A Prayer Before Writing

Our Father, architect of all that is,
You formed gas giants and ribosomes,
Alligators and daffodils,
Optic nerves and salt crystals,
All by the word of Your mouth.

When You had finished,
You looked on Your work with joy
And called it good.

O Lord, we would follow your example.
Like children building sand castles
In the shadow of the Taj Mahal,
We see your wondrous works
And long to make beautiful things,
To speak worlds of our own making
Into marvelous existence.

And so we humbly ask
That Your Spirit would inhabit our efforts,
That You would empower Your people,
Made in Your image,
To write new songs and scenes,
To weave words into marvelous tapestries,
To shine beacons into the world's dark places,
To seek out the truest paths,
To tell good stories
That echo back the best story:
Your story of love and loss and redemption.

Bless and direct our efforts now, O gracious Father,
So that when we look back on them,
We can call them very good.

On Being Half Dead

This morning I awoke at 4:45 with a keen sense of my own mortality. As I lay in bed listening to the dripping of the April rain and the occasional call of an overzealous early bird, a voice told me, "You're 38 and a half years old."

"Mmm," I mumbled, and rolled over to get some more sleep.

"A lot of people don't live till 80."

I rearranged my pillow.

"And you're obese. The BMI chart says so."

"Sure," I responded, sitting up and scowling a fat scowl. "People used to die before 80 quite a bit. But as Mrs. Lucy Nell Crater said, 'They wasn't as advanced as we are.' We're living longer these days.

"Look at this COVID-19 thing," I continued. "We've basically crippled our whole national economy in order to extend the lives of 50,000 Boomers long enough to vote for Trump again this November." I knew this was unfair and likely inaccurate, but being tired makes me cranky and cynical. I rubbed my eyes, keenly aware that in doing so I was also touching my face.

"We love keeping people alive longer than nature intended, and we're getting better at it all the time. But even if we weren't, and even if I'm halfway to death, 77 would be a great age to die at. It's the product of two primes. Now will you please shut your stupid imaginary mouth so I can get some more sleep?"

"Your Uncle Jim died real young," the voice continued. "What was he? 40? 45?"

I gathered the blanket around me and squeezed my eyes shut.

"You know the one! Worked for the Kansas Department of Wildlife or something?"

I began humming "Samson" by Regina Spektor to shut the voice out.

"You remember! Taught your mom to play poker when she was a little girl by holding her on his lap during games? Bald as a boulder? Loved beer and watermelon? Favorite ice cream was Rocky Road? And say, don't you love poker and beer and watermelon and Rocky Road? And you started balding at 22."

"Look, you... whatever you are. I'm fine with dying. Lived a good life. Ready to meet my Maker and all that. So whatever you're trying to do, it's not working." I rolled over and rearranged the blankets again. Next to me, Magen stirred. Shoot. Maybe I should get up so at least one of us could get some more sleep.

"'A good life,'" the voice rejoined. "Let's talk about that. What have you accomplished, really?"

I sighed and gave in. "My wife and I survived a couple of really hard years of marriage, and we are closer now after 15 years than we've ever been. We have four beautiful kids who don't behave like monsters. I have a cookie cutter house in the suburbs and a yard full of dandelion skeletons and two used vehicles and two brand new pairs of nice running shoes. I make six figures at a stimulating, enjoyable, and low-stress job. My relationship with God has seldom been stronger, and I'm learning to play the piano and teaching my four-year-old to read."

"Six figures, huh? Nice. But as Mr. Shiftlet said, 'There's some men that some things mean more to them than money.'" I could hear the voice's invisible smirk. "See? You're not the only one who can quote Flannery O'Connor all willy nilly. How's that Beowulf novel coming?"

"It's not. I put it on hold in February to write a commentary on Romans."

"Oh, another unfinished project. What a surprise. And how is Romans coming?"

"I'm on verse 4," I responded.

"Still in the first chapter?" the voice asked. "How many verses are there in Romans?"

"I think there are 434."

"I'm just gonna do some quick math here... Oh my. It's going to take you 23 years at this rate. You'll be lucky if you're still alive by then. After all, dear sweet Uncle Jim--"

"I'm sick of your lip, imaginary adversary. The bottom line is this: I'm doing the best I know how to do with the resources I have. I'm keeping my family alive, I'm making really good software for my customers, and I'm making it a priority to write. I'm sorry if it doesn't come up to your impossible standards. I'm giving what I've got."

"Just a couple more questions, " the voice said. "I promise. What apps do you have on your phone?"

"Um. The usual stuff. Email, Spades, Netflix, podcasts, news--"

"And how much time," the voice interrupted, "would you say you spend immersed in that tiny enormous digital world that you can exercise complete control over (and also completely controls you)?"

"Maybe... 20 minutes a day?"

"That's not what your phone says, and you know it," the voice said. "Try 85 minutes a day. And how long do you spend watching TV shows with your wife in the evenings?"

"Um. Maybe about an hour, most nights?"

"And when was the last time you read a novel or book of poetry... or any book, really?"

"Not sure. Maybe January? But I do read to the kids pretty much every day."

"So," the voice said, "You're giving everything you've got... except for the 15% of your waking day that you're essentially pissing away."

Now I was mad. "Just who do you think you are, anyway? What gives you the right to talk to me like this?"

The voice softened. "I'm you. The obnoxious, driving part of you. My job is to make sure we don't have any regrets. We've used half of our time here already. We're feeling deader every day. Haven't you noticed your hair turning gray? Or that your knees get sore after a five-mile jog?"

"Yeah," I said. "I guess I have."

The voice continued. "Can we use our time any better? I think..." It faltered, just for a moment. "I think the world really needs what we have to give. Is there any way we can give it more faithfully? Remember what Annie Dillard wrote:

One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.

After Michelangelo died, someone found in his studio a piece of paper on which he had written a note to his apprentice, in the handwriting of his old age: "Draw, Antonio, draw, Antonio, draw and do not waste time."

I sighed, rolled out of bed, and pulled on my pajama pants. I shuffled out of the bedroom, resisting the urge to grab my phone on my way out.

As I measured out the water for my pot of coffee, I said, "Fine. I'll write for a couple of hours. But after that, can we have a nap?"

"Oh, you poor simple fool," the voice said. "Don't you know we can only nap when the kids are napping? By the time you're done writing this morning, they'll be up and hungry for breakfast and Dad Time. Maybe we can nap when we're dead. Just another half-life to go."

Note: Just as I finished the final paragraph, this happened: 

My Introduction to Walker Percy

I didn't know much about Walker Percy until I read The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage, Paul Elie's excellent literary biography of Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, Percy, and Flannery O'Connor. I picked it up because I've been on an O'Connor kick for the past couple of years and I'd heard good things about Elie's handling of her work.

After reading Elie's book, I find myself eager to see more from Day, Merton, and Percy... but especially Percy. I found a sort of kinship with him, and I suspect that his work will help me understand myself better. For instance, this excerpt from p. 78 of Elie sounds exactly like something I'd do:

So I have Day and Merton on my mental backburner, but Percy has elbowed his way toward the front. I'll start with The Moviegoer (which I fortuitously found at a book sale last week), and then toward The Thanatos Syndrome and perhaps The Second Coming.

It's always fun to discover a kindred spirit, even one who died when I was nine. :-D

Hutchmoot 2012 (Part 2: Favorite Moments)

In the weeks leading up to Hutchmoot 2012, I grew tired of answering the perennial question, "What's a Hutch Moose?" One of my Facebook friends said an acquaintance of hers had called it a "Hooch Mooch," which I guess would be worse than a Hutch Moose. But not quite as bad as "That Hoochy Mama thing you go to," which is what yet another friend's friend calls it.

Anyway, I started vaguely referring to it "a conference" or "a gathering of Christians who like art." This seemed like a lie, since it is much, much more than those things. In fact, a Hutchmoot is such a special, unique thing that  I'm not sure any definition could capture it correctly. A top-ten list, however, might come closer... so here goes:

Ten of My Top Experiences at Hutchmoot 2012
(Ordered Chronologically, Since I Loved Them All So Much; Also, I Am Probably Forgetting Some, So I Will Not Call This The Top Ten)

Thursday Night: Square Peg Alliance and Friends Concert in the round. This is always a lot of fun, with many very talented artists participating. This year, many of the usual suspects were present: The Andys (Peterson, Gullahorn, and Osenga), Jill Philips, Eric Peters, Randall Goodgame, Jason Gray and Ron Block. (Ben Shive, however, was sadly absent because he had to hit a record production deadline.) One fun surprise was the Chaffers (remember Waterdeep?). If I had to pick a favorite, it would be Jason Gray, who is extremely skillful at transmogrifying performance into worship.

Friday Afternoon: Talking with N. D. Wilson about his fantastic, mind-bending work of apologetics, Notes From the Tilt-A-Whirl. I was concerned with his approach on a couple of points, and I wanted to hear what he had to say. Nate was very real, very considerate, and very generous with his time. I left not convinced of his rightness, but more understanding of his approach. He is a stand-up guy and you should buy each and every one of his brilliant books.

Saturday Morning: The Ragamuffin Legacy Session. Rich Mullins has always been one of my favorite musicians, and it was amazing to hear Andrew Peterson, Ben Shive, and many others talk about his background, his music, and his effects on both Christian Contemporary Music and the lives of his listeners.

Saturday Afternoon: Singing with saints. While waiting for the dinner bell to ring, a group of folks sat around and jammed together. This soon turned into one of my favorite hymn-sings in a long time. I forgot how much I love being able to lose myself in the harmony of a familiar song.

Saturday Night: Joining in service with others. There's something very therapeutic about cleaning. When my mind and heart are full, as they were by Saturday night, I was more than ready for straightening, sweeping, and mopping. It did my heart good to work alongside some of my favorite people on earth with the common goal of setting the place in order.

Sunday Night: I was really excited to continue a tradition we started at Hutchmoot 2011 with some new lifelong friends from San Diego. We had a good dinner, honest conversations, and a sound pint at a local burger place, and then sought out the sweet strains of Bluegrass. Last year, it was Layla's Bluegrass Inn with a young but very talented band. This year, it was a jam session peopled by a number of very talented folks at the Station Inn. 

All Weekend Long: Evie's (and Lewis's) amazing food. I cannot say enough about the simple culinary delights of the fare we shared, so I won't try.

All Weekend Long: The people I stayed with. I didn't know Mark and Wendy before Hutchmoot, and they weren't even part of the event (they're my brother's friend's friends), but they were nothing but gracious, inviting, and caring all weekend long. They tolerated our irregular hours, gave us great meals, and provided wonderful conversation. They obviously believe in the Romans 12 type of hospitality. 

All Weekend Long: Hanging out with my big brother. Andrew has always been one of my heroes, so it makes me happy to spend time with him. From the time he picked me up on Wednesday night to the time he dropped me off on Monday morning, he was encouraging, kind, and really fun to be with. His enthusiasm is contagious, and he is extremely patient with my lack of navigational skills. Together, we saw the Parthenon, the Farmer's Market, a WWII landing craft, and some of the greatest people you'll ever meet. All this and more made me delighted to be able to spend the weekend with him.

From Now On: The life-changing consequences of this amazing event. It would be a shame to be there and see all the effort, love, and caring that people invested, and come away unchanged. The Lord used this weekend to teach me some important things. Hopefully, He won't have to re-teach them to me again very soon. (See Hutchmoot 2012 (Part 1: The Spiritual Stuff).)

Hutchmoot II: In Which I (Finally) Make It to Nashville

As you may remember, a dirty low-down debit card thief prevented me from attending Hutchmoot 2010. I am happy to report that no such thing occurred this year. However, my own sense of inadequacy very nearly had the same effect on my soul that last year's thief had on my wallet.

From the moment I walked through the doors of the venue, I was intimidated by what I perceived as greatness on every side. Some of my favorite musicians and writers were there, including Jason Gray, Andrew Peterson, Andy Gullahorn, Jonathan Rogers, A. S. "Pete" Peterson, and S. D. Smith. The first night, there was a show by the Square Peg Alliance, which was amazing. As I watched and listened to the music, I couldn't help but wonder what I was doing here.

I'm not a professional artist, or a writer, or a musician.  Even worse, I don't really have any intention of becoming one.  I work as a business analyst for a company that does third-party administration services for life insurance companies. I used to dream of singing or writing for a living, but those dreams fizzled out when I realized that you can't eat art or pay a mortgage with it.

So, at Hutchmoot 2011, I found myself playing the familiar role of a poser.  It reminded me of I Samuel 17, where David's brother Eliab accuses him of having a presumptuous, evil heart -- except, in my case, the accusation was justified.   I felt like a little boy who had abandoned his sheep to come down and gawk at the Giants.

I knew intellectually that this wasn't true. In his welcome speech, Andrew Peterson had made it clear that each person there was an important part of the community. None of the Square Pegs exuded haughtiness or a sense of superiority. I knew that I was a welcome person who had valuable contributions to make. But I'd be jiggered if I knew what those valuable contributions might be.

As I compared myself to all the great artists and thinkers who were gathered in that place, I had a  hard time believing that I was very important to anyone. Nonetheless, I played my role well, having paid attention in my junior high drama class.  In sessions, I tried to say Important-Sounding Things and nod my head sagely at the right times. To myself, of course, I was a phony, but that didn't stop me from putting on a good show.

In the end, what saved me from this dismal state was love. (This should come as no surprise, since love is all that saves any of us from anything.) In this particular case, it was Jason Gray's humble love for the people he was ministering to in Friday night's concert.

In some ways, Jason was the greatest giant of them all.  A bona fide Christian artist who gets airplay on Christian top-40 stations, a deeply spiritual man with a lot of challenging ideas about faith and godliness, and one of the most genuine, honest singer / songwriters I know of -- for me, being around him was like being around some sort of mythic hero.  And I was dangerously close to committing idolatry.

But Jason sliced through the mythos with his honesty, authenticity, and humility.  Rather than building himself up as some sort of CCM demigod, he treated his audience as a group of brothers and sisters.  He saw his role as leading us into worship, not as our superior, but as our fellow-worshiper.  Jason taught us parts to sing along with him, so we could join right in with him as he ascribed worth to our Father that night.  In short, he took the role of priest, not the role of idol.

During that show, some fleshly thing within me snapped.  Suddenly, I found myself truly believing what I had merely known before: This wasn't a contest.  I wasn't competing with others to see who was smartest, or most talented, or most successful.  I wasn't any less valuable because of my lack of artistic efforts.

That night, as I worshiped along with 100 other followers of Christ, I felt like I had become a true part of the community.

I could write a lot more about Hutchmoot.  I could tell you how amazing the sessions were, how incredible it was to listen to Sam Smith, Andrew and Pete Peterson, and Jonathan Rogers talking about literature, and how fun it was to play Settlers with Jon, Ashley, Todd, Jud, and Sherri.  However, others have probably said those kinds of things more powerfully than I can, so I won't belabor the point.

To me, the most wonderful part of this year's Hutchmoot will always be that moment on Friday night when I realized I am not just an inferior junior member of God's kingdom.  Rather, I am a true child of the Creator-King, and it is my birthright to engage in sub-creation.

I'm still working through the implications of that night, but I think one of its effects will be to encourage me to start writing again.  Too often, I have avoided writing for fear of failure.  I've told myself I would never become a great writer because I can't do it full-time.  I've let myself forget that I don't love writing because it might make me "successful"; I love it because of how it allows me to make beautiful things where there was nothing before.  God put that love in me, so He must want me to use it to the best of my ability.

To sum up: Hutchmoot 2011 taught me that, regardless of my insecurities and fears, I do belong in His family.  I can (and must) use my gifts to build His kingdom, and one of the ways I can do that is through writing.  So I will write.

It might take the form of more posts on this blog, or it may reside in a notebook for now.  Somehow, though, I am going to start working seriously and regularly at making beautiful configurations of words.  And if I do ever receive worldly success from these efforts, I must take care to use it like the shrewd servant in Jesus's parable, to get as much gain as I can for God's kingdom.