Hutchmoot: Homebound is not just for adults. Right alongside the deep discussions and bookish hallways is an entire space dedicated to children called the Playroom (not to mention scavenger hunts and kazoos, which are for the enjoyment of children and adults alike). What might a child find in the Playroom, you ask? Well, we are only too glad to tell you. This year, visitors of the Playroom will be treated to special concerts from Randall Goodgame and Michael J. Tinker, episodes of The Slugs & Bugs show and Adventures of the Juniper, talks from favorite authors like S. D. Smith, Randall Goodgame, James Witmer, Carolyn Leiloglou, and Dorena Williamson, illustrators John Hendrix and Ken Priebe, and even a Poetry Jam hosted by Jennifer Trafton and featuring jam-related kids’ recipes demonstrated by Rachel Matar. Basically, it’s going to be tons of fun. Rabbit Room Members, Guess What! We’ll have some fun, special Hutchmoot content for members again this year! As for what it is? You’ll just have to wait—or become a member—to find out. If you want to learn more about what membership means you can read about it on the blog or on our Become a Member page.

For more than a decade, Thomas McKenzie was a beloved member of the Nashville community (and far, far beyond). Yesterday, on August 23rd, 2021, he was killed in an interstate crash along with his oldest daughter, Charlie (Ella). This loss is unreal and unfathomable to many of us. He was husband to Laura, father to Charlie (Ella) and Sophie, pastor to the Church of the Redeemer in Nashville, author of books beloved to many, speaker at nearly every Hutchmoot, lover of stories (especially movies), lover of the Body of Christ the Church, and my favorite person on earth from whom to hear the Gospel preached. He was also my dear friend. He was the reason I met my wife, and he married us. For the past decade, Thomas and I met every Wednesday at Waffle House for “Dude Breakfast,” along with my brother, Jonathan Rogers, Randall Goodgame, and a wealth of others down through the years, folks like Steve Guthrie, John Cal, Josh Shive, Rob Wheeler, even my dad. Thomas, though, was the anchor. If I overslept on a Wednesday, it was Thomas’s text that woke me up wondering where I was, and I’d hightail it to the booth by the window (usually) to order up my eggs and fixin’s, served by our delightful waitress, Moe. Thomas knew all the waitresses better than I did and he liked to keep them on their toes by refusing to settle into a “usual” (the man wasn’t afraid of a Waffle House cheeseburger at any time of day). And so for a decade we told our stories and shared our burdens and wondered over just about anything there was to wonder. There was a lot of laughter. It was good. Of stories told over eggs and waffles is fellowship formed. Thus has it been since time began. Thus it was for us. Thus will it be. It seems trite now to recount all the ways Thomas loved us, all the ways he loved his wife, all the ways he loved his daughters. Those who grieve nearly always make such accountings. Yet, I think anyone who knew Thomas would tell you he was a breed apart. As a pastor he was blunt, matter of fact, and could be shockingly irreverent, yet his love for Christ and his church was apparent beyond the rags of his indisputable humanity. And it was those ragged edges that drew many to him. It was those ragged edges that made us love him, because he was also kind and thoughtful and gracious in ways that never ceased to surprise and amaze me. He loved us as Christ did, and we did our best to return the favor. I received the Eucharist from his hands untold times. I admired his commitments to kindness and justice and love of his neighbors. He often spoke up when others thought he should have been silent, and the world is better for his voice and its wisdom. I can say with certainty that Thomas McKenzie is one of the reasons for my love of the Gospel today. I saw it in him. And because of him I wanted people to see it in me too. But yesterday his part in the epic story of Creation came to an abrupt halt. His thread in the tapestry was clipped and tied off. And for now, we go on without him. The fellowship is broken, and we cannot now know the full measure of his contribution to the great Story. But I see evidence of it everywhere. And while I trust in that day when the Storyteller will weave all things right and new, today the world is plainly broken and what I know seems so much smaller than what I don’t. This I know: My friend, long present, is now absent, and the unique shape he filled in our lives, in my life, no other human can assume. Damn death. And yet here we are. So be it. Fare forward, Thomas. Not fare well, but fare forward. Forward into the fulfillment of promises made when the world was young. I’ll meet you in the renewal of all things. There will be eggs and waffles. Until then, I will miss your laughter. I will miss your mostly-right opinions on movies. I will miss your wake up texts for Dude Breakfast. I’ll miss my dungeon master on D&D nights. But amidst all the things I’ll miss, I also recall how he loved his daughter and I find myself thinking over and over again that maybe in some way, by leaving us here, he was present, ready, and eager to escort his beloved child into the throne room of the King. When I try to see it in that light, I find I’m willing, perhaps, to carry my own missing of my friend a feather lighter. Maybe. Maybe not. It seems a thin comfort. Certainly it’s a mystery, and we do not sit well with mystery. I don’t know. Today I’m in a studio in Nashville recording a piece of a new stage musical. In the room next to me as I write this, a group of wildly talented musicians and singers are piecing together a song out of nothing, bringing art out of thin air, order out of chaos. The song they’re singing is called “Broken Things,” and it feels truer today than it did yesterday. “We’re in the business of broken—” goes the tune. “Holding our world up with clothespins / We might never break, but we’re still incomplete / in the business of broken things.” The song winds to a close and a character says “We run an orphanage. We’re proof that things have gone very wrong indeed.” That’s the business of hope: broken things. And days like today make it clear that things are off the rails. We’ve got our work cut out for us. Oh God, there’s a new widow in the world. Our hearts are broken with her and for her. And only a mystery can heal them. Put me to work, Lord. Let me be about the business of the broken until it’s made right. As Thomas blessed all of us so often at the close of the Sunday liturgy, I offer back this blessing for him: “Thomas and Laura and Charlie and Sophie, may the peace of God, which passes all human understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. And may the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit be with you, and remain with you always.” Come, Lord Jesus. Amen.

We have been eagerly awaiting the day when we can announce a brand new book from Rabbit Room Press, and that day is finally here! Now available for pre-order is Letters from the Mountain by Ben Palpant. Read on to learn more about Ben, his new book, and our upcoming online course where we will read and explore it together. In this memoir of the craft, Ben Palpant unpacks a lifetime of wisdom gained through the long, hard work of learning to write and to live well. Delivered as a series of letters from father to daughter, he patiently and gracefully paints a vision of what it means to enter into one’s creative work as an act of generative obedience—an act that blesses the writer, the work itself, and the world that receives it. Palpant reveals the creative process not only as an act of love and attentive artisanship, but as the work of shaping a life and a heart that points toward the coming of a Kingdom and the renewal of Creation itself. Upcoming Online Course Think of this reading group as a chance to read over the author’s shoulder as he pens letters to his daughter on matters of faith and creativity in community. It’s your opportunity to enter the intimate friendship that they share, to ask questions that spring up along the way as they discuss living generatively, and to be shepherded both by the author and by each other as we learn to use the gifts God has given us for the life of the world. You’ll also be given a prompt each week to make something beautiful (in word, art, music, or whatever form you’d like) and share with the group. Letters from the Mountain is not just for artists and writers. It’s a book that addresses the issues every Christian faces: learning to see what God sees, handling criticism, facing anxiety, the gift of the mundane, dealing with self-doubt, and much more. Click here to register for the online course. Praise for Letters from the Mountain “Sometimes you can read just one sentence and know that the writer has a gift. Ben Palpant is one of those people. This book on writing, framed as a series of letters to his daughter, is a window into his big, generous, and pastoral soul. There’s a lot of wisdom here, and I’m grateful for the way Palpant is using his gift to give it away.” —Andrew Peterson, singer/songwriter, author of the Wingfeather Saga “This book is a beautiful work of grace, bound by love and fueled by art, a blessing in every sense to the reader. I enjoyed every word.” —Jeff Goins, author of The Art of Work “In the beautiful epistolary tradition evocative of Rilke, Ben Palpant examines what it means to be an attentive writer of faith, and to pass the creative commending of God’s mighty works to a future generation.” —Carolyn Weber, author of Surprised by Oxford About the Author BEN PALPANT is a memoirist, poet, novelist, and non-fiction writer. He is the author of several books, including A Small Cup of Light, Sojourner Songs, and The Stranger. He writes under the inspiration of five star-lit children and one dog named Chesterton. He and his wife live in the Pacific Northwest. Pre-order Letters from the Mountain here.

Andy Gullahorn is a fixture on the Behold the Lamb of God tour. I’ve watched him play and sing nearly every year at the Ryman, marveling at the clarity of his voice, his touch, dynamics, tone, and sweet sense of taste on the guitar. He seems to do everything with ease, a kind of graceful, offhanded carelessness. Andy gave me a copy of Fault Lines after the Ryman show in 2016. On the way home, I put it in my van’s CD player and heard the first cut, “Not Too Late.” I’m a listener first, a lover of music, so when I first listen to an album I don’t hear it as a musician, trying to figure out chords or structure or rhyme schemes. What hits me initially is the “sonic landscape” and the lyrics. Fault Lines is an album to explore; it stands the test of repeated listening. The landscape of Fault Lines is built on Andy’s tone-filled, tasteful guitar playing, but the heart is of course lyrical. Andy’s understated vocals deliver his words with all the power of a trusted friend putting his hand on your shoulder. Driving home that night, I listened: Death has a strong grip, But there’s nothing like the power the hand of God can bring I’ve been to hell, And that’s how I can tell you with authority It’s not too late to change your mind, It’s not too late for the truth this time Not too late to fall on your knees, Not too late for apologies Grace is more than a concept to believe in It’s something more real than your beating heart It runs to the depths of where you are It follows you there, retracing your steps Whispering over and over again… That it’s not too late, not too late, not too late. Halfway through I had tears in my eyes, and when the song ended I hit replay. And this time I noticed the bubbling joy of the guitar lines down underneath, It’s not too late, not too late. Like his vocals, the guitar lines are still understated but they contrast the sparser verses, underscoring the revelation: it’s not too late. I had tears in my eyes again. The next song, “Is It Real?” grabbed me with the opening guitar tones, and then the lyrics began, sung in that same winsome attitude: There’s a man who looks like Donald Trump in front of me in the communion line… I smiled at the image contrasted with the incongruity of soft guitar and a sensitive vocal. As he finished the verse (hilariously written) I burst out laughing. Here’s a unique thing about Andy. He has a singular way of occasionally using an absurd and unexpected image to loosen tight lips and closed-up hearts. You let your guard down. Laughter opens your soul, and then he can put any number of good things in it. The next verse made me reflect and remember. By the end of the bridge I was crying, and by the end I was reflecting again—not just mental reflection but the kind that engages the heart. Fault Lines stayed in my CD player for at least a solid month. I soaked in it every time I drove anywhere. The most obvious words that come to mind about Andy’s music are honesty and grace. It’s honest to the bones, music without pretense in a world addicted to appearance, image, likes, and wanting to seem. His lyrics, singing, guitar playing, arranging, and production are infused with a bald-faced truthfulness, and a devil-may-care sense of ease. There’s a feeling of grace about it all, grace both as the unmerited favor of God and also grace as Jesus had it—the grace of a gymnast or ballet dancer coming from a deep core of strength. Although I’m sure he worked hard on this album, nothing in Fault Lines sounds labored. Everything, including the lyrics, sounds like it just fell out of Andy’s mouth or hands. C. S. Lewis wrote, “A sentence must both sound and say.” Andy’s words roll off the tongue like a conversation but carry images that go deep into the listener. He said “You’re never gonna lose my love. Go ahead and try.” So you drank from the river Until it all ran dry And you run from your conscience As fast as you can ‘Cause you’re going to Hell Again and again But oh, even then There is hope There is grace Even Hell is not a God-forsaken place From a musical perspective, the arrangements never get too big. There’s a temptation in popular music forms to take every song from a quiet beginning to a giant crescendo filled with guitars, keyboards, pounding drums, and singers belting at full lung capacity. This trick can easily turn into a way to manipulate the listener. Andy doesn’t go for manipulation; the simple honesty infusing his music is a much more devastating musical weapon. He maintains a gentle, subtle touch on songs like “I Want to Be Well,” even at their biggest moments. At a high dynamic of the album on “Make It Through,” as he sings harder, with more instruments playing, the production isn’t overdone; everything supports the lyric. Other songs, like “Not Going Anywhere” and “Freedom 2.0” (which, again, will make you laugh and cry), are sparse guitar treatments where the guitar playing, singing, and lyrics will keep your mind and heart engaged. George MacDonald wrote, “Friends, if we be honest with ourselves, we shall be honest with each other.” Andy’s music feels like the music of a friend who can be lovingly honest because he’s honest with himself. Listening to Fault Lines will always be a cathartic musical experience for me. If you’ve been wanting an album with depth, humor, insight, memorable melodies, and the real power that comes from honesty and grace, Fault Lines is it. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll reflect, and you’ll enjoy a sense of being washed and cleansed. Click here to view Fault Lines in the Rabbit Room Store. And click here to read our first Old Favorites post about Andrew Peterson’s Clear to Venus, here for our second about Arthur Alligood’s One Silver Needle, and here for our third about Sandra McCracken’s “Dynamite.”

[Editor’s note: The newest addition to the Rabbit Room Press catalogue is Letters from the Mountain by Ben Palpant, a memoir of the craft of writing and living delivered as a series of letters to his daughter, Kiale. In this special piece that follows, Kiale interviews Ben about the intersections between art, vocation, family, and faith.] Kiale Palpant: You began writing Letters from the Mountain over two years ago. What’s it like looking back at the origins of the process? And perhaps more importantly, what was the first idea or image or conversation that sparked what would eventually become this book? Ben Palpant: I started writing emails to you when you went off to college as a way of continuing what had long been our habit of talking about the intersection of your faith and your creativity. You’ve been imitating me since you were a little girl. You’d watch me writing at my desk or corresponding with other writers or underlining in the books on my shelf. I’d find you sitting in a corner with one and writing in it with complete seriousness at the age of three or four. Just yesterday, I pulled a book off the shelf and found your old underlines throughout. At any rate, I knew that you would need more than just imitation, you would need guidance if you were to avoid my pitfalls. You have always asked such thought provoking questions. I think it was your questions about creativity and faith as much as my own desire to learn more that forced me to read so much about it. And then, what’s more natural than to pass that knowledge along? And at the end of day, who would I rather write for than my own daughter? KP: It’s interesting hearing your side of those interactions. I mostly remember the admiration I felt for you. In a lot ways, it was inspiring getting to follow in your footsteps and have such a great role model but, as we’ve talked about before, it also came with its own set of pressures. You worked hard to make sure that I was still able to be my own person and have the freedom to explore the things that I felt called to the most without standing in your shadow. I think we’ve been able to navigate a lot of those pressures well, but I am wondering what kind of pressures exist on the other side of that relationship? Do you feel a sense of pressure or tension having a artistic daughter who imitates you? How do you handle that pressure? What is it like when you aren’t just a writer for yourself, but also a writer for me? BP: Hmm, how honest should I be on this one? I’m not quite ready to demythologize the picture you have of your father. Of course, the myth is probably standing on one leg already. I might as well admit to feeling quite overwhelmed, especially early on. But I feel a bit awed by it even to this day. It’s not as if there are easy answers to these kinds of questions on creativity and faith. The older I get, the less confident I feel in my answers. One of the ways that I navigated that pressure to be right in my daughter’s eyes was to offer her principles rather than simplistic answers. Principles allow us to move fluidly with wisdom rather than paint by numbers and I think this area in particular needs that kind of navigation. I wanted my letters to be helpful in navigating some of the practical difficulties that arise, but I also wanted to establish the why. Typically speaking, once we figure out the why, the how follows quite naturally. But I might be veering from your question. The real pressure that every father feels deep down in his bones is the need to be right, to not make mistakes. Generally speaking, the temptation is threaded through every man‘s efforts. Navigating that temptation with my daughter is, I suppose, like navigating it in life. I had to throw off the desire to be praised, the longing to have my preciousness petted. I had to practice living honestly and humbly in front of you. Creativity is a hard and stumbling road up the mountain with periodic vistas to enjoy, but mostly it’s just a long, hard slog. One step and then the next. You have to put your head down and trudge forward. Life is like that, too. You were always so observant and I knew that you would see me trip a lot. On my best days, I did not hide it from you. On my best days, I gave you a chance to see me not only fall, but get up again. That’s life, isn’t it? Quite a bit of falling on your face, but a lot of getting up again in God‘s grace to move forward in the power of his spirit. Living openly in front of people, especially one’s children, is as good a teacher as any, I suppose. But I thought it might be helpful to have something that you could physically pick up and read once I was gone, rather than relying on your memory which might fade with time. That’s a meandering and long answer. I’ll try to behave myself and stay concise in my upcoming responses. KP: Probably mostly from watching you, but also from our conversations, I learned very early on that tripping up in life is an enormous part of creativity. But I believe a large part of your admission of failure involved not just showing me the moments of tripping up but actually celebrating them. Many of my clearest memories are from the moments when you would throw a dinner party over a rejection letter or pat me on the back when I failed an assignment. How did this reversal in technique (from being ashamed of failure to celebrating it) come about in your life? How did teaching me to celebrate failure impact your own ability to cope with it? And how does the act of failure change when it is admitted to others, especially to your daughter? BP: Ah yes, I remember some of those celebrations! Celebrating failure was a great idea that I wish I could claim! Alas, it came from talking to successful people or reading about them. Regardless of their field, failure seemed to be a common denominator. Even the most spectacular failures proved to be steppingstones to growth. One of the most egregious myths about successful artists is that they were born with a level of talent that the rest of us lack. Sometimes that’s true. Most of the time, however, successful artists, like any successful people, have simply finished the work that others dropped at the first sign of opposition. If a person fears failure too much (we all fear failure to some degree or another), that person will not likely accomplish much. True achievement requires not only a high tolerance for failure, but an embrace of it. I wanted my children to learn it sooner than I learned it. As you know all too well, I had high expectations for my kids, but those expectations would have strangled you if I had not embraced failure along the way. To be human is to fail. The most noble and Christlike people I know have learned to turn failure into something beautiful. KP: Well the heart of this book is the idea that we are all traveling up a mountain, watching and following those who have come before us. You quote Antoine de Saint-Exupery at the beginning of the book when he says, “Think of those who went through it before you, and say to yourself, ‘What they could do, I can do.’” Obviously some of those people inspired this spirit of celebration, but many of them also inspired your writing and art. If you are this person for me, who are the authors and artists who have served as guides in your life? BP: Yes, yes! I wanted you to know that you’re not alone. That’s what so many other authors have done for me. You are familiar with many of my guides already: G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engel, Thomas Howard, Makoto Fujimura, and Andrew Peterson come to mind. That’s a short list of people who have encouraged me in the old sense of that word—they’ve given me courage. As far as I can tell they haven’t tried to make a name for themselves so much as give their gift away. They’ve also given me different ways to see what God has made beautiful and what I’ve been missing along the way. So they’ve helped me to think better and live better and they’ve been a good example of steady faithful productivity over a lifetime. You have your own list, I’m sure. Who have I missed on my list that you would push to the top? Who are the writers who make you feel less alone? KP: I think this idea of giving courage is really important, and I think it connects to a second part of encouragement and mentorship that you have consistently reminded me of: gratitude. Those who have gone ahead of me have not only taught me how to have courage but have also taught me how to be grateful along the journey, both of which are essential to being able to keep your eyes focused upward on the mountain. Gratitude seems to prevent me from constantly looking down, something that’s easy for me to do when I’m afraid or unsure about who I am or what I am doing. I think my some of my favorite authors—Rainer Rilke, Flannery O’Connor, Norman Maclean, Mary Oliver, Dostoevsky—have shown me the idea of gratefulness and courage, and the people I most admire—like you and mom, my grandparents, my teachers and professors—have shown me how to live those traits out. How do you think this dynamic between people in your life and writers you have read has looked in your life? And perhaps a second, less related question: as our relationship has developed and changed, how have our places on the mountain looked in your life? Have there ever been moments when I gave you a hand up the mountain or has it been pretty consistent? How has this felt for you? BP: I may be misunderstanding your question about the dynamic between people in my life and authors but I think there’s a connection between the direction my parents set in my life and the authors I’m reading along the way. My parents tried to point me in the direction of the mountain and I’m trying to follow it with varying degrees of success. The authors that meant a lot to my parents have had their impact on me as well and I have added to my parents’ list as I climbed behind them. In terms of your second question, I think there is a fluctuation in distance that’s quite natural. Early in your life, the distance was easy to see. As you’ve grown up, that distance has shrunk. There have been distinct moments when I felt that you were right on my heels and might even pass me if I didn’t keep climbing faithfully. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of parenting, to witness your children surpassing you in so many areas. Our job is to continue climbing. It’s not a race. It’s a calling. We’re simply answering the call. What are the ways that your childhood and my parenting helped you hear the call and answer it? KP: Well I think “the call” can be interpreted in a lot of ways. That’s part of the fun in life and also a cause for quite a lot of the confusion found in trying to figure out “calling.” My childhood and your parenting clarified that calling in a couple of ways. The first one was your constant reminder that, at the root of it all, I was called to do very simple things, usually explained by Micah 6:8, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” The second thing that I found growing up was that both you and mom constantly encouraged me in any pursuit I felt drawn to at a certain age, whether that was art or writing or even science. That encouragement helped me feel comfortable with some of this uncertainty around what a calling is, helped me simply enjoy the process of figuring it out. And in the meantime, I tried to fulfill those simple commands in Micah that you both reminded me of constantly. How has being a parent helped you hear the call and answer it? BP: I think parenting has helped me remember some of the things that I shouldn’t forget. Parenting forces the issues. I can’t very well forget the principles that I keep repeating to my children and my children tend to need those reminders on a regular basis. That doesn’t change too much with age. But yes, we feel so much pressure when it comes to “God’s calling” and much of that pressure is entirely unnecessary. Life is full of complications, but much of our calling in life is rather straightforward. I spend some effort in this book to help remind us all of some of those basics. I think by keeping the vision clear and achievable, next steps and practices are likewise more down to earth and achievable. Much of artistry comes down to just getting to work and much of the Christian life is the same. That being said, life has many competing demands and learning to prioritize is a necessary part of growing up. I can’t say I have achieved it, but having children has helped me realize that some of the urgency I felt in other areas of life could not compete with the little souls in front of me. Writing that poem or finishing that novel is important and not to be neglected in the long run, but real people in real time are far more important than the audience I may or may not have for my work. Calling and community are inseparable and we tend to find our calling by seeing the needs within our community and identifying the gifts God has given us to meet those needs. KP: Over the years, we’ve talked a lot about how community shapes creativity and faith, but another part of our ongoing conversation has also touched on the importance of place in our creativity. For instance, rivers are really important to both of us and have dramatically shaped both our imaginations. The memories of you taking me fishing on the St. Joe River have grounded some of the most significant things that I have created and written. How do you think the place and landscape of one’s childhood contributes to creativity, or even further one’s calling? How should Christians, whether as artists or otherwise, pay attention to the place they are in? What are ways they can learn to do that well? BP: Place plays a gigantic role in shaping us and, therefore, in shaping our creativity. Ironically, the impact is so huge that it’s practically invisible to most of us. An author I respect very much even went so far as to suggest that we are shaped by relationships and not by geography. He’s one of the wisest people I know so I feel sheepish disagreeing with him. We are, indeed, shaped by the people around us but we are also shaped by place. How can we not expect a country kid and a kid raised in a slum to be impacted differently by their surroundings? I have difficulty sleeping at night when I travel to cities because I grew up in the silence of countryside. I know people who have a hard time sleeping in the country because it’s so quiet. The quiet is too loud to them. Anyways, I think each of us is shaped by those things and what we make is colored by not only our relationships but our placeness. Someone growing up in the inner city will write differently than someone raised in the jungles of Asia and neither has an advantage over the other. They can be equally excellent. That’s why you should embrace what Faulkner called your “little stamp of native soil.” Explore it. Maximize it. Brand it on your memory. Find in it what is beautiful and redemptive. It’s really about paying attention and we are notoriously bad at it. As an artist or writer, your job is to pay attention. Artists rarely make something entirely new; they generally just wake us up to what we have failed to see all along. This might seem tangential, but it’s worth exploring how the desire to be exceptional is connected to our desire to be someone else with someone else’s experiences rather than being content with our place and our childhood. Don’t we all feel discontented, as though we might have done something worthwhile had we been born at a different time and in a different place? KP: Your last question, I think, is why it is so important to pay attention to the place we are in and find the aspects of it that we should listen to and let feed into us. As Mary Oliver writes in her often-quoted poem, we should “pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” That, I think, is a very succinct way of describing the way place ought to feed into creativity and how equally important it is to be content where we are. How easily our focus strays to other places or people or times that we wish we could experience. In some ways, the place we live in becomes its own being and character by influencing us. To what extent do you think place is just a context? Or does it function with its own kind of character and life and being? How does place and land function as its own kind of character within the books that you’ve read and your books in particular? BP: I think that’s a great way of looking at our “little postage stamp of native soil.” It is its own character in our lives, touching us and shaping us in unique and deep ways. Growing up on a small river—the sound of running water over stones, the call of Osprey, the anxious behavior of the sandpiper, the smell of river water—has shaped my heart’s speed and inclination. The rhythms in my prose and poetry find their source in the countless hours I spent walking up and down that river fishing each morning and evening. That’s why I am drawn back to water so much. When I’m away from it, I grieve its loss as I would grieve the loss of a dear friend. I miss the way it makes me feel, the way it informs my thinking, and the way it steadies my restless heart. C. S. Lewis famously said that every good author makes the geography of the book as compelling as its characters. His beef with Alexander Dumas was that Dumas had no place in his stories, only plot. Many of us don’t slow down to pay attention and are in grave danger of losing place-ness in our art. The rate of living and the technological push to live more efficiently have robbed us of the ability to know even the names of the plants at our feet or the names of birds that we hear singing in the long grass. I’m as guilty as the next man. I’m not saying, by the way, that place is as important as people. I’m saying that the effect on my soul is similar. KP: Dad, let’s shift trajectories as we come in for a landing. This book of yours gets to go into the world and have its own effects on people’s souls. What are your hopes as the book goes from your own mind and heart and into the lives of other people? How do you think this book might effect and encourage people in ways that your other books might not have? BP: To some degree every book is like a child. You raise the child as we’ve raised you and send her into the world and trust God to use the child (or the book) for good, but you can’t control the results. The results are often surprising. My first book, A Small Cup of Light, recounted my journey through suffering and a health crisis that has impacted me to this day. That book has encouraged many people through their own valley of despair and I give thanks that the Lord has redeemed my suffering in that way. My two poetry books have likewise had an impact, but largely in strengthening souls for the encounter with life and with God. This book is unique in that it is an intimate dialogue between a father with his daughter over ideas that are precious to both of them. I can’t predict how it will be received, but I know that it comes from a place of deep feeling and conviction and love. I hope it provides some of the why for Christian artists as well as the how. So, for example, why should you create? What is that thing that compels you to write? Or how does an artist deal with criticism or anxiety or ambition or balance a day job? Or how does craftsmanship and community work together to make something beautiful? So many other wonderful writers have written books on creativity and faith and I could never claim to be the final word on the topic or to have superseded them in excellence. All I know is that I did my best work for you, dear girl, and I trust that it will have a universal appeal as a result. The planting is finished, the harvest is up to the Lord. The timing of your question is also interesting. I am in the middle of reading The Gift of Asher Lev by Chaim Potok. He writes, “Art begins when someone interprets, when someone sees the world through his own eyes. Art happens when what is seen becomes mixed with the inside of the person who is seeing it.” I suppose that in the end, that’s all I have tried to do: create something beautiful, how I see creativity and faith mixed with the inside of me. I hope the results are lovely to more than just the two of us. KP: Well, I think your last comment about how art begins when someone interprets is key to both the writing process and the way in which this book takes on a life of its own upon entering the world. While you may give principles that are consistent and steady, the applications and nuances of these letters will change and take on character as each reader interacts with them and puts them into practice. It creates a kind of continuum, or perhaps a very tangible representation of what it means to travel on a mountain—each person adding to the handholds and giving a hand to others. BP: Indeed, you’re reaching an age that gives you more and more opportunities to lend a helping hand to your father as he continues up the mountain. What a joy for me! I don’t see this book as the end-all answer to all questions but as a continuation of our conversations and an invitation to more dialogue. Of course the book is full of principles that don’t change, no matter where you are on the mountain, but the applications might change given where you are in life. I’m hoping this book serves as a reference point as we continue together up the mountain. Here’s a question to wrap up this interview. How do you see our conversations on creativity and faith changing in the years to come? I certainly hope they continue for a long time. KP: I think you’re right that our conversations have gradually grown from you guiding me to a more mutual respect in each other’s writing projects. A huge part of this has been the fact that I have gotten to take my own path into the writing world. I think being able to accumulate my own arsenal of experiences has allowed me to bring new ideas to the conversation just as you have done for so many years. So, in answer to your question, I can only see the conversation growing as we grow—continually bringing in those new experiences and lessons, even while we share those key principles and creative longings that have made our relationship so close and sweet for all these years. This book is a reference point then, not just to review and look back to, but also to mark this moment in our lives even as we continue to move up, to find new paths up the mountain, and make mistakes and successes as we go. BP: I’m so glad you feel that way. If I believed in luck, I’d say I’m incredibly lucky to have such a sweet relationship with my daughter. I’m so very blessed that God would give me such a gift with you and your four siblings. Great relationships between a father and his kids seems to be more and more rare these days. How much more rare is it to actually share a similar calling and to be climbing the same mountain together? Well, this has been super fun! We’ll have to do it again some time. For now, whether it’s too smarmy or not, I’m going to close this interview with the blessing I used to speak over you at bedtime: The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you and give you peace. I love you. KP: Thanks Dad! I love you too. Click here to pre-order Letters from the Mountain in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with singer-songwriter Taylor Leonhardt. Taylor Leonhardt‘s second solo album, Hold Still, releases in September, 2021. (You can hear several of the songs already on streaming services.) This week on The Habit Podcast, Taylor and Jonathan Rogers discuss what it means to be God’s idea, and coming to terms with the truth that we are all in suspense and incomplete. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 35 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

It’s time for our Fall 2021 season of The Local Show, live from North Wind Manor, beginning on Tuesday, September 7th with Becca Jordan, Drew Miller, Jeremy Casella, and Son of Laughter! Every other Tuesday night, starting on September 7th, North Wind Manor will be reverberating with good music and good company. Tickets are $10 and you can get them at RabbitRoom.com/events. And if you can’t join us in person, you’ll be able to tune in at 7:30pm CST on our Facebook, Vimeo, and YouTube pages. Other artists who will make an appearance this season include Eric Peters, Jac Thompson, Andrew Peterson, David Keener, Zach & Maggie, Taylor Leonhardt, Andrew Osenga, Moda Spira, Jay White, Ella Mine, and many more! Stay tuned for more artist announcements as lineups are confirmed. Sponsoring the Local Show Our heartfelt thanks to our friends at Ronald Blue Trust for making this fall season of The Local Show possible. In order to create a quality Local Show livestream and offer it to the wider community, we need to reoutfit our equipment. We also want to care for our artists—especially now—by paying them well. If you’d like to be part of supporting The Local Show and the artists we love, please email us at info@rabbitroom.com for details on becoming a sponsor. Click here for tickets to the September 7th Local Show, and here to view all upcoming events at North Wind Manor.

As we head toward Hutchmoot: Homebound and the rundown/roundup/hoedown/low-downs are sent out, you may notice some messages to our Rabbit Room members. For folks seeing those messages and wondering what this whole membership thing is about, I’d like to take a moment to tell you what it means to us. After all, there are gym memberships and club memberships—the term can come with a whole host of assumptions or misunderstandings, and it’s often associated with some sort of exclusive access you can buy your way into. But at the Rabbit Room, we approach things with a different spirit. We chose the term “membership” intentionally back in 2013, and I want to take a moment to expound on what it means to be a Rabbit Room member. When we say membership, we mean it in the Wendell Berry sense. In The Wild Birds, Burley Coulter says, “The way we are, we are members of each other. All of us. Everything.” Membership is about coming together as a community in common belonging and purpose. Rabbit Room members are those who believe in the importance of the mission here and have committed to sharing in the responsibility for the well-being of this work, this place, and this people. Membership makes it possible for us to offer free and affordable works to the community. As always, we want to approach community from a Kingdom-centered mindset, and members are both beneficiaries of and partners in that. Shigé Clark This last year and a half, more than ever, have borne out the difference that membership makes. Because of our members, during a time of economic upheaval when other organizations have had to pull inward and batten down the hatches, the Rabbit Room has been able to turn and support artists, musicians, and ministers in need. Members create a foundation of support that the Rabbit Room can rely on to build programs and put new works into the world, and they help speak into that work. The Hutchmoots, the Molehills, the podcasts, the Local Shows, the book releases, (the secret projects)—all are possible due to the faithful involvement of a group of people who’ve decided that they have a place at the Rabbit Room in a deep and lasting sense. As Matt McCullough said in a blog post about the book Jayber Crow, to belong to a community is “to be implicated substantively, not just sympathetically, in the ups and downs of a place and its people.” This means that members join in stewarding the mission and are included in the ongoing vision. In that substantive sense, they share in the work by giving a recurring monthly donation of $25 or more, and we have updates and conversations on current happenings, as well as upcoming goals and projects we’re dreaming about together. We strive to embody that Berry-esque sense of mutual service toward each other. We want to live out membership from a place of gratitude, so we send quarterly gifts to our members to thank them for being a part of the work. Yet, it’s important to us that membership be inclusive. So, aside from the mug, there are no programs, products, or services offered that you can only get as a member At the end of the day, members are joining the Rabbit Room in a work of service. The support, prayer, and input they provide not only go toward the creation of new and wonderful things; they also enable us to operate from a place of generosity. We can offer free and affordable works to the community—like North Wind Manor events, the Podcast Network, and the Local Show—while putting donations toward new works and supporting artists and those in ministry. As always, we want to approach community from a Kingdom-centered mindset, and members are both beneficiaries of and partners in that. If this sounds like you, consider joining us in that service! If the Rabbit Room mission is your mission, if this has been a community that has blessed and bolstered you, if you love the work God is doing here and want to see it continued, if you’ve found your sense of place here, then know that this is for you. We have new dreams on the horizon, and we need our members to help us achieve them. Our goal is to reach 100% operational stability through membership—to get to a place where we as a membership (yep, that’s me too) cover all the administrative needs that keep the Rabbit Room running, so that every donation can go directly to the programs, services, and creative works that make up our mission. We believe what God is doing here through story, music, and art is vital, and we want you to be a part of it all! And to all those who are already participants in the membership of the Rabbit Room, thank you. It’s one of my greatest joys to get to see your faces at events or at our zoom gatherings, and I can’t wait until I can start seeing you more in person again. We’re glad and grateful to be doing this together, and I look forward to all of the cheeses, and befuddlements, and surprises yet to come. Only after joining this community did I finally come to understand when Paul says “I do not cease giving thanks for you.” And I don’t—for this place, and these people, and the work being done here, I’m unceasingly grateful. If you’d like to join the Rabbit Room membership, click here! (And just to make sure we’re not confusing any of our Tennessee folks, Rabbit Room membership doesn’t confer any legal rights of “membership” as defined under the Tennessee Nonprofit Corporation Act.)

by the Rabbit Room The Habit Podcast is a series of conversations with writers about writing, hosted by Jonathan Rogers. This week, Jonathan Rogers talks with Dave Radford of The Gray Havens. The Gray Havens ‘s upcoming album, Blue Flower , is inspired by C. S. Lewis’s autobiography, Surprised by Joy and explores “inconsolable longing” and every human’s homesickness for a place they’ve never been. In this episode, Dave and Jonathan discuss the ways that joy is both a spur and a guide for creative work. You might also check out the Blue Flower Podcast , in which Dave talks through the origins of each song on the album. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 36 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with Ashley Hales , a writer, speaker, and host of the Finding Holy Podcast. Ashley Hales ’s new book is A Spacious Life: Trading Hustle and Hurry for the Goodness of Limits . In this episode, Jonathan and Ashley discuss a paradox: embracing your limitations can create more space and lead to greater creativity. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 37 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

by the Rabbit Room This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with Ben Palpant, a poet, memoirist, novelist, and writer of nonfiction. Palpant’s new book, Letters from the Mountain , is a collection of letters to his daughter about writing, creativity, paying attention, and generativity. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 38 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com! Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

Rabbit Room Press is pleased to add a new book to its collection: now available in the Rabbit Room Bookstore is Letters from the Mountain by Ben Palpant. Read on to learn more about Ben, his new book, and our upcoming online course where we will read and explore it together. In this memoir of the craft, Ben Palpant unpacks a lifetime of wisdom gained through the long, hard work of learning to write and to live well. Delivered as a series of letters from father to daughter, he patiently and gracefully paints a vision of what it means to enter into one’s creative work as an act of generative obedience—an act that blesses the writer, the work itself, and the world that receives it. Palpant reveals the creative process not only as an act of love and attentive artisanship, but as the work of shaping a life and a heart that points toward the coming of a Kingdom and the renewal of Creation itself. Upcoming Online Course Think of this reading group as a chance to read over the author’s shoulder as he pens letters to his daughter on matters of faith and creativity in community. It’s your opportunity to enter the intimate friendship that they share, to ask questions that spring up along the way as they discuss living generatively, and to be shepherded both by the author and by each other as we learn to use the gifts God has given us for the life of the world. You’ll also be given a prompt each week to make something beautiful (in word, art, music, or whatever form you’d like) and share with the group. Letters from the Mountain is not just for artists and writers. It’s a book that addresses the issues every Christian faces: learning to see what God sees, handling criticism, facing anxiety, the gift of the mundane, dealing with self-doubt, and much more. Click here to register for the online course. Praise for Letters from the Mountain “Sometimes you can read just one sentence and know that the writer has a gift. Ben Palpant is one of those people. This book on writing, framed as a series of letters to his daughter, is a window into his big, generous, and pastoral soul. There’s a lot of wisdom here, and I’m grateful for the way Palpant is using his gift to give it away.” —Andrew Peterson, singer/songwriter, author of the Wingfeather Saga “This book is a beautiful work of grace, bound by love and fueled by art, a blessing in every sense to the reader. I enjoyed every word.” —Jeff Goins, author of The Art of Work “In the beautiful epistolary tradition evocative of Rilke, Ben Palpant examines what it means to be an attentive writer of faith, and to pass the creative commending of God’s mighty works to a future generation.” —Carolyn Weber, author of Surprised by Oxford About the Author BEN PALPANT is a memoirist, poet, novelist, and non-fiction writer. He is the author of several books, including A Small Cup of Light, Sojourner Songs, and The Stranger. He writes under the inspiration of five star-lit children and one dog named Chesterton. He and his wife live in the Pacific Northwest. Purchase Letters from the Mountain here.

Leading up to Release Day for Ollister B. Pembrick’s Creaturepedia (tomorrow!), young aspiring fantasy writers were invited to submit their very own entries for a chance to receive a copy of the book signed by Andrew Peterson. The entries were hilarious, creative, and delightful (no doubt!), and it is with great pleasure that we announce the winners and runners up. Drumroll, please! Winning stories will be posted here at the Rabbit Room blog in the upcoming weeks, and as evidenced by their titles, readers sure are in for a treat (smelly!). For today, here are the names (and titles!) of the winning entries. Wonderful job, all of you! Ollister Pembrick would be so proud and pleased to see his work carried forward through your creativity. 9th-12th Grade Winner: Out of the Deeps of the Dragon King by Rose Swillum 6th-8th Grade Winner: Notes Regarding my Encounter with the Elusive Snorthog by Calen Lotspeich 3rd-5th Grade Winner: A Letter from Mr. Quiggle to Mr. Pembrick Regarding the Discovery of a Cronker by Annie Butler Click here to view Pembrick’s Creaturepedia in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

The Rabbit Room Store has just added a delightful new book to its collection: Pembrick’s Creaturepedia by Andrew Peterson. This detailed companion is essential to all who travel to the lands of Skree, and a must-have for all Wingfeather Saga fans. Now with all-new illustrations! Sketcher, adventurer, disguiser, and sneaker Ollister B. Pembrick roamed all of Skree with a sketchbook and pen, searching behind every tree stump and under every stone, in every river and on every hill, to discover and document the endless living wonders of the Maker’s world. He risked life and limb—quite literally—to compile sketches and details of the creatures of Skree, usually from the cover of a hollow log, a hedge, or a pile of leaves. Refer to this carefully documented Creaturepedia before traversing through the Stony Mountains or harvesting fartichokes within a fortnight after a sandstorm. The drawings and field notes about squeeblins, toothy cows, oiples, and more will surely save any explorer’s life and will definitely keep them—and their appendages—from being gobbled. Tread carefully, young adventurer. The creatures within are not to be trifled with. Click here to view Pembrick’s Creaturepedia in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers talks with poet and co-founder of Bandersnatch Books, Rachel Donahue. After years overseas, Rachel Donahue settled into life on a property that had been in her husband’s family for generations. Paying attention to that piece of land transformed her poetry. Beyond Chittering Cottage is a collection of the poems that grew out of that new attentiveness. In this episode, Rachel and Jonathan Rogers talk about stewardship, place, and writerly friendship. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 39 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

I was fourteen when I came to Hutchmoot for the first time. My mom knew it would open my eyes to a whole new world of art and storytelling, and she was right. I had never seen anything like it and I was overwhelmed by the poetry and artistry all around me. I soaked up the words of speakers I had looked up to for years, listened to authors read aloud from books I loved, and admired the wonderful culinary creations that were set out for everyone who attended—but I admired the feast from a distance. At almost every meal, there was nothing I could eat. In eighth grade, I started having allergic reactions to a list of foods that slowly chipped away at my ability to eat at restaurants and friends’ homes, and that was just the beginning. When I came to Nashville for the first time, I packed a bag of snacks and bars and anything I could think of that would get me through Hutchmoot. In between sessions I sat at the table with a cup of water and tried to engage in the conversation without looking at people’s plates, trying not to be too self-conscious about the empty space in front of me. I was terrified of the inevitable and inexhaustible questions: Are you not hungry? Did you already eat? Really? Why can’t you have dairy? Afterwards, I would sneak out of the conference and eat almond butter and gluten-free crackers in the car. Hutchmoot was the best part of my year and I came back, time and time again—but that one aspect, the thing that brought everyone together on equal ground, the table set for hundreds of people, was impossible for me to approach. As high school wound down, I started dealing with strange symptoms that confused and concerned every doctor I saw. My brain was fuzzy, my stomach swelled, and I was fatigued and anxious all the time. I cut out more grains and that helped until it didn’t, so I kept going. Over the next three years I cut out every food that I was reacting to, one at a time. Bananas made me break out in hives. Anything with soy made me sick. Sugar made my heart race. Sugar replacements gave me such bad brain fog that I couldn’t do my homework. When my church served communion, I had to pretend to take it and hide the juice-soaked crumbs in my hand until I could throw them away. In the end, there were only six foods I could tolerate: two kinds of meat, three vegetables, and seeds. I was malnourished and exhausted. I kept telling myself that it would get better, that someday I would return to the world of taste and delight and community. I would return to the table at my church, at restaurants, at friends’ homes, and at Hutchmoot. Senior year of college brought COVID-19 and still no answers from my doctors. Hutchmoot: Homebound was a light in the shadow and I rejoiced when my Moot Kit arrived at my door. I opened the kitchen packet when instructed and realized I couldn’t use anything in it. I was six hours from Nashville in my own apartment with my own kitchen and I still couldn’t find a seat at the table. I made it through college…barely. At the end of my fall semester senior year, my parents had to come pick me up from school a few weeks early because my body shut down on me. I rested and recovered and finished my degree but the experience left its mark. There were a few dark moments when I didn’t think it would ever get better. Things have changed since then. Over the last year or so, I have started to improve, and right now the list of things I can’t eat is shorter than the list of things I can. Every new challenge that my body overcomes fills me with joy. I can go into a garden and eat the fruit off the vine. I can eat apples and artichokes and broccoli and blueberries and it feels like a miracle. I bought a gluten-free muffin at a farmer’s market the other day and there were tears in my eyes. Food is glorious and unique and beautifully created for the enjoyment of God’s people, and when I can share in that blessing, I can’t help responding with excitement and gratitude. There will be people who come to Hutchmoot who are hurting, who can only eat six things, or who struggle to celebrate God's good creation in freedom, but my prayer is that for everyone who gathers, whatever their meal looks like, wherever they are in the world, this Hutchmoot: Homebound would hold an image of the final feast where no one is left behind and everyone can be brought in. Carly Marlys Hutchmoot: Homebound is right around the corner, and finally, the subtitle “A Seat at the Table for Everyone” is true for me. I can’t eat everything, but my heart and my body are healing and I can truly celebrate the good creation of God with those around me for the first time. In the middle of a difficult season, this year’s Hutchmoot is a time of redemption and reclamation. I grieve the time that I lost and the time that I stood on the outside looking in, but I can celebrate the time that I have this year, as people around the world praise and magnify God’s creation in all its forms, whether that be a poem by Malcolm Guite or a perfect strawberry. There will be people who come to Hutchmoot who are hurting, who can only eat six things, or who struggle to celebrate God’s good creation in freedom, but my prayer is that for everyone who gathers, whatever their meal looks like, wherever they are in the world, this Hutchmoot: Homebound would hold an image of the final feast where no one is left behind and everyone can be brought in. May this conference be a hopeful marker of the better day that is coming. May we all taste and see that the Lord is good.

Jonny Jimison is back with the thirty-fourth edition of his beloved comic, Rabbit Trails. Click here to visit Jonny Jimison’s website.

Every year, as October approaches, I feel like there’s a little extra promise and anticipation in the air—partially just because I love the fall season, but in large part because October means Hutchmoot.⁣ Even though this will be the second year in a row that we can’t gather together physically, I can still sense the coming magic of a weekend where thousands of folks across the country (and across the sea!) are attending sessions together, eating tasty snacks, discovering new music, and meeting new friends. I’m no different from anyone else in that I find it difficult to describe Hutchmoot and what makes it special—but if I had to boil it down to a few things, I’d say it’s a lighthearted occasion of ceremony, of marking another year with another feast, of refusing to let cynicism and devastation keep us from the simple act of celebrating life and art.⁣ ⁣Put even more simply, Hutchmoot reminds me that humans make stuff. And that humans are really, really good at making really cool stuff. And that creativity is not a specialized trait, hoarded for the enjoyment of the privileged few, but the very condition for living in and making something of the world.⁣ This year’s Hutchmoot is a special one, and it starts tomorrow! If you want to jump in, you still can. At HutchmootHomebound.com, a $20 ticket will give you full access to a whole stinkin’ website crammed full with surprises, outrageous humor, rich conversations, new discoveries, and plenty of adventures that will take you 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 from your computer.⁣ Creativity is not a specialized trait, hoarded for the enjoyment of the privileged few, but the very condition for living in and making something of the world. Drew Miller I speak for the whole Rabbit Room staff when I say that we are positively giddy with excitement. We cannot wait for all our work and play to spill over into this conference, and especially for that unique gladness of watching creativity unfold in new and unexpected ways among guests and participants. It’s truly an over-abundance, the kind of joy that isn’t complete until shared.⁣ I can’t believe I get to be part of this beautiful work. I’d love if you joined me and the whole Rabbit Room team this weekend! We’ll see you there. Registration for Hutchmoot: Homebound will remain open until the end of the day Sunday, October 10th, and 90% of content will remain available for the rest of October. Click here to register.

In his Sunday Chef’s Address, John Cal referenced The Little Prince and made an insight that has stuck with me. He said, “It’s like when the Little Prince discovered a planet full of roses, when at first he believed that his one single rose was unique and special in the universe. ‘It is special because it is your rose,’ the Fox tells him, ‘Not that it is unique, but that it is yours.'” Every year, Hutchmoot fills me with several nearly-indescribable gut feelings—and I know at once that I won’t feel them again at that intensity until next October. This Little Prince quote awakens one of those deeply-felt feelings in me, and I’ll try to describe it here. It’s the sense of having labored long and hard at the keeping of this rose which is mine, never sparing a moment to look up from the ground, until I’m tapped gently on the shoulder and beckoned to rise and see that planet full of roses—and not only the roses themselves, but the gardeners and caretakers of those roses, talking and laughing and showing one another the work of their hands. At that sight, two emotions course through me in rapid succession: first, the rather juvenile disappointment that my rose turns out not to be the only rose in the universe after all; and second, the more mature relief that I am not alone in this work, that there are voices other than my own, voices that have insights to share which I might not have considered before, voices that sound pleasant, welcoming, and so graciously new to my ears. To put it more conceptually, I experience Hutchmoot as a profound antidote to individualism—and yet, that doesn’t mean the forgetting of oneself. It means precisely what the Fox meant: the recovery of a true vision for why it matters that I tend to my rose. Not because it’s the only rose to ever exist—the fantasy of rampant individualism—but simply and unglamorously because it is mine. The true Story was still told, the songs of redemption still sung, and the vision of a new creation still imaged on canvas. We don't have to be at our best for these things to happen, and in fact, we may be nourished all the more for it. Drew Miller The beauty of this is that once I learn what gifts belong to me and honor them properly, I am freed up to notice and delight in the gifts that belong to others. Here’s some of what I noticed this weekend: nobody tells stories from such a deep well of faith as Walter Wangerin, Jr. The hospitality of Sho Baraka’s lyricism—how he teaches and encourages and challenges and tells the truth all at once—that is his rose. Whenever I listen to Sara Groves talk, I come away wanting so badly to write another song. She’s so very good at that. Dave Barnes is hilarious, but more than that, his humor is such a beautiful entry point into the vulnerability of not taking oneself too seriously. Kyra Hinton knows how to facilitate collaboration better than anyone I know, and the fruit of that labor was absolutely stunning in the art studio! Malcolm Guite has so thoroughly internalized the poetry of the gospel that it flows through him like an electric current, and that rose is marvelous to behold. And speaking of poetry, I hear Hannah Hubin’s work and am left wrestling with its implications and contemplating truths beyond telling. That’s her rose. And that is just a very small sampling of the roses that were on display this weekend! Not included in that list is the extravagant creativity of all the Hutchmoot posters that attendees shared on the virtual fridge, the whimsical playfulness of Huntmoot, and the list goes on and on. There’s one more gift that arises from the proper naming of the rose that belongs to me and the roses which belong to others: even the responsibility of caring for my rose does not fall entirely on my shoulders. It requires my care and attention, but it also requires sunlight, water, and mysterious gifts that only appear by God’s grace. And that’s another one of those indescribable feelings I experienced this year. I don’t think it’s overstating the case to say that every single speaker and artist contributed their rose out of a place of deep exhaustion from the past eighteen months of life on this planet. But the embarrassment of riches that we were still able to enjoy testifies to a source of life far more lasting than the dried-up wells of our own efforts. One miracle I saw this weekend, then, was dozens upon dozens of rose-keepers pointing us beyond their own work, to the Keeper of us all who has held us and sustained us in the face of immense pain, loneliness, and grief. The true Story was still told, the songs of redemption still sung, and the vision of a new creation still imaged on canvas. We don’t have to be at our best for these things to happen, and in fact, we may be nourished all the more for it. So allow me to ask—and please leave your answer in the comments section—what is your rose? What did it feel like to glimpse the roses of others? How have you been nourished? What did you notice, what spoke to you, and what will you carry with you from this weekend into your daily life? The Hutchmoot: Homebound website will be accessible to attendees throughout the month of October.

[Editor’s note: Needless to say, we at the Rabbit Room are among Ollister B. Pembrick’s biggest fans. So one can hardly imagine our surprise and delight upon being shown this recently discovered letter from Pembrick himself. It was brought to our attention by a student and eloquent writer named Calen Lotspeich as part of Andrew Peterson’s Creaturepedia writing contest. In fact, we are pleased to report that, with this letter, Calen won the 6th to 8th grade section of this writing contest! Well done, Calen. And to our readers: enjoy, and may you remain safe from all nibbles.] To my Dear Readers, It has been my pleasure to inform you of the many beasteries of this vast world. This is another confounding creature as documented by your humble servant. The woods were creaking as my beswaddled toes tread quietly along the trail of the most confounding of all Aerwiarian creatures, more even than the Snikbuzzard’s bellybuttoned girth. At last my searching eyes fixed upon a flaming fwooshy tail. The creature was hideously beautiful: its hoggish nose dribbled sluggish snot, its luxurious mane of many colors bounced upon its wrinkly head, and its robe-like body mostly masked its many legs. The beast’s thin coat was a riot of colors; like paint on a canvas of mold. My first inclination was to whip out my beloved sketching book and sketch the hoggish creature. My pencil began depicting in rapid swooshing strokes the Maker’s handiwork. I looked up from my art to find my eyes in close proximity with the snottish, dribbling nose of the very Snorthog I was sketching. I was startled but relieved when I realized that the millipeidish monster was but a gentle giant. It in fact seemed utterly absorbed in my work in effort to depict it. The creature’s flamed tail floofed happily amongst the dry grass where it stood, setting it ablaze. I fumbled with my water supply, and, removing the cap, doused the blaze into nothing. Illustration: “Snottamus” by Aedan Peterson Unfortunately, the quenching of the fire emptied my canteen and I was without refreshment. The Snorthog, sensing my need, helpfully dribbled into my jug. I thanked him but had to explain that however nutritious it was to him I could not (easily) drink the generous inundation of mucus that he had given me. It seemed to understand and slogged away in despondency. I attempted to overtake it to offer my apologies but, sensing a chase, it took to its heels and disappeared into the thick brush. And so, my fellow creature researchers, I end this letter and shall write again soon. Cordially, Ollister B. Pembrick P.S. Edd Helmer, if you are reading this, I am sorry about your ship, but at least we got to see a dagger fish feeding frenzy. [Editor’s note: This was the winning entry for the 6th-8th grade section of the Creaturepedia writing contest. Congratulations, Calen Lotspeich! The runner-up was Priya Gingrich’s Bean Brew With a Monster on the Side. Well done, Priya! To view the names of all the winners of the writing contest, click here. Next week, we’ll treat you to the winner of the 9th-12th grade section: Rose Swillum’s Out of the Deeps of the Dragon King.] Pembrick’s Creaturepedia is now available in the Rabbit Room Bookstore.

To accompany the release of the newest title to Rabbit Room Press, we invite you to join the Letters from the Mountain online reading group! It opens October 18th and will include weekly Zoom chats with author Ben Palpant. Read on for more information and a link to sign up. Think of this reading group as a chance to read over the author’s shoulder as he pens letters to his daughter on matters of faith and creativity in community. It’s your opportunity to enter the intimate friendship that they share, to ask questions that spring up along the way as they discuss living generatively, and to be shepherded both by the author and by each other as we learn to use the gifts God has given us for the life of the world. You’ll also be given a prompt each week to make something beautiful (in word, art, music, or whatever form you’d like) and share with the group. Letters from the Mountain is not just for artists and writers. It’s a book that addresses the issues every Christian faces: learning to see what God sees, handling criticism, facing anxiety, the gift of the mundane, dealing with self-doubt, and much more. The “live” version of this book group (including the online discussion forum) opens October 18 and will include Zoom chats with the author every Thursday night at 6:00 p.m. CST for four weeks (October 21, 28, November 4, 11). However, you are welcome to join at any time, even after the live chats have ended. The discussions will be archived, and the online forum will be open indefinitely for new registrants to continue reading and discussing the book. Click here to register for the online course.

This week on The Habit Podcast, Jonathan Rogers interviews Don Chaffer for a special episode of his Sad Stories Told for Laughs series. Don Chaffer is a singer-songwriter (Waterdeep), composer-lyricist-librettist (Son of a Gun, The Unusual Tale of Mary and Joseph’s Baby), and professor (Lipscomb University’s School of Music). His stories are often sad and often funny—and often at the same time. In this “Sad Stories Told for Laughs” episode, Don Chaffer talks to Jonathan Rogers about the difference between embarrassment and shame, ironic distance, and other matters. Click here to listen to Season 3, Episode 41 of The Habit Podcast. Transcripts are now available for The Habit Podcast. Click here to access them. Sponsorship on the Podcast Network Are you interested in teaming up with us to support the work you love? Send an email to info@rabbitroom.com! Rabbit Room Membership Special thanks to our Rabbit Room members for making these podcasts possible! If you’re interested in becoming a member, visit RabbitRoom.com/Donate.

When it comes to talking about poetry, there is often an invisible line that can prove difficult to navigate. On the one hand, in any mixed group of people, there will be those who are familiar with, and proficient in, how to approach a poem or a poet. Such people have found their own point of entry with poetic work, and need very little encouragement or instruction on “how to read.” On the other hand (and this may be the more sizable group), there are the uninitiated and slightly intimidated. They love words, they love poetic work, they have treasured a small bouquet of favourite pieces, but they live with a sense of alienation and inferiority about their approach. Aside from familiar lines, the idea of “studying” a poet sounds like a fearful enterprise, something which should only occupy those in the world of undergraduates or postgraduates. Anyone seeking to provide information or inspiration about poetry runs the risk of patronising the first group of people, or of marginalising the second. In this short series of posts, I have taken upon myself to strike something of this balance, but with a definite leaning towards encouragement of those suffering from a literary inferiority complex. My chosen poet is Seamus Heaney, partly because I have read his poetry since my early teens and am familiar with most of his work, and partly because he makes a superb case study. A few nudges and nods with regard to Heaney’s writing and biography can yield a rich harvest for those concerned to read him for themselves. To encounter his work on its own terms is a life-changing experience. In this post I want to suggest some guidelines for approaching and appreciating Heaney’s work, providing a basic tool kit for digging into his poetry. In subsequent posts I will highlight some themes and preoccupations which appear throughout his written output, and will provide some gentle and subtle pointers as to why these might be profitable areas for Christians, interested in the arts, to explore. Start at the beginning One of the dilemmas of becoming familiar with a poet’s work is the question of where to begin. A well-edited “selected” or “collected” works rarely gives a guideline about the sweet spot where the heart and soul of the poet can be located. Beginning with the later work of a poet can be attractive as the cream of their creative endeavours may seem to lie there, but we could be depriving ourselves of key connections and resonances from their earlier work. Starting too early might seem like the most obvious option in mere evolutionary terms, but occasionally early poetry (or “juvenilia”) is a pale reflection of the power a mature poet is capable of. The answer to this riddle often depends on the temperament and slant of the poet themself. Seamus Heaney’s early work is the best place to begin, particularly his first collection, Death of a Naturalist. Here Heaney is at his most transparent, his most personally confessional, and many of the keynotes he strikes in this work are sustained right across his later collections. Death of a Naturalist embodies much of what is best about Heaney’s poetry—lyrical skill, a slow savouring of words and sounds, and a locality of subject matter which gives way to universal human themes. These poems are riddled with the incidental, but they are charged with atomic poetic power in which the yard and the field, the schoolhouse and the flax dam, all provide a gateway into Heaney’s emotional life, and our own. This is a much more sound way of reading Heaney than jumping too quickly to his Selected Poems. There is a consistency and coherence in Death of Naturalist which is reliant upon hearing all of the poems in co-ordination with one another. The collation of these poems is almost as important as their original creation. Assume the ordinary One of the risks run by readers of poetry is that of forgetting the real world from which poems emerge and with which they engage. This is a particular problem for those who wish to appreciate Irish poetry. Perhaps because of the Celtic Twilight which the young W. B. Yeats conjured, there can be a temptation to look for a false significance in poetry. This means that the reader is so primed for a “hidden,” “deeper,” or “legendary” meaning that they allow the concrete details of the poet’s work to pass them by. This is a kind of allegorical reading which assumes that any “second level” of meaning on the poet’s part must be of primary concern. His style and demeanor were those of a neighbor speaking across the fence, and the humour of his words was most clearly betrayed by the continual sparkle in his eye. Here was a man at home in his world, and in love with the words that could capture its essence. Andrew Roycroft Seamus Heaney helps us to escape this. One of the chief things to bear in mind with Heaney’s poetry is that he is observing and describing his own world, and that his work is concerned to convey it with accuracy, poignancy, and significance. This was driven home to me on the one occasion when I heard Heaney read his poetry in person. His wonderful translation of Beowulf was just being released, and he spent an evening in Belfast reading from it, and reflecting on the work of the poet. What emerged from that evening, more than anything else, was how profoundly ordinary Heaney was as a man. His style and demeanour were those of a neighbour speaking across the fence, and the humour of his words was most clearly betrayed by the continual sparkle in his eye. Here was a man at home in his world, and in love with the words that could capture its essence. This is of fundamental significance for appreciating Seamus Heaney’s work. Assume that the material from which his poems spring is the ordinary matter of life in Ireland, the childhood experiences, the friends and acquaintances, the historical circumstances, the significant places and spaces. Heaney’s work advances themes from the flora and fauna of lived experience, and there is a literal earthiness and earthed-ness which demands that the reader come down to the soil before they think about scaling the heavens. Undoubtedly this ordinary matter is charged with, and upscaled by, the big human themes with which Heaney wrestles, but the things described are not a foil for propaganda or pontification. The material of life matters in Seamus Heaney’s poetry, and is the very medium from which great ideas are effortlessly mined. Hear Heaney himself Some poets’ work is best read by others, but not Seamus Heaney. Heaney’s voice is one of poetic integrity and transparency, and so the most natural way to encounter his writing is by hearing him read it himself. There is no divorce between his idiom and his accent, his poetry and his personality, and to hear him read his own work is to grasp something of its weight and dimensions. In 2018 Faber and Faber released Heaney’s Collected Poems on audio CD (or in a 3 part series on Audible) in which the poet reads his entire body of work. This not only an aural treat, but a vital point of content with the poet’s tone and his texts. Having read Heaney for many years, it was only when I heard some of his poems audibly that I grasped the emphasis and the heart of what he was saying. There is a care and gravity with which each word is handled, with which emphasis is laid, and this will gain a lot of ground for the reader in terms of understanding the context and content of the poems. Hearing Heaney himself is a joy, and he is a vital travelling companion through the wonder of his own work. In my next post I will isolate what is arguably Heaney’s most famous poem, “Digging,” and explore its preoccupations and living application for us as readers, and for those concerned with the dignity of their own creative vocation. [Editor’s note: Andrew Roycroft is an excellent poet himself—if you’d like to become acquainted with his work, click here to read his “Grace Triptych,” written during the initial COVID-19 lockdowns.]

When I think of the most impactful conversations I have had, the one hour I spent talking about art and poetry with poet and professor Scott Cairns several years ago stands at the top of the list. I can see now that some of my most cherished ideas about art and poetry—the importance of tradition, the necessity of discovery, the power of perseverance in the work, the fact that the writing life is just another way to live a normal life—were planted in me like seeds during this conversation. I want to share it now in hopes that Scott’s ideas will benefit you as much as they have me. Andy Patton: How do you create your work? How do you live the writing life? Scott Cairns: Just keep reading. The writing life is primarily a reading life, so you just keep reading. The writing life is healthy so long as you keep reading. As soon as you stop reading and imagine that you are on your own, you are pretty much done. Even if you keep turning out books. The funny thing about those books is that they will sound a lot like the books that came before, and that’s because you are running out of gas. I think that the only way to survive is to have a really vital engagement with the books that precede you. Literature is really a conversation, and when you are a writer you have to understand that you are now taking up your part of the conversation. You don’t walk up to a group of your friends and just start yammering—you listen for a while and find out what they’re talking about and then you weigh in. That is how literary study is. You engage the conversation and find out what we’re talking about, how we are talking about it, what the ways are that we might talk about it. You won’t be eclipsed by the tradition, and you won’t be stuck in a solipsistic, isolated sense of your own self-worth—which you will be if you don’t engage that tradition. AP: How do you live the writing life in the real world? SC: We have to learn not to say things like that. I don’t believe I have ever left the real world. I’ve been an academic for a while, but it feels pretty real to me. I have children and dogs, a mortgage. What’s not real about that? AP: I guess the question is, how do you make time for writing? SC: How do you make time for writing now? AP: It gets drowned out too often. SC: Do you have a prayer life? AP: Yes. SC: How do you make time for that? A: I suppose I just make time for it. SC: So you have a discipline? Well, maybe that could be the answer. You could develop a discipline for writing that is like your discipline for prayer. The reason I resist the phrase “real world” is that it is so commonplace. I think in many ways a scattered, distracted business world is a lot less real than one in which you are paying attention to your heart and your soul and your mind, and nurturing those things. AP: So your advice to the writer who wants to write, but doesn’t know how to begin to go about doing it, is simply to be disciplined and write? SC: To be disciplined and read with your yellow legal pad handy to write down whatever provokes you. It’s sort of like writing poems. When it’s time to work on writing a poem, I always begin with my legal pad and my pencils and I read until something provokes a response. Then I chase that on the page until I run out of gas and turn back to reading. It really is a dialogue and conversation which you establish with the text. It’s not like you are going to get through this text some ossified meaning; it is rather that you honor the text in front of you as vital and as having agency and power. AP: It sounds like you’re saying that in order to be original you have to be firmly grounded in others’ original work. SC: Well, sure. My sense of original writing is writing that bears the marks of its origins. And authenticity. The Greek word from which we get authenticity, authentes, is an old word that has to do with ceramic work and the mark of the hand. Authentic work has the mark of the hand that shaped it. So authentic and original—yeah, that’s what we want. You have to think of it as a collaborative endeavor. Vocation is finally not a way to do something; it is a means by which we are given something we would not otherwise receive. Scott Cairns AP: The common understanding of the meaning of the word original arises out of prohibitions against plagiarism, which separates what anyone else has done from what I am now putting forth. SC: Yeah, well. I don’t care about that. A good example is Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who read a lot and didn’t worry at all about how what he read found its way into what he wrote. Smaller minds did accuse him of plagiarism, mostly out of jealousy I presume, but if you look at what he did, he didn’t copy anything. He reworked everything. He was influenced and then kept the river flowing. Every art has a tradition. To understand a discrete work of art in the midst of a tradition requires—unless you don’t care about honoring it the way should—an awareness of the art that led to it. There are naïve practitioners of given arts who don’t know anything and they are mostly a product of good marketing than anything really worthy. The really interesting artists to me are the ones who know what came before them and have engaged it and take what they want from that tradition and employ it. Their own visions are influenced by the tradition. AP: What is the relationship between talent and training? SC: I don’t know if I believe in talent. I guess there have been times when I have had students who have really, really wanted it but couldn’t get it, so maybe there is some fire or gift that is required. I kind of think not, though. I prefer to think that we are all called to something and we must pursue that with all of our energy. In the case of writing, keep your butt in the chair until you’ve made something. Discipline is required, and perseverance, and not really caring about what anyone else thinks. That’s a part of it too. You can’t be writing in order to gain approval. That’s backwards. That dooms you to a certain kind of writing. I think that if there is such a thing as talent, it is worthless unless it is accompanied by discipline. I think those are some of the least happy people in the world, the ones who have a certain kind of gift and then squander it through laziness or whatever else gets in the way. I kind of resist the idea that some people have it and some people don’t. I think everybody has something. All the students I’ve seen have gotten better through discipline. AP: How long does it take you to write a poem? SC: There’s no one answer to that. AP: What is it like for you to be in the process of writing a poem? SC: Prayer and poetry haven’t much in common, but the one thing I think they share is a quality of stillness. You cultivate a habit of being able to descend. You descend into your heart and the word on the page and everything gets quieter and then you just mess with the words like they’re clay. That’s what it’s like to be doing it. Some people don’t like that. They don’t want to labor at that level. They seem to want to have an idea and then express it, so there is a lot of stuff that looks like poetry. AP: What do you think the fundamental difference is between merely having an idea and trying to express it, descending into that creative space? SC: One is expository writing and the other is poetry. There is a lot of expository writing that passes for poetry just because the writer doesn’t use the whole paper. You can make it look like a poem on the page but you are still making an argument. It’s essay writing. There is something that you want to express that precedes the making of the thing, but it will never be a poem then. It will only be a poem if you started messing with words and the words led you into saying something that you didn’t know to say—then you are in the presence of poetry and you can work with that, continue to shape it, find out what you want to say. That’s how you make a poem. AP: So it’s not a poem until you discover something? SC: Right. It is not a poem until someone discovers something. It may not be you. I think it really is a discipline. That’s what a discipline is. You have a sense of calling. I think a lot of us have a screwy sense of calling and think we are called to serve. A calling is really a gift. It is another way God reveals more things to you. So poetry, if that happens to be your vocation, the thing to which you are called, can’t be thought of as something by which you give something to the world. It is actually a way that you get something. Prayer is kind of like that, too. You have this idea that you need to pray to give God something, but that’s not really what prayer is. Prayer is an opportunity to hear something, not to say something. To apprehend a truth. So I think vocation in general, the vocation of prayer, the vocation of any art, is finally not a way to do something; it is a means by which we are given something we would not otherwise receive. AP: How do you know if you are called to be an artist? SC: I think the first thing is that it gives you pleasure to do it, and if it makes you feel joyful to do it even if it is hard. It can be hard in a joyful way. There is a word to characterize the disposition of Lent which means “bright sadness.” Lent is a way in which we are called to confront ourselves and our failures, and that confrontation makes us sad, but there is also this bass note of joy because the sadness is not an end in itself. It is a means to another end which is our resurrection. It is a bright sadness. It is a suffering which has a use. AP: You are saying that your calling can be like that? SC: Yes, it can sometimes feel like that. Because sometimes the joy is not immediately apprehendable. It is just glimpsed. What is more apprehendable is that this is hard. I am not getting this. This is tough. I want to give up. AP: What do you do in that moment? SC: Sometimes you give up, but that’s a mistake. But even knowing that it’s a mistake to give up doesn’t mean that you will never give up. Sometimes you will give up. You will make that mistake. You will have not gotten what you would have gotten on that outing. God willing, there will be another opportunity and maybe that time you won’t give up and you will find something else. You won’t ever get the thing that you lost, but you may get something. AP: Do you think that having something to say makes a work shabbier? SC: Shabby is a good word for it. Smaller. If all your work does is say what you already know, then that’s a pretty low bar. It’s not very ambitious to only want to say what you already know. It is more ambitious and more true to your calling to desire to find something meaningful to say. AP: Is there room for wanting to give people something through your writing? SC: I think maybe you are suggesting that there is a tension or a contradiction between laboring to find something or laboring to give somebody something. I would insist that they are not antithetical; they are necessarily the same thing. I think it is kind of illusory to imagine that you have something to give anybody without that discovery. This is really hard for Christian writers because they tend to have an idea that the story is pretty simple and it’s already been done—that all you have to do as a writer is repeat it clearly enough and the world will get better. I blame C. S. Lewis a little bit for this because he was so good at allegory, and when Christian writers want to point to some illustrious predecessor, they often point to Lewis. Allegory is not all that it’s cracked up to be. When you crack the code of an allegory, you pretty much know the story. As allegorists go, he was a really good one. But as artists go, allegory really isn’t high art. It is pretty much saying what you know and dressing it up to make it interesting. Christians have this notion that all art is allegorical and representational. The fact is that very little art is merely allegorical and representational. If it doesn’t require the discovery of something new and deeper and more, it’s probably not art. And literary art is funny because people think words are for expressing what you think you want to say. But that’s really not literary art. That’s how we use words most of the time, but that is not how we use words as a medium for art. Words as a medium for art are necessarily words employed to discover something. Christians often think that art is only good if it repeats the story they already know. This interview was originally published on Andy Patton’s blog, The Darkling Psalter.

I think my wife, Kelsey, said it best: “Find me in twenty years and I will still be listening to this warm, rich album.” Everything about Hold Still is a slow burn—even down to the process of making it, from what I’ve gathered. Begun before the pandemic and finished just a few months ago, Taylor Leonhardt sure had to hold still in order to make it. But the result of her patience is an abiding work which is sure to stand the test of time. Taylor is at her best as a writer when she spares her words. This much was evident from 2017’s River House, whose opening track manages to pack layers of meaning into the deceivingly simple line, “This is gonna change everything.” And if River House‘s strongest moments were marked by that instinct for sparseness, then Hold Still carries it into a new, more open horizon; as a listener, I not only appreciate this stylistic choice, but feel cared for because of it. Each song conveys a spaciousness which seems to say, There’s room for you here. The whole album, crafted out of deep patience, comes across as one extended invitation into patience itself, beckoning me to lay aside distractions and move into a more contemplative listening posture. Whether the subject is the vortex of social media jealousy (“Happy or Whatever”), the struggle of learning how to draw boundaries (“The Bridge”), the companionship of a beloved dog (“Someday You’re Gonna Leave Me”), or the miracle of a friendship that weathers our worst moments (“Keep Me Around”), each song presents the mundane stuff of our lives as worthy of our curiosity, and ultimately bound up in the very poetry of God, steadied by the assurance that “he won’t waste a word” (“Poetry”). These songs are humble offerings of our fragmented humanity, delivered without a trace of pretense, yet full of hope for the redemption of these fragments as part of a much larger story. One of the many delights of Hold Still is that these principles of patience, simplicity, and understatement operate far beyond the realm of Taylor’s songwriting. Producer Lucas Morton guided every step of the process with exquisite attention to the task of faithfully translating these songs into finished recordings—and it sounds that way. There’s not a shortcut in sight; every element of the mix has been added with careful consideration to how it serves the song as a whole. Much of this impression is owed to the performances themselves, and we have a world-class band of musicians to thank for that: Will Sayles, Tyler Burkum, Scott Mulvahill, and Justin Schipper are among the best at what they do, and their contributions are the epitome of tasteful. It’s so gratifying to witness an artist discovering a whole new gear they didn’t know was available to them. I already had great appreciation for Taylor’s work, but then she released “Poetry.” And it was no less than the sound of someone who has absolutely found their voice and is singing at the top of their lungs to the glory of God. To share that voice and these songs with us is an act of equal parts vulnerability and generosity, and I’ve rarely been so grateful to listen. Click here to stream Hold Still on Spotify and here to stream on Apple Music.