I just realized that today’s the birthday of one of my favorite living poets, former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins. I’ve often called him the gateway drug for poetry, because his work manages to be just as accessible as it is profound, convincing even the skeptical (like I was) that modern poetry could be amazing. His poems do so well what I think C.S. Lewis’s books do with theology: they take big, beautiful ideas and tether them to earth so the rest of us down here actually stand a chance to grasp them and thereby broaden our minds and hearts. His poems are kind, and, I would argue, even loving to the reader, deftly mixing humor and human nature and transcendent themes in a way that I’ve never encountered before. He’s a master. If you want a primer, here’s a video of Billy reading some of his great ones. One of the high points in my career was getting to do a writer’s round with him one night at an event in Nashville, and I was talked into the very risky prospect of not merely reading one of my meager poems in front of him, but one I wrote about him after spotting him at the airport on a layover. After my reading (which embarrassed him somewhat) he very graciously leaned over to me and said, “I like that you wrote about my buttocks.” True story. I thought I’d share my poem here. It was published in The Molehill, Volume I. Cheers, Billy. I’m glad you do what you do. BILLY COLLINS AT THE AIRPORT By Andrew Peterson You looked as much like Mr. Collins As you ought to have: bright eyed, With a minuscule smile, as if you knew Something the rest of us could only know If you put it down in a ten-line poem. You were putting on your suit coat After having been undressed And x-rayed by the security offcers, Who I’m sure had no idea what You were really smuggling, Unaware that they were patting down The thighs and buttocks of a poet laureate Searching all the wrong sensitive areas With their bright blue latex gloves. They couldn’t imagine that they were, In that moment, merely metaphors For some wry, lovely, dangerous thought– Something about windows, or fruit, Or maybe something even worse.

For the last few years, The Trinity Forum has been enriching Nashville through “evening conversations” with some of the most engaging thinkers and speakers I’ve ever heard, including painter Mako Fujimura, poet Dana Gioia, Lincoln biographer Ron White, and mathematician John Lennox (who attended C. S. Lewis’s last lectures at Cambridge!). On Thursday, March 30, The Trinity Forum will host another evening conversation with John Inazu, a Professor of Law and Religion and Professor of Political Science at Washington University in Saint Louis. He will speak on “Confident Pluralism in a Turbulent Age.” To quote from the Trinity Forum’s website, “During this Evening Conversation, Dr. Inazu will examine the state of religious freedom and challenges to pluralism in our polarized age. He will offer ways of learning to live with our deep differences over politics, race, religion, sexuality, and other important matters, by strengthening constitutional commitments that protect difference and dissent, and by embodying civic practices in our speech, action, and relationships.” Registration is $10 and includes excellent hors d’oeuvres at a pre-event reception. These evenings are a lot of fun. If you’re in Middle Tennessee, I commend this event to you. For more information and to register, click here.

My wife Gina and I don’t watch television, so we rarely hear about any film that is not your typical blockbuster. So, when we decided on an impromptu movie at a local dollar theater last night, it was to our surprise that the theater was packed to the gills for a movie called Lion. The film was inspired by the life of Saroo (Brierley), a 5-year-old boy from a small village in India, who finds himself separated from his older brother Guddu and trapped on a train headed thousands of miles from home. Stranded in Kolkata, he fights to survive starvation, language barriers, and even child trafficking, eventually being adopted by a wonderful husband and wife in far-away Australia. Years later, Saroo, in his late ’20s, is desperate to find his birth mother and brother and put closure to the wounds of separation, and with the aid of Google Earth, that becomes a real possibility. I was instantly sucked into this story. Some directors might have catered to English-speaking audiences by choosing to narrate the scenes from Saroo’s childhood, or to even show all of those events in flashback, narrated by an adult Saroo in a film focused on the grown man as the main character. About 30 minutes into the story of this young boy, I found myself guessing that we would be cutting away to present day soon. But I finally realized that the director cared more about what we were watching than to reduce it to segmented memories. The story is patient, patient in ways that films like The Black Stallion are. I can remember, during my only viewing of The Passion, the feeling of being thrust into a story and forcibly prodded along behind Jesus through his trials. I had no choice but to follow behind him and take part in the events that ensued. This film also thrusts you into the story. The lands and cultures are unfamiliar to most of us, but they are breathtakingly beautiful. The cinematography is direct and intimate and revealing, yet full of mystery. As Saroo finds himself lost in Kolkata, even he cannot understand the languages being spoken to him, and we too feel lost and vulnerable. It doesn’t hurt the film at all that the young boy playing Saroo is one of the most adorable and believable child actors I’ve ever seen. He makes you want to reach into his world and scoop him up and save him. There are beautiful messages of family bonds, both by blood and by adoption, and wonderful scenes depicting love and kindness where vocabulary is absent. It’s woven together like good fiction, but made even more powerful by the knowledge that it is not. And though I now know the theater was packed with moviegoers come to see an Oscar-nominated hit, for Gina and I, unaware as we were, this was the refreshing and deeply moving sleeper we had hoped for.

This is but one of the legends of which the people speak… It had been four years since the last real Zelda game (A Link Between Worlds) and six years since the last full console Zelda game (Skyward Sword). I was eager to return to Hyrule. My body was ready. And Nintendo knew what they were doing—they whetted my appetite for four years, releasing preview images and extensive gameplay videos. Sprawling and open-world, this was going to be something new, unlike any Zelda game before. I devoured it all, preparing for something exciting and different—and finally, Breath of the Wild arrived! And then I cooked virtual food. There are a thousand things to do in The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, but this one is so simple that it doesn’t even qualify as a mini-game. Here’s how it works: when Link is near a campfire, open your inventory and pick your ingredients. The peppers you picked from that bush, for example, or the poultry you purchased from that trader. Or maybe the Hyrule Bass from when you grabbed that fish right out of the water like a boss. Cook them over the fire and see what new dish or elixir is now in your inventory, and what health and abilities it supplies when you eat it. I don’t know why such a simple game mechanic is so satisfying to me, but collecting ingredients and preparing these culinary power-ups takes up a good bit of my gameplay. I’m going somewhere with this. Hutchmoot 2016 included a great session about originality and “stealing like an artist.” Chris Yokel summed up his part of the session here. Here’s my brief, paraphrased recap: instead of trying to develop a unique artistic voice, immerse yourself in the art that you love. Over time, your voice will develop as a fresh but familiar creation informed by, expanding on, and remixing those influences. But Link’s adventure is helping me see how that idea holds true not only for creators but for individual stories as well. Because as different as this game is, there’s something astonishingly… familiar about it. The Legend of Zelda has always embraced the remix concept. Every Zelda game includes a version of the classic “hero’s journey” (itself a remix concept), with the young but determined Link and the noble Princess Zelda in a battle against evil (often in the form of Gannon). Along the way, Link rides his steed, Epona, to Kakariko Village and the Great Fairy Fountain. He trades with Beedle and discovers the Triforce. All of these elements would be familiar enough, but they are mixed with gameplay and storytelling that explores the earliest Nintendo games and the most recent console and PC games. This is a series getting back to its roots, and the original Legend of Zelda game (1986) was a wilder, less structured animal. Trying to emulate that early format in a new generation brings Zelda into the territory of recent open-world games like Skyrim and The Witcher 3, and I’ve heard comparisons to Minecraft as well. Plus, this is by far the Zelda game that feels most influenced by Japanese culture… and is this just me, or do the shrines feel a little like lightweight Portal levels? This is a game with a lot of texture. Storytelling experts often instruct me to hone in on the heart of what my stories are about. Marketing experts have taught me to find concise pitch-lines to describe my stories. They’re not wrong, but I have sometimes limited myself by being shortsighted in my pursuit of those things. Breath of the Wild is not about one thing. It’s a dish. You can call a dish by it’s name—Spicy Meat and Seafood Fry—but to get there, you need all the ingredients, like meat and peppers. And the great thing about a dish—or a video game—is that the combination makes it more than the sum of its parts. In my own storytelling, I’m taking the time to collect a lot of ingredients and test some recipes, because I want my next story to be as textured and complex and delicious as Breath of the Wild. I also want to hear what you think. Are there dangers to complexity? How do your favorite stories combine their ingredients in unique ways? And what are your favorite parts of Breath of the Wild, or of the Zelda series in general? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

For years, I’ve struggled with spiritual disciplines. Growing up evangelical, of course I’ve always known about the need for “quiet time,” but other than that, I don’t recall a whole lot of direction for how to actually accomplish this mysterious and vital thing. I’ve tried devotionals, apps, picking a random book of the Bible to read through, and dipping in and out of the Book of Common Prayer or the Psalter. I’ve felt guilty for not being enough of a morning person, and guilty for falling asleep at evening prayer. But this year, finally, I found something that works for me. Maybe I’d dare say it’s changed my life? If you haven’t heard of Sacred Ordinary Days, well then, let me introduce you to a tool that has helped change my daily rhythms for the better. It may sound like an exaggeration, but after four months using their weekly planner, I finally get how to prioritize spiritual practice in the middle of everyday life. It has an elegant, open-ended design and incorporates the liturgical calendar, weekly Sabbath and examen pages, limited priority lists, Lectionary readings, and a good bit of unlabeled space to write. A few ways this planner has helped me… Reading through the Lectionary gives guidance to my Bible reading. I didn’t grow up with the Lectionary in my spiritual vocabulary, but I’ve found that small passages from the Old Testament, Psalms, New Testament, and Gospels, in sync with the Christian calendar and churches all over the world, has opened me up to a whole new way of reading.  Now I see surprising connections between passages and the cohesion of story, poetry, and doctrine, making the familiar feel brand new. Short, repeated readings encourage lectio divina. The ancient practice of sitting with and praying through Scripture feels much more natural when you’re only reading a few short sections over and over for a week. Sometimes I find myself lingering on a story, a verse, a word, and it’s beautiful. (Bonus for busy people: you don’t need an hour every morning to do this. Even a short read-through can be enough.) Limited writing space helps me see what matters. You can’t make a huge to-do list when you only have three priority slots. And you can’t journal for pages and run down a rabbit trail when there are only a few lines of space per day. I use the journal space to write insights from the readings or note important moments of the day. You might use it for something else. The Sabbath page is one big blank space! Again, highlighting what matters. A visual reminder to rest. It makes an excellent space for sermon notes too. I’m keeping a record of my spiritual life. All the struggles, the goodness, the changes, the beauties of ordinary days. I’m looking forward to revisiting the story of this year when Advent comes around again. And yes, you can bet I’ll have a fresh, blank planner ready for the new year. If this sounds helpful but you aren’t sure yet, take a little time to explore their website, download a free preview, and check out the current sale. Now that the year is well underway, you can get a great deal on all current planners, maybe even pick up an Academic edition and try it out for these last few months of the school year. And if you’re already a fan, I’d love to hear how you use yours!

Besides being a student at La Muncha Elementary School, Henry Penwhistle is an artist and a knight-errant. Henry and the Chalk Dragon, Jennifer Trafton’s brilliant new novel for young readers (and anyone who has ever been a young reader), demonstrates just how much the artist shares in common with the knight-errant. Both artists and knights-errant have to face their fears every day. They have to buckle on the armor and sally forth into the world to pursue a calling. Henry’s armor is a raincoat he has covered with tinfoil; in the inner lining he has scrawled various rules of chivalry, lest he forget: Be brave. Fight for the right. Don’t feed girls to dragons. That last rule proves to be especially important when a jungle-green dragon enters Henry’s life and begins to wreak havoc. The dragon starts out life as a piece of art work—a large chalk drawing that Henry has drawn on his bedroom door. But as great art tends to do, the dragon takes on a life of its own, beyond the control of the artist. When Henry’s Chalk Dragon comes off the door and into the three-dimensional world where Henry lives and moves and has his being, all hell breaks loose at La Muncha Elementary, heretofore the Safest Elementary School in the County. The power of Henry’s artistic gift terrifies him. He tries to get his dragon under control, but there’s no putting that genie back in the bottle—or, in Jennifer’s much fresher image, “it was like squishing the white fluffy explosion of popcorn back into the kernel again. The Art was out, and it would not go back in.” That kind of inventiveness and verbal energy, by the way, is everywhere in this book. Jennifer’s exuberance is child-like without being childish or talking down to children. The Chalk Dragon has chosen an inconvenient time to hitchhike to school in Henry’s lunchbox (it is a shape-shifting dragon, so it can do that). It’s National Vegetable Week—a celebration that is duller than it sounds—and Miss Pimpernel’s class is working hard to finish their group project to commemorate the week: a cardboard box covered with identical bunnies munching identical lettuces, all cut from the same pattern and colored with the same crayons. Quite apart from the dragon trouble, Henry struggles with what you might call artistic differences. When he tries to trace his bunny’s ears, his crayon turns the bunny ears into a space helmet. When he tries to draw the fluffy bunny tail, all he can see is jet flames shooting out from behind. The Chalk Dragon, in other words, is but one expression of Henry’s inconvenient inability to conform. Henry is surrounded by adults who try to make him conform—adults who value safety and stability (and all of whom, it turns out, have their own history of youthful exuberance). When Henry is hauled into Prinicipal Bunk’s office, he gets a speech on the importance of taming his imagination: Do you know what tame means, Henry? It means under control. Think of it as the opposite of a lion—something safe enough to keep in your house and pet between the ears, like a kitten—or a bunny! Imagination is a wild animal, like an alligator, or a shark, or a polar bear. And do you know what the problem with wild animals is, Henry? They make messes! So untidy. So unpredictable. You must keep that imagination of yours on a leash at all times. But Principal Bunk doesn’t know the half of it: by the end of the day, Henry’s imagination, embodied in the jungle-green dragon lurking the halls of La Muncha, will utterly wreck the Safest Elementary School in the County. In a good way. Perhaps more interesting than the outside pressures faced by Henry the schoolboy-artist-knight are the inward pressures. He lives in a constant battle between his imaginative exuberance and his fear. On the inside he is a dragon-master, but on the outside he is still a little boy who finds it hard to navigate a world that doesn’t understand him. Dragons aren’t scary—well, they are, but they’re a good kind of scary. They’re the kind of scary you want to be scared of. People are the bad kind of scary, he thought. Dragons can only eat you, but people can laugh at you, and that is like being chewed to death by a smile. “Be brave,” the inner lining of Henry’s armor tells him, and as his tumultuous day progresses, he gets braver and braver. He has the help of his best friend Oscar (“If life were a drinking straw, Oscar would be the paper wrapper soaring off the end”) and his new friend Jade, a bard who chronicles his quest in clever spontaneous verse. He also has the help of a bus driver-philosopher who names him (“Henry, you are a talented artist”) and protects him from the philistines who torment him on the bus. By the end of the day, our artist discovers that great art requires not only bravery, but also kindness and community. As we say at the Rabbit Room, community nourishes art and art nourishes community. Henry’s bus driver-mentor puts it best: All you can do is make the best thing you can, and love it as hard as you can, and let it go loose in the world, and watch what happens…Henry, let your imagination be as wild as the spinning universe. Let it be beautiful and adventurous and even terrifying. Let it go free. Don’t be afraid. But remember that art does things you don’t expect. Remember that it can hurt people, but remember that it can make them happy as well. Remember that it can break things and stomp on things sometimes, and that’s where chivalry comes in—the good knight in your heart. What kind of art is that good knight brave enough to make? Yes and amen. One of the most remarkable things about Henry and the Chalk Dragon is that it is addressing the very same, very difficult questions as books like Bayles and Orlund’s Art and Fear or Stephen Pressman’s The War of Art, but in ways that are accessible to a child. This book, like those other books, gives me courage and makes me want to sit down and make something. Henry and the Chalk Dragon is an act of bravery and kindness on Jennifer Trafton’s part. May it go forth and wreak havoc.

When you write a book it becomes somehow precious to you. Precious in the way that a child is precious. Kind of. Okay, not quite that precious. Still, your story is a creation you’ve lovingly incubated for months (or years), a thing you’ve painfully labored to bring into the world. It represents a huge investment of time, care, prayer, thought, emotion, hope, and fear. You’ve battled hard against doubts and gravities both internal and external, suffering as many defeats as victories before taking this final hill at last, before triumphantly clutching this finished manuscript to your chest in a rush of wonder and disbelief. And then comes that trembling moment when you hand it off to an illustrator. It feels as if you are voluntarily giving your new baby into foster care. Kind of. Okay, not quite that heartrending. But still, there’s the lingering fear that this thing you love might get dropped on it’s head. So when one deposits one’s story in the ink-stained arms of an illustrator whose own distinct vision will now be brought to bear—ultimately leaving an indelible imprint on every reader’s experience of the book—one makes such an exchange with a very sober and a very real trepidation, aware that this situation could easily go very wrong. When it came to my first book, The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog, I had decided several years ago that if I were ever in a position to put it back in print, I wanted to change a few things. Mainly, I wanted it to include several interior illustrations this time around, and also for the cover painting to have an entirely new feel and approach. Some two decades ago, for the book’s inaugural printing, illustrator Ian Schoenherr took a straightforward, realistic approach. It was a well-rendered painting and many readers remain quite fond of that image for its old-school, adventure-tale rusticism (Russ Ramsey and Sara Masarik, you know who you are). I’ll likewise always have a sentimental attachment to that original cover, but this time around I wanted a quite different image that hinted at other nuances of the tale. The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog is a frontier fantasy story of a journey through flood and miracle. It is a story of the coexistence of love and loss, of sorrow and hope. I had always imagined a cover illustration that suggested the spiritual struggle at the heart of the book, with maybe a visual nod to iconic images of the saints of old, and oh, by the way, I wanted it to somehow feel slightly fantastic and aesthetically current as well. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it? I mulled the work of several artists for more than a year, before settling on Zach Franzen. I didn’t pick him because of his Green Ember notoriety—though what he’s done with S. D. Smith’s book series certainly gave me confidence that he was an accomplished illustrator. Rather, when I enlisted Zach’s talents it was almost exclusively based on his nordic-inspired painting Freya. I saw something in the style, in the slightly elongated lines he used to create the human subject, in the colors and the landscape and sky as well, that hinted at a blending of something iconic with something fantasy-rimmed. Even so, it took me the better part of a year to bring myself to the point of actually posting the downpayment and setting the collaboration in motion. In these matters, I tend to move slowly. I did not think I could afford, either financially or emotionally, to have this particular story baby dropped on its head at this stage of the game. The stakes were too high. If the illustrations came back as a somehow uninspired or misinterpreted visual translation of the story, I would be stuck, without funds to hire another artist in the forseeable future, and probably without the stomach for it anyway. At that point I would likely have just relicensed the original cover image, and sadly reprinted with no interior illustrations. So I was nervous. And fearful. But somehow, I mustered the courage to deposit my book baby on Zach Franzen’s doorstep. Ah, Zach. Mighty brush-wielding benefactor and lord protector of innocent stories. My timid trust, as it turns out, was well placed. Zach proved himself mercifully adept at nurturing a tender tale. He swaddled my little story in cloths of brilliant colors and returned it to me beautifully enhanced and utterly unharmed. I could breathe again. So why did this collaboration work? And more broadly, what makes the difference in any successful artistic collaboration versus those that fail? Undoubtedly there are many nuanced factors that might come into play, but I’m convinced it’s mostly about the ability, and the simple willingness, of the collaborator to enter into a creation that is not their own, and to find a way to translate it into a new language that is their own. Which is maybe the same as to say that you actually have to bring your full self to the project. And to do that, you actually have to care about the original piece. You have to foster a deep connection to it. You have to crawl inside it emotionally. You have to go to that daunting and dangerous place where you are actually risking something creatively, rather than just coasting on the rote mechanics of your craft, phoning in something that’s passable (but that doesn’t add any new layer of richness to the original vision). At the end of the day, it can’t just be about collecting your paycheck. The task of the artist is always to deepen the mystery. George Orwell In this case, Zach clearly absorbed the soul of The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog and sensitively and masterfully translated it into visual language. There was an initial level of trepidation on my part as Zach gently steered me away from the scene I envisioned for the cover, and towards a simpler, more elegant, and more poetic approach. But his instincts were correct. And after a couple of rounds of back and forth sketches and comments, I was convinced that his approach was actually truer to my vision for the book than my own notions had been. I signed off on the concept and Zach went to work, rendering the cover painting more brilliantly than I could have imagined it, capturing the girl’s vulnerability and fierce courage in a composition that suggests hagiography but that also feels somehow retro-modern and contemporary. But the interior drawings, which Franzen only recently completed, turned out to be objects of beauty in their own rights.
 As an author, one always secretly hopes in these situations that the artist will not settle for merely illustrating the text, but will instead set out to make the project their own, moving beyond mere competence and into the realm of deep creation, yielding that visual poetry that has its own interior substrata of symbolic meaning. And in the common parlance, Zach nailed it. By way of example, take a look at the final interior illustration Zach created for The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog. In this singular—and at first glance somewhat simple—image, Franzen inexplicably captures for us the movement and feel of the entire book; he suggests it in the contrasting postures and expressions of father and daughter, of the grief and the hope, in the insinuation of farewells and in the sense of the rush of movement forward into the days yet to come. In these things he lays before us the soul of what was written. But he doesn’t stop there. He expands on the theme, bringing his own symbolic language to the work. Pay special attention to the design of the train window casing. Pay special attention to the birds on wing. Those are his own creations, never mentioned in the text. And yet, what Zach is getting at by placing them there—father, daughter and birds within the frame of a train window that looks like it might also be a stained glass church window—what he is getting at there is a rendering of the whole beating heart of the story. It is the mysterious presence of the divine and of grace somehow manifest in our hard journeys. It is the baptism of our suffering, made more powerful by a sublimated symbolism. Franzen’s art is, in his own words, a way of seeking to practice “hospitality.” It is about laboring to create something that will be of benefit to the recipient. It is about “displaying the beauty of truth.” It is about creating a good space to welcome others in to, where they might be nourished and cared for. This is the reason I love collaboration and return to it even though there are times when it doesn’t turn out. It is because other people can see things I cannot. They can translate into languages I can read but cannot write. They can add new layers of their own mysterious making so that a thing I’ve conceived becomes more than what it was when it was in my hands alone; more beautiful, more wonderful, more truthful, more hospitable. The task of the artist, George Orwell stated, is always to deepen the mystery. Amen and amen. In all of our collaborations, let us always be reaching for that. Let us always be bringing our full selves into our shared works. This is, after all, a collaborative venture from beginning to end; this life, this building of the kingdom, this attempt to establish a colony of heaven on the remote outpost of earth. We are all collaborators in the truest, largest sense, laboring collectively in the service of the same eternal vision, in the service of the redemption of all things. Each of us shepherds our own distinct vision of how to pursue that goal, and each of us are forever dependent on our co-laborers if we are ever to bring such visions to fruition. And that larger collaboration, I think, is the context in which we should always be working through our smaller creative collaborations. [The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog is available for pre-order in the Rabbit Room Store.] #collaboration #creativity #DougMcKelvey #TheAngel #ZachFranzen #McKelvey #Franzen

When I was a kid, I was repeatedly told I could do anything I set my mind to accomplish. This led me to try things bigger than I would have attempted if I hadn’t believed it. In some things I succeeded, in others…I heard the other message, the one that hurt to hear, the one that swept aside the defense of “I tried my best.” I was told my best wasn’t good enough. That stuck with me. It started small, as I still tried to accomplish big things in my 20s. I made a movie, I wrote novels, I pursued my dream of filmmaking. I found a new group of friends and we made things together. I pushed my limits and learned a lot. But the dream I had of being a successful filmmaker hit a brick wall. Repeatedly. I spent years fearful that in an effort of trying to perfect my movie, I had missed the bus and nobody would care by the time I actually finished it. Turns out some fears are based in reality. I shouldn’t say “nobody” was interested in it because I don’t want to belittle the support I have been shown. But, I’m pretty certain we spent more on bottled water for the set than we netted for the first year of release. Not being able to justify the financial decision to produce another feature film, I turned to novel writing. Turns out I can move about as many copies per book as it costs to produce the following book. So, at least that pays for itself and isn’t a financial burden on my family. Really, it’s a hobby that I fancy as a lifestyle. Let’s put that aside and I’ll come back to it in a minute. Honesty in portraiture. Recently I had my portrait taken by Jeremy Cowart. I had been feeling a bit down about the state of creative affairs, and I wanted to make a statement that I was back in and ready to return to fictionsmithing (a word I made up because I found fictionsmith.com hadn’t been taken and I felt pretty clever). I brought props. I wore goggles. I wore my typewriter bracelet that had the letters spelling “Don’t give up.” I postured. I saluted. The front that I put up was captured in most of the photos. But there was one photo I don’t remember being taken. It felt real. Photo by Jeremy Cowart I look tired. I look like I’m questioning whether or not I should keep up with this identity. I look like I put too much faith in my fountain pen, or maybe myself. If I posted this on social media, I feel like it could easily come off as “Aren’t I a moody creative-type?” sort of posturing. But it was an honest moment. Of the thousands of hours I’ve spent pursuing something I felt called to do, I find difficulty in justifying the time spent continuing to pursue it. This morning my 3-year-old, unprompted, said, “Daddy, you’re my hero.” It about broke me. No, it did break me. She didn’t say that because I wrote books or made movies. I’ve just spent time with her. My wife offers a similar vantage point. She doesn’t love me because of what I create, which is a mercy and would create a need for me to continue to make things. Thankfully, that’s not what love is. Frankly, I’m a bit crushed from what happened after spending nine years of my life on a project. It’s hard to be motivated to keep telling stories. I plan to finish The Elsewhere Knight since I can’t leave 2/3rds of a trilogy published, but after that I may need to take some pressure off of myself to be a clever person with a self-appointed witty title and see how that feels. A silver (grey?) lining. Don’t get me wrong, many good things came from making greyscale. The friendships built and the jobs that came from having a proof of concept for what I had learned from spending years in the trenches have benefitted me and my family. It’s just hard to justify that to everyone who joined up with me with the hope that the film would be successful. Part of the reason I spent so long on it was to make sure the end product had the best shot of succeeding, to honor (and pay) people for all of their hard work. I think that’s a major source of the frustration with the end result of the film itself. While there were many struggles and setbacks once the movie wrapped, I can at least take some solace in knowing that I had to learn things like crowdfunding and how to write/format a novel, all of which has allowed me to help others with pursuing their dreams with things I wish I had known before I set out to accomplish mine. If I return to telling stories, wonderful. If not, hopefully it’s because I’ve found a fuller existence in being me than in presenting myself in a way I want others to see me. So, now I guess I get to figure out what it means to be me again. [This post originally appeared at Medium.com.]

Jennifer Trafton’s much-anticipated Henry and the Chalk Dragon is a romp through the “what ifs” of an imagination run wild. It’s a companion for children feeling self-conscious about their creativity; a loving nudge to the adult who has neglected the things that once made them feel alive; a celebration of the courage it takes to make art and the friends we need along the way. Which means it’s for everyone. Jennifer and I have been friends since the very first Hutchmoot, way back in 2010. We connected immediately over favorite authors and a shared love for the British Isles, and she’s since become a trusted confidante and partner in writerly accountability. It’s been a privilege to walk with her through the creation, revision, and fulfillment of Sir Henry’s quest. I love this book so much, and I’m delighted to see it coming into the world. But don’t be deceived by its playful nature—I assure you, this story is one of those stories that has the power to shape peoples’ stories. If you’re not ready have your heart quickened, your dreams ennobled, and your friendships explode with collaborative creativity, DO NOT READ THIS BOOK. I had the joy of chatting with Jennifer about some of the themes in Henry, as well as art in general, friendship, ritual, fear, and pygmy goats. (Incidentally, seeing as the interview took place via Facebook, a quick look at our message history managed to illustrate an awful lot of the very things we were talking about.) L: So, Jennifer, I just glanced back at our chat history, and it seems to involve an inordinate amount of me whining about how hard it is to write, banging my head on my desk, and you promising to pray for me. And my desk. J: That was you? I thought it was me. L: Well I think it’s safe to say that both of our desks have seen significant abuse. And all head-banging notwithstanding, you’ve written an absolutely beautiful book. The best children’s books, in my opinion, are the ones that can be enjoyed equally by the kids who read them and by the adults who might have the opportunity to read them aloud to the kids in their lives. Apart from the delightful humor in your book, there are several poignant moments adults can relate to, wherein a grownup confronts the abandonment of their own creativity and the limitations it has imposed on them—limitations which are depicted quite literally: Principal Bunk is glued to his chair, Miss Pimpernel is imprisoned on a raft made from her own bulletin board, and the Lunch Lady is held captive in a fortress of cafeteria tables and chairs. I didn't want this to be a book about how kids are pure imaginative beings and adults are unimaginative doofuses; some of the grown-ups in Henry's world may have squelched or forgotten their creativity, but there's still hope for them. Jennifer Trafton But you don’t leave any of them there. Without giving too much away, you grant each of these characters a chance to embrace their creativity in an unprecedented or forgotten way. I think my favorite part of the whole book is when Principal Bunk recognizes his own drawing rendered by Henry on the belly of the dragon, and sits down on the pavement and cries. This is such an unexpected and thoroughly satisfying response. You seem to be issuing a gentle challenge here: It’s never too late to honor the things that made you come alive as a child. It’s never too late to be YOU. The thread of grownups reawaking to their own potential is a redemptive current running through your book. Is this something you set out to explore, or was it a theme that grew naturally out of Henry’s challenges? J: One of the wonderful (and astonishing) things about writing a book is that you don’t fully realize what the book is about until after you’ve written it—or sometimes after other people read it and tell you. I didn’t even realize that I had dramatized the limitations of the adults that way—literally held captive by glue, bulletin boards, and tables—until you just asked the question. But that’s a great observation, and of course that must have be there in my subconscious as I wrote those scenes. Now I’m looking forward to you explaining the rest of the story to me! L: Ha! Love it J: I set out to write about one boy’s imagination and the hilarious chaos it caused; my stories always begin that way, not with a theme but with a situation or a character that begs for my attention. But this particular story, as it grew, began to mirror many of my own struggles without my even realizing it until later. And that struggle to hold fast to some core of childlike creativity even as you are rocked by the currents of the grown-up world is a struggle I know very, very well. I’ve been held captive by many cages (often of my own making). For so many adults, it is hard to recapture the freedom we had as children to let our imaginations out to play, to shake off the voices that tell us we’re “not creative,” that it’s too late for us, that making money is more important, etc. Sometimes we need to let the children remind us what it was like to be eight years old and full of visions of dragons—and to stir that up in us again. But I didn’t want this to be a book about how kids are pure imaginative beings and adults are unimaginative doofuses; some of the grown-ups in Henry’s world may have squelched or forgotten their creativity, but there’s still hope for them. “It’s never too late to honor the things that made you come alive as a child. It’s never too late to be YOU.” YES! I couldn’t have said it better. L: Maybe my subconscious passed that one to the surface since we were talking about Ray Bradbury yesterday. That’s really the essence of what he urges in his writing advice, isn’t it? Tapping into sources of your childhood delight? I think Bradbury would love “Henry,” by the way. J: Yes! In fact I have a Bradbury quote right here: “I was in love, then, with monsters and skeletons and circuses and carnivals and dinosaurs and, at last, the red planet, Mars. From these primitive bricks I have built a life and a career. By my staying in love with all of these amazing things, all of the good things in my existence have come about.” In Zen and the Art of Writing, he talks about how what we love as a child we love freely—we are taught to un-love things as we grow older because of the mockery or criticism of other people. And Henry himself is in the danger zone already—hiding his passion from the eyes and the laughter of others. But what Bradbury did (and what he encourages others to do) is to STAY IN LOVE, because those childhood loves are the mulch from which creativity grows. L: Speaking of delight, there are an awful lot of smiles in your book. I love the way that you acknowledge a child’s innate intuitiveness by the names Henry gives to each one of them, from Miss Pimpernel’s Be-Nice-to-Me-I-Haven’t-Had-My-Coffee smile “which wasn’t her happiest”, to the dragon’s triumphant Look-How-Fabulous-I-Am smile. In short, there are a thousand things a smile can say, sincere or otherwise. Could you talk a bit about the role of smiles in Henry’s Quest? Do you think that children are more sensitive to/influenced by facial expressions than adults might like to admit? J: The thread of smiles throughout the book was another example of how a story often leads the writer instead of the other way around. They just kept popping up everywhere. So many different smiles. Smiles that flew. Smiles that melted. Smiles that fell out of purses and came unglued. Again, not a theme I was consciously trying to add to the story but simply an outgrowth of the kind of character Henry was and the unique way he saw the world. That’s an interesting question about children being sensitive to facial expressions—I don’t know, but I certainly was as a child. I was constantly watching grown-ups, reading their faces like books, detecting nuances of emotions that I didn’t fully understand yet. L: I love Mrs. Penwhistle’s smile, the one that flutters around on wings. That’s just gorgeous. And the way it comes to rest on her face at last as she’s finally allowing herself to enjoy and enter into Henry’s imagination. J: I wish I had a brilliant answer about where that idea came from, but I don’t. It’s just the way my imagination works. L: Your imagination is a vast and colorful country, and it needs no explanation. But it seems like Henry’s mom might have some abandoned creativity of her own—am I right? She is, after all, the one who painted his door with chalkboard paint. J: I agree! His parents may not entirely understand his wild imagination, but they’ve obviously encouraged and nurtured it. L: I think your next book needs to be about Henry’s parents. Or Jade. I love Jade. I see a lot of you in her. J: I’ve had ideas about subsequent stories, but also like a book that ends with just the hint of things beyond. Jade is a lot cooler than I am. L: I completely disagree with that statement. The only person I know who has a stronger handle than Jade on the redemptive properties of words in general and poetry in particular, is you. J: But I would be pretty useless in a real adventure, I’m afraid. Unless I truly could fight a dragon with poetry. L: You ARE fighting dragons with poetry—who says metaphorical dragons are any less scary and dangerous than real ones? Besides, letting a book out into the world is about the coolest adventure I can think of. But, seeing as this is no venue for a Big Fight, I’ll move on to the next question. J: Point taken. This journey of writing has certainly been an adventure, and I have battled many a metaphorical dragon in my heart. L: Atta girl. So, the friendships in Henry are really quite nuanced. In a general sense, Henry chooses kindness over his own ideas of “perfect” art, and the collaboration that results between him and his classmates transcends what he would have been able to accomplish on his own. What’s more, Henry’s close friends are the ones speaking the truths into his life—about himself and about his art—that he desperately needs to hear. How have friendships influenced your creative journey? J: Oh goodness. Hold on while I write another book about that. L: That was a beaut, I know. J: There’s a moment in the Henry and the Chalk Dragon that’s significant for me, when Henry has to overcome the hurtful lie, “The world doesn’t care about your art. The world will laugh at you.” And the answer to that lie is the quiet reminder of those specific people who love him and understand him: “This person cares, and this person cares, and this person cares, and this person cares . . .” And that’s enough. I set out to write a book about a child’s imagination gone wild. but the story ended up being one that I, more than anyone else, needed to hear. Because you’re right: I have fought dragons, and the worst of my dragons are Fear and Self-doubt. During the many revisions of this book I was going through some of the hardest battles I’ve ever fought against those dragons. I’ve had to learn to be brave, like Henry, when making art and letting it out there into the world felt like an impossibly scary thing to do. But during this same period I’ve also been surrounded by an incredibly supportive community of friends—friends (like you) who have refused to let me wallow in fear and have spoken truth to me time and time again, friends who have been like Jade making my journey feel like an epic quest rather than a loser’s march. I would not still be writing today if it weren’t for those specific people who cared about me and my imagination so tenderly. At the last Hutchmoot conference, our speaker Diana Glyer talked about resonators—people who not only praise and encourage but echo back to us the goodness of what we create even we can’t ourselves see or hear it clearly. I immediately thought of Henry and his resonators, Oscar and Jade. And I thought of the Rabbit Room community itself, and how it has been a roomful of faithful resonators for me over the past six years. There is a moment in the book when Henry must face his classmates with all of his imagination hanging out there for everyone to see, and in a reversal of all his fears, they don’t laugh. In fact, they pitch in and become part of his quest. My moment came when, at Hutchmoot, I got up in front of my community and read a chapter of this book and everyone laughed, which for me (unlike Henry) felt like the best gift I could possibly have been given: a roomful of resonators telling me, “We care.” People thanked me afterwards and I thought, “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I should be thanking YOU.” Writers are solitary artists, but this is the closest thing to collaboration I’ve ever experienced. That’s why I’m so happy Rabbit Room Press is publishing this story. This is, in a very beautiful and personal way to me, a Rabbit Room book. L: That is so powerful, Jennifer. I loved what Diana had to say about resonators. And this all leads into what I wanted to talk about next, which is the age-old connection between art and fear. If I had to point to the heart of your book, I would turn to Mr. Bruce’s wonderful words to Henry: “You have to be brave to be an artist.” I love the way you acknowledge the dangers, as well as the joys, of letting your art out into the world. Once we’ve made something and let it go, we have little to no control over how it will be received or interpreted in the wide world. Can you speak to the tension between the temptation to shield one’s work from the public eye, and the fears that come when a work takes on a life of its own? How has the fear of being misunderstood impacted your own journey as an artist? J: You’re not throwing me any softballs, are you? L: No, I haven’t yet, that’s for sure. J: Well, I could write a whole post on this topic (and probably will), but let me just say a few things. Henry is an artist, of course, but he’s also (at least in his imagination) a knight, and the connection between those two roles is, first and foremost, the need for courage. I want to emphasize again that this isn’t where I started, back when the story was first coming to life for me. Henry began as an eight-year-old Don Quixote character in my brain, and as I explored the vast and wild terrain of his imagination I gradually realized that my young knight had the eye of an artist, and would naturally love to draw. So much safer for the artist, perhaps, but so much sadder for the world. It is an act of great courage and great intimacy to show the world your art—courage usually reserved for the fiercest knights, and intimacy usually reserved for the closest friends. I think some people think that, because they’re afraid of making art (it can be hard!) or showing people their art, they must not be very good artists. Sometimes we need to remember that everyone feels this way at some point, and that it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay that we need someone to remind us, as the bus driver reminds Henry, “Be brave.” I am afraid ALL THE TIME. And I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I can’t just wait until the fear goes away before I write anything. Bravery means picking up my sword (or my pencil) and diving into the fray no matter how I feel. I’ve also had to slowly push away my anxiety over what will happen to a work of art (or a work of fiction!) once it’s free in the world and has a life of its own. As Mr. Bruce tells Henry, all you can do is make the best thing you can, love it as hard as you can, and let it go. Then: make something new. Well, I loved Henry and the Chalk Dragon the best I could, and now I’m letting it go and trying to make something new. L: Jennifer, you are an interview-question rockstar. Thank you for such a vulnerable answer! J: Thank you for asking such thoughtful questions! L: You have a rather Dickensian gift for naming characters. I know you’ve got a beautiful story about the naming of Persimmony in The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic. But in this case, did you think of your characters first, and then the names? Or was it the other way around? J: That is a high compliment indeed, because Dickens is my HERO when it comes to character names. Uriah Heep, Ebenezer Scrooge, Mr. Fezziwig, Mr. M’Choakumchild, Poll Sweedlepipe…. I mean, come on! He was a master! And the characters are as quirky and memorable as their names. Every time I do a school visit, the kids basically run through the names of all my characters and ask, “Why did you name her_____? Why did you name him ______?” And I don’t always have an interesting answer, because the fact is that I just love to play around with sounds until I come up with something that makes me laugh and that feels like the character I’m naming. Henry popped into my brain as a character with a name already attached—he was never anything but Henry to me. Oscar similarly dropped into the story already named. Jade was a bit more difficult—I tried so many different names on her for size, but the one I kept coming back to was “Jade” because it fit her personality—solid, no nonsense, yet with a hint of something mysterious and mystical. I didn’t know any Jades when I named her—now I do! For all the other first and last names in the story, I just had a lot of fun smooshing together bits of words, existing names, and sounds. “Penwhistle,” for example, is a play on Pendragon (because Henry wants to be one of King Arthur’s knights). Oh! Here’s a funny story: in the early drafts, Henry’s teacher was a bit of a shrew, and she didn’t really have her own arc. I named her “Mrs. Garrunchy,” which made me giggle because it sounded like both “grouch” and “crunchy,” and she was in danger of being eaten by a dragon. But I completely rewrote her character, and when I did that name no longer fit her personality. The new teacher, whom Henry had a crush on, needed a flowery name, yet something that also hinted at heroism and adventure. “Miss Pimpernel” was born! I still love the name “Garrunchy” though, and I’m claiming it for a future book. L: That’s fantastic. We’ll definitely look out for a Miss (or Mr.) Garrunchy down the line! And Miss Pimpernel is perfect, by the way. The minute I met her in your book, I pictured swordplay and romance, à la Baroness Orczy. Okay, I haven’t asked you an easy question yet. But here’s one more doozy, and then I’ll ease up on you. So, Henry’s chivalry. I love it. But it’s not just a cute little attribute. It’s a genuine regulator of his actions, a governor in the engine of his art. It helps prescribe his treatment of people, and it nudges him back to kindness when he goes astray. We all know there’s as much need to acknowledge the dark, sad things of life as there is to point to the great “eucatastrophe” of the ultimate happy ending. But how would you say that the “chivalrous” worldview ought to direct the kind of art we bring into the world? J: I’m going to neatly sidestep your doozy by saying that I deliberately left this an open question in the book. As Henry wonders, is there a chivalry for drawing things? That’s exactly what I want a reader to go away pondering, and debating with other people. And therefore, your question is an excellent question. And therefore, I refuse to answer it. Ha! p.s. I did, however, just write a list of slightly tongue-in-cheek chivalrous rules for writers, which will be published on a blog soon. L: How perfect! Do let us know when it’s published! (That was an exceedingly graceful sidestep, by the way. Perhaps people will take up the debate in the comments…) J: Would you like to see my super-sneaky sideways sword swipe? L: I’ve been wanting to ask. Can you give us a demonstration? J: Next question! L: Lawful heart, that was close! All right, a couple of easy ones to wrap up. What are some of the things you do to nourish your own creativity? Do you work on a fixed routine, or does a more flexible schedule suit your writerly temperament? Twyla Tharp talks about ritual in the lives of artists, certain practices or physical activities that tell your subconscious mind, “Okay, it’s time to work.” (Mine is a fresh pot of PG Tips, for what it’s worth.) Do you have any rituals that help ease you into your creative space? J: Rituals? Oh, I have rituals galore. First, I drink a cup of tea and daydream about how wonderful it would be to have written something. Then I sit down and try to write something. I suddenly realize three things: (1) it’s been at least 36 hours since I last scoured the Internet for pygmy goat pictures, (2) I absolutely definitely positively have at least six undiagnosed illnesses, (3) I will never ever have another good idea again, ever, (4) my paper is blank, and (5) I’m such I complete failure that I’ve forgotten how to count. At this point I begin my rituals of wailing, banging my head against the nearest available hard surface, raising my fist against the unfriendly sky, and sobbing on my long-suffering husband’s shoulder, “Mmmm mcan’tmmmm mmdooooo mthissmmmmmmm I’mmmmmma failuremmmmmm” (muffled by his now-soggy shirt sleeve). Rinse and repeat (the shirt and the rituals) several times . . . L: Wow! That sounds fun! (And all too familiar . . . ) J: Then I open up to a new page in my journal and make a list, in the prettiest handwriting possible, of all the things that inspire me. I misspell a word, tear out the page, and start over, because you can’t possibly do anything on a list until the list is perfect and beautiful. [Editor’s note: This is not precisely true. She would never “tear” out a page. She’d cut it out neatly so no one would ever notice a mistake had been made.] L: Of course you can’t. J: Then I sit back and admire all the wonderful, inspiring things I could do—like go for a walk, reread a favorite book, make another cup of tea, or spend an hour drawing to clear my mind. It is such a beautiful list, after all, that it must work. And then I color in the letters. L: Absolutely. J: Usually in sunset colors, because it is not possible to write anything without at least the close proximity of something vermilion. L: Truth. The thing that amazes me is that none of the writing books have picked up on this yet. J: I know! L: You know, I’ve always said that you and Sarah Clarkson and I should write a writing book. Or, more accurately, I think we should write a “care and feeding of writers” book for the people around us. J: I think it should probably come with a paid counselor visit for our loved ones. L: Yes, agreed. Or at the very least we could make it a top-tier Kickstarter reward. I know who could do the lettering for the pages. It would be the most beautiful book in the world. J: I can letter anything as long as I don’t have to do what the letters say. I’ve lost track of my rituals. Was I supposed to ever get to the writing part? I think somewhere in there is a big bowl of ice cream and a “You’ve Got Mail” / “Miss Potter” marathon viewing. L: That sounds about perfect. So, let’s wrap it up with some of the most burning questions of all. Chocolate or vanilla? J: Do you even have to ask? L: Ha! No! Okay, Anne Shirley or Emily Starr? J: Anne. Sorry, Emily. L: That was sneaky. Okay, this may be the toughest of all: Bantams, Orpingtons, or Silver Cuckoo Marans? J: Which breed of Bantams? L: Your choice. J: Cochins. I like my chickens in pants. L: Ah, yes, they are the dandiest, to be sure. Well, Jennifer, you’ve been a champ. Thanks for the generosity of your answers. J: You are an epic interviewer. L: I think it might have more than a little to do with the fact that you and I never run out of things to talk about. J: Now that’s the truth. L: But this has been so much fun. Thank you, again, and Godspeed, Sir Henry!! J: Sally forth! L: Jennifer forth! J: Lanier forth! *sound of hoof beats galloping off into the distance* Henry and the Chalk Dragon is available in the Rabbit Room Store (and wherever great books are sold).

How many of you wait and watch for spring all winter long like I do? For me, the longing for spring sets in the moment I see the first leaf change color in the fall. It’s a heart aching that grows ever deeper with each new leaf giving way to the lack of chlorophyll. With their life blood no longer being produced by exposure to the sun, they slowly close off their veins until finally separating themselves entirely from the tree and falling to the earth to decompose. When the last few stragglers make their way to the ground, the ominous pressing of winter seems that it’s everywhere, even though it has usually not yet arrived. You can feel it coming. Its foreboding whispers fill the wind and you can’t escape. And so the counting begins. The first time table is the countdown to the dreaded end of Daylight Savings. In my opinion, it is the worst day of the year. We are plunged into a deep darkness. The earth itself takes on a funereal silence. In this absence of sound the heightened pitch of the wind-whispers sting the tips of your ears. Then the longest countdown begins. With singular focus I watch the date on the calendar marking the start of Daylight Savings. For me, this is the best day of the year. It’s a hope against the darkness, each day being one step closer to the light. With the addition of an extra hour of daylight, the new time table then becomes how many days are left until the First Day of Spring. Each passing calendar date bringing sunshine and green one step closer to being a part of daily life. I can feel the weight lifting. In Ohio, the start of Daylight Savings and the First Day of Spring are both more likely to be marked with snow versus an actual sign that the wait is almost over. But in my heart they are markers telling me to hold on, the end is almost here. The heavy whispers that curled my shoulders will soon become a sweet uplifting breeze. Soon I’ll walk a little taller with my face uplifted towards the sun. I find a deeper satisfaction in “playing in the dirt” than what is implied by this tagline frequently used by gardeners. Yes it is fun and the rewards of a bountiful harvest are immense. But for me, the dirt under my fingernails reaches me on a spiritual level that few other things can. I feel closer and more in tune with God. My inner noise is silenced and I am there with Him in the very act of creation. We live on a spec of the land. It’s a meager 7 acres. Yes I know 7 acres is nothing to disregard but of the billions of acres making up our world, this truly is a speck of dust, nothing in the grand scheme. My garden is an even smaller fleck but it belongs to us, at least in the sense of auditor records with the county. On occasion I have given way to an inner turmoil, a feeling that taking care of this speck is a waste of time. The argument in my mind always consists of something about how my time could be better spent reaching souls and helping others, doing something of eternal value. But a greater voice always seems to wash away my doubts and I feel a sense of God’s pleasure. I feel His joy in seeing His daughter love His creation so much and want to take care of it. Gardening was one of man’s first God given tasks. Genesis 2:15 says “The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to tend and keep it”. As we continue through scripture Jeremiah 29:5 says “Build houses and live in them; and plant gardens and eat their produce”. There is a certain reliance on God that comes from placing a seed in the ground and hoping for a harvest. There are things we can do to help it be successful. But the very act of a seed germinating and growing into anything in the first place is purely a miracle of God. And so we take what we have and place it in the ground and trust in God’s process. We start with surrender and then we work and tend, we hope and we wait. Tending the earth does require a great amount of work. But I always find each step of this process bringing me closer to God, more aligned with Him and understanding Him better. In the spring we break open the soil to cultivate it, making it ready to receive what we will surrender. We place our hopes in the cultivated soil and cover them up. At that moment, from all appearances, the seed is no longer even there. And yet at this point we increase our efforts. We keep the ground watered. We pull weeds to protect our fragile little dreams as they start to sprout. And as they grow we fertilize them to encourage that growth so it will be even more productive. We employ fences and scarecrows to chase away predators who would steal what we’ve worked for and take it as their own. Indeed it is all very hard work. But for me it is also an act of worship and service. We see this dance played out in Scripture with the Hebrew word Abad. There are verses where Abad clearly refers to the act of manual labor. Exodus 34:21 says “Six days you shall work (abad). Proverbs 28:19 says “He that tilleth (abad) his land shall have plenty of bread:” However we also see it used in the act of worshiping God through service. Exodus 8:1 says “This is what the Lord says: Let my people go, so they may serve (abad) me.” And then in Joshua 24:15 we read “But as for me and my household, we will serve (abad) the Lord. Our actions of taking what we think is ours, recognizing it as God’s through surrender, worshiping God though working towards our desired outcome, while we wait for what only God can do, this is the dance of work and worship. Again nature mimics life. I love our little spec and my tiny garden. In the grand scheme of land of earth it truly is a fleck, a nothing. But to me, the time that it takes to tend it is the open door to the grandest scheme of all. God, my Father, the Maker of the Universe who holds my surrendered hopes and dreams. In His presence and with dirt beneath my fingernails, I can feel Him smiling at me.  And that is truly the deepest reason I always long for spring.

I grew up in a home with scientists, so when a parent would ask me to run and get a container of Cool Whip out of the chest freezer, finding the right tub would usually take three or four tries. I might find owl pellets, a garter snake, a cow eyeball, or a paper wasp’s nest before I found the whipped topping. When I was in first grade, my parents agreed to raise Madagascar hissing cockroaches for the Columbus Zoo. Yeah. These are those cockroaches from Indiana Jones—those wicked-looking three or four inchers. If you’d walk down in the basement and flip on the lights, a communal metallic hiss would rise up like steam from Dante’s hell. Nothing scientific was ever so gross, so scary, so dangerous that my mom didn’t say, “Let’s explore that.” When huge, black snakes would hang off the trees in our back yard at dusk, Mom thought they were “interesting.” When they stopped twitching, we ate them. Rebecca Reynolds She caught a snapping turtle once while fishing, and her first response was, “Let’s eat it!” After we figured out how to get the meat out of that thing (which wasn’t easy), we stood around a five gallon bucket of iced salt water and marveled that the chunks of turtle were still twitching three days later. They twitched again when Mom put them in the skillet. When they stopped twitching, we ate them. My dad once bought Mom a mushroom farm for her birthday. This was essentially a huge, cardboard box full of horse poop with spores in it. She squealed with delight. When Dad was traveling and Mom decided that we needed to cut the heads off some chickens, she nailed two drivers into a log to make a “V,” then she made me hold the hen bodies while she got the axe.  When she raised bees, she taught me how to use the smoker. When we neutered the sheep, I held the blue plastic gun. What I’m telling you is that I grew up in a house in which there was no “Option Disengage Because of Factor Gross.” We were taught that the world was fascinating, and that we were here to master it. Girls and boys alike were encouraged to live with gusto. The magazines in our bathroom were National Geographic or Popular Science. Maybe some seed catalogues. My only exception to this was Victoria Magazine, a beautiful women’s journal that will remind you of everything Lanier Ivester, if you can ever get your hands on one. I read that publication religiously, cover to cover, but I never received any sort of teen pop culture magazine, and my mother never received any women’s gossip or beauty publications. These were days before the internet, before Google, before cell phones—so there were certain bits of information that you could only find in certain magazines. And fashion magazines were the Rossetta Stone for nerds like me—nerd girls who owned fluorescent green “Bugs are Beautiful” t-shirts and knew how to write in Japanese. Nerd girls had no other means of translating cool girl language—cool girls who used Love’s Baby Soft in the locker room, girls who lived in sub divisions and hung band posters on their walls. I listened to NPR. I had one opportunity to learn all of this secret female information. One chance and once chance alone. The beauty shop. When I would go to get my hair cut, I would try to show up early, then pile up three or four of those women’s magazines next to the most isolated chair I could find. Then I’d blitz them all like somebody cramming for a chemistry final. Styles? Check. Makeup? Check. How to get a boyfriend? Check. Narcissistic advice? Check. Pages and pages of pointless information. And in one of those pages, I found the holy grail. I found an advice column explaining how to condition my hair naturally. “Two raw eggs” it said. Let them sit for ten minutes, then rinse. Easy. I felt a sharp little guilty thrill run through my belly. We had eggs. Nobody would even know. Looking back, my parents wouldn’t have cared if I had tried this. They probably would have thought it was interesting. They probably would have bought me eggs from ostrich, ducks, Canadian geese, and hummingbirds. They probably would have helped me create a comparative study determining the quality of hair follicle conditioning according to avian egg species. But the fact that I had read this in a Teen Magazine made it feel forbidden somehow. Somewhere out in the world, cool girls put eggs in their hair while listening to to pop songs. Heck, yes. I was all in. The next night, I sneaked two eggs out of the fridge and ran the hottest bathwater I could stand. I’ve always loved super hot baths– hot enough that my skin is lobster red when I get out of the water. I got my hair wet and cracked those eggs into a plastic cup, squished them up, and dripped glops of them way down into my scalp. They were cold, slimy, and drippy, and they smelled a little like sulfur.  I told myself it was an “egg masque,” which felt either French or granola; I couldn’t decide which. Mostly, it felt super girly. Of course, I was in the middle of a good book that night, so I read while the eggs did their work. Then I got lost reading. When my water turned frigid, I drained it and ran an entire new tub, hot as I could stand it. I guess I was in there for an hour and a half before I remembered that I hadn’t rinsed my hair. By this point, my hair had fallen from the loose egg twist I had tried to stabilize on top of my head. In fact, it was floating in the water beside me. But this wasn’t a normal float. Something was strange about it. When I reached back, I realized that the eggs had started to cook into the fibers of my hair. To this day, I don’t understand how this happened. Supposedly egg white coagulates at 144 degrees, and human skin begins to burn at 131 degrees. Most hot water heaters are set on 120 degrees. None of this adds up. But when I tried to run my fingers through my hair, little white beads of egg were stuck all over the place. Hundreds of them. I panicked. I tried to wash the eggs out, but they held fast. Two shampoos. Three. Nothing. I got a comb and tried to comb the blobs out, but they split and made thousands of gremlin egg blob children. I remembered eating powdered eggs at 4-H camp, so I decided to try a hair dryer. Maybe the blobs would turn to dust? Nope. The more I dried, the more I brushed, the more my hair grew larger and larger. Fifteen minutes later, I was wearing a massive egg-fro that smelled like burnt omelette and stood out in all directions from my scalp. By this point, my parents were banging on the door.  “You’ve been in there a long time!” “What’s going on? What’s that smell?” I don’t remember the looks on their faces when I opened the door. I must have blacked out the memory. I do remember going to school the next day because a kid with long hair who smoked weed and listened to Metallica leaned forward in one of my classes and said, “What have you been taking?” That was thirty years ago. Last month I was on a flight to Atlanta, and I sat beside a twenty-something who was flipping through a copy of Cosmo. She had her headphones on, and while she popped her gum, she turned pages as casually as if she were reading the back of a cereal box. Turbulence was making it tough for me to engage with the nerd book I’d brought along—some sort of cultural analysis written by an academic priest with no girlfriend. Girl-next-seat over was humming her pop songs. Her nails were bright pink, she was wearing a preppy striped popover, and her hair looked like it knew what it was supposed to do. She also smelled faintly like pears, which was intimidating. I was wearing saggy Land’s End sweatpants—sweatpants with a comfort waist— sweatpants that screamed—“A-forty-year-old-mom-found-these-on-clearance,” which is exactly what had happened. I was a little bit bloated from travel, and I was wearing one of those cheap yoga headbands that come in a pack of 9 for $12. I smelled like dryer sheets and macaroni and cheese. There she sat, turning pages. Turning pages. You’re going to judge me for what I’m about to say next because I would judge you if you said it to me. Folks, I hate it when people read over my shoulder. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves in the world. I never read over other people’s shoulders. I never, ever do it. It’s rude. I can’t stand it. But this was urgent. I needed to know what secrets were hidden in that Cosmo. I was frumpy mom, cheesy-mac mom, saggy-sweatpants mom, lost mom, starving to know the secrets of the pear-smelling, pink-nailed, female universe mom. So, I put on my sunglasses and plugged in my ear buds, hoping it might look like I was sleeping (which makes this entire story waaaaay creepier, I know). And 40,000 feet above the earth, I was flat out scanning that magazine. Here’s what I learned: Fashion 2017. Skinny jeans are going out. (Free at last, free at last…) The mascara of the moment. (I’m pretty sure I’ve had mine since 2006.) Short shorts for your body type. (Oh, this is definitely information every woman halfway to ninety needs. For sure.) How to kiss a guy so he won’t forget it. (Snort. Let it be known that I’m the proud owner of a spatula that says, “I’m a good cook, but I kiss even better.” That’s basically like a Nobel Prize in kissing.) Advertisement for perfume. (Featuring a photo of a woman painted silver. She has shaved eyebrows and is holding a whisk. She also looks angry.) Advertisement for jeans. These are unzipped, and the model (who seems to have lost control of her lips in some sort of nerve damage) is drooling down the right side of her face. I’m empathetic. I realize that this poor woman probably needs the “How to kiss a guy so he won’t forget it” article, but I can’t figure out how to contact her. A purse with a giant “see u later” printed on the side. (This feels delightfully ominous to me. I wonder if my portable bluetooth keyboard would fit inside. I toy with the idea of buying this thing and walking down the street with a tormented expression on my face, holding it at arms length like a “The end is nigh!” sign.) Speed read. Flip. Speed read. Flip. Inside the home of hottie hot hot so-and-so actor. (Is he even old enough to drive? I can’t even be remotely attracted to this person. I might pay him to cut my grass, if I had a permission slip from his parents.) And there it was. Page 47. “How to condition your hair naturally. Get two raw eggs…” it said. Deja vu. 1987. 2017. Oh no you don’t. Not this time. NOT. THIS. TIME! I yanked out my ear buds, ripped off my sunglasses, and opened my nerd book. Safety at last. But I will admit this much, if you won’t tell anybody. The last time I went shopping at T.J. Maxx, I almost bought a body spray that smelled faintly like pears. And if I ever find the “See U Later” bag on clearance, it’s mine, Baby. It’s mine.

This year for Lent I committed to writing a sonnet each day. I won’t burden you with all forty, but at the risk of being presumptuous, I thought I’d post the seven sonnets for Holy Week in the hope that they might be helpful somehow. The stories are true, folks. He is risen, indeed. PALM SUNDAY “Hosanna!” We cried, and we waved our palms, Standing outside the church on Palm Sunday. We sang songs of praise, read lessons and Psalms, And then came the Gospel reading. The way It usually happens, the celebrant Follows the cross and Bible down the aisle, And we all turn to face them. The moment Reminds us of the Incarnation while The scripture is read. God did become flesh. He dwelt among us. But it’s Holy Week, And things change so that we feel it all fresh, The arrest, trial, crucifixion: we shriek, “Crucify him! Crucify him! Release Barabbas!” How quickly hosannas cease. MONDAY Passover was at hand. It was a time Of remembering. Once, they were enslaved To Egypt, but God freed them. Who will climb The mountain now? The holy law engraved On stone, written by the finger of God, Was delivered, and it said, “Remember.” Did they? Did they remember the lamb’s blood While they sold pigeons in the temple for Caesar’s coins? Jesus, upturn my table. Cleanse your temple. Be zealous for my heart, Because it belongs to you. Unable but willing, I beg you to take apart Each stone and rebuild in me a new home. Make a temple out of this catacomb. TUESDAY I’ve never seen a better place for spring Than here in Tennessee. The dogwoods spread And blossom in the shadows by the stream, Like cotton balls above the riverbed. And never have I seen a richer blend Of greens! So many hues illuminate Both underfoot and and overhead, suspend The verdant canopy with heaven’s weight, And anchor earth with heaven’s airy hue, That I can scarce discern if this is dream Or merely God’s abundance breaking through With pure delight in what he made, agleam With grace in this, the cursed and crooked earth. You resurrect the world with every birth. WEDNESDAY Tenebrae. A darkening. Poems read, Stories told, candles extinguished, songs sung. I sat all night in the dark with my head Full of conflicting thoughts. Some of them stung, Some were just mild distractions, enough that I considered slipping out to go home. But of all the places I could have sat, In that room as dark as stone-sealed tomb, I gleaned beside me a good friend’s shadow. His eyes were shut the whole time. I even Changed positions once and bumped his elbow, But he didn’t flinch. How could I know then What I know now, how his heart was broken? The dark silence was the solace spoken. MAUNDY THURSDAY “Love as I have loved,” you said, washing feet. A foot is a humble thing, the lowest Part of the body, where earth and flesh meet. We put them up when we just want to rest, And our odd little toes, smelly digits, Callused and caked with dirt, don’t make the best First impression, even if one sees fit To put his best foot forward. But you blessed Your friends from head to foot, washing away The day’s accumulation of travel, Speaking into existence a new way To love: love by exalting the humble By serving the servant, by kneeling down Before your subjects, giving us your crown. GOOD FRIDAY After this, Jesus, knowing all was done, Said, “I thirst.” They raised a sponge of sour wine On a hyssop branch, gave it to the Son, Holding it to the mouth of the True Vine. He drank. “It is finished,” he said at last, Then he bowed his head and gave up the ghost. John, as an old man, looked into the past And wrote his gospel. I wonder what cost Came with remembering that stormcloud day? Did he shudder as he wrote out each word? What would it be like to kneel down and pray To the God whose grand stories you have heard Since boyhood, and carry the memory Of him hanging there, bleeding on the tree? HOLY SATURDAY Joseph came and took him down from the hill. Nicodemus also came, with aloe And myrrh—seventy-five pounds, just to kill The death smell—and they wrapped him head to toe In linen, which is how it was done then. They needed to bury him somewhere soon. Not far from Golgotha was a garden, And in that garden was an open tomb Where no body had yet been laid to rest. The Jewish Day of Preparation meant There were laws these righteous men did their best To keep, so they, of all the people, went To Pilate, made it happen. Who can tell If they loved God? They loved their neighbor well. RESURRECTION SUNDAY Be praised, Lord Jesus, humble conqueror! Thy battered body’s wounds were joyful streams, Thy furrowed flesh the soil of the gardener, Thy bones unbroken, strong as temple beams. But none could know when laid they in the ground The sin-wrecked Son of God whose heart was dead, Whose stiffened corpse was cold and linen bound, As day-death turned the firmament to red And decay began its work on each cell, As decay has done since hard fell the curse, What glory was to gleam in that dark hell When death’s decay at once was in reverse. Be praised, Lord Jesus! Morning then revealed Thy beating heart! Today, my heart is healed.

Update: Tonight is the final week of our “How Did We Get the Bible” class. Dr. Trafton will discuss how Scripture has been translated and passed down to us over the centuries. Previous attendance isn’t necessary. Email pete@rabbitroom.com if you’d like to come and I’ll send you the address. For the past few weeks, Jennifer and I have attended a class on the history of the Bible. It’s been a fascinating exploration into the historicity of what we believe, and how the Christian faith has come down to us across the centuries. But this wasn’t a class taught by a well-meaning deacon who’d read a few books and remembered a few things from Bible college. This class was taught by a professor who recently retired from nearly 40 years of teaching New Testament at Western Kentucky University, by someone who has himself worked with the Dead Sea Scrolls (and can read them to you). This was a class taught by a man who has invested a lifetime of research and scholarship into Scripture and speaks on it knowledgeably and passionately—and with a contagious curiosity that’s fun and engaging. Of our teacher, Michael Card (whose classes many of you have enjoyed) says: What you want is a scholar with a pastor’s heart. You want someone who has done their homework and has thereby done some of your homework for you. You want someone who understands that teaching is really just one way to wash feet. All of this describes Dr. Joe Trafton. He has encouraged me with his scholarship and his life for 30 years. Oh, and I should mention that he’s my father-in-law. Jennifer had always told me what a great teacher her dad was, and I’m so glad we had the chance to attend this class so I could experience his mind myself and marvel at his way with students and his passion for Scripture. Upon completion of the course, I immediately asked him if he’d be willing to come out to North Wind Manor and teach for the Rabbit Room community, and I’m thrilled that he’s agreed. If you’ve ever wondered if the Bible is trustworthy. If you’ve ever wondered where exactly it came from, how it came together, how it arrived in English, or whether it’s authentic, I encourage you to come out and join us. Some of the answers may surprise you, and I guarantee you’ll be captivated and edified Dr. Trafton’s teaching. We’re going to start on Monday, March 13th @ 7:00pm. There’s no cost, but we do encourage folks to bring a snack to share. We’ll run for five consecutive weeks as Dr. Trafton leads us from the collection of the Torah to the gospels and all the way up through the translations we read today. This is a great opportunity to look closely at one of the foundations of our faith and we hope you’ll join us. Week 1: The Contents of the Bible Week 2: The Canonization of the Old Testament Week 3: The Canonization of the New Testament Week 4: The Transmission of the Hebrew and Greek Texts Week 5: The Translation of the Bible If you’d like to come, please RSVP to pete@rabbitroom.com. Space is limited to about 25 seats.

During my time at seminary I became enamored with the lives of the saints. Perhaps “enamored” comes across the wrong way—my Protestant roots run deep enough that I’m wary of turning anyone or anything into an idol (I’ve seen my fair share of hero worship in every denomination—but that’s a different story). What I mean is that I’ve come to realize our need to drink deeply of the stories, songs, and words written by and about fellow Christians—be they members of our local congregation, faithful followers of Jesus across the globe, or those separated from us by time and death. The best of the saints’ stories (whether Catholic or otherwise) are those who nudge our gaze upward at the exact moment our eyes attempt to fixate on the saints themselves. These people are undeniably human and most assuredly sinners, and yet they are also creatures that have been touched by God’s grace and who are unable shake the glow of that encounter. One such story is that of Charles Jennens. I found myself at Fellowship Bible Church in Arkansas where I had worked for several years as a videographer before attending graduate school. Charles Jennens The congregation was gearing up for an arts festival. It was scheduled to take place in the Christmas season and with the theme of “Messiah”—taking inspiration from the great musical work by George Frideric Handel. Of course, I had heard the infamous “Hallelujah Chorus” used (and abused) by dozens of films, television shows, and commercials, but I soon learned that I knew little about the rest of this famous work. The leader of the worship team had purchased several books on the subject and I checked out a few from his office. I found that although the work is primarily referred to as Handel’s Messiah, there was another man who was instrumental to the work’s creation. This lesser-known individual was the impetus for the work and convinced Handel to join him in it. His name was Charles Jennens. Jennens had worked with Handel before on an oratorio about the relationship between King Saul and his eventual successor, the shepherd boy David. Jennens was not a professional musician—in fact, he was not a professional anything based on our modern definition. He was a wealthy landowner well versed in music, literature, and the Christian scriptures. His primary area of expertise was William Shakespeare but he lacked credentials and approval of other scholars in the field. It would be closest to the mark to call him a benefactor or a patron of the arts but only if it’s made clear that Jennens was not simply a man with a lot of money looking for a way to spend it. He doesn’t fit the stereotype of an aloof millionaire who cuts checks for artists for the sole purpose of sharing in the accolades while maintaining distance from the work itself. On the contrary, Jennens was passionately involved in the artistic process. Yet he was also wise enough to know when to hand the work over to those whose gifts he admired and whose character he trusted. He would do this with Messiah. Charles Jennens had experienced a personal tragedy when his brother, Robert, committed suicide. One of the reasons behind Robert’s decision, Jennens believed, was his association with the burgeoning philosophy of deism, which he encountered while studying at Oxford. This was during the height of the Enlightenment and deism was on the rise. Deism may affirm the existence of God (or at least of a sort of “unmoved mover” or “first cause”) but it denies God’s personal presence and committed activity within the present-day cosmos. The purveyors of this doctrine may agree with Christian thinkers on several points but one finds that the claims of deism and classic Christian orthodoxy are ultimately at odds. One cannot affirm a hands-off vision of God while continuing to look to the accounts of Moses, Isaiah, or, above all, Jesus as the ultimate source of truth. I would argue that the fixed chasm that stands between Christian teaching and deism is ultimately wider than the gap between deism and atheism. Charles Jennens perceived a deep emptiness embedded at the heart of this philosophy and he sought to refute its claims. Yet he did so in a surprising way. Christian history is full of brilliant men and women who, armed with the tools of reason and rhetoric, have defended the faith from heresy. Jennens knew this; in fact his library was full of names like Chrysostom, Augustine, and Cranmer. Yet, faced with the mounting challenge of deism, Jennens did not produce a new commentary or attempt to publish a theological tome. Instead, he began to skillfully arrange passages from the Bible. Yet just as astounding is the impetus behind the work—Jennen’s hope that the goodness and truth of the Christian scriptures would be more powerfully transmitted through beauty than through mere rhetoric. Matthew Aughtry Jennens pulled from various authors and books of the Bible to place the focus on the overarching narrative of scripture and its culmination in the person of Jesus Christ. His work was that of juxtaposition—not adding his own interpretations or elaborating upon the text but editing together the biblical text in a certain order for dramatic effect and narrative flow. The restraint he showed in doing so speaks volumes about his faith in the power and integrity of the Bible. “Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary to salvation,” reads Article VI of the 39 Articles. As a communicant in the Church of England it’s very likely that Jennens knew these words well. Jennens put this particular idea into practice, trusting in Scripture to save his own age from falling into the trap laid out for it in deist doctrines. Upon the completion of his arrangement, Jennens sent the manuscript to his friend and collaborator George Frideric Handel in hopes that it would be the composer’s next oratorio. Moreover, since this particular work was, according to Jennens, about the subject who “excels every other Subject,” his hope was that Handel would “lay out his whole Genius & Skill upon it, that the Composition may excel all his former Compositions.”[1] In a world of back and forth arguments about the existence and eminence of God, Charles Jennens did not publish an essay or craft a three-point sermon—he asked the most talented musical mind of his day to create melodies for the words of scripture. He lifted verses out of the Old and New Testaments and trusted the power of art to give them new life in a world that had gotten used to ignoring them, a society which very much believed that it had moved on from such things. Of course, Handel’s composition of Jennen’s selected scriptures would outlive the master composer and continues to be the most popular piece of music he ever wrote. Every Christmas and Easter you can almost guarantee that someone in your town will be performing the work and you can rely on the fact that filmmakers and marketers will continue to utilize the infamous “Hallelujah Chorus” anytime they want to convey an intangible sense of elation, wonder, and ecstasy. Messiah is an astoundingly beautiful work, one that resounds across generations and illuminates the scriptures in a remarkable way. It’s almost as if, at times, one hears the ancient words in a new language—as if the music combined with the choir and soloists are producing a translation of the text itself. Yet just as astounding is the impetus behind the work—Jennen’s hope that the goodness and truth of the Christian scriptures would be more powerfully transmitted through beauty than through mere rhetoric. In place of arguments, Jennens produced an artful apologetic that stands the test of time and continues to touch the lives of those who experience it. Christians in an increasingly pluralistic society could learn much from Charles Jennens. Like him, it would be wise for us to trust so firmly in the Bible. The scriptures contain a world of majesty—their words have transformed lives for millennia and will continue to do so. Perhaps we, like Jennens before us, might begin to explore the power of art and beauty to guide our hearts and minds into goodness and truth. In a world full of rash arguments and rapid retorts, the wiser course of action may be to focus our energy and attention on the long and often quiet works of sowing justice, planting peace, sharing good meals, and creating good art. One of the ways I feel called to make the case for the goodness, beauty, and truth of the Christian faith is simply by telling the stories of the saints—men and women who, like Charles Jennens, invite us further up and further into the fullness of God’s kingdom. I was part of crafting a short film about Jennens during my time at Fellowship Bible Church in Arkansas and it played before the performance of Handel’s Messiah during the opening night of Fellowship’s arts festival. I hope you take the time to watch it and that it brings you as much joy as it brought my collaborators and I to make. Most of all, I hope that as you watch it you feel that Charles Jennens would not have you rest your gaze upon him but would instead invite you to raise your eyes heavenward in wonder at this beautiful world and the One who made it thus—the One who works even now to bring it to perfection. [1] Calvin R. Stapert. Handel’s Messiah: Comfort for God’s People (Calvin Institute of Christian Worship Liturgical Studies) (Kindle Locations 443-444). Kindle Edition.

[Editor’s note: Say hello to Drew Miller. Some of you will remember his band, The Orchardist, from the Local Show last month. I love the way he thinks about music. Read this post and you’ll see why.] Starting at about 47:06 in the video below, Chris Thile reflects on his style of composing music and says: “You can’t just pull the rug out from someone. That’s easy to do—finding high contrast is super easy. What’s difficult is making that high contrast seem inevitable in retrospect, that a need has been met that you didn’t know you had until afterwards. Essentially subversively creating an expectation and meeting that expectation, which amounts to, hopefully, expectations being exceeded.” When I first watched this moment unfold, much to my own surprise, tears were shed. What follows is me exploring the question: Why the tears? Because obviously, this is about more than merely composing music. My first guess is that I have always lived in search of shivers down my spine and mind-blowing moments. I believe that behind this search has been a love for the humbling thrill of having my imagination exceeded. In these moments, I realize that the world is more connected, cohesive, and true in its integration than I had thought. We all have a perspective of the world, and our perspectives allow for a certain degree of variety and a certain degree of cohesion within that variety. Yet our perspectives are woefully limited. So when we encounter another perspective represented through a piece of art, writing, or even lived experience that is more deeply cohesive than our own, we are brought down to size. We are humbled. There is a thrill in it, too, because these moments allow our own perspectives to enlarge and expand. We make more room in our imaginations for reality than there was before. Here are three examples of these humbling thrills in the realm of music: https://youtube.com/watch?v=W47kHPq9ngg%3F “My Legionnaire” by Brooke Waggoner: This song establishes its form, then departs from it in a way that ultimately coheres with and strengthens the entirety of the song. I first heard it in eighth grade and couldn’t believe my ears. https://youtube.com/watch?v=Ppn7eQSBdJQ%3F “Julep” by The Punch Brothers: When this song goes into the bridge section, it feels like it couldn’t possibly return to the first section of the song, yet it does flawlessly. https://youtube.com/watch?v=YYUDOEZ6BbU%3F “Sellers of Flowers” by Regina Spektor: This one has to do with the uncertainty of where the key center is. When we listen to songs, we interpret the whole song around the tonic note, which determines the home-base key: the one chord from which the whole song ripples out. So when a song bends away from that and modulates to another key, the center shifts and we feel like we’re going somewhere. The thing about this particular song is that the melody and chord progression work together to constantly evoke a sense of rapid motion in which every new chord feels like a new key center. I find music to be the epitome of the humbling thrill. I think this is because one purpose of music is to bring seemingly disparate pieces together. Wendell Berry writes, “In healing the scattered members come together.” He writes of grace, healing, and wholeness as near synonyms. You can’t have health without bringing fragments together into a whole, and grace is what it means to bring those fragments together. Music reveals the hidden cohesion behind seeming disparity. The key of G feels totally dissociated from the key of C sharp. In fact, those are tritones, as far apart from each other as they can conceivably be, and yet they are related. The circle of fifths reminds us that we can get from G to C sharp and vice versa, and to me that feels like hope. Music refuses to believe that the world is a fractured place. Notes resound within the grace of time. Strictly speaking, without time, there is no music. The relationships between tones give us ratios and harmony, but these relationships need time in order to unfold into melodies that tell stories, that “go somewhere.” Without time, the story aspect of music is lost. There is the old adage that there’s no healing medicine like time; music is a great microcosm of it. My dear friend Cameron Welke once paraphrased the words of music theorist Jean-Phillipe Ramaeu for me: “harmonic motion is motivated by the resolution of dissonance into consonance.” That doesn’t happen without time. Time allows us to go to unstable places where we’re suspended from the rhythm, the pattern, and the melody for just long enough that we doubt in our bones whether the rug that has been pulled out from under us will be replaced with another rug—and yet it always is. If it’s a well-written song, these moments of resolution will be satisfying in ways we couldn’t have imagined. If it’s a poorly-written song, then we’ll have the rug pulled out from under us only to fall flat on the floor. What are the sorts of things you think after hearing a bad song? Probably something like, “That did not feel complete. It did not feel whole. The parts didn’t fit together.” A half-baked idea does not do justice to the wholeness that all songs seek to achieve. Time is the key to that wholeness, the condition for music to reveal the fullness of itself. The problem is that we have inherited in this age a fundamentally fractured view of the world. No matter how we may depart from this view as we grow up, it is yet the ubiquitous backdrop behind our lives from which any departure is a tenuous journey upstream. We breathe like air the predominant assumption that the world is a place of competition, that all things are at odds, that my good must exclude someone else’s good. Life is a zero-sum game until proven otherwise. This is what many people mean by “individualism.” It’s not a very musical perspective. We’re intensely aware of how contestable our little beliefs are. When we confront the vast uniqueness of each and every person on the earth and all their perspectives, it becomes more and more exhausting to believe that we all fit together, that we can cohere as a human race. And yet we don’t just resign ourselves to this fragmentation; that’s not a very human thing to do. Our current state of desperation has only made us more thirsty for revelations of hidden cohesion. The stronger the narrative of disintegration becomes, the more we will know in our bones that it can’t be true. We will go on believing in a deeper wholeness to the world in spite of extensive contrary evidence. In a recent interview with John Dickerson, Stephen Colbert was asked how he felt about “post-truth” being Oxford Dictionary’s word of 2016. He responded, “That’s before God said ‘let there be light.’ That’s absolute chaos. That scares me.” There’s something catastrophic about this. Can we no longer agree that anything can be agreeable? Is the foundation of our very words and sentences now a thing of the past? Once upon a time, J.R.R. Tolkien played around with the word “catastrophe” and put the prefix “eu-” at the beginning of it. Speaking of “eucatastrophe,” he writes in his essay “On Fairy Stories“: “…it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence…of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.” He goes on to say that good fairy stories more often than not contain a moment of such eucatastrophe: “It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it…a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears…It is not an easy thing to do; it depends on the whole story which is the setting of the turn, and yet it reflects a glory backwards.” Is it just me, or is Tolkien speaking of something very similar to the “high-contrast moment” Thile got so excited about regarding music? Although fairy stories are not entirely comparable to music, there is yet a strong analogy between Tolkien’s and Thile’s insights. We come into one of Thile’s “high-contrast moments” with a certain extent of imagination. The moment then exceeds our imagination by showing us a greater coherence than we had known to hope for. According to Thile, as the moment passes, we realize in hindsight that it was inevitable. At other times he has even spoken of these moments as “genetically encoded” into the DNA of the music from the very beginning, like a recessive gene. Tolkien’s eucatastrophe “reflects a glory backwards,” he says. So the whole story is working up to this “turn,” and once the turn comes, it’s so miraculous that it sheds light on everything that came before it. Think of your favorite mind-bending TV show drama—mine is LOST—and recall the moment when you learned something about a character that changed everything. You had to pause it, catch your breath, and frantically reinterpret the entire series in light of this new revelation. Tolkien goes on to write: “The Resurrection was the greatest ‘eucatastrophe’ possible in the greatest Fairy Story—and produces that essential emotion: Christian joy which produces tears because it is qualitatively so like sorrow, because it comes from those places where Joy and Sorrow are at one, reconciled, as selfishness and altruism are lost in Love.” Jesus’ embodied life is the original eucatastrophe, the modulation of key on which the song depends, and the brilliant punchline. It is the central moment which, within the grace of time, shines a glory backwards and forwards in history. History was never merely linear with Christ’s time on earth as one more little point on the line among other points. Instead, all of history hinges upon him. He is where the stone hits the water in the pond and the ripples come out to every inch of space and time. Jesus stands up, reads a passage of Isaiah, and says, “This scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” And even now Jesus says to us, “I have come that you may reinterpret the Story, that your perspective would be exceeded by my grace.” This is why Chris Thile’s words put tears in my eyes. He’s not just talking about art; whether he realizes it or not, he’s speaking of the gospel. When we’re thrilled by a break in a pattern, a moment in a movie, or a song that does something we didn’t think it would do, these are little reminders of the true nature of the world as always more than we thought it to be. The gospel itself is the more towards which these trinkets point. It is the abundance, the grace, the healing we desire. So if the gospel is a thrill, it’s not a thrill of mere candy. It’s not a thrill of indulgence—rather, it’s a thrill of hope in which the weary world rejoices. It’s the thrill of an enduring hope, a deep, quiet hope that our insufficient imaginations may be subverted and exceeded by God’s own again and again. I will leave you with a poem I recently wrote called “Songs We Couldn’t Write:” Where Imagination fails Beyond the edge of light There live the tallest, truest Tales And Songs we couldn’t write Like the patient peace of trees We think to be asleep They yet resound the silent Speech Of roots hidden and deep Far away from fantasy And further still from fear They bear their ancient history For quiet hearts to hear Every child listens first In their own native tongue A heavy gift to tend the Thirst Inside of them begun All our works of good and ill Have from this Thirst been wrought Each desire to heal, to kill And every passing thought Some grow up to bitterly Deny their Thirst unquenched They’re wrong when they think themselves strong; Their fists are merely clenched Others crave a prize to earn, A treasure to attain They ever burn, their world upturned, Imagining in vain But in Hope the meek receive The failure of their sight And like the child none can deceive They wonder with Delight That where Imagination fails Beyond the edge of light There live the tallest, truest Tales And Songs we couldn’t write

There’s a little white church building in Connecticut that for many years has hosted concerts by me, Jason Gray, Andy Gullahorn, Eric Peters, The Gray Havens, Jill Phillips, and many more. It’s called Community Coffeehouse, and it’s run by some of the kindest New Englanders in the world. One of those New Englanders is a bonafide sculptor named Scott Lee Johnson. I visited his studio a few years back and marveled at the pieces he had made, many of them intricate, artful religious scenes like you’d see in Italy (the header image above is one of his pieces titled, “Jesus and the Homeless Woman”). A few years ago, Scott gave me one of the best birthday gifts I’ve ever received. He called and said that he wanted to drive it down—all the way from Connecticut!—and was a little vague about what it was. I knew he was a sculptor, and so of course I was deeply intrigued. Well, when he showed up and unveiled the gift, I literally gasped. Then I got goosebumps. Then (of course) I got a lump in my throat. This is what he gave me: I don’t want to spoil anything if you haven’t read the Wingfeather Saga, but this is Janner and a certain Gray Fang, from a scene in The Warden and the Wolf King. A priceless gift, and I’ll forever be grateful. But that’s not all. Scott went on to create four more pieces—two bookends, the first of Peet the Sockman walking on his hands (from book one), juxtaposed with the other of Artham Wingfeather cradling that same Gray Fang in his arms (from book two). It’s a picture of Peet’s transformation into the protector he was always meant to be. And here’s the awesome thing. These pieces are small enough that he can cast them and make a set JUST FOR YOU. But that’s not all. Scott also made a bust of the intrepid bibliophile Oskar N. Reteep, which makes an excellent addition to anyone’s library wall—and this one is also for sale, along with a small “sketch” version of the Warden and the Wolf King sculpture I mentioned earlier. Check out Scott’s website here, and support him by placing an order for these ultra-rare and lovingly made tributes to the Wingfeather Saga. I know Scott poured a lot of heart and time and skill into the crafting of these pieces, and it shows. Thank you, Scott, from the bottom of my heart, for making these pieces. It’s an honor.

Batman’s origin story is full of darkness. Orphaned as a child, taking on a the mantle of a bat to fight crime in the dark of night – no wonder he only works in black (or sometimes, very very dark gray). Maybe this is just another instance of trying to compare myself to Batman, but I also have an origin story that set my approach to color. I am a cartoonist today because of Charles Schultz. I spent most of my childhood reading and re-reading books full of Charlie Brown and Snoopy. I loved the world that lived inside those panels—the distinctive characters in funny poses, the way the story was doled out frame by frame—I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was training my brain to speak comics. In time, Peanuts was joined by two other comic masterpieces: Calvin and Hobbes and Pogo. All three comics used their bright color Sunday pages beautifully, but it was those black-and-white daily pages that drew me in. I gobbled up one after another like… well, like peanuts. So that’s how I became a black-and-white cartoonist. I’ve grown to read, re-read, and love many styles and formats of comics, but those three comic strips are still my first love (I re-read the entire run of Calvin and Hobbes every year or two). That focus on minimalist, cartoony rendering, line and silhouette has informed all my drawing… until now. The story of why I’m rebooting my old webcomic Getting Ethan is one that I’ll discuss in a separate post, but it really fired me up. My drawing style has only really gelled in the past two years or so, so it has been a joy to recreate this world the way I see it in my head. And color! I’ve always been preoccupied by line art, but that extra step of adding color is giving the comics that extra pop I’ve always looked for, and I there’s a satisfaction in a finished, colored page that makes me feel more energized, not less. I’m excited to do the same for Martin and Marco. My first book, Martin and Marco, has been sold out for several months. And my readers are not happy about it. I’m not happy about it. I want to bring this book back in print—but I also like the idea of bringing it up to the level that digital illustration has helped me to achieve in more recent comics. Enter Patreon, which I’ll be using to help support my current comics and save up for a Martin and Marco reprint. I love this idea for three reasons: Patreon backers will get to see the book come to life in color, page-by-page. It’s a great way to share the process with the people who are helping to make it happen! Building a fundraising campaign helps me justify juggling three major projects (a Getting Ethan webcomic, a remastered reprint of Martin and Marco, and completing work on a third book) in addition to my day job and freelance work. While I stand by the story in Martin and Marco, at the time, I was still feeling my way through illustration and self-publishing. I’m thrilled to be breathing new life into the visuals that will make the book feel more cohesive and vibrant. Check out the Patreon campaign and share with your friends—there are lots of great rewards available at different levels (including an entire ebook every month) and we’ve already broken through our first goal (two pages per week)! I have many more rewards and goals planned as the Patreon—and subsequently, my comics output—level up! Me and color. It’s good to be friends at last!

“The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”  — Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie I learned of the concept of the single story from a talk given by Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. In her now famous 2009 TED talk, the novelist explains that a single story of a culture or people is very common, but dangerous. At some point or another we have all assumed an understanding of what it must be like to live in, say, South America or China, but to have only a single story of those vast places in our minds is absurdly limited. When we have only seen or heard or read glimpses of other people groups and places, we tend to assign them a story based on these glimpses. Often the stories are so limited they are downright comical. I grew up primarily on the west coast: Oregon, mainly, for the first 16 years, with travel experiences to the north in Washington and to the south in California. This put me in contact with a certain west coast culture of relaxed, outdoorsy individualism that was pretty well matched by my experiences when I moved to Alaska to finish out high school. My peers in this culture dressed for comfort because on any given day they were guaranteed to — at a minimum — get their hands dirty. That was my single story of American life. When I graduated, I got a scholarship to a small university in Tennessee. I knew Tennessee was not going to match my experience growing up, but that was about all I knew for sure. My only glimpse of Tennessee (prior to arriving) was a single story of a “backwoods cabin Tennessee,” probably from books or movies. Upon arrival, I expected to meet at least a few cabin people. This is ridiculous to me now because, of course, even though I lived there for five years, I never once met a person who lived in a backwoods cabin. What I found instead were polished peers in crisp polos and khakis, accomplished musicians, brilliant playwrights, hilarious comedic writers, gifted financial minds, and some of the most disciplined athletes I’ve ever known. Thankfully, my two single stories very quickly grew to dozens of stories, and I was much better for it. I also provided another story to my college peers who had their own single stories. To them, the Alaska girl with too many flannel shirts to be wearing them ironically was the backwoods cabin person. As I shared my story, their horizons broadened as well. We probably all have some experience of this. I was lucky in that mine was not painful and actually made me a better person. The single story obstacle in my case wasn’t a big deal. But this is not always the case. Single stories are more dangerous on a larger scale, especially when accompanied by fear or judgement. These stories often focus on racial, religious, or economic traits. Sometimes our glimpses are from newscasts regularly highlighting the poverty of Africa or the extremists of Islam; other times our single stories come from actual stories — movies, plays, and books — with stereotypical roles for the characters. Our single stories can even come from what we have heard second-hand about a place or what we experienced first-hand on a short-term travel experience. It really doesn’t matter how we obtain our single stories. What matters is that, even though they are clearly limited, we tend to keep them. We tend to keep telling these single stories as we create and communicate because we simply only have the one to work with. This kind of limited understanding is fine for a starting place; after all, we have to start somewhere. But to stick with a single story for any people group or place simply defies logic. And yet, we have done it for a very long time. Why is that? One idea offered to explain this phenomenon is that we are more drawn to simplicity than we are to truth because we can control simplicity. Research shows that we are drawn to simple ideas more than we are to complex ones. We even buy according to what is simple over what is complex. If a website lacks clarity about what is being offered, we bounce more often than we explore further. The fact that our brains tend to prefer simplicity becomes problematic for more than just marketing execs when it comes to tackling more important things. Things like the truth. The truth is never simple. The truth can be complicated, paradoxical even. Often, it has the scent of mystery. This can make it uncomfortable to process and hard to accept. Because we are much more comfortable with what we can control, we prefer simple, often over-simplified, categories for our ideas. A single story fits this requirement. It is very simple and easily controlled. It’s easily obtained, explained, and replicated. It’s ridiculously repeatable. And this is the problem. Single stories are tenacious and infectious. They spread. And the more negative they are, the more so. They set up camp in our minds and imaginations and generate things like fear, condescension, and a lack of respect. They breed assumptions. Even when they generate pity, they prompt us to herd whole people groups into a corral of “them.” And it doesn’t end there. Besides the resulting words and behaviors wafting up from the stale air of our limited understanding, another challenge arises from the single story. A single story highlights how we are different, but neglects the balance of how, as humans, we are the same. This lopsided focus on differences stirs up division so quickly, the damage to relationships and cultures is hard to even calculate. Even when we never mean to do anything of the sort, we find ourselves caught up in it all. So what do we do? Back to me in Tennessee: I didn’t keep my single story of a backwoods cabin Tennessee for long once I got there. Why not? Because I was very quickly exposed to other stories. To my delight, my single story of Tennessee grew to be a collection of wonderfully diverse stories as I started to get to know my peers and build community with them. And it turns out that this is the best thing about single stories: they can be replaced with just a little effort to take in more varied ones. One of the places this happens organically is in community. Community is a positive transformation that happens to a group of people who come together with a shared intention of connecting and enough perseverance to get through the obstacles in the way of doing so. The reason for connecting doesn’t seem to matter much. What matters is that in almost any true community setting, be it a social or religious group, a 12-step meeting, or a group of parents at a regular playgroup, we take in more stories almost effortlessly. It’s just what we do in community. We show up and hear stories. And if we’re really intentional, we listen to each other’s stories. And we share ours, so others get to add to their collection as well. But what if we aren’t in community with anyone? How do we get community? We create it. At its core, community building is a creative act of the will. In her recent interview with Krista Tippett for On Being, Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat Pray Love and other best sellers, speaks of how we are all creators: “Creativity is innate. We are all makers, and we are descended from makers. Every human child does this naturally.” With our own ingenuity and creativity, we can create community and take in more varied stories from the people in the community. And there’s one more key: Community is created by makers who have chosen curiosity over fear. Gilbert says, “Curiosity give you clues, not a destination. Interesting people are interestED people.” With curiosity at the helm, each of us can become community creators, connecting with another, asking questions and simply being curious enough to take in more varied stories of our life together on this planet. And the more varied, the better. Where it happens or for what reason people are connecting matters less with community building than the fact that the participants are intentional and willing to persevere past the single stories to get a broader understanding of our life together. We can do this in reading groups, on sports teams, at project meetings, on the bus, or in the neighborhood. But it gets even better when we reach further — out of our regular routes — to find those who have grown from other gardens, come into town for other reasons. As we build community with those from more varied backgrounds, the new stories are like fresh water into our stagnant ponds. Everything gets greener, more oxygenated. The clouds clear when we get curious and start listening to the stories and joyfully gathering them in. So we have a starting place. We can overcome the single story with a resistance of curiosity, community building, and story gathering. We can refuse fear and choose curiosity. We can fight the heavy with the light. We can transform a “them” into an “us.”

Writers write because they have seen something in the world around them, and they want to show it to someone else. Why, then, do we writers spend so much of our writing time thinking about ourselves? You’re there at your desk, trying to work out the next sentence, and before you know it, you’re thinking about yourself instead: your failures, your ego, your word-count goal. You speculate on how you’re going to feel when you make your goal. You get a jump-start on the self-loathing you’ll feel if you fall short. You wonder what people are going to think when they read what you’ve written. You wonder if anybody will even read it. You question whether anything you’ve ever written was actually good. You buck yourself up, remembering that, yes, you’ve written plenty of good pieces–brilliant pieces, in fact. Which makes you suspect that you’ve already used up all your brilliance. You think about your friend whose blog gets twice as many comments as yours, in spite of the fact that he can’t write his way out of a paper bag. Then you ponder Edgar Allen Poe, who died penniless and alone in a Baltimore gutter. It occurs to you that you’ll never write as well as Edgar Allen Poe. In short, it takes about 45 seconds to decide that you’re the piece of crap that the universe revolves around. Just in the writing of this little post, I have experienced this self-absorption in many forms. I was going to knock it out and post it last Wednesday. Wednesday came, then Friday, and I still hadn’t sat down to write it. Monday rolled around–a fresh start. But since my post was overdue, I would need to make it extra-brilliant–more brilliant than I felt I was up for… Saint Augustine (among others) spoke of sin as incurvatus in se–a curving in on the self. This truth is nowhere more evident than in the neuroses and dysfunctions that so often accompany the act of writing. Self-absorption, self-consciousness, self-promotion, self-loathing, self-justification, self-doubt, self-aggrandizement–incurvatus in se. Writing demands a certain amount of introspection. But introspection doesn’t have to become self-absorption. In my own writing life, I have found that writing can be a means toward blessed self-forgetfulness. As I get absorbed in a subject I’m writing about, find that I am freed from self-absorption–and I am able to do good work. When I stop asking “What will my reader think of me?” I start asking, “What will my reader think about this person or event or idea I’m writing about?” And good things start to happen. I don’t live in that place all the time. I don’t even live there most of the time. But I don’t get much good writing done when I’m not in that place. In A Preface to Paradise Lost, C.S. Lewis evoked the idea of incurvatus in se as he explained why Satan rebelled against God and lost his place in heaven: “in the midst of a world of light and love, of song and feast and dance, [Satan] could think of nothing more interesting than his own prestige.” I write because I live in a world that is full of wonders and I count it a privilege to point out a few of those wonders to a few of the people I share this world with. I write because I live in a world that’s a whole lot more interesting than my own prestige. And yet I am forever stalling out because instead of looking outward at this astonishing world, I look inward. Instead of wondering at the world, I wonder what the world is going to think of me. So here’s my challenge to you, my writerly friend: be less introspective. Look outward at the world and at your reader, and leave yourself out of it. See what you see, and then write it down. [Editor’s note: Jonathan has an online class starting May 15 where I know he’ll have lots more writing advice to hand out. It’s called Writing with Flannery O’Connor, and you can register by clicking here. In June he’ll be offering an online class called Writing Close to the Earth.]

Little faces crowd around the table, counting together as drops fall into the Mason jar. “62, 63, 64…” The water balloons over the rim. Sixty-five drops ago, Flo asked the kids if the jar was full. “Yes!” they answered. But drop after drop lands on the surface, and still the water doesn’t overflow. One boy leans closer, eyes wide. “102, 103, 104…” Finally, one drop too many hits the surface, and water spills down the side. “Now you get a turn,” Flo says as she hands each kid a penny and a medicine dropper of their own. They count aloud, giggling as the water bubbles up and then spills over, often staying together even as it falls off the penny. “How many drops fit on your penny?” Flo asks when they’ve finished. “I got 35 drops,” someone says. “Did you think a penny could hold that much water?” The kids shake their heads. “Do you remember what special power water has to make it stick together?” An arm shoots up. “It’s cohesive!” “I wonder what would happen to the water in the world if God hadn’t designed it to stick together?” Flo then reminds the kids of the Creation Care Camp verse: What a wildly wonderful world, God! You made it all, with Wisdom at your side, made earth overflow with your wonderful creations. -Ps. 104:24 (The Message) From the cohesiveness of water to the dance honeybees use to communicate to the birdcalls in our backyard trees, we are surrounded by a world that is wildly wonderful. Psalm 104 invites us to slow down long enough to see God at work in the world. It invites us to wonder. At A Rocha, we see care for creation as a worshipful response to the God who created and loves all things. Our hope is to help Christians to take practical action to love and care for their places, and we believe that in order to love a place, you need to know it. Wonder is part of that knowing. It’s what I experience when I recognize Tennessee’s native river oats on a horseback ride through the woods or first identify a Carolina wren calling, “Teakettle, teakettle, teakettle.” The more we learn about and pay attention to our places, the more deeply we care for them, and the more we stand in awe of and are grateful to the God who made them. Through Creation Care Camp, kids are invited into this kind of wonder. Science experiments, Nature Breaks, craft projects, and games help them see, hear, touch, taste, and smell the wonder of the world God has made. As they extract DNA from a strawberry, dissect owl pellets, and close their eyes and listen to the birds around them, kids learn to see God as the maker, sustainer, and lover of all that he made—from soil and water to plants to bugs to animals to people. And, of course, Creation Care Camp includes plenty of opportunities to get dirty. After a few more words about surface tension, Flo collects the pennies and droppers, puts them under the table, and pulls out a bowl of garden dirt. “Do you like to play outside?” she asks. “I wonder if your clothes or hands ever get dirty?” A few kids giggle as they nod. “Sometimes, scientists say that soil is alive.” She holds up a teaspoon of soil. “There can be up to one billion bacteria in a teaspoon of soil. Isn’t that amazing?” The kids will mix soil with water and use it to paint a picture, but not before marveling at its intricacies and the ways it supports life. “We can thank God for holding the earth together and keeping it healthy,” Flo says as she closes the activity. “We can praise him for the beauty we see in the soil and even in the sand and the diatoms all the way at the bottom of the sea. What a wonderful world God made, and what a gift that he shares it with us!” Year One of Wild Wonder, the new Creation Care Camp curriculum from A Rocha USA, is now available. Learn more here (http://arocha.us/creation-care-camp).

I am an artist. I am a singer. I am a songwriter. I am a musician. I am a poet. I am an author. I am, however, also married to Joe Sutphin. The end. For many years, that would have been the end of this article. I’m sure some of you are in a similar position and I hope to encourage you by shedding some light on the dynamics of our situation. As a child, I would hide away for hours acting, singing, reading, and writing. Then, as the years passed, adult life began to squeeze those things into smaller and smaller increments of time. Adding to the pressure was the fact that I was a young, single mother of two small children. Being all things to these two little lives demanded all my energy and emotional resources. And then, I married Joe. Joe was young and I’m sure got much more than he bargained for. He entered into the role of father, husband, and provider all in one gigantic step. His talents were some of the very things that drew me to him. However, jumping into the middle of a full-swing family began to press and limit his time for those things as well. During the early years of our marriage, we played in a Christian rock band together. That served as a great outlet for artistic expression. He had basically stopped doing art all together, even though I was encouraging him to pursue it. But the pursuit of anything takes time. Eventually he began working on a novel. Juggling jobs, our family, the band, and his writing began to be too demanding to keep up with. The constant challenges of practicing, hunting for shows, and keeping band members finally pushed us to make a hard choice. We made the decision to eliminate the band from our lives, at least for a time. I continued supporting his efforts in art and writing. On rare occasion I would draw a small sketch. Perhaps I’d spend a few hours on my belly in the grass drawing a wild strawberry flower or a daisy along the stream. But for the most part, my creative outlets were few and far between. After several years the book was finished. The only response we received from publishers was one polite “Thanks but no thanks.” We self-published to have some copies, sold a few, gave a few away, and then shelved the project. Joe was still pursuing art and eventually we joined the worship team at our church. We took on the role of being leaders on the team. We either led worship or played on another leader’s team almost every Sunday. I also took on running the church café. In my world coffee qualifies as art. So for a time I had several creative outlets again. This continued for years and I honestly could have gone on doing it forever. But it was not to be. There came a time when we needed to step back, to sit and rest for a while. Church work can be very hard and we were dealing with extenuating circumstances in our own lives. Suddenly we became people who just showed up on Sunday mornings and sat in our seats. No more leading people in worship for three services every week. No practices or picking songs to match the message. No working with team members and helping them grow in their understanding of worship. No more shopping at multiple stores every week to find deals on café snacks. No training new volunteers on coffee equipment. No standing behind the counter talking with church goers week after week hearing their stories and trials. I fell into a void, a listless void. I was aimlessly drifting. At the time, we still had our day jobs. Joe was pursuing art and I was supporting his efforts. He was beginning to get more work in that area. Even with more time on my hands, I just couldn’t find the old me. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror anymore. She felt foreign. Joe attended Hutchmoot alone and the following year I joined him. It was such a strange and overwhelming experience. As the weekend progressed, I began to have the feeling that I was remembering myself. It was like a distant voice calling to me from the past. I recognized that voice as my own. In the year that followed, I made attempts to reconnect with that girl I used to be. There had been so many years of surviving the demands of life while supporting Joe’s dreams and talents. It was a hard habit to break. I may fancy myself an artist in many ways, but it’s difficult to describe the inner conflict you experience when partnered with someone who is better at everything you ever thought you were good at. In the middle of the demands of life, desires to do anything creative can quickly be crushed by thoughts that say “Why bother?” There’s also the struggle of handling the supporting roles that make life function while constantly watching your partner receive praise for the fun things you’d rather be doing. Further complicating our situation is my personality. It’s a bit of a quandary. I’m very logical and practical, yet also very artistic. These aren’t typically characteristics that go together. The logical, practical side of my mind puts the most energy where the greatest benefit will be reaped. In our world, artistically, that equates to putting my support behind Joe. But after Hutchmoot I began to rethink some of this way of life that I had become numbly accustomed to. I felt that maybe I had been too quick to chalk Joe’s talents up to being better than mine. The truth is that our talents are just different. Since not everyone likes the same thing, differences are important in satisfying the diversity of artistic tastes and preferences. The following year I attended my second Hutchmoot. I found myself in a session by Jeffrey Overstreet.  He began by saying “I have a friend who has a tattoo. It reads “Comparison is the thief of joy.” That is exactly what I had allowed. I have to work at things that are seemingly effortless for Joe, so I had stopped seeing my talents as valuable in comparison to his. I had let my own attitude defeat myself. This was a reality check I needed. I’m sure there are others out there that need it as well, so I’m opening up our world for a little glimpse inside to show you that you are not alone. Over the past couple years I have begun to reconnect and find value in my own artistic expressions. I’m relearning how to enjoy the things I’ve always enjoyed. In that process, I’m gaining new skills and more creative knowledge. I’ve taken on learning woodturning. I’ve also received my Master Gardener Certification through my local Department of Agriculture. I’m writing again and have contributed to the Master Gardener newsletter. I’m become more disciplined about spending time at the piano. But most importantly, I’ve been relearning how to appreciate me and who God made me to be. That same year at Hutchmoot, I sat in a session where Chris Slaten quoted Sara Groves. She said “For some people, I will be their songwriter.” Joe will likely be an illustrator to the masses, but for some people I will be their writer, their wood turner, their gardener. The best part is that now I am completely okay with that. I’m even content when “some people” is only an audience of one: me. P.S. (Literally an hour after I wrote this article, Joe was looking through a book illustrated by Bill Peet.  Joe said, and I quote “When I look at his stuff I feel like I don’t have any idea what I’m doing. I feel like I don’t even know how to draw.” The feelings are normal. We all have them. Don’t allow them to become a lifestyle.)

If you saw The Orchardist play at The Local Show last month or read “Chris Thile, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Eucatastrophe in Music” at The Rabbit Room, then Drew Miller needs no introduction. But here’s a proper one anyway! I had a chance to talk to Drew about his band The Orchardist’s forthcoming EP series, creative community, and, yep, The Lord of the Rings. Thanks for talking with me today Drew! Yeah, I appreciate this. I’ve been a Rabbit Room fan for a long time! Well, I hear you guys were awesome at The Local Show, so it’s about time The Rabbit Room community officially meet you. So, what’s one thing you want everyone to know about you? One thing? That’s a hard question. I guess that we’re inspired by a lot of literature, like the Inklings, Lewis, Tolkien… I actually just finished Lord of the Rings for the first time, which is really fun. Oh, congratulations! Haha thanks. I think a lot of times when people ask me about the influences for our music, my mind starts going to authors instead of musicians, just because conceptually and thematically there’s a lot of rich influence in countless books. We draw a lot from writers as well as singers, and that kind of sets the tone for how we write and what subjects we’re pursuing. I noticed while listening to your album some familiar turns of phrase and imagery from books I’ve read. I see how the authors influence not just the subject matter, but the poetry and phrasing. That’s a good well to draw from. Sometimes when people ask about our name, I like to say that’s what happens when a lot of Wendell Berry fans decide they want to play music instead of having a farm. Drew Miller Yeah, that’s really helpful to hear. Let’s me know it’s working! Sometimes when people ask about our name, I like to say that’s what happens when a lot of Wendell Berry fans decide they want to play music instead of having a farm. We aren’t called to farm, so we might as well hearken to the language of the orchard to breathe life into the vocation we are pursuing. Planting seeds and nurturing them… Yeah, totally! That goes a long way. There’s so much rich language in that. Who else is in The Orchardist, and how did you come together? Our other members are Janie who sings with us and occasionally whips out her harmonica. Tyler plays mandolin, and Camille plays violin. Janie, Tyler, and I met at Belmont. Tyler was down the hall from me in our first dorm, and we started playing music together. And then we met Janie that semester and became best friends. We’ve gone through several iterations of people in the group… at the beginning it looked very different. Camille came into the fold a couple years ago. She goes to the church that I went to in high school, so we crossed paths through that. She wanted to join, we welcomed her in… so yeah! It’s the result of collecting people, relationships weaving in and out over the years, and it’s been refined to us four now. I hope it’s okay to say the first time I listened to your music I was reminded of The Oh Hellos. I got that same sense from both of your bands that you’re just a bunch of people having fun together. I can hear the joy and community in it. That’s so encouraging! We love talking about artists in community here, so I’m wondering, how does the creative process go for you four? How do you create music as a collective? I think Tyler has a really good language for this, because his background is actually composing and film scoring. He has this great mind for arrangements and orchestration. He describes it as all the songs we ever play are an unfolding conversation. And so he wants whatever arrangements we find to serve the song musically, and for there to be fidelity between the theme of what’s being sung about and how the music is expressing that. In a way, that sounds like we’re loving each other with the notes that we’re playing. Sometimes we’ll pray before the show, and often when he prays he’ll ask, “may we play like we love each other. With every note we play, let it be like we’re sending a gift across the stage to each other.” We try to make that pretty central to everything, because that’s where we find the magic happens. I really would love to hear the stories about so many of these songs, but I probably need to just pick one. Well, go for it! Anything you want! Well, this morning I was listening to the record, and “Quiet, Now” got my attention: “Songs are priceless / Some are just cliche / We sing them anyway / To cope.” Would you say that’s your songwriting philosophy? Do you have any deep thoughts you want to share, because I was like “that’s so good!” Awww, I don’t know. It’s like a portion of my perspective. Because no song can totally encompass everything, like “this is my manifesto!” But it’s definitely… a sheepish song? It’s a little bit nervous to say what it has to say. I do own that for sure — there’s the question of the ultimate value of music in a commercialistic culture that wants to sell you something all the time. But then at the same time, we’re so saturated with content and songs that I wonder, what is their value? We have so many. Do we really need more? It’s the double-edged sword of wanting to ascend the value of each song that’s put into the world while admitting it’s kind of presumptuous to think I could add anything to the songs we already have. Does that help? That makes sense. As a writer and poet, I wrestle with that question too. Does it matter? I’m writing, and it feels good that I’m writing, but it takes so much to psych myself up to share it. Maybe that’s why it resonated with me? I’m glad it did! I think even the resonance is the proof or legitimizing factor in songs. We wonder all these things, but ultimately when a song, a part of ourselves, is shared in vulnerability, and its received and celebrated, that’s the justification of the sharing. Once we realize we’re all asking these questions and we all feel equally paranoid and self-conscious, the walls come down and we realize the pricelessness of everything we have to offer. Do you have a personal favorite on the new record? Oh man, it’s ever-shifting. I think it comes down to two songs right now: “Bleeding Heart” and “People, People.” “Bleeding Heart” is definitely the most ambitious thing we’ve ever done as a band, and it draws a lot of influence from The Punch Brothers. There’s an essay I wrote about Chris Thile and his perspective on music, and we draw a lot from him, musically speaking. It’s something we’re really amazed we put together. On the flip side, “People, People” is more humble, and when I first wrote it I wasn’t sure it measured up to the rest of the songs. And now it’s the title track because we realized its value over time. Because it’s the little guy! And you know, it’s such a good little guy. I think a lot of what we’re talking about in “Quiet, Now” applies to that song too. So the new album is People, People, and it’s coming out soon, right? Yes, it’s actually releasing in three parts, and each one is going to be four songs. Act 1 is coming out May 5th. Awesome! Any particular reason for dividing it up like that? Originally it was purely just because that’s how people listen to music now, in smaller chunks. We can have more fun marketing, making content, and getting more creative with it if we have three opportunities to tell the story and walk through it slowly. At first we were thinking we couldn’t do a whole album because nobody likes albums anymore, and we were sort of bummed out. But then we realized doing it this way could be fun. Finally, because this is The Rabbit Room… what was the last great book you read? Hahaha… well, since I literally just finished The Lord of the Rings a few days ago, that has to be my answer. That’s true. If you said anything else that would be wrong. Any other great books? Um… I’d have to think pretty hard about it. The Lord of the Rings took up all of my time for half a year now, so it’s been a long journey. I don’t remember anything before that. That’s totally fine… it’s so long! Have you gotten into any deep Tolkien yet, like The Silmarillion? Kind of? I was really excited about the creation narrative in the very beginning, and my friend let me borrow it. So I read the beginning eighteen times in a row, and I didn’t get much further than that. In theory I just want to sit down and slog through it, but man… there’s just so much. I read it last year… it wasn’t as much of a slog as I expected. It can be done! Yeah, you just have to get in the right mindset. It almost feels like there’s a Biblical tone cataloging great swaths of history, and it’s supposed to be more informative than immersive. But I want to read it. Someday it’ll happen! https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/01-Inside-Your-Head.mp3 People, People: Act I is now available for pre-order in the Rabbit Room Store, and it comes with an immediate download of “Inside Your Head.” Full release on May 12th.

I forget how much I love songs all the time. I’m not one of those people who just loves to write. I don’t know if that makes me less of a songwriter, but there it is. Whenever someone says, “I write because I have to,” I always feel envious and a little ashamed of myself, because I just don’t have to write. Life is full of interesting things, most of which don’t come with as much difficulty and self-doubt as songwriting, so it’s easy to avoid the grind of trying (and usually failing) to make something beautiful out of thin air. For whatever reason, after twenty-some-odd years of putting out records and books, I’m feeling exhausted and oddly content to not make music. It’s frightening, to be honest. Does it mean God has dried up the well? Does it mean I’m called to something else for a season? Last night I was talking to Jamie about all this, and she said, “It’s okay. You go through this every single time you make an album.” It’s one of the advantages to being married to your best friend for twenty-two years. She sees the pattern better than I do. And part of the pattern is that, when I’m lost in the wasteland of the blank page and wondering why I’m even there, there’s a moment when I remember why I got into this in the first place, when there’s some flash of inspiration upon hearing someone else’s music and I get the flutter in the belly that tells me that there’s more to be written, more to be sung, more story to be told. This morning, that flash came from Tom Douglas, a legendary songwriter here in Nashville. I did a songwriter’s round with him last year and I almost fell out of my chair when I heard him sing “Little Rock,” which was recorded by Colin Raye many years ago. An amazing song. Tom (along with Allen Shamblin) also wrote Miranda Lambert’s “The House that Built Me,” and about a zillion other great ones. I saw Tom a few days ago and was reminded of this video, which I urge you to watch, whether you’re a songwriter or not. It’s his acceptance speech from his induction into the Songwriter’s Hall of Fame a few years ago. “This,” I thought again today, “is why I love art. It’s why I love songwriting. It’s why it’s worth it to put yourself out there, to suffer the heart-wounds that come with the touring and promoting, the warring between hope and futility, pride and humiliation, gratitude and guilt.” Thank you, Tom, for these words. I’m a (relatively) young songwriter who needed to hear them today.

This year I started a project called The Adventures of Fenigus March. It will be a series of paintings with accompanying one-page short stories that will eventually be put into a book. The stories take the form of journal entries made by the intrepid collector Fenigus March as he explores the Islands and finds and doesn’t find what he’s looking for. My goal is to use the adventures to slowly reveal the true (and unexpected) nature of this fictional world both to the reader and to March himself. So it’s kind of a mystery/adventure/picture book. The closest thing I can compare it to is Griffin and Sabine, but even that isn’t a great comparison. Anyway, here’s the shot-by-shot process of the first painting. It’s called “The Tree of Life.” First, I used white chalk to sketch the crow and the tree and the fruit and the leaves on a canvas painted black. Then I got to work on the tree. I love painting bark. This takes place in early morning, so there’s low blue light raking in from the left. Here are some bark details. And the faint beginning of leaves. At this point I realized the perspective on the crow isn’t what I wanted. So I redrew him. Then I painted in the leaves and sky. I didn’t change the bark color – that’s just different lighting. Then I did the fruit. It’s supposed to glow, so you see its reflection on the branches and leaves. Finally I started working on the crow itself, adding different colors as I shaped his body. Next I realized the sky was pushing forward too much, so I darkened the sky and made it earlier in the morning. I continued working on the crow’s plumage. To finish the painting I added some fruit peels and a half-eaten piece of fruit. And stars. And then I photographed it with a real camera. Look for more posts on this evolving project!

A couple of years ago a friend introduced me to the resources available at the Bible Project. It may be that I am late to the party, however I have found myself turning to them increasingly often in recent months. If you are not familiar with the work of Timothy Mackie and Jonathan Collins, they describe themselves like this: “The Bible Project is a Portland based non-profit that utilizes short-form, fully animated videos to make the biblical story accessible to everyone, everywhere. We create videos, podcasts, and study guides that explore the Bible’s unified story by focusing on its overarching themes and each book’s literary design. We are committed to understanding the Bible in its historical context and communicating its wisdom for the modern world.” Initially, it was the Read Scripture video series that impressed me. Each short video uses animation to summarise a biblical book or theme, engaging with complex ideas in a way that is not only creative but also logical and thoughtfully structured. More recently, I have been enjoying the podcasts that form the basis of the new animated video series. If you have listened to Rabbit Room podcasts or attended Hutchmoot, the conversational style will feel familiar. There is an immediate sense that you have stumbled into a conversation between two guys with a genuine friendship and an infectious passion for the Bible. The more I study the Old Testament, the more captivated I am by the layers of story within it, not only painting a stunning picture of the heart of God and pointing to Christ, but laying the groundwork for a proper understanding of the New Testament. As an adjunct professor of Hebrew and Old Testament, Tim’s knowledge of the Hebrew language and culture bring a fresh perspective to the Biblical story, peeling away the centuries of Greek thought that often cause us to miss ideas central to both the Old Testament and the teaching of Jesus and the New Testament writers. With such a rich focus, it would be easy to become purely academic, producing something that is inaccessible to the general public. The beauty of the podcasts is that Tim and Jon manage to present strong, scholarly work in a way that leaves room for humility and natural humour. The video below is an introduction to the work of the Bible Project and the rest of their resources are available at their website www.thebibleproject.com.