I'm a bit late for Hallowe'en, but I finally got around to reading Pete Peterson's ghost story he posted a few months ago. It's wonderfully creepy, and I (who am normally pretty good at this) didn't spot the plot twist till the plot had already...er...twisted. Very reminiscent of Edgar Allan Poe in tone, and Arthur Conan Doyle in narration, with an extra dose of original Peterson folksiness and an unexpectedly redemptive storyline.
Silence in a Field of Yellow: A Ghost Story by A.S. Peterson.
Longish
Showing posts with label The Rabbit Room. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Rabbit Room. Show all posts
Friday, December 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Happy Thanksgiving
Andrew Peterson posted this hilarious poem on the Rabbit Room last Thanksgiving, and I laugh out loud every time I read it. It also rather convicts me of my own failings.
THANKSGIVING (A CONFESSION AND A PLEA TO THE ALMIGHTY)
O God, Magnificent Confounder,
Boundless in mercy and power,
Be near me in my apathy.
Be near me, Savage Dreamer,
Bright Igniter of Exploding Suns,
But not too near. I’d like to live,
By your grace, just long enough
To taste another perfect steak.
And to see my children marry,
And, perhaps, to pen a memoir.
Great redeemer of my lechery,
Bright Dawn of Blessed Hope,
Lay waste to every prideful thing,
Each black infraction of your law.
O Swirling Storm of Holy Anger,
Be patient with me. I’m certain
I will make a second gluttonous
Trip to the festal spread of food.
And I might as well admit, O King
Omniscient, I plan to make a third.
And that will lead to sloth, I know,
If only for the afternoon. Awake,
O sleeper! But not yet, not yet.
I want to dream a dream of light
In Heaven’s towering splendor.
I long, my Lord, to walk its streets
Or better yet, to drive them.
I’ve always wanted a motorcycle,
A cool one that blats and rumbles
Like a herd of flaming zebras.
I could totally impress the ladies
With my holy rolling zebra steed,
But only by your perfect pleasure,
Ruler of the angel armies, blaster
Of the horn of strength, would I ride
The golden highways awesomely.
O Wisdom of the Ages, speak!
Sing to me of secret knowledge
Open wide the gates of truth,
And let me learn it, by your grace,
Through the medium of television–
Smartly written situational comedy,
Perhaps, or an epic space opera.
Let me taste the honey of your word,
My beloved savior. Seriously. Save me
From my wit, my words, my songs,
My sin, my bad poems, my vanity,
My every single human impulse,
Except the ones I like and am able
To justify using my corruptible
Reason, my imperfect understanding,
And my belief in your inexhaustible
Forgiveness. When I awake, saintly,
I will consume a dish of pumpkin pie.
And, as I politely swallow a belch,
I will lean my heart on yours, Almighty,
To whom, alone, is due thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksgiving,
Longish
Neo-Mayberry, Middle of Nowhere, America (I really need a new sign-off...)
THANKSGIVING (A CONFESSION AND A PLEA TO THE ALMIGHTY)
O God, Magnificent Confounder,
Boundless in mercy and power,
Be near me in my apathy.
Be near me, Savage Dreamer,
Bright Igniter of Exploding Suns,
But not too near. I’d like to live,
By your grace, just long enough
To taste another perfect steak.
And to see my children marry,
And, perhaps, to pen a memoir.
Great redeemer of my lechery,
Bright Dawn of Blessed Hope,
Lay waste to every prideful thing,
Each black infraction of your law.
O Swirling Storm of Holy Anger,
Be patient with me. I’m certain
I will make a second gluttonous
Trip to the festal spread of food.
And I might as well admit, O King
Omniscient, I plan to make a third.
And that will lead to sloth, I know,
If only for the afternoon. Awake,
O sleeper! But not yet, not yet.
I want to dream a dream of light
In Heaven’s towering splendor.
I long, my Lord, to walk its streets
Or better yet, to drive them.
I’ve always wanted a motorcycle,
A cool one that blats and rumbles
Like a herd of flaming zebras.
I could totally impress the ladies
With my holy rolling zebra steed,
But only by your perfect pleasure,
Ruler of the angel armies, blaster
Of the horn of strength, would I ride
The golden highways awesomely.
O Wisdom of the Ages, speak!
Sing to me of secret knowledge
Open wide the gates of truth,
And let me learn it, by your grace,
Through the medium of television–
Smartly written situational comedy,
Perhaps, or an epic space opera.
Let me taste the honey of your word,
My beloved savior. Seriously. Save me
From my wit, my words, my songs,
My sin, my bad poems, my vanity,
My every single human impulse,
Except the ones I like and am able
To justify using my corruptible
Reason, my imperfect understanding,
And my belief in your inexhaustible
Forgiveness. When I awake, saintly,
I will consume a dish of pumpkin pie.
And, as I politely swallow a belch,
I will lean my heart on yours, Almighty,
To whom, alone, is due thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksgiving,
Longish
Neo-Mayberry, Middle of Nowhere, America (I really need a new sign-off...)
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
The Songs We All Knew
I tend to be a little star-struck when it comes to the small group of people I think are famous. There's a certain group of amazing Christian musicians in Nashville who congregate on a website called The Rabbit Room (after the Eagle and Child pub, of Inklings fame). I only discovered them two years ago, but since then, we have acquired six Rabbit Room books, ten or more Rabbit Room albums, and check in frequently on the site for new posts. The Rabbit Room's proprieter is a singer/songwriter/author named Andrew Peterson. He's such a household name with us that I can just say “Andrew said on Facebook earlier…” and the rest of the family will know exactly who I’m talking about.
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| Andrew Peterson on tour with Steven Curtis Chapman and Josh Wilson |
Last year, after I met Michael Card, I said "Now, I just need to meet Andrew Peterson, and life will be complete. " A few weeks ago, I did meet him (at a concert in Winston-Salem) and he signed my copies of his books. My life is not, in fact, complete, but as soon as someone sends me a private plane and tickets to The Hobbit premiere, it will be. Make it happen, readers.
The Captains Courageous (their unofficial name) were terrific live. Andrew, Ben Shive and Andy Gullahorn, (the other Captains) were hilarious, making fun of one another or providing the sort of witty banter than makes shows better than CDs. We were fifteen feet from the stage, on the front row. With each song came an amusing and interesting tale; not only is he a gifted songwriter, but Andrew's a real storyteller too. He's like our pastor, Don, who can tell a joke and have us all in stitches, but when I tell it the next day...blank faces. Some people are just Funny when they're talking about anything. See the The Cheese Song.
The Captains Courageous (their unofficial name) were terrific live. Andrew, Ben Shive and Andy Gullahorn, (the other Captains) were hilarious, making fun of one another or providing the sort of witty banter than makes shows better than CDs. We were fifteen feet from the stage, on the front row. With each song came an amusing and interesting tale; not only is he a gifted songwriter, but Andrew's a real storyteller too. He's like our pastor, Don, who can tell a joke and have us all in stitches, but when I tell it the next day...blank faces. Some people are just Funny when they're talking about anything. See the The Cheese Song.
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