The C.S. Lewis of Our Generation

Just started reading Don's newly released old book, Through Painted Deserts. I recommend it.

And I think if I were God, I would have waited a couple thousand years on the whole Jesus thing until Donald Miller was born and could have followed Him around and been one of the gospel writers.

I like to write and I spend a lot of time playing with words, chosing them carefully, hoping to make people laugh, feel inspired, understand how much they mean to me, know God, or think I'm an ok guy. I enjoy it, but it is work. I have to buy my every vowel with time, and I am a slave to consonants. It seems the opposite for Don. He's the the master of words. Letters work for him.

And I think he's the C.S. Lewis of our generation.

Fifty years from now Don Miller will be a household name. People will read him and get the same feeling I get now reading him, the same feeling I get reading Lewis...the feeling that my heart is beating like it never has before, and the feeling that I know why it is beating, like I never have known before. I feel like the entire universe makes sense and I feel like I make sense when I read Lewis, when I read Miller.

So go to "F and S's" (for those of you who aren't Pete and Jared or Trixie that's Barnes and Noble) and buy Blue Like Jazz or Searching For God Knows What or his newly released old book, Through Painted Deserts. I promise, you will hear your heart beat like it never has before...

P.S. Everything he says about Texas is true.

I Will Not Be Silent

I miss trees.

Don’t get me wrong, having sunshine over 300 days a year is heavenly. And I’m still “held captive by the big blue sky above” (Shawn Mullins). But the reason the sky is so big and blue is because I’m taller than every tree in my neighborhood.

There is no trunk to sit against. No shadow of an oak to hide under. If you want shade in West Texas, you go inside. They tell me that every tree in Lubbock, but mesquite (which I would consider a large bush not a tree), was planted. So people that move here from the Midwest use their hammocks as rugs. And their kids grow up climbing on oil pumps not in trees (no wonder they don’t recycle here).

I miss grass too. Our yard doesn’t really have any. We’ve got “bermuda grass”, which is actually a weed that sort of looks like grass, but grows more sideways than nature’s traditional carpet. If I forget to mow a week or two it grows these annoying “stickers”, nasty little burs that stick to my shoelaces and socks. To keep this grassy weed green you have to have a sprinkler system (or about ten dogs with overactive bladders). Most people just give up and put rocks in their yards and clutter them with rusty cowboy decorations and Texas flags. A few weeks ago we delivered a piece of furniture to an old lady whose yard was completely paved. It was depressing, and I came to the conclusion that every square foot of Hell is cement.

I am not surprised that I miss the foliage. I kind of anticipated it. And on one of the last days at home in Ohio I laid in the grass under my favorite maple tree, the one I used to climb when I was kid. It sits on the east side of my yard looking like an enormous hand coming out of the ground. The trunk is its wrist, thick like a farmer’s. Its palm is bent back as if the tree were holding something up, something important, because its hold is steadfast, firmly gripped with its many fingers. Maybe that’s why I always felt so safe in it.

The leaves were new that day, bursting with green. The sun was chasing me through the branches, shinning down like a hundred tiny spotlights. And there was a quiet breeze whispering to the tree. And whatever it was saying demanded applause, for the wind was causing the leaves to clap softly together.

“…the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands” (Isaiah 55:12).

There is a song of creation that never ceases. There is choir of creatures making music to the Maker.

Why are we so silent? Why are all of our songs about ourselves?

I wish I could have been there when nature’s song began…when creation taught man to sing. I wonder how long it took Adam to discover music. I wonder what his first song was. It must have beautifully honest, a true response, an overflow of the heart. And it must have been a terrible noise. Like He does with everything important, I bet God let Adam learn to make music.

I can imagine Adam squeezing his lips together, blowing air and spitting, trying to whistle like the birds, managing only to get himself wet and out of breath. Wolves howled has he experimented with the range of his voice. Monkeys scratched their heads at Adam’s off beat chest pounding. And the hyenas laughed when man knocked himself over trying to dancing. It was ugly…but it had to be done.

How do I know Adam sang? How do I know he danced? Because like me, his soul demanded it.

There is something deep within my created being that longs to communicate with the Creator, that longs to join the song of creation. Words are not enough! And I cannot sit still! If I try to hold my song inside, I will explode.

To be silent and motionless is to be dead.

You know those people who are always humming, mumbling songs to themselves, songs you often mistaken for conversation? Especially the ones who don’t even realize that they are singing, who always look at you confused when you asked them their song? These people are alive. Alive in the truest sense. Alive like the maple tree on the east side of my yard. Alive like the feeling I felt that day when I mistook its song for conversation, the day I decided to sing along.


“make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth

the flowers of the field are cry’n to be heard
the trees of the forest are singing
and all of the mountains with one voice
are joining the chorus of this world

and I will not be silent
I will not be quiet anymore

running through the forest, dive into the lake
bare feet on beaches white
standing in the canyon
painted hills around, the wind against my skin
every ocean every sea, ever river, every stream
every mountain, every tree, every blade of grass will sing” [david crowder]


[photo by Tim Founds]