Andrew Peterson
Hey, folks. If you're just discovering me or any of my work, it can be a little confusing because there are several facets to it. Here’s the rundown:
• I write songs. I also record them to these cool things called CDs and put on concerts around the country. (And beyond! To my great delight, I get to play in Europe every year or so.)
• I write books. I’ve written a four-part fantasy series for young readers called the Wingfeather Saga, along with Pembrick's Creaturepedia and A Ranger's Guide to Glipwood Forest. The Wingfeather Animated Series is wonderful, and you can watch for free over at Angel.com. I've written two memoirs: Adorning the Dark, and The God of the Garden.
• I'm the founder of the Rabbit Room, a community of songwriters, authors, and artists interested in storytelling, faith, and fellowship.
• I'm married to Jamie, and we have three sweet (grown) children, each of whom has a (grown) spouse (who is also sweet), and one very sweet granddaughter. We live in a magical place we call the Warren, just south of Nashville.
The common thread in all this is my love for Christ and his Kingdom, my belief in the power of story and art, and my need for family and community. If I had to boil it all down, I'd say this: I want to use my gifts to tell the truth, and to tell it as beautifully as I can. Andrew-peterson.com
“Art, if it can be ascribed value, is most valuable when its beauty (and the beauty of the truth it tells) bewilders, confounds, defies evil itself; it does so by making what has been unmade; it subverts the spirit of the age; it mends the heart by whispering mysteries the mind alone can’t fathom; it fulfills its highest calling when into all the clamor of Hell it tells the unbearable, beautiful, truth that Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ will come again. None of these songs and stories matter if the beauty they’re adding to isn’t the kind of beauty that redeems and reclaims.”
“I am convinced that poets are toddlers in a cathedral, slobbering on wooden blocks and piling them up in the light of the stained glass. We can hardly make anything beautiful that wasn’t beautiful in the first place. We aren’t writers, but gleeful rearrangers of words whose meanings we can’t begin to know. When we manage to make something pretty, it’s only so because we are ourselves a flourish on a greater canvas. That means there’s no end to the discovery. We may crawl around the cathedral floor for ages before we grow up enough to reach the doorknob and walk outside into a garden of delights. Beyond that, the city, then the rolling hills, then the sea. And when the world of every cell has been limned and painted and sung, we lie back on the grass, satisfied that our work is done. Then, of course, the sun sets and we see above us the dark dome of glittering stars.On and on it goes, all the way to the lightless borderlands of time and space, which we come to discover in some future age are but the beginnings or endings of a single word spoken from the mouth of God. Some nights, while I traipse down the hill, I imagine that word isn’t a word at all, but a burst of laughter.”
“There's just something about the way he sings. It makes me think of when it snows outside, and the fire is warm, and Podo is telling us a story while you're cooking, and there's no place I'd rather be--but for some reason I still feel... homesick.”
“The burden God places on each of us is to become who we are meant to be. We are most fully ourselves when Christ most fully lives in us and through us. The mother shines brightest with her child in her arms, the father when he forgives his wandering son, and the artist when he or she is drawing attention to grace, by showing the pinprick of light overcoming the darkness in the painting, or the story, or the song. The world knows darkness. Christ came into the world to show us light. I have seen it, have been blinded by it, invaded by it. I will tell its story.”
“Blood was shed that you three might breathe the good air of life, and if that means you have to miss out on a Zibzy game, then so be it. Part of being a man is putting others' needs before your own.”
“The gospel gives me hope, and hope is not a language the dark voices understand.”
“A thing resounds when it rings true,Ringing all the bells inside of you,Like a golden sky on a summer eveYour heart is tugging at your sleeve,And you cannot say why...There must be more”
“Hey, angel, your horns are sticking up.”
“Love is not a feeling in your chest; it is bending down to wash another's feet.”