, ankles and hands than with other eyes. But they are still part of the same Body, and they can’t do without each other. I have long felt, as many of you do, that The Rabbit Room is a unique place worth preserving. It’s different, it’s new to some of us, and it’s a haven. Anytime there is a sniff of controversy, we have the difficult conversation or we just do the hard work of lovingly pressing through and forgiving a difference. There is special care taken to major on the majors and allow kind disagreement on the minors, because we can’t let conflict destroy this special place we’ve got. But this is what the church ought to be to us, as well. Perhaps familiarity with the institution of the local church, and the way it has become lazily enfolded into cultural Christianity, has made us careless in striving for the preservation of it. If the past decade in America is any indication, there is a shift happening in American culture. We are, slowly but surely, moving from a “Christian nation” (may I say, we were never this—and that’s another post) to a post-Christian one. Though the changes are uncomfortable, the church is being refined. It’s becoming increasingly uncomfortable for people to hang onto churches for the social capital. This is a good thing. As this shift continues, the need increases for you, Rabbit. Your local body needs your voice of hope. Your vivid descriptions of Heaven. Your songs in the night. They won’t all understand it at first, and some of them will never “get it” at all—at least, not at the level your idealistic heart wants them to. But for those who do, you may function as a life preserver. Russell Moore has made it a habit of saying that the church is moving from moral majority to prophetic minority. As this happens, the songs and stories will grow all the brighter. The church needs its artists and its poets, striving with their musical hearts towards peace in the church and for the hope of Heaven. So don’t stay in Nashville, Hutchmooter. Go sing to your people at home. Maybe we’ll see you next year. We’ll hug you when you get here. This post originally appeared on Kelly Keller’s blog. [Editor’s note: This is the part of the post where we ask you to comment with a note about your experience of Hutchmoot this year. What themes did you notice emerging in sessions, songs, and conversations in the hallway? Are there any particular meaningful moments you’d like to share? Funny stories or new friends? You’re invited to tell about it here.]

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers interviews Drew Miller, singer/songwriter and content developer for the Rabbit Room. Drew Miller is a Nashville singer-songwriter, content developer for the Rabbit Room, and the producer of this podcast. This fall and winter he is releasing two EPs, Desolation and Consolation. In this episode, Jonathan and Drew discuss the interdependence of desolation and consolation, how to evoke genuine emotion in listeners, and the importance of truth-telling in a world full of false consolations. Writers who make Drew Miller want to write: Madison Cunningham (Who Are You Now?) Sara Groves (Floodplain) Click here to listen to Episode 21 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

I didn’t want to go there. Sitting in stunned silence as Ella Mine performed her Dream War show, I battled emotions that took me by complete surprise. She is twenty-two. Twenty-two. I didn’t like the demons that haunt her. I didn’t like how her pain made me feel. I didn’t like that redemption seemed far off, that her suffering was still present and all too real right now. I hate that a seventeen year old girl suffered as she has and now, at twenty-two, she is still clawing her way out of the grave that she did not dig, wresting with demons that she did not invite to play. I felt the weight of her suffering, suffering that felt scarily familiar even in its great difference from my own. My heart raced and my breathing became labored as her voice raged and the pace of the music waxed and waned. Suffering and pain, anguish and drowning. Down, down, down. No part of me was comfortable. I furtively glanced around, noting the door all the way across the room. I wanted to leave. I could use the excuse of needing to go to the bathroom, then just stay in the hallway, out of sight, with a wall between me and her pain. Between her pain and mine. But I stayed. I wondered what my friends were thinking. I struggled to understand. I begged for relief, for release, for hope. Where was the hope? I scanned the pages of lyrics, looking ahead, wanting to see the happy ending tied up in a bow. But it wasn’t there. A slight up-tick? I guess you could call it that. My friend described it profoundly: Ella Mine scraped the bottom with her music. Yes, that’s right. She scraped it clean and didn’t promise we would rise from it. Not today. Isn’t that right, though? Isn’t that the truth with which we are cursed, caught between the now and not yet? I listened to Ruth Naomi Floyd singing the songs of her great-great grandmother’s generation. A woman whose legacy lives on in her great-great granddaughter’s strong and courageous voice. Then we heard the stories told by Odessa Settles and Buddy Greene, products of a similar era with vastly different experiences, two lives merged into a friendship wrought by music and the work of the Holy Spirit. Story after story of brokenness, of darkness, and of the light which darkness has not overcome. Finally, we experienced the reading of The Hiding Place, adapted by A. S. Peterson. This play is a work of sheer brilliance. Though I knew the story, this time I felt it. Viscerally, painfully. Corrie raged against the God she could not see while Betsy determined to love him despite their suffering. Forgiveness. The scandal of true forgiveness. Redemption. Hope. At the end the people stood, one by one, to tell what this weekend had meant to them. My heart burned to speak out but allergies had stolen my voice and I didn’t want to croak, detracting from the sacred atmosphere in the room, so I work it out here in silence as children’s voices waft from a bedroom down the hall and my daughter converses softly with her dad. We plan to light the first hearth-fire of the season tonight and I am glad. Glad for the light and, oddly, glad for the darkness. For without darkness how would we recognize the light? Without pain, how would we know the relief of healing? Without the root of suffering, how would we appreciate the fruit of deliverance? My brother used to scare us. An incredible artist, he would fill page upon page with images of demonic battles, dark creatures, blood and gore. He went to a counselor once who reassured his wife that this was, in fact, healthy. “This is how he deals with his emotions,” she said. “This is healthier than beating someone.” My brother knew what I have not wanted to face. It is better to sit in the grief and brokenness, to let it do its hard heart work, and not rush through it. We all like the happy ending. I certainly do. But I’m learning I cannot rush redemption. I must sit in the hard places and not run away. I must sit with those who suffer and mourn with those who mourn. Silence may be the balm they need instead of trite answers. In Matthew 10:27-31 Jesus tells us to speak into the light what we have learned in the darkness. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the light. What you hear in a whisper, proclaim on the housetops. Don’t fear those who kill the body but are not able to kill the soul; rather, fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s consent. But even the hairs of your head have all been counted. So don’t be afraid therefore; you are worth more than many sparrows. Until then we must do the hard work of grief, dying one Paschal death after another, wrestling with God and coming out with a limp. Jeanine Joyner We are precious to him. He does not ask us to walk lightly or quickly through suffering. He has much to teach us in those dark places but we must exercise great patience and faith in order to learn, for learning is not a quick process. It is a product of time and discipline, of focus and intention. In order to discern what God is teaching me in the darkness I have to spend the necessary time there, gathering and gleaning what he is teaching me in order to bring it out with me into the light that is surely waiting, even when I cannot see the first glow of dawn. The dawn is promised. Light will surely pierce the darkness. One day we will dance in the fullness of joy before our Father, bathed in the light of his presence, the tears of grief long left behind. One day. But until then we must do the hard work of grief, dying one Paschal death after another, wrestling with God and coming out with a limp. At Hutchmoot, many were limping and as the unintended theme revealed itself over the weekend I realized I was, too. Isn’t that the beauty of a community like this? That we can come with our struggles, insecurities and scars and not be expected to have figured it all out? That it’s OK to sing a little off-key or miss a chord on the guitar as long as you keep pushing forward, refuse to stop creating, pound out one more paragraph of that book in your heart in direct rebellion to the sinister voices that whisper to stop? We have all been wounded. At some point we have all had to learn to walk again. Some have rediscovered how to dance, but many have not. Like the beautiful Ruth Naomi Floyd said, “Someday I will dance, but not yet.” Despite our scars, though, we are walking forward, getting stronger every day, side by side, armed with weapons of light, color, story and song. We will face the darkness. We will fight despair. We will grieve with those who grieve and not rush the process. We will exercise patience with our brothers and sisters who struggle to believe the dawn is coming. We will await the first light of morning together. Then we will dance. Photo by Luiz Felipe on Unsplash