Month: July 2025

Simmering

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A quick little book post while the split pea soup cooks on the stove.

49. The Work of Christ by Robert Letham. A wonderful book that was most suited to my recent meditating on Christ these past weeks. This book helped me think more clearly on all aspects of the work of Christ, but the parts that most ministered to my soul were the chapters on the atonement (what a surprise no!?). Oh how sweet it was to think and wrestle through what it means that Christ died for sinners! And while I say this book was very much an aid to my meditating on Christ and an encouragement to my soul, I must hasten to say that it is also a fairly academic work – and yes, a bit dry at times. Still though, I found this work most enlightening and not just in an intellectual way – it brought me closer to my Lord and filled my heart with joy and love as I considered what my God has done for me. The chapter at the end on the intent of the atonement was particularly cohesive and well written. The author did a fair job at grappling with various views of Christ’s work and attempting to give all sides a fair shake, but at the end of the day, his beliefs around Christ and his work hewed very closely to a traditional reformed view. There were a few elements of this that I slightly disagreed with (mostly the author’s statement’s on Christ’s kingdom work both now and in the future), yet still I cannot complain over much. This book brought me closer to my Lord and indeed gave me such joy as I meditated more and more these past days on His work for this world and yea, even for one such as me.

Scraps

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Sometimes I crave to write about the little things, the forgotten and the alone. Sometimes I feel as if the big and grand have been stretched to death and in the explorations of such it as if the details overtake the whole and thus the whole feels smaller somehow. Surely the universe contains more than my mind can comprehend yet still I seek to understand and perhaps I reach for that deeper knowledge that lurks beyond the veil. And so though I know – or least claim to know – the truths of what was and is and is to come, there are moments when I let go and simply rest in peace that the unknown by me is known by one and this knowing is the comprehensive kind that somehow finds room for me too. Yes, I speak of God. For who else is worthy of all my thoughts, the small and great alike? There is nothing greater that can be thought than the God whom my soul craves to know. And you know, do you know, of that which I speak? There is a whisper that speaks louder than all the screaming voices that flicker along the waves that crash upon the shore over and over again. This whisper comes from a voice that spoke before the world began, a voice that in the beginning spoke so that the world began. This word that existed in this time and space where there was neither is the word which now I lift my eyes to in awestruck love as I consider the love that is mine flowing down the side of him who died, in this word that was and is and is to come and this word that spoke my name and in this quiet moment as I consider the cosmos shaking truth that somehow in a sense i don’t fully understand this word died as lips spoke in simple unshaken faith that all was accomplished in a moment of time upon this earth as space held still in hushed humility to consider the work that was done on that patch of dirt upon that small forsaken hill and so I lift my eyes to the word that was lifted up for me. So long ago and yet not long ago as some would consider time to flow. And so because of what has been done for me, I rest my soul and so I can write about the little things, the quiet moments on the grass, the slowly flickering candle and the whir of the overhead fan and the traffic whirring down the road for even all these things point to a greater whole and a cosmos made and held together by a divine one who now sits upon the right hand of the majesty on high even if this world does not quite know – or rather refuse to know – that the lives of all are held within the hand of the one who created all things and then descended in shocking condescension so that some may behold his face. Now in faith I do behold him and I hope for that day when I shall look upon his face for true. I lift my voice to heaven and praise Father, Spirit, Son. What is it that the Godhead should consider me beloved? My eyes water at the thought and I tremble as I think on that day that blood and water ran out of a body that was given freely for me. And just so as that body died so too did it three days later rise to life upheld by the Father in triumphant resurrection glory and because I am through the work of the Spirit bound to Christ, I know that so too I have died and now in new life rise and in communion with God I live forever even if forever does not always feel that way. In faith I sing joyous praises. In hope I cry oh Lord Jesus come soon. In love I weep for divine favor. And I hear a whisper on the wind and upon the pages. My child, I died for you.

Intermediate Form

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A few book reviews.

47. Isles of the Emberdark by Brandon Sanderson. A fun read. Not great by any means, but this is far better than the last Sanderson I read, so I’ll take it! This book was a fascinating one, so much Cosmere everywhere and I feel as if my brain does not have the capacity to make all the connections I know are there. Very much feels like it is a support novel that will work inside the larger ecosystem of the next Mistborn trilogy, as well as move us closer to the last half of the Stormlight Archive. All that being said, was this a good book in and of itself? Well…yes and no. I still feel like Sanderson’s characters and plots feel a bit derivative and plastic these days. The main characters (even the draconic one!) just feel kind of blah? And the villain is cartoony to the max. Yet perhaps that was part of the point. I did love some of the new worldbuilding and connections that were made to the greater Cosmere, and there were a few lovely sequences (mostly in the latter half of the book). Sanderson continues to have some clunky sentences and word choice issues that takes one out of the moment. And there is very little subtlety and very on the nose philosophizing. And yes, another “crew” with diverse characteristics, a crew that the young female protagonist needs to win through her earnest empathy and praiseworthy devotion. Is this the third or fourth book Sanderson’s used that thread? Yet somehow I press on. This book did have some gorgeous art! And the quality of the book impressed – especially the dark mode! I am not really a fan of books that take place mostly in Shadesmere, but I appreciated the commitment to the bit with the physical book itself taking on its hues. Anyways, I feel as if I’m being too negative, but perhaps it’s just because I miss Sanderson’s older works. These newer ones feel sometimes as if they are pale imitations of what he used to write. Alas.

48. Little Labors by Rivka Galchen. An amusing little book about the joys, oddities, and pains of motherhood. Really a collection of observations and thoughts, as the author muses on motherhood, women who are mothers who are writers, and babies. I appreciated this one, even if at times I felt as if I had no possible way to relate to her words. Lovely writing and I appreciate the honest look into this author’s head, as odd as her thoughts are at times. But then…I shudder to think what my thoughts look like spilled out upon the page. We’re all a bit strange sometimes, no?

Has Rain Ever Sounded So Lovely she Says to Me this Night

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A Friday evening. One of my favourite times of the week. This night has been looked forward to and now I rest and sigh and pray in gratitude for these little pleasures that have been given me. Dinner is in the oven and of course it is suitable to the occasion. A roast chicken with potatoes, carrots and onions to accompany. About to find a symphony or some sweet tunes to match the mood. And then a candle lit and a book opened and the delightful wait until the metaphorical dinner bell rings. Across from me I see a smile slowly unfurling. And from outside the window, the rain lifts up its voice.

Ever Lovely

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A few thoughts on recent books this warm Sunday afternoon.

45. The Person of Christ by Donald Macleod. A profound work. If one is wanting to meditate more on the person of Christ, this book is a great treasure indeed. This book is one that I wanted to linger in, take my time in and enjoy, yet I couldn’t stop reading it because it brought me such great pleasure simply to think on the glories and majesty of Christ and who He is! I already can’t wait to read this again at some point (soon). It is dense at times and not always easy to wrap one’s mind around. Yet does that not make sense? We cannot fully understand all the deep mysteries of the nature of Christ, yet we try – and have tried for near on two millennia. This book unites several of my deepest passions – history/philosophy and Christ – so of course it is going to be a book that I love. This book showcases some of the beliefs regarding who Christ is and does a wonderful job of walking through the various arguments and debates that have swirled around such. The author does a fair job of presenting all sides of the argument, yet by and large he comes down on the side of the historically orthodox, even when these stances are difficult to fundamentally understand. At the end of the day, I rest in the statements made in Scripture itself, even when such seems to contradict what we think philosophically possible. I loved this book. It’s a bit heady and I don’t know if if it would be a suitable read for all. Yet if you want to challenge yourself and read a work on Christ that will truly make you think more deeply on who Christ is, I heartily recommend this one.

46. 11/22/63 by Stephen King. I think I just must not be a Stephen King fan. This is only the second (maybe third?) of his I’ve read and I’ve bounced off them every single time. Yes, they’re incredibly plotty and because of the subject matter, you do want to read through to the end. But this book just wasn’t doing it for me. I really think one of the main things this book has going for it is the plot point at its heart. Is the protagonist going to be able to save JFK from his grisly fate? And so of course, one races through the (very large) text to see what happens. With the exception of a few of the Jodie chapters in the middle – I loved reading about George and Sadie’s blossoming relationship and the kids at the high school, especially the play! – the reading experience was just not that pleasurable for me. King’s prose is merely workmanlike (word choice often obnoxiously repetitive) and though I know this is my issue, I really dislike all the strong and vulgar language used throughout. I don’t want to be putting this into my head and imagination. And of course, though the focus on the inhumanity of certain segments of humanity is one of the themes of the book (particularly in regards to brutal men), I very much dislike wallowing in such. Also, the evil of man shown throughout this work so strongly contrasts the glowing virtue of the protagonist, yet this contrast only highlights the undeveloped nature of said protagonist. He truly does seem like an angel, a bolt from heaven, grimly doing what must be done and yet what is his arc? Yes, he does cry again and yes, he does return to Sadie only when he has sacrificed his life with her. But it’s difficult to really see a real person behind the facade of Jake Eppings. I suppose if one simply wants a thriller, this book would satisfy. King does do a wonderful job at texturing his world and really getting across the feel of a place with all its grungy and wonderful details. Yet I simply couldn’t enjoy this one. I need to remember that King is not for me.

Correspondence

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Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.

Self Examination

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Cross-legged on the bed she sits
staring at the cursor that blinks in endless taunt
reminding her of all the lines she’s failed to write
and of all the momentous mementos that she’s lost
for now she forgets to look around her
when she’s sitting on the bus stop bench
yes there’s stories thick as forests in the muttering voices
but the only voices she hears now are those in her head
so what does it matter that her pen is dead
or more like it – that her notepad is white without a blemish
of messy scribbling in furious fantasy of that which used to be
so now she blinks in resignation as the tears start to fall
eyes wide open on the bed she lies

Treasure in a Field

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Writing a few words this warm grey day even though in the moment I fear anything I write will be without weight. For my mind flutters here and there, just as that butterfly about to alight from that rain sodden bough in search of a sweeter blossom. In earnest I seek truth that is just now peeking from beyond the horizon yet I wonder if I will have the eyes to see. For too often are my eyes blinded by the lights of nearer storefronts and the phones held aloft by those who flowing walk in syncopated patterns down this cobbled street. Maybe I just need to get outside this city and abandon all that I once held dear. Perhaps I just need to cry aloud to the God my fathers knew. For all I know the truth that will bring me nigh to heaven is written down in this leather bound book that I cannot help but still cling to. Have you ever heard a line in a movie or read a stanza in a poem that when it hits your mind it does more and penetrates your very soul? Some say they feel the goosebumps on their arms or some say they feel their hands tremble. For me I feel the water start to rise in the corners of my eyes and if I speak my voice cracks under the weight of that allusion to ancient myth. Somehow true and yet I question.

Fresh White Linen

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This grey Sunday, a few thoughts on my latest.

44. Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner. A monumental book. I remain supremely impressed at the mastery of the craft Stegner shows in his writing. This book took me a little while to sink into, but once I did? I was very much absorbed in the story of Susan Beecher Ward and of her marriage to Oliver Ward. For truly as much as her story is central to this tale, so too the story of the marriage of Susan and Oliver is that which holds center stage and providing a through-line around which all else rotates. I am of two minds about this book and in some ways find myself incapable of conclusively saying I love this book. While I can most certainly acknowledge the greatness of the prose in this one (so many individual lines and paragraphs were pure poetry, words simply leaping off the page in their unadorned beauty), I’m not quite sure if I entirely appreciate the framing device Stegner uses. Unfortunately I can’t entirely recommend it removed either, as I understand Stegner is attempting to analyze a character from a distance and he well uses the character of the narrator (Lyman Ward) to contrast and highlight both the alienness and beauty of Susan Ward and I am not sure the story of Susan would work quite as well in isolation. Yet, I did find myself quickly turning the pages whenever we were back to the present day. Capping it off, I found the grotesquerie and hazy dream space of Lyman’s own moment of truth a bit too pat in the light of the grandeur and tragedy of what we’ve just experienced in the life of Susan Ward. Yes, the last line of this book was perfect, I will acknowledge that. And the themes of forgiveness and reconciliation are such strong ones!! That last line, for real. So perhaps this book is truly a great one, as much as parts of it break my heart. Tragedy looms over much of this book and one wonders when the storm will break. It is near the end when finally all is revealed and it is worse than I could have imagined. Still though. Despite the tears and sadness, I did love witnessing in such intimacy the lives and marriage of Susan and Oliver. Oh what flawed beacons of humanity are they! This is a book that I’m very glad I read, although there are some parts that were difficult to read. This is a book that made me think about myself and my own choices and my own life and inward turn to reflect on the path I’ve walked that’s led me to the brink of this present day and the future horizon over which I look. I could also wonder if the bulk of the magic of this book comes from the letters excerpted throughout, which I’ve now discovered were the letters of a real woman whose real story mirrors so much of Susan’s life. Did that take away some of admiration of Stegner perhaps, to realise that he is simply crafting his story around a life that was already lived so brilliantly in the flesh? Perhaps. Still though, this was a story wonderfully told. Well worth the read.

Riptide

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She likes to write of the last horizon
the one that was only ever seen that once
everyone tells her she’s lying
but it’s true i was there
like the trees indrawn breath at the start of autumn
so too the breeze that day did something to my lonesome eyes
and as i thought of what it signified that the moment hung eternal
she grabbed my arm and in her eyes i saw the same thought that perhaps
God had chosen this moment of all moments to take us home
and the air caught in my throat and i felt the holy fire
and for a second we rested at the crest
until sound returned and the cry of the gull was heard
not yet my child not yet
she told me later that she knew in that moment she believed in God
for her mind in that space between the wallboards felt awe at what it knew
not in the solidity of earth or mountain or oaken forest
did she linger
but instead in the revealed promises of God made true
not many get to rest in the light of heaven
at least not in this tumultuous night
yet we all gaze off into the horizon
not many sit upon the grassy shore and count the dolphins
but remember beneath the waves how many swim