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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.

[Editor’s note: Next Thursday Jonathan is launching a new online class called Writing Through the Wardrobe. Participants will read through The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe with a writer’s eye, learning how to apply C. S. Lewis’s techniques to their own writing. Find out more at TheHabit.co/Wardrobe.] The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers interviews Heidi Johnston, author of Choosing Love. Heidi Johnston is the author of Choosing Love, a book that tries to tell teenage girls the truth about relationships. Jonathan and Heidi discuss the various roadblocks to writing—particularly procrastination and imposter syndrome—the task of writing to tell a truer story, and the wellsprings of originality. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 4 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

We are really excited to partner with Belmont University’s College of Theology & Christian Ministry to put on this free event one week from today—a writers round engaging in the topic of mental health & human wholeness. If you happen to be in the area and are interested in what it looks like to sing about these things, then we’d love for you to join us. There will even be free cookies afterwards. I mean, what more could you ask for?

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers interviews Lore Ferguson Wilbert, author of Handle with Care: How Jesus Redeems the Power of Touch in Life and Ministry. Lore Ferguson Wilbert is the author of Handle With Care: How Jesus Redeems the Power of Touch in Life and Ministry. She has been blogging since 2000 at Sayable.net. In this episode, Jonathan and Lore talk about the idea of touch as the mother of all senses, the exceeding vulnerability of Jesus, and the surprisingly symbiotic relationship between tenderness and resilience. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 5 of The Habit Podcast. And click here to visit Sayable, Lore’s blog. Jen Yokel recently wrote a review of Lore’s book—you can read that here. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

I was giving a lecture in Oxford the other day, and took the opportunity, as I often do, to drop into the Eagle and Child. It’s a fine old 17th-century pub, unspoiled by “improvement;” it still has a couple of those lovely wood-panelled “snugs” which encourage camaraderie and close conversation—and, most famously, “the Rabbit Room,” where C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Charles Williams, and their friends met on Tuesday lunchtimes, for the kind of sparring, cajoling, but ultimately encouraging conversation that was at the heart of their informal club, “The Inklings.” As Lewis said of these pub sessions in a letter to his friend Arthur Greeves: “The fun is often so fast and furious that the company probably thinks we’re talking bawdy when in fact we’re very likely talking theology.” It’s a pleasure to raise a pint to their memory in that room, and to imagine the free flow of their talk, to think of how the solid goodness, the conviviality and welcome that Tolkien evoked in the Prancing Pony, might owe something to this place. Indeed, life sometimes imitates art, and, on one occasion, Tolkien recalled, “I noticed a strange tall gaunt man, half in khaki, half in mufti, with a large wide awake hat and a hooked nose sitting in a corner. The others had their backs to him but I could see in his eye that he was taking an interest in the conversation.” Moments later, the stranger leaned forward and took up the thread of what was being said, and was discovered to be the poet Roy Campbell, who had come from South Africa to Oxford specifically to seek out Lewis and Tolkien. Tolkien reflected that it was just like the moment when Strider is revealed at the Prancing Pony, an episode from the unfinished New Hobbit, which he had only recently read to his fellow Inklings. So, as I sat in that dark little snug, nursing my pint, in the same corner (if not the same chair) as that wayfaring poet, I savoured the way in which literary inns enhance one’s appreciation of real inns, and vice versa. It's a pleasure to raise a pint to their memory in that room, and to imagine the free flow of their talk, to think of how the solid goodness, the conviviality and welcome that Tolkien evoked in the Prancing Pony, might owe something to this place. Malcolm Guite The other good thing about “The Bird and Baby,” as the Inklings called it, is that it is just a few doors down from the Oxfam bookshop, which, as one would expect in Oxford, is always well-stocked, and sometimes I pop in there on my way to the pub. On this occasion, I picked up a nice hardback edition of Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf, a choice of which both Tolkien and Lewis would have approved. Enjoying the happy combination of beer and Beowulf, I recalled that “Beer and Beowulf” was the name Lewis gave to his Anglo-Saxon tutorials at Magdalen. How much more attractive a title than “Linguistics 101: The Vowel Shift!” Before I drained my pint, I recited (under my breath) a little tributary sonnet to Lewis: From “Beer and Beowulf” to the seven heavens, Whose music you conduct from sphere to sphere, You are our portal to those hidden havens Whence we return to bless our being here. Scribe of the Kingdom, keeper of the door Which opens on to all we might have lost, Ward of a word-hoard in the deep heart’s core, Telling the tale of Love from first to last. Generous, capacious, open, free, Your wardrobe-mind has furnished us with worlds Through which to travel, whence we learn to see Along the beam, and hear at last the heralds Sounding their summons, through the stars that sing, Whose call at sunrise brings us to our King. This piece was originally posted here at Church Times.

There’s nothing like viewing the world through the lens of another language to show you how limited your own can be. We can’t ever fully merge two lexical frameworks into one, and our translations often fall short of the original concept. Some vocabularies don’t concisely reach into others. All this is to say that the Welsh word Hiraeth is one I’m still learning how to wrap my English arms around. I’ve mentioned it here before, as have others. It’s most often described as a nostalgia or, better yet, homesickness—but not one that can be easily cured by a plane ticket. It’s a homesickness for a home you’ve never been to, one you’ve never seen or can no longer return to, sometimes even one that never existed at all. It is simultaneously grief and desire—a restless dissatisfaction with what is that comes from a weary confidence that something else used to be. Can you feel the shortcomings of the English language here? Can you grasp the depth of the Welsh—how seven letters could scrawl out so much of what it means to be human? It’s going to take something more creative than a line from Webster to define. There’s one more definition I’ve recently added to my collection of possible translations, and it may just be my favorite one yet: I’m homesick most For a place I don’t know But I knew before, I knew before —Joel Ansett So Denver-based singer-songwriter Joel Ansett writes in the opening track of his sophomore album, aptly-titled A Place I Knew Before.  I have no idea if Ansett has any Welsh running through his blood, but I can honestly say that keeping his album in my car disk player (because I still have one of those) over the last six months has changed the way I understand hiraeth in my own life. It’s little wonder that this first song, “Homesick,” describes the gardens of Manito Park in Spokane through Edenic imagery like “the cool of the day” and “angels and flames,” as Ansett wrestles with his own sense of loss and desire. Then the lament turns to a question: Try to remember your voice Deep in my mind. I have a choice: If I could picture the place I am from Would it change who I become? —Joel Ansett From this question, an entire album of pictures unfolds: lyrical sketches of life lived between grief and desire, the same loss and longing for home we all know so well. With each song comes different images of people, relationships, and places. He writes of marriage, illness, and the breakneck speed of modern life. He plays through movies that run in our minds and resists our tendencies to view other peoples’ stories in the cinematic simplicity of black and white. We see in a geranium what Ansett describes as “beautiful to me but dying underneath,” and we know the truth of the flower rings true for the world. He describes in vivid detail those joys that distract like Cadillacs driving past and those joys that offer “a glimpse of glory, something I knew before”—and the homesick heart feels the pierce of hiraeth everywhere. The love of the Father is dwelling here, now, in the bent world, in the gardens that typify Eden yet still fall short, in a voice that speaks beyond the limitations of language, in a love that not only moves towards the pain but takes on our pain. Hannah Hubin For their broad scope, all these songs have one thing in common: in some way or another, they’re all marked by the restless dissatisfaction of hiraeth—a desire for the sick to be healed, the broken to be restored, the wound tight to slow down. Like Ansett, we desire whole human relationships we don’t now know, but somehow, written down in the beginnings of our history, we knew before. We rage against our limitations, our distracted hearts, and our distant friendships like languages narrower than we were meant to speak. Like Ansett, we find ourselves both wounded and wounding, and “we wait for someone to move toward the pain.” We desire to love more deeply than this fallen flesh lets us, and we grieve our inability to comfort those also grieving. My heart is aching but I finally found a cure If you’re a breaking wave, maybe I could be the shore I’d give up all my dreams if you would tell me yours Oh it hurts me; it hurts me not to know you more. —Joel Ansett The hiraeth soul knows that this place is not home, that these relationships do not perfectly satisfy, that our communities are ever breaking and healing and breaking all over again. We celebrate what is beautiful and we grieve that the beauty is never whole. And then comes one last song—the final picture. The album that opened in the gardens of Manito Park ends “running through the gardens to the east of Cheesman Park”—and the listener knows this is more than just a transition from Seattle to Denver. Chasing rabbits with my son ‘til it’s too dark And he can’t understand the fullness of my love Tell me it’s the same with my father up above.I feel broken Weary of the wars I can’t escape Tired of hoping For the promised morning light to break And then I heard you, calling out my name Singing “Do not be afraid. I will be your dwelling place.“ —Joel Ansett Ansett doesn’t leave us without a second garden. This final picture is one both of the place we are from and the place we are making our way home to again—though we see it now only through the fading dusk. But, in answer to Ansett’s earlier question, does it change who we become? The truth is that it is already changing who we are now. The things of heaven cast their shadows on earth, and though Cheesman Park is no Eden, in this moment we catch these Edenic patches of evening light. The homesick heart isn’t home yet, but this final song reveals more than the hope that we’ll make it someday. It reveals the holy presence here as well, manifested in the voice Ansett tried to remember back at the beginning of the album. The love of the Father is dwelling here, now, in the bent world, in the gardens that typify Eden yet still fall short, in a voice that speaks beyond the limitations of language, in a love that not only moves towards the pain but takes on our pain. And this, I believe, is why Ansett has offered a better description of hiraeth than I’ll ever find in a Welsh dictionary: he’s added a missing piece to the truth of our own nostalgic hearts. Between the grief and the longing of homesickness can also lie a third thing—a contentment—and the listener, left there in the love of the Father falling like shadows over Cheesman park, with the ferocity of hiraeth burning in his heart, still east of Eden, is not without a dwelling place even now.

How do you change a person’s mind? We live in a polarized age. Even when tectonic events happen in our society, like the Ferguson Uprising or the Sandy Hook massacre, it seems inevitable that we will all hold the line in our ideological trenches, most if not all of us failing to cross the No Man’s Land to have even a conversation with those on the opposing side. So how do you change a person’s mind? The film Just Mercy leads us towards an answer. May our revolutions be embodied before they are ever televised. Kale Uzzle The film investigates this question via the relationship between Bryan Stevenson (protagonist and author of Just Mercy) and Tommy Chapman, the loathsome District Attorney played convincingly by Rafe Spall. Chapman, a white Southerner perhaps ten years older than Stevenson, is smarmy and condescending, surpassing even the open vitriol of Sheriff Tate. His suggestion for Stevenson to check out the “Mockingbird Museum” on his way out of Monroeville, the county where Harper Lee wrote To Kill a Mockingbird, is dripping with contempt, particularly as it comes after Chapman’s flat rejection to give Stevenson any help in re-opening and reconsidering McMillian’s murder case. This rejection contains within it every ounce of Chapman’s greater refusal to even entertain the thoughts of a black, Harvard-educated attorney from the North in what he believes to be a settled matter in his Alabama county. As the movie progresses, this relationship becomes the crucial turning point of the story. Stevenson fails to convince Chapman of the need to reconsider the evidence in their first meeting. At one point, he shows up at Chapman’s house to plead with him to consider being on the side of justice, even if it costs him his reputation. You can sense the weight on Chapman’s mind but, once again, he refuses to engage the conversation and boots Stevenson off his property. At the film’s zenith, a final courtroom showdown between Chapman and Stevenson, the weight finally becomes too much to bear. As Stevenson asks for the Circuit Court to dismiss all charges against McMillian, the judge asks for Chapman as the District Attorney to represent the opposing arguments. After a long, painful silence, he finally changes his mind, opting to join Stevenson and the defense in asking for the charges to be dropped. Even having read Just Mercy when it came out a few years ago, this scene moved me, certainly because of the actors’ performances, but perhaps more so because of the nature of the victory. Stevenson certainly gives an Atticus-Finch-level speech to set up the scene but, in the end, he doesn’t beat Chapman by the force of compelling courtroom rhetoric. He doesn’t exactly “win” at all; he convinces his opponent to forfeit, to pay the price of losing a very public case in order to remove the moral weight from his shoulders. Why does this work? Why does Tommy Chapman—who, by the way, was re-elected three additional times after McMillian’s exoneration in 1993, finally retiring in 2012—change his mind about his need to hang the murder of a teenage white girl in rural Alabama on the head of Walter McMillian, a black man sitting on Death Row awaiting execution? How do you change a person’s mind? Bryan Stevenson, like Martin Luther King, Jr. before him, managed to do so through the practice of prophetic persuasion, the public embodiment of a value so completely that it compels enough cognitive dissonance in the observer to allow them to consider that they might actually be wrong in how they are viewing or behaving in a given situation. This practice includes speaking boldly, but words are a mere accompaniment to and interpretation of clear and effective action. Walter McMillian Contrary to much of how we think about ourselves as rational creatures, our minds actually tend to follow our bodies and hearts. As James K. A. Smith writes, “We learn to love, then, not primarily by acquiring information about what we should love but rather through practices that form the habits of how we love.” Our worldview may be reinforced by the intake of information but it is changed by practice, by the embodiment of previously unseen realities. In some sense, it is the body that changes the mind—both my own mind and that of the other. Prophetic persuasion practices that which it preaches even before it begins to preach. It incarnates into the world, letting the mouth bear witness to what the body has already practiced. We love in action and let our words offer the interpretation of that action. St. Francis instructed us to “Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.” This is not an excuse not to speak. Rather, it is a call to put a thumb on the precise scale our age is most tempted to neglect—that of quiet, sacrificial action not intended for Insta stories or Twitter likes. It is a call to allow our words to come only when our bodies and our bank accounts are already on the line. It is to preach a lived word instead of a theoretical one. It is to exit the clean offices and kitchen tables of our minds and enter the messy world on our hands and knees, praying and working for the world yet to come. This is the power of Bryan Stevenson and others like him today—his talk shines through with the light of his walk. He speaks as one with authority. I want the same to be true in my life and in my generation as a whole. May the words we speak, tweet, and share come from the deeper well of a heart transformed by experiences lived and sacrifices made. May our revolutions be embodied before they are ever televised. May our persuasiveness be the fruit borne by seeds planted in struggle and watered by our own tears, sweat, and blood. May the first mind we change, even if it is the only mind we change, be our own.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers interviews Elyse Fitzpatrick and Eric Schumacher, co-authors of the book Worthy: Celebrating the Value of Women. Elyse Fitzpatrick and Eric Schumacher are co-authors of Worthy: Celebrating the Value of Women. In this episode, Jonathan, Elyse, and Eric discuss writing as an antidote to reducing other people to categories, the church’s responsibility to defend victims of sexual abuse, the cowriting process for Elyse and Eric, and how they have chosen to navigate a politically fraught topic. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 6 of The Habit Podcast. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

I once heard a wise woman talk about enjoying things during times of want that had been stocked up in times of plenty. Like myself, she was a gardener. She told a tale of a lovely patch of strawberries. I could tell she was incredibly proud of this patch and I understood why. There’s nothing quite like the satisfaction that comes from hard work flourishing and growing into a great bounty. Most people who take on the toil of seeing this process through to a harvest also find ways to preserve some of this seasonal glory. At least that is the case for me. I, like many gardeners, have taken to learning the art of canning. It wasn’t until moving to our current home that I had room for enough plants to have extra produce left over for storage. I had only tried small preservation tasks at our old location. We rented a home for many years that had one lone mulberry tree growing in the corner of the yard. Once I discovered it, everyone knew not to bother mom during mulberry season. I would get up early to pick berries before taking the kids to school and then heading to work. And when I got home, I would check to see what new berries had readied themselves during the day. Aside from my busied schedule every spring, my stained fingertips were also a good indicator of what time of year it was. My children likely thought I was a little obsessed. But that opinion would always change with the expectation and joy of mulberry pie come Thanksgiving and Christmas! So I was overjoyed to find mulberry trees when we moved to our current home. Even though our children were grown and leaving for lives of their own, mulberries were a memory of their childhood for all of us. When our daughter moved across country, I baked her a mulberry pie to take with her on the long road trip. That, in turn, helped create one of my favorite pictures. It’s a picture of her on a late-night travel stop, having a few moments of rest before the next leg of the journey. She was tired and road worn, but very happily eating mulberry pie. When an infusion is turned into jelly, and that jelly is warmed by toast on a frigid winter morning, it becomes the taste of the sweetness that lingers in the airs of May. Gina Sutphin When we moved to our current home on a large plot of land, discovering the number of things that could be stored away to anticipate for later became a personal mission. I captured the scent of a spring breeze by making an infusion with flowers from the honeysuckle bush. When an infusion is turned into jelly, and that jelly is warmed by toast on a frigid winter morning, it becomes the taste of the sweetness that lingers in the airs of May. I captured the emerald green color of summer’s leaves and grass through the blanching of green beans processed in my pressure canner. I captured the amber hues of fall through the process of caramelizing pears into a rich butter, warmed and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. And these colorful jars progressively filled our shelves throughout the growing season. But then came the winter, and the earth had nothing left to give. This morning I was thinking about that wise woman I heard tell of her strawberry patch. Her tale also told of a joyful morning spent eating strawberry jam on biscuits with her children. It was an overflowing bounty from two seasons before. And even though there had been strawberries in the current season, she had been unavailable to pick them. Events of great sorrow had set things into motion that caused her to be away during the harvest. But like the wise woman of Proverbs 31, she had food that she had brought with her from afar. And now, while it was yet still night in her life, she was rising and providing joy on biscuits for herself and her children. I may have become good at the craft of preserving when it applies to fruits and vegetables, but I’m not so good at doing it in the area of personal joy and happiness. Joy can be experienced in the moment, but it seems to slip away like sand through my fingers. I can be prone to letting discontentment be a more normal state in the day to day living of life. I long for that to change, so I’m trying to take lessons from people like this wise woman. I’m trying to learn how to preserve joy in the same way I have preserved these jars of mulberries and pears. It’s winter here in Ohio. The earth is cold and waiting for its next season of plenty. But here on this chilly morning, with thoughts of those strawberry jam-laden biscuits swirling in my head, I pulled some mulberries from the freezer. A cobbler was made, and without any current signs of life from the mulberry tree out back, its fruits were enjoyed and brought happiness even though the tree currently has nothing it can offer. I want my heart to be more like the preserved fruits of the mulberry tree. My prayer is that I can have a greater trust in the Gardener and his methods of helping me have a greater harvest. With a greater and deeper harvest of joy and happiness, there will be extra lingering on beyond the moment. Then, in times when I am currently depleted and have nothing new to give, it will be there waiting for me. It will be tucked away in those pretty jars on the shelf of my heart, and there will bounty ready to open and enjoy and share with those around me.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about paths, by which I mean the ways that we follow to get from one place to another. The more I reflect on what a path really is, the more I see them everywhere, both in their presence and in their disappearance. At this point, I’m wondering what isn’t a path. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s not that I have some abiding interest in maps, roads, and geography. I can hardly navigate Nashville’s interstate system. My interest lies less in the quick engineering of roads and cities than in the paths that spring up slowly as passages of memory, more entrenched with every footfall. And now I’m sounding like Robert Macfarlane, whose book The Old Ways has gotten me down this road in the first place (pun earnestly intended). In this book, Macfarlane adventures down the many ancient paths that crisscross the British landscape and beyond, recording his travels and observations about how these paths came to be and what they mean. Let’s set the tone with some of his philosophizing. Paths are the habits of a landscape. They are acts of consensual making. It’s hard to create a footpath on your own. . . They relate places in a literal sense, and by extension they relate people. Macfarlane, p. 17 The literature of wayfaring is long, existing as poems, songs, stories, treatises and route guides, maps, novels and essays. . . A walk is only a step away from a story, and every path tells. Macfarlane, p. 18 As the pen rises from the page between words, so the walker’s feet rise and fall between paces, and as the deer continues to run as it bounds from the earth, and the dolphin continues to swim even as it leaps again and again from the sea, so writing and wayfaring are continuous activities, a running stitch, a persistence of the same seam or stream. Macfarlane, p. 105 Now, consider this simple definition of path that I offered earlier: “The ways that we follow to get from one place to another.” Following Macfarlane’s footsteps, allow yourself to imagine the meaning of place less concretely. With this expanded definition, can you think of some examples of paths that exist in realms untraversable by feet? Here are some observations I’ve made while thinking on this question: Aren’t stories like paths, made and remade in their telling and retelling? When I pick up an old favorite novel and reread, aren’t I retracing my steps and the steps of many others before me? How about songs? Or even melodies, for that matter? Take “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and imagine every note as another step. What is that beautiful melody but a beloved, well-trod path? How can we remember it but by singing it again? If the Lord's Prayer is a footpath, then there must be a massive tree at its entrance with names upon names etched on it—the names of saints and sinners, rulers and martyrs, priests and confessors throughout the ages. Drew Miller And maybe most compelling of all, prayers and liturgies. If the Lord’s Prayer is a footpath, then there must be a massive tree at its entrance with names upon names etched on it—the names of saints and sinners, rulers and martyrs, priests and confessors throughout the ages. And if each word is a foothold, then these words are nearly inextricable from the earth itself, fixtures that have become one with the landscape. How can we walk this path—thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven—without sensing, palpable in the air, the great company that has gone before us? We could go the scientific route, too. Our bodies follow familiar paths every day, like the path from waking to sleeping, from hunger to satiation, as well as the more sophisticated paths that we call “habits”—I write this at the conclusion of my morning coffee, for instance, which can claim no small amount of responsibility for this post. More subtle still are “neural pathways,” traveled by nerve impulses from neuron to neuron. Those can claim full responsibility! So maybe you can begin to see why I can’t stop seeing the world in terms of paths. Hopefully, I’ve passed this problem on to you, as well. And as long as I’m at it, I’ll pass along another problem: the disappearance of these paths. Ready for a massive overgeneralization? Every new piece of technology outsources our pathmaking. History’s trend is to pave our paths, reducing the cultural memory required of us to navigate the world. Here’s what I mean. Long, long, long ago, stories only existed in people’s memories. They were transmitted through the spoken word. With each retelling, the story both solidified in the memory of the teller and made its imprint on the memory of the listener. Then, long, long ago, we invented writing, and gone was the need to remember our stories in the same way. They were written down and preserved, word for word. And then, long ago, there came the printing press, allowing stories to be shared and circulated with even less expense of memory. You could replay a similar story in music, with the introduction of notation, then our ability to record and reproduce sound, and then, well, Spotify. Let me be clear: I am a huge fan of the written word. And the printing press, and recording studios, and (with some reservations) streaming services. Not all outsourcing of pathmaking is bad. My concern surfaces when we privilege sheer accessibility over sustained, shared knowledge. And I get the sense that our relentless quest for this accessibility has taken a toll on us, in the form of a sort of willful forgetfulness. If we want to replace the many winding paths from point A to point B with one straight, paved road, we will have to be willing to forget the accumulated memory of those paths. If we want to replace encyclopedias with quick Google searches, we will have to be willing to forget the slow, painstaking work of human knowledge. If we want to replace communities with consumer markets, we will have to be willing to forget that we belong to one another. I find it all too fitting that in describing such a leveled-out world, Wendell Berry uses the metaphor of severed paths in the search for home: . . . Nobody who wanted to go home would ever get there now, for every remembered place had been displaced; every love unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant to make way for the passage of the crowd of the individuated. . . Having never known where they were going, having never known where they came from. Berry, “The Objective” A dire picture indeed. The implicit question in such a dire picture is, “What is the way forward?” Two popular answers to that question are aggressively advertised to us on a daily basis. The first is to forge our own path. Forget the old ones—they were riddled with the many evils of injustice—and let’s start from scratch with our newly enlightened perspective. This answer isn’t entirely wrong. Any way forward must reckon with the failures of what lies behind. But we can’t do that reckoning by just obliterating the old. The second popular answer is to entirely forsake the new in order to reinstitute the treasures of the old. This option would have us believe that innovation is never to be trusted, it’s only ever safe to go where we have already gone, and the way forward is in fact backward. And the instinct behind this perspective isn’t entirely wrong, either. But it goes very wrong when it succumbs to untempered nostalgia, replaying the “halcyon days” at the expense of the present. In fact, in a strange twist of irony, all its zeal for remembering the past lands it in another kind of forgetfulness altogether—forgetfulness of the future, and consequently, forgetfulness of hope. The best answer I’ve found is at once under-publicized, mundane, and miraculous. You’re probably already doing it, but it always helps to remember what it is you’re doing and why. Tell stories. Sing songs. Cook and share meals with your friends. Remember and proclaim. The beautiful thing about these treasured paths is that they are made and re-made in the very act of walking, and Sara Groves is absolutely right that “the path is worn, but to us it’s new.” The miracle that happens in these mundane creative acts is that our lives are stitched back together even as we turn around to glimpse the potentiality of healing. Grace works that way, and it imbues our memories and imaginations just as much as our hearts and souls. With the very first faithful step down the path of a treasured story, we are making that story realer to ourselves and to one another. Is this not what we’re doing when we worship, partake of the sacraments, and practice communion itself? So go out and listen in the old for intimations of the new, and in the new for intimations of the old. Be open to surprise from any direction. Join your own voice in the resounding, inextricably woven, vast memory and anticipation of creation. Etch your name on the tree that marks the path.

Eric Peters has a talent for calling to lost and discarded things—as anyone who loves his music can attest. Turns out that gift extends beyond his skill as a songwriter. His photo collection in the recent re-publication of Far Side of the Sea: A Photographic Memory reflects twenty-five years’ worth of wandering and watching for fragments of civilization that the rest of the world has forgotten. Here, he gathers them like cast-off scraps and builds them into something new. Each photo is paired with a thoughtful vignette, often told from the viewpoint of the picture’s subject. Those who are familiar with Eric’s album Far Side of the Sea will find its songs woven through the words and photos, connecting them to a larger narrative. The book in turn expands the album, illuminating points of inspiration and adding to the contemplation behind the songs. In that way, it serves as a lovely companion piece—like world-building for a record. A personal favorite is the photo-essay pairing titled Gravity that calls to the song of the same name (alternately titled “Vincent In Reverse“). The picture looks over a pair of tombstones set against a wheat field, as the passage beside it muses on the life and legacy of Vincent van Gogh: Did he own any hope that his impasto heart, the thick swabs of Cobalt blue and confessional ochres, the gilt moons, the birds—my God, those crows!—and the many slants of light would one day shine into countless souls who would be just as much in need of that gravity and radiance? Eric Peters Eric Peters gathers lost and discarded things and builds them into something new. Shigé Clark Just as Eric does through song, this work draws attention to the unnoticed and seeks to give them story. It heralds the neglected and strives to imbue them with dignity and hope. The passage for Gravity begins, “I thought of him alone with his oils”—a beautiful encapsulation of the unique way in which the author approaches the world. Of course he did. Of course he walked by these nondescript headstones with their unexceptional backdrop and thought of Vincent van Gogh. Of course he stopped to take a picture and reflect on the intersection of despair, and legacy, and beauty, and hope. In one of my favorite fantasy series, there’s an order of knights who live by the ideals, “I will remember those who have been forgotten. I will listen to those who have been ignored.” I can’t help but think that Eric could be a proud member of this order—because these are exactly the ideals that this book inspires. It encourages the reader to stop and interact with the world in a deeper way. Take note of the seemingly unremarkable. See beauty in what others would call ugly. Find meaning in what would otherwise be ignored. And that’s a shift in perspective most of us could use—I know I could. Click here to check out Far Side of the Sea: A Photographic Memory in the Rabbit Room Store.

[Editor’s note: In case you didn’t know, Malcolm Guite has an excellent collection of poetry for the seasons of Lent and Easter—one poem for each day, including classics like Dante, contemporaries like Rowan Williams, and the work of Guite himself. The collection is called The Word in the Wilderness, and it makes an excellent companion to the Lenten season. To give you a taste, here’s a poem of Guite’s called “Dancing Through the Fire.”] Then stir my love in idleness to flame To find at last the free refining fire That guards the hidden garden whence I came. O do not kill, but quicken my desire, Better to spur me on that leave me cold. Not maimed I come to you, I come entire, Lit by the loves that warm, the lusts that scald, That you may prove the one, reprove the other, Though both have been the strength by which I scaled The steps so far to come where poets gather And sing such songs as love gives them to sing. I thank God for the ones who brought me hither And taught me by example how to bring The slow growth of a poem to fruition And let it be itself, a living thing, Taught me to trust the gifts of intuition And still to try the tautness of each line, Taught me to taste the grace of transformation And trace in dust the face of the divine, Taught me the truth, as poet and as Christian, That drawing water turns it into wine. Now I am drawn through their imagination To dare to dance with them into the fire, Harder than any grand renunciation, To bring to Christ the heart of my desire Just as it is in every imperfection, Surrendered to his bright refiner’s fire That love might have its death and resurrection. For more excellent poetry and observations throughout the season of Lent, check out The Word in the Wilderness in the Rabbit Room Store. Artwork Credit: Sky Fire by Georgiana Romanovna

It’s no secret that we at the Rabbit Room are huge fans of the BibleProject. Their work, in all its forms—immersive videos, fascinating podcast conversations, the Read Scripture book and app, and so much more—testifies to a remarkable integration of beauty, truth-telling, and infectiously playful wisdom. They just released a new video that knocks it out of the park. Every color, motif, and word is chosen with the utmost care, resulting in five minutes of densely-packed teaching that will clarify the way you see the symbolism of trees all throughout the Bible. One primary purpose of the Rabbit Room is to uphold and shamelessly geek out about deeply good, gospel-inspired creative work being done wherever we find it. So if you’re new to the BibleProject, consider this your introduction. And if this isn’t your first rodeo, consider supporting their work by donating or sharing with your friends—they are a completely crowdfunded animation studio. Visit the BibleProject website to learn more.

Every now and then, a book comes along that rings all your bells, shivers all your timbers, winds your clock, melts your face, shakes your foundations, and smacks you upside the head to remind you that stories are altogether a form of magic—and if that’s true, if stories are magic, Helena Sorensen might as well be Gandalf. The Door on Half-Bald Hill is just that kind of book. It’s mythic. It’s personal. It’s tender. It’s terrifying. It’s fantastical. It’s historical. It’s pagan. It’s prophetic. It’s meticulously grounded, and yet gloriously transcendent. What is this book, you ask. Rightly so. Steeped in the landscape and lore of an ancient Celtic people, the book imagines a world on the brink of an abyss as its people struggle to find hope in the face of destruction. They look to their leaders for answers, but the answers they hear are hopeless. They look to the past for guidance, but the salvations of the past are powerless in the shadow of the Crone. They are a people desperate for hope, and desperate for answers. Like the psalmist they lift up their eyes to the hills and ask “Where does my help come from?” Enter Idris, the young Bard of Blackthorn. The book is a portal into his odyssey of awakening and discovery. In the same way that luminous works like C. S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces and Mark Helprin’s A Winter’s Tale nearly defy description yet leave readers with the indelible impression that the author has moved Heaven and Earth to impart a glimpse at the mystery in the heart of the world, The Door on Half-Bald Hill charts a course all its own as it stretches boldly toward the universal and numinous. This tale is defined and mapped by the author’s crystalline voice and confidence as she beckons us on a quest, not for an answer, but for a question—a question that can alter the course of history and change the world forever. Helena first approached me with this story nearly four years ago, and it’s been a delight to watch the book grow and develop as she’s refined it. She’s an incredible writer and her powers are on full display here. She’s crafty, patient, and deliberate, and I’m in awe of the way she’s so carefully put this story together. Her encyclopedic knowledge of her source material and the elegance with which she unspools her endgame are wonders to behold, as are the tender, human touches with which she chisels out her characters and their struggles. The starkness and strangeness of the world of Tír Ársa and the mythological texture of the story convinced me that it was crying out for illustration, and that led me to Stephen Crotts. He’s done the wonderful cover work and interior drawings, and I’m delighted with the atmosphere they evoke. There’s something in his work that hearkens back to Doré’s etchings from Paradise Lost or the Divine Comedy, calling to mind tales ancient and primeval and signifying of eternal mysteries on the cusp of revelation. I’m so excited to get this book into the hands of readers so they can experience characters like Idris and Corann and Muriel and come to love them like I have. Helena has worked long and hard to give us something special, and it’s my great delight that Rabbit Room Press is able to present her gift to the world. Years in the making, it’s finally ready. May it wreck you and remake you in all the best ways. Click here to order and experience the story for yourself. The Door on Half-Bald Hill Paperback by Helena Sorensen coming Spring 2020 from Rabbit Room Press When the Bloodmoon rose, death came with it. Now the water is bitter, blight consumes everything, and the Crone haunts the hills. The Druid of Blackthorn searches desperately for hope, the Ovate of Blackthorn returns from the underworld bringing omens of despair, and Idris, the young Bard of Blackthorn, Keeper of the Sacred Word, will walk through fire and iron to uncover questions no one has ever dared to ask. But time is short. And the Bloodmoon is rising again.

Our March 3rd Local Show lineup is going to be a party. One big reason for that is the zanily skillful presence of Zach & Maggie, who will be making their Local Show debut. Allow us to introduce them to you. The music of Zach & Maggie is at once playful, captivating, and stealthily intelligent, drawing on the sounds of dusty accordions, fiddles, and mandolins in equal measure to traditional drums and bass in order to achieve endearing narrative songs. Once you start listening, you’ll find it hard to stop. Click here to purchase tickets to the next Local Show and here to peruse Zach & Maggie’s website.