In an effort to zero in a little on what I believe is a particular calling on my life, I plan to devote Thursdays and Fridays (roughly) to the subject of Children and Imagination. I believe Imagination is an essential capacity of faith and that we need to foster playtime, imagination, and an appreciation of story for our children to be mature believers. I believe we are all called to child-like maturity and Imagination is crucial, I believe, to that end. More on this later, but today marks a bit of a launch for this focus. I hope it rings your bell.

Below is a small section from an interview J.B. Cheany (World Magazine, etc.) conducted with Alan Jacobs (The Narnian, etc.) over at what certainly appears to be a delightful website called Raising Readers. (See full interview here.) I thought these answers very insightful.

“Insight,” by the way, is one of the words my kids brought me to explain from their Bible reading today. Another was “perverseness,” which was awesome to explain. -Sam

How would you suggest parents promote reading to their children? For instance, should they insist on a certain standard (whether low or high) or let the kids read pretty much what they want?

I think reading is one sphere of experience where variety is supremely the spice of life. People in general — and therefore kids in particular — ought to be free to read a wide variety of things. I tend to think it’s best for kids to get the habit of reading by exploring books that they enjoy — but then at some point it’s good for the parents to say, “If you liked that you might also this. Give is a try. It might be a challenge, but I bet you’re up for it.”

What’s your definition of “trash”? Or do you have one?

I don’t, really. I think C. S. Lewis was right in his Experiment in Criticism to place a lot more emphasis on what the reader brings to the book than on the book in itself. Even a great book can be read badly. I believe if you think about the kind of reader you want to be, the place you want reading to have in your life, then the question of what you read will largely settle itself and then you can think about how you read.

See entire interview here…

Below is the poem I read at Papaw’s funeral on Saturday. The poem is full of allusions to Papaw’s own poetry and life story, and may or may not make perfect sense to those who didn’t know him.

It was a beautiful service, honoring a beautiful man and celebrating a long, beautiful life. It started with the church bell ringing once for each of his ninety years and ended with full military honors. In between, his daughter sang a beautiful hymn and his son (my Dad) led the service, telling touching stories and the truth about the grace of God. It was a memorable memorial. My brother read a touching poem that I’m amazed he got through and my cousin honored a life of service, including his service in World War II as a ball-turret gunner on a B-17. To end the funeral, Dad asked me to read this poem. I took my 6 year-old son up with me and he recited this passage before I read my poem:

“But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, then at his coming those who belong to Christ. Then comes the end, when he delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying every rule and every authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”
(1 Corinthians 15:20-26 ESV)

A Farewell Song for Papaw (Clair Shadwell Smith)

A rare gem indeed, this gentle man,
Without a title, and precious, little land,
          But true native soul.

Saw ribbons of highway, held fantasy wars,
With daisies and tenderly, imagined much more,
          Wept over daisies killed.

A ball-turret gunner, with crippling dreams,
How many angels, guarded Chute 13?
          Misnamed as it was.

Rode a flying a fortress, into flak-ridden hell,
You lost Don and many, many others as well.
          Irreplaceable, inescapable loss.

In a Northampton church, an ancestral sound,
There you felt kinfolk, long-laid in the ground.
          Your own, whispering over the years.

It was a true war and now, more daisies cut down,
And gathered to grace the fresh graves in the ground.
          But you came through, at last.

You had a last mission, saw, breaking through clouds,
The fine shore of England, bright as a crown,
          England! and thank God.

You and so many others, fought on gallantly,
Got the hell out of Europe, and set millions free,
          Saved England and endless others.

Home again, then, America for you,
Back to the New World and old life you knew,
          The green, familiar hills.

Married your Myrtle, a family tree grew,
We have these dispatches, of the joy you knew,
          A country poet’s verse.

A daughter to start, and many to come,
A warrior whose quiver brimmed daughters and sons,
          Life, hard and happy, you knew.

You got your own Don, to honor the fallen,
Who served in his turn, then heeded a calling,
          To an even-nobler cause.

And your life was grand, here in your home,
A fine man and good, who was never alone,
          Surrounded by loving ones.

Grandsons competed to be your most beloved,
And maybe all felt that they were, I know I did.
          Each granddaughter was.

And to the great-grands, you were a King out of Faerie,
They loved you and believed your fried eggs legendary,
          Even as I always had.

The last thing I saw, was the best ever done,
You spoke words of blessing to my daughter and son,
          Tender, life-giving words.

And words make up much, of our prized patrimony,
It’s the loving of words, not the words we love, only.
          But oh, what words!

I remember keenly, the great blaze that roared,
In my soul, when over your poems, I poured.
          Reshaping all my life.

And so you did, I suppose, all your days,
Reshaped the world in a thousand bright ways,
          An instrument of God.

Blunt instrument, yes, a man clearly flawed,
But a good man, yes perfect, in the eyes of God,
          Clinging to Christ’s work alone.

What can we say, now here as we lay,
This precious body, down in its grave?
          It’s you, but not you, entire.

When Christ the firstfruits, comes once again,
To make of black death an inglorious end,
          Clair Shadwell Smith shall rise.

Your mission is over, for you, no more war.
You land at last, on a lovelier shore,
          Than England ever was.

One of my Grandfather’s heroes was Winston Churchill. He would listen to Churchill’s speeches before we (U.S.) were in the War and people had to talk him out of hitchhiking to Canada to join the war effort years before he did. Churchill once said of someone, “He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.” Well, Papaw was something like the opposite of that for me. He has so many virtues I admire, and many of the vices I –if not admire– at least sympathize with. Maybe that’s just because I am so much of what he has made me. He is more than on my mind, he is literally in my heart. He is in my blood.

This past week has been one of grief and appreciation. Sometimes very hard, heart-breaking grief. But a constant, insistent, anthemic gratitude has been the theme. I feel unbelievably blessed to have such a wonderful man for a Grandfather. That we had him so long was a profound blessing, that we’ve had to say goodbye to him is very sad. But thankfulness is the refrain.

Thank you for all the kind words and for praying for us. The next few days I’ll indulge in sharing a couple of poems from my Papaw Smith, and then one I wrote for his funeral service. Next week I plan to get back to normal blogging again. I had last week’s posts all scheduled, but when Papaw died last Sunday night, it felt inappropriate to post funny/silly things. So, I didn’t. But next week, we’ll have more of what you’ve come to expect from me, which isn’t much, I know.

Thanks so much, friends.

“The memory of the righteous is a blessing.” Proverbs 10:7a

This was my Papaw, Clair Smith, on his wedding day. He died last night. I love him so much and already miss him, but I’m very happy he is at rest. In Christ, mourning is not the same as it is for those with no hope. Still it’s hard, as I’m sure you know. He is a very, very dear man. A beautiful man, my Papaw.

I’ll say more of him another time.

Thank you, friends, for your prayers. I won’t be posting for a little while. God bless you.

OK…slight hyperbole.

I know this is dumb to blog about (not that that ever stops me), but I just can’t help it. I know whoever cares about this already knows and the vast majority of my readers probably don’t care. But I’ll try to explain below why this story matters to me. It’s 2:28AM right now as I write. Typos, come forth!

The West Virginia Mountaineers scored more points than any team in bowl history last night and won their first ever Orange Bowl in record-smashing fashion.

West Virginia: 70 Clemson: 33

This is West Virginia’s 3rd BCS Bowl (for the unschooled, this means big-time-huge bowl game) appearance, each time the Mountaineers have been underdogs. West Virginia won all three. In fact, like a few years ago, the ESPN poll (along with every ESPN commentator I saw) predicted West Virginia would lose. They break it down by state and every single state, except one, had West Virginia falling to Clemson.

West Virginians love this storyline. We’re a small state and frequently get overlooked, or dismissed. People often (including an ESPN commentator) don’t even know we’re a state. So this kind of thing really rings our bell. (Actually, this is both a strength and a weakness, but that’s another story.)

This was special. I’m a West Virginia fan no matter what, so it’s pretty sweet to enjoy this historic victory. Best of all, I got to enjoy it with some family, my 8 year old daughter staying up with me till 12:30 AM to see the whole thing through. In our family, West Virginia sports are a valued tradition.

When I got back from South Africa as a teen and went to my first West Virginia game in several years, I was all teared up early on. I kept trying to think why that was. After some thought, I realized it really wasn’t so much this team and these players (though they matter to me), but I was thinking of my Dad, far away in Africa. For me it’s always been about him and my Papaw and on and on back, as long as I know of, we’ve been for West Virginia. It’s something my entire family connects over, and while a dumb streak of potential-idolatry exists (as it does in all good things), I am thankful for this tradition.

What a fun night.

I love our kids.

If you can’t read this (because I don’t know how to scan, but just held it up for Photo Booth) then I’ll give you the details here.

The side says “b.r. news by a. smith.” She means “Bike Riding News.”

The top says “Thumbs! Up! Josiah!”

Next line…

“aperently, Josiah is doing wonderfull,

at his bike riding skills. if he is

having trouble, he gets frustrated,

but he never gives UP!”

Pictured girls saying “yea woo!”

Bottom: “News Paper.”

After scouring the house for a guitar that’s in tune (I never could and still can’t tune a guitar) for what felt like a long time, I found one that sort of was. Then I played (as people who seek for in-tune guitars often do on such occasions) for the first time in forever. No song came, as I thought one might. They weren’t biting today, he said.

But, I did take this picture of myself for some reason. Anyone need a Joseph for their Christmas play? My wife is great with child and we were both born for the stage. Both of us except me.

Have you heard Acoustic Joseph’s new record, Bethlehem Sepia? It’s really deep, progressive, and accessibly nostalgic.

Happy Saint Nicholas Day!

I just spent the last hour with my son looking through the fine illustrations of Zach Franzen and Justin Gerard. He’s 6 and spends a lot of time drawing. He wants to be an illustrator some day (as well as a writer, actor, movie-maker, preacher, etc.) so I love putting these guys in front of him as examples. (Especially since they are operating out of a worldview in happy devotion to King Jesus.) Zach actually did an illustration for one of my stories that was published a couple of years ago. It remains an ambition to work with Justin in some capacity. (I mean other than our secret work for the Shadow Government run from the Moon. From the futuristic base on the Moon. Lunarville. It’s called Lunarville.)

I saw today that Justin (pictured above -with me- doing Blue Steel or a variant) has a new sketchbook out for 2011. I promptly ordered it to enjoy for myself and to serve as inspiration for my young future/current illustrator. I say current because a few days ago he created a fine, comic story, well-illustrated, about onions. It did not make me cry, but I did laugh out loud.

Maybe Justin hasn’t sold out of his Sketchbook yet. (You can order it here.) And be on the lookout for more fantastic stuff from him and Zach.

From Zach’s Gallery

From Justin’s Sketchbook

A friend, the very talented musician Drew Michael Blake, tweeted some Dylan lyrics: “I’ve got a head full of ideas that are driving me insane.”

As I replied to him, sympathizing and agreeing and, like, totally identifying with him, another thought occurred to me.

I wrote him back:

@sdsmith_ @drewble You describe my own state of mind quite well. Trying not to let them drive me insane is my life’s work.

And this is true. Maybe it’s true for many/most people who are sort of what we call “creative types.” Maybe it describes a lot of people. Most people are creative, after all.

Anyway, I do sometimes feel like all I do is think. All ideas all the time. Not always good ones and few that issue in any result. But I do feel like it’s a constant battle to avoid letting this incurable condition overwhelm me. (And I’m really not talking about bad ideas/thoughts here, just things I want to do, create, contribute to, build, support, write.)

It really feels like some of the most important work I do. Because not going crazy over all these ideas is somewhat helpful to my family and others, including me.

Do you ever feel this way? How do you manage your drive/ambition/idea-manufacturing?

Please welcome my beloved Mother, Barbara Smith…

My sainted mother-in-law taught me a lot of wise things. One of them sparked an interesting conversation recently. Mom was always telling my
children not to run in the house, jump off rocks, etc., because “Mommaw is old.”  I often tell three-year-old Luke, “nGogo [Zulu for grandmother] is
old. I can’t get down in the floor and play cars with you.”

The last visit I had, we were getting ready to play a game at the dining room table when Luke said very matter-of-factly, “nGogo, you and MKhulu
are old.” I agreed, and he continued, “You’re gonna die someday…maybe Saturday, or Wednesday, or next year.”  And with his little arms stretched out, waist level, palms up, shoulders up, head cocked to the side, he said, “What will happen then?”

I said, “Well, I will just be up in heaven, and I will say, ‘Wonder when Luke will come to visit me?’”
He looked at me with his skeptical and patient and a bit disappointed look and said, “nGogo, dead people can’t talk!”