by Jan Karon
We found that boys and girls alike love Miss Fannie’s Hat, and “get” the whole notion of sharing, which is what the book is about.
I’m also happy about Jeremy: The Tale of an Honest Bunny, which I wrote in longhand in a handmade book, for my daughter, Candace. It is currently published by Puffin Books, an imprint of Viking Children’s Books, and is all about a long and circuitous journey with a safe and happy arrival at the place we all long for: Home.
Then there’s The Trellis and the Seed, a picture book for all ages, which reminds us that God has a plan for each of us, a wisdom that we too often forget as grownups.
I love writing for young readers (after all, I was one, once). But here’s an odd thing. I feel that Violet Comes to Stay, also published by Viking Children’s Books, is one of my own—though I didn’t even write it!
Indeed, it is the first in Cynthia Coppersmith’s wonderfully written and illustrated series about her white cat, Violet.
Whoa. Cynthia Coppersmith is a fictitious character. How could she write and illustrate a book you can actually hold in your hands?
Long story short, here’s how.
I searched for several years to find a writer with a “voice” that would be authentic to Cynthia’s. Hurray, we found her! Then we looked for an illustrator who would draw and paint like Cynthia. Hats in the air, we found her!
So what did I do?
I meddled in the while affair, to make absolutely, positively certain that you—and Cynthia—would be very pleased, indeed, with Violet Comes to Stay.
And what is the story about?
It’s about expecting the best, but getting something not quite so rosy…until, at the end, we realize that He had a wonderful plan for us, after all.
Which, of course, in life as in fiction, makes for a very happy ending.
Healing the Broken Heart: The Sermons
Preaching should break a hard heart and heal a broken one.
—John Newton
John Newton knew a great deal about the hard heart. Before he surrendered his life to Christ, he had one. Indeed, Newton was a profane and merciless slave trader until he became an ardent believer, and later, a priest in the Church of England.
“I once was lost,” he wrote in his great hymn “Amazing Grace,” “but now I’m found; was blind, but now I see.”
Writing Father Tim’s sermons is a tough and serious business for me; I make no pretensions to being a preacher. When I come to the sermon in a Mitford book, I come trembling. But I come. After all, my protagonist is a preacher, and he has to preach. Just as in other sorts of books, spies have to spy.
I pray these simple homilies will have some meaning for my readers, and that, in a way I can’t know or predict, they will bring healing.
Here’s a quote by Abraham Lincoln that Father Tim jotted in his second journal, A Continual Feast:
“If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six sharpening my axe.” Beside it, he penned: Best sermon on writing a sermon.
Now here’s one of my own favorite quotes about the great and worthy labor of homiletics.
I preached as never sure to preach again; and as a dying man to dying men.
—Richard Baxter, 1615–19
May it be so.
THE SERMONS
HE STOOD IN the sacristy, vested and waiting with the anxious choir, and the eager procession that extended all the way down the steps to the basement.
There was new music this morning, composed by the organist, something wondrous and not so easy to sing, and choir adrenaline was pumping like an oil derrick. Adding voltage to the electricity bouncing off the walls was the fact that the music required congregational response, always capable of injecting an element of surprise, if not downright dismay.
He peered through the glass panels of the sacristy door into the nave, able to see only the gospel side from this vantage point. He spied quite a few faces he’d never laid eyes on, given that today was Homecoming.
Some of the faithful remnant had been beaten to their pews by the homecomers, so he had to search for Otis and Marlene and the Duncan lineup, on the far right. Down front was Janette with Jonathan on her lap, flanked by Babette and Jason, thank You, Lord. And two rows back was Sew Joiner, gazing at the work on the walls and ceiling, and generally looking like he’d hung the moon.
At the sound of the steeple bell, the crucifer burst through the door and into the nave with her procession, the organ played its mighty opening notes, and the choir streamed forth as a rolling clap of thunder.
Carried along by the mighty roar and proclamation of the organ, the choir processed up the aisle with vigor.
Sing to the Lord a new song
And His praise from the ends of the earth
Alleluia! Alleluia!
You who go down to the sea, and all that is in it
Alleluia! Alleluia!
The congregation joined in the first two alleluias as if waking from a long sleep; at the second pair, they hunkered down and cranked into high gear, swept along by the mighty lead of the choir.
Let them give glory to the Lord
And declare His praise in the coastlands
Alleluia! Alleluia!
As the choir passed up the creaking steps to the loft, the organ music soared in the little nave, enlarging it, expanding it, until it might have been o’ercrossed by the fan vaulting of an English cathedral.
Quickly taking their places by the organ, the choir entered again into the fervent acclamations of Isaiah and the psalmist.
Sing to Him a new song
Play skillfully with a loud and joyful sound
Alleluia!
For the work of the Lord is right
Alleluia!
And all His work is done in faithfulness!
Alleluia!
A full minute of organ music concluded the first part of the new work, celebrating God’s grace to the people of St. John’s, and the joyful first homecoming in three decades. Many of the congregants, marveling at the music that poured forth from the loft, turned around in their pews and looked up in wonderment.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
In the ascending finale, which was sung a cappella, the soprano reached for the moon and, to the priest’s great joy and relief, claimed it for the kingdom.
“When trees and power lines crashed around you, when the very roof gave way above you, when light turned to darkness and water turned to dust, did you call on Him?
“When you called on Him, was He somewhere up there, or was He as near as your very breath?”
He stood in front of the pulpit this morning, looking into the faces of those whom God had given into his hand for this fleeting moment in time.
“What some believers still can’t believe is that it is God’s passion to be as near to us as our very breath.
“Far more than I want us to have a bigger crowd or a larger parish hall or a more ambitious budget…more than anything as your priest, I pray for each and every one of you to sense and know God’s presence…as near as your breath.
“In short, it has been my prayer since we came here for you to have a personal, one-on-one, day-to-day relationship with Christ.
“I’m talking about something that goes beyond every Sunday service ever created or ever to be created, something you can depend on for the rest of your life, and then forever. I’m talking about the times you cry out in the storm that prevails against you, times when your heart and your flesh fail and you see no way out and no way in, when any prayer you utter to a God you may view as distant and disinterested seems to vanish into thin air.
“There are legions who believe in the existence of a cold and distant God, and on the occasions when they cry out to Him in utter despair and hear nothing in reply, must get up and stumble on, alone.
“Then there are those who know Him personally, who have found that when they cry out, there He is, as near as their breath—one-on-one, heart-to-heart, savior, Lord, partner, friend.
&nbs
p; “Some have been in church all their lives and have never known this mighty, marvelous, and yet simple personal relationship. Others believe that while such a relationship may be possible, it’s not for them—why would God want to bother with them, except from a very great distance? In reality, it is no bother to God at all. He wants this relationship far, far more than you and I want it, and I pray that you will ponder that marvelous truth.
“But who among us could ever deserve to have such a wondrous and altogether unimaginable thing as a close, personal, day-to-day relationship with Almighty God, creator of the universe?
“It seems unthinkable, and so…we are afraid to think it.
“For this fragile time in history, this tender and fleeting moment of our lives, I am your priest; God has called me to lead this flock. As I look out this morning, my heart has a wish list for you. For healed marriages, good jobs, the well-being and safety of your children; for Eleanor, knees that work; for Toby, ears that hear; for Jessie, good news from her son; for Phillip, good news from his doctor. On and on, there are fervent desires upon my heart for you. But chief among the hopes, the prayers, the petitions is this: Lord…let my people know. Let them know that the unthinkable is not only real, but available and possible and can be entered into, now, today—though we are, indeed, completely undeserving.
“It can be entered into today, with only a simple prayer that some think not sophisticated enough to bring them into the presence of God, not fancy enough to turn His face to theirs, not long enough, not high enough, not deep enough….
“Yet, this simple prayer makes it possible for you to know Him not only as Savior and Lord, but as a friend. ‘No longer do I call you servants,’ He said to His followers in the Gospel of John, ‘but friends.’
“In the storms of your life, do you long for the consolation of His nearness and His friendship? You can’t imagine how He longs for the consolation of yours. It is unimaginable, isn’t it, that He would want to be near us—frail as we are, weak as we are, and hopeless as we so often feel. God wants to be with us. That, in fact, is His name: Immanuel, God with us. And why is that so hard to imagine, when indeed, He made us for Himself? Please hear that this morning. The One who made us…made us for Himself.
“We’re reminded in the Book of Revelation that He created all things—for His pleasure. Many of us believe that He created all things, but we forget the very best part—that He created us…for His pleasure.
“There are some of you who want to be done with seeking Him once a week, and crave, instead, to be with Him day after day, telling him everything, letting it all hang out, just thankful to have such a blessing in your life as a friend who will never, under any circumstances, leave you, and never remove His love from you. Amazing? Yes, it is. It is amazing.
“God knows who is longing to utter that simple prayer this morning. It is a matter between you and Him, and it is a prayer which will usher you into His presence, into life everlasting, and into the intimacy of a friendship in which He is as near…as your breath.
“Here’s the way this wondrous prayer works—as you ask Him into your heart, He receives you into His. The heart of God! What a place to be, to reside for all eternity.
“As we bow our heads to pray under this new roof and inside these new walls, I ask that He graciously bless each and every one of us today…with new hearts.”
He bowed his head and clasped his hands together and heard the beating of the blood in his temples. Ella Bridgewater, sitting next to the aisle with her walker handy, looked on approvingly. Captain Larkin, seated to her right, bowed his head in his hands.
“Sense, feel God’s presence among us this morning…”
He waited.
“…as those of you who are moved to do so, silently repeat this simple prayer:
“Thank You, God, for loving me…
“…and for sending Your Son to die for my sins.
“I sincerely repent of my sins…
“…and receive Jesus Christ as my personal savior.
“Now, as Your child…
“…I turn my entire life over to You.
“Amen.”
He raised his head, but didn’t hurry on. Such a prayer was mighty, and, as in music, a rest stop was needed.
The recitation of the Nicene Creed was next in the order of service, and he opened his mouth to say so, but closed it again.
He looked to the epistle side and saw Mamie and Noah; Mamie was smiling and nodding her head. Behind them were Junior Bryson and Misty Summers; he thought Junior’s grin was appreciably wider than his tie.
“If you prayed that prayer and would join me at the altar, please come.” He hadn’t known he would say this; he had utterly surprised himself.
Some would be too shy to come, but that was God’s business; he hoped he wouldn’t forget and leave out the Creed altogether.
“If you’d like to renew your baptism vows in your heart, please come. If you’d like to express thanksgiving for all that God has fulfilled in your life, please come. If you’d like to make a new beginning, to surrender your life utterly into His care, please come.”
Though this part of the service was entirely unplanned, he thought it might be a good time for a little music. His choir, however, was stricken as dumb as wash on a line.
From the epistle side, four people rose and left their pews and walked down the aisle.
On the gospel side, five parishioners and a homecomer stood from the various pews and, excusing themselves, stepped over the feet of several who were furiously embarrassed and looking for the door.
Father Tim opened a vial of oil, knelt for a moment on the sanctuary side of the rail, and prayed silently. One by one, the congregants dropped humbly to their knees, at least two looking stern but determined, others appearing glad of the opportunity to do this reckless thing, to surrender their hearts in an act of wild and holy abandon and begin again.
He dipped his right thumb in the oil and touched the forehead of the first at the rail, making the sign of the cross and saying, “I anoint you, Phillip, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit….”
In the choir loft, the organist rose from the bench, and walked stiffly down the stairs and along the center aisle with the aid of a cane.
Madeleine Duncan scrambled to her knees in the pew and whispered in her mother’s ear, “Look, Mommy, it’s a little tiny man with a big head.”
Observing the penitent who now approached the altar, Leonard Lamb didn’t realize he was staring with his mouth open, nor that tears suddenly sprang to his eyes.
Marion Fieldwalker poked Sam in the ribs. “Who’s that?”
“Good gracious alive!” Sam whispered, as if to himself.
As Father Tim touched the forehead of the man kneeling before him, it seemed that an electric shock was born from the convergence of their flesh; it arced and flashed along his arm like a bolt.
“I anoint you, Morris, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and beseech the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ to seal forever what is genuine in your heart. May God be with you always, my brother.”
A New Song, Ch. 22
HÉLÈNE PRINGLE STEPPED from the bright, warm sunlight into the cool, sweet shadow of the narthex.
Before she quite recovered from the small shock to her senses, someone thrust a copy of the pew bulletin into her hand and gave her a surprised, albeit warm, greeting, which, to her regret, she returned in French.
She was trembling slightly, with both fear of the unknown and a deep, childlike excitement.
The service would be different from the services her grandmother had forced her, for a brief period, to attend in that great, cold church built of stone. She’d hardly ever understood anything the priest had said, for the echo made his voice sound tremulous and metallic, as if it were coming from the walls and not from a man. The acoustics, however, had done wondrous things for the voices of the choir; she remembered the goose bumps she felt
as a nine-year-old; they prickled along her spine and made her hair feel as if it were standing.
She was afraid she wouldn’t know what to say or do in this morning’s service, though someone had declared that Episcopal and Catholic liturgies weren’t so vastly different, in the end. Of course, the whole Episcopal thing had come about in the first place because of Henry the Eighth, who’d been a vain and vulgar man, to say the least. She wondered that anyone would admit to being part of something he’d established. But she sensed the moment she awoke this morning that she had to be here, and so she had arisen and dressed, asking the unseen Being on the other side of the drapery to help her select attire that wouldn’t stand out or offend.
She suspected there would be a lot of kneeling and jostling about, which led her to choose the very back row, on the side by the stained-glass window of the Sermon on the Mount, where she tried to shrink herself as small as she possibly could, so no one would notice she was there.
How lovely is thy dwelling place,
O Lord of hosts, to me!
My thirsty soul desires and longs
Within thy courts to be;
My very heart and flesh cry out,
O living God, for thee.
Beside thine altars, gracious Lord,
The swallows find a nest;
How happy they who dwell with thee
And praise thee without rest,
And happy they whose hearts are set
Upon the pilgrim’s quest.
They who go through the desert vale
Will find it filled with springs,
And they shall climb from height to height
Till Zion’s temple rings
With praise to thee, in glory throned
Lord God, great King of kings.
One day within thy courts excels
A thousand spent away;
How happy they who keep thy laws