What are you looking for?

I came to know Wendell Berry at the wrong time in my life. My husband and I, with three children in tow, had just barely gotten our feet on the ground after moving away from a place and a people that we had dearly loved for six years. We were walking into a two-year internship—where we would hover over another city before making the third move of our young marriage—when I picked up Jayber Crow for the first time. It seemed like a cruel joke, a mocking of my current situation, to be falling in love with the words of Berry who so values the consistency of staying in one place. Jayber’s ghost hovered over me saying, “Being fixed in a place is a good thing.” And I nodded my head and said—“Yes, I know. I know it is, and I’m already arguing that point and you really don’t have to keep telling me that.” And we both stood in the silence, staring, waiting for resolve that didn’t come. I longed to be a fixture on a street, in a town, in one state. I wanted to know the dirt underneath me and to be in a place long enough to be known. Because when memory calls me back to my childhood, I know that land. I can feel that grass under my feet. I know its broad green blades: fat-bottomed and rising to a rounded point. In my mind, I can split the blades into two pieces and I can remember the way the hanging fibers felt on my lips. I know the yellow dandelion blooms—and not only as a whole, but also, more clearly even, in its parts. I know the feel of the dandelion’s soft petals on the tip of my nose and the mustard-yellow streaks it would leave when I rubbed it across my palm. I can see its hosts of aphids working their way up the stems in crowded lines. I know the lemon clovers that grew by the ditch in the front yard and I can taste their sour electric-yellow petals in my mouth. And I know all of this because we stayed in one house for nearly my entire childhood, and my little dime-sized eyes spent time up-close with these neighborly wonders. But now, as an adult, I worry for my children who have had the grass of three different states under their feet. Have they been in a place long enough to become friends with the weeds? And this isn’t a rhetorical question— it’s one that’s been asked in hot tears into pillows under the dark cover of night. When will our hearts stop treading water? When will we find rest, Lord? What and where is home? And, I hate saying it—because it’s not his fault and because I still love his words dearly—but Berry has added insult to injury. And all of the other well-meaning voices in our Christian culture that shout for place-making and homesteads, they poke and pull at freshly-mended spots in my heart, places held together by fragile threads. And so: a word to my fellow pilgrims. To those of you who, like Abraham, have been called to leave home and walk out into the night toward a place unnamed: This is really hard. You have pulled up roots, and they are still dropping home-soil as you gather them in your arms. Maybe those roots are raw and sore from being pulled and re-planted several times. You may, like I, have had the great privilege of burrowing yourself down into a place for a time, practicing eternity there, only to be called to leave. And you realized it was just a practice, after all. And you had to pack your bags, because this was not home yet. Or maybe you can’t even remember the weeds of your own childhood. Maybe your whole life has been characterized by this feeling of placelessness, and others assume that you are unfazed by this because it’s all you’ve known. But you have a longing in you, and you do know. The truth is, of course, that we are all pilgrims in this world, and so there is something good for our hearts in this journeying through different places and people. There’s an honesty at work when our realities are not allowing us to anchor our hearts down to temporal things. But let me hold your face in my hands and tell you this, you weary-hearted pilgrim— It’s not the way it’s supposed to be, either. You are supposed to be pining. Jayber Crow should make you rest your head on your folded arms and weep. We were made for porch-sitting with friends; we were made for a home. But for some of us, our callings don’t allow for anchored roots on this side of heaven. And if this is you, you need a familiar place on which to cry. You actually need a table to lay your folded arms and head upon, that place where your hot breath will gather itself up and come back to you. If you’ve ever known the goodness of walking into your grandmother’s kitchen—all warm from the heat of familiar things in the oven—there’s something else like that. The Lord’s Table is like that, and it is the table we pilgrims need. When will our hearts stop treading water? When will we find rest, Lord? What and where is home? Elizabeth Harwell The Lord’s Supper is a place for people like you and me who are very aware of our in-betweenness. Jesus said he was leaving us; he was going to prepare a place for us. But in the meantime, he was setting a familiar table that would spread the expanse of the entire world and throughout time until he comes again. The Table is a place for the pilgrims. It’s a cozy stop-off on a chilly and unforgiving road. Here we are called to remember the place to which we are traveling. It’s a whiff of the feast coming, in the same way that the smell of lima beans on the stove takes you back to being hip-to-hip with your grandmother in front of her stove. The Table takes us back to the time he secured the promise for us, and it begs us to look forward to the time in which the promise will be fulfilled: A place. A home. The Table is a place for us to remember Christ, but as we share the one bread with brothers and sisters, it’s also a place at which we are re-membered back into the body—where we are reminded of our Family. We stare into the faces of our membership. Our place is coming, our people are here. These past three years, I have felt the pain of roots being dragged above the ground. And Sabbath after Sabbath, I have fallen on the Table. It has been a physical handle for my fainting heart to grab hold of. The Table is the place where Jesus can tell me, “I know the journey is hard. But here is my body to nourish you for your pilgrimage. I am coming back for you. I’m taking you home.” Jesus told us that he would not eat this meal again without us, which means that he is hungry for our homecoming feast. The chair is being pulled out for you and for me. The dandelions and the lemon clovers are dancing in the fields outside, waiting to be known. Weep, weary-hearted pilgrim…but not as one without hope. You have a home.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers talks with Christie Purifoy, author of Placemaker: Cultivating Places of Comfort, Beauty, and Peace. Christie Purifoy is the author of Placemaker: Cultivating Places of Comfort, Beauty, and Peace. She says, “I believe that life, in all its pain and beauty and mystery, is a journey of love. Writing keeps my eyes wide-open to this astonishing reality.” In this episode, Jonathan and Christie discuss the analogy between writing and gardening, how to name and and rename “weeds,” and what it means to extend hospitality to your reader. Click here to listen to Episode 27 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.

We have two offerings for you this Thanksgiving: Doug McKelvey’s beautiful, classic “Liturgy for Feasting with Friends” from Every Moment Holy and a song from J Lind called “It Is Good”—a personal and sweeping affirmation of creation, from the first garden to the last. Wherever you find yourself this year, we invite you to remember with us that “nothing good and true and right will be lost forever. All good things will be restored.” And as J sings, “Arcing ‘cross the heavens, the rainbow bids you stand—a voice commands that it is good.” CELEBRANT: To gather joyfully is indeed a serious affair, for feasting and all enjoyments gratefully taken are, at their heart, acts of war. PEOPLE: In celebrating this feast we declare that evil and death, suffering and loss, sorrow and tears, will not have the final word. But the joy of fellowship, and the welcome and comfort of friends new and old, and the celebration of these blessings of food and drink and conversation and laughter are the true evidences of things eternal, and are the first fruits of that great glad joy that is to come and that will be unending. So let our feast this day be joined to those sure victories secured by Christ, Let it be to us now a delight, and a glad foretaste of his eternal kingdom. Bless us, O Lord, in this feast. Bless us, O Lord, as we linger over our cups, and over this table laden with good things, as we relish the delights of varied texture and flavor, of aromas and savory spices, of dishes prepared as acts of love and blessing, of sweet delights made sweeter by the communion of saints. May this shared meal, and our pleasure in it, bear witness against the artifice and deceptions of the prince of the darkness that would blind this world to hope. May it strike at the root of the lie that would drain life of meaning, and the world of joy, and suffering of redemption. May this our feast fall like a great hammer blow against that brittle night, shattering the gloom, reawakening our hearts, stirring our imaginations, focusing our vision on the kingdom of heaven that is to come, on the kingdom that is promised, on the kingdom that is already, indeed, among us, For the resurrection of all good things has already joyfully begun. All participants now lift their glasses or cups. May this feast be an echo of that great Supper of the Lamb, a foreshadowing of the great celebration that awaits the children of God. Where two or more of us are gathered, O Lord, there you have promised to be. And here we are. And so, here are you. Take joy, O King, in this our feast. Take joy, O King! Glasses are clinked with celebratory chime, and participants in the feast savor a drink, admonishing one another heartily with these sincere words: Take joy! All will be well! Participants take up the cry: All will be well! Nothing good and right and true will be lost forever. All good things will be restored. Feast and be reminded! Take joy, little flock. Take joy! Let battle be joined! Let battle be joined! Now you who are loved by the Father, prepare your hearts and give yourself wholly to this celebration of joy, to the glad company of saints, to the comforting fellowship of the Spirit, and to the abiding presence of Christ who is seated among us both as our host and as our honored guest, and still yet as our conquering king. Amen. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, take seat, take feast, take delight! Click here to download this liturgy and peruse others at the Every Moment Holy website.

As premature as it may feel, let me be the first to greet you with “Happy New Year!” That’s right—today is the first day of the Christian calendar, the beginning of Advent. The seasons of the church calendar help us to live our lives in light of the story of Jesus’ life. As humans, we tend to organize our lives by organizing our time. We set times each day for working, resting, eating, sleeping, and driving. Our weeks have a rhythm of work and leisure. We mark special days each year such as birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. Holidays, or “holy days,” mark what is most important in a culture. Almost everyone in our country celebrates Christmas, regardless of their faith commitments. And for those of us shaped so deeply by American culture, it’s hard not to think of these days leading up to Christmas in terms of lights, snow, Santa, blow-up decorations for the yard, and of course the anxiety of finding the perfect gifts for our loved ones. These are deeply held traditions of our culture and can certainly hold good memories and meaning for us. But for those who look to Christ, our spiritual forebears can provide us a Christian calendar with seasons that help us order our worship and life together around a different story—the story of the good news of Jesus. Very early on, taking their cues from the patterns of the Ancient Hebrew year, the church developed a calendar organized around the life of Jesus. On the fourth Sunday before Christmas, the traditional church calendar begins with Advent, an anticipation of the coming of Jesus. This season of Advent lasts until sundown on December 24th, at which point Christmastide begins. During the weeks of Advent, which means “coming,” the church remembers Jesus’ first coming into the world and looks forward to his second coming to finish the work of redemption he’s begun. I find waiting to be hard and something I take great pains to avoid. By celebrating Advent each year, I get to learn how to wait and anticipate. In today’s world, busyness and a constant tide of information threatens to fill each gap that might have been used in learning to wait and experience our own deepest longings. We have social media to fill moments of boredom or angst. We have fast food for nourishment on the fly. We are programmed to want efficiency and squeeze as much into every day as possible. In his compelling book Stand out of our Light: Freedom and Resistance in the Attention Economy, James Williams proposes that “the main risk information abundance poses is not that one’s attention will be occupied or used up, but rather that one will lose control over one’s attentional processes.” To be honest, I feel this trend in myself, and I hope Advent will provide an effective means of reversing it. When we immerse ourselves in Advent, we consciously push against the tide of an instant gratification world and surrender to complete dependence upon the provision of God—a generous God of outrageous patience. In these four weeks of Advent, I encourage you to try a fast of some sort, perhaps take up the practice of Lectio Divina, or use a resource like the lectionary, The Book of Common Prayer or Every Moment Holy to orient your heart toward hope, anticipation, and longing. I plan to read along with The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent which was mentioned here last week. If you do take on the lectionary readings, keep your eyes out for themes of lament, the failure of God’s people, their need for repentance, and a deep longing for lasting redemption. When we immerse ourselves in Advent, we consciously push against the tide of an instant gratification world and surrender to complete dependence upon the provision of God—a generous God of outrageous patience. Rob Wheeler Following Advent comes the Christmas season, or Christmastide, which provides twelve days to celebrate the fulfillment of those Advent longings developed during the previous four weeks. Although holding out hope in a bleak season of life can be painful, the soul-shaping that occurs in the Advent season prepares us to welcome Christ more wholeheartedly. In the Christmas season, we join our hearts with those angels and shepherds who worshiped the newborn King. We declare with them across the years and diverse cultures that the long-promised King anticipated by the prophets of Israel has now finally come to us. Our deepest longings for justice and the fulfillment of hope has arrived. This King Jesus is the glorious God come near, “Emmanuel,” “God with us.” Christmas focuses our attention on the humility of Jesus. He did not insist on the kingly glory which he deserved, but rather, he humbled himself to enter a wicked world. A celebration of Christmas should lead his followers to new humility and commitment to serve others sacrificially as we observe our Lord’s example. Christmas provides hope for the healing and flourishing of the world. In Jesus’ life we see God’s commitment to restore all things. The invisible God makes himself visible and comes in a physical body. The Maker of all things now dwells forever in a body like ours. From his incarnation and later his death, burial, resurrection, and ascension, we can have hope as we ourselves long for the day when death will be swallowed up in his victory and all things will be made new forever. So when those twelve days of Christmas come, be sure to feast, give gifts, gather with friends and family, sing, and set aside moments to reflect and celebrate. Do those things which allow you to most delight in the good news of Jesus.

Advent is here! Our four-week season of anticipating Christ’s birth began yesterday, offering us time to reflect on our brokenness and hope for the joy set before us. Christ has come, indeed! He will come again. But until that day, we rehearse our story—the story of darkness adorned by Light, the story of humanity’s yearning for Life which liberated what death held captive, the story of a Child whose advent disturbed the status quo and offered a path of repentance, hope, and love. May this collection of songs invite you into this rehearsal. May they offer an opportunity to practice what Rob Wheeler wrote in yesterday’s post: “When we immerse ourselves in Advent, we consciously push against the tide of an instant gratification world and surrender to complete dependence upon the provision of God—a generous God of outrageous patience.” The time for celebration is nigh. But let us not rush ahead and miss the importance of the wait. Welcome again to Advent! Click here to listen to our 2019 Advent playlist on Spotify, and here to listen on Apple Music. Enjoy!

[Editor’s note: Throughout Advent, we’ll be sharing one meditation at the beginning of each week, each taken from a delightful little collection called The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent, published by the Christian History Institute. If you find yourself enjoying what you’re reading, be sure to check it out—there will be a link at the bottom of each post where you can learn more. Today’s meditation is from Luci Shaw, about Mary and the Annunciation—the moment she was told she would give birth to Jesus.] Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her. —Luke 1:38 NRSV [Mary]: When the Angel’s message came to me, the Lord put a song into my heart. I suddenly saw that wealth and cleverness were nothing to God—no one is too unimportant to be His friend. —Dorothy L. Sayers, The Man Born to Be King Was Mary caught utterly unaware by the sudden angelic visitation? For generations all young Jewish women had held in their hearts the secret desire to be the mother of the One promised in Isaiah’s prophecy. But for most that was only a dream, a tradition, an ambition unlikely to be fulfilled. So why was Mary chosen for this relationship with the Most High God? In the moment reality surpassed the vision and was more than wishful thinking. Here’s my reflection on the moment of Mary’s astonishment: Mary, virgin, had no sittings, no chance to pose her piety, no novitiate for body or for heart. The moment was on her, unaware: the Angel in her room, the impossible demand… As Sayers emphasized, Mary was young and inexperienced, a female in a male-dominated society. She lived in Nazareth, not the holy city of Jerusalem. She was pregnant and unmarried, open to rumor and conjecture, and probably illiterate. And the Angel had left her! She was alone, wondering what on earth to tell her mother, what on earth was being asked of her. But then, part dazzled, part prescient—she hugs her body, a pod with a seed that will split her. Luci Shaw It’s amazing that her heart was wide open to the impossible possibility that the Mighty One of Israel had chosen her! And the reality, overwhelming as it must have been, brought Mary a fresh purpose for her life: a village girl unprepared for a role that demanded of her—simply everything. No matter our own sense of inadequacy, of unpreparedness, such openness is at the heart of any act of faith. Still, the secret at her heart burns like a sun rising. Hot to hold it in— that which cannot be contained. She nestles into herself, half-convinced it was some kind of good dream, she its visionary. But then, part dazzled, part prescient— she hugs her body, a pod with a seed that will split her. Will we be like Mary, when God asks more of us than we think is possible? We remember Paul’s challenge to each of us in our human, flawed condition: “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” May we, too, become pregnant with God. Loving God, in the immense scope of the universe, I am one small, very ordinary human being, but I long to show you my love. I offer you the best gift I have, my obedient heart. Amen. Click here to learn more about The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent.

I’m writing from Princeton’s Pyne Rotunda, a stained-glass sanctuary for students who haven’t finished their readings but are, consciously or not, setting themselves up for defeat. One of the problems is the furniture: this corner has a sunken armchair with a cushioned footrest, inviting you to lounge on the pretense of “focus.” I’ve fallen asleep in this same chair several times before, usually after ten minutes of head-bobbing and the realization that I’d just re-read the same passage twice without understanding any of it. Excusing a lazy subconsciousness and some plush furniture, the real culprit is the lighting. The windows along the walls are thin and clear, framing the changing leaves outside. The cathedral-esque panes stretch up to semicircle mosaics of purple, turquoise, and mustard fragments, one in each panel of the octagonal dome. The mosaics, in turn, point to the matching centerpiece overhead, a beautiful octagram that distills pale sunlight into a warm glow. Filling the wooden frame of the rotunda, the glow changes this fall morning into a late winter fire. I couldn’t think of a better listening environment for Drew Miller’s latest EPs, Desolation and Consolation. Every song on each record is so rich and loaded that I feel like a student again, annotating lyrics and cross-referencing allusions. I find myself re-reading, but not because I feel lost; I don’t want to miss anything. And if there is any head-bobbing, it’s not out of exhaustion. As Drew explains in the projects’ backstory, the narrator invites us to navigate two compelling concepts that are often overlooked. Desolation denotes loss, a sense that something important was here but is now missing. Conversely, Consolation involves a sense of recovery or completion; a void has been filled, although what now fills that space might look very different from what occupied it in the past. Consolation requires desolation, and vice versa. “Into the Darkness” sets the tone of Desolation, and starkly at that: Go ahead and exhaust your distractions Drink deep from the dying well Cash in your hope for resignation Go make your heaven of hell —”Into the Darkness” The narrator could be speaking to anyone disillusioned by their latest attempt at a cure for pain. Whatever their source of purpose has been, it’s losing its potency. The sparse instrumentation is as intentional as the lyrics, and Desolation invites us in. Click the image to view Desolation in the Rabbit Room Store. Each verse of the song puts another remedy to the test, exposing the lived limitations of our most trusted prescriptions: self-improvement and moral development; creative projects and exciting metanarratives; YouTube philosophies and ivory theologies. “Into the darkness you’ll go…” Sooner or later, as the refrain reminds us, the darkness becomes unavoidable. The narrator walks this fine line between hope and despair throughout the record. “Hospice” reads like a psalm, lamenting the apparent absence of God or purpose: You say there’s room for me at your table But your chair remains empty at mine —”Hospice” Faith is not recast but instead remembered as the great wrestling match, not between good and evil, but between the single individual and God: I won’t let you go until you bless me Until I hear you speak my new name —”Hospice” The allusions continue in “Death of a Dream,” where the narrator wonders whether it might not have been better if we had never tasted any promised land in the first place. If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, as C. S. Lewis famously muses, then wouldn’t I be better off without those desires? Our source of hope is suspected as a source of anxiety: Fairest dreams Fall so far from finding The source of hope That wounds with each reminding —”Death of a Dream” In “How Small,” the narrator presses in further, encouraging us to navigate a space of rawness that is usually avoided—and maybe for good reason: You’re too good to be true There’s too much true that isn’t good —”How Small” The sting of Epicurus’ trilemma surfaces, not in lofty philosophical terms, but in an honest petition. Loosening our semantics, we are allowed to admit that not all truth is beautiful; the narrator encourages us to recognize our tragedies as exactly that: tragic. The fine line of despair, though, is never crossed: I am no stranger to your silence Though I would rather know your voice All my faith is in defiance My only hope is to rejoice You’re too good not to be true —”How Small” Whether out of loyalty, defiance, or desperation, faith and hope are never fully abandoned, and we continue groping our way through this darkness. Desolation permeates the record from start to finish and sets the scene for a response. With “Grace,” the first song of Consolation, the response begins, “Love, don’t bury your hope too deep.” We are reminded that faith presents itself as paradox, an overnight wrestling match that leaves us with an unexpected hymn. J Lind I recently saw Drew perform, and he shared that the song’s narrative actually started with a dream: workers came to his home, boxed everything up while cautioning that there was “no cause for concern,” and drove away. As the deconstruction of faith seems increasingly systematic and inevitable, it becomes easier to watch it objectively, without conviction, and from a distance. It is here, the narrator hints, that we are able to more fully press into the archetypal currents of grief and grace that exist outside of us: There’s a grief older than you are That you’re not the first one to feel If the precious things need our defending, It’s ‘cause we gave ourselves permission to steal But there’s a grace older than you are And you cry its tears on your face Says, “If you’re looking for something more lasting, Well, be prepared to come in last place Be prepared to come in last place” —”Grace” Just as the joy of recovery requires the pain of loss, so too a lasting foundation requires an excavation that hits bedrock. “Psalm 126” keeps pace, drawing on these currents of grief and grace as they echo off the ancient psalmist: Those who sow with tears reap songs of joy You have done great things You came to us a child We can’t help but sing Of your glory, meek and wild —”Psalm 126″ This ancient refrain becomes personal and particular in “Caught Inside A Promise,” an ode to marriage that speaks to the meaning found in vulnerability and commitment. In line with the record’s rawness, the narrator doesn’t parade this commitment as mere marital bliss: So many well-worn paths we travel With aimless feet on dead-end days Blind to every grace unraveled Underneath our winding ways —”Caught Inside A Promise” Throughout Consolation, the narrator interprets our world as one in which grace is latent just beneath the surface, catching our attention in surprising ways. This theme comes most fully into view through the closing benediction, “A Child Will Lead Us All:” The kingdom’s coming as a seed Smaller than the eye can see From wanting eyes to set us free Kingdom come —”A Child Will Lead Us All” The final song of Consolation addresses the question raised at the end of Desolation: “How small are the seeds that you sow?” We are not left with a concise answer or cold calculus. Instead, we are reminded that faith presents itself as paradox, an overnight wrestling match that leaves us with an unexpected hymn: The kingdom’s coming as a song Mournful dirge and anthem strong To cheer the ones who sing it wrong Kingdom come —”A Child Will Lead Us All” Neither does the narrator send us home with eager cliches. For all its celebratory sounds, Consolation ends on a sobering note: The kingdom’s coming slow and true Till every inch has been made new And it will ask your life of you Kingdom come —”A Child Will Lead Us All” From an Ignatian perspective, we spend our lives oscillating between seasons of desolation and consolation. “We don’t need to be consoled unless we have met grief, unless we have met loss,” Drew explains in the song’s backstory. Recovery requires loss, and the unique joy of the former owes its potency to the sting of the latter. Cue Desolation. Click the image for tickets to Drew’s release show this Friday. Sitting here, I’m moved again by Drew’s stories and songs. This warm rotunda, like his latest project, serves as a reminder of some great perennial wisdom, one which has to be reinterpreted again and again for our own good. Heaven knows we need it. To celebrate the full release of his album, Drew Miller will be performing it in its entirety this Friday night at The Well Coffeehouse (same venue as the Local Show).

In 2017, my husband and I suffered a devastating house fire, which meant, among other things, a year-long exile to a camper in the backyard during the restoration. It was a painful, exhausting, overwhelming, rewarding, and ultimately beautiful journey back home. But this time last year I was anticipating the unbelievable joy of celebrating the holidays in our own place once more—of cramming the rooms with beloved people and stuffing the freezers, fridges, and larder with good things for them to eat. I wrote this piece after Thanksgiving, reflecting on some blessedly obvious but all-too-forgettable truths. And while grief and loss may have thrown these truths into sharper focus, I need their reminder every bit as much today as I did then. We hosted Thanksgiving here on Thursday, a thing neither of us would have thought possible a year ago. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks—months—as a bold, joyous articulation of the restoration that’s been wrought in our lives and in our home over the past year and-a-half, and the endless “to-do” list I’d been curating reflected the overflowing anticipation of my heart. The thought of filling these rooms once more with the scents, sounds, and glad fellowship of a feast was as clear and poignant a picture of redemption as I’ve ever known, and I couldn’t wait to experience the reality. The reality, however, is that early in the week I was seized with an almost incapacitating sadness. I say “almost” because if it had not been a few days before Thanksgiving, I very likely would have succumbed to its heart-numbing invitation to pull up a chair at the cold table of despair and just sit there in an un-creative void. In the face of all that God has done and all that we have to thank him for, all I could think about was all that’s been lost. It was so oppressive that I texted a kindred spirit and asked her to pray for me. “I feel like I’m scared of everything,” I told her. Everything I loved seemed suddenly a door flung wide to pain and more loss. “I just can’t find my joy,” I wrote. “And I think that scares me most of all.” I missed my Daddy. I missed the auld lang syne of God’s seemingly unbroken favor. I missed the animals we’ve lost over the years and I missed my siblings who weren’t able to come home for Thanksgiving. I missed our pre-fire innocence and the dozen things I instinctively reached for in my new kitchen only to realize they hadn’t been replaced yet—my favorite colander, my hand-mixer, my electric knife, my cookie cutters. To jumble bereavement with such temporal and utterly replaceable items is just as short-sighted as it sounds. And yet, the sting of these tiny things only amplified the stab of the great ones. In a world where anything might happen, “anything” loomed less benevolent than capricious, and joy felt about as safe as the cracked ice upon which Amy March so impetuously pursued her sister Jo, to such life-threatening consequences. I remembered that thankfulness is not a force (or even a feeling) generated by good Christian grit, but a simple response to who God is, in spite of all seemings and appearances. Lanier Ivester The Victorians were great proponents of the “rest cure” for exhaustion of the mind and body, and while I certainly advocate a 21st century version of healthful self-care, I’ve also learned to respect the benefits of what I like to call a “work cure”—an all-encompassing project to lift me out of an endless circle of doubt and dark thoughts. While a to-do list can often be a snare, sometimes it’s a lifeline—and that was absolutely the case for me this week. As I threw my energies into ironing linens, making casseroles, preparing the guest room and setting the table, my mind was loosed to reflect upon the memory of God’s faithfulness. I remembered that thankfulness is not a force (or even a feeling) generated by good Christian grit, but a simple response to who God is, in spite of all seemings and appearances. In spite of all that has happened—and all that has not happened. Be joyful, says Wendell Berry, though you have considered all the facts. I turned on a playlist to accompany my work—courage-giving songs by Andrew Peterson, Matthew Clark, Rich Mullins, The Innocence Mission. And as I sang along—rather mindlessly at first, but gradually, imperceptibly, with gathering intention—something broke open inside of me. A familiar warmth rose, glad and golden, searing and sweet, burning at the back of my throat, stinging my eyes with tears. How easily I forget, when facts accumulate on the sad side of life and God seems preoccupied, that praise is always a golden key. Praise loosens the lock upon the memory of God’s faithfulness and ushers us into the presence of God’s character. If thankfulness is acknowledging what God has done, praise is affirming Who God is—and even our feeblest efforts connect us to the glorious, electrifying Secret that’s singing and thrumming and kindling in every corner of creation — That the Kingdom of God is already among us, and that this broken world is thronged with the glory of it. That “no good thing will be lost forever.” That no matter how we tally the facts of our lives, the equation will always ultimately equal Love. I remembered afresh that every dish prepared, every place set, every starched and ironed pillowcase, has the potential to bear something eternal to time-bound souls—to affirm their worth, to us and to God, and to whisper of a belonging that has no boundaries of race or gender or tribe. When we welcome people to our table, we offer them not only a meal, but a taste of a Feast that is coming. The first fruits of a new creation. Earlier this fall, I read a slim-but-dense book called Only the Lover Sings by the German philosopher and theologian Josef Pieper. In it, he makes a lot of challenging points about the role of art and artists in a culture that has largely forgotten how to see, much less contemplate, the truest things in life. But one of his most poignant assertions (to me, at least) was made almost in passing—namely, that the truest things in life are articulated within the context of feasting: in our celebrations, our holidays, our holy days. We cannot truly feast, he says, without an unflinching acceptance of life as it is—broken, messy, beautiful and bittersweet. But a feast is no feast which does not also affirm, tacitly or otherwise, life as it will be. It takes so much courage to hold reality-as-it-is and reality-as-it-will-be in the same heart, doesn’t it? Which is why we so desperately need the artists to keep reminding us of what’s true, to give form to the inarticulable, to tell us we’re not alone. But I believe that anyone who takes up cookbook or mop or iron or silver polish is an artist in the most essential sense. And that of all the arts, perhaps, these are some of the ones this homesick old world is most hungry for. Last winter, our dear friend Matthew Clark sent us a song he had written about our home and the journey we were taking together in its restoration. In it he enfleshed a hope that made us brave in our darkest days, and which made our joy complete in the longed-for fulfillment of this year’s Thanksgiving feast. It was hard for me to believe a year ago that these old rooms really would be filled again, and even the reality of it last Thursday felt like a dream. But it’s a dream that God has planted deep inside every one of us—the best of all the dreams the world has ever dreamed. And it’s already coming true. Sitting around the table with friends and loved ones; toasting the Kingdom with champagne and elderflower punch; singing hymns in the parlor and sipping coffee by the fire—it was all so good. And it was all yet another beautiful assertion that we’ll always be feasting in faith. Until, of course, that glorious Day when we aren’t.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers talks with Chris Wall, producer of the Slugs & Bugs TV Show. Chris Wall is a film producer in Nashville. He was at Big Idea Productions for eleven years, working on VeggieTales and 3-2-1 Penguins! and other projects. More recently, he produced the Wingfeather Saga short film and the Slugs & Bugs Show. In this episode, Jonathan and Chris discuss the making of the Slugs & Bugs Show and the many collaborative situations Chris has found himself in over the course of his career. Click here to listen to Episode 28 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: What follows is a transcription of John Cal’s delightful introduction to Friday night’s dinner from Hutchmoot 2019, originally given eight weeks ago today.] Please sing with me. Come thou fount of every blessing Tune my heart to sing thy grace Streams of mercy, never ceasing, Call for songs of loudest praise Teach me some melodious sonnet Sung by flaming tongues above Praise the mount, I’m fixed upon it, Mount of thy redeeming love Here I raise mine Ebenezer Hither by thy help, I’m come And I hope, by thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home Jesus sought me when a stranger Wandering from the fold of God He, to rescue me from danger, Interposed his precious blood O to grace how great a debtor Daily I’m constrained to be Let thy goodness, like a fetter, Bind my wandering heart to thee Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love Here’s my heart, O take and seal it Seal it for thy courts above “Rocks,” I said, “too many rocks.” The fields and hills ahead were covered in scree. We were walking above the tree line, where instead of forest, the slopes were mantled in rocks. They dug into my feet, through my shoes, laboring each step, reminding me of what an idiot I was for thinking I could do this, what a fool for believing I could walk these miles. I did not grow up in a family that camps. It’s perhaps different now, thirty years later, but in the 1980s when I was a kid it wasn’t common for a typical Asian American family to go camping. I have seen the house my mother was born in, the shack really—tin siding patched with plywood and cardboard—so I hope you can understand that people who have not been upwardly mobile for at least a few generations and have only recently (either by design or providence) been allowed into the American middle class are not wholly excited to give up the comforts of a bed and roof. I am part of a people for whom comfort is a recent luxury, not the norm, and so camping is not in my blood. So it was odd to my family when I chose to work at summer camp when I was seventeen. It was odder still that I had voluntarily come to the wilderness, that I had asked if I could hike for a few days with my friend Sarah, who was spending six months walking the PCT. The PCT or Pacific Crest Trail is a 2,653 mile-long hiking and equestrian trail that winds along the Sierra Nevada and Cascade Mountains between the U.S. borders with Mexico and Canada. It was conceived by Clinton Churchill Clarke in 1932 and designated a National Scenic Trail in 1968. It was the backdrop for the book Wild by Cheryl Strayed, which was adapted into a movie of the same name by Reese Witherspoon. It also winds by Big Lake Youth Camp, where I first learned about its existence. I was the baker my first year at camp and worked odd hours—I was up early so biscuits could be done by breakfast and stayed in the kitchen through the afternoon at the mercy of dough rising. Thus it was often my providence to encounter PCT hikers wandering into camp in search of some respite: a shower, a meal. A $4.25 meal ticket allowed visitors to access the staff meal line and salad bar which was self-serve and all you could eat. Thru hikers can burn anywhere from 3,000 to 8,000 calories a day, so the same mechanized determination that goes into wanting to hike the 2,000+ miles up North America’s west coast can also be channeled into eating. I have plied many a story from the lips of weary PCT hikers with just a bowl of ice cream—a favorite indulgence when coming into town for supplies—the frozen sweet treat nearly impossible to keep while hiking. It's hard to let hope do its wily work of whittling down your defenses, creeping into your despair, promising you can go a little further. John Cal But now I was a hiker, and it all just seemed foolishly impossible to keep going. These far reaches of the trail can feel so desolate, like a landscape covered in rubble from long forgotten cities—lonely, deserted, and broken. On the first day of my hundred-or-so mile stint on the trail I gained vertical feet, hiking up the side of Mount Hood past Government Camp. At that time on that day, it was the longest hike I’d ever been on. Then, nine days later, all those personal records had been rewritten several times over. Before this walk through the wilderness, I had hiked maybe five miles at most, five miles being the brutally extreme abnormality done with loathing and disdain, and had slept outside perhaps three or four times in my life. The excitement of accomplishment was intoxicating, and now in the middle of my journey, as the adrenaline and newness was wearing off, the hardship and reality of another hill to climb—another crevasse to cross, another mountain covered in scree—began to set in. But then you turn a corner and you see them, cairns rising from the ground below, towers in an otherwise barren terrain—landmarks, mile markers, altars—piles of stones that people have built along the way to mark how far they’ve come. Everyday on the trail was like was this: a jolt of sunrise or nip of cold to begin and a weary finish, glad for sleep and rest. And still so much of the trail is not the beginning or the end. There’s so much middle, so much in between. It’s hard to let hope do its wily work of whittling down your defenses, creeping into your despair, promising you can go a little further. Somehow along the way, we forget to be thankful that we’ve made it this far, that despair has always been overcome, that light always manages to sneak into the cracks. Then just about before we forget altogether, we see a cairn, an ebenezer, that reminds us there are so many reasons to be grateful to be alive. My second to last day on the PCT was one of sheer celebration. It had been over a week since I had showered, and oh how I love a shower. I had ice cream in town for lunch and a glass of wine with dinner. I didn’t know then that the next day, my last day, would be the hardest. Over 3,000 vertical feet would wind up from the Columbia River Basin, further up and further into the Cascade Mountains. I didn’t know that I would spend two hours of the day’s hike weeping in the realization that I couldn’t give up, because the nearest roads were ten miles ahead of me and ten miles behind, or that in my physical pain and mental hysteria it would take a NyQuil and a handful of aspirin to get me to fall asleep. I also didn’t know that in the loneliness and desolation, it would be cathartic to sing old country songs alone in the forest—”Wichita Line Man,” “I Will Always Love You,” “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” I didn’t know that in my despair, my friend Sarah would help me take off my shoes and place a bowl of mac and cheese in my hands. Such a humble thing, filled with so much joy: a box of the blue stuff, made with care and love. I guess it would be easy to overlook the middle parts, the tiny, seemingly insignificant moments between the beginning and the end. But if I allow the ever indiscriminating presence of joy to wash over me, then I begin to see more and more ebenezers, signs of triumph and hope. And isn’t every song we sing, every story we tell, every canvas, every moment, every meal we bathe in beauty, an altar? A cairn we’ve raised in gratitude of how far we’ve come and in hope and courage to tread the miles ahead—further up and further in? It’s not over yet, and I fear—or rather, I feel—there’s a long way to go, and so in the meantime, here we raise our ebenezers. Here by thy great help we’ve come, and we hope by thy good pleasure safely to arrive at home. Click here to read John’s introduction to Thursday night’s meal at Hutchmoot 2019.

[Editor’s note: Throughout Advent, we’ll be sharing one meditation at the beginning of each week, each taken from a delightful little collection called The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent, published by the Christian History Institute. If you find yourself enjoying what you’re reading, be sure to check it out—there will be a link at the bottom of each post where you can learn more. Today’s meditation is from Langdon Palmer, about the freedom to be found in resting within the limits of our createdness.] Work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose. —Philippians 2:12–13, NIV “I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” — J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings When I feel overwhelmed by the state of the world, or the problems I am facing; when all seems hopeless, and I don’t know what to do, I am often reminded of this, my favorite scene in The Lord of the Rings. Here Gandalf gives Frodo a very precious gift—he limits Frodo’s responsibility to the few things he can actually do something about. Dorothy Sayers echoes a similar idea in The Nine Tailors: It does not do for us to take too much thought for the morrow. It is better to follow the truth and leave the result in the hand of God. He can foresee where we cannot, because He knows all the facts. —Dorothy Sayers, The Nine Tailors In my more honest moments, I see how I can use the enormity of the situation, or my regret over past failures, or my worry about what might happen tomorrow to avoid doing the things that are actually within my power to do here and now. But a peace comes from resting within our limits as created beings, content to play the small role we have in the story God is weaving. Yet it is an active peace—we must actually get up, walk out the door, and do the thing we can do. The poor shepherds who witnessed the first Christmas Eve no doubt had many struggles and perhaps felt powerless and small in a large world, but there was something they could do: “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened…” And God used this simple effort for his glory. A peace comes from resting within our limits as created beings, content to play the small role we have in the story God is weaving. Langdon Palmer Philippians 2:12–13 reminds me both that God is in sovereign control and that I must work; I must decide how to use the time he has given me. Like the shepherds I fear and tremble because God is at work. But this fear and trembling empowers me to do that thing I can do: overcome that other fear and trembling—the one that comes from the brokenness of the world. Dear Jesus, help me to focus on the one thing I can do today and to entrust to you how things will work out. Amen. Click here to learn more about The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent.

In the waning light of most autumn afternoons, you can find my daughter walking a slackline in our backyard. The really uncreative among us call slacklines tightropes, I think—it serves the same basic purpose. The line is drawn tight between two trees and is suspended about two feet above the ground. As I understand it, once people get really good at navigating a slackline, they loosen it a bit. You can find any number of slackline trick clips on YouTube. So far my daughter is not interested in tricks; she is content to make her way across it, clinging tightly to the “trainer line”—another line that rests above her and helps her keep her balance. Forgive the heavy-handed metaphor, but this is what life at eleven probably feels like to her some days. I am certain that it’s what mothering her feels like. Is she a child or a young woman? We like to call her our Luna Lovegood. She has the same combination of quiet wisdom and carefree joy. When I can’t find her, sometimes she is up in the arms of a tree in the yard, but sometimes she’s in front of the mirror playing around with makeup. For the foreseeable future, both of us are content to have her do both. What a world we live in for young women to navigate. Conversations around women, men, sex, gender, and marriage have reached a fever pitch in the last few years. On any given day, a young woman can hear a myriad of screaming voices, all telling her something different about her identity, value, and place in the world. What young women need now more than ever are calm, grounded, wise voices—older women who are willing to reach out a hand and help the next generation step into adulthood with solid footing beneath them. With her newest book, Choosing Love, Heidi Johnston has offered us a book that embraces our daughters with generous, kind wisdom. The truths of this book center around three themes: we were created for relationship with God and other people; sin and brokenness haunt earthly relationships; God’s vision of love and marriage is good and lovely. Heidi begins with the Gospel, the Greatest Story, beginning with creation and the fall. She tells the story in a way that helps the reader understand the pervasive homesickness that reminds us all of Eden. As our culture attempts to substitute fleeting relationships for eternal ones, Choosing Love rises above to call our daughters to a higher, better love. Kelly Keller This book is a resource to give your daughter that will lift a burden from her shoulders. It will encourage her to walk in freedom—the freedom provided by God in embracing relationships with himself and others in a way that she is created for. In a kind, direct manner, Heidi speaks the truth and gently cuts away the scraps that our culture offers young women. She reassures readers that the stories they hear every day about relationships are merely refrains of the Greatest Story. Sometimes, without realising it, I think we almost believe that the whole idea of romantic love came from Hollywood. The truth is that even the greatest movies, books, and songs are just an echo of something that is older, deeper, and more real than anything we could write or imagine. —Heidi Johnston, Choosing Love One chapter that sang to my heart as a mother and homekeeper is entitled “The Power of Home.” Heidi asks the reader to recall that wonderful chapter in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe when the Pevensie children visit the Beavers’ home. Remember the meal? Fresh fish, potatoes, and hot chocolate! Using Mr. and Mrs. Beaver as an example, Heidi teaches about the power of a godly home: Over the years I have been welcomed into several homes that stand out in my memory. Whether the home of a single friend, or a family, or a couple with or without children, they are places where both laughter and tears are shared, forgiveness is offered, love is evident and God’s presence is so real it’s impossible to miss. —Heidi Johnston, Choosing Love The wise young woman, Heidi reminds the reader, will seek out a spouse who will join her in this noble cause of establishing a home and family culture where God is honored and people are deeply loved. I was reminded of my own mission and calling as a mom in this part of the book; what a service Heidi has done to cast a vision for this vocation for a younger generation of women. This book would be an excellent resource for a small group to explore together. Heidi provides discussion questions at the end of every chapter for the reader and the group leader. There’s also a letter to parents for those who are entering into these conversations with daughters for the first time. The most important voices I want in my daughter’s ears right now are faithful, winsome ones: I want her to be told the truth about her glorious identity in Christ; I want her to understand the joy of community; I want her to gain legs under her for being tenacious and persistent in spite of the battles of everyday Gospel living. We cannot afford to lie to our children about either the hardship or the glory of following Jesus. As our culture attempts to substitute fleeting relationships for eternal ones, Choosing Love rises above to call our daughters to a higher, better love. Get your copy of Choosing Love in the Rabbit Room Store. An audiobook version of Choosing Love released just today. Check it out at Audible.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. In today’s episode, Jonathan Rogers talks with S. D. Smith, author of the Green Ember series. S. D. (Sam) Smith is the author of the much-loved Green Ember series. In this episode, Jonathan and Sam explore storytelling as an act of love and service, a magic trick, and an occasion for practicing true humility. Sam is currently offering a free audiobook of The Green Ember, the first book in his series. Click here to listen to Episode 29 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.

Last year, I did an in-depth interview with the trio behind one of my favorite musical discoveries, Through Juniper Vale (you can read the post here). But Through Juniper Vale’s producer, Vian Izak, is also a talented singer/songwriter with his own series of albums. I recently connected with Vian to discuss his newest album, The Navigator, and the technology that it employs to create a special storytelling experience. Jonny: Before we get into the new album, let’s start at the beginning. How did you get started writing, performing, and producing music? Vian: Music became my passion when I was fourteen. I discovered a Coldplay album I listened to on my rooftop every summer night that year. I was amazed that music could speak to me in a way that words can’t. I grew up with English as my second language, so how people communicate and connect has always fascinated me as I had to re-learn how to communicate. All of a sudden, music opened up a whole new language for me. So I did nothing else from when I was fourteen until now. I turned my parents’ closet into a vocal booth and would record my own songs and songs from the neighborhood bands. Eventually I moved to Nashville and opened a recording studio on Music Row. I focused on building up an eclectic array of instruments and sounds that weren’t very “Nashville,” which I think contributed to my production career taking off in the indie world. I work with folks like Juniper Vale and The Arcadian Wild while also creating my own soundscapes and stories. Jonny: Hein Zaayman has been accompanying your music with cover art and comics for some time. How did the comic thing get started? Vian: Around the time my passion for music came to life, my brother Hein got hooked on illustration. So we’ve been combining the two mediums since we were young. The first comic/music idea that really came to life for us was my last album Northern Anthems in 2016. And since then we’ve had a goal to fully fuse the two mediums into a cohesive, single piece of artwork. My current album, The Navigator, is the next step in that process. Jonny: What themes and ideas are you exploring in this new project? Vian: The Navigator is a meditation on the process of healing and facing life with bravery. Life requires bravery and a forging forward against the unknown, all the while healing and figuring out who you are. Another artistic goal was to fuse the comic book medium with the music medium in a seamless fashion. I am very excited about how we’ve done it this time around. Jonny: How does that work, exactly? Can you explain how the new technology will present the comic? There are three forces in the comic: the force of darkness, the force of light, and the one who gets to choose between the two. Vian Izak Spotify has a tool called Canvas which allows artists to upload eight-second looped videos that play as their songs play. As we were working on the comic we realized that a comic page fits perfectly in this format. This week we’ve been wrapping up creating animated eight-second loops of each comic book page for The Navigator, so that each track has a page of the comic looped. All fans have to do to read the comic is start at the top of the album and listen all the way through. Each new song will continue with a new page of the story, so that by the end of the album not only do listeners get to enjoy the story arc of the music, but they get to simultaneously see a comic story come to life on their phone screen. We’ve also gone back and retroactively done this to songs from my first record, which is live right now on Spotify. For my first release the comic was available on my site and the album on Spotify. Now they will both be packaged together in a single medium. Jonny: What are you especially excited to share through this new technology? Is there a certain effect you’re going for or a specific moment or song where you feel the music and comic combine to create something special? Vian: Well, for me, both art forms are techniques in telling a story. So my hope is that anyone can walk away after listening to or reading through The Navigator and feel a sense of connection to a universal story. Now that Spotify introduced video format on their platform, I feel like it’s a medium ready for storytellers to draw in listeners. There are three forces in the comic: the force of darkness, the force of light, and the one who gets to choose between the two. The music also centers around these components (darkness, light, and choice), so throughout the work and especially at the end, these pieces play together to tell the story. But on a lighter note there will be epic space monster battles, beings that forge stars with their hands, and time travel. All to the tune of some heartfelt pop music! Be sure to check out Vian’s website and explore the new album at Spotify.

Whether you’ve already breezed through Adorning the Dark, it’s on your Christmas reading list, or you haven’t yet heard of it, here are some thoughts from Andrew Peterson about the best ways to learn how to write and what has most helped him in the art of making books. Click here to view Adorning the Dark in the Rabbit Room Store.

[Editor’s note: What follows is a transcription of John Cal’s delightful introduction to Saturday night’s dinner from Hutchmoot 2019, originally given nine weeks ago.] Well, I’d like to visit the moon On a rocket ship high in the air Yes, I’d like to visit the moon But I don’t think I’d like to live there Though I’d like to look down on the earth from above I would miss all the places and people I love So although I might like it for one afternoon I don’t want to live on the moon I’d like to travel under the sea I would meet all the fish everywhere Yes, I’d travel under the sea But I don’t think I’d like to live there I might stay for a day there if I had my wish But there’s not much to do when your friends are all fish And an oyster and clam aren’t real family So I don’t want to live in the sea I’d like to visit the jungle, hear the lions roar Go back in time and meet a dinosaur There are so many strange places that I’d like to be But none of them permanently So if I should visit the moon I will dance on a moonbeam and then I will make a wish on a star And I’ll wish I was home once again Though I’d like to look down on the earth from above I would miss all the places and people I love So although I may go, I’ll be coming home soon Cause I don’t want to live on the moon ___________ There is no glory in dicing an onion well. There are no accolades for cracking an egg with precision. I won’t lie to you and say that it’s fun to sweep a floor or scrub the corners of a sheet pan. It can be satisfying, enjoyable even, to take a piece of steel wool and with determination transform its edges, crusty and mottled with burnt sugar, to reveal the smooth shiny surfaces beneath. I myself have a proclivity for folding kitchen towels, lining up the corners, and watching the stack of freshly laundered terry cloth grow, but while I find the activity gratifying, I would not call it fun. Making food is not hard. You can learn to fry an egg or slice a carrot or make a Dobos Torte. I can teach you how to make a Dobos Torte. The promise of your fork pressing through layers of sponge cake and silken chocolate buttercream, a note of bitter caramel on your palate, the crunch of hazelnuts. After all, we love food. We delight in food. We see that there is value in food, in its eating, that it exists in the world, but it is the making of food, the work, that so often has many of us flummoxed. We want to eat the chocolate chip cookies. We don’t want to make them. This was the most difficult part about working in that camp kitchen all of those years. Bright eyed seventeen year-olds arrived on my back stoop every June—all that undamaged, optimistic, youthful energy. They wanted so badly to make a difference, to have fun, to work at summer camp, and instead what they got was to work in a kitchen. Concerning summer camp, I’d guess that the first images that come to mind are of water skiers or a lightly strummed acoustic guitar. Maybe for you camp is about archery or kayaks or ghost stories or playing capture the flag, but learning to dice an onion—that is no one’s vision of summer camp. A kitchen worker’s camp experience is not filled with singing or swimming. We do not practice our gymnastics or play volleyball. We’re busy mopping and wiping off tables in the dining hall. There are eighty pounds of dough to transform into bread for supper, five cases of grapes to wash, sixty gallons of juice to make, and a birthday cake to frost for a camper in Cabin 7. “And if you work really hard, maybe next year you can be a counselor.” I know no one means it this way, but the subtext of such a statement is that there are better places, more important places to be than a kitchen—that this work is less than, that someone else, someone who is not me, should be doing it. It’s a tough thing to fight when you’re seventeen, to be mopping a floor while watching the other kids on their way to go mountain biking, to be wrestling sixty quarts of ranch dressing out of the mixer while the wake boarding cabin walks down to the docks. Big Lake’s dish room has a window at the rinsing station that overlooks the lake, a test in fortitude, to wash a thousand or more cafeteria trays while looking out at the water. Then we wrap the whole thing in a bow labeled “ministry,” another difficult shiny layer to wade through. And it’s not just at summer camp that we feel this way. “Sure, Julie helps straighten the hymnals after church, but Barbara is in charge of counting the tithe.” We think it’s great that Alan sings harmony on the praise team, but Peter plays lead guitar. And yes, your son helps at the soup kitchen downtown, but my daughter is headed to the mission trip in Nicaragua. If we know, as Teddy Roosevelt said, that “comparison is the thief of joy,” then why do we still do it? There is a practice, a ritual really, that happened after morning kitchen worship when we were all too exhausted to pray. Sometimes it’s hard to pray at 6:00 in the morning when there are 1,200 pancakes to make. So when there was nothing we wanted to ask or tell or thank our Mysterious Ruler for, we would then share with each other (and congruently that part of Jesus that lives in us all) the last good thing that happened. When learning this practice, this liturgy that came to be known as “Hanging Out with Jesus,” one often wants to remain orthodoxly spiritual. “I hung out with Jesus when I watched the sunset,” someone will offer, or “I read my Bible during break,” another will say. Now, I do not want to discount the fact that they encountered Jesus in nature or when enthralled with the passages of 2 Corinthians, because Jesus is of course found in those places, but why is it so hard to find Jesus in other places too? Why is Jesus more in water skiing than washing dishes? Why is Jesus more in a sermon than straightening hymnals? You see, I believe that all good in the universe comes from God, all of it, and, as I would tell my staff, “Whenever anything good happens to you, that’s when you’re hanging out with Jesus.” The New Testament writer James explains, “Every good and perfect gift comes to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens.” Still, our definitions of good often remain so limited. So tell each other over and over, at supper tonight and as often as you can, the old, old story of the many ways that God is good. John Cal To a summer camp worker, good is often found in swimming and horseback riding, canoeing, or worshipful singing, and so it’s hard to teach camp kitchen workers this truth, especially at 6:00 in the morning when the day ahead of them is filled with none of those things and instead will contain sweeping and cutting cantaloupe and scrubbing saucepans. When learning what “Hanging Out with Jesus” is all about, they actually have difficulty seeing, naming the moments when God is trying to inject their lives with joy because it’s so damned hard to believe that God is hanging out with us when what’s currently happening isn’t on our approved list of what should be happening, when it’s not on our list of what we would call good. But then there’s a moment one morning after some time has passed, and without even noticing that a change has taken place, someone will say, “I took a nap during my break. That’s when I was hanging out with Jesus.” Someone else will pipe in, “I played basketball yesterday afternoon,” or “I talked to my mom on the phone,” or “I found a groove while washing dishes,” or “Amy helped me find the bandaids, and that’s when I was hanging out with Jesus.” And we begin to get it, that there is so much good, so much God, working and being and living in all the nooks and crannies of our lives. It was fifty years ago now that Apollo 11 put men on the moon. Neil Armstrong said it was the culmination of over a decade of work by more than 400,000 people. Only twelve astronauts have ever set foot on the moon, but on July 21st, 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first. Each astronaut was allowed to take a small PPK or Personal Preference Kit with them into space, a bag that contained small personal mementos. For instance, Armstrong’s contained, among other items, his fraternity college pin from Purdue and a fragment of wood from the propeller of one of the Wright Brothers’ planes. At that time, Aldrin was an elder at Webster Presbyterian church, and among his personal items was a small card with two Bible versus written on it. The first was: And Jesus said, “I am the vine. You are the branches. Whoever remains in me, and I in him will bear much fruit, for you can do nothing without me.” —John 15:5 The second was: When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man, that thou visitest him? —Psalm 8:3-4 They understood the weight of what they were doing, the grandeur and the magnificence, how privileged and historical and special their part in the universe was. Then, later, as the cosmos stirred around them, Aldrin exclaimed to Michael Collins, the Apollo 11 command module pilot, “Look, there it is, coming up!” “What?” Collins replied. “The earth. See it?” Aldrin asked. “Yes,” replied Collins. “It’s beautiful.” Because while they had reached the moon, done what no other human beings had ever accomplished, in the midst of their achievement they still were able to recognize the beauty of home. When it was time for the Apollo 11 astronauts to have their first meal together, the first meal on the moon, their weightless supper included pineapple grapefruit drink, coffee, peaches, and bacon. Breakfast. Breakfast was also the last meal Lucy and Edmond had in Narnia. After their voyage on the Dawn Treader, Aslan prepared a feast on the beach before their return to their own world. “Are you there too, Sir?” Edmund asked of Aslan. “I am,” said Aslan. “You shall meet me, dear one.” And breakfast was the last meal we served campers after their week of fun and adventure and friendship before they returned home. Sometimes we can feel cheated because we feel like we’re missing out, because we don’t get what we thought we wanted, because it doesn’t turn out the way we expected. And that feeling, that cup of bitterness often fools us into accepting the hopelessness we think we deserve, into choosing to disregard the ocean full of joy we are continually surrounded with. Because part of the mystery is that “Jesus is always hanging out with you,” as I would tell my summer camp staff, and the Great Deceiver has fooled us into believing that Jesus is only there when, only there if. So we only allow ourselves to experience goodness and God when we read our Bibles and when we’re in church and at summer camp, and we forget his constant presence. We forget the good that’s happening regardless of our actions, regardless of our surroundings, regardless of how we feel. We look for his presence in singing songs, and in good stories, and in the Bible. We try to find him when we go to church, and at Hutchmoot, and on the moon, and of course he is there. But of course he is also there when we make toast for breakfast, and take Calculus finals, and when we drive to work, and vacuum the floor, and when we weed the garden. But of course he is everywhere: where our hearts ache with rejection and loneliness, trying so hard to help us realize the good that he’s already blessing us with, the good that he is moment by moment pouring into every corner of our being, that he’s not coming into our lives or blessing us more when we get hurt or laid off or get cancer because he’s already given us everything, because we already have and have always had access to all of the goodness and joy the universe has to offer. So tell each other over and over, at supper tonight and as often as you can, the old, old story of the many ways that God is good. As we share in this breakfast, our last meal together, after these days filled with wonder and before we return to all the wonders of home, may you be reminded that Jesus loves you, that there is a universe filled with goodness to remind you of this love, and that Jesus is always hanging out with you. Amen and amen. Click here to read John’s introduction to Thursday night’s meal at Hutchmoot 2019. And here to read John’s introduction to Friday night’s meal.

[Editor’s note: Throughout Advent, we’ll be sharing one meditation at the beginning of each week, each taken from a delightful little collection called The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent, published by the Christian History Institute. If you find yourself enjoying what you’re reading, be sure to check it out—there will be a link at the bottom of each post where you can learn more. Today’s meditation is from Chris R. Armstrong, charting C. S. Lewis’s lifelong fascination and enthrallment with the Incarnation.] Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel. —Isaiah 7:14, KJV The Christian story is precisely the story of one grand miracle . . . what is uncreated, eternal, came into nature, into human nature, descended into His own universe, and rose again, bringing nature up with Him. — C. S. Lewis, Miracles For the two decades between 1943 and his death in 1963, C. S. Lewis annually read his friend Dorothy L. Sayers’s radio plays on the life of the Incarnate Christ, The Man Born to Be King. And every time, as he testified at Sayers’s funeral in 1958, he was “deeply moved.” Throughout Lewis’s writings we see this emotional and imaginative engagement with the Incarnation—not just as a brief episode portrayed once a year in church pageants, but as the single central event that changes everything. In his book Miracles, Lewis imagines Christ as a deep-sea diver working on a salvage project: plunging down into his own fallen creation “in order to bring the whole ruined world up with him to new life.” In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, when the lion Aslan reenters the world he created, he breaks the hold of a long, hopeless winter, returning it to the new life of spring and restoring flesh and blood to hapless souls imprisoned as stone statues. His sci-fi story Perelandra culminates in a hymn to God’s “Great Dance:” “In the Fallen World He prepared for Himself a body and was united with the Dust and made it glorious for ever. This is the end and final cause of all creating. . . . Blessed be He!” —C. S. Lewis, Perelandra How can we even imagine what this means for us, that we dust-creatures will be glorified and “brought up with him”? In Mere Christianity Lewis concludes: “The whole offer which Christianity makes is this: that we can, if we let God have his way, come to share in the life of Christ.” No wonder Lewis was so deeply moved by the Incarnation. So should we be, too! Lord, you have come to draw us up to you along with all of nature, to share with us your very life! This Advent, move us to wonder at your coming to earth as one of us—and to rejoice and be deeply moved at what it all means. Amen. Click here to learn more about The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent.

Eleven years have passed since Sara Groves’s first offering for the Christmas music canon, 2008’s O Holy Night, and while it’s uncommon for an artist to release more than one holiday-centered album, the rich layers of meaning around the nativity story offer plenty more for such a thoughtful artist to explore. Joy of Every Longing Heart is Sara’s newest release, an album she says was blessed by being recorded in the middle of summer. Without the familiar trappings of parties and decorations—the hustle and bustle of the season—Sara says the story came to life in new ways. I think you’ll agree. Here’s our conversation with Sara about the new album, her favorite holiday traditions, and projects on the horizon for 2020. Matt Conner: The catalog of Christmas music is already quite large. How much did you wrestle with the actual making of another one? Sara Groves: I really wrestled with it, because this is my second Christmas album, which feels really self-indulgent, but I really love Christmas music. I obviously love the story. I feel the story bears up under a number of retellings, so just like songwriting, you’re looking at love and loss and those things over and over again and there are songs and new ideas. This time, I was much more excited. The first record, O Holy Night—Ben Shive produced that in ’08, so it’s a little over ten years old. We’d just started out with such a huge list of songs to begin with on the first record, and I’d kept them along with another growing list. A little picture began to emerge for the band. At Christmastime, we go out every year and we’re often going to the same communities. As we were being creative around that Advent time of year, it made sense to make more music. Jesus entered a world much like our own: plural and stratified at every level, with leaders who are less than reliable. Sara Groves We recorded Joy of Every Longing Heart the Art House this summer and it was lovely. This time I was looking at the other players involved. Most of the traditional sacred carols have a rhythm. You start with the angels and then the shepherds and the wise men and then you get to the creche. I was looking at this format of storytelling because it is how so many of these songs are set up—”O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus,” “Angels from the Realms of Glory,” even “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” So we began to orient the project around the way the narrative unfolds that way—one, two, three, four, like that. MC: Can you take us further into how you oriented the project around the way the narrative unfolds? And how did that unfold the Advent meaning for you in a new way? SG: It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but a lot of the songs ended up feeling like they were more in the pre-dawn, longing space than they were circled up around the creche. All of those songs capture the tension of the long wait, the advent. “Angels From the Realms of Glory” follows the familiar pattern of how the story usually unfolds: “Angels from the realms of glory, shepherds in your fields abiding, sages leave your contemplations.” The stage is set; everyone is ready. When I went to add original songs, I kept thinking about how Jesus entered a world much like our own: plural and stratified at every level, with leaders who are less than reliable—Herod is insane! We are longing, too. After many macro-stories, I take one parting micro-look at this one shepherd. He is you, he is me, he is a witness to something extraordinary, and is left to bear that witness the rest of his life. In his uneducated best, all he can say is, “I was sleeping, and woke to angels telling me what I would find in Bethlehem. I ran to see it, and it was just like they said.” Even this moment is pre-dawn in the sense that no one could possibly know what it all meant. In our already-but-not-yet state, I think we still don’t fully know what it all means, but upon finding it just like they said, we are moved, and carry it with us—joy somehow, longing still. The pre-dawn emphasis is what led Alec Gilbertson at Foreword to land on the cover design, drawn from an actual picture of modern-day Bethlehem in dawn colors with shepherds on the heights. Waiting. MC: You mentioned recording this during the summer. Was it difficult to drum up the spirit, so to speak? SG: It was actually a challenge. I kept feeling like I should be feeling a certain thing, a certain way. I wasn’t, not just because it wasn’t that time of year but also because there was some unique family stuff happening. But music never gets made in a vacuum. You always want to create in this perfect space to write or this perfect environment to record in. I have yet to find that. I’m sure you’ve experienced this yourself. You think, “I do this vocationally. I should be able to carve out a window, a pure window, where I can do this and really bring my whole self.” Yet life is happening all around. That basically is my art-making reality as a mom of three. [Laughs] MC: You can just say no if this is not applicable at all, but if I put myself in your shoes, I wonder if there’s a newfound perspective or even relevance to the meaning of Christmas when you’re mining this material and singing these songs six months before everyone else. It feels like maybe holding up some diamond in an entirely new light and angle. SG: I love that question and think you’re onto something because that’s the challenge. Christmas and Advent season is so mired with baggage and tradition and layers and layers and years and years of your personal memories. Yet at the core is this story that did have first-time engagement. For me, on the song “Just Like They Said,” I’m trying to get back to one of the very first shepherds on the hill—just one of them—who bears witness to the divine and then he has to carry that witness the rest of his life. No one else has any context for it, not even his family. He alone had this unbelievable thing happen. I think about how many of us have had this thing happen and then we have to sort of unpack that with people or try to say, “No, I’m not crazy. I felt something.” Or you might say, “I was lost but now I’m found.” Whatever language you might have for it. So it was interesting for me to be in the summertime and really think about this shepherd and these people who are experiencing this story for the first time. All this is happening in a context much like our own. Jesus was born into a time that looks like a our time and here comes this light, this word of God into that faith. So trying to look at it outside of all the trappings of Christmastime was helpful. MC: What sort of holiday traditions do you have this time of year? SG: We have so many. [Laughs] My sisters and I make fun of my mom because her tradition is to introduce a new tradition every year, and I turned out to be very similar. I see something that sparks interest and I think, “We have to do that.” My kids laugh because I’ll say, “We have to do this every year!” then the next year, it’s some new idea. But it’s always around Advent. I love and value making space. I think the cumulative effect of thinking about and longing for a day until it finally comes is very, very powerful. The years where we’ve set aside time every day leading up to that Advent process has been so life-giving. This one I get to back up to June, because I’ve been thinking about Advent since June. This should be a very powerful year. [Laughs] But it usually includes some storytelling, reading, poetry, Scripture, singing, candle lighting. The elements are usually the same. Then of course, we have all kinds of goofy family traditions. Stocking people is probably our favorite. We pick names and that’s the person you think of through the year. If you’re on vacation and you’re at the gift shop, you get something for that person. The gifts are very kitschy and each person gets five to eight gifts. We open presents on Christmas Eve and then the stockings on Christmas morning and that’s everyone’s favorite. MC: Do you have a favorite Christmas song? SG: I’m terrible at favorites, but at Christmas, you always get asked about them. I always have about ten answers. “O Holy Night” is definitely a favorite. “Till he appeared and the soul felt it’s worth.” The idea that when Jesus appears, the soul feels its worth. I love that idea. That was on the first album. On this record, I’ve always loved “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” John Mark Nelson produced this record and created a retuned version that has this joy to it that’s very different from the original. I am loving it. I think it’s a beautiful arrangement. “Winter Wonderland” was also fun to cover as well. I added two lines to orient that winter wonderland in St. Paul because that’s where we live. The winter struggle is real. [Laughs] MC: Is there going to be an accompanying Christmas tour? SG: I’m going out for a handful of dates, five or six lined up for December. MC: And what else is happening for you creatively speaking? SG: Moving into next year, I haven’t done a collection of original songs since Floodplain. I am working on that. I am assembling songs for a project in 2020 and the last two records have been this Christmas album and the record before that was a collection of hymns. I’ve been writing all along, but now with seriousness, so I’m excited to put together a collection of original songs. Visit Sara’s website to learn more about this project and stay updated on her work.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. And today, we come to the end of Season 1 with guest Don Pape, publisher at NavPress. A veteran of the publishing business, Don Pape is publisher at NavPress. In this episode, Jonathan and Don discuss all the behind-the-scenes work that goes into publishing a book, how Don got into the business himself, and the many curious intersections of creativity and industry. Click here to listen to Episode 30 of The Habit Podcast—the final episode of Season 1. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

When it comes to Christmas films, there are few moments more iconic than Linus’ recitation of the Nativity story in A Charlie Brown Christmas. It has become immortalized in the consciousness of our modern holiday experience. What’s odd though, is that a very different kind of Linus shows up in It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, which came out less than a year later. Both Linuses are characters of faith, but that faith shows up in very different forms. In the Charlie Brown Halloween special, Linus is obsessed with his belief in the Great Pumpkin, a being he believes shows up to the “most sincere pumpkin patch” and delivers toys to good children. He is mercilessly persecuted and made fun of because of his belief, but persists nevertheless, even when the foundation of his faith appears faulty. Linus is peaceful and assured in this story because he knows where his security lies: in the story of a God who comes down as a child to rescue us. Chris Yokel In one respect, this could appear to communicate a noble lesson in holding fast to your beliefs despite persecution. However, I’m more interested in the shape Linus’ faith takes. Frankly, it’s an anxious one. Russell Moore points out the transactional nature of Linus’ belief: “In the Pumpkin cult, Linus tries to work up ‘sincerity’—that which the Great Pumpkin rewards.” This transactional faith seems to drive Linus’ anxiety, for example, in a climactic moment he castigates himself for saying “if the Great Pumpkin comes” instead of “when” and then laments, “I’m doomed! One little slip like that can cause the Great Pumpkin to pass you by.” The Great Pumpkin sounds like a horrible deity to serve. It also sounds like some of the ways that I and probably you have thought about God at times: harsh, demanding, unforgiving. No wonder Linus is so anxious. Halloween Linus reminds me of myself in my worst moments of faith, when I think that God is punitive and demanding, keeping a record of all my slightest faults and tainted motives, loving me out of some sort of obligation and not with any particular passion. Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas seems to be in a very different place. In fact, he is quite the non-anxious presence throughout the story, and is there for Charlie Brown who is struggling with depression and despair. Rather than rushing around worriedly, Linus seems content with being. This of course seems to have something to do with his proclamation in the middle of the story, where he tells of the birth of Jesus: And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. —Linus Van Pelt / Luke Chapter Two Many writers have pointed out how Linus drops his famous security blanket during this speech, right when he says “fear not.” Linus is peaceful and assured in this story because he knows where his security lies: in the story of a God who comes down as a child to rescue us. Jason Soroski writes, “Looking at it now, it is pretty clear what Charles Schultz was saying, and it’s so simple it’s brilliant. The birth of Jesus separates us from our fears. The birth of Jesus frees us from the habits we are unable (or unwilling) to break ourselves. The birth of Jesus allows us to simply drop the false security we have been grasping so tightly, and learn to trust and cling to Him instead.” In the past few years I feel like I’ve been leaning into this kind of faith more. Of course, I have my days of anxious striving, as we all do. But I hope my life—and all our lives—feel a lot more like dropping the blanket and less like waiting nervously at night in the pumpkin patch.

I remember sitting in the old Church of Christ parsonage where the Petersons were living, listening to another new song by my friend, Andrew. He’d been working on a song project in which every song was leading up to Christmas. Each time he’d play a new one for me I’d gush about it, because they were all so good and deep and well crafted—but still fun and quirky and funny like him. And so far, this newest song was my favorite. It was a song about Mary, but with raw humanity and an unadorned perspective that you don’t usually encounter with Christmas songs. “It was not a silent night / There was blood on the ground.” He always acted surprised when I told him how much I loved these songs, and I couldn’t tell if he really didn’t know they were great or if he was just being coy. Surely he knows, I thought. These songs are capturing something ancient and brilliant and joyful and soul-filling. And the Matthew’s Begats song is hilarious! Who does that? It’s so brave and weird and fills a hole in the world that no one else knew was there—exactly the kind of song that I love and try to write myself. I couldn’t believe I had made a friend in Nashville that was on the same quest. I was so excited about this guy and this friendship and so happy for him and the songs he was writing, and I couldn’t wait for other people to hear them. And now, twenty-something years later, those songs have circled the world. These songs about “the power of death undone by an infant born of glory” have resounded in the hearts of hundreds of thousands through the voice of my friend, and I cry just by stopping to think about it. And that story is huge and growing, ballooning like a thunderhead to the praise and glory of Jesus Who Reigns With The Angels. But there are also smaller stories. Because of those songs and our friendship, I’ve sung and played on the hallowed stage of the Ryman Auditorium many times with my wife and daughter—something like 25 or 26 times. I really don’t know because I’ve lost count. One year I whispered “Bluebird” to Amy as we walked out onto the Ryman stage because until that moment, I hadn’t decided what we were going to sing! My parents and extended family have seen us there multiple times. I can't believe I even get to play in the same sandbox as all of these lovely, deeply gifted people, let alone call them friends. Randall Goodgame Amy’s family too. For her parents, Milton and Linda, coming up from Alabama to the “Andrew Peterson Christmas Show” became a special tradition. They’d tell all their friends they were “going up to see Amy and Randy sing at the Ryman.” After Milton died suddenly in 2006, the brilliant joy and glory of the night, so intertwined with love and memories, became dangerous. Darkness is a better friend to sorrow, and Linda stopped coming. Recently, my dear friend Ben Shive wrote about the deep kinship he feels with the other perennial players on the Christmas tour. The years of shared experiences, co-mingled with the joy and common purpose of the tour, have created something that feels like an extended family for them. And I understand in part. I’ve never been on the Christmas tour. In the early years, if my own tour schedule brought me near, I’d hop on stage in the Carolinas or in Texas, but I’d always make sure my calendar was clear for the Nashville show. And it made exciting conversation all year long. What songs are you gonna play? Who’s the special guest? Alison Krauss! What!?! Years ago, I took for granted that I would get to play, like you take for granted that your best friend will invite you to their birthday party. Like you take for granted that your parents love you and your legs are still going to work when you wake up. (Legs are awesome, by the way. If yours work, praise God.) But I don’t take it for granted anymore. I treasure it like older generations treasure a family reunion. Andrew, Gabe, Ben, Jill, Andy, Stuart, Ron, Jeff, Buddy, Sierra, Christie, Todd, Osenga, Harold, Winn, Ashley, and then Asher and Brandon and Scott—these names are so precious to me now. Now I can’t believe I even get to play in the same sandbox as all of these lovely, deeply gifted people, let alone call them friends. Thank you, Andrew Peterson. These songs point to the beauty and sovereignty of God and his wisdom and faithfulness and mercy in such an amazing way, and they are such a unique gift to the world—they’ve also been an amazing gift to me. And lastly, you’ll be happy to know that this year, for the first time in a long time, Amy’s mom came out to the Ryman auditorium to hear the “Andrew Peterson Christmas Show” once again. She sat on the front row, smiling wide, singing along: “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Christ is born!”

[Editor’s note: Throughout Advent, we’re sharing one meditation at the beginning of each week, each taken from a delightful little collection called The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent, published by the Christian History Institute. If you find yourself enjoying what you’re reading, be sure to check it out—there will be a link at the bottom of each post where you can learn more. This last meditation is from Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson, about…] All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet:“The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Emmanuel” (which means“God with us”). —Matthew 1:22-23 (NIV) They all were looking for a king to slay their foes and lift them high; Thou cam’st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry. —George MacDonald, hymn, “That Holy Thing” The bone-chilling sea-damp is what I remember most from our first Christmas Eve service in Scotland. That, and the singing. Romantic on paper: a fishing village, an ancient stone church, the bells . . . but reality included huddling together for warmth. As we shivered the congregation rose for a hymn new only to us: “That Holy Thing.” “That Holy Thing” is not a typical Christmas carol; MacDonald reminds us that holy is not comfortable, let alone predictable. We want holiness to sweep away all ills and be cozy and Christmasy too. But holy does not avoid pain or difficulty, even while making way for good. It facilitates vulnerability; it usurps assumptions; it invites—sometimes even causes—tears. Here is real flesh-and-blood, breaking forth via real sweat-and-tears, into this real dust-and-mud world of his own Triune making. Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson The Child comes and instead sweeps away our ideas of triumph. A “little baby thing,” the long-awaited Messiah is born into a low-income, scandal-threatened, displaced family. This seed of royal lineage is destined to become a border-crossing refugee before he is old enough for school. Instead of conquering the opposition and asserting the rights of his people, he arrives as a helpless infant that makes a woman cry. Here is real flesh-and-blood, breaking forth via real sweat-and-tears, into this real dust-and-mud world of his own Triune making. Woven into the pain of his unglamorous arrival is the promise of goodness beyond conception, but not in the way that even those who expect challenges expect. Christ asks not for political strength or financial security or even familial ease. Rather he asks that we welcome weakness, embrace the uncomfortable, step into that which may hurt—and promises that throughout he will be with us. The invitation is into an unpredictable holiness that is sometimes joyful and sometimes hard. But Emmanuel’s chosen identity pledges also, always, this: that even when huddled against cold or tears, we are never, ever, alone. Emmanuel, make us ever more aware of your abiding loving presence; may that give us courage this Christmas to be humble servants of your love in spaces we might otherwise avoid. Amen. Click here to learn more about The Grand Miracle: Daily Reflections for the Season of Advent. And click here to visit Kirstin’s website and read more of her writing.

I was learning every word to Alexi Murdoch’s 2009 album Towards the Sun when I took the wrong exit somewhere between Austin and Louis Henna Boulevard. After thirteen hours in the car—peeling out of Nashville at 4 am, gliding through a misty Arkansas sunrise, stretching my hamstrings while my car gulped gasoline from a pump somewhere north of Sulpher Springs—after thirteen hours alone in a mostly moving vehicle, I was finally a mere thirty minutes from the house I grew up in. It was sure to be swathed in Christmas lights, and fresh greenery, and yarn and sweet smells. And I managed to take the wrong exit. As I guessed at turns and followed the outline of the movie theater on Pecan Street, knowing at the very least which direction I was going while the sunset simmered outside my window, I discovered I could still find my way home even after years away and no GPS. It flooded me with tear-jerking relief, realizing I am never too far from where I started, nor too far too long, that I can’t return as if the distance was penetrable and passing all along. The really sweet and startling thing, as the grand finale of Advent season makes plain, is that amidst our wandering and isolation and yearning for the home we were made for, home came to us. Janie Townsend I’ve become something of an expert on getting unlost. Of course, I can boast in this skill only as much as I admit my penchant for misplacing myself to begin with. Finding your way back to somewhere is more a process of finding your way through than back, I’ve concluded, whether you’re navigating downtown traffic, salvaging after a relational storm or treading water amidst waves of grief, always on the lookout for whatever shore you were sucked from. Un-losing yourself and recovering a path forward calls for fluid amounts of patience and persistence, the ability to listen and pay attention to where you are, courage in spades or the size of a penny or any amount in between, and not least of all some measure of helplessness—because if you didn’t feel a bit helpless, you wouldn’t really be lost in the first place. It can feel profoundly lonely in process, but a standard piece of the experience is the lifting of other voices guiding us on our way, or the uncovering of those that have always been present, reinforcing our sense of direction as if in preparation for that crucial instant of lostness. It strikes me as no coincidence that this moment of going from lost to unlost took place while Alexi Murdoch sang through my car stereo, and furthermore that the whole adventure took place during Advent season. Murdoch’s album Towards the Sun glimmers with warming anticipation of winter’s end and feels like being one step from home yet millions of miles away. Song by song, it aches for a widespread wound to be stitched, for peace and rest below the surface of cloudy water. Perhaps most of all, it aches for a nearness surpassing all other fleeting intimacies. In recent years, the whole of Advent season has felt very much the same way to me. Something shines in the air, a promise about to be fulfilled and tangible, but still magically invisible to us. Abundant feasting, divisions broken by togetherness, songs and familiar voices swelling in the air—things we were made to relish and long for are momentarily in our grasp, part of our earthly rhythm as well as our spiritual reality. And even so, there remains this hunger for a nearness so unbreakable that its embrace could reach into every cold place, thawing the dark corners of our world and our own hearts. We are so, so not alone, and yet we wait in the throes of our aloneness. Sweet jubilation and bitter yearning are never so mingled in me as they are during the weeks leading up to Christmas and the days surrounding Easter. Towards the Sun came out in March of 2009, so there’s zero chance it was meant to be an Advent-related release. But if ever there was an accidental Advent album, this could be it. The opening song lyrically straddles the space between dusk and dawn, moving into isolation and the lightless hours of nighttime. “Some Day Soon” and “Through the Dark” breathe deep sighs, bearing the weight of hope that a Great Love is pursuing us all and writing our stories, yet confessing that this same weight leaves a soreness in our bones that can’t be massaged away. “Slow Revolution” is the crowning Advent track in my eyes—the song that most straightforwardly pleads for something or someone to come into our world and our lives, making blessings flow far as curses are found. It is also this song that, to me, cleaves closest to the truth that someone or something is coming to do just that. My pleading is not always so straightforward, but it was last winter. I spent a good deal of my time choking down the belief that we are on our way to a beyond-happy ending, always ever becoming unlost. I drove home for Christmas eager to leave my pleading behind me, but with me it remained, a parched kind of loneliness and hope that a light really is coming into our dimly lit world. Feeling lost in more ways than one, I ended up on the wrong road and home found me anyway. And perhaps that was the most truth-singing moment of the season for me—because the really sweet and startling thing, as the grand finale of Advent season makes plain, is that amidst our wandering and isolation and yearning for the home we were made for, home came to us. The nearness we crave to extinguish our loneliness, a place of being seen, of belonging to and with someone else—that home came as a human being we could see, smell, speak to, cling to. We were not so lost as we thought, because the God of the Universe became one of us and lived among us, laid eyes on us and spoke our names, wept over our demons and devilment and rubbed miracle mud into our eyes with his own fingertips. I couldn’t have been surprise-met by home last December if I’d taken every right road, if my route had gone according to plan. I was only found by home because I needed to be found first, and arguably I was always on my way, only I became afraid and might have faltered when the way suddenly looked unfamiliar. But every wrong turn was just the turn that needed taking, and patience was key in seeing that truth revealed. There’s a lyric in Alexi Murdoch’s “Slow Revolution” that lingered with me after I heard it during that thirteen-hour drive from Nashville to Texas, and it lingers with me still: “My voice is breaking out here in this wilderness.” I expect we all feel that way from time to time in this Second Advent, this watching and waiting. I imagine the breaking of our voices looks different for each of us, and that a broken or lost voice might feel not unlike the breaking or losing of oneself. As we move through a season of waiting for nearness to cut through isolation, for light to vanquish shadows and peace to hush turmoil, let us rest in whatever lostness we may find ourselves, and let us take heart: nearness, light and peace are coming to us—whether we’re right enough or faithful enough or “fill-in-the-blank” enough to unearth and attract them—they are coming to us. All we must do is keep on our way, paying attention to what’s around us, managing patience as best we can, reaching for one another as we walk and accepting that any day now, any second, we’ll feel a little less lost.

Friends, it’s Christmas! It’s that day of the year where you just want to deeply inhale the crisp morning air, then slowly exhale as you release everything inside you but love, joy, and thanksgiving. It’s the beginning of new things. New presents? Sure. New diets? Maybe tomorrow. But new hope? Ah, absolutely. For unto us a new child is born, and this child will shine light into the darkest corners of the earth as he beckons our troubled souls to simply come, follow, and be at peace. For this reason, we celebrate not just for one day, but for all 12 days of Christmastide, repeating the sounding joy of angels as we sing, laugh, cry, eat, and enjoy the sweet company of family and friends. As we do, may these songs lead us into joy and jubilation, thanksgiving and praise. Immanuel has come! Let the celebration begin! Click here to listen to our Christmastide playlist on Spotify. And here to listen on Apple Music. Thanks to all who contributed to this Rabbit Room playlist: John Barber, Shigé Clark, Lanier Ivester, Drew Miller, Helena Sorensen, Christopher Thiessen, Janie Townsend, Hetty White, Chris Yokel, Jen Yokel

Happy New Year, everyone! To celebrate, here’s our favorite new year song. Just as good in 2020 as it was when we first heard it back in 2012. The New Year from Birds of Relocation by Eric Peters This is the year that something changes but nothing ever does This is the year that all my failures turn into a pile of dust This is the year, with fallen faces, we learn we’re not enough This is the year to hold each other up Oh, oh, oh it’s a new year Oh, oh, oh it’s a brand new light Oh, oh, oh can you believe it? It’s the skies that we dream of. This is the year when laughter douses charred and burnt-out dreams This is the year when wrens return to nest in storm-blown trees Is this the year of relocation from boughs of old despair? This is the year to perch on hope’s repair Oh, oh, oh it’s a new year. Oh, oh, oh it’s a brand new light. Oh, oh, oh can you believe it? It’s the skies that we dream of. I was pale and weary sad, tired of ghost debates A slave to voices old and vile, bitter bones in the grave But this is the year, it’s the year that something changes This is the year, the year that something changes Oh, oh, oh it’s a new year. Oh, oh, oh it’s a brand new light. Oh, oh, oh can you believe it? It’s the skies that we dream of. Oh, oh, oh it’s a new year. Oh, oh, oh it’s a brand new light. Oh, oh, oh can you believe it? It’s the skies that we dream of. Oh, oh, oh Oh, oh, oh (it’s a new year)