Once upon a time, before I was a cartoonist, I was in college. My first major ventures into cartooning were a distillation of what stuck with me from college – the friendships, the uncertainty, the weird mini-adventures around town, the late-night video game binges eating cereal. For five years, I captured those feelings in a quirky webcomic strip called Getting Ethan. And now I am rebooting it. In color. Each week, we’ll be collecting that weeks’ strips in a Rabbit Room post. Here are the current week’s comic strips, along with three teaser comics I did to ramp up for the release of the new comic. And now, the teasers: You can also keep up with Getting Ethan on my Instagram, Facebook and Twitter!

Last week when we launched the new membership program, we had some technical issues. Those issues have now been resolved, and we’ve also decided to give a free download of the 2016 Hutchmoot Audio Archive to all new members upon sign-up. Keep reading for more information. Note: If you attempted to sign up for a recurring gift last week, you may need to try again, even if you got a confirmation email. To be sure your donation was set up, check your account at donate.rabbitroom.com (sign in with the link in the upper right and select “My Donations”). If you see your donation there, you’re all set. If you don’t, please try again. In the past year, the Rabbit Room has gone through some changes, and today we’re happy to announce some exciting changes to our membership program as well. Before I discuss the new system, however, let me cover the basics for those who might be new to the membership idea. The Rabbit Room is committed to fostering community by drawing people together around faith, art, music, and story. We approach that mission in a number of ways: live music, conferences, Bible studies, book publishing, writer’s groups, discussions of books and music and film, etc. For years, readers asked for a way to support the Rabbit Room’s mission beyond merely shopping in the store and attending events. In the beginning we were a for-profit organization and couldn’t easily accept donations, so the Rabbit Room Membership program was our solution. In exchange for a yearly fee, we offered a number of benefits, but the primary purpose was to provide an avenue for those who felt called to give financially. The program gained a core of loyal members and we’re thankful for each and every one of them. Last year, the Rabbit Room made the transition from a for-profit company to a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, meaning that we are now able to accept tax-deductible donations. However, with this evolution the combination of the membership program with the fundraising program became confusing—both to us, and to our readers and supporters. Today’s restructuring of the membership program is our solution to that confusion. What is the purpose of the new membership program? In the Rabbit Room, we believe that community nourishes art, and art nourishes community. If you share that belief and want to be a part of helping the Rabbit Room in its mission of drawing people together through the books we publish, the articles we write, the events we plan, and the art we create, then consider becoming a member and helping us to make those things a reality. How do I become a member? Then, each quarter of the year that you continue your monthly donation, we’ll send you an additional gift of our choosing as a way of showing our appreciation for your continued support. Quarterly gifts may be a book or a CD or any number of things (it’ll be a surprise). You are, of course, welcome to cancel your recurring donation at any time. What about my discount in the store? Store discounts are no longer a part of Rabbit Room membership. But wait! If you’ve been in the store lately, you may have noticed that each purchase now earns you reward points. You can save up these points and redeem them for anything in the Rabbit Room Store. This reward program is available to everyone, and our goal is to provide a system that effectively replicates the 15% membership discount for those who shop in the store often. As an added bonus, we’ve backdated everyone’s rewards to credit you with reward points for purchases made since the beginning of 2017. Visit your account page to see what your balance is. Save up your points. Get free stuff! But what if I’m already a member? Good news! Existing memberships remain unchanged until they expire. Your store discount will continue to work (and you’ll be earning reward points!). When your yearly membership term expires, you can set up a new membership with the new system. But there’s no need to wait, you can sign up for the new membership system any time you like by visiting donate.RabbitRoom.com. I support the Rabbit Room’s mission and just want to help. We understand that some people just want to offer support and don’t want anything in return. If that’s the case, you can set up a recurring donation at any time and opt out of the membership program. I’m already a monthly donor. What about me? Thank you! Those who are already recurring donors have been granted membership status. Expect your mug and membership card in the mail soon. And a final word… We want to say thank you to all the many members who have supported us (and who continue to support us) over the years. Your support is having a very real impact. Rabbit Room Press is publishing three beautiful new titles this year—and we have supporters like you to thank. The Local Show is now in its third year and continues to grow—and we have supporters like you to thank. Hutchmoot has burst at the seams and is growing into a whole new vision—and we have all of you to thank. Those are just the most visible effects of the support you’ve given us over the years. There are a million other little things that we couldn’t do without you and we’re humbled and grateful for the trust you’ve placed in us and in the work we’re called to do for the Kingdom. So thank you, sincerely. If anyone has any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask in the comments. Sign Me Up

Disney’s live-action remake of one of the most perfect animated films of all time will open tomorrow and I can’t decide if I like that or not. I’m afraid it’ll be too neatly a shot-for-shot remake and will therefore come off wooden and pointless. On the other hand, if they change too much, it could ruin something great. I can’t wait to see it, but I’m more than a little apprehensive. [socialpoll id=”2427644″]

In 2010, when we were first planning this thing called Hutchmoot, we weren’t sure if anyone would come. But people did come—a lot of people—and Hutchmoot has continued to grow and evolve in ways we couldn’t have imagined. This year, things are taking a leap forward. Here’s what’s new: The Venue — Hutchmoot has always been a small, intimate affair. We love that about it and don’t want that to change. But while we love Church of the Redeemer and will be forever grateful to them for allowing us to take over their facility for the past seven years, we’ve outgrown it. After a lot of thought and prayer, we’ve decided to move Hutchmoot to Christ Community Church in Franklin, Tennessee. It’s a beautiful facility, and we think you’re going to love it. The Size — We’ve traditionally allowed anywhere from 100-180 guests to attend Hutchmoot. Those numbers were our attempt to manage both the intimacy of the weekend and the capacity of the venue. Christ Community is a much bigger venue, but that doesn’t mean we aim to pack the house. We’re increasing registrations, but only to 300. Yes, that doubles the size. But in combination with the venue change, we doubt you’ll notice. This means more people will be able to experience the weekend in a more comfortable way, and hopefully we’ll alleviate some of the pressure to get tickets as soon as they go on sale. The Program — We don’t have all the details worked out yet, but some things are changing. The biggest change is the Thursday evening concert (in the past it’s been variously called In the Round, The Square Peg Show, and The Local Show: Special Edition). This year, Rabbit Room LIVE, our annual fundraiser, will take place on Thursday, October 5th, at Hutchmoot. It makes sense to wrap this event into Hutchmoot and allow more people to get a taste of the weekend. The Food — Feeding 300 people (closer to 400 if you include staff) is a big job. To alleviate the workload on the kitchen crew, we’ll no longer be offering a full-service breakfast and lunch. There will still be food available for those meals, but Christ Community is in close proximity to a lot of great local dining, so we’re encouraging folks to venture out into the community if they need more than the provided snacks. This allows our kitchen staff to focus on providing a great meal for dinner each evening. It opens up a lot of menu options that weren’t available before, and we’re confident the result will be delicious. The Price — While the price tag remains the same as it has for the past several years, we are offering a new option: a payment plan. In order to help spread out the cost for families on a budget, you’ll have the option (during registration) to pay in three monthly installments. Note that in order to take advantage of this, you’ll need to register before April 1st. And there you have it. Hutchmoot 2.0. We’re excited about all of these evolutions. We think Hutchmoot 2017 is going to be the best year yet. Is it going to be different? You bet. But we’re confident that all of these changes are in the service of making Hutchmoot the best it can be. If anyone has questions, feel free to post them in the comments. We can’t wait to see you in October. Tickets go on sale tomorrow afternoon (March 1st) at 2pm CST. Visit Hutchmoot.com for more information.

When you read a book that stirs your spirit and captures your imagination, what is it in that tale that makes you feel so awakened and alive? Why are you drawn to its noble characters, and repulsed by its adversaries? When you enter the fantastic literary worlds of The Lord of the Rings or The Chronicles of Narnia, why do you want to stay there, to live into those other-worldly adventures? Is it just good writing, or is there something more? Those books weren’t written to capture your imagination. They were written to release it. Our imaginations are constantly distorted and dulled by ugliness, busyness, and distraction. But imagination is God’s idea—something which, if used properly, empowers us to believe in things we cannot see, hope where hope seems lost, and be creators (all of us!) who mirror the Creator God. The Rabbit Room is proud to be a sponsor of the Your Imagination Redeemed Conference hosted by our friends in Colorado, The Anselm Society. Join us Saturday, April 1, 2017 for an all-day exploration of imagination and the arts. Andrew Peterson and other riveting speakers will lead you to discover how to keep your imagination redeemed, and truly alive to God. For artists: This will be an imaginative retreat, with food for your soul. Breakout sessions and workshops will focus on inspiring and refreshing you, and helping you to better integrate your imagination so as to inflame your art and its impact. For everyone: You will take a sweeping journey through the best stories, songs, and art, and find it drawn back with you into the rest of your life, as the mundane is re-enchanted, and you are awakened not only to the reality to come but to this world and its expectant glory. We’re also pleased to be able to offer a 10% discount to Rabbit Room readers. Use the code “RABBITROOM” when registering. Click here for more information and to register. Tickets are selling fast!

In January, I started work on my newest project with the brilliant Ben Shive, and this week, we officially launched our Kickstarter campaign to help fund the recording of Sing the Bible Volume 3 and Sing the Bible Christmas—both word-for-word Scripture CDs. Sing the Bible Volume 3 focuses on the teachings of Jesus and other Scripture passages that address his life and gospel mission. Here are a few examples: Jesus Christ is the same, yesterday and today and forever. (Hebrews 13:8) He is the image of the invisible God, the first born of all creation… (Colossians 1:15-19) I am the vine, you are the branches… (John 15:4-5) The Samaritan woman at the well / Jesus gives living water… (John 4:5-14) Parables from Matthew 13 (The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, a treasure hidden in a field) After months of meditating on these verses and others, I’ve been incredibly blessed by the project, and we haven’t even recorded it yet. Right now, “More Than Conquerors”—the new song from Romans 8:35,37-39 is my favorite song I’ve ever written. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. That is the best news the world has ever known, and I never get tired of singing about it. It’s hard to get all the way through without breaking down into tears. Sing the Bible Christmas will focus on, well, Christmas! Here are a few of the verses we’ve chosen: Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given… (Isaiah 9:6) In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God… (John 1:1-4) The Word became flesh and dwelt among us… (John 1:14) When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his son born of woman… (Galatians 4:4-7) My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices… (Mary’s Song from Luke 1) One of the fun quirks of Sing the Bible Christmas CD will be the musical style. Both Ben and I are big fans of the jazz piano music from the Peanuts Christmas Special. And that sound from the Vince Guaraldi trio heavily influenced my writing for this project. Here’s a behind the scenes video that will give you a little taste: I’m grateful to the Rabbit Room for helping spread the word about our Kickstarter campaign. Both of these CDs will be filled with word-for-word Scripture songs all about Jesus. I hope you’ll check out the Kickstarter page and pledge / preorder with one of our awesome rewards. P.S. – Here’s the link to share with EVERYONE! http://bit.ly/STBVol3

The Local Show returns tonight, and it’s coming back in true Nashville fashion. Guests include Buddy Greene, Jeff Taylor, Sierra Hull, Ron Block, and John Roberts—which means there probably won’t be any bluegrass. But wait! That’s not all the news we’ve got. Look at these great line-ups for other shows this spring: Feb 21st: Andrew Peterson, Scott Mulvahill, Cindy Morgan, and Jon Troast Mar 7th: Andrew Peterson, Carrollton, The Arcadian Wild, Eric Peters Mar 21st: Andrew Peterson, Ellie Holcomb, The Orchardist Apr 4th: Andrew Peterson, Jason Gray, Andrew Osenga, Elenowen Apr 18th: Andrew Peterson, Jill Phillips, Andy Gullahorn, Ginny Owens May 2nd: Andrew Peterson, Caleb Chapman, Jillian Edwards, The Gray Havens May 16th: TBA Tickets for all shows are on sale now in the Rabbit Room Store. We’ll see you at the Well.

Word Of Mouse is co-written by James Patterson and Chris Grabenstein, and illustrated by me. As part of the publicity for the book, Little, Brown flew me to New York to do a live drawing session on Facebook Live from the New York Times Building and on the NYT Facebook account. I was filmed as I drew, all the while being interviewed by NYT Children’s Editor, Maria Russo, as she fielded questions and comments from the Facebook viewing audience. Thank you, to so many of you Rabbit Roomers who attended online and said so many nice things. The NYT has continued to bring in children’s book illustrators to film and interview. The list of videos has grown to 12 at this point. Each is roughly 30 mins, give or take, and involves interviews, Q&A, book readings, and creating art, live and on the spot. For me, there is something so honest and good and inspiring about watching illustration happen before your eyes. As a kid, I loved watching Bob Ross with my dad on Saturday mornings, and there is something similar brought alive in me as I watch these new videos. I’ve watched each of them and am thrilled to see the catalogue grow each week. The project was initially catalogued on the Times Facebook page, and it was a bit tricky to locate each video. However, they are now all available in one place. Kids and adults can view these videos as any time they wish by visiting the Children’s Books Live Illustration page on the New York Times Website (click here). I hope you enjoy watching these as much as I’ve enjoyed being a part of such a wonderful celebration of the art of children’s literature.

Books like Silence only come around once or twice in a generation. I read it several years ago (my review here), and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Martin Scorsese had a similar experience. He read the book in the ’80s, and it’s haunted him for over thirty years. When I heard he was adapting it for the screen, I had two thoughts. 1) This book should never be adapted for the screen—it’s too internal, and 2) If anyone’s going to adapt it, Scorsese is the best man for the job. It’s a story of faith, and doubt, and suffering, in which two Portuguese priests travel to Japan in the 17th century to discover what’s happened to their former mentor amid the mass persecution of Christians taking place in the country. It’s not an easy book to read, and I know it won’t be an easy film to watch. But if the film succeeds at capturing half of the books complexity and thought-provoking questions, it’ll be worth wrestling with. The film is now showing in wide release, and this Friday we’re encouraging folks to go out and see it. No particular theater. No particular time. No particular city. Just block out a few hours this week to get to the theater and be challenged. And then come back here and let us know what you think. We’d love to host the conversation. Check out this link for more information about the film and a chance to get some free tickets. Also check out the two podcasts we did on the book, featuring myself, Thomas McKenzie, Jonathan Rogers, and Makoto Fujimura.

I wrote “Mary” sometime in 1998/1999, but for reasons I can’t remember, chose not to include it on my 1999 debut solo project, a not-at-all good EP titled, More Than Watchmen. Instead, I later recorded it for my first full-length solo album, Land Of The Living, 2001, itself a giant leap forward for me. More than likely, I wrote “Mary” on a brown paper bag while working the cash register at Ramer’s Market in Baton Rouge. At the time, I was a fan of Harrod and Funck, an acoustic duo whose songwriting and acoustic interplay, in my opinion, far exceeded that of my own duo, Ridgely. On their self-titled record was a song called “Molly,” a remorseful-man-in-prison type story. I very much admired it, so I did what all songwriters do: I wrote my own version. I’m pretty sure I got the idea of having my kids call me “Papa” as a result of this chorus. Recently, I was invited to do a concert at a Nashville prison. In front of a group of prison-suit-clad men, all there for a variety of reasons, for various lengths of time, all of whom were paying the consequences for the actions they had taken to get them there, I played “Mary,” a song that is still among my favorites. Looking at the men’s faces while singing the song, I wondered who of them had wives and children on the outside of these walls, who of them had allowed the searching of their own soul, who were repentant, who were remorseful, who wanted a second chance, who simply did not care anymore. I wondered how long they had been separated from their families, whether their children even knew them, what the world would do with them after they were released. I wondered what God was doing, had done, in their hearts. I hoped for second chances for these guys. And I was thankful I could leave, walk out the doors of my own free will. Freedom. #EricPeters #IntheRound

And to wrap up our “best of” lists for 2016, here’s our favorite musical discoveries of the year. Rebecca Reynolds (@rebeccareynolds) I’m always grateful when I get the chance to hear what the Rabbits are making. Thank you for filling my year with your passion, creativity, and honesty. I love you all so much. This was my first year watching opera, and I greatly enjoyed popping over to the cinema to take in the Met’s live broadcast of Turandot. If a theater in your area provides this service, it’s definitely worth your time and money. I also loved this more cinematic online version of La Boheme. Anna Netrebko is marvelous (as always). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrxraOXOals Matt Conner (@mattconner) Curve of the Earth by Mystery Jets – As a lifelong sucker for UK rock and roll, it’s hard not to love the latest from Mystery Jets who’ve recorded an album that brings together most of the region’s finest rock influences into one cohesive effort. Painting of a Panic Attack by Frightened Rabbit – Scotland’s gloom rockers have never sounded so good. Jonny Jimison (@jonnyjimison) “We Know the Way” by Lin-Manuel Miranda – from the Moana soundtrack. This song stirs up Moana’s love of the sea in my heart. I consider this song one of the most beautiful declarations of the identity of the church I have ever heard. “When I Don’t Feel Like Singing Anymore” by Eilidh Patterson – from Grown-Ups Need Lullabies Too. The lie: when my strength fails, I fail. The truth: I am not alone. You are not alone. We are not alone. Heidi Johnston (@kheidij) Sunlight & Shadows by Carrollton – The hopeful, almost defiant feel to this album was exactly what was needed on so many occasions this year. The Burning Edge of Dawn by Andrew Peterson – Okay, I didn’t discover this in 2016 but the title song in particular became an anthem in a year of uncertainty. Chris Yokel (@chrisyokel) Hard Love by Needtobreathe Of Dirt and Grace by Hillsong United Gun Shy by Matt Wertz Russ Ramsey (@russramsey) Southeastern by Jason Isbell Something More Than Free by Jason Isbell Solo Acoustic, Vols 1 & 2 by Jackson Browne Eric Peters (@ericpeters) Bruce Hornsby & The Range – Yes, from the 1980s/90s, but it’s hard to argue against good song after good song. Defying Gravity by Andy Gullahorn – Somehow I get to call Andy a friend. Remarkably astute, honest songwriting. Pete Peterson (@pete) Frightened Rabbit – This is the first time Matt Conner was right about music. These guys are fantastic. Way better than Radiohead. Audrey Assad – 2016 was the year I became a fan, and her Hutchmoot show was one of the highlights of the year. I want her to sing me to lullabies every night. Andrew Peterson (@andrew) (off the top of my head at 2:10 a.m.) (in no particular order) Interlude by Treehouse Wait The Wild Swan by Foy Vance Ghost of a King by The Gray Havens Only the Lonely by Colony House 1989 by Ryan Adams Ron Block (@ronblock) Areas of High Traffic by Damien O’Kane – Northern Irish singer, guitarist, banjoist with Kate Rusby makes a beautifully rooted but amazingly fresh record. Lots of critical acclaim in the press. Le Quintette du Hot Club de France by Django Reinhardt & Stéphane Grappelli – If you’ve never heard this music, it’s like having a party of quintessential gypsy jazz players from the 1940s traveling through your speakers. C. S. Lewis believed in reading old books as well as new. I believe the same is true of music, otherwise we might be living in a tiny modern musical fad-bubble. Jen Rose Yokel (@jroseyokel) 22, A Million by Bon Iver – I expected something way too weird and inaccessible, but 22, A Million is yes, weird, but surprisingly melodic and moving. Fragmented poetry, scraps of sound, and otherworldly vocals combine for a record that you feel more than you understand, and somehow it all works. Hard Love by Needtobreathe – One of my favorite bands meets my not-so-secret love for big synthy pop sounds. I listened to this record a ton over the summer.

While admittedly none of us have seen Silence yet, here’s a list of some of our favorite movies and TV shows of the past year. Movies and TV Shows We Loved Rebecca Reynolds (@rebeccareynolds) Doctor Strange – So, I didn’t like that the Wise One was a white woman. When Cumberbatch finally made it into the secret smarty-smart-place and I realized the palest of all caucasians was the mongo-spirit-guru, I felt like the viewer’s trance was broken. Still, it was good to see “Sherlock” humbled and reborn. I liked this film quite a bit. If you have to choose between Beasts and this one, choose this one. Also, read Jeffrey Overstreet’s interview with director Scott Derrickson. It’s phenomenal. Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe (The Globe Theater version with Arthur Darvill (Rory!) – This was released in 2013, but I am guessing that many of you haven’t seen it. This is the best DVD of a play I’ve ever seen. (Though Branagh’s Hamlet comes close.) Since watching it, I’ve bought several more Globe Theater productions, hoping they would live up to this new standard. Matt Conner (@mattconner) Westworld – It’s hard not to want to follow along with HBO’s newest hit for the concept alone (I’ll let you, dear reader, do the heavy lifting of Googling this yourself.) Black Mirror – For me this is the best and certainly the bravest show on television. Each episode is a standalone parable that reveals to us the perils of technology and culture within stories that are completely entertaining and thrilling. It’s brilliant and daring and harsh and I’ve loved every minute of it. Rectify – One of the best dramas in TV history wrapped this fall. You’ll never see another show that allows each character to develop like this one. Filled with moments of subtle beauty. Jonny Jimison (@jonnyjimison) 10 Cloverfield Lane – I love classic Alfred Hitchcock thrillers, and sometimes a film comes along that gives me those same kind of chills. Much better than Cloverfield. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them – This new visit to the wizarding world ignited my imagination with its full-hearted, period-piece, wonder-filled exploration of magic in 1920s New York City. Heidi Johnston (@kheidij) The Night Manager  (BBC) – One of the best BBC short drama series’ I’ve seen for a long time—gripping from the first episode. Poldark, Season 2 (BBC) – I was fully prepared not to like this series but I couldn’t help myself. Great period drama with plenty of twists and turns. Swallows and Amazons – As someone who was raised on the original Swallows and Amazons, I was nervous about the remake. This new version is full of adventure and innocence, set amidst the beauty of the Lake District. The ultimate seal of approval came from my 10-year-old who spontaneously started a round of applause in the cinema when it ended. Chris Yokel (@chrisyokel) Sing Street Kubo and the Two Strings Captain America: Civil War Russ Ramsey (@russramsey) Hell or High Water Rectify Rogue One: A Star Wars Story Eric Peters (@ericpeters) The Force Awakens [Editor’s note: Apparently, Eric doesn’t get out much—as his first, second, and third pics all testify.] Pete Peterson (@pete) Hell or High Water – I’m a sucker for westerns, and this is a great one (though set in 2016). It’s about a couple of bank robbers on the run from the law (and one amazing waitress “What don’t you want?”), but it’s so much more than that. Beautiful, thoughtful, important. This is why I love movies. Sing Street – This is the best movie of all the movies. I don’t even know where to start. Just watch it. No one can hate this movie and retain his own soul. La La Land – I honestly don’t know how to rate this against Sing Street, because it’s also the best movies of all the movies. La La Land came out of nowhere and instantly became one of my favorite films. I think it might literally be a perfect film. It’s pretty rare that I see a movie and wouldn’t change a single frame. Absolutely cinema magic. See it a thousand times before it leaves the theater, because the magic won’t be the same on a TV. Andrew Peterson (@andrew) [Editor’s Note: Six picks? Overachiever.] The Crown Sing Street La La Land The Little Prince Kubo and the Two Strings Joe Sutphin (@joesutphin) Far From The Madding Crowd – Every scene, setting, and shot of this powerful drama is exactly why cameras were invented. Gorgeous. Captain America: Civil War – Being a huge fan of Marvel Cinematic Universe films, this was easily the most fun for me since The Avengers, and a terrific movie-going experience to find yourself torn about just who’s side you are on. Big Eyes – I never knew much about artist Margaret Keane or her insane husband Walter Keane before seeing Big Eyes. The story and performances are fantastic. As an artist, I can only imagine how awful Margaret’s life under Walter’s control must have been. Ron Block (@ronblock) Doctor Strange – I’m ever a fan of reality-bending storylines and flawed, conflicted superheroes. BFG – I loved this, and I’m still waiting for a movie of Danny, the Champion of the World. Wodehouse in Exile – P.G. Wodehouse captured by Nazis and used for propaganda. I don’t know how accurate it is but it is well-acted, charming, and moving. Loved it. Jen Rose Yokel (@jroseyokel) Moana – I’ll admit, I’m a lifelong Disney kid, and I’m so happy their animation is making a comeback. Moana’s tropical world is beautiful on the big screen, the songs are delightful, and she’s the sort of hero princess I wish I’d known as a kid. Also, evil coconut pirates. All the Wes Anderson – There was a random weekend this year where I watched pretty much all the Wes Anderson films I hadn’t seen yet (except Darjeeling Limited). And behold, I became a big fan. Jonathan Rogers (@jonathanrogers) La La Land The Crown I love The Hunt for the Wilderpeople because it is right up my alley. I love La La Land and The Crown because they aren’t up my alley but I loved them anyway. I could say the same for Sing Street, which receives honorable mention on my movie list.

Here we are at the end of 2016, and here we are with our list of the books we enjoyed the most (movies and music to follow). Happy New Year! Books We Loved Rebecca Reynolds (@rebeccareynolds) Tramp for the Lord by Corrie ten Boom – Because I tend to have a rather cerebral approach to theology, I am jolted awake when teachers get out of the circumlocution of theology, into the risks and delights of living out their faith in a dangerous real world. Reading Chesterton or Sayers requires very little effort on my part, but watching an 80-year-old woman trust radically in the living God brought me to my knees. (Literally.) The Audible translation is delightful. I love the elderly reader (Nadia May) who presents this story. She reads as if every word were her own. I want to bring her home and keep her in my guest room just to talk to me. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (even though I’m not halfway through it yet) – I’ve always loved this story, but I was afraid a book so thick would be riddled with Dickensian waste. (I adore Dickens’s plots, but he always seems to need a good editor to slough off the excess description.) I was shocked, therefore, when I began to read Les Mis and discovered that one paragraph after another was essential. Of all things, I never expected to compliment Hugo with an “economy of words,” but somehow he’s done it. Matt Conner (@mattconner) All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr Life’s Too Short to Pretend You’re Not Religious by David Dark Silence by Shusako Endo Jonny Jimison (@jonnyjimison) The Nameless City by Faith Erin Hicks – Not to be confused with the Lovecraft story. I’ve always admired the visual storytelling of Faith Erin Hicks and this is clearly the story that she’s been waiting to tell, building a troubled but engaging world partway between historical fiction and adventure fantasy. The Complete Peanuts: Vol. 25 & 26 by Charles Schultz – Fantagraphics hit it out of the park with their 10-year project reprinting EVERY Peanuts comic strip. Every volume is a winner, but the final two volumes included some delightful bonus features: a complete reprinting of L’il Folks (Schultz’s early precursor to Peanuts), and hundreds of pages of additional Peanuts comics and drawings that Schultz produced for advertisers, books and giveaways. Heidi Johnston (@kheidij) Walking in the Dust of Rabbi Jesus by Lois Tverberg – Looking at some of Jesus’ teaching in its Jewish context, this book gives some great insights that are easily missed when reading the Bible from a purely Western perspective. Ember Falls by S.D. Smith – Sam Smith’s Green Ember series has become a favourite in our house and Ember Falls was everything we hoped for in a sequel and more. Beautifully written with a wonderful story and great characters. Chris Yokel (@chrisyokel) Walking the Bible: A Journey Through the Five Books of Moses by Bruce Feiler The Warlord Chronicles (The Winter King, Enemy of God, Excalibur) by Bernard Cornwell Sudden Sea: The Great Hurricance of 1938 by R.A. Scotti Eric Peters (@ericpeters) From Wild Man to Wise Man by Richard Rohr – I traditionally have no respect for underlining/taking notes in books, but now that my copy is laden with pencil marks, I declare myself a hypocrite. Nearly everything Rohr had to say was significant to me in my middle ages. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell – Entertaining, very unsettling, and ultimately, theological. A Gentle Madness by Nicholas Basbanes – Some people collect books with very little realistic hope, or plans, of ever actually reading them, but to surround themselves with friends. I am one of these people. Russ Ramsey (@russramsey) Remembering by Wendell Berry Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance Dead Wake by Erik Larsen Pete Peterson (@pete) The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis – I’m ashamed to admit I’d never read this book. I think I was kind of unconsciously saving it because I knew it was the end of Narnia and I wanted to relish it. Jennifer and I read it out loud together and it was beautiful. Certainly my favorite of the Narnia tales. For Cause & for Country by Eric Jacobson – Again, I didn’t get much time to read for pleasure, and that’s partly because I spent several months writing and researching The Battle of Franklin. This exhaustive account of the battle is an awe-inspiring work of scholarship. It meticulously follows every inch of the battle and includes some of the most horrifying first hand accounts of war I’ve ever read. It was a real honor to be asked to bring such a story to the stage. Andrew Peterson (@andrew) The Shepherd’s Life, by James Rebanks This was a recommendation after I mentioned to someone that I was considering getting some sheep. Rebanks’s family has shepherded in the fells of the Lake District of England for 500 years, and this is his memoir about a year in the life of a shepherd. I think it convinced me to never buy sheep. I think. Onward, by Russell Moore Russell was a comforting and wise voice in the political craziness of 2016. I admire him, and this book has so many sentences that remind me of the quiet, lovely strength of the Gospel that if I had started underlining it would have basically been the whole book. Read this to remember what it means to be a Christian first. The Princess Bride, by William Goldman Kevan Chandler gave me this (he’s also the friend who gave me the C.S. Lewis space trilogy and convinced me to finally read it). I confess, I haven’t finished it yet, but having started just a few days ago, I’ve already decided it’s one of my favorites of the year. So smart, funny, and heartfelt–just like the film. Bandersnatch, by Diana Glyer Again with the underlining! I couldn’t stop with this book, either. Diana delivered a touchdown of a keynote at this year’s Hutchmoot, and this book is the same kind of awesome. I learned so much about community, art, and friendship. “The Places Beyond the Maps,” by Douglas Kaine McKelvey, from Wingfeather Tales (I’m being totally objective here. I loved it.) I should say that I loved all the short stories my dear friends contributed to the Wingfeather collection, but Doug’s came in at more than 200 pages, and is as haunting and heart-wrenching as Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, with one massive difference: IT HAPPENS IN AERWIAR. What a tremendous gift it was to go exploring in the Wingfeather world through the imaginations of other writers. The last few pages of Doug’s story truly had me crying in the Chapter House, aching for the New Creation. David Mitchel (@dmitchel) Madison’s Gift by David O. Stewart – In this insightful look at a handful of James Madison’s most productive partnerships Mr. Stewart shows how, in partnership with others, a soft-spoken and bookish introvert can achieve much, even in a field as brutal as national politics. The Journals of Father Alexander Schmemann by Alexander Schmemann – I read this as I was preparing to review Fr. Schmemann’s For the Life of the World (a book I cannot recommend too highly). The Journal sets forth the inner and more speculative thoughts of a man who loved the tradition and liturgy of his branch of Christ’s Church (Eastern Orthodoxy) with both the keen vision to see that tradition’s deficiencies, and the tenderness to avoid the excesses of the schismatic. As someone who’d already read and loved For the Life of the World, I found the Fr. Schmemann of the Journals even more delightful than I had expected. Joe Sutphin (@joesutphin) The Man Who Ate His Boots: The Tragic History of the Search for the Northwest Passage by Anthony Brandt – I find such tales absolutely fascinating. This book is packed with harrowing accounts of frozen landscapes and starved adventurers. A great winter read. Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus by Bill Wasik – Another fascinating read. As children we tend to be warned of dogs foaming at the mouth and the 12” long needle that will be inserted into our belly if we are bitten by that dog. What we aren’t typically told is that this virus is the most lethal known to man, killing nearly 100 percent of those infected, once symptoms are visible. Fascinating, and terrifying. Ron Block (@ronblock) Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen – A classic for good reasons. Sidetracked in the Wilderness by Michael Wells – Straight talk on why Christians get stuck in the wilderness, and how to take hold of the abundant life Jesus promised. Metaphors for the Musician by Randy Halberstadt – This is quickly becoming one of my favorite books on improvisation. Though written for pianists, much applies to guitar and banjo or other instruments. Jen Rose Yokel (@jroseyokel) Staying Put by Scott Russell Sanders – I went into this book fully prepared to be annoyed (long story), but this, combined with Slow Church and reading a lot about practical spiritual disciplines this year, was a turning point in my understanding of what it means to be at home. Coming Clean by Seth Haines – A tragic diagnosis for his child drove Seth Haines to alcoholism, and Coming Clean is his story of finding sobriety and learning forgiveness. This book’s resistance to easy answers and immediate, honest language give a quiet power to his story and set it apart from the average Christian bookstore memoir. Jonathan Rogers (@jonathanrogers) The City of God by St. Augustine – St. Augustine has been changing my life in 2016. I taught through The City of God this fall. For the first time, I understood how many of my favorite books (esp. The Supper of the Lamb, Paradise Lost, all of C. S. Lewis, The Divine Comedy)—and, by extension, my own understanding of the world, of human nature, of sin, of the New Heavens and the New Earth—have been shaped by Augustine. Augustine argued that all being is good and that sin is no more and no less than disordered love. If that sounds like a soft-pedaling of sin, Augustine goes on to show that disordered love wreaks every bit of havoc that has ever been wreaked in the world. And yet, there is a whole lot of hope in this vision of sin; my disordered love is the raw material for rightly ordered love. Jerry Lee Lewis: His Own Story by Rick Bragg – Finally, I have been doing the research for a podcast about country music history that I plan to launch in 2017. It has been a pretty remarkable experience to read biographies of Hank Williams, Tammy Wynette, George Jones, et al, at the same time I’ve been marinating in St. Augustine. Talk about disordered loves! My favorite of the many biographies I read this year was Rick Bragg’s Jerry Lee Lewis: His Own Story. Bragg is a great writer with a distinctive Southern voice. He paints a compelling picture of a Christ-haunted man whose loves are large but tragically disordered.

Serenity (the capstone of Joss Whedon’s Firefly series) is one of my all time favorite movies. It’s part epic western, part epic sci-fi, and all classic Whedon wit. Check out this video that breaks down some of the reasons why it all works so well.

Richard Adams, author of Watership Down, creator of Fiver and Bigwig and Hazel and an entire rabbit vocabulary, died yesterday at the ripe old age of 96. Earlier this year at Hutchmoot 2016, Jeffrey Overstreet led a session inspired by Watership Down, and in remembrance of Mr. Adams, we’ve pulled the talk out of the archives. Thanks to Jeffrey for letting us post it. Thanks to Richard Adams for the stories.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Gods-and-Rabbits-Jeffrey-Overstreet.mp3

We’re wrapping up our Advent series with a painting by Ben Schipper. Merry Christmas from the Rabbit Room! Rejoice – the Lord has come!

I think I speak for most of us here at the Rabbit Room when I say that Jill Phillips’ songs have provided hope and healing at several key moments over the years. Ever since I heard the refrain of “Steel Bars” at a show in Westerville, Ohio, when she opened for Caedmon’s Call, I’ve needed her music. I bought my first CD then and there, and ever since, I haven’t missed one. That theme of healing — Jill’s incredible ability to say “me, too” in 100 ways — is the common thread in her music. It’s not surprising, then, to hear Jill speak of her newest project in the same light. It’s a new hymns project entitled Lead Me Home. Each of these theologically rich songs were born out of pain and sorrow, loss and hopelessness. In the midst of their own songwriting, the hymn writers found the presence and peace of Christ reigning in their everyday lives. I recently asked Jill about her new album in an effort to find out more about the origin of Lead Me Home and what role hymns have played in her own spiritual life. Were you raised with hymns as part of your own musical background? Yes. I was raised in a church where we sang hymns every week. I’ve done a record of hymns and liturgical music before, but I wanted to do something a bit different this time — hymns with more of a rootsy, gospel sound. I’ve been listening to a lot of gospel music over the past few years, and I really wanted to sing songs that moved me, songs I could sing from my heart. I feel connected to something bigger when I’m singing these songs that have been sung for generations. And I like the fact that they remind me of my family and the culture of church music in the South. How long have you been thinking about a hymns project? I’ve been thinking about this record for a year or so. I had a label approach me last year about doing a special album for them and I started thinking about gospel music and traditional hymns. The timing didn’t end up working out, but I couldn’t shake the idea. I kept researching songs and the stories behind them and Andy [Gullahorn], Gabe [Scott], and I worked on arrangements. I think the timing ended up being fortuitous. It’s been a hard year. And worldwide divisions and violence mark many headlines. These songs are what my heart needed to hear and sing. That’s honestly where I started, with songs that moved me and comforted me. And when I looked at the stories behind the songs, I could not believe the context in which many of them were written. Most were written in great pain while clinging to faith. I think people can feel that, and it’s why these songs stand the test of time. There was no litmus test for the songs other than my personal feelings when hearing and singing them. I wanted the lyrics and melodies to be meaningful and deep and moving. I did start with a basic sonic palette and wanted everything to be able to be played simply and organically. I wanted it to be a “singer’s record” in that the vocals would be out front without a ton of production. I felt the songs lent themselves to this kind of treatment. Andy and Gabe did an incredible job keeping the production simple and yet beautiful and interesting. At the end of the day, I show up and do my part and hope it translates to the listener. I know it was a record of the heart for me. There were songs I could barely get through when recording. I sang “Great is Thy Faithfulness” at my grandmother’s funeral last year and it has always been one of my favorite hymns. I’ve leaned on it many times this year. I had to stop doing that vocal and move to “Eyes on the Prize” and come back another day I was so choked up during the recording process. Have you found hymns to be healing for your own faith at times? Yes, absolutely. This whole album was healing. The Thomas Dorsey songs were particularly moving to sing: “Peace in the Valley” and “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” He wrote “Precious Lord” after losing his wife and baby in childbirth in the midst of a deep depression. “Peace in the Valley” was written on a train looking out over a beautiful scenery while also reflecting on the rise of Hitler and the rumors of war. It is not hard to enter into the emotion and power of those kinds of songs. Honestly, every one of them felt that way for me or I wouldn’t have chosen them. I needed to sing about what is truest. There are many hard and sad things that are true. But these songs are about what is truest. You mentioned that these hymns that mean so much to you “were written in great pain while clinging to faith.” If you were to consider the songs from your own catalog that people most respond to, could the same be said of those tracks, that they were written in great pain while clinging to faith? I think I’ve written songs from nearly every emotional place. Honestly, I would have to think about what songs people seem to respond most to and from what places they were written. I just know that I want to be honest and I respond to honesty. Maybe that’s why I am so drawn to gospel music. There’s no pretense. It is all heart. It’s all out there on the table. People sing like they talk. They sing what they are experiencing in life. In a cynical, jaded time it feels like an act of courage to stay connected to feelings, to stay connected with your heart. These songs remind me of true things, and for that I am grateful. [You can purchase Lead Me Home in the Rabbit Room store.] #JillPhillips #LeadMeHome

Week three of Advent at The Rabbit Room pairs a sonnet by Lanier Ivester with visuals by Jonny Jimison. Don’t forget to share the advent project with your friends!

For the past several years, I’ve had the pleasure of being invited to play an annual concert. It is the only annual show I have, which is fewer than many artists, yet one more than a lot of other folks, I realize. Ministers at a small church in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, Tom and Lee have become much more than promoters; they’ve become dear, empathetic, affirming friends. Each year, typically in the spring, they invite me back to play for their congregation of all ages. The church building, a former grocery store with amazing wood parquet floors, sits directly underneath the city’s water tower on a ridge. If that tower were to ever burst, the church would be traumatically inundated in diluvial proportion. I typically arrive at their church late in the afternoon, and it being an early show, am usually driving away by 8pm. Lee and Tom never fail to send me on my way with Dr. Pepper, a full belly, and an edified soul. Knowing my love for books, they occasionally give me specific, hand-selected titles by Sherwood Wirt, St. Augustine, John Newton, and others. These books and their authors, no matter their modernity, inevitably reveal broken, addicted, depressed, duplicitous men who are fully aware of their own brokenness, depression, and duplicity. Intent on encouragement, Tom and Lee know me well, and each year they are keen, if not glad, to remind me I am not alone. A few shows back, Tom, the pastor, handed me a copy of Champagne For The Soul by Mike Mason (The Mystery of Marriage, Furniture of Heaven). Tom is the most joyful man I have ever met in all my life, and when he told me of his struggle to be joyful I thought he was kidding. But he wasn’t, and along with Champagne, he included a note describing how this book taught him much about joy in the Lord, and how it saved him, not eternally, but from himself. Coming to terms with my own addictions, I gave the book another try this year, a challenging one as full of pain as it is of redemption. In the author’s preface, Mason says he embarked on a “ninety-day experiment in joy.” Allowing room for failure, he would choose to be joyful in the Lord every day for ninety days. Choice is the key word here. Candidly, he writes about his own alcoholism, anxiety, depression and penchant for choosing misery – just as much an addiction and coping mechanism as are drugs, alcohol, pornography, or fill-in-the-blank. Much like the author, “happiness has not been my strong suit” either. To “break his addiction to the cheap wine of melancholy, he had to seek champagne for the soul,” an authentic spirituality. Why ninety days? What’s significant about that number? Because something happens internally to the sober soul in that crucial time; the brain begins to rewire itself (a miracle in and of itself!), the heart’s fog starts to clear, and we begin to see not only ourselves, but the world as it really is, and who we are in it. Having embarked on my own ninety days of sobriety this year, I began to notice that the opaque fog numbing my heart began to clear, and I began to believe new and true things about myself, about my place in the world, about the ultimate identity of my soul, how I’ve given it over to so many shadow brides. I can be just as addicted to misery as to pornography. Over and over again, Mason, admittedly hokey at times, reveals insights – ninety, to be exact – that he’s gained as a result of not only his trial in joy, but of Scripture’s command. It is indeed difficult to believe that one man can be so full of joy considering the world in which we live, but Mason’s gentle wisdom seems to curb any perceived corniness on his part. We, of course, bring our own cynicism to everything we do and read. As adults, deep down we stop believing that joy is important, so we let it languish, choosing cynicism instead. I know I have. This year alone, my wife and I have reread Champagne no fewer than three times. Changing old habits, attitudes, and beliefs is anything but a simple endeavour. I need daily reminders that joy is not only a choice in this dark, difficult world, but is absolutely crucial to my life as a believer and a person who has to fight for encouragement. After all, as Mason points out, the search for joy is inseparable from spiritual warfare. I am more convinced of that now than ever before. As St. Paul reminds me, “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice.”

Shusako Endo’s Silence is a powerful work of fiction, and is now a feature film by Martin Scorsese. Jonathan Rogers sits down with Thomas McKenzie and Pete Peterson to discuss the enduring power of the book and other similar works like The Power and the Glory. Listen to the episode here: Martyrs, not Saints: Thomas McKenzie on Endo’s Silence

In broad daylight, I like to say that I’ll bet that my barn is haunted. It makes sense. For over a century and-a-half, it’s been almost continuously occupied—give or take that 15 years or so before I came on the scene back in 1999. Since then my husband and I have reared a mixed family of Nubian goats, Pineywoods sheep, Italian honeybees, chickens, cats, peacocks and dogs. In Philip’s childhood, there were cows, and a black and white goat named Holly who refereed (and interfered with) all the football games in the backyard. Before that, there were horses, chickens and quail, quite possibly pheasants (the mid-century occupant was an Englishman), and before that, the requisite beasts of a working plantation. For most of the story of this place, in fact, the activities which held together the bodies and souls of those who lived here were centered in the stalls, broad hallway, and cobweby loft of our barn. It’s easy to speculate, in the clear light of day, that some of the warmth and intensity of that first, stouthearted family must surely have seeped deep into the soul of this place, saturating the spaces we now occupy with an influence we cannot see. But on an autumn evening, when dark drops down early, and the wind makes weird music among the eaves, and the joists and timbers creak like aching bones, I often regret my sunlit assertions. Especially when I happen to be in the barn alone, having drawn the lot of nighttime chores. I try not to think about anything but the present inadequately-lighted-moment, as I’m cleaning mangers and toting armloads of hay. A battery of shot hammers the old tin roof, but I know it’s just a tumble of overripe walnuts from the trees overhead; a bluster and thump in the shadows of the loft is just Adhiraj the peacock settling into his roost. When the walls whisper and mutter with inhuman noises, I picture the squirrels scampering back to their nests—with pouch-loads of pilfered corn, no less. I will admit, however, when my Great Pyrenees, Flora, barks intently at the air, I don’t like it.* She did it just the other night, peering in through the slats of the goat stall after Hermione and Perdita had been safely ensconced with grain and fresh water. “Flora, don’t bark at the goats,” I said, with studied nonchalance. But she wasn’t barking at the goats; she wasn’t even looking at the goats. A second later she bounded over to the sheep stall and started doing the same thing, directing that deep-throated, rumbling Pyr bark at the corner adjacent the goat’s stall. “Flora, don’t bark at the sheep,” I said, somewhat weakly. Intentionally or not, she obeyed, for at that moment, she wheeled around and started barking at something beside her in the hallway; then behind her; then— At this point I sagely surmised that it was about time for me to head back to the house. I may or may not have taken the distance over the shadowed lawn at a trot. Needless to say, it behooves an imaginative soul to stiffen themselves with a stout dose of philosophy before undertaking the barn chores at our place of a dark night in October. This past Saturday, the time got away from me, and the sun had long gone when I headed out to put the animals up for the night. I heard Flora barking far away on her fence line patrol, and as I walked down to the barn I kept calling her over my shoulder, stopping to listen for the jingle of her tags. At first I thought it was my imagination, but every time I shouted, “FLO-ra!” there was a corresponding swishing and shuffling in the western pasture, just on the other side of the fence to my right. It sounded like a breeze scuttling over dry leaves, like the earth heaving a sigh. Not like a 98-pound dog galloping towards her dinner. I shivered and called once more. Soon a white form materialized from the gloom of oaks and hickories arching over our drive, tongue lolling in a most unphantomlike way, plumy tail aloft. “C’mon, girl,” I said, plunging my fingers into the comfortable substantiality of her fur. “Let’s get the babies** to bed and call it a night.” As we approached the barn, I knew something was off. An uncanny silence reigned; the emptiness reached out to meet me before I was well within the gate. Even the rooster held his tongue, which was odd, and as I peered around the corner into the hallway, I knew exactly what I would find: Nothing. Most unusual. The animals always flock to the barn before nightfall, ambling back over honeyed fields in the mystical half-light of early evening; even if I’m late, they’re always there, chewing their cud with visions of crimped oats and cracked corn dancing in their heads. The conscientious Perdita will often meet me at the gate, venturing boldly from the light and companionship of the barn into the uncertain shadows of the yard, trotting at my heels as I fasten enclosures and secure the chickens for the night. The babies may vary their tastes from pasture to pasture upon the whim of the day. But they are always back in the barn at night. Except, of course, when they aren’t. In which case, I can only deduce one of two things: they have been distracted by something, like a windfall of fresh acorns (just this past week Hermione feasted so immoderately we were obliged to administer a drench of soybean oil to settle her stomachs). Or they have been spooked by something. Like a half-grown, exuberantly goofy Great Pyrenees who keeps forgetting she’s here to guard them, not play with them. I didn’t stop to question Flora on the matter. I simply reasoned that preparing the stalls would go much faster without the animals underfoot, and that as soon as all was ready for the night I would go out into the pasture and fetch them in myself. Accordingly, I topped off the water buckets and mixed up the grain with a tasty, monthly treat of wormwood, garlic, coltsfoot and fennel (they don’t know it’s good for them), chatting cheerfully to Flora all the while, and fighting the fierce urge to whistle. I dusted off my philosophy a bit, remarking inwardly how infinitely interesting it is to live in a place where so much has happened—and where anything might happen. Old homeplaces maintain a settled watchfulness over their own past; they don’t just become a part of your story, they usher you into theirs. And the occasional fancies which raise the hair on your arm or startle your heart into a mad little canter aren’t just aberrations; they’re all part of the romance. My imagination would be so bored in a new house, I reflected, as I latched the chicken run and made my way across the barnyard towards the west pasture. At the gate, however, I hesitated. I like to pride myself on boldness where my animals are concerned—it’s a valor sorely lacking in other areas of my life, I’m afraid. Philip is always concerned I’ll do something rash for their sakes, like dive into an active honeybee swarm, or accidentally shoot myself up with anti-toxin in an effort to administer a sub-Q injection. But that night, courage quailed. I stood looking into that black abyss of the lower western pasture, and my feet felt rooted to the ground. I love the terraces of that field in the daytime, undulating south-easterly and fringed with old pines and chestnuts. But at night, it’s hard not to think about the Civil War trenches up in the woods, or the number of Minié balls and rusted harmonica reeds Philip has turned up with his metal detector. Fortunately, at this moment I remembered every overly-imaginative romantic’s most indispensable accessory: my iPhone. Retrieving it from the feed room, I hurried back to the gate and took a few tentative steps along the fence line, piercing the gloom with its heroic little flashlight app. “Here sheepies!” I squeaked. “Hermione! Perdita! Sebastian, Harry, Benedict!” I steeled my nerves and plunged a bit farther. “Beatrice! Hermia, Titania, Ophelia!” Silence. I determinedly did not think about dead soldiers, or the fact that the southeast corner of the pasture was always so unaccountably cold. I put from my mind the very idea that the most haunted places on earth are supposedly the sites of most traumatic events. Like Civil War skirmishes. But just at the first rise, under a clump of wizened pecan trees, I saw something that stopped my heart in my chest. I almost dropped my phone. Nine pairs of green zombie eyes stared fixedly out of the stygian void. I stared back, frozen with horror. Then I laughed. “C’mon babies,” I said, sweeping them with a beam of brave light. The disembodied eyes remained fixed, unblinking. I walked towards them, but they did not move. It was then that my philosophy, so woefully neglected during the balance of this adventure, piped up again. I don’t recall the exact words, but it was something like, “Shut that thing off, dummy. Don’t you know how annoying it is to have a flashlight shined straight in your eyes?” I swung the light back towards the barn, and there was a faint swishing and shuffling in the dry grass behind me. Exactly like the earth heaving a sigh. “Here, sheepies,” I said, in my most sing-songy voice. “Here, goaties. Let’s go back to the barn.” A dark figure moved towards me, stepping daintily over the crunching leaves, long silver ears cautiously perpendicular. “Atta girl, Perdita,” I chimed. “Now, let’s go, all the rest of you.” It was a slow procession. I quickly realized that my phone had served its purpose; the light streaming from the barn was beacon enough, and the animals knew where they were going. It wasn’t illumination they required, but words. The sound of my voice. Whenever I stopped talking, they stopped walking. As long as I chattered on about cozy stalls and fennel-laced grain, they followed me, quickening their pace at the mention of their own names. If I moved too many steps ahead, they froze, but one gentle word over my shoulder was enough to get them going again. We finally made it back to the barn, steadfast Perdita at my right hand and gentle Ophelia bringing up the rear. Flora was so happy she greeted everyone with a play bow, which, for once, the sheep were too relieved to be terrified by. I closed everyone safely in their stalls, gave Harry’s horn a playful shake, kissed Hermione on the bridge of her Roman nose. Then, to the soft music of munching grain, I turned out the lights, feeling like I had just witnessed something beautiful and very important. On a dark night, when things not-quite-canny made an interminable distance between the gloom of the pasture and the light of the barn, all my animals needed was my words, spoken as only I would say them. They knew my voice, and they followed it, straight through the black heart of their blackest fear. As I wrestled with the crotchety barnyard gate, I conversed briefly with my rational mind. “You know there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, right?” Indeed, there are. And thank God there always will be. *(Except, I kind of do.) **It’s bound to slip out at some point, so I may as well state it here: that’s what we call our sheep and goats. We’re real farmers like that.

The sun was on the downward slide toward the horizon, and we still hadn’t found the tree. Not a tree, mind you. There were trees all around. But the tree—one that would fit in the corner of our tiny living room, with a good shape and strong branches. The tree for our second Christmas together. We were exploring our third field at the local tree farm, one packed close with deep green spruces far too tall for our apartment. It was only the Sunday after Thanksgiving, but so far all the best trees were spoken for, and many remainders boasted yellowing needles, huge bare patches, and haphazard shapes like squat Christmas bushes. Dry brush and vines tangled their branches and caught my boots. I’d heard stories about this farm’s glory days. My husband’s family had been coming since before he was born. A photo album on my brother-in-law’s Facebook page shows our nieces and nephew getting bigger, year after year, as the family poses on a bench swing. They’ve stopped looking for trees here, but they still come, bundled up for their annual photo. It’s a tradition, I know. But I’m not sure the tree is here. My inner problem-solver kicks in. “I’m not sure we’ll find one here. Maybe we should . . . try another farm?” “Maybe . . .” Chris is examining a spruce slightly taller than he is. The branches stick out at odd clumsy angles. “I guess this might be the last year we get a tree here. But I need closure! What about this one?” *** The melding of holiday traditions: it’s one of those little things about marriage. I was raised on artificial trees, and our tree decorating custom looked more like a construction project than a family adventure. My mom would bring the boxed-up puzzle of metal and plastic from the utility room and unpack bins of ornaments and lights. After rearranging furniture away from the living room window (Christmas trees should always be by a window, so drivers can see the lights from the road), she’d sit on the floor, surrounded by stacked metal branches of different widths, and piece it together, from bottom to top. Then she would string the lights. One year, she got a ridiculously good deal on a craft store’s display tree—the tree and all the decorations were yours for cheap, if you were willing to take the display apart yourself. It was a magnificent tree, broad and tall and deepest green. Sure, the sparkly, green and purple Mardi Gras ornaments were ugly (why Mardi Gras on a Christmas tree is beyond me), but this was the tree that taught us solid green lights were an interesting alternative, and the trick of lighting a tree like a shop display is to use way more than you need and carefully weave them in the branches, from tip to back and back again, until the whole tree sparkles through and through. So the lights. Mom strung the lights. Then, and only then, my sister and I would hang ornaments. The sentimental yet falling-apart ones went toward the back. Glittery ones were best hung by lights for maximum sparkle. When it was over we’d flip the switch, and suddenly—it was Christmas. *** Chris doesn’t seem super thrilled with this particular tree. I remember one I spotted in the first field we checked. Not too tall. The bare patch small enough that we could hide it in the corner. Soft, fluffy needles. I offer to go back and look for it, and we traipse across the field for a second look. The determination to find the tree, today, here, before the sun goes down, is serious. I wander up and down the rows of leftover trees. This field is even more sparse than the others, probably the first one people search, as it’s the cleanest and has the smallest trees. But I can’t find it. I see one that could possibly be it, but the tree has already been claimed, strung with a name tag and little bits of ribbon. Chosen. We stand in the darkening light a little longer. The tree farm is technically closed now, and a decision is needed. “Well? How about it? Should we just take the one we found over there and make it work?” The thought of waiting another week is . . . less than thrilling. “Sure. Let’s do it.” Chris automatically seems lighter with the decision made. “Just wait. When we get it home, it’ll be the best tree ever. I’ll fight anyone that says it’s not.” *** The childhood Christmases I remember most are the disrupted ones. There was the year of the live tree experience. We wandered the farm and drank hot cocoa and chopped it down ourselves. Novices that we were, our tree’s trunk was too crooked and it fell over three times before Christmas was done. Lives grew busier. College and jobs made schedules so busy we’d find ourselves hustling to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. And then there was the year my Grandpa went into hospice care and my parents made a hurried trip to Georgia the week before Christmas. My sister and I pushed back the darkness the only way we knew how: decorating the house with Elf playing in the background and cookies baking in the oven. *** “I think it’s the power of liturgy.” Chris and I are driving home, our new tree, the one with the sparse and awkward branches, bundled and tied on top of the car. “It wouldn’t be the same if I got a tree somewhere else, you know?” “That makes sense.” I tell him about my childhood trees and disrupted traditions, and how when life got in the way of our usual Christmas, we made it work. We made memories. Christmas always found a way to break through. Liturgy: repeated ceremonies, a way of doing and living that shapes our lives and the stories we tell ourselves about the world. Lighting Advent candles, pulling the boxes of decorations out of storage, listening to Christmas music after Thanksgiving (or if you’re us, sneaking it in a few days before), decorating the tree. Not one moment is insignificant as we shape this season. But what do we do with the disruptions, when the kids grow up and people move on and “It’s just not Christmas without fill-in-the-blank“? I think of the traditions God’s people followed before the arrival of the child Messiah. I think of how they waited, how they went through the motions, and how Jesus quietly disrupted every little ceremony. And what is Advent if it’s not looking for another cosmic disruption, when everything wrong in the world is put right, the breaking of the endless winter and the Kingdom coming down? Feast. Celebrate. Decorate your trees. Embrace the interruptions as gifts. The light is coming.

A few days ago in the mail, I received a teeshirt with the classic Bunnicula book cover on it. I’ll admit, I got a bit emotional. Bunnicula was written by Deborah and James Howe and published in 1979. It is a humorous, children’s mystery novel about a family who finds a black and white bunny at a movie theatre one evening while watching Dracula—and it’s all told from the perspective of the family dog. In the fourth grade, I was attending public school for the first time. I was the new kid, and as some new kids do, I tried to find what could make me fit in with the regulars. It didn’t take long for everyone in my homeroom to notice that I was a kid who could draw. Not just draw, but draw well, and on demand, and for a price. I traded art for goods regularly, and there was no shortage of demand for my original art. It also didn’t take long for some kids in the homeroom across the hall to counter my classroom’s pride with the announcement that they too had “the kid who could draw” just a few steps away in their class. Without my consent, the two opposing groups of boys pitted my talent against the other kid’s talent in a draw-off. And they were serious about it. I don’t recall anything that was drawn by either of us, or what the stakes were. One thing I do remember was that this other kid was good. It was my first time encountering anyone else my age who could draw like me. I had always been the oddity. It was as if I’d met another mutant among the masses of normal kids. However, to the surprise of the warring factions of boys, this other artist and I quickly became good buddies. A friendship that has lasted until this very day. All that to say that drawing pictures played a major role in how I made friends and formed my identity among other kids. As a result, it was how my teachers knew me as well. One teacher in particular: Mrs. Davis. It was impossible for her not to notice my artistic abilities. While she was teaching us math, I was drawing a haunted house for a kid across the room. While she taught reading, I was drawing a motorcycle for the kid a few seats down the row. One day as she paced the room, she caught me in the final pencil strokes of a portrait of none other than her. It was a real doozie. A classic. There she sat at her desk, monstrous, a jagged scowl scraped across her face, the inspirational book club posters on the front of her desk replaced by stern warnings to “SHUT UP!” and “SIT DOWN!” She calmly reached down and took the piece of fine art and tucked it under her clipboard. I may have forgotten about the incident and the drawing had Mrs. Davis not pulled it out to share at Parent-Teacher Conference a few weeks later. I don’t remember the conversation that took place. I just remember being terrified of the punishment to come only to realize that Mrs. Davis was strangely giggling as she showed the drawing to my parents. It seemed that I was not in trouble after all, but being spoken about with affection. In the schooldays to come, Mrs. Davis employed a wide range of efforts to corral my mindless doodling into something constructive and beneficial to my education. When the class needed a bulletin board to display the facts we were learning about dinosaurs, she had me draw a giant Stegosaur on butcher paper. She hung it in the hallway outside our classroom. When we were given the assignment to write a spooky poem for Halloween, she encouraged me to make mine into a book complete with a front and back cover and illustrations. The art was clearly inspired by the rise of Madballs and Garbage Pail Kids. She was so impressed with my poem book, The Glob, that she had our entire class recite the poem at an assembly with parents in attendance. Our entire classroom stood chanting, “The Glob, the Glob, what an ugly slob.” I didn’t know what “surreal” meant then, but I recall now how surreal the experience was for me. Despite this and other efforts to include and help focus my creative brain, I continued to merely doodle. One day while she read to us from a book called Bunnicula, as she did several days a week, she noticed that I was not paying attention to the story. My attention was focused somewhere inward and coming out in doodles on the back of a handout. Later that week, before the next reading session, she called me to her desk. Again I expected to be disciplined. However, instead of discipline, Mrs. Davis had one last game plan. As she read to the class from Bunnicula, she instructed me to listen to the scenes being described and to illustrate them on paper as she read. This resonated with me. At home I had a habit of turning on a story record or cassette and drawing scenes from them. So as Mrs. Davis read scenes of Harold the dog and Chester the cat trying to save their human family from a perceived vampire bunny, I illustrated the scenes on paper at my desk. I remember those moments vividly. I remember the impact it had on my attention in class. I remember even more, the impact it had on me in the school library. I was not a good reader, due to my lack of focus, so once I became too old to check out picture books, I rarely checked books out anymore. But I began to search in our school library for further books in the Bunnicula series. I found Howliday Inn and The Celery Stalks At Midnight. I loved the campy, spooky cover art. I scoured the pages for the humorous illustrations. I realized the correlation between the written word and the art that accompanied it. I still didn’t read well, but was more likely to pick up a children’s novel or chapter book now, knowing that there might be art among the pages. The art spoke story to me in a way the written words could not. Like all school years, that 4th grade year came and went in a flash. I never encountered another teacher (other than art teachers) that recognized my art and its connection to my mind’s focus. I didn’t even think about Mrs. Davis much in the coming years or truly realize what impact she may have had on me. But a few weeks ago I stumbled across a beautiful Bunnicula t-shirt while browsing online. All of those memories of 4th grade flooded my mind. Now an illustrator of children’s literature myself, I felt such sentiment in wearing that shirt with that campy cover image printed on it. I’m still a slow reader. To this day, when a publisher sends me a manuscript, I rarely read it myself. I tend to highlight a portion of the written work on my Mac, choose “Speech,” and click “Start Speaking.” And like my 4th grade teacher, my Mac reads it to me as I work on my art. My ever-supportive wife, Gina, has even been known to sit in the studio and read a manuscript to me as I work. And frequently I will have an audio book playing as I illustrate scenes from a separate novel that Im working on. The connection between audible story and visual depiction are forever in my core. I never read Bunnicula, but Bunnicula left its mark on me.

I gave in to a cold a few weeks ago. It had been pursuing me for days, ever since we got home from Hutchmoot, but it finally caught up with me. This meant, among other things, that we did not go to the boat for the weekend, and we did not go a friend’s breathtaking annual autumn feast—both of which made me sad. Instead, we piddled around the house on Saturday, and called it an early night with a couple of ghost stories by the fire. On Sunday, Philip set up the vintage deck chairs under the filtered shade of the water oak in the backyard, and I installed my pajama-clad self in one of them, equipped with reading glasses, a plaid wool throw over my legs, a rotation of cats in my lap, and a book in my hand. Thus accoutered, I proceeded to do something I haven’t done in I don’t know when. I read. All Day Long. From cinnamon-laced morning coffee, to my late afternoon tea tray, I stayed right in that chair feasting on words, gulping them, devouring them, pausing to savor the taste of them, then tucking in again with increasing appetite. I was aware of the dogs romping in the sunshine across the lawn, and my husband reading a history of Jekyll Island close at hand; every now and then my senses would thrill to the poignant scent of eleagnus, wafting down on a light breeze from the corner of the property where it thrives. Occasionally, I would glance up to smile at my sheep ambling across the pasture, or to honor the warmth of the sun on my face and the blue October sky beyond. But, for the most part, I lived in that book. And being that the book in question was Diana Glyer’s Bandersnatch, I lived, essentially in Oxford. Bandersnatch is the story of the creative collaboration between C. S. Lewis. J. R. R. Tolkien, and the rest of the Inklings, and it caught me up, carrying me along on a ride of unmitigated delight. I could not put it down until I had polished off the very last word—start to finish, I read that book in one sitting. This is significant to me on many levels, primarily because I just don’t read like that—or, at least, not often, and certainly not lately. Truth be told, this is the first book I’ve read straight through—the first book I’ve read easily—since Daddy died last summer. Sure, I’ve written a few heartfelt reviews, and I’ve done a massive amount of reading for school, but the mental effort was disproportionately titanic and I could only digest small chunks at a time. It took a dear friend and mentor to point out to me back in the summer that my “lack of focus” was more symptomatic of grief than I’d given myself grace for, and her words were permission to ease up on myself a bit. But life has been moving so fast lately, and my thoughts along with it, that I’d started to fear this distractibility was becoming chronic. I’ve always been the kind of girl with five to seven books on the bedside table. Philip built me a bookcase in the Airstream so that I could travel with a few shelves of my favorites, and the designated “library corner” of our sailboat cabin exceeded its bounds almost immediately. There’s nothing I love more than to spread a quilt under the walnut trees in the backyard and meander through a stack of titles that happens to strike my fancy, dipping alternately into story, essay, poetry in turn. Trouble is, for the past year and more, it’s been just that: dips. I’ve been splashing my toes in the water of words, running my hands through currents of grand ideas and noble thoughts, without diving in and swimming around for long, lost periods of time. (More often than not these days, I fall asleep on the blanket before I’ve made up my mind which book to sample.) My studies, and the connections they are opening in my mind, are a breathlessly exciting pleasure (I’m not kidding—my heart literally pounds faster when ideas flower, expand, meet one another), and I’m deeply grateful. But it’s sobering to realize that were it not for recent papers and assignments and deadlines, I wouldn’t have been reading anything. That actually frightens me a bit, to consider how a habit of grief becomes just that—a habit. I didn’t set out to reign in my mental habits yesterday, or to progress from one stage of grief to another (grief doesn’t get easier, for the record, it only gets different). I was tired and sick, and I had an idle day and an intriguing book to hand. That was all. (Full disclosure #1: I’ve been looking close at my days lately, shaping my vision with hard intention, identifying the requirements for the kind of life I want to live, and one unavoidable fact that has arisen is the need for a weekly Sabbath; to honor the limitation of a six-day work week, not just with smiling lip-service, but with actual, physical and mental rest. Crazy, I know. Full disclosure #2: When I selected my ‘intriguing book’ from the shelf, my fingers visibly twitched over three or four alternatives, ‘just in case my brain got tired,’ or in case the book I committed to—through no fault of its own—failed to hold my flock-of-rice-birds attention span. It was with no small effort that I pulled back my hand and walked away with only one book. The book I was actually going to read.) And thus, the hours passed in joyful immersion. From time to time I would look up from the pages of Oxford to jot a note or two—there was just so much about this book that I wanted to remember and act upon. It made me want to read more, and it made me want to write more, which is highest praise for a book, in my opinion. (And it also nudged me gently with the thought that perhaps my recent and paralyzing difficulty in stringing words together has as much to do with not reading as it does with grief. I mean, Jane Kenyon was right—if you want to write good sentences, you have to stuff your head full of good sentences. Or something like that.) This dear book came into my life at just the right moment, breathing upon the embers of my own ambitions, underscoring my resolve to connect more faithfully and intentionally with my own little tribe of sub-creators, as Tolkien called us. It made me want to grab my (ridiculously talented) writing partner’s hand and say, “How can I help you get your words out into the world? What can I do?!” It made me see afresh the value and necessity of healthy critique in the writing process—still so hard for me to stomach after all these years, even with the encouragement I’ve received. But it was extremely eye-opening to realize just how actively the Inklings engaged with each other’s work—they didn’t just sit around puffing on pipes, spouting off gorgeously polished manuscripts. They rolled up their sleeves and helped each other build their books. They praised; they critiqued (sometimes brutally); they wrote reviews; they shared unfinished works. Think about that for a moment: there was a time when The Lord of the Rings was just a jumble of elven lore and hobbit talk. When the main character was named Bingo, of all things. Times when Tolkien had no idea where the story was going; times he gave up altogether. But C. S. Lewis wouldn’t let him give up. For something like 17 years Tolkien’s friends walked with him through fits and false starts and hair-pulling dead ends. I have always stood amazed at Tolkien’s genius, marveled at his high, pure, perfect language, and the epic nature of his story arc. And I’ve always pictured the story flowing out of him in an ordered stream of prearranged brilliance, a clear, crystal torrent of cause and effect and deep meaning. But that’s not how it was at all. No matter how perfect the end result, the writing of it was literally a mess. And it would not have been written at all without the express investment of C.S. Lewis and the accountability/feedback/audience of the Inklings. Tolkien struggled mightily to finish that book, in the face of enormous self-doubt and discouragement, fearing that even if he did finish it, no one would publish such a thick tome in the days of post-war paper shortages. But he had a band of brothers who believed in him. And that made all the difference. Not coincidentally (is there really such a thing as coincidence?), Diana Glyer was the keynote speaker at Hutchmoot this year, and I smiled and wept all the way through her speech. It was one of the most well-crafted talks I have ever heard, delivered with such warmth I think everyone in the room felt like she was talking to them alone. I was deeply touched by the story she told about the Inklings collecting scraps of paper for each during WWII and post-war scarcity, bringing them quietly to the meetings for whomever had need. That was one of the most beautiful pictures of Christians creating in community that I have ever heard. She told us how interesting it is to go back over the early manuscripts, and find a page of The Lord of the Rings written on the back side of one of Lewis’ grocery lists. I also loved what she said about their accountability: “I think The Lord of the Rings was written on Wednesdays,” she said with a grin. (The Inklings met on Thursdays.) Through her speech, and then through her book, Diana set my heart on fire. She made me want to brandish my #2 pencils like a sword, splitting the darkness with words good and true. And she reminded me that company on this journey isn’t just a blessing—it’s a necessity. “Creative accomplishment is a messy process,” she said. But collaborative fellowship is the simplest thing in the world: “As simple as two people meeting together, regularly and faithfully.” The Inklings began with Tolkien daring to show one of his poems to Lewis, and Lewis responding, not only with an outpouring of praise and critique, but, most generously of all, with some poems of his own. Diana explained how the whole act of creation is an exchange of resonance—how we all need other people to connect with our work, hum with its themes like a plucked string, and then amplify the music with a fullness it could not have achieved in its own. I couldn’t help but think of the kind souls reading here and at Lanier’s Books, who not only take the time to peruse my words, but offer back the stupendous gift of kinship and sympathy. I know I’ve said this before, but I mean it more than ever—you have given me so much courage. You’ve let me make mistakes, say things awkwardly or obtusely; you’ve given me permission to stretch, edit, ask questions, grow. The internet can seem like a vast, scary chasm of unceasing noise—but because of you, this little place has always felt like a firelit room full of friends. You have absolutely no idea what this has meant to me. And it’s no accident. I tend to agree with Charles Williams, that, as Christians and as members of the human race, we’re pretty much all in all of it together. No matter how alone we may feel at times, we’re part of a Fellowship, in which the magic of timely words and faithful connections and divine appointments is weaving us together in a Story without end. Nothing we do (or fail to do) affects us in isolation; no act of kindness or generosity ends with its own performance. And no intersection with another soul is haphazard. Not really. No, I don’t believe there’s such a thing as coincidence, be it the books we read or the “company we keep.” There’s a whole lot more going on here than mere chance can account for. When Charles Williams and C.S. Lewis discovered the ‘coincidence’ that they had been admiring one another’s books at exactly the same moment in time, and that their exuberant letters of response all but crossed in the mail, Williams never doubted Who was at the bottom of it all. His summary of the matter to Lewis was unambiguous: “My admiration for the staff work of the Omnipotence rises every day.” Mines does, too.

Week two of Rabbit Room Advent brings us a poem by Chris Yokel with an illustration by Stephen Hesselman. Don’t forget to share the story!