dear wendell,

More than anyone, it is you that has encouraged me to write. No. We don't know each other personally.  But, as you like to say, we are all a part of one another. I always give a piece of you when I give me, and somehow, you give a piece of me... because you write your poetry and novels and essays to me. And you even farm for me.

Below I've listed the books/sermons/confessions that I'd like to write about someday. If you'd ever like to hear about one of these, just let me know. It would be my pleasure.


Jesus is not a Very Cooperative Messiah
If Whole Foods were within Twenty Miles, I'd be there Every Day
There is no End to my Relational Sin
Nine Tornados (God's Living Tools that have Disrupted my Life)
If It Ain't Relational, It Ain't
Lessons from a Father-in-Law who was an Ass
Could We Stop Tying to Find Ourselves, Please?
Born to Farm (The Very Life of God in Me)
My Wife is so Quotable


All the above are being shaped in me as I write... someday I'll leak out a bit. All but the last one. That's either for a special occasion or never.

Again, thanks for farming.

dear henry,

I wrote this letter a couple weeks ago and forgot to mail it to you... sorry for the delay. But the loss of that amount of time doesn't phase you much for it's been almost 220 years since your funeral. And Knoxville, which was named after you, has changed quite a bit. But, of course you wouldn't know that because you never visited our beautiful Tennessee valley! Sorry. I'm trying hard not to hold a grudge. It was probably James White's fault anyway for trying to get on your good side (do Secretary's of War have a good side?)

Well, I doubt anyone has written you lately, let alone someone to tell you about what his wife has done this week. But what she did, she did in your city of Knoxville. And your county of Knox.

She painted.

Now don't be disappointed. It's not like being the President's buddy or having your image on an eight cent stamp or having your own personal library in Boston (I'll bet you visited there, I say sarcastically). But the joy she felt will give and give and give to others well beyond the memory of you and I! The flow of Sandy Bottom Creek and the captured blooms from the UT Garden. Six Silos by the road on the way to Corryton. And a whitewashed barn once used for hanging tobacco.

Hank, (may I call you Hank?) you'd dig this woman! I know you and Lucy had thirteen kids, which tells me that you enjoyed your wife too. But I mean it in a different way. Put a paint brush in Kathie's hand and magic happens: Seventy-nine year old farmers start talking about their mothers that used to paint with oils. Between canvases, ladies named Margaret ask you in for a chicken salad sandwich. Gardeners tell you about how hard life is with a three year old.

Most importantly the creative magic of art wins the day... in the souls of people.

But most, most, most importantly, the creative magic of art placed in her soul... is winning the soul of me.

Silo Field
8x16, Oil on Linen

dear karl,

I was both glad and sad to see the FedEx package on my porch yesterday. In it contained my laptop that I use to post letters like this one. I accidentally left it in Washington DC a couple of weeks ago (I might even admit that my "accidentally" was a Freudian Slip, for I dislike most things electronic). Nonetheless, it is back for me to tell you that I've thought of you twice within the last few hours.

The first time I was quite unconscious to the world and in deep sleep. I was struggling with a two-part dream where a) I needed to record a song with Ryan Long (but he wanted me to play guitar for him... I don't play the guitar!) and b) I competed in a one-on-one, three mile swimming competition in a small pool and lost. You were present with the fan base for my opponent and, when my opponent won, you jumped into the pool with 100 other guys to sing raucous Marine songs in deep voices! You then popped the cork to a champagne bottle and the celebration went to another level. All this time I was in the pool, but only as an observer.

I stayed awake for about an hour thinking on the meaning, then dozed into a much more fitful dream.

The second time I thought of you happened when I opened my door this early morning after dreaming of bombs and children and communion with others while in a Muslim country. (Now is the time in the letter to stop for a moment and take a deep breath. Trust me, I won't be taking any of these dreams to a therapist anytime soon! Suffice it to say that my soul is deeply engaged in the life our Lord has given me... one of dangers, toils and snares. And hope!)

I awoke to the young green of my little place in Fountain City! Morning light glanced across the new grass. The Yew hedge is a chorus of tiny, tiny lime sprouts. And our elderly sugar maple gladly bows under the weight of her new leaves, thousands of children keeping her company for another spring!

I thought of your love of the art of God's creation.
And my dreams became simple vapors.
Gone.

Because of the last few hours, I step into today more like a poet.
Yes. My memory of our friendship makes me want to have champagne for breakfast.
My love to Ellen.