a rally cry for literary independence

I have an article up on The Curator today about A.S./Pete Peterson's amazing forthcoming novel, The Fiddler's Gun. As you will read, I enjoyed every single page.*

However, in my eternal curiosity about everything, I asked A.S./Pete** way too many questions to fit into my article. Sooo, here are some outtakes from our interview that I found particularly interesting . . .

Jenni: What did your parents do to turn you and Andrew into such good writers?

Pete: It’s funny how often people ask me that, and I still don’t know the answer. I don’t recall being read to at home more often than most kids or being taught any differently, but my Dad was, and still is, a preacher. For my entire childhood I was forced to go to church twice on Sunday and once on Wednesday and in general, I tried as hard as I could to hate it.

My Dad is a great speaker, though. He’s well-read and knows how to pack his sermons full of revelatory stories and illustrations from great literature. What I recall very keenly about my Dad’s sermons was the way he told his stories. He knew how to draw out dramatic pauses, how to vary his voice to build tension, and how to deliver an important line with passion. I was easily drawn into that kind of oral storytelling and from early on, I think I understood that stories were a means of making complicated ideas palatable - a way of saying more than one thing at once. I loved listening to those portions of his sermons and I think I’d be a fool to assume that they didn’t help to shape my own writing.

Who are your literary influences?

My earliest memories of being truly struck and amazed by a story go back to Tolkien. I must have read The Lord of the Rings twenty times before I was out of high school. In that same time period, I became a fan of Stephen R. Donaldson’s Thomas Covenant books which I’ve now gone back and read as an adult and am still amazed and moved by them. I think being so strongly affected by those two works early in my life was instrumental in the style of storytelling I prefer today. I’m very much drawn to books and movies and even music that revolve around characters who deal with an oppression of tragedy, pain, and darkness and yet despite the world around them and despite even themselves, they manage to find and cling to even the dimmest of lights.

As an adult, I see that same theme running through much of the literature I love: books like Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment; Jayber Crow and Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry; Hugo’s Les Miserables or The Hunchback of Notre Dame; Godric by Frederick Buechner; The Book of the Dun Cow by Walt Wangerin, Jr.; even movies like Magnolia, Children of Men, or The Shawshank Redemption.

I noticed this quote by Frederick Buechner on an introductory page of your book:

“The story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all.”

I also noticed that quote in the artwork of Eric Peters’s latest album, Chrome, and it resonates with me, too. Why did you share that quote with your readers?

It’s an invitation to see beyond the simple narrative of the story. One thing that separates a good story from a great one is the extent to which a reader is able to see him or her self in it. And it’s worth remembering that the reason we tell stories to one another is that they’re a means of communicating things that we might not know how to say otherwise - a way of showing another person who you are and what you think of the world around you.

Are you nervous at all that real books will one day disappear?

I have a Kindle and I love it. It’s great for traveling and taking my library with me, or for buying that new bestseller that I’m curious about but know that I won’t be keeping on my bookshelf. Electronic reading is something that’s going to become commonplace, there’s no doubt about it, but I don’t think books are going anywhere. In fact, I wonder if it won’t force books to be better designed, to be more of an art form. If a new book comes out with an ugly cover, cheap paper, and poor typography, why not buy the digital version? On the other hand, put out something that’s beautiful to look at, to hold, to smell, and feel the weight of in your hand, and I’ll buy the hardback any day of the week.

Any words of advice and/or encouragement for aspiring fiction writers (such as myself)?

First, read, read, read. And don’t just read good books. I’ve learned as much from reading bad books as I have from reading great ones. Sometimes it’s more important to understand what not to do.

And secondly, discipline. In Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, he talks about the 10,000 hour rule. It’s the idea that you’ve got to spend ten thousand hours doing something before you achieve mastery of it. That chapter of his book had a big effect on me. I realized that if I’m sitting around watching TV, every second I spend doing that I’m getting better at watching TV. So why not spend my time getting better at writing? Just like any other form of art, it’s a matter of practice. You aren’t going to be great the first time out, or the second, maybe not even the seventeenth. But by the time you’ve hit that ten thousand hour mark, you’ve got it mastered. Then you’re ready to do something that’s truly great. I think about that all the time. What would I rather be getting better at doing?


* - You can pre-order The Fiddler's Gun right here. I highly advise that you do so.

** - The author's dual name is explained in my article . . .

poison & wine

Since I've been watching this video literally nonstop on Facebook, I figured it would only be polite to share it with y'all, too. It's the making of "Poison & Wine" by a new favorite band, The Civil Wars; directed by Sam Ashworth, music produced by Charlie Peacock, filmed in the beautiful space that is the Art House in Nashville, TN.

Blogger shaved off the right edge of the video box ever so slightly, dang it, but you can click here to see the proper presentation if you're a visual soul like me. Enjoy the chills either way:



P.S. ~ Now I have two blog entries up my sleeve. Maybe three. No, really.

cinnamon walnut scones!

Lately, my fight for health and faith has been difficult again. I am weary to the bone. I'm often tempted to throw in the tea towel and give up, but deep in my soul I just can't. I wouldn't feel any better for one thing, and for another, I do believe yeast will lose this battle here soon, not to mention that I also still believe God is making my womb hospitable for bambinos (yeast toxins don't really get hospitality). And by "soon" I mean God's perspective of time at this point. 2+ years is not "soon" to me, but then again, God is God and I am not, glory hallelujah.

I'm heeding Anne Lamott's advice from a chapter in Bird by Bird:

" . . . a story that I know I've told elsewhere but that over and over helps me to get a grip: thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'"

Not only is this great writing advice, but I also find it comforting in regards to slow healing. "Do not be anxious about tomorrow." "Bird by bird." One day at a time, right? And all the while, God has this, as Johnny says. If I weren't a Calvinist, I might lose my ever living mind. Oh, and speaking of Calvinism, I insist that you read this beautiful meditation on the literary Calvinism of Marilynne Robinson by none other than Peter Leithart. Amazing.

So, our life is hard right now. Baffling. Exhausting. But sooo blessed. You know how I described the bounty of dietary simplicity in this Comment article? Well, it gets even better. Last night, my amazing husband marinated chicken in a tandoori masala paste (from a local Indo-Pak grocery store) and coconut milk. Then we feasted on that tandoori chicken, papadums (thank God for lentil flour), and mint chutney. Wow.

AND my Facebook friend Becki shared her almond flour scone recipe. I tweaked it just a little to obey doctor's orders, but I must say, yum! Scones! Baked goods ease the suffering a whole lot.

Cinnamon Walnut Scones

* Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Ingredients:
1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce (or erythritol)
4 egg whites
1/4 cup coconut oil, melted
1/2 teaspoon Celtic sea salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
A shake or two (or three) of allspice [I used pumpkin pie spice this time]
1/2 teaspoon cardamom [I used nutmeg . . . ]
2 3/4 cup Honeyville almond flour
1 cup walnuts, chopped

1. Beat applesauce, egg whites, and coconut oil.

2. Add sea salt, baking soda, cinnamon, allspice, and cardamom.

3. Stir in almond flour and walnuts to make a fairly stiff dough.

4. Drop by large spoonfuls on a baking stone or cookie sheet lined with parchment paper.

5. Flatten scone a little with wet fingers or spatula.
[I didn't do this - I like them fluffy.]

6. Sprinkle extra cinnamon on top before baking.

7. Bake 20-30 minutes until nicely browned, firm when a toothpick is inserted, and hollow sounding when tapped.

8. Cool on a rack. Will keep at room temperature for a week.

9. Serve warm with French pressed coffee or a stiff cup of tea. Enjoy, y'all.

[This photograph is rife with imperfections - click to see larger. . . . Like the fingerprints on the jar since I can't keep my grubby paws outta the scones. I don't care; I'm just happy to be playing with the camera again. I keep meaning to learn more about photography, but my writing and the forthcoming Art House America project top my to-do list right now. Such work keeps me quite busy, but it's a very inspiring kind of busy. I cannot wait to share more about the Art House project in good time . . . ]

the bounty of simplicity

I'm still working on that new blog entry for this space. Ahem. I really hope y'all can appreciate slow blogging as much as slow food. I'm a busy bee, as they say.

But I do have an article up on Comment's web site today ~ "The Bounty of Simplicity." (including Johnny's Rockamole recipe . . . )

I'm grateful for this opportunity since I'm a big fan of both the online and print versions of Comment, and also my fellow contributors: Alissa Wilkinson, Andi Ashworth, Charlie Peacock, Denis Haack, Gideon Strauss, J. Mark Bertrand, Makoto Fujimura, Margie Haack, Mary McCleary, and Rebecca Tirrell Talbot - to name only a few. Gulp. Such good company inspires me to improve my writing with every sentence.

Oh, and here's a photo outtake from my article:

Johnny is very proud of his Rockamole recipe, as he should be - it is yum-my. Rock 'n' roll, y'all.

on learning to see

[photo by Sam Plant]

Well, hello there. I have a new article up on The Curator today ~ "On Learning to See." Annie Dillard taught me how to see through her classic book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and I am forever grateful.

Now, don't faint from disbelief . . . I'm working on new blog entry for this space. My tempo has definitely changed, but I'm still a blogger. It's just more like slow food nowadays ~ slow blogging.

Happy weekend.

supernatural love

"Supernatural Love"
by Gjertrud Schnackenberg

My father at the dictionary-stand
Touches the page to fully understand
The lamplit answer, tilting in his hand

His slowly scanning magnifying lens,
A blurry, glistening circle he suspends
Above the word “Carnation.” Then he bends

So near his eyes are magnified and blurred,
One finger on the miniature word,
As if he touched a single key and heard

A distant, plucked, infinitesimal string,
“The obligation due to every thing
That’s smaller than the universe.” I bring

My sewing needle close enough that I
Can watch my father through the needle’s eye,
As through a lens ground for a butterfly

Who peers down flower-hallways toward a room
Shadowed and fathomed as this study’s gloom
Where, as a scholar bends above a tomb

To read what’s buried there, he bends to pore
Over the Latin blossom. I am four,
I spill my pins and needles on the floor

Trying to stitch “Beloved” X by X.
My dangerous, bright needle’s point connects
Myself illiterate to this perfect text

I cannot read. My father puzzles why
It is my habit to identify
Carnations as “Christ’s flowers,” knowing I

Can give no explanation but “Because.”
Word-roots blossom in speechless messages
The way the thread behind my sampler does

Where following each X I awkward move
My needle through the word whose root is love.
He reads, “A pink variety of Clove,

Carnatio, the Latin, meaning flesh.”
As if the bud’s essential oils brush
Christ’s fragrance through the room, the iron-fresh

Odor carnations have floats up to me,
A drilled, secret, hitter ecstasy,
The stems squeak in my scissors, Child, it’s me,

He turns the page to “Clove” and reads aloud:
“The clove, a spice, dried from a flower-bud.”
Then twice, as if he hasn't understood,

He reads, “From French, for clou, meaning a nail.”
He gazes, motionless. “Meaning a nail.”
The incarnation blossoms, flesh and nail,

I twist my threads like stems into a knot
And smooth “Beloved,” but my needle caught
Within the threads, Thy blood so dearly bought,

The needle strikes my finger to the bone.
I lift my hand, it is myself I’ve sewn,
The flesh laid bare, the threads of blood my own,

I lift my hand in startled agony
And call upon his name, “Daddy daddy”—
My father’s hand touches the injury

As lightly as he touched the page before,
Where incarnation bloomed from roots that bore
The flowers I called Christ’s when I was four.


P.S. ~ Totally unrelated, Man Shops Globe is my new favorite TV show. It is to me what Three Sheets is to Johnny . . .

nashville 2009

As we drove away from our house two Sunday mornings ago, I didn't know quite what to expect from our vacation. I had been to Nashville three times before, so I knew I loved the city. But would my health behave? Where/what would I eat? How would it go with meeting new people? And so on. I quickly silenced the uncertainties, remembering that we booked our flights, hotel room, and rental car with an impetus like that of Moses leading God's people to the Promised Land. I didn't know exactly what awaited us, but I knew it would be good.

We popped Matthew Smith's The Road Sessions in the CD player to listen to "O Holy Dove, Return" on repeat. I walked around the airport wide-eyed, having forgotten what it was like to fly. I was reunited with the good and the bad. I looked down at my stinky bare feet as we went through security at a snail's pace, a glimpse of hell for sure. We sat near a window at our gate watching men prepare our Continental Express plane. I also people-watched, wondering if any of those folks might appear on the pages of my future novel. Like the old man with retro black-framed glasses, arm tattoos, an impressive gold belt buckle, and a bolo tie. He looked a whole lot like Johnny Cash's Dad, and his wife had big hair. Or the young Dad wearing awesome black cowboy boots, immersed in a paperback. I began to breathe, Nashville or bust.

Before I knew it, we were up in the air. It had been too long, so I had some trepidation about every single sound - the wheels, the engine, and so on - but seeing as Johnny looked calm, I relaxed. If I trust God to bear me up daily, and to send healing in His wings, I had to trust He'd do the same in an airplane. I looked out the window and wow.

[iPhone]

As one who gazes upward quite often, it was something else to be so close to that color blue, and the strong, tame cloud-beasts that God rides upon. Other clouds were the topography of a dream: mountains, desert plains, hill country & the High Countries, rivers, cities, cliffs, and a vast white sea. I read the Bible, listened to music on my iPhone, and attempted to journal amidst a few minor bumps in the air. But mostly, I just looked at that sky. That day there was no miracle greater than a hunk of metal hurled up in the air.

We landed in a gray Nashville, but not even rain could dampen my mood. I was suddenly very happy to be back in Tennessee. Plus, isn't rain a Biblical symbol of blessing? While Johnny retrieved our bags, I sat in a white rocking chair munching cashews & drinking iced green tea. Some things never change, huh? A bit tuckered, I moved my sitting to the floor while my husband snagged our powder blue rental car. Kierstin called to make sure we arrived safely and knew where to grab lunch - hospitality flows through her veins. I could hardly wait to see her the next day.

We settled into our room on the 4th floor of the Millennium Maxwell House hotel, a letterpress print of Loretta Lynn hanging above our bed. (A print of Minnie Pearl hung behind the desk in the lobby.) Is anyone surprised that Johnny's Priceline efforts produced lodging with a brand of coffee in their name? I was not.

We met the Russell family at Fido that evening. Afterward, Rann took baby Finn home for bedtime, and Kristin took us to their Church - The Village Chapel. It meets in a beautiful old convent where Kierstin & Jeremy had their wedding reception. I was in the wedding, and 'twas good to be back in that amazing room full of fun memories and the location of one of my favorite photographs of me and Johnny.

The Village Chapel was a lovely way to kick off our vacation: an opening collective liturgical prayer, good hymns, prayers led by Kim Thomas, and a great sermon by her husband, Pastor Jim Thomas. Come to find out, Kim is a talented painter who created the artwork for the City on a Hill albums; they are both authors, too. Kristin introduced us to them and a few others as, "This is Johnny and Jenni; I met Jenni on Facebook!" You should've seen the look on their faces. I have to say that for all the horror stories you hear about creepy people on the internet, I somehow met the most amazing people online, mostly through Facebook as I've been slowly healing from a mosaic of health issues. I look at these people as manna in the desert of waiting. It's not like I could have cultivated a busy, robust social life while so sick. I happen to think that Facebook is a very positive medium, but like anything else, you have to balance your time accordingly. Plus, I really like what Andrew Peterson said in an interview:

"I think Facebook is our culture’s answer to the disappearance of the close-knit, small town community. Finding out on Facebook that so-and-so has a cold, or stubbed their toe, or is reading a certain book is the 21st Century equivalent of strolling the town square or having pancakes in the diner. It’s small talk. And small talk is okay. You wouldn’t necessarily call your friend to find out if his toe got stubbed; it’s just nice to know. The thing is, even small towns have secrets. I know because I grew up in one. There were murders. Suicides. There was bigotry and alcoholism and despair. Beneath the surface is the same darkness you see on the news in big cities and war-torn countries. Small talk doesn’t address that secret loneliness. Neither does marriage, for that matter. Only Christ can. Only he has the power to step in and throw back the curtains."

Kristin gave us a great tip for dinner - Jackson's - and I enjoyed a grilled salmon salad, marveling at the open windows and cool breeze. See, we don't do that in humid Houston with the exception of a few cool months. I really wanted Twinkie beignets, but that'll have to wait until our next trip to TN. We walked around the corner back to Fido, passing a man playing accordion and beating a drum with his foot. (Johnny was not impressed. He's not really into street performers.) I ordered chamomile + peppermint tea to-go for a nightcap.

The next day, Johnny drove out to Franklin to deliver Texas' own Central Market hatch green chile salsa to a former Texan, Rev. George Grant, then he worked out in the hotel gym. I spent the day with Kierstin doing what we do best - meandering. It had been way too long since her wedding festivities five years ago. I'm forever grateful to have stayed in touch with her and a few other gals I worked with in Houston - I believe we're all lifelong friends - but I miss them so. The internet has been a blessing in this way, too - Facebook, e-mail, iChat, and the like (we do snail mail as well).

So, we started at Crema, Kierstin informing me that that is the best coffee in town. I really liked the size of the place (similar to Antidote) and I could tell they were serious about coffee. Also, they served creative espresso drinks. Had I been able to do sugar, I would have ordered the concoction with coconut milk, cardamom, simple syrup, and lime in a heartbeat. Kierstin insisted I bring Johnny back that evening, and I made an oath, sipping the last dregs of an amazing dark roast.

We drove back to Hillsboro Village (where Fido is) which I've loved since my first visit to Nashville. We had plans to quickly hit Pangaea and Bookman/Bookwoman as Kierstin had limited time before picking up her son, Eli, from school. Well, I foiled our schedule by asking if we could step into Davis Cookware. It had a promising storefront with "Coffee Club" painted on the red brick wall outside. It was the kind of little store you'd want to leisurely roam around since the inventory was not really organized - it looked as if the owners just set the pots, pans, utensils, and coffee/tea apparatuses here and there, or better yet, threw them on the shelves. We saw bags of good-looking coffee, but not the bulk tea. I made the mistake of asking one of the owners, just where is this tea? Now, he was very kind and I appreciated the knowledge of his wares, and the small town feeling of a long conversation. I mean, he really knew his tea and talked forever. He also bounced the entire time. Not sure why. Part of his tea dissertation was fascinating (to me), but we really didn't have another minute to spare, so we bid him goodbye as quickly as possible.

[iPhone]

We did step into the beautiful used bookstore that is Bookman/Bookwoman for just a minute, but when I didn't find any Wendell Berry on the double-stocked shelves, I made a mental note to return there with Johnny, too. Dying of hunger, Kierstin took me to her favorite Greek place, Kalamata's. Hummus? Yes, please. It was very yummy, and so, so good to just talk with my faraway friend face-to-face. To make it even better, instead of dropping me off at the hotel as we'd planned, she "kidnapped" me to pick up Eli from school. On the way, we passed a legendary restaurant recommended by Mary McCleary: Loveless Cafe. However, Kierstin said that I probably couldn't eat anything there this time around since they serve delicious Southern food including pies and biscuits. So she talked me into being a dork instead:

[iPhone]

Oh my sweet Lord, Eli was even cuter in person than his photographs. It was the most amazing thing to watch my cute pregnant friend (due in November!) be a Mom. She's a natural. Eli didn't know what to think of me at first, but I'm happy to report that we became friends within the hour at Trader Joe's, which he called "the sample store." Dear Houston, why do we not have a Trader Joe's?? I gobbled down the unsweetened/unsulfured dried Bartlett pears and I'm already craving more. I can tell the one package of lavender dryer bags won't last long, so I'll need more of those, too . . .

My husband picked me up at Trader Joe's and we returned to Crema, already feeling like honorary regulars. Johnny took a tip from Kierstin and ordered the Cuban: espresso and sweetened condensed milk. I took a sip - wow-ee. We chilled for a bit, returned to the used bookstore to browse, then over to one of my all-time favorite shops, Pangaea. I purchased an Indian-esque headband and vanilla grapefruit incense before I looked around any further and depleted our budget. Perhaps I should have selected that wooden peacock (in honor of Flannery) for our fireplace mantel, but the incense does smell good.

We had a hankering for Indian food and through the glory of the iPhone, we found Bombay Palace in the West End area of the city. We truly feasted. Johnny ordered the best lamb rogan josh he'd ever had (his words), and my tandoori salmon was one of the best things I've ever put in my mouth. The kind waiters ladled food onto our plates. Soft tabla music played in the background and a candle glowed on the table. I couldn't eat naan (bread), but I ate a lot of papadum (made with lentil flour), and their iced masala tea hit the spot. After my diagnosis, I avoided Indian food restaurants for a long time because I missed creamy dishes like chicken tikka masala too much. But lately, God has inspired me to think a bit more creatively about food. Really, I still think about that tandoori salmon; I wasn't missing anything.

On Tuesday, we drove out to the Art House to meet Andi Ashworth and her husband, Charlie Peacock. Believe it or not, I also met Andi via the internet. I read her book - Real Love for Real Life - a few years ago and sent her an e-mail or two. I'm very inspired by her vision of "the art and work of caring." She kindly replied and we bonded over our bookish preferences. So I was over the moon when our travel plans were in sync with Andi's & Charlie's busy schedules, and grateful that they invited us to the gorgeous old Methodist Church they've renovated into their home, Charlie's studio, and a transitional space for film screenings, concerts, artist retreats, and many other creative events. They gave us a tour and I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped the entire time. I used to literally dream about living in an old Church, so it was surreal to walk around the geography of my dreams. Andi prepared a delicious meal according to my strange diet, but everyone else liked it, too: an amazing sausage stew, salad, bread (for the others), and fresh fruit & nuts for dessert. At times, simple, healthy meals are the very best. The stew was so good that their son kissed Andi's cheek and said, "Thanks, Mom. This was amazing, like medicine." Really, that's true of just being in the Art House - a very inspiring, peaceful, healing place.

[photo by Charlie Peacock]

After lunch, Johnny and I sat in the big main room with Andi & Charlie and discussed a project I'm now working on for the Art House. Yes, I'm überexcited. Andi served tea and we decided that life is too short for weak tea - we both brew a bit longer than is suggested. Oh, and Andi even had the coconut milk beverage I use as creamer on hand - she understands that coffee, which we had earlier, has to be "just right." Can you believe it? So kind. I made a mental note to be that thoughtful with guests in our home.

It was a blessing to sit and talk with two people I've admired for a long time. I know good and well that such opportunities are rare - very literal gifts. We had a little time to kill before driving to the Casellas' house for more coffee (ahem), so Andi & Charlie invited us to stay for awhile and just relax. Andi described part of her vocation - hospitality - in her book, and she and Charlie really live that out. They both have encouraging, kind spirits, and Andi has a very calming personality as well. She listens so selflessly, a reminder to slow down and listen to Johnny and those around me, and that very possibly, there aren't any interruptions in life. We need to focus on who and what God puts before us. Johnny and I were actually sad to leave these new friends, but we shall see them again for sure.

[Andi & Johnny via the iPhone]

We set out through gorgeous tree-covered hills toward the Casellas' house on the outskirts of Nashville. That may be the thing I miss the most about the Nashville area - those hills, especially during autumn. We drove through their peaceful, charming little town abounding with front porches and rocking chairs. I've seen photos on Kierstin's blog, but words cannot describe the beauty of their old house. Their hard work is evident, but even the works-in-progress are beautifully rustic - it's like walking around history. Thankfully, my Mom did not disown me when I reported that I didn't take any photos of Kierstin's home. (I didn't have the heart to tell her that I also forgot to pack our real camera.) I have a very good reason: at this point, Eli had warmed up to me completely and kept handing me his favorite toys (including a wooden plank), and running around making all of us laugh. And he entertained us in Jeremy's Map Room-studio, performing "It's a Beautiful Day" and other U2 covers. He has his own little guitar case and everything.

[iPhone]

We hopped in the Casellas' car for a short tour of their town and oh my, was more beauty to be found. We drove through an amazing tree tunnel much to Eli's glee. We smelled tabacco in the evening air. We rolled down the windows and Eli kept asking, "But where are we going??" Jeremy had been pret-ty sick just the day before, and Kierstin that very day. But when we arrived, they swore up and down that their health had taken an upswing and kindly invited us to stay for dinner, this after the most amazing Peet's coffee. Eli in bed, they prepared yet another delicious feast according to my diet: hickory-smoked kabobs, sauteed veggies, and a sundried tomato salad (and Shiner for the guys). Jeremy knows his tea, too, so he prepared an English-style teapot of Harrods Assam for my nightcap. In fact, he sent me home with the rest of that Assam since he didn't really care for it. We stayed up late talking and laughing and drove back to our hotel sleepy, happy, and thankful for good friends.

The next morning was our last in Nashville, but oh, what a day. We met the lovely Katy Bowser at Crema (our 3rd time now) and she handed me a beautiful gourd from her garden! I'm telling you, I kept receiving all manner of gifts on this trip. I still can't decide whether I want to eat that pretty Shishigatani pumpkin or not. Katy tells me that some folks in Japan believe it gives yearlong health, so I might. I mean, I need all the health I can get.

Katy and I have decided that as writers, we do much better with the writing than the speaking, but it was a treat to hear her brilliant thoughts live, so much so that the three of us migrated to Marché in East Nashville for lunch at Katy's, Kierstin's, and Andi's strong endorsement. What a lovely place and a delish custom omelette.

We discussed Twilight which Katy loves, and The Book of the Dun Cow (thus I'm reading it now), and she literally stopped eating when I said I haven't read any of the Harry Potter books yet.

"Did you just say that you haven't read ANY of the Harry Potter books??" she said.

See? I assured her that every single one of those books are on my to-read list, right after Dun Cow. Then she calmed down. Our time with Katy was way too short - you could spend the entire day with her and become a better person. We all hugged goodbye and off to the airport Johnny and I went. We flew near another beautiful cloud-laden sky, and landed in the city of our home sweet home. Nashville, we already miss your country ethos, so we'll be back. Mark my words.

So here I sit, once again feeling puny, but I know good and well that more surprises are in the works for me and Johnny, more than my faithful imagination can muster this rainy night. Who knew that after basically sitting on our brown couch for two years, focusing on one Curator article at a time, that God would double my work load with the Art House, and a few forthcoming Comment articles. I sure didn't. Grateful doesn't cover it. Chronic sickness can make life look one way, when really, God is creating and restoring life in another way entirely. Sometimes we just have to get out of the house to see it. It's like Edith Schaeffer said:

"Our Heavenly Father is in the midst of preparing fantastic surprises for His children while they are suffering difficulties now."
[--from A Way of Seeing]

Ain't that the truth.

[not the iPhone]

the liturgy of a neighborhood

[holy water ~ click to see larger]

Well, our vacation in Nashville was amazing. I'll blog about it next week. Today, I have a new article up at The Curator: "The Liturgy of a Neighborhood." Happy reading, I hope . . .

And enjoy The Curator's facelift ~ Alissa did it again. She's pretty much the best.