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)

I’m embarking on what may well prove a fool’s errand tonight with this essay (for can one ever really explain the glimpses that catch at one’s heartstrings?)—but at the very least, it will hopefully excuse any odd contortions of my face and throat if we happen to sing this “Alleluia” someday in the same space. O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum ut animalia viderent Dominum natum, jacentem in praesepio! Beata Virgo, cujus viscera meruerunt portare Dominum Christum. Alleluia! O great mystery, and wonderful sacrament, that animals should see the newborn Lord, lying in a manger! Blessed is the virgin whose womb was worthy to bear the Lord Jesus Christ. Alleluia! All through the Advent season of this year, I listened to Morten Lauridsen’s “O Magnum Mysterium.” It wasn’t planned. I simply reached for it repeatedly; half the pieces I wrote for this season were composed to the quieting companionship of this song. One evening, as I cleared my desk in preparation to whittle away at some words, I clicked the play button and put in my earphones—and was utterly caught off guard to find myself weeping about halfway through. Because of this video interview of Lauridsen, I knew what to listen for in the piece. I had played the interview at least as many times as the King’s College recording I loved, and I was fascinated to hear how Lauridsen approached the commission to give this ancient responsorial chant a new setting. “What can I do musically, on those two lines of text that every major composer has set, to have a profound effect with the simplest, most direct musical materials?” That’s the bar I set for myself. I worked on this piece for six months until I got it right. . . . The toughest thing for me in this particular piece was the Virgin Mary. I lost so much sleep on this! How can I—in a very direct setting of a piece—indicate her sorrow, her profound sorrow, of seeing her Son murdered? How can I do that? Couldn’t figure it out. Until one night, lying in bed, I said, “Oh yeah—got it: it’s going to be done with one note.” His description of this breakthrough thrills me yet. But when I looked for the element that had moved me to tears, I discovered that it wasn’t the discordant note itself. It was the portion that comes after it. Watch the expression on Lauridsen’s face, if you will, at about 6:53 and especially 7:07. “Now it builds up to the alleluia—Alleluia!” Whatever his own stance may be in regard to Christ, he has touched upon something here, and he knows it. This is the only time the word “beatific” has come to mind while watching an artist describe his work. This musical portion is the feature that makes this interview worth watching and the song worth playing for me, though it has taken months of being speechlessly moved before finally sinking in. For “O Magnum Mysterium” does indeed build up to its alleluia. The chords, the melody, and the range of voices broaden into an open and exhilarating space. James Arthur Bond expresses it far more eloquently: The final section embodies this twofold sense of intellectual wonder and irrepressible jubilation. . . . [It] draws together all preceding musical elements of the first two sections, suffusing the repetition of the first line of text with both a joyful realization and an abiding conviction of wholeness. (“Thunderstruck by Art,” 17) Bond also quotes the poet Dana Gioia, who “asserts that Lauridsen’s best music . . . is an experience that leaves the listener ‘breathless’ with the discernment ‘of beauty’ far beyond everyday life” (19). An abiding conviction of wholeness. Beauty far beyond everyday life. I’m gratified to know that I am not alone in the intensity of my reaction, and more grateful still to see others express the finer details of a Joy that I—from experience—am usually wary of dissecting. And I let the knot in my throat remain tonight, as I listen once more. Beata Virgo. The first dissonant note is sung, like the jarring funereal gift of frankincense presented to the infant King. I release a breath of fragility that I did not know I was holding. Again, the G sharp: the acknowledgment of the suffering that is to come to the Son of God—the suffering for which He came. It resounds, this time, with the truth that He is now and forever able to sympathize with us our weaknesses (Heb. 4:15). He knows our brokenness and our pain. He entered willingly into it, and in the words of Sally Lloyd-Jones, has whispered to us, “It will not always be so.” Then—the release of the alleluia. Ah, friends. At the end of the age the Church shall have a thousand variations upon this single word to bring to her Bridegroom, and I don't think I will wonder then to see tears standing in the eyes of the saints. Amy Baik Lee It is earned; it is won; it is paced correctly; it is like passing through a narrow tunnel and coming upon the sudden and breathtaking expansion of the view ahead. I hear the soaring descant and the sure, firm confidence of the bass line carrying the listener forward like the surety of time tumbling toward the remaking of the world. It is sheer joy; it is the sound of creation made well and reveling in its freedom from the fathoms-deep trenches of sin, finally awestruck by the intricacy of its long rescue. It is the chorus of a future glory in which every promise is fulfilled, accomplished by the One whose word ever holds true and whose beauty will never cease to fill the great hunger and thirst of our souls. And at the close of this Christmastide, it is as a cup of cold water that sparkles with the air of a distant, beloved country. So when I hear the word again, in much quieter form, in Sara Groves’ “Let Our Gladness Have No End,” it is no less powerful for its softness. At the end of the age the Church shall have a thousand variations upon this single word to bring to her Bridegroom, and I don’t think I will wonder then to see tears standing in the eyes of the saints. I may wonder that I can see at all through my own. Until then, through the countless songs of this season, it rings still with the wonder and the upside-down splendor and the promise of our salvation arriving in a Bethlehem trough. Overseen by animals, birthed by a virgin: “For [thus] to earth did Christ descend— Alleluia.” This beautiful post first appeared on Amy Baik Lee’s own blog, Sun-Steeped Days. Check it out for more of her heartfelt writing.

One of our favorite year’s-end traditions is to look back to all the great books, music, films, and television shows that we were fortunate enough to encounter throughout the last twelve months. And as far as well-crafted art and entertainment goes, 2019 was not bad at all. So, without further ado, here is an avalanche of recommendations (plus commentary!) from many of our contributors, recounting all their favorite stuff from 2019. Enjoy, and we hope it leads you to discover a new favorite gem of your own. Pete Peterson Movies/TV A Hidden Life – This is not only my favorite film of the year, it’s one of my favorite films ever. I also think it’s Terrence Malick’s best. It’s not going to be everyone’s kind of film, but if you love Malick’s style, you’re going to love this movie. Go see it on a big screen while you can. Little Women – I haven’t read the book, and knew nothing about the story. That said, I loved every second of this movie. Just about perfect. Chernobyl – This is television at its finest. Absolutely captivating and terrifying. I had no idea of the scope of the disaster. Everyone should watch this one. The Detectorists – Good golly, I love the people in this show. It’s so simple and so calm and uninteresting that I couldn’t get enough of it. Every episode made me want to move to England. I miss this show 🙁 Knives Out – Now THIS is why I go to the movies! So funny, so fun, so clever and well-written, so wonderfully acted and directed. We don’t get enough who-dun-its these days. Rian Johnson has become one of those directors that I’ll watch no matter what he’s up to. Books Malcolm Guite’s Sonnets – I finally got sucked into his Sounding the Seasons collection and loved all of them. He manages the fine trick of being inventive and accessible and profound all at once, something most poets aspire to but few achieve will such confidence. I’ve moved on from that collection and I’m thoroughly enjoying others. Highly recommended. Upcoming Helena Sorensen book – This might be cheating, but I don’t care. I’ve spent a LOT of hours with Helena’s forthcoming novel this year (coming spring 2020 from Rabbit Room Press), and I am a HUGE fan. It’s a book that’s unique and brilliant and takes on universal questions in a way that I just can’t say enough good things about. Helena is a razor-sharp writer and the intentionality of her storytelling is a thing of wonder. I love this book desperately and I can’t wait to share it with the world. Cider with Rosie – I didn’t see this one coming. We visited the Cotswolds this year and I kept hearing whispers of the name Laurie Lee and his book Cider with Rosie. This did NOT sound like the kind of book I’d be drawn to, but boy was I wrong. It’s a memoir of growing up in a the small village of Slad in the early 20th century, but it’s the authorial voice of this masterpiece that elevates it to one of my top five books of all time. The writing is just so vibrant and unexpected and lovely that I couldn’t get enough of it. There’s a troubling chapter late in the book that I’m dying to talk to someone about, but I can’t seem to find anyone else who’s read it. So you guys get busy, we need to discuss. Holloway – Another takeaway from my time in England. This is a small wonder of a book by Robert Macfarlane in which he and a friend attempt to retrace the steps of one of his favorite books, but the delight is in its love of the the English country-road and its storied history. Magical. Martin & Marco – Much like Helena’s book, this one lands a spot here because I spent so much time with it this year and learned to love Jonny and his storytelling gifts so well. I’m so glad to have had a part in publishing it and I can’t wait to see how the series continues to develop. Music I Am Easy to Find (The National) – This is the album I played more than any other this year. I love it head to toe. The addition of female voices to The National’s sound is a revelation and the way they turn the record into a relational struggle and picture of marriage is just marvelous. Nick Cave (Skeleton Tree / Ghosteen) – After hearing Lisa McKelvey tell me over and over again how much she loves Nick Cave, I finally dove in with Skeleton Tree and was immediately awestruck. Then a couple of months later Ghosteen came out and I got a double dose of Cave-awesomeness. He’s probably an acquired taste for many, but he’s right in my sweet spot: mysterious, epic, lyrical, full of ache and longing. Everyday Life (Coldplay) – The last few Coldplay albums have been pretty hit or miss for me, but this one feels like a return to form. I certainly haven’t loved a Coldplay album this much since Viva La Vida, and there are songs on this one that are some of their best ever. It’s also really experimental, playing with gospel music and even “sacred” music. Just a fantastic record all around. Parallels & Meridians (Jess Ray) – I couldn’t get enough of Jess’s music this year. It’s been so delightful to see her take a place in the community and her contributions to the new Behold the Lamb record are some of my favorite moments. I can’t wait to see where she goes from here. Andrew Peterson Movies A Hidden Life – I saw this twice last week. The first was with Aedan, and I had no idea what I was in for; the second was with Jamie and knowing what I was in for made it even better. It might be too soon to say, but this might be my favorite movie of all time. I’m an admirer of Malick’s filmmaking, though I’m by no means an expert. I saw Tree of Life and loved it, but I also had the feeling that there was a lot going on that I didn’t understand—nor was I necessarily meant to. You have to go into his films with a willingness to let him do his thing and trust that it’s going to work on you in ways that you might not be able to articulate. This film, however, had all the poetry and theology of a Malick film but also had a gripping narrative thrown in. The layers of meaning (and there are so many!) were more apparent, so you aren’t left feeling like you need a film degree to get it. There’s not room here to get into all the things I love about this movie, but I’ll close with this: it made me want to do more than admire Christ, but to follow him. Knives Out – I’ve always loved a good murder mystery. (I’m reading a great one by P. D. James right now, in fact.) This one had all the tropes in all the best ways. I want to see ten more movies with Daniel Craig as Benoit Blanc. Ad Astra – This isn’t an action movie. It’s a slow burn meditation on fathers and sons and forgiveness. Plus there are moon pirates. Apollo 11 – The moon landing wasn’t faked, y’all. I’ve always been fascinated by NASA stuff, and this rang all my bells. TV The Crown – The classiest television show ever. Great writing, exquisite production, great acting, fascinating story. Chernobyl – Terrifying, amazingly written, and the courtroom scene at the end is marvelous. When They See Us – This one broke my heart. The Bible Project – This isn’t strictly television, but it’s close enough. I couldn’t love what these guys are doing any more than I do. We’ve been working through the Old Testament overview videos, and I’m amazed by the folks behind this project, and have been amazed all over again by the Bible itself. Books The Lost Words – Robert MacFarlane. Beautiful poetry, beautiful paintings. A celebration of creation. I read The Old Ways a while back and liked it, but this one got me into MacFarlane again and I gobbled up… Landmarks – Robert MacFarlane. I loved, loved this book. The last chapter was especially good. Essays on several different landscapes in Britain, and glossaries of the old and wonderful words that grew out of each region’s intimacy with the land. If you love words, this is for you. Amusing Ourselves to Death – Neil Postman. Disturbingly prophetic, and he was writing about the short-attention-span culture of the EIGHTIES. He had no idea what was coming, which makes it all the more poignant. The Spy Who Came in from the Cold – John LeCarré. A bleak, atmospheric, gripping spy novel, and one that basically created the genre as we know it. My first LeCarré but it won’t be my last. Mariner – Malcolm Guite. A spiritual biography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I’d read “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” but that was about the extent of my familiarity with STC. I learned so much about not just him, but Wordsworth and the Romantic movement, and the theology that underpinned so much of what they did. Even if you don’t think you like poetry, read this one. Sleep No More – P. D. James. A delightfully chilling collection of short mysteries by one of my faves. Music J Lind’s – For What It’s Worth Mission House – Taylor Leonhardt and Jess Ray’s new project Coldplay – Everyday Life Ron Block – A Light So Fair Colony House – Leave What’s Lost Behind (They’ve only released a few singles, but I’ve heard it all and it’s unreal.) NAMO – So far, Asher’s only released the single “Thunder in a Blue Sky,” but I’ve listened to it a zillion times. I’ve heard a few other songs, and they’re just amazing. Can’t wait for him to finish this thing up. Jennifer Trafton Movies/TV The exact same list as Pete’s, and for all the same reasons. I also enjoyed The Peanut Butter Falcon, The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, and The Mandalorian (because Baby Yoda). Books 2019 was a year of a lot of rereading for me: revisiting beloved books that have shaped me in one way or another. I won’t list them all here, but a few highlights of the year were The Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot, Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White, and Pilgrim’s Inn by Elizabeth Goudge. New books that stood out: The Lost Words by Robert McFarlane – Brought to life by Jackie Morris’s exquisite watercolor paintings, Robert Macfarlane’s poems are glorious to read out loud, full of alliteration and internal rhyme and wordplay reminiscent of one of my other favorite poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins. This masterpiece now sits propped up on my art table, partly because it’s too big to fit any of my bookshelves (!) but also because Oh. My. Goodness. It’s beautiful. Beverly, Right Here and Leroy Ninker Saddles Up by Kate DiCamillo – Beverly rounded off the trilogy that began with Raymie Nightingale and Louisiana’s Way Home, and though it wasn’t my favorite of the three, I still loved it for all the reasons I love everything she writes. But my favorite DiCamillo book of the year was Leroy Ninker. I read this simple chapter book in one sitting at the library and then took it home and immediately read it out loud to Pete because it was too good not to share with him. This is what makes Kate DiCamillo remarkable to me: she can write a simple story that is beloved by six-year-olds AND cause a 43- and a 47-year-old to giggle and tear up together. It’s a kind of hilarious love story–between a would-be-cowboy and his horse. It’s a lovely picture of what it means to be a gentleman and to treat someone with courtesy and affection (as Pete noted). It’s about listening, and about giving the gift of beautiful words. And dagnibbit, how does she always make me laugh and cry at once? The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy – I picked up this little book after several friends whose opinion I trust were glowing in their praise of it, and it completely won me over. Mackesy’s art, with its wild ink strokes and its tender, melancholy beauty, keeps the simple text from ever feeling saccharine. It’s not a story, exactly, but there is a broad narrative arc of four characters journeying together, asking questions (“What is the bravest thing you’ve ever said?”), expressing vulnerable emotions (“Sometimes I feel lost”), wondering aloud (“Imagine how we would be if we were less afraid”) and offering insights and encouragement (“Life is difficult—but you are loved”). I hesitate to describe it too much, for it simply needs to be experienced, but let me just say that this is a book I want to meditate on one page at a time. Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson – This is not an obligatory inclusion. 🙂 There are two parts in particular that pushed this book into my favorites list, beyond the fact that it was a beautiful window into my family and my community. The chapter “Discipline” punched me in the gut (in the best way) and reminded me why I’m writing books for children at all. I typed this sentence at the beginning of the current draft of my in-progress novel so I’d see it at the beginning of every writing day: “That story may be the only beautiful, true thing that makes it through all the ugliness of a little girl’s world to rest in her secret heart.” And my other favorite part of the book is from the end of that same chapter—Andrew’s reflections walking down the hill toward the Warren, about how we writers are toddlers in a cathedral and how creation is, perhaps, a burst of laughter from the mouth of God. The whole description is transcendent. Music Ella Mine’s “Dream War.” This floored me when Pete and I first heard it at Ella’s senior concert at Lipscomb University, and then again when she performed it at Hutchmoot. Ella has created something completely and magnificently her own, unlike anything I’ve heard before, and the emotional arc of her musical journey through darkness toward hope felt deeply true, and familiar, to me. I can’t wait to get my hands on the recording. Chris Thiessen Music Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Ghosteen Bon Iver – i,i Tyler, the Creator – IGOR Films The Lighthouse Once Upon a Time in Hollywood Parasite Shigé Clark Music Ember by Breaking Benjamin – This is the most honest expression of grief I’ve personally encountered in music. In a world where we as Christians don’t seem to know what to do with anger, Ember provides a phenomenal model for handling rage, confusion, and internal conflict in a genuine and holy way, without downplaying the difficulty being faced. This is one of those works where the music, lyrics, structure, and story all come together in an edifying way to achieve an effect that no one element could have reached on its own. I’m grateful this album exists; I have yet to hear another like it. Desolation & Consolation by Drew Miller – Expertly crafted and beautifully performed. The theme of the album bears itself out holistically, but through individual songs and lines as well. It’s just so excellently done. “Grace” especially strikes me every time, particularly the symmetry and truth in the lines “there’s a grief older than you are / there’s a grace older than you are.” Powerful. For What It’s Worth by J Lind – This album shot straight up to one of my favorites. I got to the line, “It’s not that hard to find a flaw / When the earth is red in tooth and claw / But I’d like to learn to love it anyway” in the opening song, and knew I was in for a fantastic album. It did not disappoint. From the excellent writing, to the dynamic song styles, to the quality content—if you haven’t listened to it already, you should. “Sellers of Flowers” by Regina Spektor – One of my favorite songs of the year, hands down. It has that glorious effect of great poetry wherein you feel more than know what it means, and each time you go back you can take it in from a different angle and perhaps come a little closer, but it’s always going to leave you lingering in a question. Film/TV I finally saw La La Land. I didn’t see it when it came out, because the trailers had me thinking it would be another sappy Ryan Gosling romance. Then I was hesitant to see it because my friends loved it so much, and I was concerned I wouldn’t like it. All my worries were unfounded. It’s masterfully done on so many levels, and an important story that hits straight home. I want to sit all my creator friends down and have a big ol’ discussion about it. And if that’s not a mark of great art, I don’t know what is. The Mandalorian – I’ve never been a big fan of spaghetti westerns. Apparently what it takes is a sci-fi setting and good female characters (having also loved Firefly, I’d say it’s a theme at this point). An adorable baby alien also doesn’t hurt. Tolkien – A quiet, often subtle story that honored the titular author by speaking well to the importance of story, art, music, and community. I left feeling validated and inspired to create and cultivate community, which is exactly how someone should feel at the end of a movie about Tolkien. Books/Poetry Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot – How is one supposed to capture this in words? It’s just something that has to be experienced, and I can’t believe I never had before this year (thanks Jennifer and Pete). I’ll be coming back to it again and again—hopefully holding more in memory every time. “For us, there is only the trying” has become a mantra, and this work is full of gems like that to treasure and retrieve when needed. Fin’s Revolution, particularly Fiddler’s Green, by A. S. Peterson – This series is wonderfully complex. In the seemingly endless sea of sidelined, flat, or Mary Sue female characters, thank God for the life raft that is Fin Button. The story is chock-full of adventure and fun, while not shying away from the darkness of reality. The fact that it approaches that darkness through a flawed protagonist with a messy story makes it a truly powerful read for anyone who has ever wondered if they’re capable or deserving of redemption. I’ve never been much of a re-reader–it takes a special kind of story to make it into that category for me–but this one has so much nuance, so much intentionality, and so many beautiful sentences that I’ll definitely be coming back. Henry and the Chalk Dragon by Jennifer Trafton – I’ve said it a thousand times over the year, and I’ll say it again: this is my favorite children’s book. I’ve yet to read anything that so captures the mind of a child—the magic and adventure with which they perceive the world, the way everything is so full of color and possibility, so much more than it could be. This book could (and should) be a study in the use of simile, and it’s just a bastion of creative thinking and spot-on imagery. It genuinely changed the way I think about children’s literature. “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo” by G. M. Hopkins – Because it seems dishonorable to have one poem take the place of an entire book, but I also can’t bear not to mention it. It’s simply glorious, and—like Four Quartets—has to be experienced. (I suggest in the form of having spoken-word poet Mike Hood recite it to you at Hutchmoot UK, because that’s how I was introduced to it, and I’d submit that there is no better way.) Drew Miller Books Lilith by George MacDonald – This was a big deal for me. Felt like passing through a flame, some kind of initiation that left me different than it found me. It’s a lot of work with a magnificent reward at the end. I highly recommend Rebecca Reynolds’ audiobook version of this. A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles – Comforting, informative, and just a straight-up excellent use of free time. Helena Sorensen’s newest novel (coming from Rabbit Room Press this spring) – Just try to imagine a story that combines the bold, Christian imagination of George MacDonald, the warmth and intimacy of Wendell Berry’s Port William, and the slow, inevitable unraveling of mystery found in an Ursula LeGuin novel. Then multiply it by at least five. Music Who Are You Now by Madison Cunningham – This razor-sharp songwriter is absolutely crushing it. The depth of craft she shows goes beyond mere cleverness—she has an ear for subtlety and delivery that makes for masterful arrangements. An album that begs to be listened to again as soon as it’s finished. The Lost Words: Spell Songs by a variety of artists – An album to accompany the already brilliant book of the same name. And this album is just as brilliant. It strikes a deep chord in me—a chord that sounds something like innocence, recovery, and hope. If you have time only for one song, listen to its last track, the “Blessing.” For What It’s Worth by J Lind – I reviewed it at length here. I’ll just say that I can’t get enough of the way J writes songs. He’s sharp, concise, and never heavy-handed. Film/TV A Hidden Life – I’m one of those people freaking out about how good this movie is. It did a number on me. Little Women – Deeply captivating. Heartfelt and earnest. Unflinchingly and eloquently honest. Greta Gerwig, please make more movies. Song of the Sea – I’m a sucker for imaginative, semi-mythological animated films, and this one is stunningly well-made, both in terms of story and production. Haunting and stirring, and leaves you with plenty to consider. Doug McKelvey As I’ve been for the last several months writing liturgies for seasons of dying and grieving, I’ve intentionally immersed myself in literature related to those things. The most powerful such book I’ve read is Lament for a Son by Nicholas Wolterstorff. So beautiful, heart-rending, and poetic. Not a eulogy so much as a lament and a love song. On a personal level, this book allowed me to name the experience of grief in my own life, in areas where I was clearly grieving but had never recognized it as such. Jonny Jimison Illegal by Eoin Colfer and Andrew Donkin. A heartbreaking, real-world struggle for survival and hope, Illegal is a graphic novel vividly illustrating the mythic quest of African immigrants. You can read my full review here. Hicotea: A Nightlights Story by Lorena Alvarez. In the sequel to Nightlights, Lorena Alvarez is back with more gorgeously evocative illustrated pages to explore. Young hero Sandy’s imagination is as wild and powerful as ever, but this time around the focus has shifted from her inner world to the ecosystems and environments of the natural world. Grand Theft Horse by Gregory Neri and Corban Wilkin. A captivating, cinematic biopic of a graphic novel about an unconventional horse trainer taking desperate measures on behalf of the animals she loves. I couldn’t put it down. Ella Mine Music Glen Hansard’s 2019 record This Wild Willing Wilco’s 2019 record Ode to Joy The War On Drugs’ 2017 record A Deeper Understanding TV Patrick McHale’s Cartoon Network miniseries Over the Garden Wall Steven Conrad’s series Patriot Chris Yokel Books I finally got to read John Garth’s Tolkien and the Great War, which explores Tolkien’s experience in World War I and how that influenced the creation of his early mythology. I read several books by African-American authors this year, but perhaps the most representative is The Color of Compromise by Jemar Tisby, an exploration of the American church’s relationship with slavery and racism throughout our country’s history. For fiction, I finally got to read a series I’d been curious about for a while, The Dark Foundations trilogy by Chris Walley. It’s a very interesting piece of Christian science fiction. Music So much good music came out this year, so it’s hard to narrow down, but these are three albums I listened to on repeat at various points this year: Lover by Taylor Swift San Isabel by Jamestown Revival Mission House (Jess Ray and Taylor Leonhardt) Film I have a top ten list of films this year, but here are three I was delightfully surprised by: Blinded by the Light (which I jokingly call S(pr)ing Street) is a love letter to the music of The Boss and the angst of being a teenager. Knives Out is an Agatha Christie-like whodunnit that was just a wickedly delicious treat to watch. Frozen II was 6 years in the making and you can tell. Kudos to Disney for not simply getting out another sequel fast for the sake of making money, and taking their time in developing a thoughtful and deep story about heritage and legacy and forgiveness. Jen Yokel Books Henri Nouwen – The Return of the Prodigal Son: I don’t know why it took me so long to read this, but now that I have it’s on my short list of life-changers. So gentle and compassionate and hopeful. Everyone needs to read Nouwen, and this would be a fine place to start. Howard Thurman – Jesus and the Disinherited: This year, I wanted to intentionally read more works by people of color, and this classic gave me so much to contemplate. Thurman’s theological explorations of what the gospel has to say to people “with their backs against the wall” changed me for the better. (A good companion read to Jemar Tisby’s The Color of Compromise and Austin Channing Brown’s I’m Still Here) Erin Morgenstern – The Night Circus: I’ve been intrigued by this novel for a while now, and it did not disappoint. Her writing sets the haunting, magical atmosphere beautifully for a love story spanning decades, all bound up in a mysterious circus and magical realism. Can’t wait to dig into her new book The Starless Sea this winter. Music Maggie Rogers – Heard it in a Past Life: Maggie Rogers sounds like a pop singer with an old soul on a record full of thoughtful, catchy songs and interesting production. Bon Iver – i, i: No matter how crazy the experimentation gets, I’m always willing to spend some time with anything Justin Vernon and co. come up with, and i,i seems to take the best bits of their past three records and mash them up into something beautiful, strange, and moving. Joy Williams – Front Porch: Just a raw, earnest folk record about heartache and healing, where Joy’s powerful voice really shines. Film A Hidden Life: A profoundly moving portrait of simple courage and quiet faith, told in the most Terrence Malick-y of ways. Expect thoughtful monologues and gorgeous scenery, but pay close attention to the uncomfortable soul questions Franz’s sacrifice raises. Avengers: Endgame: I’ve spent the last ten years all-in on the Marvel Comic Universe, so of course this was a big one for me. Thankfully, it brought all twenty-one films to a satisfying, heartfelt conclusion, and of any blockbuster I saw this year, it’s the one I still think about the most. Little Women: Look, I know it’s heresy to prefer anything over the 1994 version, but I missed that one growing up, so I’m pretty sure this is going to be my Little Women. Greta Gerwig’s take on this classic hits all the right story beats, but with a fresh approach and a stellar cast that honors the unique beauty of each of the March sisters. I loved it. TV The Mandalorian: I was only moderately interested in this show when I first heard about it, but Rabbits, I am all in. A Star Wars spaghetti Western that is so fun, atmospheric, and beautifully made. And somehow it’s managed to unite a fractured Internet with Baby Yoda! LOST: After years of saying, “Yeah, I should watch that,” it’s happening. And… according to my incredulous tweet thread, I’m not entirely sure what’s happening, but I’m totally enjoying the ride. I just started the final season, so ask me in a month or so how I feel about the ending. Kelsey Miller The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street by Karina Yan Glaser (and the rest of the series): a delightful children’s series that feels both modern and timeless. A Woman is No Man by Etaf Rum and A History of Loneliness by John Boyne. Both of those novels should not be read if you find yourself in a fragile place. But the writing is alive. Books Joy by Christian Wiman The Gay Science by Friedrich Nietzsche The Idiot Fyodor Dostoevsky Music Thanks for the Dance by Leonard Cohen “Into the Darkness” by Drew Miller Film/TV The Man in the High Castle Planet Earth II Joe Sutphin Books The new audiobook version of Watership Down, read by Peter Capaldi. Peter does a fantastic job of reading this classic story with all of the voices and emotions of a full-cast radio production. I can’t recommend this audio version highly enough. I got to illustrate Glenn McCarty’s The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson, which I happened to find to be a fantastic, heartfelt and well-written story, aside from any contribution of my own to its publication. It reads like a classic children’s book. Music Hillsong United’s album, People, is a return to the passionate writing styles of their earlier albums. “As You Find Me” and “Starts and Ends” are two of the greatest songs they’s ever written. Switchfoot, Native Tongue. “Strength To Let Go” is one of my new favorite Switchfoot songs of all time. Film Diagnosis is a fascinating experiment in crowd sourcing experiences and theories regarding specific, unidentified, real-life ailments. I’m looking forward to new seasons of this one. The Repair Shop is a lovely little show about a group of artistic restoration experts in the UK working to restore everything from clocks to music boxes, toys and furniture. My only complaint is that the episodes are far too brief to really show much of the processes involved in each restoration. David Mitchel Books Alan Jacobs, The Year of Our Lord 1943: Christian Humanism in an Age of Crisis (2018): A skillfully told account of how the works of a handful of notable writers and philosophers — C. S. Lewis, W. H. Auden, T. S. Eliot, Jacques Maritain, and Simone Weil — converged to form a powerful Christian critique of the deficiencies widespread in post-Enlightenment Western democracies. I spent the months immediately preceding Virginiamoot (June 2019) reading up on Thomas Jefferson, whom I still find infuriating but not quite as inscrutable as I did at this time last year. Two notable books on Jefferson: Thomas Jefferson and Music by Helen Cripe (1972) is a careful look at the role music played in Jefferson’s life from childhood to old age, and catalogues Jefferson’s substantial collection of sheet music, the instruments he owned, and the instruments he gave as gifts to various family members; and Most Blessed of the Patriarchs: Thomas Jefferson and the Empire of Imagination by Annette Gordon-Reed and Peter Onuf (2016) is the best overall biography of Jefferson I’ve ever read. The “Empire of Imagination” at Monticello to which the book’s subtitle refers contains all the moral ambiguity of Jefferson’s life and legacy. Jefferson’s idealistic imaginings about liberty and responsibility were mostly not realized—not at Monticello nor in Virginia more generally, due mostly to his double life and double-mindedness about African-Americans and slavery. Waiting on the Word by Malcolm Guite (2015): The poems collected in this little book and arranged in sequence for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany—some by Guite himself, several by other poets—are beautiful. Guite’s essays about each poem, written as they are by one of the great contemporary poets, afford unique insight into the art of poetry. Music Sierra Hull’s Weighted Mind (2016) is one of the most beautiful albums I have ever heard, and features the best mandolin playing I’ve ever heard. Movies Stan & Ollie released at the very end of 2018, and I had the pleasure of seeing it in February of 2019 with one of my oldest and dearest friends at a delightful little theater on the Charlottesville downtown mall. The film features pitch-perfect portrayals of Stan Laurel (by Steve Coogan) and Oliver Hardy (John C. Reilly)—they’re so good that at times you forget you’re watching actors and not the actual Laurel and Hardy. It’s a penetrating look into the perils and glories of artistic collaboration, as we see the duo’s friendship and natural screen/stage chemistry tested by financial hardship, health problems, and personal frictions between the hard-driving Laurel and the affable, easygoing Hardy. TV The Slugs & Bugs Show. I could say much in praise of the first thirteen episodes, but here I’ll just note that I cannot wait until my daughter is old enough to enjoy these with her mom and dad. Matt Conner Books The Incendiaries by R. O. Kwan – A debut novel of first loves and religious zeal, of cults and acts of terror, of our desperate attempts to belong as long as it provides a temporary salve on our woundedness. A brutal but beautiful read. The Tradition by Jericho Brown (poetry) – A new favorite poet who opens my eyes to perspectives of race and class in very unexpected and even uncomfortable ways. Heavy by Kiese Laymon – Laymon’s memoir stayed with me for weeks. His mastery of storytelling and use of language is worth the investment, but Heavy lives up to its name as a weighty read on how our stories play into the larger cultural ones already present and at work in our lives without our knowledge. I laughed and cried but mostly read in awe at a new favorite writer. Music Good Luck, Kid by Joseph – Three sisters from Seattle crafted the year’s best album for me. Good Luck, Kid has thirteen tracks and you won’t skip a single one. It’s self-assured pop with to-die-for harmonies and non-stop hooks. These songs delightfully stick without sacrificing substance. A near-perfect listen. Better Oblivion Community Center’s eponymous debut – Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes) and Phoebe Bridgers (boygenius) opened the musical year with a surprise (to me) side project/collaboration that featured so many straightforward gems. “Chesapeake” might be the most beautiful song I heard all year. Eraserland by Strand of Oaks – the story: Tim Schowalter (the man behind Strand of Oaks) was done with music and was lamenting the career shift after years of being “under-the-radar.” He was alone on a beach when his friends in the rock band My Morning Jacket called him and said they’d paid for studio time for him and that they would be the backing band if he would try one more time. The end result is the best Strand of Oaks album ever, which is saying something. “Weird Ways” is a must listen. Film/TV Chernobyl – Maybe the greatest thing I’ve ever watched on television. Just a total triumph in every conceivable way, not to mention the importance of such a historic event. Barry – An assassin trying to start an acting career is an odd plotline for any sort of show, let alone a comedy, but Bill Hader is perfect as the protagonist here. Ad Astra – With a five year-old around, going to the movies is a rare thing, but making time to see Brad Pitt’s latest dramatic turn was worth every effort. The ways in which parental wounds can so deeply control us, for better or worse, is a theme within my own life, so this film resonated with me long after we’d left the theater. Jill Phillips Film Little Women – I enjoyed this from beginning to end. I went with some dear friends and our daughters which made it memorable and meaningful. I thought the characters were incredibly well cast and I would watch about anything with Saoirse Ronan. Knives Out – This was a delightful surprise for me and my favorite film of the year. We went with our whole family and every single person loved it—I cannot remember the last time that happened in our family of widely differing opinions! It was such a satisfying new take on the classic whodunnit and I loved the diverse cast. Television I didn’t watch much TV this year, but I think the thing I enjoyed the most was watching Will Ferrell’s Thanksgiving sketch with Maya Rudolph and Fred Armisen on SNL. I’m not sure what that says about me. Doctor Thorne – a miniseries scripted by Julian Fellowes and adapted from the Anthony Trollope novel. I think you can find this on Amazon Prime. I loved the story and the cast and it scratched my “British miniseries itch” for the year. The Bookshop – a wonderful movie starring Emily Mortimer and Bill Nighy. A perfect cozy night in kind of movie and the scenery is stunning. Books Educated by Tara Westover – I am a bit late to the game on this one but I am grateful someone from my book club chose it earlier this year. I found Westover’s storytelling incredibly vivid and vulnerable. I was moved by her resilience and also her willingness to discuss her lingering trauma. The Familiars by Stacey Halls – This is a book I picked up in England this summer. There isn’t much to unpack here, but I enjoyed it more than most novels I have read recently and loved the strong female characters. Music The Big Day by Chance the Rapper – I loved the songs “I Got You” (featuring En Vogue!) and “Let’s Go on the Run.” If you want to smile really big, watch Chance perform “Let’s Go on the Run” on Good Morning America. Import by Elle Macho – This is an older album, but I introduced my oldest to this gem and we listened to it a ton this year. The combination of David Mead and Butterfly Boucher singing and writing songs together is almost too good to be true. Listen to “Sweet Pancello,” “This is Not a Love Song,” and “Bombs.” John Barber Movies Once Upon a Time in Hollywood – My affection for this movie grows the more I think about it. It’s the only movie I saw multiple times in the theater, and I wish it was still out so I could see it again. Tarantino’s gambit here—to use art to change a historical narrative, and create justice in the process—is wonderful. It’s a modern take on cowboy culture, set in the 60s. Parasite – Completely original. Completely compelling. And it’s the most interesting take on the economic disparity issue around. The Irishman – Scorsese, De Niro, Pacino, and Pesci, all at the top of their game. It’s a profound and moving statement about purpose. And Jesus. Doctor Sleep – Flanagan gives us a worthy successor to The Shining. It’s so intensely personal, and the idea of our deeply held ghosts being the very things that can save us is great. Also, there’s a ton of really good father/son thematic content, which always works on me. The Last Black Man in San Francisco – Finally… something new! This bright take on what makes a community feels completely fresh. If Wendell Berry were from California instead of Kentucky, this might be the movie he’d make. Books The Tradition by Jericho Brown – It’s daring, it’s beautiful, and it’s important poetry. Andrew Osenga Podcasts I really dug Rick Rubin and Malcolm Gladwell’s Broken Record podcast. Music John Mayer’s Paradise Valley and Radiohead’s The Bends came back into major rotation for me. Film/TV HBO’s Watchmen and John Oliver were my favorite things to watch this year. Books The Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu Stories of Your Life and Others by Ted Chiang Both are amazing collections of stories by Asian American authors. Most stories are a wild mingling of sci-fi, philosophy, religious history, fable, and deeply intimate character studies. Both collections read like a more compassionate version of Black Mirror. They start with alternate versions of our own reality or history and then create moral dilemmas and personal narratives within that framework. Ultimately, these give the reader a new viewpoint into our actual reality. Lots to think about and much beauty to behold. Jeremy Casella Books Born To Run (the memoir) by Bruce Springsteen – I just finished this one and it floored me. I didn’t expect him to be so personable and vulnerable. He comes off as deeply self-aware and confident at the same time, yet also humble and friendly. I have loved his music for a long time (Nebraska, Born In The USA, The Rising, Tom Joad—so many great albums) but didn’t know much about him personally. This was my favorite read of the year. Sealed Orders: The Autobiography of a Christian Mystic by Agnes Sanford – Richard Foster and Dallas Willard turned me on to Agnes Sanford and her healing ministry work during the 1950s-80s. She is a mysterious (and beautiful) sister in Christ who moved in the gifts of the Spirit, especially healing. I have been undergoing a pretty huge shift in my faith these last several years and Willard and Foster have been helpful voices. They both kept mentioning Sanford in their books so I started researching her. In addition, Carolyn Arends pointed me towards some of her books and I ordered a few. I started with this one—it tells her life story and it’s pretty wild. Side note: Buechner met her once and wrote an essay in The Magnificent Defeat referencing his time with her. The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of The Inklings by Philip Zeliski – I’ll confess that I only read the sections of the book on Lewis and Tolkien, but I loved them! I skimmed the Charles Williams section (he was creepy to me) and haven’t read any of the Owen Barfield portion. I loved the info on Tolkien’s friendship with Lewis over the years. Prayer by Richard Foster – A profound book about prayer, written from the Quaker perspective. I love the ecumenical approach and the focus on listening. Writing Alone (And With Others) by Pat Schneider – Currently about half-way through this and it is fantastic. It’s more of a manual for a healthy inner-life of the writer than it is a guide to better writing. It’s been helpful for me and I’ve been sharing it with friends. Check it out! Music Mystery Girl by Roy Orbison, J. S. Ondara’s Tales of America, and Bruce Springsteen’s Western Stars were all frequent listens for me this past year. I also revisited a lot of Tom Petty, both his solo stuff and the Heartbreaker records. Last fall, I circled back into some old Mark Heard stuff too. Eric Peters Music Good Luck, Kid by Joseph – Intelligent, articulate pop genius is my kryptonite, and this album, for me, checks all the boxes. A strikingly good album. I hear so many influences: Tegan & Sara, Chantal Kreviazuk, Wilson Phillips (!!), Katie Herzig. Track 1 (“Fighter”) is special to my wife and I. Brandon Flowers – Much to my personal chagrin, The Killers’ frontman has only two solo albums. Flowers’s voice and range are legendary (I personally am jealous), and his wisdom and insights are increasingly wise. Start with the song “Crossfire,” then find the music video online to be further amazed. Books Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton — I cannot possibly imagine a better opening paragraph in all of literature than this one. Hardtack and Coffee: The Unwritten Story of Army Life by John D. Billings – So this book is not exactly new (it was published in 1887), but I am still a sucker for A) history books, and B) the American Civil War history books. I find it remarkable. The Man Who Never Was by Ewen Montagu – In addition to Eric being a sucker for history books, he is also an A) admitted Anglophile, and a sucker for B) espionage and covert trickery during war time. This is the true story of British genius, of very good luck, and success at deceiving the enemy. Movies I’ve seen one movie in a theater this year: The Rise of Skywalker. I could care less about plot holes or all those fancy, critical things that make people decry a film. This movie series, for me and so many others, was our childhood. If I get an opportunity to go sit in a theater in a comfy chair and be transported back in time (to my childhood) and be entertained for a couple of hours, I could care less about logic or reason or storylines that don’t add up. I want to escape for those two hours. All errors or misjudgments are forgivable. As far as I’m concerned, Jar Jar Binks is George Lucas’s only unpardonable sin in the entire SW epoch. Mee’sah gonna go see da Rey and friendsihoop all ova’h d’again. Jonathan Rogers Books 2019 for me was the year of Thomas Aquinas by way of Josef Pieper (and it’s looking like 2020 will be as well). I find Aquinas exceedingly difficult to read, but Pieper, a 20th-century philosopher and Aquinas scholar, is a great guide. Western culture is reaping the whirlwind of the very strange belief that we all make our own reality. Aquinas (and Pieper) are very strong on the idea that reality is something we receive, not something we make. But whereas that kind of conservative-sounding language has often been used to maintain the status quo and keep the powerful in power, Pieper reminds us that an appeal to reality by definition looks beyond the status quo: conforming to ultimate reality rarely means conforming to current power structures. Here’s a characteristic quotation: “Whoever looks only at himself and therefore does not permit the truth of real things to have its way can be neither just nor brave nor temperate—but above all he cannot be just. For the foremost requirement for the realization of justice is that man turn his eyes away from himself.” My favorite books by Josef Pieper: Only the Lover Sings (this one, about art, is a good one to start with) Leisure: The Basis of Culture The Silence of St. Thomas The Four Cardinal Virtues Faith, Hope, and Love I also just finished One Long River of Song, a collection of essays by Brian Doyle. I can’t recommend this book highly enough. Doyle died of cancer in 2017. This short passage from the last essay in the book, Doyle’s “Last Prayer,” is an excellent summary of what you can expect from these beautiful, insightful essays: I could complain a little here about the long years of back pain and the occasional awful heartbreak, but Lord, those things were infinitesimal against the slather of gifts You gave me, a mere muddle of a man, so often selfish and small. But no man was evermore grateful for Your profligate generosity, and here at the very end, here in my last lines, I close my eyes and weep with joy that I was alive, and blessed beyond measure, and might well be headd back home ot the incomprehensible Love from which I came, mewling, many years ago. Also high on my list for 2019: Fleming Rutledge’s Advent. She’s pretty great. And I read through Kathleen Norris’s Acedia and Me again this year, and it had a big impact on me again. Movies Others have praised A Hidden Life, and I agree. The biggest and most pleasant surprise for me was Knives Out. I went only because I trusted the judgment of my friends who loved it. It didn’t seem like the kind of movie I usually go for, and I found the trailer uninspiring. But that movie made me so happy. It felt very Chestertonian. My next-biggest and next-most-pleasant surprise was Peanut Butter Falcon. It had all my favorite movie things: a road trip, people pursuing unreasonable aspirations, swamps, wrestlers, romance, and unexpected friendship. Ron Block Books A Seaboard Parish by George MacDonald. This was sometimes slow reading for me because I kept interrupting it for other things, like Andrew’s Adorning the Dark, which I’m halfway through and love. I finally finished Seaboard and started MacDonald’s David Elginbrod, and I love that one, too. George MacDonald’s writing produces a deeper understanding in my heart of the love and purposes of God, so I’ve been reading him a lot this year. Benedictus: A Book of Blessings by John O’Donohue. Devotional reading that blesses. I’ve given this book to several people as gifts. Love Conquers All by Robert Benchley. Benchley was a 20th century humor writer who is truly funny. I tend to read a few chapters at a time and leave off. Film/TV I love The Mandalorian. Peter Jackson’s WWI documentary, They Shall Not Grow Old. I loved three more documentaries: The Loser, which was moving due to father issues and the boxer’s wide-open honesty. The Imagineering Story about Walt Disney and his creations. Inspiring. Haven’t seen all the episodes but it’s well done so far. Long Shot, about a man, Jim Catalan, who was wrongly accused of murder. Gripping and moving. Music I often return again and again to older recordings. Paul Brady’s The Liberty Tapes is one of the best recorded examples of Irish simplicity, emotive power, and sophistication. Kate Rusby’s Philosophers, Poets, and Kings. Kate’s music is always a joy and full of soul. I’m also currently digging into The Painted Desert by Andrew Osenga, and Jess Ray’s Parallels and Meridians (both in my car), loving them both. Plus my usual musical studies: Merle Haggard, Flatt & Scruggs, Clarence White, and lots of other older American music. Thomas McKenzie Books The Hebrew Bible: A Translation with Commentary by Robert Alter – Robert Alter is the greatest living translator of the Hebrew Language. This is his life’s work. If you read the Old Testament at all, spend the next few years with Alter. Your understanding and emotional connection with the Hebrew people will grow and deepen. The Particulars of Rapture: Reflections on Exodus by Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg – Avivah Zornberg reflects on the Exodus Mishnah. She will blow your mind wide open. I cannot begin to tell you how enlightening and exhilarating it is to re-read this familiar story through the eyes of the rabbis. The Color of Compromise: The Truth about the American Church’s Complicity in Racism by Jemar Tisby – An important book, and especially at this moment in American history. Jemar is a faithful Christian who confronts our sin in an uncompromising and incredibly helpful way. Read it. Music High as Hope by Florence and the Machine – Florence needs to give St. Augustine co-write credits on this one. Damn by Kendrick Lamar – I’m a couple of years late to the Kendrick party. But, damn y’all, this is fantastic. Led Zeppelin III (Deluxe Edition) by Led Zeppelin – I have been listening to a lot of Led Zeppelin, and this is my favorite this year. If “When the Levee Breaks” was on this album, it would have been perfect. Movies The Irishman – The best mob film since The Godfather II, and better than Goodfellas. Yes, I said it. Parasite – Lucid, funny, unexpected. If you haven’t seen it, your 2019 is not complete. Little Women – Proof positive that Greta Gerwig is a real director who says Important Things in entertaining ways. Queen and Slim – Not perfect at all, but a narrative that had me shook for days. TV When They See Us (Netflix) – The retelling of the tragedy of the Central Park Five. If there is any part of you that doesn’t believe America is a racist nation, just have a look. This series had me in tears during every single episode. Chernobyl (HBO) – The most terrifying horror movie of the year. It’s hard to grasp the heights of heroism and the depths of stupidity on display. I can’t recommend it highly enough. The Mandalorian (Disney+) – Finally, a TV Western. Oh, and it’s Star Wars. Oh, and BABY YODA! Westworld (HBO) – Love it. Messes with my head, goes way too far, entertains, cheats, freaks me out, and makes me beg for HBO to take my money. Helena Sorensen Books A Long Way from Chicago, A Year Down Yonder, and A Season of Gifts by Richard Peck – Hysterical children’s books about an unconventional grandmother. Peck’s writing is wonderful. The Great Emergence by Phyllis Tickle – I loved Tickle’s take on the history of the church and the major upheavals that come every 500 years. An accessible book, easy to read and absorb, and so encouraging. Circe by Madeline Miller – An immortal goddess with a believable character arc. Amazing. Film/TV No Country for Old Men – I saw it this year for the first time, at my husband’s urging, and we spent many hours discussing it afterwards. The Crown, Season 3 – What I most appreciated about this season was the tenderness with which the writers approached each person’s story. You cannot see Charles’s disappointments or Princess Margaret’s rejection without feeling for them deeply, and I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t be moved by the courage Prince Philip shows in “Moondust.” His closing monologue in that episode is a stunning example of authenticity. Gosh. Unbelievable – Susannah Grant and Michael Chabon are two of the writers for this series, and they do an outstanding job of honoring the subject matter. Instead of maintaining a snappy pace, with investigators finding leads, interviewing suspects, and racing to a thrilling conclusion, the writers and director allow the little moments to spin out. There’s time, there’s silence, and no viewer who’s paying attention can maintain an emotional distance from the horror of sexual assault. All that without being visually graphic. Two thumbs up. Music I spent the most time this year with Taylor Leonhardt’s River House, Brandi Carlile’s By The Way, I Forgive You, and the soundtracks for On Chesil Beach (Dan Jones) and The Exception (Ilan Eshkeri). Andy Gullahorn Music Travis Meadows – My introduction to him was “Sideways” which has all of the therapy-talk I like to hear in songs. But as I dug in deeper to his catalogue, there was so much to love. He writes songs about recovery like no one else. Madison Cunningham – I am amazed at Madison’s talent and writing ability. My favorite is “Beauty Into Cliches.” Books Let Your Life Speak by Parker Palmer – “Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you. Before you tell your life what truths and values you have decided to live up to, let your life tell you what truths you embody, what values you represent.” Learning To Walk In The Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor – I love the concept of lunar spirituality where the light waxes and wanes and the moon never looks the same way twice. That feels more at home to me than the full solar spirituality where nothing is hidden and everything is certain. And I just love Barbara Brown Taylor. Everything Happens For a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved by Kate Bowler – Jill told me to read this one. I think it should be required reading for anyone before they talk to someone going through a hard time in their life. There are even very helpful, practical tips in the back about what to say and what not to say to people in the midst of suffering. Talking To Strangers by Malcolm Gladwell – I think this book is speaking directly to this time when everything is so polarized. In a way it’s about understanding that our perspective isn’t the only one—which sounds like an easy thing to grasp but it really isn’t. Film/ TV Knives Out – Yep. Super fun. You already know. Dead to Me – I wouldn’t say that I liked this as a whole—but there were a number of times that I was really pleasantly surprised at how well Christina Applegate depicted grief. Adam Whipple Music Everyday Life by Coldplay – It’s already been said, but I’m saying it again. This is a stellar album by a band who cares about making good, important music, whether you think it’s hip or not. The Gospel According to Water by Joe Henry – Joe Henry is an American treasure. His writing is as enigmatic as E. E. Cummings and his production is as calico as Thelonious Monk. He’s unafraid to undress the spiritual journey in public, revealing all its fears and victories and insecurities. The guy does for Spirit-haunted lyrics what Norman Rockwell did for skin wrinkles. I looked forward to this record coming out more than Star Wars IX. Movies Star Wars IX: The Rise of Skywalker – I have reasonable closure. If you didn’t like The Last Jedi, etc. —whatever. Argue if you want, I guess. I had fun. I don’t have Disney+ or Netflix, so I make do. I did watch a lot of YouTube clips from Chernobyl, which I thought were excellent and important. The Lighthouse – I’ve never read any Lovecraft, but according to the stereotypes, this film felt Lovecraftian. It’s a potential commentary on so many things, so I won’t begin to try and explicate its meta-narratives here. I tend to like good black and white photography for the contrast, and regardless of the material, this film looked beautiful. Also, it’s about two guys staying in a lighthouse with no wi-fi or phones. Yeah, I get that one or both of them went insane, but if I was single and not a parent, I’d probably go do that job in a heartbeat. I’m sure that makes me some Enneagram number that I don’t know. Oh, and it’s not a date film, unless you’re Sheldon Cooper. Joker – If Quentin Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds asked what it means for an audience to enjoy violence, Joker asked (among other things) what it means for bystanders to defer blame in light of mental illness. This feels like an important question as we, by dint of ever-bloating jargon, further distance ourselves from the consequences of our thoughts, words, and actions. I didn’t see many new films overall, but this one feels like an Oscar contender. After this film and You Were Never Really Here, Joaquin Phoenix may need a hug. Books Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman – I know this is probably old hat here, but I finally read it this year after reading The Ocean at the End of the Lane last year (also a great novel). I like that Gaiman does world-building in an unexpected way, creating a kind of dinnseanchas under modern London. Instead of expanding sideways, he burrows downward. The Messrs Croup and Vandemar are the best henchmen I’ve ever read. The Marquis, for my money, is Syndey Carton from A Tale of Two Cities, and I love him for it. Ethics by Dietrich Bonhoeffer – I’ve barely dented this, but I wanted to include it here. It felt important, in our times, to read the moral writings of a believer who served the Lord while under a murderous, power-grubbing regime. Continuing as I can. Hetty White Books No Time to Spare by Ursula K. Le Guin – The more I read Ursula’s non-fiction, the more she reminds me of Madeleine Le’ Engle. I don’t know if they ever met each other, but I’m sure they would have been fast friends. The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk – A fascinating look at trauma and how our bodies hold onto memories. Film/TV Ingmar Bergman films – I discovered Bergman this year, and I think I’m better for it. Marriage Story – I’ll admit it: I’m on an Adam Driver kick. This story is beautiful and funny and thoughtful. Speaking of Adam Driver… The Rise of Skywalker – I don’t think it was great filmmaking, I just really enjoyed it. And my mom, who remembers standing in line for the opening of A New Hope in ’77, went with me, carrying her portable oxygen tank with her (it kind of sounded like Darth Vader). Podcasts Scriptnotes – Two working screenwriters discuss writing and all things interesting to screenwriters or wannabes. Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend – Conan goes in depth with the celebrities he’s interviewed over the years but hasn’t really gotten to know. SO funny, and sometimes very poignant. The one with Colbert was especially fascinating and deep. Chris Slaten (Son of Laughter) Music Album: Father of The Bride by Vampire Weekend is the perfect summer album, while still being filled with misty-eyed one liners. Gloria Duplex by Henry Jamison might be the winner lyrically for me, but we didn’t wear out any other album this year like Father of The Bride. Artist: We saw Josh Ritter at the Ryman, and while he did release an album in 2019, this fall we have been soaking in his entire catalogue since the show. There are few living storytelling songwriters as strong as Ritter that also have such a strong sense for production and performance. I could finally understand after the show why some of our friends (Looking at you, Hetty!) have seen his shows eight or nine times. Score: I think The Mandalorian end title theme is the best Star Wars theme to come out in decades. While John Williams clearly hasn’t lost his touch, Ludwig Goranson has brought such a distinct musical voice into this universe that I want to hear more from him. Film/TV Yesterday, Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, and The Rise of Skywalker all served the purpose of reminding me of the value and joy of the kinds of massive cultural artistic experiences that I often don’t take so seriously. Sidenote: The Imagineering Story TV series and the Dolly Parton’s America podcast did the same. Also, I’ve still been trying to track with the new wave of brainy horror films this year. While Us and Dr. Sleep were not perfect, they left us with so much to talk about in the weeks that followed. Books Theology of The Ordinary by Julie Canlis – While so many of the films I mentioned above romanticize fame and measure success by numbers, Julie Canlis’s little book offers such a beautiful antidote to this common conception of the American dream, both by deconstructing it and by unpacking how the work of Christ has dramatic implications for a much smaller existence. Educated by Tara Westover – This is a perfect book to read with a high school senior, and I did so with about sixty of them. Westover shares her story in a way that is both visceral and accessible, encouraging her readers to pursue truth even when it is costly and painfully elusive. Impossible Owls by Brian Phillips – Phillips seems to have the same kind of endless curiosity as David Foster Wallace, but without as much despair. This collection explores sumo wrestlers, Russian animators, AREA 51, the Iditarod, and more with a kind of giddy wonder and wit. The Gospel of Luke and The Acts of The Apostles – I had never read these two as a singular series until this year. Studying them in tandem brings out so many fascinating and strange parallels.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. Today, we kick off Season 2 with a conversation between Jonathan Rogers and Andrew Peterson, songwriter, author, and founder of the Rabbit Room. Jonathan and Andrew discuss the relationships between creativity and loneliness, the problem of ambition, and the paradox of the age-old search for originality. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 1 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.

Why am I writing about orphans? What’s with all the violence? Have I ever been attacked by pirates? Why did I kill your favorite character? How much of this history business is actually true? Here at the end of Part II of The Fiddler’s Gun, I sat down with poet, writer, Rabbit Room staff member, and reader of fine books Shigé Clark to discuss some “behind the scenes”-type stuff. Shigé only recently read the book for the first time and came to the studio full of great questions. It’s a fun discussion. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did. Click here to check out the whole podcast, or listen to this episode below (beware: spoilers!).

On a slow Saturday morning, my oldest daughter, who is eight, brings me a nature craft book, seeking hopeful permission to make something depicted in its pages. Before even taking a look, I roll my inner eyes. Children’s craft books come a dime a dozen, or a mere eighty cents at the local consignment store. Many are boring, or the crafts concepts are weird, or the designs look phenomenal but are so complex or confusingly-written that the books really aren’t much use at all. But then I look where she is pointing, at the craft titled, “Make Your Own Toy Garden,”and my heart leaps into immediate association. The words of C. S. Lewis, “That was the first beauty I ever knew,” flash through my mind, and instead of hemming and hawing over all the materials we’d have to gather together to make any given craft work—not least the energy and sustained parental attention to bring it to completion—I am nodding, Yes, yes! and grinning like the Cheshire cat. Yes, my girl. You may absolutely make a toy garden. In his memoir Surprised by Joy, the creator of Narnia describes how, as a young boy, his brother Warnie “brought into the nursery the lid of a biscuit tin which he had covered with moss and garnished with twigs and flowers so as to make it a toy garden.” Lewis says of his brother’s garden craft, “That was the first beauty I ever knew,” and that isn’t a throw-away statement: Lewis’s biscuit-tin moment is not merely a pleasant story about a little boy learning to appreciate pretty things. No, the deep desire for beauty, catalyzed at such a young age by some creative impulse of his brother’s, drove Lewis through his boyhood, adolescence, early adult years, and headlong into his thirties on an urgent quest to quench the deep longing set in motion by that moss-covered cookie container lid. When I was about my oldest daughter’s age, I had recurring dreams at night. Some were tense or frightening, a handful were pleasant, and one was infused with a beauty so rich I can still sense it. In the dream, I walked through a golden wood, as haunting as autumn, as living as spring. There were elements other than the forest, too: a castle, the sense of mystery, a deep feeling of belonging and hope, and even sorrow—a pervasive sadness that I couldn’t keep staying here in this most perfect place. But above all, the dream was about the woods. I am what some people call middle-aged now. I haven’t dreamed of walking in that wood since I was very young, but sometimes I still lay on the edge of sleep longing for a glimpse of that forest again. One more moment standing among its living branches, its fair leaves. One more deep sensation of belonging, of finally having arrived home. I cannot say what significant or insignificant lights will illumine the way for my girls, each her own person, with her own path to tread. Rebecca D. Martin In my waking life, I don’t recall any such catalyzing moment as Lewis’s biscuit tin revelation, though my life was full of woods and imaginative play. One particular school friend and I would wander through her backyard and into woods, across a stream. We discovered turtles living there, and for a while, I’m a little embarrassed to say we decorated their backs with the puffy paint we also used to design our 1980s t-shirts. My eco-conscious husband shakes his head, but at the time, this friend and I were fully given over to the woods and its life, owning the branch-covered space and being owned by it. Later in adolescence, there were southern night skies, heavy with stars and close with heat. There were the glorious sunsets that strike all our eyes, and lead so many of us in young adulthood to wax poetic and worshipful. None of these experiences (save, perhaps, the puffy-painted turtles) are very unique, and I cannot pinpoint, like Lewis, what my first glimpse of beauty was that dug down like a seed into my heart, lighting my childhood dreams and later driving me to welcome each sunset, each night sky, with a longing for more. For Lewis, the beauty rooted in his big brother’s pretend garden was laid down early in life, an unexpected and long-lasting foundation. And then a series of suggestive moments, each also unplanned—reading a Longfellow Poem, hearing a Wagner opera, and the chance discovery of George MacDonald’s novel Phantastes foremost among them—grew out of that foundation, those roots, until they produced in his adult life a tree haunted by truth and longing that stretched its branches through myth and desire and the hope for a lasting beauty that could be touched and known. And finally, in the fullness of time, what had begun growing inside Lewis as a young boy leafed into life under the sun of God’s truth, which shines down with a great warmth and hope on this dark road between gardens: the hope that we will arrive forever at that truest and best garden someday; the hope that I may perhaps walk through that golden forest again, and never have to leave it. My two girls, ages four and eight, stand on the sidewalk at the bottom of our front porch stairs, each one bent in rapt concentration over her own miniature garden, soil topped with moss and stuck with fresh fir snips and flowers, on whatever plastic trays my husband could find. They are placing their pieces so carefully, laying out the elements at hand—green leaf, spiky twig, zinnia head, nasturtium bloom—in whatever manner comes to mind, beautiful compositions, because the elements are beautiful, because the minds behind the operations are beautiful, because the Mind behind their very beings is beautiful, and he images his beauty forth in who we are and what we do. “Come further up, come further in!” cries the unicorn Jewel as Lewis’s Pevensie children, newly arrived in glory in The Last Battle, race with joy and strength and glee towards that bright, first garden that is so much more now than it ever was before. Our home has been fractured and lost, and the journey to the new, even better one, promises to be long and dark. But in the end is that garden, and God himself the light by which all beauty will be finally seen. In the midst of today’s pain, of an oft-felt darkness, God gives these glimpses of glory that strengthen us on our way, that light for us the path that will lead us home. My girls spend the morning subcreating their own small gardens. As a child, I wandered the woods with a friend. “As long as I live,” Lewis writes, “my imagination of Paradise will retain something of my brother’s toy garden.” I cannot say what significant or insignificant lights will illumine the way for my girls, each her own person, with her own path to tread. It may likely be something other than these childhood garden crafts on this particular weekend morning, something more unique to each of them. But my imagination is backlit with a stirred hope: our God is a sower who plants seeds of beauty and longing in the most unexpected places; he is the grand storyteller who knows just the right moment to pull the veil aside to a vista that strikes into our hearts that inconsolable longing that will not let go. And I watch with eager expectation for those moments of glory that will begin to guide my children home.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers interviews Harrison Scott Key. Memoirist and humorist Harrison Scott Key is the author of Congratulations, Who Are You Again? and The World’s Largest Man, which won the Thurber Prize for humor. In this episode, Jonathan and Harrison discuss the difference between anecdote and memoir, the value of not knowing everything about your own stories, and the link between memoir-writing and therapy. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 2 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.

If you’re reading this, I think it’s safe to assume you love C. S. Lewis and are familiar with at least some of his work, if not his life. Perhaps you are also an artist of some kind, and you long for that Inkling-like fellowship with other artists that Lewis and Tolkien seemed to have enjoyed and that many of us find at Hutchmoot. But what we don’t often consider is that one of Lewis’s primary relationships was not with another artist but with his very practically-minded brother. I’d like to introduce you to a new picture book biography of C. S. Lewis—I hope you don’t mind if I call him Jack—and his brother Warnie. Like most picture book biographies, Finding Narnia: The Story of C. S. Lewis and his Brother by Caroline McAlister and illustrated by Jessica Lanan zeros in on one theme of its subject’s life: Jack’s relationship with his brother, Warnie, and its instrumental role in his own creation of fantastic worlds. From their childhood play world of Boxen to The Chronicles of Narnia, Warnie was at Jack’s side. And yet, while Warnie did become a member of the Inklings, he wrote history, never fiction. From childhood, as Finding Narnia brings out, Warnie was fascinated with real-world things like trains, timetables, ships, maps, and India. As they grew older, Warnie remained the practical one, working for the army and typing reports. Jack, on the other hand, was sensitive, loved to read, and had a vivid imagination. And even though he grew into a scholarly Oxford don, he never lost his ability to ask, “what if….” As you can see, the brothers were very different. And yet, Warnie’s role as resonator—a term coined by Inklings biographer Diana Glyer—seems to have been one of the essential ingredients in Jack’s creative life. The resonators we need may already be in our own community, part of our church, under our own roof. Carolyn Leiloglou Boxen, the play-world they created during their mother’s illness, was a combination of Jack’s Animal-Land and Warnie’s India. As adults, since Jack never learned to type, Warnie was the one who typed Jack’s handwritten manuscripts of the Chronicles of Narnia. And when Tolkien criticized Jack’s sloppy mythology in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Warnie offered encouragement. Warnie didn’t have to be an artist to be the resonator Jack needed. Which is why we creators don’t need to only surround ourselves with other artists, as Andrew Peterson has often pointed out. The resonators we need may already be in our own community, part of our church, under our own roof. After all, “art nourishes community and community nourishes art.” And when you read this book to your kids, don’t be dismayed if they identify more with practical Warnie than with Jack. Finding Narnia gives them a delightfully equal footing, even in the endpapers, the first of which displays a map of Great Britain and the second a map of Narnia. This short, picture book biography leaves off where The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe begins. If you’ve read the Chronicles with your children and want to introduce them to Jack and his brother Warnie, I can’t think of a better way. And for a picture book primer on J. R. R. Tolkien, don’t miss John Ronald’s Dragons by the same author. Click here to view Finding Narnia on Amazon.

As you may already know, the Rabbit Room began as a blog—a beloved ongoing conversation between a collection of writers and artists committed to encouraging each other and throwing ideas back and forth, just for the pleasure of it. It looked a little something like this: Isn’t it so nostalgic? These days, as you may also know, we make and share a myriad of content including but not limited to our blog posts. So here at the beginning of 2020, I figured it would be a good idea to provide a flyover view of the various ways you can follow our work on a daily and weekly basis. Podcasts Click to explore! For starters, let’s talk about the newest iron in the fire: our Podcast Network. Our network currently hosts nine podcasts. That sounds like a lot—and it sort of is—but our podcast schedule is seasonal, meaning that we actively release new episodes from just two or three series at a time throughout the year. Here’s what you can keep your eyes peeled for this year. The Habit Podcast (updated weekly). I have the sincere pleasure of engineering this podcast, and I can tell you that Jonathan Rogers is unstoppable. In just about five hours, we’ll record six stellar conversations with writers about writing. I don’t know how this guy does it, but for the foreseeable future, he’ll have a new interview ready for you to listen to every week. Fin’s Revolution (updated sporadically, dozens of episodes at a time). This is the podcast wherein Pete Peterson embarks on the adventure of reading through The Fiddler’s Gun and Fiddler’s Green audiobook-style, complete with funny voices. It’s endlessly engaging, and he’s halfway done, having just finished The Fiddler’s Gun. Be sure to check out his special bonus episodes, in which Shigé Clark (our head of Communications & Development) asks him piercing historical and narrative questions. The Second Muse (updated seasonally). This is my own personal contribution to our podcast network, in which I interview songwriters and producers about their own encounters with moments of resistance in the writing and record-making process. In each episode, we also break down a particular song of theirs in a Song Exploder-type fashion, analyzing how it grew into itself from the infancy of an idea to the completion of a shiny recording. Watch for Season Two to be released this spring. The Artist’s Creed (updated seasonally). One of our board members and our first-ever Scholar in Residence, Dr. Steve Guthrie is currently on sabbatical from his position as Religion & the Arts professor at Belmont University. The Artist’s Creed is one side project he will be undertaking during his time with us. The network’s most theological offering, Season One of The Artist’s Creed engaged topically in the Apostle’s Creed episode by episode, asking how it could inform the calling of the artist. But Season Two will look a little different—watch for it to be released in late summer. Fixed In Post (updated sporadically, one episode at a time). Our dear friend John Barber is a great lover of good films. Every so often, he and Pete get together to talk about their favorites. Watch for their Best of 2019 episode to come out soon. In podcast world, there are some other projects in the works this year that I can’t tell you about yet. But let’s just say we’ve never been more excited, and we’re breaking out of our comfort zone. Stay tuned. Streaming Playlists Click to listen to the Rabbit Room Playlist on Spotify! (Also available on Apple Music) One of our favorite new developments is streaming playlists. This is where we get to nerd out about all the new music from artists in our community and share it with as many listeners as we can. Chris Thiessen (Head of Sales and Donor Administration) curates our playlists to give you our latest take on great new music being made. Rabbit Room Playlist (updated monthly). This is our most general playlist, aiming to cover all the bases and keep up with new releases by artists in our community. Seasonal Playlists (updated quarterly). Our blog contributors band together with the coming of each new season to provide a soundtrack to the spring, summer, autumn, and winter. In addition to the earth’s seasons, we provide soundtracks for liturgical seasons, like Advent, Christmastide, Lent, and Easter. The Local Show Playlist (updated in the spring and fall, during Local Show seasons). Whenever we host Local Shows (our writers round concert in Nashville, TN), we keep track of the set list and reconstruct it on Apple Music and Spotify for your listening pleasure. It updates every two weeks with each new show. Weekly Digest Click the image above to subscribe! On a daily basis, the stream of new content can be a bit overwhelming. That’s why we’ve established our weekly digest, an email that includes highlights from that week’s blog and podcast content, news updates, upcoming tour dates from artists in our community, and our beloved “Stuff We Liked This Week” section, where staff members share books, music, movies, and podcast recommendations for the week. In addition to sharing stuff we liked, I greatly enjoy asking (via our Rabbit Room Chinwag page on Facebook) what you liked every Friday morning. It always gets a great discussion going, and I come away so encouraged by the great art being put into the world. Click here to check out last Friday’s discussion, and feel free to add your own comment as well! Blog Posts Where it all started. The heartbeat of all our content, the Rabbit Room blog sets the tone of our weekly discussion and anchors everything we do. Because chances are that if you regularly engage with the Rabbit Room, you like to read. And you probably even like to settle into your chair, light a candle, make some tea, and read with abandon. So if you want a place to go throughout your week for thought-provoking articles pertaining to art, music, story, and community, look no further. I update our blog four to five times every work week with a balance of reflective articles, important bits of news, and short delights. (Fun fact: I’ve been reading the blog since I was a freshman in high school. Pinch me.) If you’re looking for a place to start, here are a few of my favorite articles from the last few months: “Alleluia” by Amy Baik Lee, “The Garden Unguarded” by Matthew Cyr, and “Giants in the Land” by Helena Sorensen. Thanks for reading, listening, and participating. That’s about all the content we put out on a regular basis! I hope this guide has been helpful, whether you’re a new reader looking for a place to begin or a long-time listener who’s lost track of what all we’ve got going on. To wrap this up, here are some quick links to launch you into the media of your choice. Read our blog. Explore our podcasts. Subscribe to our weekly emails. Listen to our streaming playlists (Spotify, Apple Music). Follow us on social media (Facebook, Instagram, Twitter). Participate in our Chinwag. Become a member to support all of this work. In a world that is becoming more and more overrun with information by the day, we aim to provide a grounding and hospitable space where you can slow down and engage with worthwhile thoughts from a robustly Christian perspective. Because as far as we can see, art nourishes community and community nourishes art, and more than ever before, both of these gifts require and deserve every bit of nourishment they can get. Welcome. We’re so glad you’re here.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers interviews professional counselor and writer Meredith McDaniel. Meredith McDaniel is the author of In Want + Plenty: Waking Up to God’s Provision in a Land of Longing. She’s also a licensed professional counselor. Jonathan and Meredith discuss the deep connections between counseling and storytelling, the importance of bodily liturgies for a writer, and learning to give no more or less than what we have to give. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 3 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.

Caleb Chapman was stuck. It was time to make another Colony House record and he had no songs. That’s not quite true; he had a pile of songs, but none that were right for his band. Q: How do you write a pile of songs you don’t love? A: Focus on what the market wants. If you find yourself thus distracted, getting dropped by your label could be the best thing for you. Fewer voices in your head. And Colony House had just been dropped by RCA. Now Caleb was coming back to himself little by little. So yes, he was stuck and he had no songs, but it felt like they were on the train. Any moment now. Caleb sat at the piano, doing his best to embody the songwriter-as-fisherman metaphor, in which you cast your line out and wait. The phone rang. A welcome interruption. His grandfather wanted to know how songs were coming. They talked for a minute. And then a sudden tug on the line. The conversation had sparked a memory of Caleb’s great grandfather, an alcoholic and a drifter who had barely known his own daughter. Caleb felt a wave of empathy for this man, and a wave of empathy is as good a song-starter as any. The lyric took the form of a conversation between a man running away from his problems and the porter who takes his bag as he boards the train. Caleb reeled the big fish in and named it “Mr. Runaway.” At last, a keeper! I was also coming unstuck. A drastic change in my life had dislodged me from years of working around the clock as if my life depended on it. I was out with the Behold The Lamb tour, thinking what a different person I had been a year prior, when Caleb Chapman’s name appeared on my phone. Since I produced When I Was Younger with Joe Causey in 2013, I had not been holding my breath to ever work with the band again. I thought they had graduated from the likes of me. But somehow, when the phone rang, I knew. Caleb told me they didn’t need a genius, they needed a shepherd. He was right. They didn’t need a genius because they had Caleb, Will, Scott, and Parke. And they needed a shepherd for the very same reason!! I prepared to empty myself and take on the very nature of a servant. And then I heard “Mr. Runaway.” I was hoping Caleb wanted to make a record with a lot of heart—something rangy and cinematic that spoke to both the spirit of humanity and the spirit of the times. That song told me the answer was yes to all of the above. We started work in January of last year and proceeded to spend ten days on two songs, “Mr. Runaway” and “Looking For Some Light.” Neither song was finished after ten days and nobody was sure they liked either one and I was ready to get fired. Then the boys left for tour. I took my mentor Brown out for tacos and asked him what to do. He told me I was doing it upside down. I had put myself in the hot seat when it should have been them. We changed the whole plan. When we reconvened in the spring it was at their dad’s studio instead of mine. I barely played a note for the first two weeks. I was mostly a cheerleader, smiling through the studio glass with two arms raised. Some of my proudest contributions to the record are non-musical. It was my idea, for example, to leave Caleb alone and let him play guitar and sing with no one around, not even me. I wanted his wildest performances and this is how I got them. I eventually re-entered the fray. “Julia,” for example, took shape between Caleb, Will, and me. Will wasn’t so sure about it, but ultimately it was his feverish bongo playing that made it so joyous. I was hoping Caleb wanted to make a record with a lot of heart—something rangy and cinematic that spoke to both the spirit of humanity and the spirit of the times. The answer was yes to all of the above. Ben Shive After days of work, Will had the courage to say “Mr. Runaway” wasn’t right for the album. Caleb raised the knife to kill his beloved, but then we saw the ram in the thicket. Caleb and I sat together at the end of the day and reworked the song in a major key. We had to tweak the melody but we were able to preserve its contour. And then came the idea to split it into thirds and let the serial conversation between Mr. Porter and Mr. Runaway frame the whole album. The first part we recorded together in about an hour on doubled piano and guitar. The second I arranged for strings at the Beehive. The third is a Beck-ish thing featuring my two hands working independently at the piano for once and Caleb playing, to his delight, drums. Today, we release Leave What’s Lost Behind into the wild. I am grateful to have been there at the inception. I am proud of the guys for writing a beautiful record and supporting each other so well through the making of it. Nobody cared who played any given part. They just wanted it to be good. And nobody took offense when it was time to mute something they’d worked for hours on. This occurred often. I am proud of Caleb for doing what I want to see every artist do. Look without and speak to the times. Look within and speak to the heart of man. Look intently into the law that gives life and speak to the spirit. When I Was Younger is beloved by so many. I hope that Leave What’s Lost Behind has even greater emotional and spiritual impact. When Caleb played “Mr. Runaway” for me at that first meeting he told me he felt like he was at war with the hopelessness of the world and he wanted to shed light. Good. Everybody’s looking for some light. Click here to visit Colony House’s website. Listen to When I Was Younger on Spotify or Apple Music.

I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as a touchy-feely person. If you give me a 5 Love Languages test, physical affection just barely sneaks into the number three spot. I know I carry internalized messages for how to touch other people, from determining side hugs versus regular hugs to how many seats to leave between myself and strangers on public transportation. Marriage has done a lot to shrink my personal bubble, but if I’m honest, I haven’t always considered how meaningful touch can be when we avoid brushing against each other in a crowded world. In this world, there’s no shortage of messages about touch: when to give it, how to give it, how to avoid causing pain, how to be sensitive to the pain others have experienced. And that makes me especially grateful for the wise, thoughtful, and generous perspective Lore Ferguson Wilbert brings to her new book Handle with Care: How Jesus Redeems the Power of Touch in Life and Ministry. Just be warned though, you won’t find prescriptions or answers here. Instead, she takes the best possible approach: musing on the complexities of touch while pointing over and over again to Jesus’ life and ministry. God in flesh allowed himself to be made vulnerable so the broken might be healed. We cannot fully heal people by touching them, but we recognize their humanity, their story, their issue of blood, by allowing ourselves to be touched by them. Like Jesus, we should simply make ourselves within reach, available to however God might use us in his healing narrative. —Lore Ferguson Wilbert, Handle with Care Lore has been writing for years at her blog Sayable on topics of friendship, singleness, marriage, and embodied theology, and she’s developed a voice that’s wise, strong, gentle, and filled with grace. And it all comes together in her first book. One truly remarkable thing about Handle with Care is the sheer breadth of the material, how she explores a wide range of topics on touch without it ever feeling like too much information, handling each one with gentleness and nuance. To quote the great Mister Rogers, “Anything that is mentionable can be more manageable,” and everything is mentionable here. Handle with Care talks about the need for loving self-touch and care for our bodies, the longing for touch many of us experience in singleness, the need for self-control and mutual respect in marriage, finding a healthy balance for touch in between purity culture and #metoo stories, and understanding how trauma and abuse affect how we give and receive touch. If our bodies matter to God, they should matter to us. And they should matter to us as they are, not only how they will someday be. Lore Ferguson Wilbert If that sounds complicated, it is, but it doesn’t feel like too much. She explores each topic through the lens of Scripture and the reality of culture, challenging us to rethink how we offer and receive touch—in friendship, marriage, ministry, and parenting—while affirming the ways our experiences shape us. Every page holds the underlying reminder that we are embodied creatures, molded by “our stories and histories, vocations and stations,” and a hug, a hand on the shoulder, or a professional massage can be a holy gift that honors our beautiful, broken bodies. “If our bodies matter to God,” she writes, “they should matter to us. And they should matter to us as they are, not only how they will someday be.” Alongside these contemporary topics, a much older parallel story runs. Throughout the book, Wilbert returns to Jesus and how he loved people with his hands. He certainly could have been an untouchable, mysterious holy man. He could have accomplished every miracle with just a word or a thought. But the reality is that in so many stories—whether he opens a blind man’s eyes with mud and spit, honors a woman who grabbed the hem of his robe, holds and plays with small children, or washes the grime from his friends’ feet—Jesus uses his hands to heal, to comfort, and to bless. And may it be so with us all. I suppose the best way to describe this book is an approachable theology of touch, woven with stories, kindness, and respect. She isn’t going to outline a “who to touch” policy for you, but she might challenge you to at least give more hugs. And there is the root of healthy touch: giving with respect, not with the concern for what you receive. Honoring boundaries without making yourself untouchable. Learning to love and care for the one body you’ve been given. But always, always at your own pace, honoring the stories your cells hold, and the mystery of Christ in you. If you find yourself wanting to hear more from Lore, watch for next week’s episode of The Habit Podcast for a lovely discussion with Jonathan Rogers.