The song “Trouble Go Down” began as a clawhammer banjo melody written by Jeff Taylor. We were sitting in my studio going through songs and Jeff said, “Hey, I’ve got this melody I want you to hear. Can I use your banjo?” It was immediately memorable, and sounded like it was written ages ago. We recorded a quick demo and sent it to Rebecca for lyrics. Rebecca sent back this mixture of her Kentucky upbringing and King James English, like a song passed down orally for generations. “Trouble Go Down” is a fitting title track for the record in these turbulent days of unrest in our world and country. The melody and lyrics speak of deeper and stronger and better things, that we can have an inner refuge and place of rest no matter what is going on externally – we can live and be and act from a place of peace rather than from stress and fear. Since Jeff’s original conception of this song was with banjo, I played banjo on the track with Jeff’s piano, pump organ, and accordion. I added a 1946 Martin 00-18 and Sierra Hull on mandolin, Mark Fain on bass, and the great Stuart Duncan on fiddle. Suzanne Cox sang vocal above my voice, Jeff sings just below me, and Jay Forbes added his huge bass voice to the mix. Trouble Go Down Music: Jeff Taylor/Seek 1st/ASCAP Lyrics: Rebecca Reynolds/Wynken Owl/BMI Trouble go down, the Savior calleth Trouble go lay thee down Trouble go down, my Jesus calleth Mercy rain around, round. Worry go down, the Savior calleth Worry go lay thee down Worry go down, my Jesus calleth Mercy rain around, round Dare you resign thy burden, Brother Dare you resign, thy pain? Dare you recline upon thy Shepherd Sendeth He the mercy rain. Dare you resign thy burden, Sister Dare you resign, thy pain? Dare you recline upon thy Shepherd Sendeth He the mercy rain. Sorrow go down, the Savior calleth Sorrow go lay thee down Sorrow go down, my Jesus calleth Mercy rain around, round. Repeat Chorus

From my portion of the Hutchmoot 2016 session “In Search of Home,” a conversation about roots, restlessness, and making peace with our place in the world. “Nobody tells you when you get born here how much you’ll come to love it and how you’ll never belong.” —Rich Mullins, “Land of My Sojourn” If you knew me just five years ago, you’d probably think I was the poster child for staying put. I spent the first thirty years of my life in Fruitland Park, a little “blink-and-you-miss-it” town in Central Florida. Now usually, if I say I grew up in Florida, people think white beach paradise or Disney World. Thanks to the Internet’s love for wacky news stories, they might just think life was one long interesting string of machete wielding weirdos and alligators wandering through my backyard. It was hardly that exciting. My hometown is small in the most quiet and normal sense. North of us is the Ocala National Forest, thick, scrubby woods where the brave folks (unlike me) could go hiking and camping. Just across the town line a is large, meticulously groomed retirement community that seemed to spring up overnight, spreading faux Hacienda architecture, shopping complexes, and golf cart roads closer and closer to my neighborhood. My quiet street became a major traffic route once Super Walmart opened a mile from my front door. Before then, we were an ordinary little community—mostly ’70s block houses with the same floor plan. Over time, small businesses appeared in those houses, and in my last years living in my family home I woke every morning to the yappy clients at the dog groomer next door. To get to anything resembling a city (other than the retirement park), you drove southeast until you hit Orlando, directly south if you wanted to visit the pseudo-city Walt built on the remains of orange groves. As I grew up, life grew away from my roots. I began living the commute life, first to college in east Orlando, then to a job an hour away. That’s when the wanderlust hit—my town wasn’t good enough, my goals too big, my friendships too far away, and the ten or more hours a week on the road drained my energy. I fantasized about moving, though every attempt to do so was thwarted by financial reality. And I remember during some particularly angst-filled years writing in my journal, “I want to move. Anywhere. Somewhere. There has to be more than this.” Does this sound familiar? I wish I had known then what a gift roots are, how precious it is to truly know a place. I wish I’d appreciated the funny nuances of this life more while I was living it. A disclaimer: I’m not going to extol the virtues of staying in one place forever and tell you a perfect world is where everyone sticks to their hometown. That’s impossible, and I cannot in good conscience fully advocate that kind of life, because moving to New England two years ago has been, in many ways, one of the best adventures of my life. But in the past two years, as I’ve gone from the thrill of discovering a new home to late nights struggling through deep homesickness, If I try to decide what is better, movement or staying put, I find there are no simple answers. I know some people who grew up moving from year to year, never given the chance to put down roots and build relationships, and for them staying in one place for a lifetime can feel like a beautiful ideal. For those who keep missing attempts to escape a dead end town, the freedom to choose your place is the American Dream. There are healthy kinds of wanderlust—the acknowledgement that in some sense, we live our lives in perpetual longing. Displacement began in Eden, when the restlessly rooted were given the things they most wanted: freedom, knowledge, autonomy. And now we all find ourselves living through a sort of holy discontent. But what if really we are all supposed to be home-makers wherever we are? I’m not talking about lives that revolve around cooking and cleaning and such, merely maintaining a residence. That’s vital too, but in a deeper, creative way. There’s something beautiful about making home a central place in your life, even if — especially if — the world outside feels like a foreign land. You can be a student, a commuter, a full-time worker, but still make home. You could be a nomad and embrace hospitality wherever you go. You could be between places, knowing a move is imminent. But make home anyway. This is how we do the work of renewal. …to be continued.

Congratulations are in order for Ron Block, Jeff Taylor, and Rebecca Reynolds. Their new record, Trouble Go Down, has finally arrived! The album is now available in the Rabbit Room Store. Here’s Ron with a peek at another track. https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/02-Gather-Ye.mp3 “Gather Ye” started as a melody written by Jeff Taylor; he brought the verse melody and theme, and I added the simple chorus melody. We sent it off to Rebecca Reynolds, and she fashioned these mind-expanding word pictures from the natural world to show God’s grace and love for his people. We recorded this at Wildwood Studio using what Jeff said is “The best piano in Nashville.” I used 1937 and 1938 Martin D28s and bouzouki, Jeff added accordion, whistle, and harmony vocal. Suzanne Cox sings the daylights out of the high harmony, as usual, and Barry Bales bounces around on the stand-up bass. John Mock is on bodhran. Music: Jeff Taylor/Seek 1st/ASCAP and Ron Block/Moonlight Canyon Publishing/BMI Lyrics: Rebecca Reynolds/Wynken Owl/BMI “Gather Ye” Gather ye rivers, and gather ye streams, O assemble your praise and be glad! For the waters of earth runneth free like the love of the Father whose infinite Grace upon grace Washes all who are kept in his hand. Grace washes all who are kept in His hand. Gather new grasses, and gather old pines, O assemble your praise and be glad! For the strength of the Lord like a mountain surroundeth His people with unfailing Grace upon grace Shielding all who are kept in his hand Grace shieldeth all who are kept in His hand. Love! Oh, love! Grace! Oh, grace! Let the earth gather in praise of her Father, who mindeth and mendeth the land. Gather cold planets, and gather bright stars, O assemble your praise and be glad, For the song of the Lord through all darkness resoundeth Like angels proclaiming such Grace upon grace Oh, glad tidings be sung through the land. Let these glad tidings be sung through the land. Gather ye daughters, and gather ye sons, O assemble your praise and be glad, For the children of God runneth free in the love of the Father whose infinite Grace upon grace Beareth all who are kept in his hand Grace beareth all who are kept in his hand. Love! Oh, love! Grace! Oh, grace! Let the earth gather in praise of her Father, who mindeth and mendeth the land.

Trouble Go Down is a new record by Ron Block and Jeff Taylor, with lyrics by Rebecca Reynolds. It releases October 21st. “Like A River Glorious” is the first track on Trouble Go Down, done instrumentally with banjo, piano, and Barry Bales on bass.https://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/01-Like-A-River-Glorious.mp3 Jeff brought this one one day as we were recording “He Leadeth Me” and another hymn. Like many of the instrumentals on the record, Jeff and I cut this in my studio live. The song was written in 1876, with the melody by James Mountain. The beautiful lyrics by Frances R. Havergal fit the record’s theme of finding peace and rest in troubled times. “Like a River Glorious” Like a river glorious, is God’s perfect peace, Over all victorious, in its bright increase; Perfect, yet it floweth, fuller every day, Perfect, yet it groweth, deeper all the way. Stayed upon Jehovah, hearts are fully blest Finding, as He promised, perfect peace and rest. Hidden in the hollow of His blessed hand, Never foe can follow, never traitor stand; Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care, Not a blast of hurry touch the spirit there. Stayed upon Jehovah, hearts are fully blest Finding, as He promised, perfect peace and rest.

We want to add something beautiful to the world, and we need your help. At Hutchmoot 2015, we held a special presentation called “The Liturgy of Lost Rhyme.” The event was a powerful experience for everyone involved, and afterward, the author of the liturgy, Douglas McKelvey, approached us with an idea that we’ve fallen in love with: it’s called Every Moment Holy. Doug proposed that Rabbit Room Press publish a book of liturgies for the ordinary events of daily life—liturgies such as “For the Death of an Old Friend” or “For the Welcoming of a New Pet” or “For the Beginning of a Long Day of Thankless Work.” These are ways of reminding us that our lives are shot through with sacred purpose even when, especially when, we are too busy or too caught up in our busyness to notice. We envision a beautifully made hardcover book that will serve as a companion to families and individuals looking to anchor their lives by recalling the sacred in the mundane. The book will feature numerous liturgies that cover topics from the entire breadth and depth of ordinary life. It will be ordered and indexed for easy reference so that you can find the right liturgy for the right occasion. And when the time comes, we want to call on all of you to help us come up with specific moments in our lives we need liturgies written for. The author, Douglas McKelvey, is one of our favorite writers and is the author of multiple books including The Angel Knew Papa and the Dog, The Wishes of the Fish King, and Subjects With Objects. If Every Moment Holy is the kind of book you would like to help us create, we welcome you to join us in this process. Click here to support the project and see some specific ways in which  you can help. We believe that by creating such a resource, we’re adding something important, useful, and valuable to the world—and we need your help to make it a reality.

[From “Gifts of and for the Church” @ Hutchmoot 2016.] As Heidi and I began to talk about how we might split up this session on exploring God’s resources for the body, I found myself drawn to a topic that isn’t included in any of Paul’s official lists of spiritual gifts. Still, it is a powerful gift because it tends to make those who receive it humble, sensitive, patient, and wise. This gift helps make good teachers, good leaders, good shepherds. Once you are given this gift, people listen to you differently. They respect you. They want to hear what you have to offer. In fact, readers and listeners are drawn to those who are given this gift like moths are drawn to a light… they go out into the world and spread the word about your gift … and suddenly a crowd gathers wanting to know more, a crowd that you can’t keep away. And yet, despite all these benefits, this is the gift nobody wants. Nobody wants it because this gift is not glamorous. It can be humiliating. It can expose us. It can destroy us. It often paralyzes us before it opens us up to new strength. The gift nobody wants is suffering. I want to be careful about how I introduce this topic because mainstream Christianity has often done more harm than good while trying to unpack it. This a hard thing to talk about because understanding the math of suffering doesn’t often remedy the emotional consequences of suffering. If 2+2=4 runs a knife through your belly, you don’t much care how addition works. You just want the pain to stop. So when you and I are walking through a season of overwhelming pain and a fellow Christian tells us, “God allowed this for a reason,” we might believe that is true deep down… but we might also feel rebuked, isolated, and well, angry. In some of the hardest moments of my life, well-meaning Christians have come to me with trite-sounding conclusions like this, when my daughter was about to have heart surgery… when my husband and I walked through a devastating church disaster… when I was worried about a situation with my oldest son… and even though I haven’t hurt as deeply as many of you have, I’ll be honest, hearing religious words in painful times felt like hitting the earth after falling off a swing. Why do religious statements like this cause us such pain? 1. First, they tend to project causality upon God. They blame Him for evil. They cast injustice onto the Father who is supposed to love and care for us. This can cause us to hesitate to approach our Refuge, a Refuge we need most desperately when we are hurting. 2. Secondly, religious statements can ask performance out of us while our hearts are breaking. Hurting people can’t perform. They can barely get out of bed, let alone jump through hoops. And that’s one of the worst parts of intense suffering, actually. We find out that we can’t do what we have to do, and this is a terrifying and hopeless realization. So let’s make a distinction before we begin. God stands ready to make every problem and difficulty purposeful. I think that His sovereignty sometimes opens the gates to allow hard things to pass through to us– and that is baffling and sickening and devastating. But to allow pain is not the same thing as to create it. And the more I’ve thought about this, the more that distinction has mattered to me. Many authors have written about the origin of suffering, asking how a holy and kind God wouldn’t just nip all evil and pain in the bud. If He is all-loving and all-powerful, why would He do anything else? It’s a good question. If you haven’t read Dorothy Sayers’s address on this topic in her Mind of the Maker, it’s worth your time to do so. She cuts open injustice and sorrow like a surgeon. Of course, C.S. Lewis and Tim Keller have also addressed suffering – most of you have read their thoughts, I assume — and my recent favorite is Christopher Wright’s The God I Don’t Understand. (And not just because he has a brilliant Irish accent.) But today we just don’t have time for all of this, so I’m not going to talk about why evil exists so much as the commodities redeemed pain tends to offer the body of Christ. I want to take your hurts in my hand and let you know that they are not wasted. All was not for naught. If you are currently in the throes of intense suffering, I don’t expect this talk will be much comfort to you. In the worst moments of my life, there is nothing anyone could have said at a podium that would have helped me. I needed an arm around me. I needed a warm drink. I need patience and room to grieve. I needed a wide field and permission to yell until I couldn’t yell anymore. But if you have passed through the first squeeze of pain and now stand dazed, wondering what happened to you and what could possibly come next, maybe this will help somehow. Maybe you will walk with me to the God who didn’t abandon you – though I know it may feel like he did. I know you may not want to trust Him. You may be angry with Him for allowing you to hurt as much as you did. The thought of Him might make you flinch. But here is the God who sees you: “He wipes away every tear. “ “He makes all things new. “ “He works all things for the good of those who love Him.” These are statements of healing that deny neither the grief nor the severity of what you have endured. These statements invite you to be honest about the intensity of your emotions. They allow you to believe that Jesus sometimes sits beside Mary and Martha, weeping in compassion with them, days, decades, an entire lifetime after he has allowed Lazarus to die, and before he raises him from the dead. And while Jesus weeps in compassion, it’s okay if you do, too… believing what Andrew Peterson has taught us: that after the last tear falls, there will be love, love, love, love, love. II Corinthians: A Well-Broken Man I didn’t appreciate the book of II Corinthians very much until the past few years. Like most poets, I’m a Gospel of John Junkie. John fits the way I think, feel, process. If I’m going to be linear, I want Romans. If I want catharsis, the Psalms. I love the Old Testament for its typology. I love Ephesians and Galatians for their promises of grace. I love James for his ability to convict me. I want to love Revelation, but mostly I need it because of how it burns me and casts me belly down on the floor before a holy God. I feel terrible admitting this, but II Corinthians was just kind of “Meh” to me compared to all that… until I realized that it was the story of a well-broken man. In II Corinthians, we find a lover of God who has been obliterated by pain. This is a guy who was used to being good and self-reliant–he was brilliant, powerful, articulate, successful–the kind of guy who had it all before losing it all, and even though he had a bright and shining mountaintop encounter with God during his conversion, God also let him mature in that faith by experiencing what C.S. Lewis calls the “troughs.” What Michael Wells calls the dark room. What John of the Cross calls the dark night of the soul. And after he’s been through the wringer, Paul is able to show how trouble is a classroom that will one day transform our presence into a portable trauma center–both for people we love now and people that we will come to love in the future. Let’s talk a bit about finding a purpose in the gift of pain The desire to help people after we have survived pain is fairly common. Even in the secular world, parents who have lost children find a way to turn their sorrow into support groups or prevention crusades for other families. Abused women take classes in counseling and then adopt young women who are battered and confused.  Addicts lead recovery classes. So it’s not that Christians are the only ones who respond to pain redemptively, but I do wonder if this tendency resides in human nature because we are deeply marked by the image of a God who is in the business of redemption. And for the Christian who is connected intimately with a healing God,  resources for maximizing our gift of suffering are even greater. Not only do we have access to our own experiences and the hard-won wisdom they have purchased, but we also have access to the resources of a God who sees human pain big picture and who is already working to make all things new. Paul writes of the: “…God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. 5 For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too. 6 If we are afflicted, it is for your comfort and salvation; and if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which you experience when you patiently endure the same sufferings that we suffer.”  (II Cor. 1: 3-6) As Heidi taught us, we are interwoven. What comes to the one is poured out to benefit the many. Last week I was walking my students through Tess of the D’Urbervilles (one of my favorite books), and we were talking about what we could learn from Tess by the end of Phase 3. In other words, instead of talking down to a disgraced woman – if we were to sit at her feet and ask what wisdom she had gained – what could we learn? I was so impressed by some of the insights my students provided just by taking time to step into the role of “student of the sufferer.” We can learn a similar concept from the book When Helping Hurts, which discusses how upper class churches tend to move into financially-challenged countries and communities feeling confident in all regards, simply because of the presence of financial resources. However, emotionally, spiritually, financially, relationally, we are all impoverished somehow. And so there should be an inherent respect as we reach out to those in need, a recognition that we have much to learn from those who have hurt, and that if we have resources to share,  they do as well. There is value to our wounds. There is value to our poverty. The Credibility of the Broken: If you’ve been around people who know their own poverty – people who have suffered and come to know the extent of their own weakness — or if you have suffered to that point — you already know how this experience causes people to replace platitudes with narratives. Instead of throwing out, “God won’t give you anything you can’t handle,” hurting people admit quickly: “Here’s what happened to me, and I couldn’t manage it. I found the ends of my strength, the ends of my convictions. It was too much for me, and here is what happened after I realized thatI could not perform for God…” Then, they tell you a real story. They welcome you into details that aren’t the same as your details, but you feel a resonance with them, because you get how it matters that a girlfriend of yours dropped a jug a milk on the kitchen floor after coming home from the hospital with no sleep, and then collapsed to her knees and knelt in that milk and wept. Or she says, “I sat in my van in a Walgreens parking lot at midnight, and I cried until the anger came, and then I hit the steering wheel hard and yelled, “Why, God?” so loudly that a couple of teenagers hanging out at the other end of the store heard me, and they laughed. And I never felt as lonely as that in all my life.” Our hurting friends say that stuff, and even though we haven’t been there, we’ve been there. Those who have hurt deeply somehow speak our language, because they speak the universal language of human trauma. We gravitate toward them, for when they tell us what they have survived, we see how we might survive, too. Not only are we drawn to them emotionally, though.  We are also drawn to them empirically. We sense that the proof is in the pudding…“A thing resounds when it rings true,” said Andrew Peterson, and this rings true because it has passed through the fire. A few weeks ago, I heard Dr. Elsinore Stump speak on suffering, and I was amused by her engagement with John Milton’s writings. Because of her religious beliefs, she considers the Puritans her enemies, and yet she was so cute, talking about how she didn’t like their cause while admitting that Milton’s suffering caused his writing to grow so honest and mighty that she was forced by his pain to value his thoughts. The same is true of many of my favorite writers. The same is true of many of my favorite friends and mentor. The good ones often hurt until they grow rich and deep. A few weeks ago, I was listening to Michael Wells teach on Hebrews 11 (the cloud of witnesses passage) and when he got to the section that talks about people who suffered without finding an earthly answer to their pain, I burst into tears on my yoga mat and just wept. Was I crying out of empathy? No. I was crying because he reminded me that those who suffer faithfully without discovering a “happily ever after” on this planet are “those of whom the world is not worthy.”  It’s an honor to be in that company. God sees this kind of pain. He hasn’t forgotten it. How different that message is from the shame we tend to feel while hurting. When we are in pain, we are usually lonely. And suffering doesn’t just hurt, it often feels like guilt. It feels like foolishness, too — like we should have been able to avoid it. It is a door opened for every accusation of hell, which will make us first despair before we finally break through the birth canal of our weakness, into an expanse of reliant hope. Our suffering proves what we think we believe, but only know after pain One of the greatest benefits of the gift of suffering is that it burns away what we think we believe but actually don’t. I don’t know how many youth leaders asked me in the 1980’s: “If they hold a gun to your head, will you confess Christ?” but this sort of thinking was a crucible in evangelicalism long before there was any real threat of that sort to Americans. Still, I obsessed over that question, lying on my bed worrying about it. I wanted to be a good and faithful Christian, and I was terrified that maybe I didn’t have what it took for a time of need. Then I found out I didn’t have what it took, and it didn’t even take a gun pointed to my head. It took a whole lot less than that for me to crash. I met the end of my self control. I saw how I didn’t believe what I thought I believed, not really. Through pain, God delivers us from our self-reliance and self-promotion This was humiliating and disorienting, but it was also a tremendous blessing, because through that awareness, I had to come face-to face with my self reliance. I think Paul also had to come to this realization. He writes: “For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. 9 Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. “ See that? When self-reliance is exposed, we are burdened beyond our strength… and we despair of life itself. Because that is how it feels to realize you don’t have what it takes. It feels like dying. And the stronger you are, the harder that death is. Especially for the strong, it’s a death sentence to realize how weak we are. But there’s a purpose in this complete and utter exhaustion… to make us stop deluding ourselves about the ability of our will so that we can begin to rely upon God’s indwelling power. This treatment of human weakness differs wildly from much of what we hear today in Christian circles. Many of us who were growing up in the midst of the Christian authenticity movement tend to think we’ve reached health when we simply step into the light with our hardest secrets and finally admit – “I can’t fight this any more. I’m just like this. I can’t not be like this.” This tendency isn’t limited to any single minority segment of the population – it’s a tendency that applies to all of us.  Many—most of us are handed a temptation during suffering—a temptation that promises to make us feel happy, safe, known… finally not alone… and when it comes to us, that temptation hits right in the core of our vacuum. It makes all the sense in the world for us to chase it. Have you ever  heard Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese”? Here’s an excerpt: You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Ugh. I hate that because I’ve seen people live like this, chasing whatever feels good and leaving a wake of destruction behind them. And Oliver is not alone in her epicureanism. You have hard the same message in a hundred different ways, right? Chase your bliss. Trust your instincts. And when we are hurting, what a sweet and beautiful thought such escapes can be. Besides, what could be so wrong about happiness? Is God cruel? Humanist/Christian theology so popular in our era tells us that we deserve euphoria. So, ifGod seems to be asking us to do something bigger than what we are able to do, He must not require it of us. He must not be serious, really. Or if He is, He must not be fair. I’ve toyed indulgence as an escape for pain, teased it out, tested it — and I have found it full of a strange mix of intoxication and terror. It is a thrill, a high, an endorphin rush that turns cold and empty. It is a blast of sharp pleasure before a long night of terrible loneliness. There is delight to sin, but this delight fades into a cancer of the soul. And as much as all my flesh cringes to face reality instead, at the intersection of my honest desperation and God’s holiness, His sufficiency meets me. This process hurts. To see that what we want is forbidden, and to then see that we don’t have the strength to resist what is forbidden–to realize that all of our wounds and wants cry out for what God prohibits—that is a powerful moment. It is a devastating moment.  And in many circles of Christianity, that devastation is not valued. But it should be valued, because in maturing as a Christian, there often comes a point in which we realize that these cracked, leaking jars of clay and thorns in the flesh – are severe mercies — because they propel us into a union with God that we cannot achieve in our own goodness, in our own self-justification, or in our own autonomy. Loving our Jars of Clay : Loving our Thorns in the Flesh Paul explains: But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. 8 We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; 9 persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; 10 always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. 11 For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. 12 So death is at work in us, but life in you. Again—our hurt pours out to others. For so long, I was ashamed of myself that I couldn’t do the Christian life right. And yeah, I teach literature, so I should have known the dangers of hubris. In every good book, pride is foreboding. It means that a tragic hero is about to fall. But still, it took so much to shake me out of that expectation. Some time back in the mid 1990’s, I asked God to “give me one pure and holy passion.” And I wonder sometimes if God said, “Alright, my Love. I can do that. But this is going to burn. It’s going to feel like a Lion clawing off dragon skins.” After this, I landed in a world that felt so severe and unbearable, so chaotic, so random, that I wondered if God could be real, of if He cared for me much, if he was. In the absence of the roar of my own glory, I found the gravity of my blessed weaknesses. I learned to trace the scars and burn marks keep me from becoming conceited. I found the terrible, beautiful thorns of my flesh.  I suffer because of them, and so I have pleaded with the Lord to remove them… but He has answered instead: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” What then, God? What is left for me to do? “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” The gift of weakness. The gift of suffering. Here we sit together today, inside of this weakness. And at the quivering end of ourselves what do we find?  A new creation. Paul says: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. … Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us: “We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. “ We’ve circled round, see? We who emerge out of the cocoon of pain are commissioned to generosity.  We have been invited into reconciliation so that we can reconcile. Look down at your hands for a moment… those hands of yours that have wiped so many tears of shame and grief from your own face. Those same hands will be transformed into the hands of the Great Physician. You will walk into the battlefields with Lucy’s cordial, whispering the name of Aslan over those who cannot lift their heads. And though we are all sore and weary, I am glad to be in your company… We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition. —Henry V

Bon Iver’s highly anticipated third album is out in the world now. Being a fan of Justin Vernon’s unusual music, I was excited about the new release, but then began to hear that the album was super experimental, and a big departure from the band’s previous two albums. I was anticipating a potentially brilliant but inaccessible piece of art. But when my wife and I finally got around to listening to it, I was surprised by how beautiful, intimate, and personal the album felt. The album feels like an archaeological journey, uncovering fragments of history, some of which still have dust on them, but shine beneath. Rather than give you my thoughts on the album, because honestly I’m still pondering it, I thought I’d share a few pieces that have shaped my perception of 22, A Million. The first piece, a review by Pitchfork writer Amanda Petrusich, explores how the fragmentary nature of the album’s songs highlight Vernon’s existential search for meaning in the modern age, weaving fragments of memory, cultural artifacts, symbolism, and religious references. In the second piece, a great complement to the first, Daily Beast writer Andrew Kirell looks at how Justin Vernon used the creative process of 22, A Million to come to grips with his sudden rise to fame after the Grammy nominated Bon Iver, Bon Iver. Two great postscripts to this whole discussion: 1) Nerdwriter’s video essay on How Bon Iver Creates a Mood, and 2) An interview with Eric Timothy Carlson, the artist who designed the album’s unusual artwork. If you’ve listened to 22, A Million, I’d love to hear your thoughts below.

John Hendrix joined us at Hutchmoot 2016, and as he is wont to do, he’s summed up the weekend with an amazing sketchbook entry. You may have already seen it on Facebook or Twitter, but here’s a high-res version so you can zoom in and see the detail. Thanks, John.

I’ve always thought real writers walk around with stories whirling in their brains begging to come out. They write because they can’t not write. But this has never been true of me. I thought writers studied writing in college and wrote their entire lives. This wasn’t true of me either. I was a late starter A few years ago, I heard a radio interview with a sixty-year-old man who swam the English Channel. He said that every year he tried to do something he had never done before, and that idea hit me like a sledgehammer. This man, who was about the same as age me, was taking risks and doing new things. What was I doing? Around that time, I heard Andrew Osenga’s song “The Ball Game.” Here’s the chorus: This is not a ball game It’s not a school play It’s not a book that lets you bend a page This is the one life These are the passing days I don’t want to look back and see I’ve wasted The lyrics scared me. Did I have a talent I was wasting? Another song that impacted me was “Unwritten,” by Natasha Bedingfield. She sang: Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten I interpreted that song both metaphorically and literally. Metaphorically: She was describing my life, being lived in the fearful mundane. I needed to open the windows—dirty with disuse—and taste, touch, smell, hear, and see real life with its risks and rewards. Literally: Did I have an unwritten book or blog in me waiting to come out? Did I have words that someone might need—words that only I could say? The negative voices told me it was foolish to think anyone would read something I write. But another voice told me that at least I could try. I even had a title that popped into my head: Life Lessons from a Slow Learner. I decided to join the writers’ group at church. We had writing lessons and assignments. Our leader gave us badly written sentences to improve upon. She brought published writers to speak to our group. We critiqued each others’ work. The accountability of a monthly meeting kept me at it, and I loved it. I went to a writers’ conference and had a consultation with one of the speakers. She read some of my pieces, pointed at me and said, “You are a devotional writer,” which thrilled me. One turning point was the first Hutchmoot, during a panel discussion of art and community. One of the panelists said that the idea that you write because you can’t not write was nonsense (actually, the word he used was a euphemism for steer excrement!). That statement freed me so much, to hear a real writer say that they don’t automatically have stories pouring out. He said that writers need community for encouragement, inspiration, and sharpening. All the panelists said they had to show up at their writing table and do the hard work of creating. After several years, the writers’ group took a hiatus, and my writing did too. But last year I attended the Indiana Faith and Writing Conference, and that prompted a flurry of writing, editing, and rewriting. The conference spurred me on to pursue writing again, but it was short-lived. I’m going again this fall. I’m learning (slowly, remember?) that I’m not too old to start using (or trying out) a talent. It’s not too late, and I don’t want to keep procrastinating, because I don’t know how long I have left to practice and hone the discipline. I believe God has used all these experiences and people to call me to write. Maybe I’m finally learning to listen.

“It is a dangerous thing to open a door. But that, after all, is the only way to find an adventure.” Pre-orders are now open for Henry and the Chalk Dragon, a new novel by Jennifer Trafton, with illustrations by Benjamin Schipper. At Hutchmoot, folks got an early look at this new title from Rabbit Room Press (and a few folks even got to read it). It’ll be available on April 4th, 2017, but it’s available for pre-order only in the Rabbit Room Store. All pre-ordered books will be signed by the author and shipped in early April. Rabbit Room Press Presents: Henry and the Chalk Dragon In the town of Squashbuckle, just about anything can happen, and when Henry Penwhistle draws a mighty Chalk Dragon on his door, the dragon does what Henry least expects—it runs away. Now Henry’s art is out in the world for everyone to see, and it’s causing trouble for him and his schoolmates Oscar and Jade. If they don’t stop it, the entire town could be doomed! To vanquish the threat of a rampaging Chalk Dragon, Sir Henry Penwhistle, Knight of La Muncha Elementary School, is going to have to do more than just catch his art—he’s going to have to let his imagination run wild. And that takes bravery. Pre-order today.

We just finished the final cleanup of the church and waved goodbye to the last of the staff and volunteers. My feet hurt. My eyes are drooping. And the Rabbit Room office looks like a tornado went through it. Hutchmoot 2016 is over. There’s no way I can adequately express my thanks to everyone who helped make this past weekend happen. More than once, I remember asking one of our staff or volunteers (or even a guest) to take care of a task or problem and thinking as I was doing so that I had no idea what I would do without the help of the person in front of me. Folks were so ready and willing to pitch in and get things done that the weekend flowed smoothly from beginning to end, and I’m grateful for every one of you. Thank you to Diana Glyer for giving us exactly what we needed. Thank you to Audrey Assad for singing lullabies and psalms over us at the end of a tiring day. Thank you to Lewis and John and Ashley and Phillip and Lindsay and Dillon for keeping us well fed. Thank you to Kate for long hours of making things lovely and keeping the ship heading in the right direction. Thank you to Jennifer for helping us create something beautiful together. Thank you to the Settles family for reminding us not to hide our lights under a bushel. Thank you to Kaitlyn who helps me keep track of so many things I nearly forget and does so much work with so little complaint. Thank you to John who somehow manages to manage the merch. Thank you to all the folks taking out trash and setting tables and carrying chairs and making copies and running cables and sweeping floors and stocking toilet paper and cooking brownies and doing all the thousand things that need doing. Thank you also to all the folks I’ve forgotten to thank. I’m about to put up my feet and relax for a few hours. And as I do, I feel paradoxically both utterly empty and completely full. That’s as it should be. We’d love to hear your thoughts and reflections on the weekend. Once you have time to sift through it all, put your thoughts into a comment here, or link to your blog. Let us know what Hutchmoot 2016 was like for you. Thanks for letting us do this crazy thing. I’m already looking forward to next year.

A few weeks ago, Jakob Lewis (a friend from church) sent me the first episode of his new podcast, Neighbors, wondering if it might be of interest to the Rabbit Room community. He said it featured a story about Thomas McKenzie, and, knowing that there are no dull stories about Thomas McKenzie, I was intrigued. I listened to the episode and was immediately impressed. Not with Thomas’s story (though I would be), but with the quality of the podcast. I’ve been a Radiolab fan for years and I could tell right off the bat that Jakob was too. I loved the sound, style, and pace of Neighbors, and any favorable comparison to Radiolab is a positive thing. But Jakob’s ear for a good story was just as in tune as his technical ability. He let Thomas’s experience with the death of his father play out just like it should, with grace, insight, and a bit of revelation. When I told Jakob how much I enjoyed the podcast, I learned that he’s just been accepted to a residential radio storytelling program on Cape Cod. The course is led by Radiolab’s Robert Krulwich and This American Life’s Nancy Updike. They only accept nine applicants and Jakob was lucky enough (and talented enough) to be one of them. The two-month course means that Jakob will have to take leave from his job and be away from his wife for two months, though, and he’s currently in the middle of an IndieGoGo campaign to try to raise money to defray his expenses. He’s not asking for much, but if you appreciate the kind of storytelling that Jakob demonstrates in this episode, consider helping him out. I did. When Jakob completes the residential course he and his wife are hoping to drive across the country and collect stories along the way. Based on his work in this first episode, I can’t wait to hear them. You can stream the episode below. Check it out for yourself and visit the Neighbors homepage. Neighbors, Episode 1 “Our Father: Two Fathers Trying to Out-Father One Another” by Jakob Lewishttps://rabbitroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/OurFather.mp3 Click here to visit the campaign page.

I’ll never forget the call. I was being asked to join Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God tour as their special guest. Did they have the right number? I had seen the show for the first time the year before and was so encouraged and inspired by the evening that I told my husband I’d found our family Christmas tradition, so the invitation to actually be a part of the show seemed surreal and too good to be true. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve never intentionally read through anything for Advent, but as I listened through the Behold the Lamb of God record to prepare for the tour, I was swept up into the “old, old story.” I have Andrew to thank for introducing me to the joy of remembering well the story of our savior. I was totally that girl on the bus who fell asleep listening to the Behold the Lamb record every night and who was reading Russ Ramsey’s Behold the Lamb book in the mornings. I was captured again by the story of our Rescuer. I also found myself caught up into a beautiful community of story-tellers. These people love well. They seek each other out. They listen. They pray. They laugh—a lot. They play spike ball and catch phrase. They say, “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?” They gather each night to eat a meal together. They bear with each other. They craft songs that carry the ache and joy and hope and wandering our souls experience, and they welcomed me as one of their own. Night after night, I would cry standing side stage, hands raised in the air, as Andrew sang the truth to every crowd. Behold the Lamb of God who takes away our sin Behold the Lamb of God, the life and light of men Behold the Lamb of God who died and rose again Behold the Lamb of God who comes to take away our sin Oh to get to sing the gladdest of tidings to a different city each night. To get to sing the story of Emmanuel, God With Us, to our own souls. Remember! “The power of death undone.” Remember! “Son of God. Son of Man.” And then we would walk off the stage every night as our own voices mingled with the voices of brothers and sisters who came to the show to remember with us. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” Praise Him indeed. #BeholdTheLambofGod #EllieHolcomb

Saint Augustine wrote a small book in 393 that I like to use as a reminder. The book, Faith and the Creed, was an address he gave to a plenary council of the African Church. In it, he exposits a combination of the Nicene and Romano-Milanese creeds. As you would expect from Augustine, the entire short book is good. Yet, I especially like the introduction, where Augustine explains the use of the creed and the importance of its defense. He begins with its use. But the Catholic Faith is made known to the faithful in the Creed, and is committed to memory, in as short a form as so great a matter permits. In this way for beginners and sucklings, who have been reborn in Christ but have not yet been strengthened by diligent and spiritual study and understanding of the divine Scriptures, there has been drawn up in few words a formula they must accept in faith, setting forth what would have to be expounded in many words to those who are making progress and are raising themselves up to attain the divine doctrine in the assured strength of humility and charity. The Bible is a big book and theology is an expansive discipline; there is much to learn. The creed serves as an orientation to the Christian faith for those who are new to it. But also, the creed is a reminder for those Christians who have dug deeper into the Scriptures and have lived in the faith long enough to have experienced the conundrums of discipleship, which often engender doubts. Be sure, doubts will arise. Not just because faith includes disheartening mysteries, but also because there exist people who do not believe the Christian faith and who are not content that others should. This is why Augustine makes a case for exposition. But the exposition of the Faith serves to fortify the Creed, not that it is given to be committed to memory or repeated instead of the Creed by those who obtain the grace of God. But it guards the things contained in the Creed against the wiles of heretics with full Catholic authority and with a stronger defense. In a word, all Christians need to remember the basics of faith and also we need individuals who will expound the complexities of faith. Few of us would feel comfortable categorizing ourselves alongside the likes of Augustine, one of the great expositors and defenders of Christianity. But, neither with false humility should many of us claim only to be sucklings. The majority of us are in between. It helps for me to remember this: I am not new to Christianity, though others are and they need the example of my continued affirmation of the faith that they are just beginning to learn. Neither am I a great defender of the faith, though others are and they need the example of my continued affirmation of the faith that they labor so hard to defend. Those expositors of the Christian faith have been on my mind and heart recently. They are the Christians who get beat up by antagonists, and even by their own hearts and minds. Too often, they also get thrashed about by in-between Christians like me. They choose to wrestle with mysteries and doubts in an effort to give me comfort and assurance. I would not understand the smallest imprint of the depths they explore. And, if I followed them all the way down to those depths, my faith would be rattled to its core. Why am I so quick to accuse these expositors? They begin to dig in search of diamonds deep, but as soon as they hit clay, I chide, “Ah ha! I knew you were going to smear the faith.” In reality, defending the faith requires getting messy. Often confidence comes only after washing off the caked-on grime accumulated from burrowing for jewels of truth. Are there ways, I wonder, for in-between Christians like me to help expositors clean up after a particularly hard dig? I cannot say I know the best way to help, though I suspect it might involve getting a little dirty, too. #Augustine

First of all, let me apologize to Andy Gullahorn for the awful Beyond the Frame joke you see in the picture above; I stole it from Sally Zaengle so you can blame her. That’s Kathleen Norris being a good sport with the guitar. We left for Texas on Thursday morning with quite a bit of anxiety. The opportunity to hold a “Hutchmoot” event at Laity Lodge was a dream come true, but none of us knew how well it would work. Would people recognize it as a uniquely Rabbit-Room-ish event? Would the community aspect translate in the same way it has at past Hutchmoots? Would the more spacious program still leave people fulfilled? Would Kathleen Norris feel at home and enjoy her time with us? All these and many other questions were on my mind when I got off the plane. And now, after three and a half days in the beauty of the Texas hill country, after lots of Psalms and poetry, after tables spread with great food including some legendary scalloped potatoes, and after lots of great conversation, I’ll say that the answer to all those questions is a resounding “Yes!” Thank you to all who came and participated so richly. Thanks to all the speakers and musicians (Andrew Peterson, Jennifer Trafton, Jill Phillips, Eric Peters, Andy Gullahorn, Paul Soupiset), you guys were fantastic; Saturday night’s concert was one of the highlights of the weekend. And I’d especially like to thank Kathleen Norris, who had no real idea what she was getting into, but who came with curiosity and a beautiful, earthy humility. Her humor and wisdom were an absolute delight and it was a privilege to be able to sit at her feet and learn for a few days. Now that we’re home, I’m anxious again—but not with questions. I went to the desert drained, but now I’ve soaked up the poetry of the weekend and I’m full. I’m anxious to write—and that’s a good thing. I’m also anxious to get to work finalizing plans for Hutchmoot 2014. The dates are October 9-12. We expect registration to begin sometime in mid-March. We’ll see you in October.

[We were so delighted to publish this at Story Warren because it zeros in on so much of what we are aiming for. But this doesn’t only apply to children and families. Thank you so much for this, Alyssa. —Sam] “Can we go to school the long way today?” My daughter’s brown eyes watched my reflection in the mirror as I stood behind her, brushing her hair. “The view is better when we go that way,” she said. “Do you mean when we pass the big field?” I asked, returning her reflected gaze. She nodded. “What do you like to see in the field?” I asked her. “Everything.” This was a first. My six-year-old is much like me: practical-minded, task-driven, and above all, punctual. She is the first of us to be ready each morning. She will stand in the kitchen—backpack on—and watch the clock, announcing each minute that passes until go time. Even when we’re running ahead of schedule, she hurries her little brother along and asks repeatedly, “Are we going to be late?” So I was surprised that today she wanted to go the long way. And that is why, even though her little brother had seen to it that we were running late, the long way is how we went. In truth, plenty of other fields are lovelier than the one on Woehrle Road. Just a few miles north on 62, you pass sights much more pleasing to the eye: sprawling farms, ribbons of water bending between wooded banks, meadows wrapped around maple-crowned hills. By comparison, our little field hardly qualifies as a field at all. It’s really just a wide place between suburban gridlines — a few dozen acres the city hasn’t yet been able to wrest from the (no doubt wonderful) family who owns them. But perhaps it is made lovelier for its incongruity with the edifices of industry and commerce huddled around it. It certainly is a welcome respite for eyes that are accustomed to the visual bam-bam-bam of development. For maybe thirty seconds, the landscape smooths. You can look at it without having to blink away information overload. You want to keep looking. Driving down the arrow-straight lane along the eastern side of our field, I risked letting my wheels wander off into the icy shoulder to look a little harder at the field than usual. I wanted to appreciate it with my daughter, to have it in common with her. I think I know what draws her to that field. It isn’t the modest beauties perceivable to the eye: the subtle rise and fall of the land, like a topography of slow breathing. The ice-glazed skeletons of last autumn’s gleanings. The pond, frozen who-knows-how-solid, issuing a silent dare. The southern sun slipping upward, glancing across the expanse with shy eyes. I think she is drawn not to the things she sees, but to what they awaken: longing. I know because I have felt it and hoped to feel it again. I have gone the long way in order to find it. C.S. Lewis called it the inconsolable secret. It’s the deep desire to be able to slow, to enter, to quench an ineffable thirst. It’s an ache in my chest, a wild need to hold on to the invisible source of the beauty before my eyes. It is my soul trying to swallow. The Germans call it sehnsucht. Maybe they can explain it better. This longing has become familiar to me as I’ve learned to recognize and welcome it. But it is just beginning to awaken in my daughter. She’s never asked to go the long way before. I glanced back at her. She was turned toward the window in her high-back booster seat. I wanted to say something, to mark the moment with a poignant phrase. But her head rested against the seat belt. Her eyes were distant. I knew that my girl had gone where I couldn’t follow. Gazing silently out her window, deaf to her brother’s nonsensical chatter, she was listening to a language only knowable to her. I didn’t ask her what she felt. She couldn’t have explained it any better than I can. It is enough to know that she was willing to risk punctuality for the sake of something lovely. She is learning to differentiate between what is expedient and what is meaningful. I am overjoyed that she is beginning to listen to the call of a place whose rewards are worth the price of practicality. It was a beautiful, sad, holy thing to watch my daughter slip into that place and beyond my reach. But it is a place she must go. I pray she will learn to seek it often, and to take delight there. I pray she will hear in it whispers of a Name. I will gladly go the long way to get her there. —–   —–   —– Featured image by Shauna Raymer

An Explanation for the Uninitiated: Subjects With Objects is an ongoing, collaborative art project forever ordered according to the following rules: A shadowy public spaces painter sets up in pubs and executes spontaneous portraits at the rate of one painting per pint. He then hands off those enigmatic little ocular disturbances to a semi-anonymous poet & novelist who lives with them long enough to solicit their otherworldly mumblings and ephemeral whispers, distilling each of their essences into a line or two of poetic prose. The painter is Jonathan Richter. The poet is UNKNOWN & UNKNOWABLE, so it is best NOT TO EVEN ASK! However, for the sake of convenience we may refer to him as DKM. Subjects With Objects Unplugged Untitled 17 (2008) The One That Almost Got Away… Okay, so this little pink fellow gave me fits. First off, unless he’s been picking his nose (and be warned, dear reader, that I did explore that possibility), there’s no readily apparent “object” in the painting. So what is his object? Is it the tank-turreted Rorschach of his shirt? Is it the golden chaos of his unkempt, Nordic hair-sweep? His nose reddened from gobleted grog or Northern cold? Or is it . . . Ah, yes . . . Is it perhaps an object in that other sense of the word: An intent, a desired end or outcome? An objective, as it were. As in: His one object was to negotiate world peace. He was the ever the most disappointed of men. As I considered it, I saw that the ruddy fellow’s posture could clearly suggest that other sort of object. I noted the rigid but slightly leaned angle of his torso, as if he’s been waiting for someone else to finish speaking before he interjects his own words. The hand raised, finger up, to suggest that he’s a student or a new intern, waiting to be called on before he speaks. He’s almost certainly not the authority in whatever situation he finds himself in. In fact, he’s probably the sort of fellow who’s mostly at the mercy of others, if only because he cannot see past the rules to ascertain the spirit of any law and make his own broader judgments. And then there’s his expression. Not hopeful. A tiny insinuation of panic behind his small eyes. A sense that perhaps he has already, like Elvis, left the building and has entrenched himself in what he perceives to be the most defensible depths of the soul, walls erected and steeled against some great disappointment. The doorman left standing guard behind his eyes is now but a coin-operated automaton. Those were some of my early thoughts anyway, but back to the question of “rules.” That’s the territory I lit out for as I first began to formulate the earlier possible lines of text. This little gentleman seemed to have retained his Germanic forebears’ love of order, though any martial aspect of the Teutonic warriors had long since seeped from his family line. So he sits there now as one who finds order in life by following the rules—if only he could understand what’s expected. And right now, he’s having a bit of trouble understanding. Untitled 17 was originally created as part of a gallery show titled “First Day In Purgatory.” The overarching (though unspoken) context for that show was that each of its subjects were experiencing their first day of the afterlife. Some were reflecting on the temporal existence that had so recently drawn to a close. Others were seeking to get a handle on their new surroundings. It wasn’t too rigid a pretext and some of the pieces in that collection surely outside of it, but that was at least the loose context I had in mind as I approached this one. The rules have changed, I thought. This poor fellow is sitting in a desk, in a room with a bunch of other newbies, and he’s trying to find order, to make sense of this new plane of existence. He wants to get it right. He wants to play by the rules. He’s like a first grader on the first day of school. And he wants so badly for the others to play by the rules as well. So what are the rules? Would someone please tell me the rules here? Or would they at least rigidly enforce what I assume the basic rules to be? Excuse me, sir, I’d like to make just one point. People keep getting the paper towel stacks in the bathroom wet. Excuse me, sir, I’d like to make just one point. People don’t seem to be wiping up their messes in the break room. If he calls on me, I’m going to ask why the girls got a longer bathroom break. If he calls on me, I’m going to ask to be assigned a new partner. If he calls on me, I’m going to ask what they’ve done with my knees. Is there anything I can wipe this on? And the other thing is, my room is right beside the door and people keep coming in late and slamming it. And the other thing is, my room is right beside the door and people were coming in late last night and slamming it. If I could just interject one point. My room is right beside the door, so when people keep coming in late and slam it, it wakes me up. Whaddayou mean ‘dispose of it myself’? It’s a booger! Does someone have a tissue? It’s a booger. Why? It’s a booger! What do we do with boogers here? What are we supposed to do here with the boogers? Is there someone here to dispose of this for me? And one last question. What do we do with our boogers? And one last question. Where do we put boogers? I don’t know where to put this… booger. I might not have been blessed with their talent or money, but at least I knew my place. And then, BAM!, just like that, I was able to retrieve it from my nose. If this isn’t hell, why am I so uncomfortable? If this isn’t hell, why is it so uncomfortable? I would just like to point out several safety violations I’ve noticed. I’m just wondering if there will still be a daily quota. Will we be graded on spelling? Will we be graded on spelling? Because I’m actually pretty good at spelling. When Untitled 17 hung in the “1st Day in Purgatory” gallery show, Richter and I opted for the slightly surreal text choice: If he calls on me, I’m going to ask what they’ve done with my knees. I honestly don’t know why. If he calls on me, I’m going to ask what they’ve done with my knees. I think the idea probably just amused us enough that, in a moment of sophomoric giddiness, we actually did choose it. Part of the humor is that the statement presupposes that the ambiguous “they” did indeed do something with his knees, and what that could be, and why, is as absurdly perplexing to us as it is to him, but by golly, he’s gonna get to the bottom of it, if only they’ll call on him. Who knows what goes on in a place like purgatory, anyway? We even printed 20 paperback copies of a book version of that art show to sell in the gallery, so this version was forever memorialized, though in a limited fashion. Still, this one nagged at me, and I found that even a couple years later I was still uneasy with the choice. It made me chuckle, but it just wasn’t the correct text. It wasn’t until we had secured funding and were preparing for the printing of the hardback run of Subjects With Objects, Volume I last year, that I sat down to wrestle with this one again, throwing out all the previous brainstorming choices. And finally, at last, the answer lit like a butterfly on the tip of my nose and I said Oh, yes. All along, I had been trying to force this guy into the wrong venue and the wrong posture. He wasn’t the student trying to figure out the rules. No, he was the defendant whose flimsy defense had already crumbled, and who was now making his last ditch appeal, grasping at the only straw left him: That’s true, your honor, but if you find me “Not Guilty” I will afterwards remember you with a greater fondness. Now the piece was both comic and tragic (as many of the SubWOb pieces aspire to be), as it became a reflection of our ill-conceived human attempts to somehow find enough personal leverage to justify ourselves, or failing that, to “bribe the judge” as it were. Postscript: I’d like to think that after this fellow made his statement, there were several seconds of complete silence in the courtroom, and then the sound of the judge’s booming, bellowing, mirth-filled laughter, rising up in waves and bursting forth like a flood that overtook all within it’s hearing, sweeping them up in a rising tide that was at once, joyful and terrible. And if our friend in Untitled 17 was at last able in that moment to suddenly see himself for who he was, and rather than becoming angrier and more defensive, was able to embrace his own absurdity and unselfconsciously join in the laughter, then I think it all might have turned out right for him in the end. _________________________ Untitled 17, 2008 is currently on display and offered for sale in the Subjects With Objects gallery show Pretty Girls Like It When You Take Their Things at O’ More College in downtown Franklin, TN. The show is open to the public and will run through March 3rd, 2014.

When my aunt passed away, I inherited a little black journal of my grandfather’s that she had kept. It’s just big enough to hold in one hand, the paper so soft and thin, and his light, somewhat cramped penciled handwriting is fading with the years. He died just months before I was born, and all my life I’d been told how much alike we were, so this little piece of him, traveling to me from across the decades, was a treasure indeed. One day, I started to read it. Though I hoped for insight, outpourings of the depths of his soul, I got entries like this. Fri February 7, 1947 Worked 8 hrs today, which went by very well. Pay day. Fair all day. These were the makings of life. There was the birth of dad’s eldest sister, years before he was a thought. There were fair and warm days working in a shipyard. There were days work went well and days it went slow. There were days of cultivating gardens and visiting family and, occasionally, missing the bus. My grandfather was a simple man. He went to a Bible college in New York, wanted to be a preacher, somehow made his way from New England to Florida, and supported his growing family by working on ships and in orange groves. He never drove. His kids played marbles in the dirt road. And my parents have made a similar way, though perhaps with a little less education and little more money in the end. My dad joined the Navy, spent a few years in Puerto Rico, married my mom, worked a couple jobs before persistence landed him at a local phone company. Forty years, five company name changes, and a slew of new technologies later, he still loves it. My mom worked in retail and grocery stores until I was born. She stayed home to raise my sister and I. She homeschooled us and drove us around and made sure her little family ate three meals a day. Sometimes she talks about things she wanted to be when she grew up, but she sees the blessing and the hard work of being a mom. It seems they didn’t make as much of calling as my generation does. We’ve been told we could be anything we want to be if we get a degree and dream big, live life like an adventure, center ourselves in an epic story. They told us we deserved more than a mundane 9-to-5, that we could do more, dream more, that it’s somehow noble to quit your day job to travel and write and play songs and dig wells. That your story could be more. More epic. More lasting. Like your own personal Odyssey. Like immortality can be earned. Well. Let me tell you. We are none of us entitled to our own epic story. We are in one, but we are not one. We are the walk-on extras in the grand tale of the universe. We are living in our microcosms, but floating in and out of the scene. Of course, we do live them. Some of us do enjoy the call to go do grand things. But some of us write our smaller, no less important stories in eight hours of work a day.

“I was terribly shy as a boy,” the man said. “Excruciatingly shy. But in third grade there was a girl I liked, and somehow I mustered up the courage to tell her so on the school bus. And she said she liked me too.” He smiled a wistful little smile as he told it. “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She liked me too. So I thought I’d strike while the iron was hot. I asked her if she’d like to be my girlfriend. She said ‘Sure.’ It was like I had been transformed in a moment, from a loser to somebody’s boyfriend. Even my big brother noticed something different about me when I got off the bus.” He paused as if to savor that memory before going on. “The next day,” he said, “I picked some flowers and gave them to the little girl on the playground. Everybody stared at me, but I didn’t care at all. Except that the little girl stared too, just like the others. ‘What are these for?’ she said. ‘They’re for you,’ I said. ‘Because you’re my girlfriend.’ The girl’s mouth dropped open in horror and she shrugged her shoulders and gave the other kids one of those looks that said, ‘This boy’s crazy.’ “‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘On the bus,’ I said, ‘I said I liked you and you said you liked me too.’ She came at me so fast I didn’t know what was happening. She gave me a shove that landed me flat on my back. When I raised up on my elbows, the girl made it clear that she would hit me again if I tried to get up. The other kids were laughing and pointing, and lying there on the playground I promised myself that I would never again get close enough to a girl to get hurt by her. “I kept that promise,” he said. “That was thirty years ago. That little girl was my last girlfriend. I’ve never been hurt by anyone since.” I ran into that fellow the other day. He’s still as guarded as ever. And as lonesome. C. S. Lewis wrote, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, unredeemable.” That little girl shouldn’t have betrayed that little boy’s confidence or pushed him down or humiliated him in public. But the things she did to him weren’t nearly so harmful as the thing he did to himself when he promised never to be hurt again. Valentine’s Day is a day for sentimentalizing the most pleasant aspects of romantic love. I’m fine with that. But it’s also worth noting that love, when it comes to it, involves a willingness to risk being hurt. To love a person is to be willing to struggle—to struggle for her, and often to struggle with her. My wife’s love is a harbor from life’s storms, and I’m thankful for that. But sometimes it’s the storm. I’m thankful for that too.

When the purport of the images—what they say to our fear and hope and will and affections — seems to conflict with the theological abstractions, trust the purport of the images every time. —C. S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer 52 (1963) A man wakes up on a misty morning. He looks out his window and likes what he sees. So he dresses and walks out his door to enjoy what has been given him. The mist doesn’t last long.  But while it lasts it softens the edges of the world, brings out its colors, and dances with the shafts of light from the rising sun. And then it vanishes. The man emits a satisfied sigh. God makes everything beautiful in its time.(1) I can imagine another man—say, a photographer—waking up the same morning, somewhere in the same vale, seeing the same mist, the same light, the same landscape. Recognizing the aesthetic value of what he sees, he runs to find his camera. He rushes out his door, and looks for just the right place to best capture the dance of mist and light and landscape, the viewpoint from which mist and light and landscape appear to greatest advantage. He experiments with a few different lenses, and snaps a few pictures to preserve the morning’s beauty for posterity—to preserve the past for the future. It isn’t preserved, though. A window on it is preserved. If the photographer has done his work well, it may be a clear window. But still it is a window only; the misty morning itself isn’t preserved. And the sigh the photographer emits when the greedy fingers of the rising sun have stolen the last mists likely will be of a much different kind than our first man’s sigh of satisfaction. God has set eternity in the man’s heart, but in such a way that he cannot find out what God has done from beginning to end.(2) We cannot capture vapor. We can enjoy its flirting and flitting through our fingers, but fixity is not one of its virtues. Likewise we cannot shepherd the wind. For starters, we do not know where it comes from or where it goes. Even if we did, we still couldn’t pick up stray wind, lay it across our shoulders, and carry it back to the fold. Welcome to life under the sun. For many years I could not begin to understand what Koholeth, the author of Ecclesiastes, was teaching. His book seemed to oscillate between pounding home the vanity of life, and then exhorting us to enjoy life—food, drink, company, and toil. Enjoy your vain life. I can take instruction from paradox, but not schizophrenia. But Koholeth was not schizophrenic. Many of his translators unjustly make him seem so. They make him seem so by doing precisely the opposite of what C. S. Lewis told Malcolm to do: they trusted abstractions like “vanity” and “meaningless,” rather than trusting images, like “vapor.” The translators doubtless could heap up lots of scholarly reasons for translating hebel as “vanity” rather than “vapor.” I’d say it’s a literary misjudgment, though. Hebel loses much of its affective power when rendered as a negative abstraction, rather than as a positive picture-word—the kind of word that lodges in our imagination and works its way through our will out into our hands and feet. The vaporousness of life under the sun may very often vex us. It may turn much of our toil to vanity—especially if we labor under the delusion that our lives are going to turn a profit under the sun. Yet if God gives us the ability to do so (3), we will recognize life under the sun, in all its vaporousness, for what it is—and we will enjoy it. (1) Ecclesiastes 3:11. (2) Ecclesiastes 3:12. (3) Ecclesiastes 2:24-25. #CSLewis #Koholeth #LetterstoMalcolm #Ecclesiastes #vapor #images

When I was a graduate student at Vanderbilt, I went back to my hometown in Georgia to work on a remodeling crew. One of my crewmates was a boy named Jake. He was seventeen and skinny but tough as beef jerky. He was so country that the dash and bustle of Warner Robins, Georgia made him gape the way you might gape at Times Square, and any time we went to a restaurant for lunch, he had the unsettling habit of telling the town girls how pretty they were. Most mornings Jake came to work bleary-eyed, as if he had stayed up all night. I asked him what that was about, certain there was a good story behind those red-rimmed eyes. “I hunt wild hogs,” he said. “Me and my buddies spend most nights in the swamps, either at the Ocmulgee or the Flint.” “Boar hunting!” I said. This was interesting. I didn’t figure it would be hard to get him going on that subject. A question or two, and he would be off. “So, what kind of gun do you use?” I asked. “Gun?” he scoffed. “We don’t take no guns!” “Then what do you take?” “Dogs. Rope. A flashlight.” “Wait a minute,” I said, not sure we were talking about the same thing. “What did you say?” “We got these dogs,” Jake said. “Mostly bulldog. We slog through the swamp until they bay up a hog. Then a catch dog grabs holt of his ear.” He paused, basking in my fascinated attention. “And then I whirl in with the rope to tie him up.” “Tie him up?” I asked. “Tie who up?” “The hog! Who else?” “You mean like calf-roping at a rodeo?” “About like that. Except that a calf aint slinging five-inch tusks around and kicking like a roto-tiller and squealing to deafen a feller. It’s some excitement, I don’t mind telling you.” I gaped. “So you tie him up,” I said. “What do you do then?” “We carry him out on a pole, kicking and squirming.” I didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but the next day he brought me pictures of the dogs, the hogs, and the hunters, both in the swamp and in the pen where they fattened up their captured hogs. Jake came to work one morning more red-eyed than usual. Obviously he had been crying. I put a hand on his ropy shoulder. “What’s wrong, Jake?” I asked. He gave me a doleful look, then busted out crying again. “We were hunting last night,” he sobbed. “And an alligator ate my dog.” I thought, What a world is this? I was living this suburban, academic life, and yet there was this alternate world swirling just around the corner where men wrestled wild boars in the swamp and alligators ate their dogs. I decided that if I ever wrote a book, Jake would have to be in it. And he is. He is the original feechie.

It seems unlikely that an Irish stranger would be invited to pull her chair out of the shadows and join the conversation, yet here I am, and for that I am grateful. As I began to write this post I found myself searching for beautiful words that would somehow be worthy of the rich surroundings. If I’m honest, in my head the accent that is part of who I am began to take on a hint of Tennessee. What I ended up with was a post that may have been beautiful (at least that is what I tell myself) but it wasn’t true. And what is beauty if it isn’t true. For the past few months, truth in my life has been less about beauty and more about brokenness. Last July I watched helplessly as my ten-year-old daughter faced for the first time the moment when childish innocence is invaded by something dark and cruel, an intruder whose presence is a constant and unwelcome reminder that bad things happen. Unexpectedly diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, she discovered first hand that this story we live in has evil villains and dark forests with monsters who sneak up on us when we least expect it. For every needle that pricked her skin and broke my heart a little more, another question came. It just felt wrong. For me, the deepest pain is in the knowledge that something has happened to my child which I can’t fix. No matter how much I want to, I can’t make it go away. I can’t make it hurt less. For Ellie, whose willingness to allow me share this is testament to her courageous honesty, the struggle goes deeper still. Oddly, the least difficult thing for her is not the condition itself. Medical advances and a tenacious determination mean that physically she is doing really well. The hardest thing has been the internal struggle that follows in its wake. The sudden intrusion of deep questions that many people don’t have to face until well into their adult lives. Why did God allow this to happen to me even though I have chosen to follow Him? Why does He not heal me when all it would take is a word? Does He care that I am hurting? Is He even there at all? One of the reasons the Bible remains deeply and authentically real, regardless of your vantage point, is that it does not hide from these questions. Actually, it embraces them. Within the Psalms in particular there is a depth of intimacy with God and freedom before Him that has pursued me again and again, breaking me apart and breathing strength into my legs in equal measure. It has struck me that whatever situation the psalmists find themselves in, whether unfettered joy or pain and betrayal, through it all they cling doggedly to two truths which are stronger than their enemies and deeper than their pain. The first is that they continue to intentionally anchor their lives in God’s word. The second is that they choose to believe that God is ultimately in control. This voluntary framework for hope is so important that it is laid down right at the beginning of the Psalms. Psalm 1 paints a beautiful picture of the child of God who, regardless of circumstance, chooses to place his delight in His word. Rather than being led and shaped by surrounding culture, such a child makes the word of God his home. Reading it, studying it, meditating on it and allowing it to speak truth into his moments and his days. The image the Psalmist uses is of a firmly planted tree, with deep roots that are nourished by life giving water whose leaves do not wither despite the buffeting of storms and the passage of time. Instead it produces fruit and, according to the final verse of the Psalm, the fruit is the intimacy of knowing and being known by God. There is a beautiful passage in George MacDonald’s At the Back of the North Wind that brings home to me again one of the reasons why we must immerse ourselves in God’s word and in pursuing His heart and His character within it. In the story a young boy, Diamond develops a relationship with the North Wind, who appears to him in many different forms. There comes a moment when Diamond is faced for the first time with a side of the wind that scares him, sitting at odds with the goodness he has known until that point. The conversation goes as follows: “Well, but listen to me Diamond. You know the one me, you say, and that is good.” “Yes.” “Do you know the other me as well?” “No. I can’t. I shouldn’t like to.” “There it is. You don’t know the other me. You are sure of one of them?” “Yes.” “And you are sure there can’t be two mes?” “Yes.” “Then the me you don’t know must be the same as the me you do know—else there would be two mes?” “Yes.” “Then the other me you don’t know must be as kind as the me you do know?” “Yes.” “Besides, I tell you that it is so, only it doesn’t look like it. That I confess freely.” If I’m honest, there are times when aspects of God’s character leave me shrinking back in uncertainty, wondering whether my limited understanding of His heart was ever true at all. Then I remember the story that is at the heart of Psalm 2, of a king whose name is love and a kingdom that is coming. The great story that reminds me of all that I know Him to be and gives me the courage to believe that the part of Him I know is consistent with the part I cannot fathom. That, whatever the circumstances suggest, His heart and His love are constant. Those are the times when I climb like Lucy onto Aslan’s back, burying my face in His mane and holding on even as all of Narnia shakes with the thunder in His roar. By the very act of deliberately and intentionally placing our delight in the word of God and obedience to Him we are taking our place within the kingdom where He is already king. If this is true then choosing to live within the borders of this kingdom is not a restricting of our freedom, but a stepping into something which is infinitely greater and more real than what we see around us. These boundaries of commitment and belief are the ancient writing engraved around the entrance to the place where “why?” is not a hopeless question thrown into the void, but the cry of a heart prepared to accept that God can be trusted even when the answer does not come. It seems almost unnecessary in the Rabbit Room to state that the brokenness we live with is passing; the truth of it whispers in every song and story, but for a ten-year-old whose little ship is being tossed on the waves for the first time, the wonder of it is a longed-for harbour. I am often asked if Ellie will grow out of her need for insulin and the question is usually followed with the whispered ending “Will she have to do this forever?” I don’t know what medical advancements the future holds but I can answer with absolute certainty that it is not forever. If only the true survives, then all that is not true will one day be consumed by the fire that makes things beautiful, and the only thing remaining of the struggle will be the beauty that was formed within it. The reality is that, as people who were created for eternity, we are defined not by the things that will soon be cast away like an old winter coat with the coming of summer, but by the things that will endure because they are made in the image of God. I think there are two reasons why I can’t shake the feeling that God is doing something here which goes beyond what we can see. The first is that the God whose heart is evident throughout Scripture is always for His people. He is always about the business of restoring and redeeming, even if it seems at times to us that he has taken the long way round. The second reason is that often, despite the darkness, glimpses of beauty shine through, as though this temporary veil of shadows is being pierced by the light of all that is to come. And so my prayer for my family, born out of this season in our lives, is that we will allow God to fashion in us the treasure that will last, whatever form that takes. That we will choose to anchor our lives in Him and in His word and, believing that He is ultimately in control, we will have the courage to step through the sacred door into a kingdom where broken wings are no barrier to flight and joy is all the deeper for having been born out of tears.

A few years ago I read N. T. Wright’s wonderful book Surprised By Hope and had my mind blown by all of the beautiful implications of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead. Being an artist and songwriter, I naturally started to wonder how I might explore ways to connect with the resurrection musically. I found myself day dreaming about writing an album full of songs that sounded like they were coming from the other side of renewal, but with lyrics tethered to the present. I wanted to explore the “already/not yet” tension of living with expectant hope in the midst of suffering. In addition to this, I wanted it all to sound like joy. Joy is an elusive thing for an artist to capture. It is not something you can fake or conjure up at will. It is the presence of the Holy Spirit and, at least in my experience, seems to blow in and out like the wind. It is wonderful when it is present, but it’s absence can be frustrating, especially when you are trying to coax it onto the canvas of your work like a child fumbling with crayons. Time passed and I kept reaching out for joy. I kept writing, struggling, and dreaming. I would fail and scrap everything then start over. Rinse and repeat. I had this joke of a phrase I would rhetorically ask myself: “I just want all my songs to sound like glory and feel like resurrection. Is that too much to ask?” It may sound funny, but months turned into years and before I knew it I found myself at the cross section of suffering and hope, standing there with a big, bright cloud of joy swirling overhead. My vision for this collection of music took all sorts of odd twists and turns—deep into the mystery of where all of the goodness in this life comes from—and I discovered that it’s true what my friend Billy Cerveny says, “My cup of joy is only as deep as my sorrow.”* It took me a long time to find a lyrical voice for these songs but in the end I drew heavily from the scriptures, from the stories of my friends and family, and from my own life—wearily looking into my heart, searching for signs of resurrection in everything and everywhere. What resulted is an album called Death In Reverse, and I couldn’t be more excited or confused after such a long process of writing, reaching, dreaming, and hoping for something powerful to happen in these songs I’ve been wrestling with over the last few years. Don’t get me wrong. I am super excited about the album. But the process itself—the songwriting and recording process, the painting across the canvas and the subsequent discipline of facing yourself in your work—can be a painful experience, because in order for it to be good, it has to be true. And in order for it to be true you have to face yourself, which can be the scariest thing of all because that means you have to trust. Last summer, Andrew Peterson came over to my house and we visited for a couple hours on my front porch. We were trading stories and at one point he told me that pain is a sort of anointing. I think he’s right about that. C. S. Lewis says that pain is God’s megaphone to a deaf world. As far as this record goes, you might say that God has my full attention. In the span of creating these 11 songs, I have seen the hand of God working in my life and in the lives of my friends and family. I’ve been taken to places I never thought I’d have to go—distant, dark and lonely places—only to find the presence of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost closer than I ever dared to dream or imagine. The Lord carries us through this life. We are not alone. And now, I can sing you some songs about it. [To support Death in Reverse, check out Jeremy’s Kickstarter campaign.] *Billy Cerveny, “Donnelly’s Lament” #DeathinReverse #JeremyCasella

A few weeks ago I woke up to a powdered-sugar dusting of snow on the ground, rolled out of bed, and opened up my computer to Facebook. The headline, “Why I Bought A House In Detroit for $500” caught my eye, and soon I was engrossed in the story of Drew Philp, who at 23 decided to purchase an abandoned house in Detroit in an area that many people are deserting as the city slowly crumbles into chaos. He and his neighbors rebuild their homes, grow vegetables, raise chickens, start schools, build ice rinks in abandoned back yards in the winter, and generally create community in a place that most of the nation has consigned to hell. They are doing something amazing in the face of despair. As he says at one point in his adventure, “It was the first time I really felt I was bringing something back to life, like performing CPR on a corpse that just took its first greedy gasp of air.” There’s something strangely and fascinatingly pioneer about his story, like a 21st century explorer plunging into untamed wilderness, except this “wilderness” is one of America’s best known cities. Drew and his friend share a Promethean moment of glee when he turns on the electricity in his house for the first time. It feels like something out of a history book, and yet when have I ever been so simply happy over something like that? Nevertheless, Drew doesn’t really look at himself as anything special: “I’m not certain I’ve accomplished anything other than taking one abandoned home off the street, teaching a few kids how to read, or bearing witness to a something larger than myself. I’m not certain I’ve become an example to anyone or necessarily changed a whole lot for the better. But I’m still here. I go to bed and I wake up every day in Detroit, in a house I built with my own hands. Sometimes success means just holding on.” Creating light in the darkness. Cobbling together a sense of order in the midst of chaos. Growing gardens in the urban wilderness. It sounds to me like redemption, like resurrection, like new creation in slow and steady ways. His words reminded me of a song by Sara Groves: We come with beautiful secrets We come with purposes written on our hearts, written on our souls We come to every new morning With possibilities only we can hold, that only we can hold Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces Calling out the best of who we are And I want to add to the beauty To tell a better story I want to shine with the light That’s burning up inside —“Add To The Beauty” The beauty of what’s expressed here, and in Drew’s story, is that sometimes the most striking things are the most simple, the most unheroic. We’re not all called to paint the Sistine Chapel, but we can all add to the beauty of the world. Or we could forfeit this calling and do what Switchfoot calls “adding to the noise”. It’s very easy to do this in our age of social media, frittering time away over sharing amusing YouTube videos, cat memes, and inane details about our lives and the lives of others. None of these things are really wrong in and of themselves, but I’ve found they can provide an easy and lazy trap from spending time on things of substance. They can become the trap of nothingness that C. S. Lewis describes in The Screwtape Letters: “Nothing is very strong: strong enough to steal away a man’s best years not in sweet sins but in a dreary flickering of the mind over it knows not what and knows not why, in the gratification of curiosities so feeble that the man is only half aware of them, in drumming of fingers and kicking of heels, in whistling tunes that he does not like, or in the long, dim labyrinth of reveries that have not even lust or ambition to give them a relish, but which, once chance association has started them, the creature is too weak and fuddled to shake off.” Sound a bit like our culture of endless entertainment? Reading Drew Philp’s story on a snowy morning while still in my pajamas sparked a little something in me. It doesn’t mean that I’m going to go do something big and bold like he did, and it doesn’t mean you or I have to. But it should cause us to ponder, what are we bringing to the world with our time, our talents, our resources? Are we adding to the beauty, telling a better story, or are we just adding to the noise?

Untitled 13, the painting featured in this post, is now available as a new limited-edition, signed and numbered art print. These prints (and other SubwOb art prints) are available in runs of only 100 per piece. You can find them in the Rabbit Room store.] An Explanation for the Uninitiated: Subjects With Objects is an ongoing, collaborative art project forever ordered according to the following rules: A shadowy public spaces painter sets up in pubs and bars and executes spontaneous portraits at the rate of one painting per pint. He then hands off those enigmatic little ocular disturbances to a semi-anonymous poet & novelist who lives with them long enough to solicit their otherworldly mumblings and ephemeral whispers, distilling each of their essences into a line or two of poetic prose. The painter is Jonathan Richter. The poet is UNKNOWN & UNKNOWABLE, so it is best NOT TO EVEN ASK! However, for the sake of convenience we may refer to him as DKM. Subjects With Objects Unplugged Untitled 3 (2013) Be Careful What You Wish For… I can’t claim a consistent creative process. When Richter presents me with a painting, sometimes I do my thinking on paper, capturing every thought that lights long enough to be considered as a possibility. Every half hour I’ll go back and read through the lines I’ve already scrawled, and when one jumps out at me as having a kernel of something essential, I’ll begin to riff a little more on that one. But there are other times when I just sit and stare at one of Richter’s dreamlike paintings, trying to absorb it without too much filter, waiting for the meaning to suddenly emerge. If you’ve read Malcolm Gladwell’s book Blink, you’ll understand what I’m waiting for in such moments. I’m trusting that my brain is working behind the scenes to do what brains naturally do: cipher meaning, make connections, establish context. This can lead to one of those epiphany sort of moments when the answer suddenly comes clear, seeming to arrive fully formed. It’s very much like what happens when my mind is muddled by some script or story problem, and I lay down at 3:30 in the afternoon for a short power nap. My mind begins to drift, I slip away into a half-sleep state, and then BANG! In an instant I’m suddenly wide awake twenty minutes later with the obvious answer to my creative problem. The older I get, the more I’ve learned to trust this process of some part of my brain working in the background on a level that isn’t always entirely conscious. For last week’s SubWOb Unplugged column I chose a piece that was worked out in lengthy detail on the pages of a legal pad. This week I’ve chosen to highlight a piece that shows the other method. Around a year ago, Richter and I were working in his Nashville studio on a couple of different projects. There was one evening when I found myself alone in the old factory, overlooking the ghostly cut of the train tracks. I might have been waiting for some effects-laden piece of video to render. I walked over to the stack of SubWOb paintings that still needed text (alas, I had fallen far behind, DEAR READERS) and began to sift through them. I passed this one over and then stopped and went back to it. There was something haunting in it. There was the fact that the woman was seriously overdressed for a beach excursion, yes. But there was also her face. Her face half in shadow, half in light, looking back at something her whole body was turned away from. Her head and figure a little unnaturally long as if compressed between that same light and shadow. Her expression reflecting no joy in the sort of occasion her dress would suggest she’s a participant in. And then there’s the red buoy floating in the sea behind her, telling us what? That one thought, one realization has risen to the surface of her own consciousness and cannot ever be submerged again? I carried the painting to a desk and sat in the near darkness, staring at it for some time. I don’t know how long. Trains blew past in the night. And then, in the empty stillness, I saw it. The meaning arrived whole, in a sort of quiet devastation. I say devastation, because just as you can’t write compelling fictional characters if you don’t care about them and the choices they make (even the villains!), I don’t think I can really articulate what’s going on with the subjects of Richter’s paintings till I’ve been able to posit myself inside the emotional space they’re inhabiting. At the end of the day, I wished better for this woman. I did not want her, by her own past choices, to have trapped herself in such vacancy. Hers is a sad wisdom to apprehend by experience. Be careful what you wish for. I trusted him more when I was the other woman. Funny how much more I trusted him when I was the “other woman.” When I was his mistress, I felt like I could trust him more. I trusted him more as his mistress than I do now as his wife. And why should I trust him? It was easier to trust him as his mistress than as his wife. I trust him less now, because there’s more to lose. I trusted him more as his mistress. The first phrase I wrote was also the obvious choice—no reason to complicate it further. No reason to hit the reader over the head with a more detailed explanation either. Better to let the meaning unfold in the reader/viewer’s mind based on this brief phrase. Everything we need to know is already contained in it. The meaning ripples outward. Of course, that didn’t stop me from trying to tinker with it, but in the end, it was the first phrase I wrote that easily won out.