Sometimes even in the midst of our confused and broken relationships with ourselves, with each other, with God, we catch glimpses of that holiness and wholeness which, no matter how buried and unrecognized, are still part of who we are.

I managed to squeeze in a little Frederick Buechner today. Never ever a bad thing. I have recently alluded to an acceptance of defeat on the home front. I meant to say it yesterday about the Shaye and Stuart Elliot interview, but I think between that and Buechner I have found a means of looking at and talking about that “defeat.” It is, in fact, the reason that I grabbed Buechner’s The Longing for Home off the shelf in the first place. I’m not sure if it will appear on the blog or in a newsletter, but the shape of that “defeat” is coming into view and I hope to say more about it soon. And hopefully there is a kernel of Kingdom in it somewhere, some holiness of the origin within, however fragmentary.

I remember a house where all were good
To me, God knows, deserving no such thing:
Comforting smell breathed at very entering,
Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood.

That cordial air made those kind people a hood
All over, as a bevy of eggs the mothering wing
Will, or mild nights the new morsels of Spring:
Why, it seemed of course; seemed of right it should.

Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales,
All the air things wear that build this world of Wales;
Only the inmate does not correspond:

God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales,
Complete thy creature dear O where it fails,
Being mighty a master, being a father and fond.

—Gerard Manley Hopkins

I posted a few samples from Hearth & Field:

H&F is becoming one of my favorite publications. (I was going to save this for a newsletter but here is good a place as any.) I’m on my third issue, No. 7 for the publication, and it’s just wonderful.

As far as I can tell, the printed publication is essentially offline only. But I’m not sure where that line might be drawn. For example, Malcolm Guite’s poem “Swallows” appears in the latest print edition, but also online. (And it pairs wonderfully with Pastor’s poem above — and with Auden’s “Their Lonely Betters” for that matter.)

They describe themselves, not a little hilariously, as “The most trusted name in high-Christology, low-technology, practical, philosophical, money-saving, quasi-luddite, quarterly, literary journals.” To be honest, I feel like their “Subscribe” page was funnier a year ago, but maybe I’m misremembering it.

Every issue and every article is down-to-earth. And recipes abound! — I’ll be playing with their One Pancake (To Make Them All) recipe tomorrow morning.

There are, as you can see, online articles, and there’s an email newsletter you can sign up for. But you can also just try them out. I received all of the following before even giving payment info. If you like it they trust you’ll follow through.

Rainy day blues

The most shared book on my shelf. After making the rounds at work for over a year, No Picnic On Mount Kenya just stumbled back around to me, which makes it a great time to share again. When my friend Chelsea recommended it a few years ago, she said it was her favorite book/story in the world.

What unites baristas with their coffee beans? Truckers.

— Progressive Insurance commercial

Same coin (Should’ve called it “same penny”)

The Tigris runs wide there, the color of hammered tin, and the old city rises from its western bank in a dense layering of neighborhoods that have been inhabited continuously for centuries. Moslawis—the city’s people—had a word for those who did not understand this: They were people who had not yet sat long enough by the river.

“By morning, a city that had been continuously inhabited for seven thousand years belonged to a force that intended to abolish everything it had been.” — Omar Mohammed