Why It [Hutchmoot] Matters

To sum up my most recent weekend and why it’s important to me, I’m just going to show you some pictures and let Sara Groves sing. These are not polished, beautiful pictures by any stretch, but if I waited for that I’d never post this. So here is my raw experience.

(press play and scroll down)


IMG_20151010_191454617Sit with me and tell me once again
Of the story that’s been told us
Of the power that will hold us

IMG_20151008_163853412Of the beauty, of the beauty
Why it matters
Speak to me until I understand
Why our thinking and creating

IMG_20151009_092302447_HDRWhy our efforts of narrating

About the beauty, of the beauty
And why it matters
Like the statue in the park
Of this war torn town

IMG_20151011_201817447IMG_20151011_111554815And its protest of the darkness
And the chaos all around
With its beauty, how it matters
How it matters

Show me the love that never fails
The compassion and attention
Midst confusion and dissension

IMG_20151010_175958439Like small ramparts for the soul
How it matters
Like a single cup of water
How it matters


Heard at Hutchmoot: Learning to See

Heard at Hutchmoot: A Series on Words From Our Weekend in Nashville

One of the sessions I attended at Hutchmoot was so overcrowded that they had to move it outside under the white tent on the church lawn.  David and I were a little late, so we found a seat towards the back. This would turn out to be a mistake. We should have pushed up to the front amongst the seat-savers.

The morning was still damp, but the first heat of the day was beginning to crawl over the grounds. A neighbor was out mowing his lawn, droning back and forth across the compacted dirt, weeds, and grass that made up the yard. The church air conditioner cast forth its pompous song, unyielding to the speakers, the crowd, or anyone who might try to hear anything nearby.

The session was led by Andrew Peterson and Jonathan Rogers, and was called “Writing Close to the Earth.” The topic was broad, but it focused mainly on creating in the midst of Earth.

That is a terrible way to say it.  Let me try some more and make it worse.

You know the phrase, “so heavenly-minded, he’s no earthly good”? As Christians we sometimes feel it necessary to lift our thoughts up above the earthly plane and relate on what we perceive as a more spiritual level.  We want to boil a story down and sum it up in a spiritually pithy little line.  We want a neatly-packaged lesson to apply.

However, this tendency causes us to miss the value in the everyday, “earthy” things.

(Like that lawn mower. And the church air conditioner, which is so loud that surely it should be cooling half of Nashville with its smug noise.)

Sometimes authors feel the need to sum up their meaning with a moral instead of letting the story speak.  Jonathan likened this tendency to that moment in “The A-team” when Mr. T would show up and tell kids to stay in school and not do drugs.

If you go on GoodReads, he said, you will find that most of the quotations people set aside to remember are those “abstractions” — the summary statements that make a moral assertion.  I am guilty of this habit. I have a Commonplace book where I keep quotes from things I’m reading.  My most treasured quote from Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River is “Exile is a country of shifting borders, hard to quit yet hard to endure, no matter your wide shoulders, no matter your toughened heart.”

(Enger’s book is not an example of over-moralizing, though. It’s a story first and thoroughly. )

The Christian community welcomes with open arms books and movies that preach at us didactically. Want a neat little moral tied up with a bow and a Bible verse? Look no further than the Christian fiction section. The suffering Amish heroine will both give her heart to Jesus as well as fall in love with the handsome, brooding Christian widower by the end of the book. The reader will come away with a happy feeling that everything will be happy in the end…or something like that.

If we are looking for an escape — an unrealistic one — we can look no further than those books.  Unfortunately life isn’t like that much of the time. Most of the time there are unfinished storylines with messy scenes of stumbling words and missed opportunities. At other times, there are flashes of beauty that can’t — and shouldn’t — be boiled down into a “moral of the story.”  What then?

As the session moved along, Andrew read to us excerpts from a Chesterton essay (“The Riddle of the Ivy”). One of the session attendees fought a valiant battle with the air conditioner and finally got it to sit still and listen for a minute. The neighbor completed his mowing, and the early autumn morning was quiet for a moment.

The speakers began fielding questions. Suddenly, a hawk, tail feathers vibrant in the sun,  descended from the sky and blazed into the trees behind them. A gasp erupted from the audience as we realized — that is what we miss when we over-moralize. Beauty that tells of a creator. Story that makes us see.

It takes focus, determination, and discipline to rise above the lawn mowers and air conditioners of the world and see the hawks. But oh, they are worth the effort.

Like Emily said, “…I don’t want my need for answers and connections to keep me from exploring story for the sake of the story and nothing more. Sometimes I write because I have something to say, and other times I write because I want to remember how to see.”

Heard at Hutchmoot: Shiny Things

Heard at Hutchmoot: A Series on Words From Our Weekend in Nashville

The keynote speaker at Hutchmoot was an author by the name of Leif Enger.  His most notable works are the bestseller Peace Like a River and So Brave, Young, and Handsome.

Leif gave us some encouragement to see from his life on a Minnesota farm.  He and his wife like to take walks at sunset when the weather is warm.  Leif usually carries some change in his pocket, and there’s a certain rock where he will leave a coin or two.

Why?  Because the crows like shiny things.  When the couple passes by that rock later on, the coins are always gone.  Leif said it gives the birds happiness to have shiny things in their nest, and it gives him joy to think of those coins making their way into trees around the property.


He said, “Look for the shiny things. Store them away.”

What’s a shiny thing for you?

A shiny thing this time of year is my husband’s faithfulness to turn on the Christmas tree lights early in the morning. The kids’ eagerness to shop for their siblings. The Behold the Lamb of God concert.

A shiny thing anytime of year is the light filtering through the trees a certain way. The smell of homemade soup. Times with friends when you laugh until you cry. Words from a familiar Psalm.

When I was eager to look at those crows as hoarders, Leif Enger turned that image on its head and said I should be a hoarder of shiny things.  Shiny things make us grateful to the Giver of all good gifts.

 Do not be deceived, my beloved brothers.  Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. Of his own will he brought us forth by the word of truth, that we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures. James 1:16-18

P.S. Those books mentioned above? Check them out. That man that my husband now calls his “friend” is a wonderful storyteller.

Heard at Hutchmoot: Solidarity of Mortality

Heard at Hutchmoot:  A Series on Words from our Weekend in Nashville

Friday evening at Hutchmoot, David and I sat down to dinner with the mysterious DKM.  If you meet the man in person, he does not seem all that mysterious, and he will even tell you his real name.  He also had a non-mysterious daughter with him, who was bright and funny in her own right.  We talked about his writing career, television shows, movies, and books.

DKM is the voice behind the Rabbit Room press book Subjects with Objects.  He teamed up with artist Jonathan Richter for the publication.  The book itself is hard to explain concisely; you should go read the interview or look at the samples in the Rabbit Room store — and then buy it.  I will only say that it is a great mind stretcher and conversation starter.

Without spoiling the entire book for you — because I think you should buy it, have I made that clear yet? — I will tell you that a concept it introduces is what DKM calls “the solidarity of mortality.”  The solidarity of mortality is that realization that every man, woman, and child on this earth will die at some point. As a result, we are all unified in that reality.

This indisputable truth should affect our interactions with other humans in some way.  It should cause us to look on with some sympathy people who might otherwise repulse us.  What if you knew that the person who is frustrating you today — yea, even that politician — would die tomorrow?  As DKM puts it, “We recognize something shared between us and we grieve for them, and then, in a mysterious juxtaposition, realize that we’re grieving for ourselves.”

you have never met a human soul

who didn’t feel the curse’s toll

who didn’t wish that death would die

– Andrew Peterson, “Day by Day”

Hutchmoot Souvenirs

I still haven’t unpacked my suitcase completely from last weekend’s trip to Hutchmoot.   Maybe I think that the spell will be broken if everything gets put away — that the conversations and richness of the experience will be shelved along with the new books we bought.

I don’t know why I fear that.  I cannot put away the souvenirs in my soul.  Moments from the weekend stand out as gracious gifts:

Our early arrival to Nashville due to the time change.  We forgot that Nashville is on Central TIme, so rather than show up at our host’s home early, we went to the Parthenon and walked around a bit.  David had been there twenty-some years earlier; I had never seen it.

Walking into Church of the Redeemer and being approached by Pete, the host of the weekend, asking if we’ve met before.  I should have said yes, because the entire weekend had that vague sensation of my having been there before.  A unique community has formed at Hutchmoot — one that says, “We are happy you’re here.  We know the Lord has brought you, and we can learn from you as much as you can learn from us.”  We were part of the family that they hadn’t met yet.

Looking across the table at Lanier Ivester, a woman whose writing I so admire, and having her tell me, “If you like to write, then you are a writer,” after I clumsily stammered my way around the question.  I’m not sure what the exact percentage is, but it feels like half the people in this crowd have published/recorded/done something amazing.  And yet humility permeates all, because everyone shares the recognition that the Lord gives gifts as He sees fit.  The Giver gets the glory.

The freedom to geek out and have people appreciate it: Shakespearean Star Wars.  A workshop on “Writing Close to the Earth” where I felt like my brain might explode, there were so many connections to Charlotte Mason education.  A film review of Man on Wire that sounded like poetry.  Hearing Keith Getty talk about the arduous process of composing new hymns and Kevin Twit talk about the arduous process of preserving old ones.  My cup overflows.

My first Anglican worship experience, and the realization that communion can be a loud, joyful, generous experience as well as a quiet, sober one.

Since I process as I write, I will probably be blogging more about the experience.  For now, I am content to express thanks.