As often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do show the Lord's death till he come.
I Corithinians 11:26

This was not a planned post.  I have planned for my life in the past month perhaps more than I have in the past twenty-two years.  It is most exhausting and I will try not to do it again...  But this past Sunday (being a communion Sunday, as we celebrate the Lord's Supper on the first Sunday of every month) the last hymn we sang reflected this grace.  But I did not realize that until the last stanza, and what really jumped out at me was how well it encapsulated the spirit of The Shadow Things.  I will now reproduce its glorious lines for you here.  (It was penned by Edward H. Bickersteth and, if you are musical, is sung to the tune Ajalon.)

Till he come! O let the words linger trembling on the chords;
Let the little while between in their golden light be seen;
Let us think how heav'n and home lie beyond that "Till he come."

When the weary ones we love enter on their rest above;
Seem the earth so poor and vast, all our life-joy overcast?
Hush, be every murmur dumb: it is only till he come.

Clouds and conflicts round us press: would we have one sorrow less?
All the sharpness of the cross, all that tells the world is loss,
Death and darkness, and the tomb, only whisper "Till he come."

See, the feast of love is spread, drink the wine, and break the bread:
Sweet memorials, - till the Lord call us to his heav'nly board;
Some from earth, from glory some, severed only till he come.

"Hush, be every murmur dumb: it is only till he come."  "Would we have one sorrow less?"  "All the sharpness of the cross."  "Death and darkness, and the tomb, only whisper 'Till he come.' "  I sang these lines with difficulty, choked by that same sensation described in the title of this post: a sense of relief and yet an acute and painful longing.  I was also amazed and grateful for the poor man who bore so regrettable a name and yet so sweet a sense of truth: in simple lines and clear words, Bickersteth bequeathed to the Church another hymn of hope.  This same vision, this same conviction, I found bound up in the life of Indi and his few friends.  And so I got all emotional while I was singing it and I had to try not to cry.  Being a girl is rubbish sometimes.

What was planned was an author spotlight on Anne Elisabeth Stengl's blog Tales of Goldstone Wood.  She agreed to host both Abigail and me, and we were each leveled questions by her which we had to answer.  My question?
I would like to know why you wrote this book. And I do mean this book, specifically! Considering the busy imagination you have, what was it about The Shadow Things that compelled you to write it instead of another story?

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