Lanier Ivester

When I was eight years old I discovered an old typewriter in my parents’ storage house, which I hauled out and set up on my blue and white desk and promptly began work on the next Great American Novel. (Don’t look for it in the stores—it was replaced by a historical epic set in the colonial West Indies. And that one eventually gave way to the inevitable Gothic romance…) I’ve literally been writing ever since, though I’ve upgraded to a laptop (and, no, I don’t type much better than I did when I was eight) and traded in (most) of my ‘high-faluting mumbo jumbo’ for a rapturous chronicle of the Beauty and Truth and Goodness of the God of my life.
  • Something Tookish

    When Philip and I finished the last book in the Lord of the Rings trilogy I sat in silence for some time, the tears chasing one another down my cheeks, wrapped in a lovely melancholy over the end of the Third Age and the pilgrimage of the fair folk beyond the Grey Havens. I couldn’t…

  • the power of a story

    I love that Jesus taught in stories. That has always given a lift to my writer’s heart, has always made the effort of putting pen to paper seem so worthwhile. In His parables He comprehended the fact that we are a story-loving lot, that tales of the just and the unjust are a universal language…

  • City of Bells

    What could be a more delightful prospect than dinner on a tray by the fire (Chinese take-out, at that!) and a pot of orange blossom tea, and a brand new (old) Elizabeth Goudge book? I was so excited to start this one last night—I felt like I was spending the evening with an old friend….

  • Thanksgiving Eve

    It’s deliciously cloudy out–and suitably chilly–and I’m relishing to the prospect of a day in my kitchen full of happy bustle and preparation for Thanksgiving. We’ll be going to my parents’ tomorrow, and we’re looking forward to a day on the farm with Philip’s family on Friday. But today is ‘at home’ day and I…

  • Friendship

    Sisterhood

    One of my dearest friends moved away today. To be sure, not away away—Birmingham is little more than a two hour drive, and I visit there quite often as another of my dearest friends lives there as well. But she’s not here anymore. I can’t meet her for coffee on a busy errand day, savoring…

The End.

The End.