Her head slouched to one side on the pillow, and her breath rattled through a slackened jaw. As I watched from the doorway, my hands plunged into the pockets of my white coat to hide their worrying, I wondered how many great-grandbabies she’d spoiled, how many Italian treats she sneaked into their sticky hands between stirs of marinara bubbling on her stove. I wondered about the people she’d loved and lost, the memories she cherished. And my stomach twisted as her daughter, whom the coronavirus had stranded hundreds of miles away, whispered goodbye over Zoom. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end. Grief abounds in the ICU, but those of us who work in its corridors still glimpse snippets of grace. When families realize that recovery lurks on a faraway continent, they paper a loved one’s room with photographs and drawings, and comments scrawled in black marker on poster board to say what a patient cannot: her favorite activities are golf and watching I Love Lucy reruns. He served in Korea, and his favorite color is green, like the Kentucky fields in the shadow of the Appalachians through which he ran as a boy. Each scribbling declares to those who enter that the person fighting for life in that room is more than a diagnosis, and more than a name. He or she has a story to tell, a story that matters, rich with color and joy, messiness and hilarity. As I stood in the doorway, the N95-mask clenching my face, my critical care fellow leaning over with her cell phone so our patient’s daughter could see her mother’s greasy hair and glazed eyes, the story felt backward. Life had pummeled this poor woman for nine decades, until her body finally heaved and gave way. She’d survived wars and the Great Depression, untold grief and heartbreak. Death was supposed to claim her quietly, padding in with the footfalls of a cat, while those she’d nurtured encircled her and sang hymns. Photographs should have surrounded her. Her marinara recipe, its secret ingredient known only to her daughter, should have perfumed her final moments with the scent of home. The ending, the finale to the real Story, is clear as daylight. And therein, we have hope. Katie Butler Instead, she gasped in a mechanized bed, with no picture, card, or crucifix to hint at her past. No one lingered at the bedside to remind her, through tears, of the thousands of moments, many awkward, some glittering, that knitted together into the weave of her life. The only link to her story came in a tinny whisper across a touch screen. Even when she breathed her last, pandemic restrictions against funerals would mute her story, silencing voices that would have otherwise reminisced about her laughter, her fiery temper, and that time a Johnny Carson joke made her throw a spoon at the wall. This pandemic, it seems, has wrenched us from our own stories. When we most need reminders of who we are—beloved, won through suffering, made new in Christ—the reel grinds to a halt, and the audience dwindles away. After that shift in the ICU, I crumbled into bed, and knew to my bones that we are all broken. I prayed, and dozed in and out of a restless sleep, clinging all the while to my patient’s image on that bed. In a primitive corner of my mind, I feared that forgetting would erase her story entirely. At mid-day, I shrugged off the cat who lay unconscious at the small of my back, and proceeded with homeschooling as usual. I made peanut butter and jelly for the kids. I continued our reading of Tolkien’s Return of the King as they munched. The longer we read, the longer the pauses unspooled between their bites of gummy sandwich. Would Frodo make it to Mount Doom? they wondered, leaning forward over their plates. Would Minas Tirith withstand the siege? Would Aragon finally claim his throne? Deep down, drawing from the well of all that’s true and lovely, they discerned the ending, although we’d never dived into the trilogy before this year. They knew good would overcome. The ring would burn up. The King would return. They knew this, because they knew that all good, true stories echo that one, greatest Story of all: the King come to earth, the evil undone, the world made new. They knew in their hearts that the best stories are “the refracted light through whom is splintered from a single White to many hues.” A few hours later I returned to the hospital, and entered an ICU filled to the brim with people on ventilators, people clinging to life within bare-walled rooms, people who struggled for survival without the comforting handhold of a spouse. I didn’t know the stories behind each hiss and sigh of the ventilator. No glimmers from their lives papered the rooms. With the coronavirus tightening its stranglehold on my patients, I couldn’t know the moments that infused their lives with meaning. And yet, the One who gave them life and breath and everything else (Acts 17:25) knew their stories. He knew these dear image bearers in my care (Gen. 1:26), from their first influx of air in the delivery room to their last breath drawn in a hospital bed (Ps. 139:13-16, Isa. 49:1). And the ending of his Story is perfect. It will never diverge or disappoint. It flows like a cool cup of living water, ushering us to eternal life. The King, the One who bore our burdens (Isa. 53:4), will return. The cursed ring will burn up. The middle of this coronavirus narrative is bloated and murky. But the ending, the finale to the real Story, is clear as daylight. And therein, we have hope.

Wherein Rebecca Reynolds kicks off the show with her poem “Welcome,” Don Chaffer reads The Wilderness Journal, and Drew Miller shares the first ever Word of Befuddlement: pleethe. The Wilderness Journal is a deeply touching, deeply funny account of the Exodus written by a scripturally fictitious character named Eli Ben-Ami. The story goes that after the Exodus—which he affectionately refers to as “The Great Escape”—Eli decides to keep a journal logging the journey of the Israelites through the wilderness and into the Promised Land, peppered with details from his own personal life. Over the course of the story, you may find that Eli becomes more and more real to you. He’s kind of a jokester, also a softie, and his story isn’t that much different from any of ours. Enjoy. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com. The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The first ever Word of Befuddlement is the verb “pleethe.” You can send in your very own definition of “pleethe” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E1: Welcome to the Wilderness.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original music by Zach & Maggie

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Vesper Stamper, illustrator and author of A Cloud of Outrageous Blue. In this episode, Jonathan and Vesper talk about how illustration became for Vesper a doorway into storytelling, what her research into the Middle Ages for her new book has taught her about plagues, and synesthesia as the beginning of metaphor. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 35 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

In An Experiment in Criticism, C. S. Lewis puts a finger on one of the things I love so much about Tolkien, though Lewis is not specifically talking about his good friend Tolkien’s stories. In the chapter “On Realisms,” Lewis distinguishes between what he calls “realism of presentation” and “realism of content.” Realism of presentation refers to those little concrete details that give the world of a story the textures that make it feel like the world God made. Realism of presentation, writes Lewis, “is the art of bringing something close to us, making it palpable and vivid, by sharply observed or sharply imagined detail.” Lewis lists several examples of realism of presentation, but my two favorite are the dragon in Beowulf “sniffing along the stone” and the fairy bakers in a French fairy tale rubbing the paste off their fingers. Neither of those examples are remotely “realistic” in the usual sense. Neither fairy bakers nor dragons exist in the real world. And yet those great little details—the dragon sniffing like a dog and the fairy bakers rubbing their fingers the way regular bakers do—make those fantastical worlds feel palpable and vivid. “Realism of content,” on the other hand, simply refers to whether or not a story concerns itself with the kinds of things that actually happen in the “real” world where we live and move and have our being. Fantasy and science-fiction stories are low on the “realism of content” scale, whereas police procedurals, family dramas, and Flannery O’Connor stories are higher. But the two scales operate entirely independently of one another. Some “realistic” stories lack the realism of presentation that makes their supposedly real worlds feel vivid and palpable. The best fantasy and science-fiction stories rank very high on the “realism of presentation” scale. One might suggest, in fact, that good fantasy writers work harder to make their stories “feel” real because they can’t fall back on realism of content. I don't believe in hobbits or wizards or goblins or dragons (except, of course, for alligators). But I believe The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Jonathan Rogers And, of course, plenty of “realistic” stories are strong on realism of presentation, and plenty of fantasy and science-fiction stories are dreadfully lacking in the concrete details and gestures that make a fictional world feel real. As I said, the two kinds of realism operate independently, neither opposing one another nor depending on one another. Lewis makes the case that there is plenty of great literature that doesn’t strive for realism of presentation. I don’t disagree with his assessment, but most of us aren’t writing great literature, so I recommend that you DO strive for realism of presentation, whether your stories are high or low on the scale of realism of content. All this reminds me of a quote you may have seen before, from a writer with the mellifluous (if somewhat truncated) name John Rogers: There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged [by Ayn Rand]. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs. —John Rogers (ahem—not Jonathan Rogers) Acolytes of Ayn Rand claim to be realists. But there is more than one kind of realism (and, now that I think about it, Ayn Rand’s stories don’t conform to any of them). I’ll give Lewis the last word on unrealistic realisms: “Adults are not deceived by science-fiction; they can be deceived by the stories in the women’s magazines.” Realism of content accounts for what I love so much about Tolkien’s stories. I don’t believe in hobbits or wizards or goblins or dragons (except, of course, for alligators). But I believe The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien convinces me that if there were a world with hobbits and goblins, that world would feel like this. This piece was originally shared in Jonathan’s weekly Habit Newsletter. If you’d like your own inbox to be graced with such insight—and with staggering frequency, at that—you can sign up for it by clicking here.

A man named Harlan Hubbard—a writer, a painter, a musician, a husband, and a lover of the good earth—once wrote: “It happened this morning that I left for wild, far off places.” Some 15 years ago, though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was myself setting out for a wild and far off place when I first read Wendell Berry’s novel, Jayber Crow. The place came in the form of a fictional town called Port William, and the wild in a cast of beloved characters. But as I’d learn as I explored the breadth and depth of Berry’s writing, his towns and people, his sentences and poems, were not the destination itself—but instead the path, a path that would lead me not from the world but deeper into it. Berry’s love of Port William (and by extension, his love of his actual home in Port Royal, Kentucky) would teach me to love my own places and my own people in deeper, truer ways. It happens in life that we often find ourselves in need of a guide, of someone to show us the wild and far-off facts that often lie right in our own backyards or back-woods or creeks or brothers or sisters or wives or husbands. Wendell Berry, I suspect, is no different from you or I in that regard. And though many of those who guided him may be unknown to us, I think perhaps Harlan Hubbard was one of them. It happens in life that we often find ourselves in need of a guide, of someone to show us the wild and far-off facts that often lie right in our own backyards or back-woods or creeks or brothers or sisters or wives or husbands. Pete Peterson He was a man of the generation before Berry, as Berry is of the generation before mine. Harlan loved the earth and was spellkept by it all his life. The industrial noise of engines and the callous grind of commerce frustrated him. He dreamed of an escape from them, and so in time he married Anna and together they left for wild, far off places upon a shanty boat on the Ohio river. They would make it as far as New Orleans before returning to the Kentucky hills to settle in Payne Hollow, a little piece of earth along the river they loved. There they lived out the remainder of their lives. They had no running water, no electricity, no modern conveniences, but their lives were full of wonder and music. She played piano and cello, he the violin. And their songs filled the Kentucky woods for 30 years. He also was a serious writer and a talented painter, and the subject of both his words and his art was the earth about him, the river, and the preservation of its beauty. It’s impossible to know the story of Anna and Harlan without seeing them as literary and ideological ancestors of Wendell Berry, as if in them we better understand the soil out of which Port William and its characters have grown. In fact, the cover of every one of Wendell Berry’s novels is adorned with one of Harlan’s paintings, like a watermark suggesting some underlying ownership or heritage. To say that without Harlan and Anna Hubbard we might have no Wendell Berry is to state the case too strongly. But certainly, I think, their lives have given greater depth and direction to Berry and his work, for as T. S. Eliot said, “No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.” And therefore to know Harlan and Anna Hubbard is to know Wendell Berry with more completeness than we have without them. Anna Hubbard died in 1986. Harlan followed her two years later in 1988. And in the wake of their lives and music and writing and painting and care for the goodness of the earth, it seems right that Wendell Berry would offer us his remembrance of them. That remembrance takes the form of a fifteen- minute, one-act play called Sonata at Payne Hollow. On October 11th, The Rabbit Room is proud to present a special staged reading of this unique piece of theater. Drawing talent from Nashville’s rich theater community, we aim to create, in the space of just a few short minutes on stage, something that captures the timelessness of Berry’s words and also of Harlan & Anna’s lives. During our online event, Hutchmoot: Homebound, join us down at the riverbank for Wendell Berry’s Sonata at Payne Hollow.

Wherein Malcolm Guite reads his “Quarantine Quatrains” poetry collection, Andrew Roycroft reads his “Grace Triptych,” and Drew Miller shares the fourth Word of Befuddlement: spoothe. Malcolm has spent his quarantine in Cambridge, England, while Andrew has been hunkering down in Millisle, Northern Ireland. Both Malcolm and Andrew reference the idea of “distance,” of a “gap” that has stranded us from one another—yet at the same time, what they are offering us is precisely their voices, their breath, and in a way, their presence. Malcolm Guite’s “Quarantine Quatrains” first appeared on the blog in June of this year, while Andrew Roycroft’s “Grace Triptych” was published on the blog less than a month ago. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com. The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The fourth Word of Befuddlement, shared in today’s episode, is the verb “spoothe.” You can send in your very own definition of “spoothe” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E4: Pandemic Poetry.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “O’er Furrow and Field” by Ron Block “Fresh Pair of Eyes” and “Colorbloods” by Brooke Waggoner “Overlook” by Roary “Observance” by Adam Bokesch

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Marilyn McEntyre, author of Speaking Peace in a Climate of Conflict. In this episode, Jonathan and Marilyn talk about the rich etymological depth of the word “conversation” and its connection to “dwelling with,” the lost art of visiting, the transactional nature of conversation in a capitalist world, poetry’s abiding danger to the status quo, and the recovery of metaphor. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 38 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. 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’ve never been set up on a date, but I can imagine such an occasion creates quite a bit of pressure. After weeks of your friend telling you, “I think you two will really hit it off; I can’t believe you haven’t met already,” there’s a heightened sense of anxiety for things to go right. And if they don’t, it’s probably your fault. You don’t want to disappoint your matchmaker friend, so you reluctantly agree to meet. At this point, however, there’s no possible way expectations can be met, right? This is how I feel when someone tells me I’ve been missing out on one of their favorite musical artists. To that end, I’ve avoided Chicagoan alternative rock group Wilco almost entirely following multiple conversations that have gone, “WHAT?! You haven’t heard Wilco??” No, sir. And your enthusiasm has only further ensured I can’t possibly listen to Wilco and enjoy it to the extent you want me to. But nonetheless, the time finally came this week, and I went on a first date with Wilco. Considering all the buildup to this auspicious occasion, I thought it proper to set the mood. I opened the windows to the cool fall breeze, lit some candles, and poured the last of my Amador Double Barrel bourbon before allowing Wilco’s 1995 debut record A.M. to flood my ears. “WAIT,” I can hear Wilco fans objecting. “You’re supposed to listen to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot or Summerteeth first!” Yeah, yeah. I get it. But one, this is Quarter Notes and those records weren’t released 25 years ago, and two, I like to start at the beginning when possible. So I listened through Wilco’s debut, and to be sure, their faux-southern charm and tongue-in-cheek country leanings were engaging. A.M. is beautifully easy to listen to. However, three days later, I remember hardly anything about that album. Nothing grabbed me as something I must listen to. Nothing lived up to my friends’ certainty that we’re a perfect, compatible match. Nothing made me feel like going on a second date. Maybe this is because I really do need to listen to their supposed best work (the aforementioned Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Summerteeth), and A.M. is truly a mediocre-to-good record. However, I was struck by a larger realization that I’ve been contemplating over the last few days. Expectations are everything when it comes to engaging with art. Enjoy the artist and their work for what it is, then do the critical work of evaluation and defining the relationship once you’ve given them a fair shot. Chris Thiessen Consider another musical “first date” I had recently. Despite releasing their first record over 30 years ago, I had never before listened to Ohio lo-fi, indie rock legends Guided By Voices. I had never specifically been told I should do so, besides various articles and things I had seen about them. So with no expectations attached, I grabbed a beer and played Rocket League while taking in their 1995 album Alien Lanes for the first time. I had an absolute blast. The unpolished budgetlessness of the record combined with excellent musical hooks made me feel like I was listening to scratch demos for the Beatles’ White Album. (That’s high praise; don’t let me oversell the record, ha!) So here’s my dilemma: I may truly enjoy Guided By Voices more than Wilco, at least on the first impression. However, my expectations for the two listening experiences were entirely different. My bar was set quite low for the former and impossibly high for the latter. I think in order to be a good listener and enthusiast of music, I need to carry an equal level of expectation to each artist and each work I engage with. This won’t always be possible, but the disparity of personal feelings and expectations we hold toward different artists and works of art must be recognized and addressed, like any bias in our lives. Love doesn’t often happen at first sight, neither will an artist often change your life with the first impression. These things are OK. It’s OK to lower your expectations when listening to a certain artist for the first time. Just grab a beer and enjoy listening. Enjoy the artist and their work for what it is, then do the critical work of evaluation and defining the relationship once you’ve given them a fair shot. It often takes living with an artist for some time for their music to reveal itself to you and truly feel like a part of your life. So temper those expectations. Don’t hope for every new listen to be The One that changes everything. As for Wilco, this is me apologizing for my unfairness with first impressions. Call me back. I’d like to go on that second date. Click here to listen to A.M. on Spotify, and here to listen on Apple Music. This post originally appeared on Chris Thiessen’s weekly newsletter, Quarter Notes. Click here to learn more and subscribe.

Many of you will remember Joshua Luke Smith from his participation in Hutchmoot 2019 and Hutchmoot UK. He’s a UK-based singer-songwriter and the founder of Orphan No More, a kindred organization that works to build community among artists in Bath, England. We’ve gotten to know him over the last few years and we want you to have that opportunity as well—and having seen what he’s got in store for everyone at Hutchmoot: Homebound, we have no doubt that he’s going to make a good impression.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Barnabas Piper, author of Hoping for Happiness: Turning Life’s Most Elusive Feeling into Lasting Reality. In this episode, Jonathan and Barnabas talk about the unrealistic expectations that artists can sometimes project onto their craft, how much easier it is to write while sad than while happy, and the distinction between hope and optimism. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 39 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Jonathan has a new online writing course that starts on October 13th called “Writing with Feechies,” in which he will walk through the writing process for his first book, The Bark of the Bog Owl. Click here to learn more and to register. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

First published in the Dublin Review in January 1945 and later in his collection Tree and Leaf (which also included the essay “On Fairy Stories”), Tolkien’s account of a curmudgeonly but kind-hearted painter and his unfinished masterpiece is a perfect companion to our own unique creative journeys. It’s also a perfect story for us to read together as we think more deeply about the role of creativity within our Christian communities. Hosted by Jennifer Trafton, the Rabbit Room Reading Group is providing a space for contemplation and conversation as we prepare our hearts and imaginations for Hutchmoot, culminating in Matthew Dickerson’s lecture and Zoom Q & A on Saturday the 10th. Join anytime—the materials and discussion forum are now available and will stay open indefinitely. Click here to join the Leaf by Niggle Reading Group! Want to attend Hutchmoot, while you’re at it? Click here to join. Oh, and as long as you’re here, we’ve got an extra surprise—in March 2021, a book of essays entitled J. R. R. Tolkien and the Arts: A Theology of Subcreation will release through our friends at Square Halo Press. This collection of essays will look into the life and writings of Tolkien to learn how to apply his ideas to the arts. Featuring Ned Bustard, Matthew Clark, Matthew Dickerson, Billie Jarvis Freeman, John Hendrix, Bryan Mead, Christine Perrin, Bethany Ross, Charlie Starr, Jennifer Trafton, Donald Williams, and a foreword by Devin Brown. Click here to pre-order J. R. R. Tolkien and the Arts: A Theology of Subcreation in the Rabbit Room Store. Below is an excerpt from Jennifer Trafton’s essay on “Leaf by Niggle:” Here is someone who understands me. I’m right in the muddled middle of the journey too. Jennifer Trafton The night before his short story “Leaf by Niggle” fell upon him in a flood of inspiration, Tolkien had reached a point in the writing of The Lord of the Rings that is painfully familiar to any writer of fiction: the muddled middle. Beginnings carry the thrill of invention and possibility; endings are exhausting yet triumphant; but in between, there is a long and often harrowing journey filled with imaginative dead ends, plot threads that meander, and characters who seem to have wills of their own—not to mention the ever-present demons of procrastination, self-doubt, and despair. What began as a simple sequel to The Hobbit had quickly burgeoned into something far greater, and the prospect of finishing this ever-growing behemoth of a story was beginning to seem so far off as to be impossible (in fact, it would take him 12 years). Tolkien was feeling inadequate, overwhelmed, fearful that it would never be finished and that all the years of effort would be wasted, and—regarding the specific fate of this little band of hobbits who had just stumbled into a mysterious stranger at the inn in Bree—completely stuck. From the perspective of a scholar or fan of Tolkien’s work, those little biographical details illuminate both the genesis and content of his story in fascinating ways. But for a fellow storyteller or any other kind of an artist, they can evoke another reaction: a sense of vindication, camaraderie, and profound encouragement. I understand how he felt. Or maybe more importantly: here is someone who understands me. I’m right in the muddled middle of the journey too. Which is why “Leaf by Niggle” is something of a miracle—and, above all, a gift to artists. As a writer of fiction, a visual artist, and a teacher/mentor of young writers and artists, I have collected a kind of “library of encouragement” over the years—works that inspire and challenge me as an artist, and which I circulate amongst others who are pursuing a creative calling. These include classics like Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water, and Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life, as well as fiction that works in us at a more visceral, intuitive level—Chaim Potok’s novel My Name is Asher Lev, Stephen Sondheim’s Pulitzer-Prize winning musical Sunday in the Park with George, and the Danish movie Babette’s Feast. Right at the top of my list of recommendations to artists of any kind, and the one I talk the most about, is “Leaf by Niggle”—but rarely do I attempt any theological introduction before simply thrusting it into their hands to experience for themselves. Because as tempting as it is to leap immediately to Niggle’s themes and symbolism and to deduce from it something about Tolkien’s View of Creativity, it is, first and foremost, a story, not a thesis. And as the story of an artist’s journey, it functions beautifully as a companion on our own. Click here to join the Leaf by Niggle Reading Group. And click here to pre-order J. R. R. Tolkien and the Arts: A Theology of Subcreation in the Rabbit Room Store.

Carly Bannister is making her first-ever full length record, and best of all, she’s inviting her listeners to make it happen via Kickstarter. Let’s get this album fully funded! Bannister’s songwriting is at once witty, searching, and disarming—she conveys dense, complex emotions through fresh and singable melodies, resulting in songs both weighty and weightless. She’s made several appearances at Local Shows and, in the words of Kacey Musgraves, she never fails to leave us “smiling with tears in our eyes.” It’s not often that you can say this of a songwriter, but truly: you’ll laugh and you’ll cry. Here’s her profile on Spotify, where you can listen to a few of her songs:

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Russell Moore, President of the Ethics & Religious Liberty Commission and author of The Courage to Stand: Facing Your Fear without Losing Your Soul. In this episode, Jonathan and Dr. Moore talk about the various ways that fear presents itself to the writer, the self-sabotage of chasing relevance, the temptation to write our own life stories, and the timeless danger of trying to be no more than who your audience wants you to be. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 40 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Jonathan has a new online writing course that starts on October 13th called “Writing with Feechies,” in which he will walk through the writing process for his first book, The Bark of the Bog Owl. Click here to learn more and to register. Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Discernment takes practice. It’s a lifelong process of listening and looking, sensing and sitting, taking risks and taking breaths. And our ability to perceive, in healthy ways, when to move and when to stay is the difference between being overcoming or being overcome by the Resistance. Ever since her acclaimed debut, Heal for the Honey, released in 2008, Brooke Waggoner has been known for her substantive work. From her considerable work with Jack White to numerous TV/movie placements to playing ACL and Lollapalooza, Brooke has enough credits to move the meter, but it’s her imaginative, ambitious work that has moved listeners so deeply over the years. Yet despite the success and the acclaim for yet another album, Sweven (2016), Brooke decided she needed a break. The industry’s demands could wait. Family was taking shape. Home was calling. The creative plates stopped spinning—at least those we were used to seeing. This episode of the Resistance features an honest conversation with Brooke about the tension of when to stop and start, when to move forward and how to let go. There are no right answers, but there are meaningful questions asked. Click here to listen to this newest episode of The Resistance. And here to learn more about The Resistance Podcast.

Wherein Chris Slaten reads his poems “Conversation,” “The Right Time,” and “All Saints’ Day,” Russ Ramsey reads his piece “Beech Grove,” and Drew Miller shares the sixth Word of Befuddlement: grumpple. First published in Volume 2 of The Molehill, “Beech Grove” is a tale that proceeds at the pace of Port William, charting the parallel landscapes of a small Indiana town and of a young boy’s inner life. You’ll learn about Russ’s introduction to the feeling of guilt, his larger-than-life grandfather, and our simultaneous ability to be deeply known and deeply unknown by those closest to us. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com. The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The sixth Word of Befuddlement, shared in today’s episode, is the noun “grumpple.” You can send in your very own definition of “grumpple” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E6: Beech Grove.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “Under the Stars” by Analog Heart “Highlands” by Kyle McEvoy “Overlook (Ambient Mix)” by Roary “By the Grave” by Anton Belov “The Twilit Vale / The Quiet Longing” by Ron Block “Family” by Greg Thomas

Dear Mabel, You gave me a gift before I learned how to talk, much less how to write a proper thank-you. A $25 savings bond, invested at the time of my birth, to mature sometime in my early adulthood. It matured, and so have I, and now this 30 year-old has $150 to spend. You left no instructions about how to spend this money. Instead, you placed blind trust in an infant you barely knew, that some day she would use your investment well. But then again, I guess your trust wasn’t entirely blind. After all, you invested much more than $25 into that baby girl. You raised my grandmother, who nurtured my mother, who married my father. And by the time the seeds of your love reached me, it was lavish and extravagant. Your love compounded like interest. I bet you knew it would. But back to the matter at hand. How to spend it? You left no instructions, but did you have dreams? Did you want it to make me happy? Comfortable? Did you want me to use it for something responsible? Whimsical? Did you want me reinvest it for later? Did you want me to give it away? Or did you simply want to be a part of my adult life, a part of my own dreams, whatever they turned out to be? Is there anything so profound that could do all those things? Groceries. I think I’ll buy groceries. Lactase I think you’d love the man I married. Christian is kind and funny and gentle and good. Unfortunately, he’s also lactose intolerant, but don’t worry, there’s pills for that now. I know that your dairy farmer blood runs in my veins. Rest assured, we only eat cheddar if it’s sharp, and I promise we’ll never use margarine. Cucumbers I’ll get some from my farmers market on Saturday to make pickles. My mom found a letter addressed to my other great grandmother from my great great grandmother tucked into the pages of an old family Bible. The letter was in answer to the question, “how do I make pickles,” and the response was meandering and approximate with very little concrete instruction. I love it. She cooked like me. I don’t really like pickles, but I’m a sucker for nostalgia and kitchen improv. So, I need some cucumbers. Pecans Your daughter made pecan caramel Christmas candy to give away every year, and I picked up the tradition a couple years ago. Turns out your side of the family writes charmingly vague recipes, too. But I figured it out, and last year, I made a big batch. Christian and I rode around our new town giving candy out to strangers. It was well received and hopefully not as creepy as that just made it sound. We’ll do it again this year. I’ll make the candy in early December (close to your daughter’s birthday), but I’ll buy the pecans now and put them in the freezer. I’ll see if I can get them from The Peach Truck. Eggs It’s almost September 22nd. I’m not sure if you know this, but that’s Bilbo and Frodo Baggins’s birthday. My new coworkers definitely know that. I just started working for a place called the Rabbit Room. It’s lovely and good and very difficult to describe, but suffice it to say that I feel the need to bake something for them as an elevenses meal on September 22nd. If we wanted to, we could eat it next to a fireplace that used to belong to J. R. R. Tolkien. I’ll get the eggs from an orchard down the road. And while I’m there, I’ll probably spend a couple more dollars on a frozen cider slushie. Coffee and tea Your daughter was a coffee addict, and your granddaughter has a bit of a tea obsession. You may be pleased to know that I’m addicted to both. I’m low on coffee, so I’ll run by E&B roasters in town on the way to my mama’s porch this afternoon. We’ll have tea when I get there and solve the world’s problems. We might need two cups each. There are several world problems at the moment. My sister may swing by while I’m there. She lives right down the road. We’ll see my parents off before they head to Paris. Oh that reminds me, I need some Cheese My Mama and Daddy will have been married for 40 years on Sunday. They had considered running off to Europe to celebrate, but then the world shut down (temporarily, I think), so now they’re adorably going to picnic in Paris…TN. It’s a small town, but I still doubt their visit will make the paper like it did when my Daddy used to come visit you and hunt on your farm. I wonder if Oh My Chives has any of that good sheep’s milk cheese I could give them. I should check. ? That’s about all I can think of, and it’s already more than I need. But there’s still about $75 left. Over the time it’s taken the bond and me to mature to this point, I’ve come to realize that I’ve been extravagantly invested in, in every imaginable way. Because of your vision and generosity, I’ve enjoyed much more than you started with, and I’ve still got plenty to share. So that’s what I’ll do with the rest. I’ll invest in and nourish someone else who maybe doesn’t have the generations of support that I have. I love my life, and I’m glad you’re a part of it. Thanks for the gift. Your affectionate great-granddaughter, Rachel Y Matar [Editor’s note: You may have seen under Rachel’s entry for “Eggs” that she recently began working for the Rabbit Room. She’s been shipping store orders, and before that, she generously volunteered during the Mystery Moot Kit-packing process. If you received a Moot Kit for Hutchmoot: Homebound, there’s about a 96% chance that Rachel played an instrumental role in getting it to your doorstep. So, welcome to the Rabbit Room, Rachel. We’re already so grateful for the investment you’ve put in us.]

As our collaborative Doxology’s final “Amen” rang out in North Wind Manor, I looked around and saw that my tears were shared by everyone else in the room. 185 voices from around the world: a harmony achieved miraculously in isolation, joining defiantly in that perpetual song from the dawn of all Creation (“praise God, from whom all blessings flow”) at the end of a long weekend, at the twilight of a very long year—I guess it just did us in. And in that “amen,” I swear that I heard God whisper, “Look at what we made together.” That is one of the most absolutely astonishing things about the Creator of the world. He involves us. Not condescendingly, just to make us feel special, and not co-dependently, as if it’s all up to us. But genuinely. He’s made us with voices because he delights in our voices, because of the over-abundance of his love, which would find no satisfaction until there was an earth, until there was sunlight, until there was language, until there was an electromagnetic spectrum, until there was. From the very beginning of Hutchmoot, we’ve never set out with an overarching theme in mind. It’s not something we want to impose on fifty speakers and hundreds of attendees. And yet, invariably, a uniting theme emerges of its own accord, clear as day and necessary as a cold drink of water. This year, this conference seemed to declare, loud and clear: “It takes all of us.” 2020 has been a year of profound loneliness and isolation. Gratitude—a rich soil that, when cared for properly, sustains abiding joy—has been threatened by despair’s erosion. The rain has kept falling. I don’t know about you, but at least for me, that was the backdrop as we headed into this Hutchmoot: Homebound weekend. I’ve lived much of this year in desperate need of something like a shot in the arm of sheer camaraderie—the sense of making something worthwhile and lasting together, something that could not be what it is without each person’s unique story. Something like…well, something like Inkmoot. Something like our collaborative Doxology. Something like eating the same storied meal as thousands of others around the world, even if not at the same table. This year, we conceded a physical table to the coronavirus. But in return, we got a figurative table with seats for more than 3,000 people. Friends, Hutchmoot: Homebound hosted ten times the amount of attendees as a normal Hutchmoot. Put another way, more guests attended Hutchmoot: Homebound than each of the eleven other Hutchmoots since 2010—combined. Let me say that again: this year’s Hutchmoot managed to make room at the table for the attendees of every other Hutchmoot ever and then some. Gathering physically is irreplaceable. We missed you dearly this year. We missed those physical tables, we missed those long discussions in the hallway, and we missed the embodied dimension of an event that is, at its heart, all about what Andrew so eloquently described Saturday night as “the thrill of incarnation.” That loss is incalculable. And—at Hutchmoot: Homebound, we were able to mourn that loss together, with you. Wendell Berry writes that “the impeded stream is the one that sings.” Well, broken as our song may be this year, it sure is beautiful and true. Which leads me back to that most astonishing invitation that we at the Rabbit Room believe God is always extending towards us—”Look at what we made together. It would have been impossible without you.” Isn’t it a joy to give sixpence back to our Father, though he’s “none the richer” for our offering? Isn’t it so crucial that we share that “chasm of need” that “binds us together in faith and vulnerability”? It is just such a binding as this which sets us homeward. And so we are deeply, unspeakably grateful that it takes all of us. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Pssst—Shigé’s poem, “Grateful,” begins at 14:45. I am grateful. Darkness pulls at the edge of my cloak, and I am grateful to stand in the smoke. I am able to laugh as I choke under scorched skies. Milky eyes leave streaks through dust tracks on my cheeks, ash rains down around me in the streets, Father, the world is on fire. I raise my hands higher in the flames, I am more than dust, and rust, and pain. I am grateful for the strain of music running through the veins of earth. For the birth of new joy in a hurricane of woes. For those who raise their horns to split the night asunder. For thorns shoved into willing brows and the thunder of hooves on battle plains. For those who bow under the weight and laugh beside me. For the dark that could not hide me, and the dawn that always rises in the east. For the feast to come, that’s starting here with table scraps of grace and the light of shattered gold on every face. Every trace of truth, it matters and it breaks into the battered body like a song. I am wrecked, and sore, and long to rest. But more, and more, and more, and best, I am grateful. —“Grateful,” Shigé Clark Every year, we invite you in the comments section to share about your experience of Hutchmoot: Homebound. What themes did you feel emerge throughout the weekend? What observations did you make as you attended sessions and Zoom discussions, sang songs and ate meals? We would love to hear from you.

Another great songwriter is setting her hands to a new project, and we have the honor of sharing one of the songs with you here, exclusively on the blog. Teressa Mahoney is making an album called Disillusions—she’s teaming up with Lori Chaffer (of Waterdeep) to do it, and what they’ve made so far is striking and true. Teressa uses songs to tell stories, and the overarching story of Disillusions is one of skin-shedding, major life change, and spiritual deconstruction: both the crisis that is often at the heart of these monumental turning points and the rebirth that emerges from the rubble. In her Kickstarter video, Teressa shares her hope that this album would take the hand of those walking through such painful moments and simply say, “You are not alone.” All the songs sound pristine, but one of them really stopped us in our tracks. It’s not a lead single of a song—it’s more of a heavy-hitting ballad. “Emma” tells the story of someone who has endured abuse in a religious environment and is left to sort through what is true and what isn’t. This song shows a depth of craft in both Teressa’s songwriting and in Lori’s production that is truly a gift, and we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to share it with you. Here are a few words from Teressa about its backstory: When I was a child, I had a friend who was abused. I knew something was wrong because the kids were all taken out of the home, but my parents shielded me from the specifics. Many years later, my friend wrote a memoir about her childhood. When I read it, I was struck by how very stuck she was. Her family was complicit in the abuse, and her father was a prominent member of their church, which made it nearly impossible for her to reach out to anyone there. I kept thinking about how when we grow up, we tend to think of our own experience as normal and how, within that context, sometimes wrong things can seem right. It can take a lot to wake us up and get us to question whether there might be a different way of existing. In the journey to health, the importance of questioning cannot be overstated. —Teressa Mahoney “Emma” She said, “He hurt me with his hands” And all her colors turned to gray She was too young to understand And she loved him anyway She said his guilt had never shown Singing hymns or saying grace She kept his secret like it was her own And he kept a smile on his face The smoke and the mirrors are blinding Yeah, it’s all part of the show Something inside her is fighting Is this not love? She said, “They wounded me with words” The glass was stained, the light was scattered They said, “Love forgives all hurts” As if the hurting never mattered The smoke and the mirrors are blinding Yeah, it’s all part of the show Something inside her is finding This is not love This is not, this is not not love She says, “I can’t stay here in decay Walk around mostly dead all day I see now that this was never okay And now I can see that their power Is waning by the hour I can’t stay this kind of crazy” The smoke and the mirrors are blinding But the cracks have started to show She says, “I don’t know what I do believe, But I know what I don’t”

Wherein Shigé Clark reads her poems “The Origin of Wind” and “Love Is This,” Andrew Peterson reads “The Integrated Imagination” from his book Adorning the Dark, Drew Miller shares this week’s Word of Befuddlement (“spudgeon”), and we receive a special visit from Drew of the Future. First published in Volume 1 of The Molehill, “The Integrated Imagination” follows Andrew’s journey from his self-conscious love of fantasy literature as a kid to the redemption of that love as a worthy site of engagement with the gospel. Words of Befuddlement Words of Befuddlement is a special Molehill Podcast segment inspired by games like Dictionary and Balderdash. In fact, it’s no different, except that the word in question doesn’t exist anywhere other than in the notorious mind of Pete Peterson (so don’t go looking for it in a dictionary). Each week, Drew Miller (host of The Molehill Podcast) will share a new Word of Befuddlement and ask you to send in your very own definition to drew@rabbitroom.com. The following week, he will read some of the definitions he received and reveal the “correct” definition as determined by Pete. The seventh Word of Befuddlement, shared in today’s episode, is the verb “spudgeon.” You can send in your very own definition of “spudgeon” to Drew, and he might just read it on next week’s show. And who knows? You may even guess correctly. Click here to listen to “S1 E7: The Integrated Imagination.” And click here to subscribe on Apple Podcasts and here to subscribe on Spotify. Transcripts are available for The Molehill Podcast. Click here to view them. Artwork by the inimitable Stephen Crotts Words of Befuddlement graphic by Mindy Cook Original Molehill Podcast theme music by Zach & Maggie Other music featured in this episode: “Donne’s Passage” by Ron Block

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with music industry legend Brown Bannister. Jonathan Rogers talks with music industry legend Brown Bannister about the difference between “Here I am” and “There you are” personalities, the similarities between producing a record and teaching students, and how Brown has stayed away from cynicism over his long career. Click here to listen to Season 2, Episode 41 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. 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 so grateful for the opportunity to announce Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Death, Grief, and Hope by Doug McKelvey. Pre-orders are now open and shipments will begin in February 2021. Here’s what you can expect in this new volume. Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Death, Grief, and Hope is a book of liturgies for seasons of dying and grieving—liturgies such as “A Liturgy for the Scattering of Ashes,” “A Liturgy for the Loss of a Spouse,” or “A Liturgy for the Wake of a National Tragedy.” These are ways of reminding us that our lives are shot through with sacred purpose and eternal hopes even when—especially when—suffering and pain threaten to overwhelm us. With this new volume, you will find: A beautiful leather-bound hardcover with gilded edges Over 100 liturgies Illustrations by Ned Bustard A silk bookmark Examples of the kinds of liturgies inside include: For Caregivers in Need of Rest For the Living of Last Things For Releasing Ambitions & Embracing Christ Seeking Amendment & Reconciliation To Stir Courage in a Child Facing Death For Those Who Will Gather to Grieve For Me A Lesson We May Learn from Death For Moments When Dying Feels Unfair For the Forgiving of Unintended Wounds Click here to pre-order Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2 in the Rabbit Room Store. Below is a video from Hutchmoot: Homebound in which Joshua Luke Smith reads aloud “A Prayer of Intercession Against the Kingdom of Death” from Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2.

There’s no way to make this more palatable: friction is essential to creativity. That doesn’t stop us, of course, from trying to find a hundred ways around or away from it, but in the end, if we desire to create then we must face and feel the friction. All of it. We must face our fears. We must take a vulnerable step. We must enter the unknown. Our latest episode of The Resistance features acclaimed singer-songwriter William Fitzsimmons, an artist who has learned the connective value from allowing friction to do its work. William is well known for his vulnerable, honest approach to the craft—sometimes painfully so—from his debut in 2006 to his latest album, Ready the Astronaut. William’s substantive songs are personal chronicles of heartbreak and hope, love and loss, doubt and despair. On the eve of Ready the Astronaut’s release, we sat down with William to discuss his relationship with Resistance, how it’s changed in his 20 years as a songwriter, and whether it ever gets easier to stand still. Click here to listen to this newest episode of The Resistance. And here to learn more about The Resistance Podcast.

The only thing better than reading C. S. Lewis’s novels would be listening to Lewis himself read from his novels. It is now possible to hear Lewis reading from both Perelandra (1943) and That Hideous Strength (1945). Additionally, Lewis fans can listen to him reading the famous opening section of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in resonant Middle English. The Marion E. Wade Center, in partnership with the Rabbit Room, is releasing all three segments of “The Lost Lewis Tapes” to the public. Excerpts of the tapes, along with in-depth analysis of the Ransom trilogy, are available for free on the Wade Center Podcast. All three segments (45 minutes in total) are now available in the Rabbit Room Store. C. S. Lewis at his desk in the Kilns. Photo taken by Bill Gresham in August 1960, during the same visit in which Bill recorded these tapes! These tracks were first recorded at Lewis’s home, the Kilns, in August 1960. After Joy Davidman Lewis passed away in July 1960, her former husband, Bill Gresham, traveled to Oxford to see his two sons, David, 16, and Douglas, 14, as well as to meet Lewis face to face. Gresham brought a portable tape recorder with him and apparently asked Lewis if he would do some readings. Lewis chose to read nearly all of Chapter 3 in Perelandra for 27 minutes, narrating in detail the scene in which Ransom first arrives on the sea-swaddled world of Venus. The next reading is nearly 9 minutes long and comes from Chapter 13, section 1, in That Hideous Strength. This is the scene in which the newly-awakened Merlin interrogates Ransom about his credentials, ultimately kneeling before the man he recognizes as the Pendragon, the one person who has the authority to carry the secrets of Logres (the spiritual dimension of Britain) into the modern world. Photo of the 5 inch, EMI reel-to-reel tape containing the recordings of Lewis’s voice by Bill Gresham. Photo taken by Wade Archivist, Laura Schmidt. The third segment features Lewis declaiming the General Prologue to Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales in impeccable Middle English for over 8 minutes. He may be reading the text, but then again he may be reciting. (Both Lewis and Tolkien had near-photographic memories, and Tolkien is known, on at least one occasion, to dress up in Chaucerian garb and recite “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale,” again in Middle English, from memory.) The original source for these audio files is a 5-inch reel-to-reel tape stored in the in the archives of the Marion E. Wade Center in Wheaton, Illinois. This tape came to the Wade Center in 1982, purchased from Bill Gresham’s widow, Renee. Dr. Lyle Dorsett, a professor of history at the University of Colorado, interviewed Renee when he was writing his concise biography of Joy Davidman Lewis, And God Came In (1983). Dr. Dorsett arranged for the Wade Center to purchase some of Bill Gresham’s papers, including this vintage audiotape. (Dr. Dorsett served as Director of the Wade Center from 1983-1990.) The files on old-school magnetic tape are a delight to listen to, though clearly homemade. Lewis has a mesmerizing voice, reading in a confident, steady tempo with just enough dramatic flair to fit each sentence of his prose. The Perelandra segment begins “This is from chapter three of Perelandra, Ransom’s arrival on the planet Venus.” Lewis reads the chapter from his classic fantasy novel with a spell-binding bass voice in what Americans think of as “the Oxford accent,” but with a few hints of an Irish brogue. The audio segments seem to have been recorded with little or no editing. Lewis occasionally coughs or clears his throat during the reading, and at one point we can hear a fly buzzing around the room. At another point, we hear heavy steps ascending creaky stairs, which Douglas Gresham guesses was Warren Lewis heading upstairs to bed. How vividly these small background noises evoke the whole world of the Kilns in Lewis’s later years. What more can we ask than to hear Lewis’s inimitable prose read in his own inimitable voice? David Downing One can’t help but wonder how Lewis chose the sections of the Ransom trilogy he decided to read on tape. In the first segment, Ransom plunges through the radiant atmosphere of Venus, feels his coffin-like spacecraft melt around him, and encounters a world of golden skies, massive waves, sweet-water seas, and floating islands. Though these early scenes contain many hints that Ransom has landed in an unspoiled planet, he himself—from a violent, fallen world—is full of doubts and anxieties. Only at the end of the chapter does Ransom begin to wonder if he has indeed found a mythical paradise that has been drawing him with cords of longing since his childhood. Lewis’s immediate audience for this impromptu reading seems to have been his 14-year-old stepson, Douglas Gresham, and Douglas’s father, Bill. Lewis may have wanted to choose a sample that was a lively, stand-alone chapter, needing little exposition. He may have also wanted to enthrall both of his listeners in the room with an imaginative immersion into Joy, the yearning for some lost paradise that is also a pleasure to feel. In the second excerpt, the conversation between Merlin and Ransom in That Hideous Strength, Lewis seems to have found another good stand-alone scene. This is the moment when the newly awakened Merlin questions the injured Ransom about his credentials for carrying on spiritual warfare on planet Earth. Eventually, the haughty and skeptical magician from King Arthur’s day humbly kneels before the seated Ransom, acknowledging him as the Lord’s anointed in the upcoming battle with the forces of evil. Of course, one can never know why Lewis chose these passages to read or how they were received by his immediate listeners. Whatever their immediate effects, these recordings are likely to become an ongoing source of edification and delight for listeners more than a half a century later. What more can we ask than to hear Lewis’s inimitable prose read in his own inimitable voice? Click here to download the Lost Lewis Tapes from the Rabbit Room Store. And click here to listen to the Lost Lewis Tapes on Apple Podcasts and here to listen on Spotify.

Several years ago, Arthur Alligood set his dreams aside. After a decade of trying to provide for a family as a touring singer-songwriter, Alligood came off the road for good and decided to pursue a new career—one that allowed for a consistent paycheck and presence at home. It was the necessary choice, but with it came a sort of death—a personal loss that required grief and time and reorientation. When Arthur recently launched his Kickstarter campaign for a new album, Better Late Than Never, it represented more than just an emerging set of songs. It marked the beginning of something new, a season in which Arthur felt the freedom to pursue making music on the other side of great personal change. I asked Arthur to tell me more about his journey back to recording and the emotions that accompany a willingness to dream once again. It’s wonderful to see you back here, but at one point I know you set music aside. Can you take us into that decision first? In 2012, I put out One Silver Needle, an album made possible by winning the 2011 Mountain Stage NewSong songwriting contest. I put that album out and there was a bit of touring behind it, but very quickly out of that, I knew I was moving into a new realm of life, based on what I was going through personally with a divorce and all. I guess “timid” is the word. I went from being on the road to going back to school and got a job teaching. It was a totally different way of living. Carrying that to today, I got my Masters and have continued to teach. Music has always been a thing that, during this time, was always there as a way to process life. But it was nothing I was looking to do vocationally. I’m still not there, but the music’s not done with me. I still have things to say. I feel like incrementally, over these last 10 years, I’ve realized how important music is to me. It’s not just me in a bedroom recording my songs, but I feel like I have, for lack of a better term, something bigger to say and I want the records to reflect that. What was your first impulse that music was coming back around again? I just realized that I’ve never been able to shake songwriting. I’ve never been able to stop writing songs. I’ve always written songs and they pile up on my phone in voice memos. At some point you ask, “Why is this impulse always with me to do this?” There are a million things I’ve started in my life that, after six months, have faded away. [Laughs] Why is songwriting a thing that’s always been there? I can’t let go of it. The logical conclusion for me is that I’m supposed to write songs. I’m supposed to do that. It wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t supposed to be a part of my life. So I’ve had a lot of little moments where I’ve realized it’s core to who I am, so of course I should be writing songs. I've never been able to shake songwriting. I've never been able to stop writing songs. Arthur Alligood Did that feel like the responsible thing to do, to try to set that aside? I had to come to grips that I could not provide for my family by being on the road as a singer-songwriter at that time. I just could not do it. It felt like giving up on a dream for sure, but it also felt like the pivot that maybe I should have made all along instead of trying to put all my eggs in that basket. It made me realize that music was a part of my life, but it doesn’t have to be like everyone else, like how I provide for my family. It can still be important. I can still make thoughtful music and put it out into the world, but unless the stars align and opportunities come, I can do it in a way that fits with my life and the core things that are also important to me. Could you share about that shift from realizing music was still important to actually making a new record? During quarantine, just as a writing exercise, I thought if I made a rock record, what would it sound like? What were the songs I’d bring to the table if I lost some of those Americana tones and went for the general pop/rock thing? It was just for fun during the pandemic, and that’s where the idea for the album came. Then Mikal [Blue] reached out on Instagram about possibly working together one day. That gave me enough strength to dream about music. I realized that I’d not dreamed up any projects or albums. I used to dream about making records, but I hadn’t done so in a long time. So that writing exercise was how all of this started. You brought up Mikal and I know you also have a great team of players. Can you introduce them to us? Mikal Blue is going to produce and he’s known for his work with Colbie Caillat. His career was kind of made on her success. He did her first record for free years ago and really developed her as an artist. Dean Dinning is the bassist for Toad the Wet Sprocket and Josh Daubin is the drummer for Toad. They both work with Mikal closely on other projects and they’re working together on the new Toad album. They’ve been brought in. Then we’ve got Michael Ward, who has played with John Hiatt and The Wallflowers. He played on One Silver Needle in 2012, so I know him and he’s a great electric guitarist. Then there’s a handful of others who will come in. What are your emotions as you step back into all of this? It’s real exciting and it’s scary for sure. But the scary part is more about the Kickstarter and putting yourself out there in that way. The last time I did a Kickstarter was 2010, so I haven’t done a bunch of crowdfunding before. This is my first official big one. It’s scary to put yourself out there and all the work put into it. But with the music, that’s where I’m comfortable. I’m the most excited to get out there and start working because I love how Mikal works. We get along really well. He lets me be me. There’s no dumb idea, and we’re able to chase down the songs and have fun in the process. So I’m over the moon about recording. Thematically, what weaves together the songs you chose for the new album? It’s me reaching out for hope in this time. They’re all pulled straight from my life. I’ve been writing for 20 years, but I finally wrote my first legit love song. My wife got sick during this time, and it just came out. Generally, it’s looking for light in all the darkness, but it’s also way more lighthearted than I’ve ever been. I gave myself challenges to do things I’d never done. There’s a couple guy-girl duets on the record. The songs are very accessible but definitely still my writing and who I am. They came from my heart. I’m just really excited and I hope that comes through in all I’m saying.

The world is darker now than Melanie Penn could have ever predicted. When Melanie decided to once again partner with producer Ben Shive to put together another set of pop songs, there was no sheltering-in-place or such social upheaval. Sure, decency was draining and tribes were fracturing, but the bottoming-out of 2020 had yet to arrive. So while Melanie undoubtedly held out hopes that her unabashedly optimistic new album would wrap an arm around the listener, she’d no idea just how many of us would appreciate the sentiments within. More Alive, Vol. 1 stays true to its name as a buoyant release in every way. Musically, these are radio-ready, synth-lite pop songs that conjure comparisons to Katie Herzig‘s lighter work or even Ellie Holcomb. Thematically, Melanie has pulled back the curtains to allow in as much sunlight as possible. These are heartening songs intended to meet the listener grappling with death and despair in any form in order to comfort and strengthen. “You’re Not Absent” reaches out to the desolate listener longing for a meaningful connection. “Avenue of the Americas” pays tribute to the electricity of a city like New York, but it’s also a lifeline for the weary listener whose grip is slipping on a long-held dream. The album’s title track speaks life to the aging listener who has lost a vision for the days ahead. “One Word” clears some room for the confused listener to hear anew the promises of God’s faithfulness. If those encouragements fail to land, “He Will Redeem It All” provides an inclusive banner for all situations in which we find ourselves. “Every sigh of sorrow will be turned into a song … Every tear will disappear in the light of that dawn,” Melanie sings. In short, there’s no corner where the darkness will ultimately remain. It’s all fleeting. It all disappears. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says, “Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” Though we find ourselves immersed in the former, especially so in a year like this, Melanie Penn’s More Alive, Vol. 1 is a reassuring companion of these true words even in the face of circumstances that say otherwise. Click here to listen to More Alive, Vol. 1 on Spotify and here to listen on Apple Music. #MelaniePenn