A bare few words here this cold Friday morning. I was hoping I’d have time to write something profound and sweeping and glorious and in actuality I did have the time. Alas, I am at times my own worst enemy and instead of writing I found my thoughts bobbing here and there and my focus slipping as I darted to and fro on the interwebs instead of attempting to write a few words here. Now attempting to salvage, though I fear it will simply be a life raft floating on the dying waves. Anyway! Does one have to write of a morning to make it a worthwhile one? I say not, most certainly invested in the answer – as most mornings I of course do not! So I shall rest in this day and look forward to seeing what God has in store for me his child. It is a good day, that I declare in full confidence and humble expectation. Perhaps I shall write a few words later today or maybe even this weekend. We shall see. But whether I write or not, still know that my face is still turned up in gratitude to heaven and that my heart beats in time with the song of angels. Peace, my friends. Peace and love.
Month: March 2026
Shades of Grey
Hello friends!! Tuesday afternoon here. A few words on my latest books – not many I promise! – and then it shall be walk time, even if it is ridiculously hot and sticky this mid-March day.
14. The Passion According to G.H. by Clarice Lispector. What even do I say about this one? A profoundly weird book, I enjoyed it in part but most certainly not in its totality. I doubt I could even recommend it to anyone because I just don’t know anyone who could take the strangeness and come out unscathed. Oh but perhaps that is the point? One is not supposed to experience this book and not be different on the other side, methinks. Anyway. I won’t spin my wheels too much here. My favourite parts of this book was the wordplay and the absorbing rhythm at which the author spins her tale. The book fairly thrums with a high intensity sense of longing. There are stretches in this book which thrill in the way in which the author constructs a train of thought. I honestly don’t know how one can write in this way. I think perhaps I’d love to read her poetry for at the end of the day, the stream of consciousness which runs through this novel is poetic in a way which feels almost effortless, though I’m sure the author travailed over this book with much blood, sweat and tears. This is a good book, to be sure. But just maybe not one for me. There are philosophical underpinnings which make me quirk an eyebrow and wonder what exactly the author is getting at. Her thoughts are veiled at times and I wonder if the titular G.H. is an aspect of the author or simply a handy voice to ponder deeper truths that may be at odds with the accepted wisdom of the age. It is a work to behold and perhaps some of you may enjoy this one. The writing is beautiful and the way in which the author utilizes language is truly a marvel. If perhaps I had a bit more comprehension I too could peer over the heights of pretension and join the narrator at a spot unbidden and gaze myself over the deserts that call me back to my ancient home. But if we acknowledge an ancient home we too acknowledge the fruit that we ate that took us from it and though I wish to discourse myself on many things I fear my ability to do such is not quite up to the skill the author wields with such peculiar joy. I both loved and loathed this book. I think the author would approve.
15. Tom Lake by Ann Patchett. I enjoyed this book in the moment though less so as I reflect back now. It is a very easy read and the narrative pulls you forward swiftly, even as you lean forward with the girls in earnest, eager to hear the next part of the tale their mom has finally resignedly decided to tell. Possible spoilers ahead. The characters are lovingly drawn and there are parts of this book that I truly loved despite the trauma that marked this book in parts. I think my favorite parts of this book were simply witnessing Lara and Joe and their daughters living and working and talking and laughing and crying even as they spend their time working the orchard and wrestling with their past. I could have spent most of the time with them in fact! Maybe that makes me a bit akin to Peter Duke, one who recognizes the most unusual peace and beauty at that place and feels it to be home even though he only walked that land but twice. I did think this book was well written and did enjoy the craft of the writer as she tells a story about a girl who becomes a woman and experiences a life that seems as foreign to me as to her daughters. There were a few things that bothered me, of course. I have decided I don’t like Covid books. As much as it’s subtle, even reminders of that time irk me and especially looking back at it, it frustrates me to see all the follies of that era laid bare again. There are also a few character moments and choices that made me sigh, though I recognize they are common to this age so I should not be surprised. It makes me sad to see Emily’s fierce opposition to bringing children into the world. Though I do understand the sentiment and even know people who share it, it will never not make me sad. Though perhaps there I stand with Joe and Lara. And then of course the abortion at the end was handled with such brevity and obvious approval, it made me want to weep. I do so hate abortion. But is this not a reflection of the times and mores which even now hold sway? I suppose so. So as much as parts of this book grieved me and as much as I don’t think I’d read this one again, I am still glad I read it. There are reflections in this book that are truly lovely and I’m grateful to read about a family in which there is such fierce love for one another.
Waterfalls
I don’t know what I want. I long expected to hear those words from her lips but even so, the moment stuns me a bit in its rawness. I feel a crackle through the air and I feel the sudden urge to sneeze, the same urge that springs upon me in those pivot points of life. So too here, as the air fairly shimmers with possibility. She turns to me in faintly disguised anguish, eyes wet. I know I’ve kept you waiting, I know the ball’s been in my court for oh far too long. But what was I supposed to say? You wanted to hear me say I love you? I couldn’t and I can’t still. But there is something here, I know it and so do you. And I fear if I shut it down and let it go, there will be regret someday. Does that make me selfish? Don’t answer that, I’ve already punished myself enough for not being able to make a choice. Decision paralysis. That’s me and not even the excuse of immaturity. Also don’t answer that. I reach my hand across the table, a mute reminder of my initial question. Although it seems perhaps now is not the time. I draw back. She bites her lip as we both stay silent and I hastily take a sip of tea. She takes a deep breath and puts her hands to her face as if to delay the moment a little longer. I hear the rain patter on the cobblestones outside and think that I will always remember this August afternoon.
A Day Arises She Sings Once Again
I really must write more. It is early Monday morning here in the flat and I have been perusing old entries and it has perhaps put me in a nostalgic mood. Also I have noted how my writing style has changed and morphed over the years in both content and form. For better or for worse? I shall leave others to say. But it is certain that in the past my entries used to be a bit more proper journal style and now, well…it seems that only my poetical or grasping creative fancies are what I decide to pour out on this screen. Oh, and book reviews of course. Never forget the book reviews! I wonder what it is, this slight drawing back, this pulling the curtain over my face ever so slightly. It perhaps reflects my growing, maturation dare I say? Maybe it is an acknowledgement that the internet is not quite as young and innocent as it was back in the day. Of course it never was, but I was more naive back then. Now, if I share on here, it feels riddles is the order of the day. Wade through enough metaphorical language and you may glimpse my heart. I know not all the reasons yet still it is fascinating to wonder.
And now my mind drifts as my fingers wander and I think perhaps it’s alright that I don’t write of my days in detail as I once used to do. Though I’m grateful for the chronicling of the past and the memories that now float through my mind for it spurs thoughts of gratitude and joy. Gratitude to the God who has blessed me far more than this young man could ever have hoped to dream. Joy for the life this same God has given me – a life poured out as offering devoted to the One who holds my hand yet a life blazing forth full of light from that same God who fills me in ways I most likely won’t ever truly comprehend. I am a broken vessel, a clay pot. Who am I to show forth this brilliant glory? Who am I to write down this achingly beautiful song? I bow my head in praises to the One who made me, to the One who called my name.
Perhaps I shall write more of my life in the future. Perhaps not. But I’m grateful for the thoughts that flood my being and the emotions that well up within.
Prophecy
raindrops on roses and
you know the rest she laughs aloud
i do but i like hearing you sing it
your harmony sounding out
it brings a richness that contrasts greatly
with the mundanity that so often abounds
she rolls her eyes of course
but then i see them sparkle
and once again her sweet voice sounds
as we sit on the old back porch
and let our fingers touch again
Barabbas
sometimes i wish i had another calling
far too often these days of late as the sun slides closer to horizon’s embrace
my heart has sprung up with a yearning my mind does not know how to answer
do you hear the music too?
or is it all just in my head
keeping time with the footsteps that continually sound from above
i see you sighing and in a moment perhaps i’ll slide down to your end of the couch
for now i let my fingers wrap around this mug and i breathe deep and wonder
for the thousandth time why me
this prisoner exchange that i ponder, that he might die so that i might go free
it’s too much really for such a poor one as i
and as i tilt my head and think on it i can’t help but begin to cry
you notice but pretend not to politely or so it seems to me
your head burrowed a little deeper into your kindle
my head bowed over this cup of strong black tea
Piano Mornings
One more little book review this Friday morn.
13. How To Lead Your Family by Joel Beeke. A wonderful little booklet on how a man should and ought lead his household. This is a book that I really think I should revisit every year or so as an encouragement and reminder of what God has called me to. It was wonderfully refreshing to read such clear and simple exhortation and meditate on my role as a husband (current) and father (not yet). It is a very little book and could easily be read in a sitting, though I stretched it out over several days. The chapters are structured over the familiar prophet/priest/king paradigm and though helpful as a structure, they mainly aid in helping one think of the different aspects in which a man may properly love and lead his family. I realised as I read how very far I am from loving my wife in the way Christ loves his bride, yet too it was encouraging to remind myself and meditate on the way that Christ has loved us and so of course in the same way I am called to love my wife and it’s almost staggering to sit under this awesome responsibility and I feel humbled that I have been called to such a task. The author writes with tenderness and grace, aware that we are not perfect and that we are weak in so many ways. Yet he does not thus excuse us from fulfilling the commands that have been given to men. We are not called to passivity and ease. No, men are called to actively lead and love and take initiative in caring for his family, spiritually above all (though not solely). This book did not say anything that I hadn’t heard before, yet somehow I found my soul blessed as I was reminded anew of what my God has called me to. This shall certainly be a re-read for me.
All Glory Be to Christ
Hello friends! A quick Thursday post. Well, at least I think it will be quick! Thought I’d write a few words on books, as is typical more often than not these days. If I have time after that, may try to write some creative words too. We shall see! Peace and love, one and all.
11. The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods. I picked this one up quite some time ago and it’s been sitting on my shelf for ages sadly unread, but finally I picked it off the shelf and gave it a go and…it’s alright? I regret to say that I didn’t really love this one. I’ll blame part of it on me and my preconceived idea that this was going to be a silly fun whimsical tale with lots of books and at least a little magical realism. Well, some of the above is true. There were lots of books and even more fun booklore (and in fun coincidence, Wuthering Heights and its author played a prominent role, making me think I should read it again instead of going to see the movie that just dropped) and yes there was magical realism too! But the whimsy was not quite. Again, maybe this is my fault, but I wasn’t quite expecting there to be so much trauma and sadness in this book and I guess I just wasn’t really in the mood? So this book was fine. Characters a bit flat and the various perspectives felt like they were all from the same person. But that’s probably me being overly critical! Still not a terrible read, but just not one that really worked for me.
12. The Christian Life by Sinclair Ferguson. A beautifully simple and profound work on the basic doctrines of the Christian faith. I much enjoyed reading a chapter or two of this one every day and reminding myself of God’s work in my life and what He has called me to! Much of this book may seem simple to some, but I think it’s most important to spend time continually reminding ourselves of the fundamental truths of the gospel and the realities of our life in Christ. This book walks through the progression of the Christian life, beginning with who we are before we know the Lord, following up with the work of God as he draws and calls us to himself and creates us anew that we would follow Him and walk in newness of life even as we look forward to resurrected glory that awaits us in that eternity that we shall be with our Lord. Oh how good is it to think on such things! I love Ferguson’s frequent Scripture references of course, but also enjoyed his excerpts from other authors and frequent quoting of hymns!! It is good to read a book that points one to the glories of the gospel. I need to read more such.
Alley Cat
Hello friends! A little Sunday afternoon writing extravaganza – or perhaps more of a small digression on the ordinary – and I’m really not sure why I’m writing other than the fact that I do happen to have a bit of time and I felt it would be silly to waste it. Hence laptop open and all that. I really don’t have much to write about but from time to time it’s important to leap headfirst into the chasm without the benefit of any sort of extraction plan. It’s a bit freeing and even beneficial, I would argue, for strengthening the creative muscles that too often can lay dormant as one lazes about here and there. But now, in actuality, I am writing far too many words on nothing as a vacant look begins to grow in my eyes. I allow my imagination to wander afield but now I think I’ve lost her and wherever she is now, I suppose there isn’t any signal. It is a shame, really, when I think of all the wasted moments when I’m driving on the highway and my muse sparks to life. I construct a cathedral of perfect images and the moments that cause one’s heart to stutter in awe and disbelief. But that super structure is ethereal of necessity and given enough time – say, the ten minutes more it takes for me to complete my drive and pull into a parking space – the distractions of what some call real life creep stealthily in and before I know it, I see a puff of smoke upon the wind and pronounce in subdued tones the burial rites for that which may possibly be the greatest creation ever to grace the alleyways of my mind. Now though? I write about all and sundry in part just to drive away the growing dread that I have nothing of worth to say. At least I’m writing I tell myself. At least the words are pouring forth and if no one judges them to rank high in profundity at least no one accuses them of being bland. At least no one says this to my face. Behind my back, who knows. All the comments may be bandied back and forth and perhaps some harsh words on my output may trickle forth from time to time. Yet worse than that of course? The sheer apathy of most and the highest of likelihoods that in actuality no one says much of anything about my work at all. This is of course true and I write these words acknowledging the fact to steel my soul and grimly laugh and acknowledge that even what I love to write here and now does not really have a lasting place beyond the here and now. If I in self-deprecating humor poke at myself and acknowledge my lack of worth or art, does that mean I cry a little less inside? Perhaps. Is it worth it? Perhaps. Still my soul aches to know that I’ve written something beautiful, even if it just once or twice. I doubt I will live to see that day. But let not my bitterness cloud the moment, let not my weeping smear the panes. Instead, I’ll flick on the windshield wipers and allow myself to keep driving forward and I’ll focus on the taillights in front of me as I do my best to escape this pouring rain. Even in the mixed metaphors which clutter my writing it seems I can’t escape my own mediocrity. But to reference my above, is it still not better that I’ve written something? Look up above and see the sunlight breaking through. Do you happen to have a pen and spare piece of paper about you? I’d love to write a quick poem if you do.
Something Weird 