What are you looking for?

by Ruth Moore Welcome to the next in our series of blogs that invite speakers from Hutchmoot 2024 to reflect on what happened when we gathered around story, music, and art in Franklin, Tennessee, last October. This time, we look back with Lanier Ivester . . . Ruth Moore: Lanier, you were involved in many lovely things at Hutchmoot 2024, including a discussion of your first book, Glad and Golden Hours , and the annual Teamoot. Tell us—what is a Teamoot? Lanier Ivester: The idea for Teamoot was born several years ago when Jennifer Trafton and I did a session on Lucy Maud Montgomery. We wanted to treat the participants to a taste of her world, so we made recipes based on the food in her books. And people loved it. There's just something about putting a real teacup in people's hands. It highlights how special and cared for they are as individuals. A couple years after that I hosted a mini Teamoot in the midst of the larger Hutchmoot, a space for people to come together over the civility surrounding the ceremony of tea. It really does lead to a sense of slowing down in the midst of all the excitement of the conference. I feel like Teamoot really came into its own in 2024. We had a designated space and that made all the difference; I was able to really plan and prepare. Everyone had a place to sit, we had discussion questions, people engaged in conversations they wouldn't necessarily have begun. To me, that was the highlight of Hutchmoot—to see people making real connections over the tea table and loving the simple elegance of a proper cup of tea in a proper pot and a proper cup. RM: Wonderful. Simply by answering that you've opened up a sense of the beautiful materiality of Hutchmoot. You make me wish I’d Teamooted, even though I’m that rare British woman who does not enjoy English breakfast tea! Another visual cue of my trip was the sight of your Airstream parked outside North Wind Manor. It looked like a lovely place to return after full days of music and art and ideas. Do you enjoy traveling in it? How does life on the road interact with your own writing and thinking? LI: We absolutely love traveling to Hutchmoot in our Airstream—or anywhere! It’s a 1962 24-foot model and we've had it for about 20 years. And the beauty of it is that wherever we wake up, it feels like home. But it's just so fun to wake up in Nashville, open the curtains and see North Wind Manor! We've called the Airstream our escape capsule because it has given us freedom to leave behind some of the complexities and cares of life for short times. In terms of time on the road, my husband, Philip, and I have found that we actually get more work done when we're Airstream living because so many of the distractions are not there. It has given us a lot of space for creativity and deep work, and that's been a surprise benefit. In September of 2023, we planned a trip to Jekyll Island, which is our favorite place. Each morning before dawn we would take our two Australian Shepherd puppies to the beach and get them really tired. Then we came back and got to work. I actually finished my Glad and Golden Hours  manuscript in the campground under the awning of the Airstream. It was 1,000° outside and I had a fan blowing on me and, you know, I'm at the beach! But I was able to make that space to mentally and imaginatively go to Christmas and finish my book. RM: That sounds glorious—and a year later, you were at Hutchmoot hosting a seminar about that book! It also happened to be the 15th Hutchmoot. You have been there since the beginning. I remember you telling me by the fireside one night that things have changed a great deal. Tell us a story from an earlier edition. What has been lost and gained along the way? LI: The first story that comes to mind is from my first Hutchmoot. I think we were the first people to sign up! We were excited to get to meet these people, who had inspired us so much, in real life. But what I most remember was on the way up to Nashville I broke out in hives because I was so nervous about meeting my heroes and heroines. These people had really nourished me creatively and spiritually, and had played a huge role in my life. I was scared. I remember I walked in, and I told Pete how much his music had meant to me because I thought he was Andrew! Pete didn't let me off the hook; he said, “I don’t sing!” Immediately my nerves were just calmed. The fellowship and community I felt in that room. And I remember Andrew standing up and saying, “Hey, we don't know exactly what we're doing here, but we're really glad that you came to help us figure it out.” Such sincerity, such humility. I thought, I do belong here. I don’t have to impress anybody or prove anything. It felt like home. Now it still has that spirit because it's the same people. It's the same core values, honed and sharpened and clarified. There has been a sense of something that's been lost just due to size—at the first Hutchmoot theoretically you could meet everybody, and now you would be exhausted! But I don't want to discredit the intimacy of the new Hutchmoot because you see so many pockets of community springing up. It's really special to see people walk in and just find their place. RM: At Hutchmoot—at our UK edition too—we know we have precious people who love art but find it hard to make their way into like-minded community. And there are those who would find an event like Hutchmoot overwhelming however much they delight in art and story and music. What would you say to someone who longs for things like these but feels like a perpetual outsider? LI: Well, the first thing I would say is, don't assume that you're the only person who feels that way. In a sense, I think we all feel like outsiders. That sense is why Andrew started the Rabbit Room in the first place. And it has been a beautiful way of helping people find their people. It can be overwhelming, a large conference like Hutchmoot. It's sometimes billed as a conference for introverts. Much provision is made for introverts, but I would urge people not to use this as an excuse to withdraw. Start conversations; ask questions. Look for someone who seems as lost as you might feel and find out what brought them there. When Diana Glyer gave her keynote address a number of years ago, she had just written her book Bandersnatch  on the creative community between the Inklings and, specifically, Lewis and Tolkien. She urged the audience not to just look at their friendship and long for it, or pine for it, or even covet it. She encouraged everyone to go home and find somebody that they could just connect with. To not wait until they had the perfect circumstances. But to just start. To call up a like-minded friend and say, “Hey, can we meet for coffee? Can we FaceTime once a week?” Whatever it looks like. And so many artistic friendships and communities and projects have come out of that one piece of advice. RM: You write wonderfully about the sacramental nature of everyday living. Before we close, can you offer us a glimpse of something that is glimmering in the everyday for you this week? LI: Oh, yes—absolutely! I’ve started all of my seeds out in the potting shed, and every time I check their progress it just renews my hope in the promise of the resurrection. It never fails to astonish me that so much life and beauty can come from such tiny, dead-looking things. Those little seedlings tell me that life is always the trajectory in God’s economy. Ruth Moore is a writer from Oxford, England, and a member of the Hutchmoot UK team. Lanier Ivester  hails from the beautiful state of Georgia, where she maintains a small farm with her husband, Philip. She is the author of Glad & Golden Hours: A Companion for Advent and Christmastide , and her special areas of interest include the heaven-imaging essence of home and the sacramental nature of everyday life. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

At Hutchmoot 2025 , we will have a featured artist in residence for the first time— Dawn Baker . Kyra Hinton  sat down to speak with Dawn as an introduction to our readers. In this interview, Dawn talks about her journey as an artist, from her upbringing the in the Philippines as a missionary kid to working odd jobs after college to pursue art as her vocation. Along the way, she found her husband, raised a family, and refined her technique with gold leaf. Dawn also explains how she lets her hands pray as she paints and her pursuit to make art that can take us to a place where we can feel something we couldn’t have felt without it. If you see her at Hutchmoot and need a conversation starter, just start talking about trees. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

Our lives are so small, O Lord, Our vision so limited, Our courage so frail, Our hours so fleeting. Therefore give us grace and guidance For the journey ahead. We are gathered here because we believe that we are called together into a work we cannot yet know the fullness of. Still, we trust the voice of the One who has called us. And so we offer to you, O God, these things: Our dreams, our plans, our vision. Shape them as You will. Our moments and our gifts. May they be invested toward bright, eternal ends. Richly bless the work before us, Father. Shepherd us well lest we grow enamored of our own accomplishment or entrenched in old habit. Instead let us listen for your voice, our hearts ever open to the quiet beckonings of Your Spirit in this endeavor. Let us in true humility and poverty of spirit remain ever ready to move at the impulse of your love in paths of your design. You alone, O God, by your gracious and life-giving Spirit have power to knit our imperfect hearts, our weaknesses, our strengths, our stories, and our gifts, one to another. Unite your people and multiply our meager offerings, O Lord, that all might resound to Your glory. May our acts of service and creation, frail and wanting as they are, be met and multiplied by the mysterious workings of Your Spirit who weaves all things together toward a redemption more good and glorious than we yet have eyes to see, or courage to hope for. May our love and our labors now echo your love and your labors, O Lord. Let all that we do here, in these our brief lives, in this our brief moment to love, in this the work you have ordained for this community, flower in winsome and beautiful foretaste of greater glories yet to come. O Spirit of God,      now shape our hearts. O Spirit of God,      now guide our hands. O Spirit of God,      now build Your kingdom among us. Amen. Every Moment Holy Volumes I, II, and III  are available for purchase through the Rabbit Room Press online store. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

Note: As we observe Memorial Day to honor and mourn the men and women who have given their lives following their duty to serve their country, we wanted to share a liturgy appropriate for the occasion. O Christ Acquainted with All Our Griefs, prepare our hearts to enter now this space of grieving. O God of All Comfort, Lead us humbly into this place of heartbreak. O Spirit Who Moves in the Midst of Our Sorrows, Fill us with a right compassion. Fill us with a right compassion that we would not cross this threshold armed with easy answers, but would enter instead bearing the balm of a divine tenderness best expressed in honest affirmations and small acts of service. Teach us even in this hour, O Lord, how better to mourn with those who mourn, that their burden might in some way be made more bearable by our sharing in it. O Lord, in this place of holy sorrows make us quick to listen, and slow to speak, reminding us how the only true comfort Job received from his friends came not from their many words but from a willingness to sit with him in a silent sympathy of weeping. So let any spoken comforts we offer be the fruits of a real and costly fellowship with those who grieve. The sharing of such sorrows is instead a good and holy work, O Lord. For you also, Jesus, willingly entered the wounds of this world and wept with your creatures in their brokenness. And you have promised us that wherever your children gather in your name, you will be present as well. So be present with us now in this wounded space, O Spirit of God. Let our presence be sensed as a token of your presence. Let our concern bear unspoken witness to the redemption your love will one day work, even unto the utter and unimaginably glorious reversal of this loss. Now speak, act, and comfort, O Christ. Shepherd us into the sharing of this sorrow. May our hearts be as your heart here, our voices as your voice, our hands as your hands, our tears as your tears. Amen. Every Moment Holy Volumes I, II, and III  are available for purchase through the Rabbit Room Press online store. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Chad Madden  on Unsplash

by Kate Gaston It was Sunday morning, and I was filling my coffee cup at the church refreshment table before the service began. A woman approached the table to fill her own cup. I knew the woman by sight. We’d never engaged in anything deeper than Sunday small talk before, but I had a rough knowledge of who she was—her job, her husband, her kids, and her general social network within our congregation. So there we were, just the two of us. I could have murmured hello and walked away. I could have smiled, nodded, and left well enough alone. Did I choose either of those perfectly acceptable options? No, I did not. Chalk it up to an ill-timed surge of extroverted energy. Or perhaps I was feeling a Dickensian overflow of goodwill. For whatever ill-advised reason, I decided that, yes indeed, this moment called for a hug. I came at her full frontal. No tasteful side hug for me, no ma’am. As I closed the short distance between us, my arms stretched wide in an aggressively energetic welcome, the woman abruptly folded both her arms in front of her chest. (Sidenote: For those who haven’t yet learned this important life lesson, arms folded across the chest is one of the many ways humans communicate a clear, direct message. And that message is: Do Not Touch Me.) But it was too late. By the time my brain registered this message, I was in for a penny, in for a pound. So I wrapped that woman up in a hug—her arms still crossed firmly between our bodies—as if I hugged people against their will all the time. As I released her, neither of us said anything. We didn’t even make eye contact to acknowledge the sheer awkwardness of it all. I immediately made a beeline for the bathroom where I sat in a stall, twitching and cringing, until I’d recovered myself enough to re-enter the service. As Christians, we are a people called to love people. But, good heavens, it can be awkward sometimes. And yes, I’m going to say this out loud: In addition to being awkward, loving people can occasionally be downright inconvenient. Wherever a new relationship is attempting to bud, you’ll find these two bogeymen—inconvenience and awkwardness—prowling that tenuous borderland between acquaintance and friend. In the wild, you’re not supposed to look predators in the eye. But I propose we give these two relational beasts a good, long stare. When we do, we will recognize inconvenience and awkwardness for what they are: common pests. Less menace, more nuisance, they are the houseflies of human experiences. From the moment you came bursting into the world, naked (awkward) and screaming (inconvenienced), these two pests have been with you. You’ll experience other things along the way, of course, but these two will have a recurring role until you shuffle off this mortal coil. You will be the cause of tremendous amounts of awkwardness both for yourself and others. So will I. And whether you recognize it or not, you will be a source of inconvenience to others. So will I. Let’s embrace it as part of the experience, shall we? Humans love almost nothing so much as convenience. This love affair has given rise to such modern wonders as Chef Boyardee, Wonder Bread, and Buc-ee's. Many of you are out there living your lives, blissfully unaware of the beaver-themed gas station revolutionizing road trips across America. Go ahead and carry on. For the rest of us, whether we’ve purchased matching Buc-ee pajamas for our entire family or prefer to give the cheeky mascot a wide berth, we are forced to admit Buc-ee’s has leveraged all those irresistible, heavy-hitting elements of convenience under one roof. Convenience, when stripped down to its component parts, is all about minimizing the physical and mental effort required of us. We want what we want when we want it. If we can fill the tank with gas, use the restroom, buy a sandwich, grab a coffee, and purchase a cast iron pan in the shape of a rodent with a minimal amount of time or energy expended, we are pleased. But loving people is anything but convenient. Instead of time-saving, it will be time-consuming. Rather than easy and effortless, it will often be burdensome and laborious. Whether it’s preparing a meal for someone, throwing sheets on the pull-out sofa for an unexpected guest, driving someone to the airport, or making space in your busy day for a conversation, there will be no minimization of physical and mental effort. Love requires ardor and intentionality. Inconvenience won’t kill us, but building community is never going to feel like stopping at Buc-ee’s, folks. Efficiency—the streamlining of time and effort—is a beautiful thing. When a system is efficient, the world simply works better, doesn’t it? And when efficiency is missing, you feel it. Like when I put my coffee cup down somewhere and can’t remember where—forcing me to trek from bedroom to living room to bathroom to kitchen only to finally find the blasted mug on top of the dryer in the laundry room? That sort of inefficiency drives me bananas. It’s a well-documented fact that building relationships gets harder the older you get. For one thing, whatever happened to all those glorious Saturday morning brunch dates? Or those long weekends at the lake with friends? Or the endless hours playing Settlers of Catan? Where did all that unclaimed calendar space go? When did the slow creep toward, “I can’t. I’m busy.” become a full-fledged gallop? And once you’re on that horse, how do you get off the confounded thing? Remember the good old days when you could befriend another kid simply by throwing sticks at each other? According to this study  published in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships , it takes adults approximately fifty hours just to nudge an acquaintance over into casual friend territory. And what if you want that casual friend to be your close friend? Buckle up, because making that leap requires over two hundred hours of consistent, highly intentional interaction. Building a new relationship can feel like the emotional equivalent of playing Find The Coffee Mug, but without the promise of eventual payoff. I know, with time, I’ll find my coffee mug somewhere in the house. But when I’m engaging with someone new, I have no idea at the outset if I’ll find common ground or relational chemistry with that person. That uncertainty often evokes efficiency-centric questions: How long will it take to find commonality? Is it worth the conversational effort? When should I cut my losses and go pour myself another cup of coffee in a different relational mug? At this very moment and in almost every arena of life, we have optimized for efficiency. If we’re not paying attention, that efficiency mindset can negatively impact the way we engage with other people. Loving our neighbor is inconvenient, inefficient, and (even without injudicious hugging) it can be awkward. What, then, could possibly entice us to venture into these social borderlands? For starters, our own hearts need that slow work of hospitality. Paying attention to the needs of others serves as a foil to our compulsion to prioritize ourselves above all else. The movement of our hearts towards others—movement which occurs at a notoriously glacial pace—is a change wrought through long, steady, obedience. We offer hospitality as a way of declaring our lives are subject to God’s exclusive deity; we are not our own. Secondly—and trigger warning for all you folks traumatized by the WWJD bracelets—we must love others because, well, Jesus did. Jesus did things differently than most folks did. He was a bit of a rule breaker, honestly. Take that rule about not talking to women, for example. Especially those  kinds of women. A safe distance was recommended. Certainly don’t let them touch you. Don’t let them drip their tears and emotions and snot and repentance all over your bare feet. Don’t let them unbind their hair in your presence, and don’t let them use that unbound hair to smear their perfume—heavy with notes of sin and debasement—across your skin. The presence of this woman, what with her sobbing and kissing and dousing and wiping, would have hit everyone at that New Testament dinner party like a tidal wave of awkwardness. Feathers were ruffled. Pearls were clutched. Goats were gotten. Read the room, Jesus. Oh, he read the room all right. But he refused to read it the way everyone thought he should. Jesus didn’t seem to mind the awkwardness this woman caused. On the contrary, he rejoiced over her unabashed wholeheartedness. As for convenience and efficiency, there are a number of instances in the Gospels in which Jesus seems to display a flagrant disregard for both. On several occasions, he is approached by someone asking some variation on the question, “How do I inherit eternal life?” Instead of sketching out the Romans Road illustration or sharing his Ten Easy Steps to Salvation, Jesus answered with a super cryptic question. Or, instead of instructing everyone to circle up, join hands, and repeat the sinner’s prayer after him, Jesus pivoted into an enigmatic story that literally no one asked to hear. Sometimes he even just straight up refused to answer the question. What utter inefficiency is this? Why would Jesus, who could have snapped his fingers and had humanity fall on its face in worship, allow people to walk away from him? Why did Jesus, who came to earth to save sinners, submit himself to inefficient and, frankly, inconvenient means of grace? I can’t pretend to know the answer to this question. But I do know that this grace—offered through the ordinary human means of relationship, storytelling, and questions—awakened people to their need. It galvanized them, causing them to grapple with their moral bankruptcy. Jesus was playing a long game. And speaking from personal experience, what a long, long time it can take to release our clenched fists and forsake our idols. He was allowing humans the opportunity to come to him—or, in some instances, not come to him—by choice. That’s nuts. It would be decidedly more efficient to reach into our pockets, fish out tickets to heaven, and hand them to people. How convenient it would be if, after handing over that ticket, we could whip out our pocket notebook, add another tally mark for the kingdom, and congratulate ourselves on a job well done. But what a small view of God this affords. And what an tumorously outsized view of our own productivity. I wonder if, somewhere outside the space-time continuum, somewhere on an existential plane we can’t currently fathom, somewhere in which the right hand of the Father exists, Jesus is chuckling under his breath as he intercedes for us. People are messy. We are complicated. We are needy. We are filled to the brim with our expectations, sloshing over with our presuppositions. We will waste your time. We will make poor decisions. We will slow you down. And sometimes we will hug you when we shouldn’t. Even so, we’re going to have to trust our Father’s long game, and his ardent pursuit of his people by our inconvenient and awkwardly human means. More often than not, the kingdom will come through our everyday words, and God’s will is done through our ordinary, commonplace acts of love. And we are simply going to have to make peace with this inefficiency. For your further reading and viewing pleasure: Other ways humans communicate Do Not Touch Me: If you know, you know: Need an addictive board game in your life? Look no further: The World of Catan How many hours does it take to make a friend? A profound book by Eugene Peterson on the subject of discipleship: A Long Obedience in the Same Direction Did you know the phrase What Would Jesus Do actually became popular in the early 1900’s? Neither did I. Read more about it here: WWJD For a fresh, insightful contemplation of Jesus, I can’t recommend this book by Jerram Barrs highly enough: Learning Evangelism From Jesus An Alabama native, Kate Gaston was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter and tutoring in her local classical homeschool community. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

Editor’s Note: Just released earlier this month, Ben Palpant’s Brightwing Tales  is an enchanting tale about Mr. Mole and his friends in the tradition of The Wind in the Willows  and The Green Ember . by Ben Palpant Stories are born in all sorts of ways. Some come like lightning—brilliant, sudden, and impossible to ignore. Others arrive like seeds, requiring seasons of tending before they sprout. One is not better than the other. Both are gifts. Most of my published work has been the process of planting seeds and doing the hard work of tending them until they became a fully formed book. That process can take several years and, as any writer will tell you, it tests one’s resolve. The work is arduous and humbling. I’ve had to learn how to work like a farmer. Patient plodding is key. And sometimes I have to think like an archaeologist, trying to unearth the story that I think is buried somewhere in my heart. I have to find it, which requires careful searching. Then, one day, a story found me, instead. I know! Pretty shocking. What follows is not a formula (I don’t believe in writing formulas) or a boast. It’s simply the tale of how Brightwing Tales  began—how two strangers walked into my mind one day and changed the course of my writing life. We often imagine authors as deliberate architects—designing plots, casting characters, and building worlds brick by brick. And sometimes this is true. But there are other times—mysterious, almost holy—when the process works in reverse. A character arrives, fully clothed, eyes bright, name already decided, as if they had been living somewhere else all along and simply stepped through the door. George MacDonald often spoke of his stories as “parables grown in my mind” ( The Gifts of the Child Christ and Other Tales , 1882), as if they were seeds sown by someone else. J. R. R. Tolkien described his own process as the growth of a living organism, saying his stories sprang from “the leaf-mold of my mind” ( On Fairy-Stories , 1939 lecture, revised 1947)—a rich compost made from all he had read, seen, and experienced. He believed that characters and worlds sometimes emerge from that deep, unseen soil without conscious planning, like wildflowers appearing in a garden. A Faun in the Snow C. S. Lewis did not set out to write The Chronicles of Narnia . One day, quite out of nowhere, he saw in his mind’s eye a faun carrying parcels through a snowy wood: “All at once there came into my mind a picture of a faun carrying an umbrella and parcels in a snowy wood” ( Of Other Worlds: Essays and Stories , 1966). That image lingered for years before it found a home. Then, one day, a lion bounded into the picture—majestic, commanding, impossible to ignore. “At first, I had no idea who he was or what he wanted. Then suddenly I knew. He was Aslan” ( Of Other Worlds , 1966). Tolkien experienced something similar when Faramir—whom he had never planned—suddenly appeared. He confessed in a 1955 letter to Naomi Mitchison, “I am sure I did not invent him” ( The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien , Letter 180). Yet these moments are not the only valid pathway to story. Stephen King, in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft  (2000), compares the work of an author to that of an archaeologist. He believes “stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world” (p. 163). Whether a story leaps into our imagination like Aslan, or we excavate it slowly with careful tools, the aim is the same: to uncover it as faithfully as we can. My Own Unexpected Visitors I thought such moments belonged only to other writers—until it happened to me. One ordinary evening, while washing dishes with my daughter, she asked if I had ever thought about writing stories set on our ten-acre property, Brightwing. I had not. Never crossed my mind. But as soon as she finished her sentence, two vivid figures rose up in my mind: Mr. Mole in robe and slippers, pipe in hand, and Mr. Rabbit bundled for winter with a thick coat, hat, and wool gloves. In that moment, I felt what Lewis must have felt when he first saw Tumnus. Surprise, followed by curiosity. I’m not sure how I would have handled the situation had I not known about Lewis, Tolkien, and others who had characters visit them. Would I have chalked it up to indigestion? Perhaps. Thankfully, I did not. Thankfully, I took a moment to wonder whether something so mysterious could happen to someone so ordinary as me. It did. I don’t think that makes me more authentic as a writer—it simply means that on this occasion, I was a recipient more than an inventor. Other stories I’ve written have required the harder work of digging, rewriting, reshaping, and finding the heart that was not obvious at first. Both are equally valid acts of authorship. I let those two characters stay in my imagination for several weeks. They talked to each other. They talked to me. I asked them questions and, believe it or not, they sometimes answered. As their stories materialized, I started distinguishing between what felt authentic to them and what felt like ideas I was imposing on them. Does that sound strange? Maybe. After all, I’m the author. Aren’t I imposing my ideas throughout? No, not really. Not if I’m faithfully serving the story. I didn’t ask them questions like, “What’s your favorite breakfast meal?” or “What’s your favorite book?” Questions I have seen as writing prompts. I asked questions like, “What do you long for most of all?” or “Where are you going and why?” The answers to these questions told me a great deal. In case you’re wondering, Mr. Mole wanted to be admired. He wanted fewer legends about Rabbits and more about moles (you can argue with him later). Most of all, though, he wanted companionship. He didn’t know it until he got himself lost in a snowstorm; hence, his mis adventure. Getting rescued by Rabbit was just the beginning. Discovering Brightwing Tales Those two visitors became the seed of Brightwing Tales , and in following them, I found myself unexpectedly in the realm of children’s literature—a world I had never planned to enter. The first time I read the finished manuscript aloud was to a second-grade class. I’ve always considered second grade the golden age of authenticity: old enough to know what they think, young enough to say it without guile. Their reaction reminded me of Madeleine L’Engle’s belief that “if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children” ( A Circle of Quiet , 1972). The children’s laughter and curiosity affirmed that Mrs. Rabbit, Little Freckles, and Mr. Mole belonged not only to me, but to a wider world of readers. Writing for the Story First Whether Brightwing Tales  is worthy of generational affection, I don’t know. I hope so, but it’s not what I aimed to write. I just tried to write the story that Mole and Rabbit told me. It turned out to be a story I liked reading myself. This experience confirmed something I suspect Tolkien, Lewis, MacDonald, L’Engle, and even Stephen King would all agree on: The most enduring stories are not written to please a market, but to satisfy the author’s own longing to enter a place worth visiting. Lewis once said, “Write the kind of books you would like to read” ( Letters of C. S. Lewis , Letter to a young girl, 1956). Tolkien’s “leaf-mold” metaphor comes to mind again here—when we allow the deep compost of our inner life to nourish a story, we often find it grows into something stronger and more enduring than anything engineered to meet a demographic profile. Readers can tell when a story is loved into being rather than designed to sell. Re-enchanting the World If I have a mission as a writer, it is this: to re-enchant the world. George MacDonald’s fairy tales did this for Lewis; Lewis’s works did it for me. Now I hope Brightwing Tales  might do the same for others. In an age that often prizes cynicism and efficiency over wonder, such stories are not luxuries—they are necessary restorations. I offer Brightwing Tales  as a gift, in the hope that it might open a door to delight for both children and adults. Whether a story comes as a sudden revelation or as a slow excavation, the work of storytelling is always, at its best, an act of humility—faithfully uncovering what was already there, waiting to be found. Ben Palpant is a poet and storyteller who writes quietly among the trees with his dog at his feet in hopes of re-enchanting the world. He is a storyteller and poet living in Washington State. Ben’s most recent books are An Axe For The Frozen Sea  and Brightwing Tales . You can join the enchantment at www.benpalpant.com . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

by Amy Baik Lee [Editor’s note: We’ve decided to take the last few days of 2018 to repost some of our favorite pieces of writing that showed up on the blog this year. This third and final piece we’re sharing is “Beauty Beyond the Reach of Shadow” by Amy Baik Lee, a rumination on  The Hiding Place and Betsie ten Boom’s relentless and unsentimental commitment to beauty in the face of deep suffering.] I first “met” her in a book I’d pulled from my school’s closet-sized library. Jewish refugees and resistance workers streamed through the welcoming doors of an old Dutch house, and a tiny, secret space was built into the uppermost bedroom to hide them. No needful face was turned away. The Ten Boom family prepared beds for frightened new residents and doled out cream puffs to make raid drills feel more like a game, all the while entrusting themselves and the people under their roof to God. The Hiding Place is an honest and harrowing account of faith in fell times. But although the narrative is told by Corrie ten Boom, the most intriguing figure to me in the book was her older sister, Betsie.  Betsie had a knack, I found, for viewing suffering through a brilliantly clear lens of trust in her Father.  “There are no ‘ifs’ in God’s world,” she spoke out of the pages to me, “And no places that are safer than other places. The center of His will is our only safety. . . let us pray that we may always know it!” I was comforted and dumbfounded by her perspective, right along with Corrie. When the road from the safe and cramped quarters of the Beje led to prison and two concentration camps, Betsie gave her possessions away to her cellmates. She prayed with the struggling women who surrounded her, going from one to another in flea-ridden barracks to share priceless words from a smuggled Bible. She saw wounded souls in the eyes of her Nazi captors, and drew up plans for the day of their healing.  Betsie’s life of 59 years burned with a quiet luminescence, blazing forth with particular radiance in its last hour at Ravensbruck. Hers was one of immeasurable sacrifice, of constantly relinquishing her possessions and security and needs so that others might live. It was Christ’s love made tangible, and I hailed her as a hero in my growing catalog of stalwart saints. How does one grow to face hardship, not with grim and gray countenance, but with such trust and peace, such expanse of soul? Amy Baik Lee But it wasn’t until years later that I returned to her story, this time in the wake of a mental breakdown, shrouded in darkness so thick I had forgotten how to breathe. About two years ago this winter, I got in the car to make my regular nighttime run to the grocery store, and The Hiding Place was the only audiobook in the console. I never did remember to bring another CD from the house. Every time the book reached the end on those evening trips, I allowed it to loop back to the beginning. And as it did, certain questions crystallized in my tired mind. How did Betsie manage to meet suffering without giving way to fear and despair? In the middle of a concentration camp, how could she interpret the provision of something so small as vitamin drops as an act of love from God? How does one grow to face hardship, not with grim and gray countenance, but with such trust and peace, such expanse of soul?  Then, around the second or third time through the book, I began to notice something new.  Long before the Ten Booms ever joined the Dutch resistance, Corrie and her three siblings were taught by example to see the grace in every person and every difficulty the family faced. Betsie, especially, seemed to notice them in a particular way. It was Betsie who started seedlings each spring for the Beje’s windowboxes, although the old house was so close to its neighbors that they never grew to maturity. She remembered every person who came through the watch shop and the details they shared about their lives. The story I grew to love most began with Betsie coming down with a run-of-the-mill cold one winter. To aid her sister’s recovery, Corrie took over the responsibilities in the watch shop—and found, almost guiltily, that she loved it. After closing the books and locking up one evening, she caught Betsie coming through the alley door with her arms full of flowers: “Betsie ten Boom!” Corrie exploded. “How long has this been going on? No wonder you’re not getting better!”  “I’ve stayed in bed most of the time, honestly—” she stopped while great coughs shook her. “I’ve only got up for really important things.” Upon further investigation, the “really important things” turned out to be a more pleasing arrangement of dishes in the corner cupboard and the removal of varnish from a gorgeous old wooden door. Sheepishly Betsie confessed how much she had enjoyed caring for the house in secret. “And so it was out,” Corrie notes with her dry, good-natured humor, “we had divided the work backwards.” From that point on, both the Beje and the watch shop flourished. Betsie made home a place where the eye was drawn to beauty in various textures and colors. She worked magic with the Ten Booms’ limited food budget, and somehow found time to revive her mother’s practice of keeping a soup kettle and coffee pot simmering for anyone who needed a spot of warmth. And when every bedroom was eventually filled with men and women in hiding, Betsie set to work planning small concerts, literary readings, and foreign language lessons in the evenings to give their cloistered minds and hearts room to breathe. Alone in my car, I slowly became aware that perhaps The Hiding Place wasn’t presenting a simple contrast between life before and life after the advent of WWII. Perhaps there was far more of a connection between Betsie’s home life and her unwavering displays of hard-pressed faith than I had ever dreamed. On February 28, 1944, Betsie, Corrie, and four other family members were arrested by Gestapo agents. In prison, Corrie was placed in solitary confinement, but at one point she was given the chance to walk past the door of Betsie’s cell.  Unbelievably, against all logic, this cell was charming. My eyes seized only a few details as I inched reluctantly past. The straw pallets were rolled instead of piled in a heap, standing like little pillars along the walls, each with a lady’s hat atop it. A headscarf had somehow been hung along the wall. . . . Even the coats hanging on their hooks were part of the welcome of that room, each sleeve draped over the shoulder of the coat next to it like a row of dancing children . . . It had been a glimpse only, two seconds at the most, but I walked through the corridors of Scheveningen with Betsie’s singing spirit at my side. This image still brings tears to my eyes—this gentle subversion that dared to celebrate life where there should only be despair. It defies human reason. More astounding still, Betsie wasn’t shaking an angry fist in the face of tyranny with these small acts, or “making the best of things” in futility; the home she made in her cell was simply the spilling over of a Christ-facing faith. I wonder sometimes if the things I glimpsed in my valley-of-the-shadow were real, or if they will fall like paper swords from my hands when I come into the thick of battle again. Is it right to fight so long and hard for beauty while in the service of Christ? Are our efforts to relay that beauty no more than flickers in the dark? Amy Baik Lee What I’ve come to see is that Betsie’s home years, and her intentional cultivation of beauty within them, prepared her for her time in the Dutch prison and the Nazi concentration camps. She knew her Father was in those sites of desolation because she had seen Him all along. For her, His goodness wasn’t constrained to Old Testament rescues and New Testament miracles. If she knew there were no “ifs” in His kingdom, it was because she had learned to see the involvement of His hand and the nourishing creativity of His character all around her. In window box seedlings and holiday flowers. In the worth of every body and soul.  Betsie caught sight of the eternal reality to which she was bound, and not even the myriad demonstrations of mankind’s depravity in WWII could cloud that view. Instead, she made room for others to see what she saw, making beauty and compassion flourish out of meager supplies. She showed me that beauty is as much a part of Christ’s love as sacrifice—for, indeed, it was for the beauty of His bride that He gave His life; it was for the joy set before Him that He endured the cross and scorned its shame.  The Hiding Place doesn’t get much airtime anymore in my car, now that my children are old enough to make requests, but I return to it often in my mind. I love Betsie’s story—especially these days—because I’ve been harping a bit on the subject of beauty in the Christian life, and I wonder if it’s easier because I don’t have a crisis in my life at present. I wonder sometimes if the things I glimpsed in my valley-of-the-shadow were real, or if they will fall like paper swords from my hands when I come into the thick of battle again. Is it right to fight so long and hard for beauty while in the service of Christ? Are our efforts to relay that beauty no more than flickers in the dark?  But Betsie ten Boom reminds me that the hope to which I’ve raised my face—the glory of Christ, and the Church’s union with Him into it—is true indeed. I believe she showed us, right to the very end, that if we can train our eyes upon the daily beauty through which God’s presence and being meet us, then we will see Him better in the hardship, the discipline, and the working out of every good deed He has prepared for us to do—wherever they may take place. We can fix our eyes on Christ and see the gold of the world-to-come breaking through, even amid the ashes and the kitchen chores and the baby spit-up and the hospice wards and the prison barracks of this world.  That daily beauty, I know now, helps us follow the thread of yearning that whispers through our living moments and tugs us forward with a mighty force. Its Christ-ward call can give us strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other on the uphill road, and—to borrow Ursula K. Le Guin's paraphrase of Tolkien—"to take as many people with us as we can." One day we will see the beauty of the King. Free of our mortal cataracts of sin and grief and depression and anxiety and fear and sorrow, we’ll come home to the One who now sits at the right hand of the throne of God—the One who is Israel’s splendor and glory, and in whose presence is majesty and joy beyond all our deepest longings.  And we will know Him because we have beheld Him, through fire and through faith.  The beauty has only just begun.

by Ruth Moore Welcome to the next in our series of blogs that invite speakers from Hutchmoot 2024 to reflect on what happened when we gathered around story, music, and art in Franklin, Tennessee, last October. Today we hear from three authors who inspired an eager roomful of Hutchmoot writers with their seminar “Writing in the Margins: Balancing Motherhood and Creative Pursuits.” Their discussion wove together reflections on Madeleine L’Engle’s life and work with practical suggestions on writing amid life’s heavy demands, along with insights from the world of traditional publishing. Many thanks to Carolyn Leiloglou , Summer Rachel Short ,   and  Robyn Wall for taking part in this interview from the margins. Ruth Moore: You used Madeleine L’Engle’s life and writing as a “spine” for your discussion. What is it that draws you to her as a writer? Carolyn Leiloglou: As a young reader, I was obsessed with fantasy literature, especially fantasy that had a decisively Christian bent. Which meant nearly all the books I read were about male protagonists (with the exception of Narnia) and were written by men. When I encountered Madeleine L’Engle’s books in middle school, it really opened a new world of seeing my favorite kinds of stories written by a woman and often featuring female protagonists. I encountered L’Engle's nonfiction writing on the creative life about ten years ago, and I’ve found myself going back to her again and again as a (somewhat imperfect) model of how to think and write as a Christian woman. RM: To which other writers do you look to encourage you in your practice? Summer Rachel Short: Maybe it’s because of my somewhat short attention span, but I particularly admire authors who communicate character and story succinctly. Louis Sachar, Suzanne Collins, and Katherine Paterson come to mind. However, I’m also a mood reader, so there are times when I enjoy slower-paced books that serve up pretty passages of description or elaborate worldbuilding—L. M. Montgomery and J. R. R. Tolkien are a couple of favorites in that category. RM: I was struck by a comment you made about learning to write at times of day you didn’t think you could. What would you say to writers who think they don’t have time to keep their craft alive? SRS: I think we’re all more adaptable than we give ourselves credit for. For example, until five years ago, I’d never played any sport with a ball and considered myself too uncoordinated to learn. Then, I found out about a free local tennis class and decided to give it a go. My past self would be shocked to discover I now play several times a week. I think our writing lives are similar. We assume we can’t succeed at something because it’s different or hard. Sometimes, all it takes is giving a new routine a chance to grow. If finding time for writing is the hurdle, consider lowering the bar. A writing session doesn’t have to be long to be beneficial. Carving out 15 to 20 minutes a few times a week adds up. I’ve surprised myself with how much can be accomplished in a short period. RM: All three of you publish your work in the mainstream, which means you engage with agents, editors, publicists . . . and deadlines! How do you approach the juggle of family life and the pressures of publishing? Robyn Wall: I find that busier seasons are easier when I embrace the limitedness God gives us instead of fighting against it. No one can do it all. This requires prioritizing what to focus on and what to let go of in each season. Some questions I’ve found helpful are: What are the convictions and stories that stick with me? What’s important in family life right now? Is something time-sensitive? What’s achievable in this season? Can something wait? Where can I settle for “good enough?” Where can I ask for help? What can I let go of completely? How will rest look in this season? Some examples of where the three of us have made space for deadlines are delaying cleaning, signing up for fewer activities, declining to host or attend gatherings, sticking to the easiest of meals, writing in untraditional times and places, and transferring responsibilities to other family members. We’ve also stepped back from writing for various demands of life, such as taking care of elderly parents, summer vacation, mental health seasons, and times when our kids need us. RM: The discussion went deep into “mom guilt” at times. Writers in all sorts of circumstances can experience guilt about making time to write — you encouraged us to challenge it. How do you do that? CL: The thing that helped me most in combating my own “mom guilt” was seeing my children’s responses when I started to write more. When I showed them that creative pursuit was worthy of my adult time, their response was to engage even more with their own creative projects! Far from taking away from their childhood experience, my commitment to creating enriched it. We are made in the image of God, and as Dorothy Sayers points out in Mind of the Maker , part of that image is the will to create. I love to see my children leaning into their giftings, especially as they enter young adulthood. RM: You all spoke about the ebbs and flows of “success” in writing — how do you navigate life as a writer over the long term? RW: There are many things we cannot control in creative pursuits—like trends, editors’ preferences, critical reception, and obstacles that complicate finishing a project. Focusing on those will only lead to frustration and discouragement. It’s easier to find joy in stewarding our gifts and ideas while trusting God with the results and acknowledging the many forms “success” may look like in His economy. “Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain” (Ps. 127:1 [English Standard Version]). I find it grounding to look back. I save emails for rainy days. I write down affirming things that people I respect have told me because it’s easy to doubt in the hardest parts of making. I’ve saved a box of writings from childhood through now to feel the connectedness of it all. God has a story arc for all of us. It’s also helpful to read about the hills and valleys of artists you admire. Even L’Engle threatened to quit writing when she got 26 rejections for A Wrinkle in Time —until she was inspired to write a story due to the rejection. Perspective helps too. People say life is short, but it’s actually quite long. Disappointments from five years ago don’t feel grave like they did in the moment—if I remember them at all. There’s plenty of time to develop craft and plenty of stories to be written. RM: How often have you been to Hutchmoot and what keeps you coming back? CL: I believe I’ve been to Hutchmoot every year since 2017. It took many years for my husband to convince me to go. I didn’t feel like a real writer at the time and made excuses: I was pregnant, the kids were too little, etc. When we finally attended, I still felt a bit like an imposter, but I soon realized that Hutchmoot attracts all kinds of folks, not just creators at every stage, but those who love and enjoy the arts. But what’s really kept me coming back are the friendships I’ve made over the years. Hutchmoot attracts some of the coolest people around, and every year feels like an ever-expanding family reunion. RM: And what has stayed with you from your wider experience of Hutchmoot last year? SRS :  I’ve come away with a deeper sense of gratitude for the way God has given us the desire to reflect his glory in our own creations. At Hutchmoot, I met people from different backgrounds with different talents and dreams. Yet there was a common thread of longing to use those gifts to glorify God and make an impact on the world. To me, that’s inspiring. RM: What is the allure of the Rabbit Room and Hutchmoot for an artist like yourself? RW: Writing is a solitary activity. When you take brainstorming, drafting, and unpublished manuscripts into account, most of our work is never seen. It can feel isolating. But the good news is that we can be seen in community. There’s a story happening beyond the page, and places like the Rabbit Room remind us of that. When I see the smiling face of a fellow artisan on the pilgrim’s road, I feel the welcoming arms of God, and that kind of love cures all manner of disappointments. Ruth Moore is a writer from Oxford, England, and a member of the Hutchmoot UK team. You can find out more about the books and backstories of Carolyn Leiloglou , Summer Rachel Short , and Robyn Wall  on their respective websites. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by James  on Unsplash

by Andy Patton When it comes to thinking about creativity, we’ve all got a problem: Our imaginations have been hacked by the image of the lone-wolf genius. Go ahead. Think about it. What does a creative person look like? Where are they? What are they wearing? What is their hair like, messy or neat? Are they alone? Are they clutching a pen, a whiteboard marker, a coffee cup, or a microwaved cup of ramen noodles? Do they live a balanced life? Are they happy? Do they hear the hum of a busy city or the hush of birdsong through their window? Do they live in New York? San Francisco? Are they hunched over a notebook at midday or wide awake in the middle of the night? Did you picture anyone real? When you hear the phrase “creative genius,” who comes to mind? Edison? Einstein? Da Vinci? Steve Jobs? Picasso? Mozart? As inheritors of a modern Western imagination, we carry a bundle of stories about what creativity looks like and who gets to claim it. These stories linger in our collective assumptions—quietly shaping how we live, what we dare to attempt, how we deal with failure, and what we tell ourselves is possible. One of the most powerful yet often overlooked assumptions shaping how we perceive creativity is that it occurs within an individual, rather than within groups. Western culture worships the ideal of the lone genius, but real breakthroughs are born in community. Why talk about creative groups? Whether we realize it or not, most of what we build—families, rockets, paintings, board reports, arguments, or novels—depends on other people. It isn’t enough to talk about creative individuals. If we want to tell a true story about creative production, we have to talk about creative communities. Creativity might start in the invisible incubator of our minds, but the moment it leaves the boundaries of our brains, the rules change. Collaboration introduces new challenges, fresh obstacles, and unfamiliar dynamics that we can’t solve by simply doubling down on solitary effort. The good news is that, unlike the elusive task of forcing someone to “think more creatively,” small, practical changes can often unlock higher levels of group creativity. Environmental tweaks and shifts in how we interact can unleash a disproportionate amount of creative energy and productivity. In other words, there’s a leverage point here. If we learn how to shape our spaces and our conversations wisely, we can multiply what our teams, communities, and partnerships are capable of making together. The stakes are high. The greatest and most meaningful things we accomplish in life will almost certainly be things we do together. And the inverse is just as true: Our deepest frustrations, regrets, failures, and wounds usually come through the people we share our lives with. Community is powerful enough to amplify our best ideas—or choke them off entirely. If we want our collective creativity to thrive, we need to get better at how we gather, speak, listen, and share. But if that is true, a question quickly rises: What kinds of environments actually foster that kind of generative community? It turns out that creativity has a geography—and sometimes, the most powerful places aren’t studios or labs, but liminal spaces where people casually collide. That’s exactly what MIT researcher Alex Pentland discovered when he started tracking how teams really work. Alex Pentland’s Sociometers Alex Pentland was a researcher who ran MIT's Human Dynamics Lab. Pentland and his team spent years studying how people actually behave at work—down to the smallest details. Part of his research involved handing out what he called sociometers : little devices loaded with GPS, microphones, accelerometers, and other sensors that tracked how people moved, who they talked to, and where they gathered. In one experiment, Pentland wired up an entire office. He watched mountains of data stream in—people’s footsteps, conversations, and unplanned interactions in the hallway—and then compared all that activity to real measures of productivity. And what he discovered was a hidden X-factor that nobody would have predicted: the copy machine. It turned out that the single strongest predictor of productivity in that office was how much time people spent hanging around the copy machine. Why? Because the copy machine wasn’t just a piece of equipment; it was a crossroads. It was the place where people lingered for a minute, waited, chatted, swapped frustrations, shared quick updates, threw out half-baked ideas, and offered casual solutions. In short, it was where spontaneous cross-pollination happened. Where do Pentland’s findings leave the myth of the lone-wolf creative genius? Our image of an artist toiling in a silent studio or locked lab might be only half the story. The other half happens in overlooked moments—in the hallway, by the coffee pot, or waiting for a stack of papers to print. It turns out that where people gather, ideas collide, and that collision is where many breakthroughs are born. Pentland discovered that how people interact —especially casually and face-to-face—was the best predictor of creative output and productivity. It wasn’t who they were or what they knew, but how often they lingered in shared spaces, bumped into others, and swapped stray thoughts. Big creative ideas often begin in small, accidental moments of connection—moments you can’t schedule or control, but you can make room for. Pentland’s copy machine research reminds us that creativity doesn’t always arrive through careful planning or isolated effort—it sneaks in through casual collisions and everyday interactions. For artists, pastors, and community-builders alike, the takeaway is clear: We need to value and design for these serendipitous moments. Put the coffee pot where people linger. Leave time after the meeting. Ask someone what they’re working on, even if it’s half-formed. These seemingly unimportant exchanges may end up being the birthplace of your next idea—or someone else’s. Want to put this into practice? Try one of these ideas: Build “creative collisions" into your week. Schedule non-agenda hangouts with fellow artists, church members, or writers. Not for critique. Not for planning. Just to bump into each other’s ideas. Creative sparks love low-pressure collisions. Make the “copy machine moment” sacred. Whatever your version of the copy machine is—the post-concert clean-up, the kids’ art table, the donut run—don’t rush it. Name it as sacred creative time and protect it like a deadline. Revalue small talk. Don’t treat “unproductive conversation” like wasted energy. That’s where trust forms—and trust is the oxygen of collaboration. A conversation can begin as small talk and end up as a journey of discovery. You never know where it will go if you don’t let it happen. Harry Nyquist and Bell Labs If you want further proof that creativity flourishes in community, look no further than Bell Labs—in many ways, the place where the modern world was born. In its heyday, Bell Labs was the scientific equivalent of Renaissance Florence: a dense hotspot of collective genius that produced breakthroughs that still shape our lives today. Radio astronomy, the transistor (which made computers possible), solar cells, lasers, communication satellites, binary computing, cellular networks—these all sprang from conversations and collaboration inside those walls. At some point, a few curious researchers decided to study Bell Labs itself. They wanted to understand what made this place so astonishingly productive. When they examined the patent records, they found about ten standout scientists whose files were significantly thicker than those of everyone else. However, when they attempted to identify a single trait that accounted for these scientists’ extraordinary output—such as IQ scores, education, or training—they came up empty. So they shifted their focus from credentials to behavior. That’s when the common thread emerged: These prolific inventors had two habits in common. First, they regularly ate lunch in the cafeteria. Second, they often chose to sit with a man named Harry Nyquist. The architectural design of the lab itself helped. Its main building was long, with the cafeteria at one end. On the walk to lunch, you might pass Nobel Prize winners and hallway debates in ten different disciplines. Sometimes, just overhearing a stray sentence was enough to crack open a problem you’d been stuck on for weeks. It was a place of intense cross-pollination and unorthodox solutions to intractable problems. But the real magic happened at Nyquist’s table. According to Daniel Coyle’s The Culture Code, Harry Nyquist was described by his peers as fatherly, calm, and deeply curious. He asked good questions, drew people out, and made it safe for them to think out loud. His knowledge stretched wide across disciplines, so a computer scientist might find himself wrestling with a question about radio astronomy over a sandwich. A physicist might get pulled into a conversation about transistors and quickly produce a novel solution between bites of green beans. These sorts of things happened around Nyquist because he was a connector. He knew everyone, and everyone knew he was worth talking to. So people lingered at his table. They’d listen, share, bump into problems they hadn’t considered, and toss out half-formed solutions. Sometimes, mid-lunch, someone would leap up with a new idea that sent them running back to the lab. Just by his warm presence and quiet facilitation, Nyquist created a living hive mind that made everyone around him smarter and more inventive. It was creative because it was communal. In a way, Harry Nyquist was Bell Labs’ copy machine: an unassuming node of cross-pollination that amplified every mind that gathered near him. And none of it would have happened if those scientists had stayed sealed in their siloed labs, hammering away alone under the old myth that genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration. Sometimes, it’s ninety-nine percent conversation. Harry Nyquist’s lunch table might seem a world away from the life and work of the average creative person. Not many of our lives are filled with lab coats, patents, and Nobel Prizes. But the principle beneath it is exactly the same: creativity flourishes where people feel safe, seen, and invited to share unfinished work. Whether you’re an engineer sketching transistor diagrams or a songwriter wrestling with a chorus, we all need places like that lunch table—spaces where curiosity is welcome, ego gets left at the door, and half-baked ideas are met with interest rather than judgment. That’s part of the vision behind the Rabbit Room: to cultivate corners of the world where that kind of open, generative conversation can happen. Where community isn’t just a backdrop to creativity—it’s the soil it grows in. Whether you are writing songs, drafting sermons, painting sunsets, convincing colleagues, or parenting toddlers, your creative life is shaped by the people you invite to “the table.” The goal shouldn’t be to impress each other with polished brilliance, but to build places where it feels safe to wonder aloud, to admit we’re stuck, to throw out wild ideas just to see what lands. That kind of table doesn’t form by accident. It forms when someone like Nyquist—or maybe someone like you—creates space and says, “Pull up a chair.” Here are some more practical ideas about how to be a little bit more “Nyquist” in your own creative practices: Share something halfway-done. The legacy of Harry Nyquist’s lunch table shows that the best ideas are often born when people feel free to share partial thoughts and ask for help. The next time you are working on a sticky problem or nursing a raw idea, try saying, “This isn’t ready yet, but I’m curious what you think…” Then see what happens. Create a Nyquist Table of your own. Host a regular lunch or creative work hour where anyone is welcome. You don’t need to be the smartest in the room—just the most curious. A spirit of peace and genuine interest can turn a meal into a hive mind. Curate cross-pollination. Bring people from different disciplines together—a potter and a poet, a songwriter and a theologian. Surprising conversations spark surprising breakthroughs. Pixar’s Braintrust: Candor, Community, and Creative Collisions If Alex Pentland’s sociometers at MIT showed us how casual collisions spark productivity, and Harry Nyquist’s cafeteria table at Bell Labs revealed the creative power of curiosity and connection, Pixar Studios offers yet another compelling case study. Pixar’s method for sustained creative success, described vividly by Ed Catmull in Creativity, Inc. , further dismantles the myth of the solitary genius. Instead, it reinforces a profound truth: Creativity isn’t just a product of individual brilliance—it thrives in communal spaces defined by honesty, vulnerability, and regular cross-pollination of ideas. Of course, just getting people around a table isn’t enough. We’ve all sat through meetings and workshops that felt more like detours than catalysts. The real challenge is what happens next: Once the chairs are filled, how do you shape the conversation so it actually sharpens the work? How do you invite honest insight without shutting people down? How do you create space for vulnerability that leads to breakthrough, not backlash? These are the questions that have shipwrecked many well-meaning creative communities. But, at Pixar, they found a way to make it work. Pixar’s creative heartbeat is something they call the “Braintrust,” a regularly scheduled meeting of writers, directors, animators, and producers who gather to candidly critique ongoing film projects. What distinguishes these gatherings from typical workplace meetings isn’t just who attends, but how they interact. Pixar’s Braintrust sessions are designed to be intentionally informal, collaborative, and deeply egalitarian. Regardless of rank or seniority, everyone present is expected to provide honest, straightforward feedback—and to accept it graciously in return. Ed Catmull, co-founder of Pixar, explains in Creativity, Inc. that the rules governing the Braintrust are deceptively simple: speak openly, be candid, and don’t let criticism become personal. The primary objective isn’t agreement or consensus. Instead, it’s clarity. By rigorously questioning every narrative choice, character development, and plot detail, participants help each other recognize hidden weaknesses and discover new creative possibilities. A director stuck on a particular story point might receive a flurry of diverse, unexpected ideas from colleagues in other disciplines, quickly transforming confusion into innovation. Consider Pixar’s classic film Toy Story 2 . As Catmull recalls, midway through production, the film was in crisis. Despite months of effort, the story felt hollow and emotionally unsatisfying. When the Braintrust gathered to evaluate the project, their feedback was brutally honest. They identified fundamental flaws, exposed weak narrative choices, and challenged the film’s emotional heart. But rather than retreating into defensiveness, the director and creative team embraced their colleagues’ critiques. They leaned into vulnerability, using the candid feedback as a springboard. In a relatively short time, they overhauled the film’s storyline, injecting it with new emotional depth and creative clarity. The resulting film, now considered a masterpiece, wouldn’t have existed without the communal wisdom of the Braintrust. Catmull often emphasizes that maintaining such a culture is neither automatic nor easy. People must actively choose openness and humility over defensiveness and ego. For Pixar, this choice is a cornerstone of their creativity. Each session of the Braintrust, like a lunch conversation at Bell Labs or a chance encounter in front of a copy machine, reinforces the notion that our best ideas rarely emerge fully formed from a solitary mind only . Rather, great creativity grows from the fertile soil of collaboration, honesty, and mutual trust. Of course, most of us don’t work at Pixar. We’re not directing animated features with hundred-million-dollar budgets or storyboarding sequels to cultural juggernauts. But the dynamics at play in the Braintrust aren’t exclusive to Hollywood—they’re just intentional, practiced versions of what every creative community could be. No matter what the scale or the stakes in your creative community, the same rules apply. Feedback becomes productive when we can be honest without being harsh, listen without defensiveness, and care more about making the work better than about proving ourselves right. What matters isn’t ego but honesty, not flattery but clarity, not spotlighting the artist but helping the art find its truest form. What lessons might you take from the Braintrust and apply to your work and life? Here are some thoughts: Set ground rules. Try this trio: be honest, be kind, and focus on the work. Make it clear that criticism isn’t a personal attack—it’s an act of service. Ask generous questions. Instead of jumping to fix or rework someone else’s idea, ask: “What are you hoping this piece does?” or “Where do you feel stuck?” Good questions unlock better revisions. Start with trust, not talent. The best feedback groups aren’t necessarily filled with experts. They’re filled with people who care enough to tell the truth kindly. As you strive toward that goal, build relationships first; critique comes second. Genius Is a Group Project These examples all dismantle the persistent myth that genius springs from solitude. Instead, they highlight a deeper truth: Our creative potential flourishes in relationships. If we want richer ideas and bolder innovations, we must consciously cultivate communities and environments where candid dialogue, safe vulnerability, and frequent collisions of diverse perspectives are the norm. When we do, we don’t merely multiply individual insights—we transform them. So maybe the next time we wonder how to be more creative, we shouldn’t picture the lone genius burning the midnight oil, but the hallway, the lunch table, or the shared pot of coffee. The real sparks fly when we show up for each other—when we ask curious questions, linger a little longer, and build spaces where ideas can bump into each other. Creativity isn’t only something we summon from deep within; it’s something we practice together, in the ordinary moments that make us neighbors, collaborators, and co-creators of things we could never make alone. Andy Patton is the creator of the Darkling Psalter , a collection of creative renditions of the Psalms. He holds an M.A. in theology from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He works for the Rabbit Room and is a former staff member at L'Abri Fellowship in England. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

by Timothy Jones A soul which remains alone . . . is like a burning coal which is left by itself: It will grow colder rather than hotter. —John of the Cross I don’t often reread books, but I’ve been drawn back lately to The Lord of the Rings , struck by something I can’t stop thinking of, something I just learned, a   detail that leaves me quietly amazed: how J. R. R. Tolkien’s magnum opus almost passed into obscurity. The whole literary phenomenon—multiple editions, discovery by the 1960s counterculture, the blockbuster movies in the 2000s, Tolkien becoming a household name— might never have happened? It was The Mythmakers , John Hendrix’s graphic novel about C. S. Lewis and Tolkien, that unearthed the revelation for me. Lewis had an indispensable role, it turns out. And while I make my way through Tolkien’s masterpiece again, I keep thinking about cultivating community—connecting with others who share a calling. I see again that I can’t flourish without what they might bring. My writer friend Kate Gaston put it well when she said that placing our creative work out in the world is “an inherently vulnerable act.” So when I recently helped form a writers group to meet for support and someone suggested “Polite Society” as the name of our gathering, I chuckled, recognizing that what we needed was not heavy-handed critique but nurturing and support. Tolkien, apparently, felt that too. I already knew about the Inklings, the renowned Oxford-based writing group—but I didn’t realize how crucial Lewis’s encouragement was. Lewis gently pushed when Tolkien hesitated and wondered if his story was fodder only for family and friends. In doing so, Lewis changed everything. Tolkien, whom Hendrix describes as “an onion skin of self-conscious perfectionism” needed, well, a fan. There were tensions in their friendship, to be sure, in part arising from their differing literary visions. But Tolkien would write in a letter to a friend, “Only from [Lewis] did I ever get the idea that my ‘stuff’ could be more than a private hobby.” Tolkien the Oxford professor had already been published, to be sure, yet, he went on, “but for [my friend’s] interest and unceasing eagerness for more I should never have brought The L. Of the R. to a conclusion.” What strikes me now, as I journey once more through the pages of The Lord of the Rings , is that it’s a story anchored by friendship—a bond that gives it lasting power and a place in literary history. Imagine if vast chunks of Middle-earth had stayed just notes in a drawer. What if Lewis hadn’t been there, and been so forthcoming? I see here a theme I’ve chewed on for years: that friends support us, change us, make us able for more than we might hope. In all kinds of ways, but especially in creative pursuits, how much I need what companions can bring. I need others for support, for one thing. There’s more joy when I’m not gutting it out alone. Living is no do-it-yourself project. Neither are our creative pursuits. Writing is one of the most joyful things I’ve ever done. And the most stomach-churning. We writers delight in a turn of phrase that comes down and comes round. But then I obsess, once words rest on the page, especially when sent off, shipped into the world , to use Seth Godin’s phrase. I yearn to get my discoveries out into the world. But was I too much? Did my self-revelation make a reader feel put off or awkward? Once, a neighbor in the middle of reading one of my books scratched his head as we stood in his yard. I had been writing about everyday spirituality and got frank about some painful family dynamics. “I asked myself,” he said, mentioning a section he’d just read, ‘ Should I be reading this?’” Like, TMI. And so I expend more emotional energy than I should, wondering, worrying about my writing. Or there’s putting our article or book proposals out there, working and working and then waiting. Not hearing back. Finding what someone has called the glacial pace of publishing. What do you do when you’ve done all you can and have to sit back for a while? And then, what do you do when the (inevitable) rejection notes come? Or there’s showing our sketches or graphic or painting to someone, playing in public a song we wrote, doing pretty much anything in which we invest ourselves. But then, does anything important happen without risks? I may forget that until a writer friend helps me, reassures me that creative ventures have their scary moments. For our courage may fail. We may falter in our resolve. We make rationales to keep us from anything but our life-giving creative pursuits. We procrastinate in the name of dust bunnies in the living room, another glance at our email, or a fresh round of doomscrolling—anything to distract us from the work we should be doing. So we need accountability. We are wired to need others and their help. Studies show how wellness—physical and emotional—is tied to strong and healthy connections with others. This interwovenness with others can range wide. It might mean work associates or fellow playdate parents, even the local barista. Whatever the setting, it means having people with whom we can share of our lives and of our selves. “The point,” stresses Arthur C. Brooks in From Strength to Strength , noting the corrosive physical and psychological effects of loneliness, “is having people with whom you grow together, whom you can count on, no matter what comes your way.” But our cultural trend toward isolation gets worse. In 2013, one out of four reported eating all their meals alone. In just a decade, that number has jumped to over half. Observers comment more and more about Americans’ trending toward (Brooks again, citing research) “no participation in social groups, fewer friends, and strained relationships” at the root. Technology may promise to increase our instant connectivity, but it also drives us into smaller and smaller silos of wariness or retreat. Like the guy in a New Yorker cartoon who says, over drinks to the guy next to him, “I used to call people, then I got into emailing, then texting, and now I just ignore everyone.” “There was a man all alone,” we read in Ecclesiastes, who asked, “why am I depriving myself of enjoyment?” . . .        Two are better than one. . . .            If either of them falls down,            one can help the other up. . . .        Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.        But how can one keep warm alone?            Though one may be overpowered,                 two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken. (Eccles. 4, passim) There’s more, too, than keeping warm. The sense of well-being we get from hanging out with another makes us stronger. We need others for their empowerment, too. At stake is not just how we feel when we navigate the challenges of creating—there are things we’ll do that we wouldn’t otherwise, things that might not happen without the synergy from others getting into the mix of our work and goals and dreams. I know the iconic image of the solitary artist, suffering in lonely silence for her art, finding inspiration from a bottle of single malt scotch. But then there’s a better counter-narrative: how creativity thrives in collaboration. Maybe we are about to give up, but a friend says, “No you don’t! Keep at it.” Or someone likes what we’re attempting but has an angle that makes what we’ve done that much better. We apprentice ourselves, to use an older (still-valuable) word. We need folks to text, talk to, meet with, pray with. We create best when fed by what happens in networks, little or big groups, informal gatherings with others who care about art and literature and creativity. We get not only pumped but also changed. Made able to do something that we’d otherwise stumble over. A spark of insight or the just-right turn of lyric or a (literal) perspective on our painting somehow shows up. Not long ago, I read something leadership guru Seth Godin wrote in The Practice about what he calls “cohorts.” By which he means often-little-at-first gatherings: The stories of amazing cultural institutions (Julliard, Black Mountain College, the Blue Note, The Actors Studio, etc.) imply that something secret and magical was taught or experienced inside of these hallowed buildings. What probably happened was a cohort. . . . What probably happened, he goes on, was people, (to use an inelegant word) clumping together in some shared calling or longing. Like, Godin goes on, this little singer-songwriter barely anybody’s ever heard of—Bob Dylan. Dylan “moved from Minnesota to Greenwich Village for a reason.” There’s more: “Most of the famous painters of the Renaissance came to Florence for a reason as well. When you're surrounded by respected peers, it's more likely you'll do the work you set out to do. Find this cohort.” Something, sometimes, only happens in a group. In the presence of another. Once, while confiding in a soul friend and fellow pastor about my insecurities around speaking, he pointed me toward prayer. Yes, such feelings are, ultimately and at root, spiritual. But then he said, getting more practical, “Sometimes God heals us 100 percent. But then, at other times, he only heals us 80 percent, and gives us friends for the rest.” The healing help that God is eager to bestow may be embodied in flesh and blood, in the humane kindness of another. Friends or fellow creatives may be the very thing that, like Tolkien dealing with his own “onion-skin” sensitivity, gives us just what we need to move through and do. It's more than the sum of the parts. I was recently part of a Zoom gathering with Seth Godin, and I asked him about his dictum. “Find a cohort,” a group of like-minded folks. How have you seen it in practice?  I asked him. “Look for a scene,” Seth said. “Look where things are [already] happening to create new culture and community and value.” And then, he said, embed yourself. A scene! What a great image. Find a scene (or make one), he said, and you will be not only encouraged or charged up, but changed by the synergy of people and ideas and insights. Jesus, of course, promises to be present whenever two or three gather. Sometimes the Spirit himself moves gently, behind and within a scene. Other times, more visibly, like in this analogy: “I play in a symphony orchestra,” one internet friend of mine writes. “There are times when the entire group of eighty musicians becomes inspired—we don’t know why—and we play absolutely magnificently. We all say, ‘What happened?’” And she began wondering how that experience pointed to truths even larger than what happens in music. I think of ways our coming together becomes more than the sum of the parts. And our efforts become infused not only by the presence of others, but by the Presence, the ultimate Creative and Creator. And then I read this scene, in my rereading this time around, of friendship in action from The Fellowship of the Ring :   Frodo is looking ahead to a desperately dangerous (and lonely) trip. He plans to go by himself, saving those close to him from the risks. But, says Pippin, “You must go—and therefore we must, too. Merry and I [and Sam] are coming with you. . . . you will need more than one companion in your dangerous adventure.” Frodo is surprised and moved: “‘My dear and most beloved hobbits,’ said Frodo . . . . ‘I could not allow it. I decided that long ago. . . . You speak of danger, but you do not understand. This is no treasure hunt, no there-and-back journey. I am flying from deadly peril into deadly peril.’” “‘Of course we understand,’ said Merry firmly. ‘That is why we have decided to come.’” And of course, Frodo could never have lasted without his band of fellow travelers. Maybe Tolkien had Lewis in mind when he wrote that scene, thinking of the difference Lewis made in his literary journey. I hope to be a voice that says, You can find other like-minded souls, and get more intentional about such support for any creative calling. The next step may be only a decision away. Maybe a text or phone call to a friend to tentatively bring it up. Or maybe you’ve been invited already to something, and you’re dragging your feet. Maybe, like me, when driving to such a gathering, you find all kinds of reasons to worry about how it will go. You feel vulnerable. And who knows? Maybe it won’t lead to the next big thing in your life. But maybe it will, and the world will be the better for it. Timothy Jones is a speaker, pastor, and widely published author. His books include Awake My Soul: Practical Spirituality for Busy People ; The Art of Prayer: A Simple Guide to Conversation with God ; and the forthcoming Fully Beloved: Meeting God in Our Heartaches and Hopes (Nelson Books). He also blogs at www.revtimothyjones.com  and writes for Inkwell magazine, Fathom magazine, and the Rabbit Room. Read more from Timothy on Substack. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Alexis Brown  on Unsplash

by Sarah J. Hauser “Are we allowed to say yes?” my husband asked. We were driving home from some outing I can’t remember, our four kids strapped into the seats behind us in our minivan. We’d just received a text message from a woman at our church who regularly coordinated Meal Trains for anyone in need—those who had a baby, grieved a family death, had undergone medical treatment. Technically speaking, we fit the description of a qualified meal recipient. My husband had recently torn his Achilles tendon, resulting in surgery. In the weeks following his recovery, he couldn’t put any weight on his injured leg, and then after that he would have to hobble around in a giant boot. “I think so?” I answered, hesitant. Our situation wasn’t dire. We weren’t dealing with any true emergencies or trauma or profound grief. The story we were living felt more embarrassing than anything, an age-old tale of a man in his late thirties trying to keep up in a basketball game with the twenty-year-olds. Besides, my husband had a desk job, so he didn’t have to take off much work, and I was capable of caring for our kids, making meals, and dealing with our day-in-day-out responsibilities. We should be able to handle this on our own, I thought. Except I was also really, really  tired. “You know what? Yes. We’re going to say yes. You just had surgery. And it’d be really helpful to not have to cook quite as much this week,” I told my husband. Before long, we had people signed up to bring us tacos and pulled pork and pasta. For the next two weeks, dinner was delivered to our doorstep, no cost, no tips, no DoorDash required. It was truly a grace that I didn’t have to stand in the kitchen scrubbing pots and pans after cooking a meal (especially because, as things often go, our dishwasher broke the same week). I didn’t even have to decide what to eat. Other people bringing meals can feel like a gamble, but even so, I did not have the mental energy to choose recipes or write down ingredients or shop for more than the bare essentials. Those meals helped me catch my breath and carved out a little more space for my husband to recover. Those meals, and the people who brought them, gave us a chance to rest. So many of us often think, “We should be able to figure this out on our own. We’re fine .” We resist offers for help, and we certainly resist asking. But then in the next breath, we can’t figure out why we’re so dang tired. I wonder if at least some of our weariness is because we’ve forgotten that rest and community go hand in hand. Maybe we think it’s only acceptable to lean on others when we have no choice––when there’s an extended hospital stay or tragedy. But what moments of rest are we missing on an ordinary Tuesday because we don’t allow ourselves to depend on those around us? And what moments of rest might we be failing to offer to others before their circumstances become urgent? From the very beginning of humanity, God said in Genesis 2:18, “It is not good that the man should be alone” (English Standard Version). Yet so many of us believe, even subconsciously, that the answer to our weary woes is figuring it out on our own. But we were not created to be self-sufficient––only God gets that job. In The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary , Walter Breuggemann wrote, “Autonomy and self-sufficiency are finally postures of hopelessness in which free gifts are excluded and one is left to one’s own resources.” I’m all about accepting a challenge and learning how to do things on my own. We are called to be faithful to the work God has put in front of us and not shirk our responsibilities. Yet sometimes, the idea of “on my own” can become an idol, our own independence shaped into a golden calf. And when we fall down before that god, we miss out on the good gifts God wants to give us. Rest and community are inextricably linked. Consider the Sabbath practices of the ancient Israelites. God’s people were to set aside one day a week to cease their regular work, because God modeled that pattern in creation when he rested on the seventh day. But another reason for observing the Sabbath, given in Deuteronomy 5:15, was to “remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the LORD your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.” When God gave the law, both in Exodus and Deuteronomy, he gave it to a community of people. The practice of Sabbath was not merely a bunch of individuals taking a day off. Rather, Sabbath was a way the collective people of God remembered and demonstrated their redemption. The whole was far greater than the sum of the parts. As the nations looked on, they were to be able to see a rested and redeemed people of God who refused to live their lives as slaves any longer. Even more than that, those in positions of authority in Israel were to protect others in their care from exploitation and overwork by making sure that even servants, sojourners, and livestock rested (Deut. 5:14). If the world saw not just one individual or family, but the entire people of God, refusing to give into the hurried, harried, exhausting pace of the culture, wouldn’t they take notice? What would happen if the world saw that the church was the most rested people on earth? The church wouldn’t be without hardship or struggle, of course, but what impact could we have if God’s people ordered our lives, our businesses, our church programming, our calendar, our households in a way that actively resisted and rebelled against overwork––and then protected against overwork in the lives of others? Understanding that rest is tied to community frees us to both give and receive help in order to rest. We can accept that Meal Train without hesitation because we were never meant to power through on our own. We can initiate a childcare swap so parents can get a couple hours off. We can pool our leftovers on a Sunday night with a friend so we don’t both have to cook. We can create a fund for single parents that provides them with finances for childcare or a night away at a hotel. We can ask for help before we’re at the end of our rope, and we can offer it before someone else is. Helping one another rest can and should be a normal part of living in Christian community. When we consider rest within the context of community, we also then realize that we do not rest merely for our own benefit. I can all too easily think about how I’m going to spend my Sunday or finally get my moments of quiet. But rest is not just about me. We are a part of a larger body of believers meant to work and rest according to God’s design. When one part of the body is tired, it affects us all. When one part is limping, the others can offer support. Our individual acts of rest, whether they have to do with the Sabbath or other practices like solitude or silence, matter within the larger community of faith, a community charged with displaying our redemption to a culture that is restless. Jesus stepped away from people in order to pray and practice solitude, and then he came back to serve and teach and heal. So, too, should we step away, not to numb or self-soothe, but to fill what’s empty so we can pour out into our families, neighborhoods, churches, and communities. Rested people help others rest. In Celebration of Discipline: The Path To Spiritual Growth , Richard Foster wrote, “The fruit of solitude is increased sensitivity and compassion for others. There comes a new freedom to be with people. There is new attentiveness to their needs, new responsiveness to their hurts. Thomas Merton wrote, ‘It is in deep solitude that I find the gentleness with which I can truly love my brothers.’” It’s not easy to practice rest in our fast-paced world. It’s also not easy to live in community. We each have our own unique responsibilities, families, budgets, and struggles, and sometimes it can seem far simpler to keep on keepin’ on, even when we’re utterly depleted. But we are the people of God. We’re a people redeemed from slavery to sin. We’re people on our way to the Promised Land, to an eternal rest that cannot be taken away. As we depend on God and on others, we get to show the world that we live in a kingdom built not by how much we produce, but by an all-sufficient God. Together, we have the chance to demonstrate our redemption and the character of our Redeemer to a deeply weary world. Sarah J. Hauser is a writer and speaker living near Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband and four kids. She is the author of All Who Are Weary: Finding True Rest by Letting Go of the Burdens You Were Never Meant to Carry  (Moody, 2023). Read more at sarahjhauser.com , check out her newsletter , or find her on Instagram ( @sarah.j.hauser ). For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Davide Biscuso  on Unsplash

Even in our goodbyes there is a blessing, for the sorrow of parting is a measure of the depth of the bond we have come to share in Christ. Thank you, O God, that we do not walk this road alone, but that this journey toward eternity and toward your heart has been, from the  beginning, one that you ordained we should undertake in the glad and good company of our fellow pilgrims. O Lord, make us ever mindful of one another unto the end that we would labor in the days to come as those who would tend and encourage the stories of those around us by prayer and friendship and thoughtfulness and conversation, affirming and sharpening and amplifying one another’s good works, unto the end that your body would be built up, and that your kingdom would be more fully realized in this world. Thank you, O God, for the mercy and the beauty incarnated in the words and acts of these your people, extended one toward another. It is no accident that we were born in the same epoch, and that our stories have twined in this time and in this place. Let us therefore go forth and steward one another’s stories. Let us journey from here together, as vessels of that mercy and as stewards of that wild and wondrous beauty that flows from the heart and mind of our Creator. Grant, O Lord, that we might take our leave of one another now, feeling a right joy for the blessings of the hours we have shared, even as we feel a bright and hopeful sorrow at their close. Friends and saints and fellow pilgrims, we part now in the confidence that in our diverging paths we walk the same road, fanning the same flame, and that in time we will meet again in a fellowship forever unbroken. By your Spirit, O Christ, make us faithful in the meanwhile, as we go out to labor in the diverse fields to which you have assigned us, laboring unto that better meeting, and unto that new-made world that is yet promised and that has already begun. O Spirit of God, be as present in our parting as you were in our gathering. Be present in our journeys. Be present in our days to come. Be present in our works and in our words and in our hearts. Be present in the bonds of our community, Lord Christ. Be ever at work among us and through us. Amen. Every Moment Holy Volumes I, II, and III  are available for purchase through the Rabbit Room Press online store. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Mantas Hesthaven  on   Unsplash

by Audrey Fields “She stopped and listened to [the robin] and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and the big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary’ she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away . . . Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.” - The Secret Garden Young Mary from The Secret Garden  begins to transform into a curious and compassionate child through the help of a growing imagination and relationship with others. In our own lives imagination can, among many things, engage our senses, reveal longings, and help us connect to others. As we age, sadly, many adults lose the flexibility and curiosity that comes with imagination and play. Not only can this dull life, but it can make it harder to know our own hearts and remain open to those who are different from us, leading to many interactions (with others, the media, or the self) feeling threatening or dangerous. This can impede connection with others as well as our own reflection and growth. Children’s literature is one powerful means of engaging our imagination and becoming curious about ourselves and others, opening us up to the possibility of transformation. The simplicity of children’s literature provides a helpful entryway into a life of imagination. Novels written for children often follow a classic narrative arc, have a wise and reliable narrator, focus on character and virtue development, and engage all five senses. These novels invite the reader to enter into the world of the book and become enthralled with the characters in the story. The reader may begin to experience the gift of self-forgetfulness. Time slows down as we become invested in the world of another within a safe, confined environment, described for us through dialogue, plot, and literary devices. This sensory experience of children’s literature can remind us of the opportunities all around us for participating in care and delighting in beauty. A reader also develops the skills of curiosity and openness to consider their own self within the context of a story, providing perspective and developing virtues of humility and patience. The safe environment of a novel gives room for exploration and rest. Questions and curiosities arise as we follow the narrative arc and wonder what will happen next. Children’s literature narrators are often involved in the unveiling of character’s hearts, providing wisdom or direction for the reader, and leaning into the role of a good parent. A wise and reliable narrator allows for a child (and, in this case, an adult) to submit to the text and lean into the aesthetic experience of reading. The editor's brain can be quieted, and the critic asking, “Do I agree with this?” can take a break; this is a narrator we can trust. Like a child who freely plays and explores in the safety of the limits of their backyard, with a parent checking out the back window, children’s literature provides a fence of protection and plenty of room for its reader to play. Frances Hodgson Burnett’s children’s novel The Secret Garden  takes the reader through the tragic beginning of two characters: Mary and Colin. They are both neglected and, in many ways, abandoned by their caregivers, resulting in “quite contrary” and miserable personalities in both. Mary’s curiosity spikes first as she comes into contact with a kind servant girl, a grumpy gardener, and a friendly robin. She spends time outside in the gardens, imagining and playing with freedom. Mary is eventually led to “the secret garden” by the friendly robin. As her imagination ignites, curiosity peaks, and senses engage in her work reviving the long-forgotten garden, she undergoes her own springtime growth as seeds turn to shoots, shoots to buds, and buds to blooms. Miserable Colin has been sick since he was a baby and believes, along with the adults who take care of him, that, soon enough, he will die. He grows afraid in the night that his back is growing bumps, bringing on fevers from heightened fear and hysteria. Through a serendipitous friendship with Mary, he is first invited through his imagination into a similar transformation as the former “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary.” As Mary describes in colorful detail a secret garden beginning to bloom, Colin becomes curious as to whether he might also grow strong and well in a place like that. While Mary and Colin become absorbed in the work of cultivating creation, their imaginations are enthralled with the mysterious story of the long-forgotten garden. They become more open to one another and to the change in their own selves. Mary shares how she feels ever-so-much more pleasant and enjoys more people than ever before. Colin becomes so overwhelmed with his own healing, that one day he stands up from working in the dirt and cries out, “Just look at me! I am well! I am well!”—a declaration that leads the small group into singing the doxology. As one reads The Secret Garden , a few things begin to happen. There is the simple aesthetic level of enjoyment in reading something clear and well-written, with lovely sensory elements. There is a deeper level of gleaning wisdom and a “way of life” through the transformation of the characters in the novel. And then there is the experience of submitting oneself to the text, trusting the structure and narrator of the story to submerge into its waters and float along, and at times, perhaps, sitting up to say, “What is going to happen next?” or “I have felt like Mary at times!” or “Isn’t Colin a bit annoying?” or “Perhaps I will go on a walk and see what I notice!” While our imaginations bring us into the world of The Secret Garden  and its array of characters, we also enter into their desires and find some of our own. Mary’s longings for belonging and Colin’s longings for wholeness can elicit those same longings in our own hearts. The transformation of a forgotten garden into a haven of healing may remind us of transformation we have experienced, or bring us into the grief of transformation not yet realized. The character and virtue development of Mary and Colin can also draw the reader into a similar development. As we endure experiencing Mary’s sour personality and Colin’s entitlement, we are developing patience ourselves. As we wait for the change we expect to come in their characters through trials and blessings, we are gaining perspective and hope that can apply to our own lives (and the lives of others). We are reminded that our lives are also a story with trials and blessings that may be inviting us into growth in character and virtue, exposing needed change in us. This work (for it is work, even if enjoyable) of reading and imagining is a risky act. It is a choice to engage and open ourselves to other people, other worlds, other pains, and other joys. We may begin to find it easier to walk through life in a posture of curiosity instead of rigidity, empathy instead of judgment, and endurance instead of fatigue. With senses kindled, we notice the robins and how they are fed and clothed. We notice the changing of seasons and the reminder that comes with it: that there is hope of life after death. We notice the behaviors of others and wonder about the pains and hunger that might drive it, slowing down our speech or stopping eye rolls. And we notice the need for trustworthy narrators, telling us the truth with a supportive hand on our back ushering us into a life of imagination, connection, and play. Audrey Fields is a mental health therapist, owner of Fields Counseling LLC, and a big fan of walking and talking (especially when St. Louis’s Tower Grove Park and books are involved). She has recently taught on children’s literature and people’s stories at Covenant Theological Seminary, and seeks to share the value and importance of narratives. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by May  on Unsplash

by Kate Gaston Fresh out of my graduate training as a physician assistant, I accepted a position at a Level 1 Trauma and Burn ICU in a large university hospital in Birmingham, Alabama. I’d spend the next eight years of my life working there. Its hallways, nooks, and crannies became second nature to me. I knew which nurses’ stations served the best coffee at any hour of the day. I knew which supply closets housed the stashes of graham crackers and peanut butter. Each morning at 5:00 a.m., I’d sleepwalk from the parking deck to my unit, catching glimpses of the rising sun through waiting room windows. Our surgery cases began promptly at 7:00 a.m. Once we had our patient on the table, sleeping that dreamless sleep of the anesthetized, we’d crank the music and get to work. The energy of a well-run operating room is galvanizing, and I fell in love with burn surgery during my very first skin-grafting case. Burn surgery is not complicated, but it is creative. It’s like quilting. Except you’re using human flesh instead of fabric. I was hooked. I’d spend the rest of my work days walking the halls of the twenty-eight-bed ICU, eyes peeled for those subtle trends that might foretell impending crisis for our critically ill patients. In the moments when the unit was quiet except for the beeping of monitors and the machine-hum of ventilators, I’d finally sit down to eat my lunch. I might have just taken my first bite of a sandwich when the guy in bed seventeen would start coding. One moment he was fine. The next moment, he’s actively trying to go to the light. I might still be chewing on that bite of sandwich while scrambling on top of him to initiate CPR. Some days were marred by biting loss—unexpected reversals, heroic measures all for naught, lives snuffed out too soon. I also bore witness to incredible—dare I say miraculous?—recoveries, the kind of stuff that makes you believe there’s a God. I loved the blood, the guts, the adrenaline. I loved the battlefield glory of the blood-soaked operating room. I loved being part of a team that worked together to support patients through the worst moments of their lives. Usually, due to the severity of their injuries, my patients wouldn’t ever know I was there. They were kept in the dim shadow world of unconsciousness by the steady dripping of carefully titrated anesthetics. This was precisely as it should be. No one should be consciously aware of the many medically necessary things done to the human body in the case of acute trauma. Often, the families and friends of my patients wouldn’t realize I was there either. This was a different kind of unconsciousness. During those initial post-trauma hours, the patient’s loved ones exist in a hazy bewilderment, a wide-eyed, half-reality. Those people closest to the patient are forced to undergo a violently abrupt recalibration. Someone they love, who only hours ago was texting about the grocery list and making plans for dinner, is now lying on a hospital bed, with tubes emerging from their mouth and nose. A monitor shows the spiking beats of their heart. A machine forces air into their lungs, causing their chest to rise and fall in eerie, inhuman precision. That body, once so familiar, so intimate, has become an alien thing. Where once there existed a blithe sense of immortality, now the specter of death is so immediate, so palpable, he might as well be sitting in the corner, twiddling his thumbs. What, exactly, does hospitality look like in the context of acute suffering? For those closest to the crisis—be it a physical, emotional, or spiritual crisis—the concept of “business as usual” ceases to exist. In this new, altered reality, the needs of their body become an abstraction. They forget to feel hunger. They forget to feel thirst. There is no space left for such concerns. They must reorganize every perception of existence they previously cherished. They will be called upon to sweep aside all their interior furniture; everything that once seemed important will be pushed to the edges of their consciousness. Normally, we engage in hospitality within the context of two parties meeting on relatively equal footing. Often, there exists an unwritten social contract—an understanding that if one person provides food and drink, the other person will reciprocate with dessert, a bottle of wine, or sparkling conversation. Hospitality in the midst of a crisis is a different thing altogether. We must expand our definition. Hospitality in crisis requires a willingness to walk into a place of someone else’s desperation, fear, anguish, and abject need. It is a context in which one party brings absolutely nothing to the exchange. Offering hospitality in a crisis requires a certain athletic stance, an agility, on the part of the giver. There are a thousand barriers to action, hurdles that require an exertion of will and energy on the giver’s part to overcome. The first, and perhaps the highest, barrier you’ll need to leap is this: The responsibility for caring lies simultaneously with all of us and none of us. It is easier to avoid responsibility than to accept it. Here are some of the different costumes we dress our avoidance in: It’s not my family, it’s not my job: Many of us are living lives without margin; our time and energy are already extended just short of the breaking point. For this reason, we often choose to draw stark boundaries around our generosity. But if a member of the body of Christ is in crisis, it is  your family. And if they aren’t Christians, I’d argue your obligation to offer sacrificial love is actually increased. Consider rethinking your margins. Consider expanding your boundaries. Someone else will do it:  No, they won’t. We’ve all been around humans long enough to know that, no, nobody else is going to do it. Everyone’s kids have soccer practice, rehearsals, play dates, and a cold. Everyone is working late this week. Everyone is tired. Everyone has plans. Crisis doesn’t wait around for a leisurely break in our schedules. Consider being the someone who does the thing. It feels awkward/I won’t know what to say:  Many of us are burdened with the notion that in a moment of crisis, we must be ready to hit the perfect emotional pitch, dispense soothing words of comfort, or offer sage advice. The fear of not having the right words to say is often all it takes to sideline us, convincing us that if we can’t show up perfectly, we shouldn’t show up at all. Resist that fear. Trust the Holy Spirit to give you the words you need precisely when you need them. Consider, also, the power of silence. People in crisis often don’t need many words or solutions; they often just need someone to bear witness to their pain. If these barriers of responsibility have prevented you from doing the hard thing when someone you know is in crisis, you’re not alone. I’m guilty of it. Most of us are. Instead of leaning in, we opt to send a text that reads: “I’m praying for you! Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you! Winky face emoji! Prayer hands!” Let me make this abundantly clear. The person you’ve just emoji-bombed will have no idea what you can do for them. Their brain is in crisis, and the brain in crisis does not work rationally. It is capable of existing within this moment, and this singular moment only. We send these hyper-spiritualized text messages because we are afraid of the unknown. We don’t know how our help will be received. We don’t know what we will say. We don’t know what is needed. The unknown is a big, scary place. I get it. But once we realize our sense of anxiety won’t actually kill us, we are enabled to take that next step. We must show up. So go ahead. Show up in the waiting room. Show up for the tears. Show up when the marriage is fracturing. Show up when the job has been lost. Show up at the bedside. Show up in the heart of the crisis. Showing up is the single most powerful act of hospitality you can offer. Unless you’re standing in front of that person in crisis—whose whole consciousness is hyper-focused on the moment they’re currently existing in—they will not be able to communicate what they need. Go stand in front of them. Remember that the person in crisis is a human. The human body requires food, water, and sleep. Chances are good the person in crisis hasn’t thought about food in six hours. Don’t wait for them to ask. Bring them a bottle of water. A sandwich. A burger and fries. You don’t have to ask if they like white or wheat. It doesn’t have to be gourmet. Just bring food. When the person in crisis remembers they inhabit a body and that body needs energy, there will be food close at hand. If immediate needs are covered, then what? My advice? Get ridiculously specific. Use your imagination. What comforts you when you’ve had a terrible day? Is it a jar of Nutella and a bag of pretzel sticks? A stack of magazines to flip through? Is it a vase of flowers? A satin sleep mask and high-quality pillow? Is it a gift card to a nearby coffee shop? Is it Sudoku and crossword puzzles and a box of perfectly sharpened Dixon Ticonderoga pencils? Is it a leatherbound journal and pen for recording prayers in the middle of the night? Whatever the thing is, make it happen. Maybe flowers aren’t allowed in the hospital room. Maybe the person can’t tolerate chocolate. Maybe they’ll judge you for your trashy magazine choices. Don’t take it personally if your gift doesn’t hit the bullseye. Eat the chocolate yourself. Give the magazines to the nursing staff. Hand the flowers to a stranger on the street. The gift isn’t the point. The point is that you showed up. Here are some other tangible ways to offer hospitality in crisis: Does the person in crisis have a safe place to sleep tonight? Can you offer a bed or a hotel room? Do they need a change of clothes or toiletries? Do they need a phone charger? Do they need someone to feed their dog? Do they need someone to whisk away their children somewhere fun for the day? Do they need a cup of decent coffee? What about a good book? A Bible? Do they need someone to sit quietly beside them? Do they need someone to give them permission to sleep? Do they need someone to be the point person for communicating with the rest of the community? Understand that the person in crisis might have nothing to give conversationally or emotionally. They might not have any deep or significant words to say to you. They might have nothing but anger, sadness, or blank-eyed exhaustion. That’s okay. You might be longing to be that friend who gives a lingering hug. But they really might just need a phone charger. Meet the need of the moment. Solving for the day-to-day needs moves them from this moment to the next moment. This mundane problem-solving frees their minds, hearts, and bodies for the deep soul work they are called to undergo. You have what it takes to make the worst moments of someone’s life less frightening, powerless, and lonely. Contribute your powers of intentionality and imagination to the mix. And maybe some muffins. Don’t be afraid. And if you are afraid, consider that—unlike the person in crisis—at the end of the day, you can go home, watch some Netflix, and sleep in the comfort of your own bed. You’ll be okay, I promise. It’s uncomfortable to step into someone else’s pain. It is vulnerable to offer ourselves in this most sacrificial incarnation of hospitality. It requires gumption to show up and say, “Here I am.” But God himself is in the business of healing the brokenhearted and binding up wounds. So, go ahead. Show up. Join yourself to this holy work. For your further reading and viewing pleasure: Interested in learning more about the fascinating history of anesthesia ? What happens to the brain in crisis ? Have you or a loved one experienced trauma? This book might be of service: The Body Keeps the Score Artist, poet, and trauma counselor Nita Andrews explains why trauma victims need to tell about the details of their experience here: The Talking Day An Alabama native, Kate Gaston was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter and tutoring in her local classical homeschool community. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more .

by Ruth Moore Welcome, one and all, to the first in a series of blogs looking back at Hutchmoot 2024. In the coming weeks, we’ll be sharing conversations with some of our speakers as they reflect on what happened when we gathered around story, music, and art in Franklin, Tennessee, in October. Maybe you were there too and this will help you to keep gleaning goodness from your time. Maybe you wish you had been there; we hope these reflections in themselves can nourish you and invite you into community. Maybe you have delved this deep into the Rabbit Room without discovering what a “Hutchmoot” is—this will illuminate! Our first conversation is with Heidi Johnston, who wrote “A Liturgy for Hutchmoot.” Heidi is an author and speaker from Northern Ireland and a member of the Hutchmoot UK team. Excerpts of her liturgy intermingle with this interview. “Give us courage to return an unfamiliar smile, welcoming conversations that may engage us for a moment or, perhaps, enrich us for years to come . . .” Ruth Moore: You read this beautiful liturgy on stage at the start of Hutchmoot, welcoming all comers, especially those who were feeling daunted as I was. What has been your experience of returning an “unfamiliar smile” at Hutchmoot over the years? Heidi Johnston: As a natural introvert, I am continually surprised by the frequency of these moments at Hutchmoot and how often they turn into lasting friendships. One of my most vivid memories of my first Hutchmoot in 2015 is the sheer terror I felt on that first Thursday afternoon, standing in the back room in Church of the Redeemer and wondering why I had ever thought this might be a good idea. I had been a fan of the Rabbit Room blog for several years, and there were a few writers I was particularly keen to meet. One of those was Lanier Ivester. Even as I scanned the room for a potential exit, I remember spotting Lanier in the doorway. She returned my hesitant smile with so much warmth that I found the courage to go over and tell her how much I admired her writing. What I thought would be a five-minute conversation has now become over a decade of friendship that has enriched my own writing in ways I never expected and given me a deeper appreciation of the beauty of home. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to shamelessly plug her new book, Glad and Golden Hours , but somehow it manages to be both the most festively heartwarming and the richest, most deeply moving thing I’ve read in a long time. “Fill our moments of creativity and discovery, our conversations, our laughter, and our thoughts of you.” RM: Can you tell us about a moment of creativity or discovery that has stayed with you from a past Hutchmoot? HJ: One moment that stands out in my memory is a session Jennifer Trafton and Ben Shive co-led in 2018. I went to the session because Jennifer was talking about poetry. When she was finished, Ben began to speak, animatedly and with incredible expertise, about music production. Optimistically, I’d say I understood about 20 percent of what he shared. I don’t remember God being mentioned explicitly, but the whole thing felt like pure worship. One of the things I love most about Hutchmoot, whether it’s in a session, in conversation, or even when I’m leading from the front, are those moments when the curtain is pulled back a little and I glimpse a facet of God’s creativity and character playing out in the life and art of another person in a way I’ve never fully seen before, and perhaps don’t even completely understand. “Breathe your life into these songs and stories, that they may once again steal past the watchful dragons, catching us wide-eyed with re-awakened wonder . . .” RM: What a beautiful reminder that God can reawaken wonder in us no matter our circumstances, even in songs and stories that we have known for many years. Which writers and musicians do you draw on when the days are dark and the dragons watchful? HJ: I think everyone goes through seasons where different songs and stories resonate in different ways but there are a few that I go back to again and again, and I make no apology for the fact that they are the obvious choices. Growing up a few miles from Little Lea, the childhood home of C. S. Lewis, I was steeped in the world of Narnia before I knew what Narnia was. Even now, the stories have a way of re-enchanting my heart on even its most cynical days. I can’t read the end of The Last Battle  without being completely undone by hope. Musically, Andrew Peterson’s songs gently and unfailingly point me back to the reality of the gospel in the same way that Doug McKelvey so often does with his liturgies. I also love the podcasts from the BibleProject and the Equip Project in Belfast—both of which involve a couple of friends getting really excited about the beauty and truth of the Bible. Generally, that’s what I need more than anything. “. . . things of such apparent substance that our own offerings seem only to be foolishness  . . .” RM: I love that you call out in us this secret fear of foolishness, which so easily tightens its chains around our creativity. One of the beauties of the Rabbit Room is that everyone has a place at the table—from struggling professional artists to hungry amateurs to joyous art fans. What would you say to someone who is questioning whether to keep pursuing their love for art? HJ: I don’t have the expertise or experience to speak into a situation where art is your full-time job and source of income, but, as an amateur, for whom writing doesn’t usually top my daily priority list, I’d say motivation is key. Most of what I write has a very limited audience and does not go beyond my local community. If I write for recognition, I’ll be discouraged and disappointed very quickly. I have tried, with varied success, to see writing as an act of worship. If God chooses to use it to bless or encourage someone else, I’m thrilled, but that’s in his hands. On the other hand, if no one reads it, there is still delight and value in honing and using the gifts God has put inside me and turning them back to him. I think if you’re the kind of person who loves art and creativity in any form, you’ll be a less full version of yourself without it. “May any feeling of belonging . . . serve not to unsettle us . . . but rather to embrace the spaces you have given us with a renewed sense of purpose. Deepen our conviction that you have called us to your Kingdom for such a time as this.” RM: This part of your liturgy really struck me. It can be painful to walk away from a time rich in story and community—or not to have the opportunity to be there in the first place. What practical tips do you have to help us “embrace the spaces” we have been gifted in everyday life? HJ: One of my favorite passages of Scripture is in Ephesians 4, where Paul is explaining that each of our gifts are given for the building up of the church to unity and maturity, so that together we can stand firm and grow in Christ. For that to happen, we each need to bring the best of what God has given us. Occasions like Hutchmoot are such a gift when it comes to recognizing who we are, enjoying moments of shared delight and finding people whose presence out there in the world is a reminder that we are not the lone rangers we often believe we are. They are not, however, sustainable as a way of living everyday life. To be part of the Body of Christ is to embrace our diversity and use it to strengthen one another. The local church needs artists as much as it needs doctors and lawyers and preachers and carpenters. One good thing about technology is that it is possible to find and keep in touch with people who share our passions. I have a few friends I have met through the Rabbit Room whom I text or FaceTime regularly. For me, that connection and sense of understanding frees me from the need to be fully understood by everyone with whom I live in physical community, giving me the courage to bring the best of me as I invest fully in my local church. Ruth Moore is a writer from Oxford, England, and a member of the Hutchmoot UK team. Heidi Johnston is the author of Choosing Love in a Broken World  and Life in the Big Story  and a member of the Hutchmoot UK team. She lives in Newtownards, Northern Ireland, with her husband, Glenn, and their two teenage daughters, Ellie and Lara. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Hc Digital  on Unsplash

By Kevan Chandler Note: This post is a segment from the book The Hospitality of Need  by Kevan Chandler and Tommy Shelton, now available from the Rabbit Room Store. You can also join us for a book release party with Kevan and Tommy on Thursday, July 24 at North Wind Manor. When you hear (or in this case, read) the word “need,” what comes to mind? Maybe you think of your own specific needs, or those of a loved one; maybe words like “lack” or “unfortunate” or “priority” pop up; or maybe it’s not a word for you so much as a feeling, such as shame, weariness, or anxiety. Typically, we think of need as a bad thing. It’s associated with weakness and dependence, and we don’t like it. But what if we saw needs as opportunities? Living now for 39 years with a neuromuscular disease, I’ve had a lot of experience with need, which we’ll get more into later. But as I’ve relied on folks over the years to help me in both the most basic and ridiculous ways, I have seen God do some remarkable things in me, in them, and in the world around us. The following is one such example . . . My friends and I had been in Europe for three weeks. Of our own accord, we left my power wheelchair home in the States, and four guys carried me in a backpack everywhere we went. A world usually inaccessible to wheelchair users became our playground. So far on our trip, we had danced with gypsies by the Seine River, run away from nuns in a Paris cathedral, and hiked the English countryside with cows and a local friend. Now, we were at the end of our journey. Standing on the coast of Ireland, we looked out upon the final adventure before heading home. In video game terms, we were at our “boss battle,” and the boss was an island called Skellig Michael. This mountain in the ocean is a place of rich, ancient history, a jagged rock sticking out of the Atlantic with a sixth-century monastery at its peak. The six hundred stone steps leading upward are steep and winding, so that its innate dangers, along with its Christian heritage, make it a walk of reverence for all who set foot there. I was carried up those old steps about three-quarters of the way by my friend Tom, our friend Luke filming every bit of it. We stopped to rest at a plateau called Christ’s Saddle and take in the view. Then Philip, another friend, carried me the rest of the way up. We reached the top, rounded the monastery, and then headed back down to the same midpoint, where Tom took over once again for the rest of the descent. At the start of our climb, a kindly groundskeeper pulled us aside. He had sprigs of gray hair tucked behind his ears, and they fluttered in the Irish wind as he encouraged us to be careful, to take our time, and to watch our step. Looking up at the climb ahead of us, we agreed wholeheartedly and did just that. Tom squeezed the trekking poles as he placed one before the other and then again. Philip held on tight for support to the heavy chains drilled into the rocks. We were often passed by other hikers, slipping around us when the path afforded them space. After all, my guys had a person on their backs, so our pace would be different from that of our fellow pilgrims. At times, it got to me. I wasn’t there to intentionally affect anyone else’s experience in England or Ireland. Like everyone else, my friends and I just wanted to climb that mossy crag and check out a monastery. But because our circumstances were different, due to my needs, we stuck out like a sore thumb, caused a ruckus wherever we went, and inevitably got in other people’s way. It’s the story of my life and the common narrative of need. Whether I’m traveling or at home, because of my disability, pretty much anything I do is going to require more of me and others. I don’t like this fact for myself or my friends and family. Everything takes longer. Everything takes more forethought and effort. Everything involves more people and also disrupts more people. There’s a temptation to assume this is a bad thing, but maybe it’s actually a grace. In Rich Mullins’s song “Calling Out Your Name,” he sings, “From the place where morning gathers, you can look sometimes forever ’til you see what time may never know . . . how the Lord takes by its corners this old world, and shakes us forward and shakes us free.” I wonder if need is one of the ways the Lord takes by its corners this old world. Perhaps our inconveniences are more liberating than we often give them credit for. Needs shake us, whether they belong to us or someone else. If we’re in proximity, they can change us. They can cause us—force us—to slow down or keep up, to think and act differently from our norm. They can pull us out of our comfort zones and disrupt the ideal rhythms by which we usually function. They can either set right the broken or break the too-perfect. Concerning “troubles” and “interruptions,” C. S. Lewis once pointed out to his friend Owen Barfield at the start of World War II that “since nothing but these forcible shakings will cure us of our worldliness, we have at bottom reason to be thankful for them.” He even goes as far as to call these shakings God’s “surgical treatment.” Rich seemed to have the same idea as he wrote his song. Our Father loves us dearly and calls us back to himself, and often utilizes the inherent needs he designed us with—broken though they are now by sin—to show us the way home. Needs can shake us forward and shake us free, to delve deeper into vulnerability and fellowship: The next line of Rich’s song calls it hope. What we find there, if we go, is a sense of holy purpose and belonging, unlike anything the rest of the world can offer. We find the attachment God created us to experience with him, his Trinity, and each other. As we came down the side of Skellig Michael, I could feel Tom’s labored breathing. It had been a long day, with a seven-mile boat ride and a strenuous climb up the island. He was exhausted, and so was Philip. I was, too, for that matter. We were ready to be back on the mainland with the rest of our team, enjoying fish and chips at a pub. Just a few hundred steps left to go, and then the boat ride back. Far below, we could see our boat waiting, the captain growing impatient. We were going as fast as we could, but that wasn’t very fast, and downhill requires more caution than up, so tensions mounted. And the queue at our heels was piling up. My head pounded with the words of our captain when we were getting off the boat two hours earlier. He’d said if we weren’t back in time, he’d leave us. I believed him. No one dared to go around us because of where we were on the path and the need for safety upon descent. And that meant their captains were waiting for them too. I was getting self-conscious again, the whole island lining up behind us, everyone running late to their boats. But Tom carried on. He squeezed the trekking poles and took another step down. Philip stayed close, spotting us as we slowly went. When a step was wider, or Tom just felt confident, he would pause for a moment of rest. Taking advantage of the beat, he would look up and out across the water, taking in the view with a smile. “Wow,” he’d say, and sometimes he’d just laugh and shake his head. Philip got distracted by rocks or the occasional puffin popping out to watch us. Even in the rush of getting back to the boats and home, my friends still found joy in our journey. And I couldn’t help but do the same. The guys and I had to go slowly, which offered us the profound opportunity to truly see the world around us. We could have pushed through, stressing about the time and what others would think or say of us. Instead, we accepted the hospitality of need and enjoyed the sweet moment we found ourselves in. Two hours earlier, we had looked up at an impossible climb, and now we made our descent from the top. We stood on an island with a 1,500-year-old monastery on it, not somewhere you get to be every day. The epic experience was coming to an end, and because of our need to rest and step carefully, that end was delayed a bit . . . not just for my friends and me. About halfway down the mountain, when the line behind us was at its longest, people began talking to us. At first, a few of them just kindly said, “No problem,” when we looked back to apologize. After awhile, their “No problem” turned into “Take your time.” Then, encouragement, and finally, conversation. The pileup became a parade of heroes. We descended all together, laughing and talking, reveling in life, relishing the vast wonder of creation, enriched by the camaraderie around us. And no one missed their boats. Kevan Chandler is the founder of the nonprofit We Carry Kevan, and speaks worldwide about friendship and disability. He is the co-author of The Hospitality of Need . Kevan and his wife, Katie, love being together, growing vegetables and reading to each other. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Michael  on Unsplash Story photos courtesy of Kevan Chandler

How our social ineptitude drives the Loneliness Epidemic Note: This article was originally published Feb. 28, 2025, on O. Alan Noble’s Substack, You Are Not Your Own Substack, at newsletter.oalannoble.com . by O. Alan Noble I can’t remember where I first came across this general thesis, whether it was on a Twitter thread or this Psychology Today article , but the gist of the argument is that a significant part of our friendlessness problem comes from the fact that many people (maybe especially men) don’t have the foundational social skills to make and develop deep friendships. I want to call this the “Prufrock Problem,” after Eliot’s famous character  who is pathologically incapable of expressing his feelings towards a woman. He laments at one point, “It is impossible to say just what I mean!” Out of this frustration of language, he chooses not  to express himself. And so he ends up alone. Similarly, I wonder how many of us are friendless because we lack the virtue of courage (which Prufrock clearly  lacks) to put ourselves out there. You can’t make friends if you never introduce yourself, if you don’t “squeeze . . . the universe into a ball” as Prufrock puts it, and try  ( this gets back to my discussion earlier this week about resilience ). But this raises an interesting question: Why are our social skills inadequate? Why is it so difficult for us to make friends? And most importantly, what can we do about it? Whether you’re tired of hearing about the way the internet has reshaped our lives, the reality is, it has. And I believe this is yet another way. For example, there’s strong evidence that with the rise of social media and smartphones, people have stopped spending leisure time with each other in person . We’re spending more time in isolation. Less time with friends, less time with family and more time alone. And when we’re alone we’re probably scrolling. The decline of face-to-face interactions may be one of the most remarkable and disturbing trends of our times. The simple reality is that the less time you have to practice  communicating in person with someone else, the less prepared you will be to have meaningful conversations of the kind necessary to be the foundation for a good friendship. We need practice sharing our thoughts, carrying a rich conversation, expressing our emotions in a healthy way, and responding to people compassionately. And it’s also the case that the kinds of communication we’re typically practicing on social media and smartphones aren’t conducive to establishing deep friendships. Of course it’s possible to have meaningful conversations via text message, I’ve had plenty, but the platform lends itself to short, contextless, flighty messages and emojis. When we reach out to a friend and share something meaningful via text, we’re working against the platform, not with it. And even then it assumes a prior friendship built on something substantive. The kinds of communication we get into online tend to be performative rather than personal and sincere. We’re hyper-aware of our audience and how we’re being interpreted. But friendship requires that we focus our attention on one person and that we let down the mask (the face you “prepare” to “meet the faces that you meet” says Prufrock) of performance and introduce your self . I might be going out on a limb here, but it seems to me that another cause might be our risk aversion, particularly in childhood. We’re so concerned with “stranger danger” that we don’t bother knowing our neighbors or their kids. We don’t bother knowing anyone else. We stay in our own little familial “pod.” Which means that we don’t get positive experiences meeting new people and introducing ourselves, a vital skill, particularly for when we get older. For most of us, friendship comes naturally in childhood. As a kid, everyone is your friend (except the bullies). And even as you age, so long as you are in school, you have a structure for finding and maintaining friendships. In college, you are with like-minded people of approximately the same age with the same major and similar goals who you can spend time with in person. Of course there are still challenges to making and developing friendships: There’s drama, people graduate, you’re only together for four years, friendships can be shallow, and so on. But initiating friendships in college is on the whole easier than once you leave for the workforce. Once in the workforce, things change. As C. S. Lewis writes in The Four Loves , friendship is formed around a shared love. So it makes sense that friendship is easy when you are a child, for there are so many things to love as a child. A child can learn to love and find adventures with a rock or a stick. Put two children in a room with two sticks and they’ll be knights or Jedis within seconds. And it makes sense that friendship is easy in college, where you share a love of a subject of study, or hobbies, or bands, or God, or games, or books. But at work, what is there to love? Some people love their work, I mean truly find their work a labor of love . But only a few. Lots of people enjoy their work but don’t really love it. So the odds of two people loving their work together and finding each other and bonding in friendship over that love is rare. It happens. It’s happened to me. But it’s rare. It’s more likely that you tolerate your work or you find bits that you enjoy and you have some “friends” at work who are really acquaintances (what Aristotle would call friends of utility or friends of pleasure) and none of them really know  you. Thankfully, for Christians, we have the church to make friends in, but let’s be honest, there’s plenty of friendlessness within the church, too. Each Sunday morning is an opportunity to greet people face-to-face, learn a name, and develop a relationship. But when we spend six days of the week doing our job and isolating ourselves, communicating to each other primarily through screens, these moments of embodied interactions can become challenging for us, especially for us introverts. When the Passing of the Peace or time of greeting comes, we (I) hide in our seats waiting for something to happen to  us instead of taking action. I think sometimes we (I?) like to tell ourselves a story that some people are just natural at making friends and some of us are not, as if that were an excuse. But the reality is much more troubling: We have an obligation to take the initiative to meet people. To speak. To greet people. To shake hands. To make small talk. If it makes you uncomfortable, good!  That’s a sign it’s working like a muscle to mature you. Your social skills may be atrophied. They were probably wonderful or at least adequate when you were a kid, but you’ve left the playground and left the faces of other people and forgotten how to play nicely with others. Forgotten how to run up to a stranger and say, “Do you want to play?” Only as adults it sounds more like, “Do you want to enjoy life and also suffer together to the glory of God?” The Prufrock Problem, if the thesis is correct, can only be solved by people exercising the virtue of courage to risk embarrassment, rejection, and betrayal for the sake of love. It can only be solved by speaking , by doing what Prufrock could not do: get out of his head, stop worrying about how other people judged him, and speak. Practically speaking (pun intended), this means putting yourself in situations where you can speak to others. Getting out of your house, putting your phone away, doing something with other people. Church is a great place to start, but go beyond that. Get involved in a small group or ministry. Start a book club. Do  something. Because here’s what I know from my short experience with life: Without friends, it’s bleak. God gives us friends as a common grace comfort in this life. And it is a comfort. Now, I know not everyone has easy access to church or other people. Some people, due to difficult life circumstances, are mostly restricted to their homes and have few opportunities to make face-to-face connections. By no means do I want to add another burden onto their lives. Far from it. Instead I would say that it is the obligation of their neighbors and those in their church to reach out to them , to befriend them , to take the initiative to minister to them. But for the rest of us who have the agency to seek out friendships, and the only thing holding us back is our choice to act and speak, don’t allow fear or shame or awkwardness to keep you from the good gift of friendship. It’s worth it, after all. O. Alan Noble is an associate professor of English, author of Disruptive Witness , You Are Not Your Own , and On Getting Out of Bed , and is a frequent speaker on the topics of secularism, technology, culture, and Christianity. You can follow his work on Substack at You Are Not Your Own Substack . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by LinkedIn Sales Solutions on Unsplash

Note: Judith McQuoid’s first middle grades novel, Giant , is now available for purchase through the Rabbit Room Store. by Judith McQuoid When we think of C. S. Lewis, we often think of Oxford. We think of Magdalen College, the Eagle and Child pub, and his home at the Kilns. All of these were significant and much-cherished parts of his life in England. But Lewis wasn’t English. Rather, he was born in Belfast to Irish parents from County Cork. Born in 1898 before the partition of the island into the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, Lewis considered himself an Ulsterman throughout his life. His friends and colleagues, Tolkien included, also thought of him as Irish. His autobiography, Surprised by Joy , speaks of the joys of his Irish life, and his personal letters abound with references to Ireland. Though he was sent to boarding school in England in 1908, he suffered terribly from homesickness and only really began to thrive there when he joined the Surrey household of another Ulsterman, Kirkpatrick, who had been his father’s headmaster at school. And of course, one of his great joys at Oxford was finding other Irishmen to befriend. So Lewis’s early imaginative life wasn’t formed among the dreaming spires of Oxford or in Cambridge but among the “Green Hills” of Antrim, Castlereagh, and Holywood surrounding Belfast. At a very young age, his nurse Lizzie Endicott told him Irish folktales. Flora Lewis took her two sons, Warnie and Jacks (as he was known in his youth), on long holidays to places like Ballynahinch and Killough in County Down, as well as Castlerock and Ballycastle along the North Coast. When he was studying in England, he came back to Belfast for every school holiday and in later life, only World War II or illness stopped him coming home to Ireland at least once a year for the rest of his days. I too grew up in the North of Ireland. Like countless other children here, I have clambered over hexagonal rocks at the Giant’s Causeway and stumbled across fairy rings in ancient woods. My imagination has been shaped by this landscape, this people, the words we use, the stories we tell. My father, another storyteller, took us to many of the same places that Lewis went to in both his childhood and in later life on walking holidays. One of those places is Dunluce. Clinging precariously to a cliff on the North Coast of Ireland, there has been a castle here since the 1200s. The current ruin was abandoned in the late 1600s but still it stands, gazing across the sea to the Scottish Isles. While it was inhabited, legend has it that the kitchen fell into the sea. Legend also says that mermaids have been known to lurk in the cave below. Locals believe that Dunluce inspired a significant feature that appears in most of Jack’s seven Narnia Chronicles: Cair Paravel .  He visited Dunluce at least twice with his mother and brother when he was about six years old. With its drum towers, turrets, corbels, manor house, and great hall, it’s easy to see how Lewis drew on his own childhood experiences of the castle when he was creating Narnia’s beautiful fortress. In the last chapter of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe , the great castle is the setting for the coronation of the four Pevensies in its magnificent hall (with singing mermaids, of course). However, the hall and courtyard are almost unrecognizable in the next Chronicle, Prince Caspian . The ruins that Lucy, Susan, Peter, and Edmund find hidden within the apple orchard bear closer resemblance to the Dunluce of today and of Jack’s day. Set on a rocky peninsula, it has an outer courtyard like the one at the end of the first chapter in Caspian . The remains of three towers, several flights of stone stairs, and a roofless great hall are still standing, all of which are recognized by the four siblings in chapter two. There’s even a souterrain that could double as a treasure chamber. Many times I have scrambled over the fallen stones and bumpy grass and wondered what the vast rooms would have looked like in all their glory. I think Jack must have imagined that, too. Jack’s friend and fellow Inkling J. R. R. Tolkien wrote in a letter to a former classmate of his in 1971 that a story emerges out of the “leaf-mould” in the writer’s mind, made up of all the sights and experiences stored in the subconscious. In recent years, revisiting the Narnia stories, Dunluce, and other, more hidden places where Jack roamed, I’ve been frequently struck by how much of his Irish surroundings are apparent in the Chronicles . It seems to me that he was mining his childhood memories, either consciously or not, when he began to create the world of Narnia at the end of the 1940s. That’s how my new book Giant   started. A castle on a cliff, a heavily carved wardrobe, a strangely compassionate lion’s face on the door of his grandparents’s house, a lone lamppost standing in a wood—these were all everyday objects in Jack’s daily life in the North of Ireland and so they’re in Giant  too. The books he read are also an important part of the story: Jonathan Swift, Beatrix Potter, E. Nesbit, Mark Twain, Irish myths, and countless other sources added to the deep, rich loam of his mind. Giants, talking animal characters, brave knights, a group of siblings, and fantastical journeys all play a part in Narnia, and all can be found in the books Jacks was reading in his loft room at home. Jack Lewis and his brother kept on coming home. Even after their father had died and their family home had been sold, they made their way back there time and again. In August 1931, a couple of months after Warnie had returned to the Christian faith and a few weeks before his younger brother followed suit, the Lewis boys took a holiday to Castlerock, where they had stayed with their mother when they were young. They agreed that it was one of the best holidays they ever had together. And in 1963, the last year of his life, Jack had a summer holiday to the North Coast planned with Douglas, his stepson, and Arthur, his lifelong friend from across the road in East Belfast. They had their boat trip from England and a hotel in Portstewart already booked. Perhaps Jack planned to take 17-year-old Douglas up the road to see Dunluce Castle? But he fell ill and never made it home to Ireland again, passing away a few months later in November. In the last chapter of The Last Battle , the Chronicles  end with a glimpse of Cair Paravel restored far beyond its previous glory. Lucy is able to see her bedroom window in the far distance of that New Narnia. And Peter even wonders if they have been in those Westward lands before, a long time ago, on a holiday when they were young. In the era of the New Heaven and New Earth, I’m sure Dunluce will again have tapestries adorning the walls, colorful tiles on the floors, and fireplaces lit. Perhaps we’ll also find a lad called Jack curled up in a comfy armchair there, poring over books from the well-stocked shelves. Judith McQuoid was born in Belfast but grew up mostly in Texas and England. She now lives in a small village in Northern Ireland, deep in the countryside but close to the city. Her homeland, its landscapes, and folklore inspire her to write authentic, enchanting stories for young people. Her first middle grade novel, Giant , was published by Little Island in 2025 and available for purchase through the Rabbit Room store. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by K. Mitch Hodge  on Unsplash

by J. E. Bartel In 2012, John Koenig coined a neologism for his blog, Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows: “ sonder ,” the idea that everyone we meet has a life as complicated as our own, despite our personal understanding of it, and the realization that our presence in the lives of others—those we pass on the street, or those we stand next to in an elevator—is just as fleeting to them as theirs seems to us. The term encapsulates a feeling that has perhaps been enhanced in the digital age: Our round-the-clock access to technology allows us to connect with anyone, anywhere, while we simultaneously feel more isolated and lonely than ever before. It is this dilemma that frames the unusual friendship at the heart of Hulu’s award-winning murder mystery series Only Murders in the Building. C. S. Lewis famously said that “friendship is borne of the moment a man says to another, ‘What, you too? I thought I was the only one.’” In this case, three friends are thrilled to find that they are not the only ones asking, “What the——is in Bo’s mouth?” Bo, of course, is a dog who makes an appearance in a true crime podcast beloved by three residents of the Arconia, a lavish Upper West Side apartment building. The trio—septuagenarians Charles Haden Savage (Steve Martin) and Oliver Putnam (Martin Short) and millennial Mabel Mora (Selena Gomez) would, if they could otherwise help it, not be speaking to each other. Despite their shared residence in the Arconia, the trio’s earlier interaction in an elevator reveals the fact that, like many of us caught up in the sprawl of urban life, they would rather avert their eyes and clap headphones over their ears than bear a conversation with a stranger: even a familiar one whom we see in the elevator every day. It takes an accidental fire alarm for the three to meet for real. Once they’re in the same room, they find out that they’re all obsessing over the same podcast: why not enjoy it together, rather than alone in their apartments? Only Murders in the Building  is quick to impress a sense of sonder on the viewer. Life in the Arconia is, as Charles points out, a “stacked on top of each other” kind of organized chaos: The building’s residents have every opportunity to get into each other’s business, to form a community, or to become friends. Yet, at the beginning of the show, Oliver, Charles, and Mabel are solitary and lonely figures. Their moment in the elevator feels sadder and more ironic juxtaposed against the scenes that come before, as the camera follows each person through their daily routine, ending with each of them settling into their separate apartments to listen, alone, to the podcast. We learn that Charles is a washed-up actor whose past success in a detective show fails, to his chagrin, to earn him any real attention or care from those around him. Oliver’s glory days as a theatre producer are over, leaving him on the verge of bankruptcy and on poor footing with his son and grandkids. And Mabel trudges through the city in big coats that the costume designer Dana Covarrubias  imagined “like armor.” After losing her father to cancer at age seven and her best friend in a tragic accident at the Arconia, Mabel feels haunted by misfortune and bats away any attempts at connection from others. Making matters worse, the three are also estranged from their families in various ways. Oliver haphazardly shows up at his son’s place with piles of toys for his grandkids, disregarding his son’s time, then returns to the vastness of his quiet Arconia apartment. Mabel has frightening daydreams about being attacked in the apartment where she lives by herself without any family or friends to keep her company. Charles repeatedly cooks the same omelet he used to make for the daughter of an old flame who’s no longer in his life. These details feel relatable and all too human: They drive home how lonely and in need of a friend these three are. In an ocean of humanity, they are each an island—each too preoccupied with their own concerns to realize that real friendship and connection is only one or two shared moments away. But friendship is not always so easily won. Even once the three hatch a scheme to start their own podcast investigating a murder in the Arconia, they still have to fight through layers of sarcasm and cynical wisecracking before they can get to the real substance of companionship. In the same vein as legendary comedies like  Parks and Recreation  or The Office , Only Murders in the Building  takes a group of misfits and spins them, charmingly and hilariously, into a found family. Watching friendship bloom amongst the three reads as a study in what it takes to lower the guardrails of self-preservation and comfort in order to become open to caring for, and being cared for by, someone else; it’s delightful, clumsy, sincere, and often hilarious. Their tentative longing to connect with one another is matched in strength only by their reflexive need to snark and nitpick one another. When Oliver breezily leaves his door unlocked despite a murderer running loose, Mabel jokes that “white guys are only afraid of colon cancer and societal change.” Oliver and Charles, meanwhile, make fun of Mabel for her Gen-Z lingo like “hot goss” and “Manhatty.” The generational gap between their understanding of how the internet works is fodder for many jokes. And yet, driven by a common goal, Oliver, Mabel, and Charles gradually learn to make space for each other and find their lives greatly enriched for it. It’s not often that intergenerational friendship is depicted on screen with such richness and joy. While they aren’t looking or perhaps even trying, they become the very best of friends, and their friendship shapes them into people who see the true value of connection over isolation. Encouraged by Mabel, Charles takes the brave step of reaching out to the almost-stepdaughter whose presence he misses so much. Mabel finds the courage to try out a romance with a childhood friend. And Oliver asks his son if perhaps they can start over. But, of course, Only Murders in the Building  isn’t just about these three: It’s about the Arconia on the whole. When the three become friends, it has a domino effect on the rest of their community. As the other denizens of the Arconia get involved with the murder investigation (for better or for worse!), Only Murders becomes a love letter to humanity in all its diversity and strangeness. As much as Oliver, Charles, and Mabel feel like main characters in their own stories—and are literally the main characters of the show—they’ve been oblivious to the stories going on all around them. Only Murders plays with this notion through episodes told entirely from the perspective of side characters scattered throughout the Arconia: Bunny, the building’s prickly but secretly lonely board president; Theo, the deaf son of a Greek deli owner, who feels overlooked but becomes a vital piece of the murder investigation; and Howard, whose shyness and eccentricity hide a warm and loving personality. By focusing on people who might otherwise be relegated to the sidelines of the story, Only Murders  suggests that no one is truly unimportant to the narrative. Everyone we meet is a unique universe of hopes, dreams, and hurts, and the things that separate us are often more arbitrary than they seem. If anything, the common thread that binds each person in the Arconia is how much they long for connection. And because of the friendship of Mabel, Charles, and Oliver, many people find it, and the Arconia becomes a warmer place. Ten years after “sonder” entered the lexicon, another neologism appeared: “ main character energy .” Born out of TikTok, it’s the idea of putting oneself first and acting with the confidence that would suit the main character of a story. Main character energy signifies individuality and a prioritizing of one’s own goals and well-being. But it can also denote being selfish, vain, or obsessed with oneself. As Elisabeth Oldfield writes in Fully Alive: Tending to the Soul in Turbulent Times , “Getting our way all the time does not make us happy. It makes us lonely.” Only Murders in the Building urges us to reconsider whether living life as a main character is really all it’s cracked up to be, when there is so much joy and beauty to be found in the “non-playable characters” around us: those we can never really be, but who nonetheless make life more beautiful for all their annoyance, stubbornness, and one-of-a-kind-ness. It’s telling that Only Murders in the Building  refuses to choose a main character from amongst the trio. In laying down the urge to be the main character, they find instead that it is so much richer to share the spotlight. J. E. Bartel is a recent graduate of the University of St Andrews' Institute for Theology, Imagination, and the Arts. Hailing from Canada, she now lives and writes in Scotland, where she is working on a novel manuscript. She is a huge fan of any movie starring Oscar Isaac and is probably knitting something right now. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo from Only Murders in the Building  on Disney+/Hulu

Some Thoughts on Craft, Community, and the Call to Generosity by Kate Gaston Back in the day when his show aired on PBS, I fell in love with Bob Ross. The man was mesmerizing. Episode after magical episode, Bob, with his soft voice and gentle chuckle, would load his brush with color. Then, my friends, he would paint. The camera would zoom in for a close-up, and you’d hear it: the scruffy tap, tap, tap of his brush on canvas. That glorious, bristly sound is quite possibly the most gratifying sound ever produced by a human. My parents’ budget was tight back then. Even so, they purchased an oil paint starter kit for me. My dad, in an act of engineering genius, constructed an easel out of a pair of rickety old crutches and scrap plywood. Whenever Bob came on, I’d crank my crutch easel open in front of the television, and we’d paint together. Over the intervening years, my relationship with painting has shifted and lurched. It reminds me of the relationship you might have with that one childhood friend. You know the one. Back in the good old days, the two of you were inseparable. You were carefree. Every morning promised a new adventure, full of romping good times. You were best friends for life and had the friendship bracelets to prove it. But then, something changed. Maybe you joined the middle school band. Maybe you got distracted by cute boys. Maybe you went through a Goth phase. Whatever the reason, you drifted apart. You’d still hang out on occasion, but the ease you used to share was gone. That’s me and painting. Sometimes it’s fun, sure, but it’s almost never easy. Standing in front of an in-process canvas can be fraught with uncertainty. The cunning whispers of the inner critic dance around every brushstroke. The process of making things is hard. It can be lonely. It can be emotional. Everyone, at some point or another, falls prey to doubt. We will all wrestle with comparison and envy. There will be frustration and despair. There will be power walking the streets of your neighborhood, wondering how Bob can paint such happy little clouds, but yours look churlish and lumpy. Yet, day after day, you show up. You do the work despite the fact that your amygdala—that almond-shaped danger cowboy—is pummeling your psyche with waves of fear and anxiety, urging you to run, it’s not safe. Go fold some laundry, check your email, watch another episode of Severance . Do anything, please, but this hard, scary thing that you may or may not be able to get right. It’s true, you have no certainty that you’ll get the work right. Yet, that same work somehow seems undeniably linked to your very humanity. The act of creation is a process of wrestling with your incompetence until it becomes competence. And it requires the chutzpah to do it when, literally, no one asked you to do it. It’s crazy. Who would do such a thing? You would. Let’s say, last Tuesday, at precisely 2:37 p.m., you just happened to be paying attention when the light hit that infinitely beveled edge of God’s glory. That glint of refracted glory caught your eye. Not mine. Not someone else’s eye. Yours. It hit in just such a way as to give you a tiny gleam of understanding, a bite-sized insight into God’s character. You could die happy with this vision. But instead, you translated this vision into a poem. Or maybe you choreographed a dance to express it. Or you paint, sing, or blow a long, sonorous note on your didgeridoo about it. Whatever your preferred method of creating happens to be, your creation casts further tiny refractions of glory hither and yon, refractions that the rest of us will then pick up and admire, knowing God more deeply by their light. Lewis Hyde’s landmark book on the subject of creativity, The Gift,  puts flesh on the bones of the age-old question: Why create? Simply put, our creativity is a gift. It is a gift first to the artist, but then the artist becomes a channel through whom beauty, meaning, and insight are gifted forward to the community at large. On the topic of artistic generosity, the entrepreneur and marketing guru Seth Godin said, “The work exists to serve someone, to change someone, to make something better.” And from writer, speaker, and creativity coach Amie McNee: “Making art and sharing it with the world is an act of profound generosity. When you sit down to write, to paint, to make music, you are doing something that is both good for yourself and great for society.” I find myself nodding along in agreement. Who doesn’t like generosity? It’s a great word. Add it to pretty much anything and it makes the thing better. A generous host. A generous friend. A generous pour. Yeah, baby, two thumbs up for generosity. The creative work I share is a gift I give to my community. It’s generous to share my finished work with you, yes. But sharing my successes—those pretty, polished-up projects—is only half the reality. I would love nothing more than for you to think I am limitless; that the Muse and I are besties. That while I’m busy writing these words, she’s refilling my coffee mug, ready to reward me with a gold star and a foot massage. But what about all those failures leading up to the success? What about the uncertainty, the doubt, and the occasional howling woe? If I hide that long, heavy labor of creating—tidying it up so that you’ll think it’s effortless—well, that’s not very generous at all. I’d like you to consider your whole artistic process, every high and low, and crack it open wide. Take a good look. There, within those peaks and valleys, lies the very stuff that makes you human. There, in the vulnerability of creation, in its joy and pain, is a shared human experience so powerful it can be perceived across space and time. Here are two truths: Making stuff is inherently vulnerable. Vulnerability is an essential building block to deeper relationships. I’d like you to grab these two truths by the hand. You possess the ability to create, yes. But there’s another, more intricate plotline at work. In a fractured, lonely, anxious world, you possess a relational superpower: the ability to invite others into the vulnerable, shared, human experience of creation. Remember all the joy and pain of your creative process? Start talking about it. Invite people into those spaces with you. By doing so, you expand your definition of hospitality. You leverage the power of your creative vulnerability into deeper, richer relationships. This vulnerability, like the art you create, is a gift you can give. Give it generously. First, gather your people. Writers, painters, musicians, poets, woodworkers, dungeon masters, and more. Gather every month. These gatherings could take a thousand different forms, but don’t underestimate the power of simply showing up. Let me say that again: Please show up. Meet in a living room, art studio, coffee shop, or church basement. Gather around a meal if you can, but a box of Girl Scout cookies will do in a pinch. Circle up. Get close. Look each other in the eye. Each month, ask a different artist to share their story. Don’t be prescriptive; let the artist take you where they want to go. There is a strange alchemy that occurs when artists gather and speak openly of their craft. Listen attentively. Encourage thoughtful questions. Edge deeper into those waters of relational vulnerability. Everyone might not share the same artistic medium, but your expressions of creativity are branches springing up from the same root. Let the musicians bring their instruments. Let the painters bring their canvases. Let the poets bring their angst. Though by its very nature, much of the heavy lifting of creativity will be done in solitude, when we trust others with our creative vulnerabilities, we begin to dismantle the relational barriers between us, rolling back the isolating effects of fear, envy, and shame. In Pete Peterson’s recent version of A Christmas Carol , Scrooge is given the warning by the Ghost of Christmas Past, “What is hidden cannot heal.” When we create within the context of a trustworthy community, we begin to uncover what has been hidden. One of the most toxic weeds that flourishes in artistic isolation is envy. Envy has the power to derail creative growth. It can devastate friendships. Where a creative oasis might have flourished, envy scorches it, making it a wasteland. Envy assassinates whatever joy you might have experienced and replaces it with rancid bitterness, a sort of fizzing, psychic heartburn. Find your people. Confess your envy out loud. And do it yesterday. Weird things come out of the woodwork when you are in the process of creating. No one mentions these things. You’ll be plugging along, happily making stuff, but then your metaphysical shovel hits something—old wounds, past trauma—buried in the dirt. And suddenly, instead of creating, now you’re excavating. You will need help with this weighty work. Someone can hold the flashlight. Someone else can bring you a sandwich. Or your people can simply sit with you, mourn with you, hold your hand as you behold that petrified pain, suspended there in the striated bedrock of your soul. We all feel a longing, almost like homesickness, for our work to be better, to be good, to be perfect. Alas, it might not ever be perfect. Most of the time, it might not even be all that good. Own your inadequacy. Creating is messy. Normalize the mess, mistakes, and failures. Normalize fallibility and the mundanity of work. Model persistence. Model the deep sigh when things don’t turn out like you thought they would. And then model what it looks like to eat a good dinner, go to bed, and pick the work up again tomorrow morning. Peel back the moldy narrative that creative worth is only found in productivity. Strip that falsehood of its robe and crown, dethrone it, and send it running, naked, into the wilderness. Good riddance. Your vulnerability is capable of making others feel brave, or of comforting someone in their pain. Your vulnerability is capable of provoking someone who's become complacent, unnerving them in the best of ways. It can reveal an existence that is bigger, wilder, scarier, and more untamed than we originally thought. So go ahead. Drop that fig leaf. When you share your art, and especially when you are honest about the inherent vulnerability of making art, you are holding up a torch for others, showing them what it is to be human. More, you become a living, breathing expression of a common grace that whispers of a greater, more specific grace. You are revealing what it’s like, quite particularly and specifically, to walk with God. It is a generous gift to share your glimmering reflections of God’s glory, holding up what you see for someone else to see. It is an act of deeper generosity when you share your creative vulnerability. In vulnerability, there is transformation. We begin to speak a unified, common language of our needs, our capabilities, our limits. Doubts are quieted. Belief is strengthened. This, my friend, is the beating heart of hospitality. So find your merry band of weirdos and misfits. Let’s throw our arms around each other’s shoulders, bear each other up, and, together, go limping toward the source of true life and flourishing. Maybe I’ll never be able to paint happy little clouds like Bob. Even so, I’ll keep right on painting, knowing we each get to share some small part of the story in which God is wooing souls to himself through truth and beauty. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s go make some stuff. For your further reading and viewing pleasure: Amie McNee: We Need Your Art: Stop Messing Around and Make Something   Seth Godin: The Practice: Shipping Creative Work   (Hat tip to Katy Bowser Hutson  for recommending the two excellent books above.) Lewis Hyde: The Gift Susan Magsaman and Ivy Ross: Your Brain on Art: How the Arts Transform Us What is Severance, Kate? Pete Peterson: Christmas Carol Production Diary, Day 1: Let there be Lights   Read more from Kate Gaston about loneliness Read more from Kate Gaston about having better, more vulnerable conversations When it comes to creativity, here are some books I love. Read them and be forever changed: Julia Cameron: The Artist's Way Steven Pressfield: The War of Art Anne Lamott: Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life Stephen King: On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft Annie Dillard: The Writing Life Madeleine L’Engle: Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art An Alabama native, Kate Gaston was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter and tutoring in her local classical homeschool community. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Justyn Warner  on Unsplash

by Jaclyn Hoselton I held a one-way ticket to Rome. I was 20 and looking for an adventure when I set out to study abroad in Perugia, Italy. It would be a semester of intensive language class, Italian literature, Italian history, and creative writing. I wanted the quintessential European experience: cobblestone streets, pastries, espresso, accordion street performers, and large cathedrals. I wanted to become bilingual. I wanted a life-changing journey. I set out full of vigor and enthusiasm. Until I got to the airport. I had never flown before and the airport was a maze, but I eventually managed to find my gate. As I boarded, the act of leaving everything I’d ever known hit me. My heart raced and my legs felt weak. I hobbled to my seat and thought about home. A nun wearing her religious habit sat next to me. She had similar concerns. On her lap was a Bible and entwined between her fingers was a rosary. Leaving home was not easy. Living abroad was not much easier. Though I managed to obtain the typical backpacking through Europe experience by traveling to five countries, sleeping in trains and hostels, and getting around by public transportation, I did not learn Italian fluently and gain deep cultural insights. I did not write the next great American novel. Much like Bilbo Baggins, the discomforts of the journey provoked me, and I withdrew towards homely comforts more often than I would like to admit. I’d turn to my English-speaking roommates to binge American sitcoms, or even (gasp!) visit Starbucks. Setting out on a journey is thrilling, but the discomforts of it can cause our longings to fly toward the comforts of home and routine. Despite this, studying abroad was a powerful experience. Without it, I wouldn’t be living the life I am now. It was not five years later that I found myself on yet another European journey. I left the diverse beauty of the Golden State for a land strewn with quiet medieval villages, lush forests, and castle ruins. My husband and I moved to Germany with plans to stay for two years max. Yet somehow, over ten years later, we find ourselves raising three bilingual children and renovating a German house. I am out of place again, and this time, an unintentional immigrant struggling to fit in a culture not my own. Living cross-culturally changes a person. It touches nearly every aspect of life. Routine chores become a foreign activity to navigate. Cross-cultural living causes a person to make personal adjustments, and eventually these adjustments take root and reshape the person. It’s not smooth sailing, however. Now, when I travel back to the United States, I forget to make eye contact with the person walking opposite me on the sidewalk. I can’t even throw away trash without noticing how much my everyday habits and instincts have changed. Over time, German cultural acclimation has nuanced my understanding of the world and transformed my relationship to what used to be my home. Yet, no matter how hard I work, I will never be entirely at home in Germany either. People often ask me if I am fluent in German. “Define fluent,” I respond. I’ve done the German language intensive classes. Mastering a language isn’t enough—one must also adapt to foreign social cues, humor, values, and ways of life. I anticipate the German holidays and cultural traditions. I do my best to integrate. But as I work toward cultural acclimation, something feels amiss. This culture is simply not my own. Some instincts are still American, and I struggle with expressing my innermost thoughts in a foreign tongue. This leaves me despairing. I make friends, but I feel a painful gap between souls when I cannot express myself on a deeper level. Time and again I’m reminded: This is not my home. For as long as I can remember, books about strapping on a backpack and leaving home for a quest have drawn me in, especially J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit . Last year I revisited a few of Tolkien’s stories and was struck by how often his characters reflect on home. Bilbo was more unhappy even than when the troll had picked him up by his toes. He wished again and again for his nice bright hobbit-hole. Not for the last time. We are introduced to both Bilbo and his home in the first sentence: “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.” By the end of the first paragraph we find the only description of his home we really need: “it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.” Though the story is about a journey, Bilbo’s thoughts constantly return home, as he yearns to leave the discomforts of the quest for the comforting rhythms and routine of Bag End. In fact, Bag End is just about as present as any character in the book. Far, far away in the West, where things were blue and faint, Bilbo knew there lay his own country of safe and comfortable things, and his little hobbit-hole. He shivered. It was getting bitter cold up here, and the wind came shrill among the rocks. Bilbo’s displacement and discomfort turns his mind homeward. It is the memory of tea, a fire, and a cozy armchair that follows Bilbo into that dragon cave and back to Bag End. My own life away from “home” caused me to read these stories with a new perspective. Reading about Bilbo overcoming obstacles while longing for home gives me courage to keep striving in my own state of perpetual foreignness and discomfort. It has taught me to embrace the journey and continue pressing on, even when it’s uncomfortable. Dranbleiben , as the Germans say. We must stick with it. There would be no journey without home. There would be no “there” without the “back again.” If there was no hope of home as an ultimate destination, there would never be a true journey or pilgrimage, but merely an endless wandering. Modern despair is incompatible with the idea of a pilgrimage. Books like The Road  by Cormac McCarthy and Station Eleven  by Emily St. John Mandel are journey stories with no fixed home as a destination. But if there is no home at the end of the journey, what is the purpose? For the Christian, journey and home are intertwined. On the pathway, home is the slant of light we walk toward. I find hope through journey stories that give voice to the sehnsucht  heightened by my displacement. In her lecture “Keepers of Lost Moments and Places: Living Homeward in Time,” Amy Baik Lee defines the emotion of sehnsucht  as a yearning “for a place we cannot get to, perhaps even a place we’ve never been, which nonetheless pulls at us, like the call of a much loved, long-desired home.” This yearning that both Tolkein and C. S. Lewis’s characters have for home beyond the sea embodies the yearnings felt by the expatriate, sojourner, exile, and refugee, whose longing for home can never be satisfied in this world. In Lewis’s The Last Battle , Jewel the unicorn expresses the final fulfillment of this burning desire. “He stamped his right fore-hoof on the ground and neighed, and then cried: ‘I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now.” Sehnsucht  encapsulates not only the painful yearning, but also the bright hope of this pilgrim journey. Every time I return to California, I’m welcomed back with the fattened calf. Cars litter the lawn, a jigsaw puzzle on and off the driveway. I open the door to find enchiladas sizzling in the oven and spice in the air. We feast, gathered around a table that won’t hold everyone, so we spill out onto La-Z-Boys and garden chairs. I’ve returned to one of my homes, where parents, brother, sister-in-law, uncles, aunts, grandparents (now long passed), cousins, nephews, and nieces pause their busy lives to have a meal together. Despite our disconnected lives, we gather because “she’s home, she’s back.” Is this the difference between home and a hometown? Despite the glowing welcome, I grow restless. My body is used to more movement than the American lifestyle requires. I cannot tolerate certain foods as I used to. My rhythms are off, not in sync with hometown habits. Even here, I feel like a square peg in a round hole. The dissonance is painful. I long to be at home, but I have changed. The expat experience reflects the Mearcstapa or border-walker life that Makoto Fujimura emphasizes in his book Culture Care.  Much like the Mearcstapas  who lived in the tribal borderlands, trading news from various tribes, so flies the expat in and out of countries, code-switching and offering cultural knowledge. “ Mearcstapa  is not a comfortable role,” as Fujimura says. Yet, the discomfort points to the fact that things were not supposed to be fractured. Home on earth is a fragile thing. It is where moth and rust can destroy and thieves can steal. But home can also be fragile due to the human tendency to change from life experiences. Home on earth is a mere shadow; it’s a glimpse through the veil and into glory, as we wait for Christ “the ultimate Mearcstapa ” to bring “the light of the good news from the new tribe that is already here and yet to come.” Living between worlds means that I’m never truly at home in either country. This rootlessness points to a deeper reality about my own Christian identity. The discomfort of feeling out of place in both lands evokes an ineffable longing for a lasting home. In 2 Corinthians, the Apostle Paul (a sojourner himself) describes the Christian’s home on earth as a mere tent—but we have a Home prepared for us. For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling. (2 Cor. 5:1-5 [ESV]) Sehnsucht belongs to the human experience. The pain and hope of the emotion was designed as a compass. As Lewis famously wrote in Mere Christianity , “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” Sehnsucht  proves that we are not wandering aimlessly, but we were created for an Eternal Home. We can expect this restlessness to remain until we are reunited with our Creator, as Augustine of Hippo wrote in his Confessions : “you made us for yourself and our hearts find no peace until they rest in you.” Together with the first Adam, we were exiled from the garden. But the second Adam journeyed from his home to restore lost sinners to our true Dwelling Place. He said, In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. (John 14:2-3) One day, my own fragmented expat longings will find fulfillment as Christ ushers me to the New Creation and I cry, “This is the land I have been looking for all my life!” Jaclyn Rios Hoselton is a writer and American expat living in Germany. She has an MA in English literature from Universität Heidelberg. She is a mom of three and serves alongside her husband as members of a local church. She alternates between writing, reading, and bursting outside to run, bike, or garden. You can follow her on Instagram  @jaclynsbooks  or on Substack at A Sojurner’s Garden . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Jordan Madrid  on Unsplash

by Heidi Johnston My maternal grandfather had a rich, deep baritone voice with a vibrato that carried shades of both tragedy and triumph. When he sang “How Great Thou Art,” it was a declaration that rose from his soul and seemed to linger in the rafters long after the piano stilled. Born in Londonderry, Northern Ireland, in 1909, he was nine years old when the Spanish flu pandemic swept across Ireland. In its wake, my grandfather, his sister, and seven of his cousins found themselves orphaned. Taken in by a single aunt, all the children were raised in a two-bedroom terrace house. Even before the events of Bloody Sunday and the decades-long conflict that would grip Northern Ireland, Londonderry was a city of simmering passions and ancient loyalties. It was against this backdrop of hard knocks and social and political unrest that my grandfather began the work of building a life. Known for his kindness and level head, he became a manager in one of Londonderry’s iconic shirt factories. He fell in love a little later than was usual, married, and went on to have a son and a daughter. He worked hard, rising early and staying up until his teenagers were safely in bed. He sang in the choir and served in his church. On Fridays, he came home for steak and chips at lunchtime. Every Saturday, he washed the car. I can’t help but think of him when I read the passage in Deuteronomy 6, where Moses is addressing the nation of Israel as they prepare to finally go into the promised land. It’s a chapter famous for the Shema, the exhortation to “love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” (Deut. 6:5 [English Standard Version]), but the verses that follow lay the foundation for a life lived in response to the command. They are the soil in which the ordinary becomes the sacred. Through Moses, God says: And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. (Deut. 6:6-9 [ESV]) It was in the work of being married and raising children, planting, harvesting, feasting, and grieving that the word of God would take root and come alive. There was an important place for formal instruction, but the authenticity and beauty of God’s pattern for life would be found when believing parents chose to anchor the life of their family in the truth of God’s Word. When they saturated their own hearts fully in Scripture, it would spill out over dinner, as they walked in nature, or while they watched the sun rise or set on another day. This was not an injunction to nag, but rather an exhortation to have hearts and minds so shaped by the character of God that an awareness of his presence naturally pervaded every aspect of life. It was a quiet rebellion against the culture, a choice to delight in the God who valued their humanity even when they were tempted to search for greatness in all the wrong places. As each generation lived out its faith in the melting pot of everyday life, the embers of their hope would ignite the curiosity of the next generation, and the story would be told again. That’s how it was for my grandfather. As he walked, he would point out species of plants or birds, eyes sparkling with delight—not only in beauty itself but in the goodness of a God who would create with such abundant joy. As he interacted with his often-fractured community, my grandfather did it with an open gentleness that wasn’t bound by political affiliation. Even his darkest moments became stories of God’s grace that would speak long after his voice fell silent, strengthening the legs of those who had never walked his path. I’ve learned a lot about my grandfather over the years, but there are a lot of things I don’t know. I have no idea what his laugh sounded like. I’ve never breathed in his familiar scent as he pulled me in for a hug. I don’t know what his flaws were, what we might have disagreed on, or if he had regrets. Although his influence on my life has been profound, I never got the chance to meet him. On a cold day in February 1968, he was driving to a wedding with my grandmother and another couple when their car hit black ice and skidded into the path of a lorry. He was killed instantly. My mum was just 17 at the time. It would be another eight years before I was born and many more before I would begin to understand that it is possible to grieve something you have never had. A few years ago, my mum found my grandfather’s Bible, presented to him in 1955 by the Curryfree Christian Workers Union “as a token of their appreciation of his faithful service to the Christian cause for a great many years.” It is well worn, with tape on one side where the leather had started to fray. The pages are yellowing, and a handful of verses are underlined. The few words he chose to mark indelibly are a clue to the legacy he left behind: “And who then is willing to consecrate his service this day unto the Lord?” (1 Chron. 29:5 [King James Version]) “Then the people rejoiced, for that they offered willingly, because with perfect heart they offered willingly to the Lord” (1 Chron. 29:9 [KJV]). “Honor the Lord with thy substance, and with the first fruits of all thine increase: So shall thy barns be filled with plenty, and thy presses shall burst out with new wine” (Prov. 3:9-10 [KJV]). I may have never met this man whose DNA I carry, but I do know something of his heart. For him, the desire that underpinned everything else was to delight himself in the Lord, offering his whole life, the daily joy and struggle and frustration and delight of it, first and fully to God for his glory. I know, without a doubt, that the life he lived mattered. It mattered as he lived it, in all its rooted, earthy ordinariness. But, more than that, it mattered on a scale he didn’t get to witness in his lifetime. As his faith shaped the people he loved and their faith shaped their own children, the God who is outside of time took my grandfather’s short life, willingly offered, and used it for the continued building of his eternal kingdom. Maybe it’s sentimental but, sometimes, as I run my fingers over his Bible, knowing that he touched the same pages, it’s as if the curtain thins a little and I can almost hear him singing as he cheers me on. Heidi Johnston is the author of Choosing Love in a Broken World  and Life in the Big Story . She lives in Newtownards, Northern Ireland, with her husband, Glenn, and their two teenage daughters, Ellie and Lara. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Pierre Bamin  on Unsplash

by Kevin Burrell Note: This article was originally posted April 27, 2024, on Kevin Burrell’s website Ornitheology: The Gospel According to Birds . A migraine is an acceptable excuse for calling in late to work. A migration , apparently, is not. Ahhh, but it should  be. Last week I tried to explain to a non-birder colleague why I might occasionally be arriving late to the office over the next couple weeks. My impassioned excitement—complete with the latest BirdCast satellite data—was met with a blank unconvinced stare. And yet, as I write this, the bird migration forecast anticipates 265 million birds  in flight over the US tonight, whisking their way north. Some of them will stop here in Charlotte for breakfast. And some of those will be warblers . In her book Looking Up: A Birder’s Guide to Hope Through Grief , Courtney Ellis aptly refers to warblers as “the Easter eggs of the birding world,” for three reasons: They’re round-shaped, very colorful, and hard to find. Sometimes maddeningly  hard to find, actually. While a few warbler species will acquiesce to come to ground level for a good photo opp (thank you, Common Yellowthroat ), many of them seem to prefer the highest branches of the highest trees, resulting in a birdwatching medical condition known as “warbler neck”—a cervical pain caused by looking upward with binoculars for extended periods. (Take heed, people: May is Warbler Neck Awareness Month . . . maybe? ) And yet once you spy your first Chestnut-sided  or Blackburnian Warbler , you might decide it was worth the off-season chiropractic care. Imagine a classroom of kids, each one given a coloring page of the same basic bird shape, along with a box of crayons. The resulting wall of creative art might still fall short of the fantastic variations that real-world warblers provide—unnatural hues, delicate striping, intricate accents. These little birds aren’t simply colorful; they’re adorned , as if they dressed up and accessorized for the trip. The Canada Warbler  wears a black necklace. The Black-throated Blue Warbler  dons a pocket handkerchief. (I like to think of it as a wristwatch.) The Golden-winged Warbler  wears trendy U2 wraparound sunglasses. The Hooded Warbler —my personal favorite—sports a stealthy ninja mask, as if dressed for a covert operation. Golden-winged Warbler, © 2019 Christian Nunes, MacCauley Library The variety of patterns is matched by a unique variety of telltale songs, helping greatly with identification, since you'll probably hear them before you see them. They’re called warblers , after all—a term coined way before Sinatra by a Welsh ornithologist in the 1770s. A warbler song teases, beckons. Yesterday a Cape May Warbler  beguiled me for fifteen solid minutes before finally coming into the open for a visual ID. At least he eventually cooperated; a Yellow Warbler  in the same tree never showed himself. With these secretive Easter-egg birds, sometimes the song is all you get, and so birders quickly get familiar with warbler-warbles. There’s the hurried upswing buzz of the Northern Parula , and the more measured rising notes of the Prairie Warbler . I love the squeaky-wheel notes of the Black-and-white Warbler , the confidently bold tweets of the Prothonotary , and the slow Witchita-Witchita-Witchita  of the Common Yellowthroat, which sounds to me like a decaffeinated Carolina Wren . And then there’s the emphatic Ovenbird , who starts his teacher-teacher-teacher  song calmly and subdued, but then builds in volume until he’s clearly yelling at you (a pattern that’s also the formula for most Foo Fighters  tunes). There are forty-seven species of New World Warblers (commonly referred to as wood-warblers), all of them exclusive to the Americas. Each has a unique style, personality, presentation, and approach. And spending any amount of time Easter-egg-hunting for them will lead you to a reasonable question. Why such extravagance? Gratuitous Use of the Color Yellow This isn’t just a small question. It’s a question that, if you let it, will reshape your paradigms about the nature of the world itself. G. K. Chesterton said of his conversion to Christianity, “I had always believed the world involved magic; now I thought that perhaps it involved a magician.” Warblers are the sort of magic that makes you consider the magician. It’s the kind of beauty that might make you call in late to work. Paul wrote in Romans 1:20 , “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse” (NIV). Maybe that verse could stand as the proof text and purpose statement for every post on my blog; the creation has lessons to school us in the character of God himself. Much as we may try to demystify and biologically complicate things, Paul reminds us that the deepest part of every human heart still perceives an art that says “artist,” a story that says “author,” a making that says “maker.” Blackburnian Warbler, © 2019 Ezra Staengl, MacCauley Library Creation doesn’t tell us everything we need to know, of course. As James Bond might say, the world is not enough. God has given us his Word as a higher rung on the ladder, and it’s why a passage like Psalm 19  can flow so effortlessly from “The heavens declare the glory of God” in verse 1 to “The law of the Lord is perfect, refreshing the soul” in verse 7. But too many Christians thereby dismiss the creation, ignoring its role as a legitimate signpost to the wonders of a crazy-creative God. Maybe a warbler can’t lead you to the saving love of God, but it can  lead you to admit he exists, and spill the beans on his “eternal power and divine nature.” How? In the case of warblers, what gets my attention is their absolutely unnecessary beauty. Gratuitous  beauty. Yes, research paper after research paper will continue to posit the evolutionary advantages of a bird’s bright plumage or detailed features, genetic adaptations to better the chances of wooing increasingly picky mates. But take another look. Consider, for instance, the Black-throated Gray Warbler . It has a small yellow facial dot between beak and eye. It’s stunning in its subtlety. Riddle me this: What is the evolutionary advantage of that spot? And if there truly is  a benefit in it, why don’t the other forty-six species have it too? Does a dab of yellow need  a DNA-sequenced explanation? If your only mechanism is natural selection, then yes. But if a designer is in play, then is it possible that we’re just witnessing the divine mirth of “art for art’s sake?” Black-throated Gray Warbler, © 2016 Melissa James, MacCauley Library I’m not trying to debunk evolution in a paragraph. But really, what’s with all the beauty? These are the thoughts that reasonable souls might find themselves thinking as they train their warbler-necks upward. There are things in this world that are unexplainable at the level of utility, pragmatism, and natural selection. Some might say, “Well, we don’t have all the information in yet.” Yes, and we never will. But there’s a warbler with a yellow eye-dot (or another with a yellow throat , or yet another with a yellow rump ) that dares you not to see the hand of the artist. Prodigal Art The warbler lifts our eyes above our survival-of-the-fittest cynicism and reminds us of a prodigal God. Yes, I said prodigal. The familiar parable of the prodigal son in  Luke 15  has led us to assume that the word prodigal  means “wayward.” True, meaning is usage, and—thanks to the parable itself—the word has come to describe a foolish wanderer. But we have Tim Keller to thank for reclaiming the original meaning of prodigal . According to Merriam-Webster, a prodigal is “one who spends or gives lavishly.” It’s recklessly excessive. Over-the-top. Extravagant. Gratuitous. Unnecessary. The younger brother in that parable certainly spent his inheritance prodigally. But Keller uses that reclaimed word  to describe the work of Christ our elder brother on our behalf, the prime example of an extravagant God who has not spared his own son and will “freely give us all things” ( Romans 8:32 ). The costly atonement of Jesus is the richest of gifts, disclosing a prodigal attitude that Keller refers to as “The God of Great Expenditure.” Stealthy-Ninja Hooded Warbler © 2017 Kevin Couture, MacCauley Library If God reveals himself in both Word and world, shouldn’t we expect to encounter instances of lavishly prodigal beauty in creation as well as redemption? Look up. There are warblers in the trees, each adorned with prodigal artistry. As artist and writer Makoto Fujimura says, “Beauty is a gratuitous gift of the creator God; it finds its source and its purpose in God’s character. God, out of his gratuitous love, created a world he did not need because he is an artist.” A feather, all by itself, should be enough to convince you of intelligent design. But arrange four thousand of them together around the small frame of a songbird, and any sane heart must surrender to this discovery: The design isn’t just intelligent. It’s beautiful. Did I mention I’ll be late for work tomorrow? Browse the prodigal artistry of all forty-seven species of new world warblers. Kevin Burrell is a pastor, husband, and father in Charlotte, North Carolina, who writes about birds and faith in his spare time at ornitheology.com . In recent years his pastoral responsibilities have begun to include an increasing number of “Hey, what bird is this?” inquiries. For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by Jeremy Hynes on Unsplash

Soils and Souls and How to Be a Poet by Lore Wilbert Note: This article was originally published March 26, 2024, on Lore Wilbert’s Substack, Sayable, at lorewilbert.com . I was seventeen when I first heard the term grass farming , sitting at a farmer’s table with my family, on the cusp of y2k, in the full-on fever dream of my father’s desire to be off-grid before the apocalypse. We were six hours from my safe, suburban home in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and my parent’s realtor had connected us with another homeschooling family who had recently moved from Pennsylvania to this strange part in New York State called the North Country. The table at which we sat was a smooth butcher block one, surrounded by mismatched chairs, a warm woodstove, real wood paneled walls, and this new family we’d just met. I didn’t know it then—couldn’t know it then—but this family would become intertwined with mine in a thousand different ways and become some of the most formative people of my life. The cultivation of grass aside, these people cultivated my soul. It was Wendell Berry the farmer at the table was talking about—the farmer of grass and soil and proponent of health as being part of a membership of the whole . I didn’t know it then, this language coming out of the rocker turned farmer’s mouth, but these words would become as familiar to me as Madeleine’s  had been in the decade before. It would be years before I learned Berry wasn’t just an agricultural writer or cultural critic, but a poet and novelist too. It would be years before the language of Berry would have worked its way beneath my skin, forming and reforming and transforming me again and again into something new . It was these people at first, the ones who transformed me. This farmer-philosopher, his artist wife, their beautiful creative children, their table, their willingness to not look away from the brokenness our family would bring into their lives in the coming years—first on the scene of my dead brother, the ones who never once gave up on my dad or my mom or any of us during all those terrible divorce and custody battle years—despite plenty of reasons to do so. I didn’t read Berry’s essay Health is Membership  until my late twenties, but I experienced it from the moment I met this family. If Berry was the one who made sense of so many of my ideas and thoughts, this family was the tangible, the skin on the ideas and thoughts, the proof that it worked. Grass farming indeed. It is said that a farmer is only as good as the soil she works with, but what the human eye can’t perceive in the soil is proven in the grass it grows. Good grass means good soil and good soil means the presence of air, water, microorganisms. In The Understory , I write: In order to complete the decomposition process and become nutrient-rich, loamy soil, compost needs air, water, and other microorganisms. And likewise with us. In order to heal, we need space to breathe, permission to weep, and the presence of a friend who will help us make sense of it all: air, water, and living things. Or, as Diane Langberg says, “Trauma healing always requires talking, tears, and time.” This is what this family offered to me again and again and again: talking, tears, and time. This is what Wendell Berry showed me was not only good and necessary for the health of the soil, but for the health of the soul. He wrote, “Given only the health of the soil, nothing that dies is dead for very long.” So too with the soul, right? Whenever people ask me of the writers I love and who I would recommend, it is always the ones who have a breadth of work and versatility with their words, L’Engle, Berry, Lewis, Morris, Harrison, and more. I am less interested in the ability to do one thing really well and more in the ability to morph and move between things, to stretch and grow between mediums and genres. I am interested (on my better days) in what makes me grow, not what makes me shine. Shining is easy, but it’s often cheap, and I have to remind myself of this when I see the cheap succeeding. Wendell Berry is not cheap, nothing about him or his writing is cheap. His writing has the chops of the best and yet the humility—the hummus—of the weak. It has the willingness to form and reform, based on new information or experiences. His writing is self-effacing, he’s not interested in being the one who gets it right or is memorialized (he is famous for his lack of desire to be famous), he’s more interested in the ideas themselves than in being the one who has them. He knows the making of soil means death a thousand times over and the making of good soil is the work of one’s lifetime. The same with the soul too, I suppose. Here is Berry’s poem, How to Be a Poet,  which is subtitled “ (to remind myself).” i Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill—more of each than you have—inspiration, work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity. Any readers who like your poems, doubt their judgment. ii Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Shun electric wire. Communicate slowly. Live a three-dimensioned life; stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. iii Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came. Read that again, read it slowly. Here’s what I love about it and why I’ve committed much of it to memory: The humility it takes to say, “I do not have enough of what it takes.” more of each than you have The willingness to mistrust the flatterers (and the numbers, the counts, the metrics, etc. They’re all a fickle mistress.): Any readers who like your poems, doubt their judgment. The acknowledgement that we live in places and among people, including our own selves to our own selves, who are always trying to obscure what we actually are: Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. The sheer acceptance of what is in order to write what isn’t yet: Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. One of the challenges I feel a lot in my writing is that I am driven—compulsed even—to write in so many different genres and styles. I want to wrestle with theology and doctrine, share memoir and creative non-fiction, write with a literary bent and yet broad appeal. I want to write as the Christian I am and yet as the skeptic I also am.  I want to play with form and function, and sometimes I’m afraid that causes a bit of whiplash for my readers. I’m afraid they will come here for one thing, and when that isn’t what they receive on the regular, they will leave. I’m afraid that people say, “This is what we expect of you—to be gentle, to be truthful, to be generous, to be generative, to be slow, to share beauty and blessings, and always do it in this way,” and when I do something different or am something different, I will be canceled, unfollowed, cast aside. Berry is reminding himself  how to be himself  in this poem. He is saying, “Listen, self, you’re going to forget who you are because of who other people say you are or should be, so this is me reminding you (me) of what it takes to be the poet/novelist/memoirist/cultural critic you not only want to be but truly actually are.” And, goodness gracious, if he hasn’t succeeded. Lore Ferguson Wilbert is an award winning writer, thinker, learner, and author of the books, The Understory , A Curious Faith , and Handle With Care . She has written for Mockingbird Journal, The  Christian Century , Plough  Magazine, Christianity Today, and more, as well as her own site, lorewilbert.com . She has a master’s in spiritual formation and leadership and loves to think and write about the intersection of human formation and the gritty stuff of earth. You can find Lore on Instagram @lorewilbert . She lives with her husband Nate and their pups, Harper and Rilke, in southeastern Pennsylvania. She really has read most of the books on her shelves. (Lore is pronounced with a long e.) For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo by David Emrich  on Unsplash

by Caleb Woodbridge Note: Today marks the second anniversary of Tim Keller’s death. As we celebrate his life and legacy, it seemed fitting to share this reflection on his works and the compilation of the devotional Go Forward In Love: A Year of Daily Readings from Timothy Keller (first published in the UK as A Year With Timothy Keller ). At Hutchmoot UK 2023, in the beautiful Derbyshire setting of the Hayes Conference Centre, I sat down for lunch on Friday with a friend and former colleague from Hodder Faith, the UK publishers of Tim Keller’s books. It was great comparing notes on Hutchmoot, chatting about Christian books, faith and creativity—and also a freelance project I was about to begin work on: compiling A Year With Timothy Keller , as the UK edition is called. I’d been asked to compile a devotional volume of 365 excerpts from Keller’s writings into daily readings. It was a big task, but I already had some ideas about how to break it down and start choosing Keller’s “greatest hits,” and was looking forward to getting into the project. I don’t remember the details, but as well as discussing the book, we almost certainly discussed Keller’s health, since his son Michael had just shared on social media that Tim was going into hospice care. Later that day, on the afternoon of May 19, 2023, the news came through: Tim Keller had passed away. This good and faithful servant had gone to be with his Savior. Inklings and Imagination The news was a sobering jolt amidst the joys of creative fellowship at Hutchmoot UK. Many of those present had read and been influenced by Keller, appreciating his nuanced, culturally engaged approach to the Christian faith. Like Hutchmoot and the Rabbit Room, Tim Keller was deeply shaped by Tolkien and Lewis. According to Collin Hansen’s Timothy Keller: His Spiritual and Intellectual Formation , he’d been introduced to The Chronicles of Narnia  by Kathy Kelly (who’d corresponded with Lewis) early on in their relationship, and their shared love of  The Lord of the Rings  was one of the threads that drew them together as a couple. This love for the Inklings runs through Keller’s writing and preaching—Tolkien and Lewis are among his most-quoted authors outside the Bible. The Inklings helped awaken Keller to the importance of engaging the imagination as a Christian communicator, preacher and apologist. In his book Preaching , he reminded the reader that “Change happens not just by giving the mind new arguments but also by feeding the imagination new beauties.” He was at pains to bring the Christian faith to life through the imagination, to make its truths real and concrete for his listeners. He quotes Tolkien’s famous essay “On Fairy Stories” for its argument that “there are indelible, deep longings in the human heart that realistic fiction cannot satisfy.” Keller also found comfort and Christian truth in The Lord of the Rings  while fighting cancer. In his book King’s Cross   (also published as Jesus the King ) , Keller confesses that when he was undergoing surgery for an earlier round of thyroid cancer, what came to mind wasn’t a passage of Scripture, but that from The Return of the King where Sam sees a white star twinkling above the darkness of Mordor: The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty forever beyond its reach. For Keller facing the possibility of death, this was a reminder that it is really true. “Because of Jesus’s death evil is a passing thing—a shadow . . . It didn’t matter what happened in my surgery—it was going to be all right. And it is  going to be all right.” Integration As far as I know, Keller never had any direct connection with Hutchmoot or the Rabbit Room. But I think most friends of the Rabbit Room will also find a friend in Keller’s writings. Keller had a vision for a faith integrated with all of life, including the arts and creativity. Keller also sought to find balance and nuance, often offering creative “third way” positions that integrated seemingly disparate emphases, a skill that many of an artistic temperament will appreciate! This particularly comes out in his book Every Good Endeavor: Connecting Your Work to God’s Work , which takes Tolkien’s allegorical short story “Leaf by Niggle” as one of its early starting points. Niggle is an artist who dreams of painting a great tree, but is distracted by his daily obligations and his need to help those around him, and never manages to finish it. After he dies, only the painting of one beautiful leaf ends up in the Town Museum, mostly forgotten. But in the afterlife, on the outskirts of the heavenly country, he finds his Tree, finished and glorious. “It is a gift!” says Niggle. His artistic vision was participating in some glimpse of true reality. Keller uses Tolkien’s story to unpack a Christian understanding of art and vocation: If the God of the Bible exists, and there is a True Reality beneath and behind this one, and this life is not the only life, then every good endeavor, even the simplest ones, pursued in response to God’s calling, can matter forever. That is what the Christian faith promises. Unfortunately not all church leaders place a high value on the arts and on creative callings—but Keller had an expansive vision of the Christian faith for all of life and encouraged Christian creatives to see the validity and spiritual importance of their gifts. That evening at Hutchmoot after the news of his passing, we took time to give thanks together for Keller’s life and work. Michael J. Tinker performed one of his songs from When There Are No Words , which he had written following the recent death of his own father, Melvin Tinker. Working on A Year With Timothy Keller  took on a new weight for me. I now had the responsibility of making sure it was a fitting memorial to Keller’s life and teaching, but I was honored to be entrusted with the task. But what exactly went into compiling a set of 365 daily readings from across the breadth of Keller’s writings? Speed-running Keller With the clock ticking until my deadline, I realized I needed a process to help me pull out the “best of” Keller’s nuggets. Armed with my own collection of Keller books plus a set of PDFs supplied by Hodder, I set out to make a plan. Writing software Scrivener  came to my rescue: With its abilities to organize complicated texts, it was perfect for the messy business of pulling out excerpts from Keller’s books and ordering them coherently. I speed-read each book (it helped that I was already familiar with many of them, though not all!) looking for themes and sequences that would make for good devotional readings or that would help capture some of Keller’s key themes and ideas, all the way copying and pasting excerpts. As I collected my excerpts along with Bible verses into Scrivener, I then shaped them into order, taking into account themes, variety and seasonal relevance. For example, February started with excerpts on love and relationships to coincide with Valentine’s Day season (while being mindful to also include Keller’s observations on the goodness of singleness). For the season of Lent, I focused on excerpts from Counterfeit Gods  on idolatry and from Walking with God through Pain and Suffering , and as we got into Easter, excerpts from King’s Cross   on the significance of Jesus’s death and resurrection. In compiling the devotional, I sneaked in one or two “Easter eggs” that I hope Keller would have enjoyed: For example, March 25, as many fans of Tolkien will know, is the date in Middle-earth when the Ring was destroyed. I found a Keller quote from Walking with God Through Pain and Suffering where he uses the destruction of the Ring to illustrate the theme of idolatry to use on that day. See if you can spot any others! The Spiritual Impact It was impossible for me to immerse myself in Keller’s writings without it having a spiritual impact. Again and again, Keller brings us back to grace. We can avoid God not only by being “sinners” in an obvious way but also by our religion, by building our sense of identity on our own achievements rather than what God has done for us. For me, having recently left the senior role of publishing director of Inter-Varsity Press UK, a well-regarded evangelical Christian publishing house, reading Keller helped me realize that I’d put an unhealthy weight on my job as a measure of my spiritual status. I realized that I was often driven by a sense of anxious striving rather than resting in God’s grace. But if we are in Christ, we are already completely loved and accepted. As Keller puts it in The Reason for God: When my own personal grasp of the gospel was very weak, my self­-view swung wildly between two poles. When I was performing up to my standards – in academic work, professional achievement or relationships – I felt confident but not humble. I was likely to be proud and unsympathetic to failing people. When I was not living up to standards, I felt humble but not confident, a failure. I discov­ered, however, that the gospel contained the resources to build a unique identity. In Christ I could know I was accepted by grace not only despite my flaws, but because I was willing to admit them. The Christian gospel is that I am so flawed that Jesus had to die for me, yet I am so loved and valued and that Jesus was glad to die for me. This leads to deep humility and deep confidence at the same time. It undermines both swaggering and sniveling. I cannot feel superior to anyone, and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do not think more of myself nor less of myself. Instead, I think of my­self less. I don’t need to notice myself – how I’m doing, how I’m being regarded – so often. This isn’t some radically novel insight, but again and again Keller speaks the Gospel to our hearts with bright clarity and imagination. (Re-)reading most of Keller’s books in the space of a few weeks was a refresher course in grace for me, which Keller applies with wisdom to the wholeness of life. As we mark the second anniversary of Keller’s passing, it’s a great time to pick up Go Forward in Love ( US ) or A Year With Timothy Keller ( UK ). I hope that those reading it are as blessed by it as I was in compiling it! Go Forward in Love  is published by Zondervan in the US and out now in hardcover. A Year with Timothy Keller  is published by Hodder Faith in the UK and out now in paperback. Caleb Woodbridge is a freelance writer, editor and digital consultant, who writes on faith and imagination at www.biggerinside.co.uk . For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry , Music , and Articles . To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books  to new podcasts , events , poetry , articles , theatre productions , conferences , and more . Membership  is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more . Photo from timothykeller.com