19/04/2026
So I finally picked up Theo of Golden by Allen Levi ag.
I'd been seeing it everywhere—on the New York Times bestseller list, popping up on my feed, friends whispering about it like they'd discovered some secret. And honestly? I was skeptical. A self-published book by a first-time author in his 60s? A story about an 86-year-old stranger who wanders into a small Georgia town and starts buying portraits off a coffeehouse wall? It sounded… quiet. Maybe even a little slow.
But then I read the first page. And then another. And another.
And somewhere around page 50, I realized I was smiling. Not the kind of smile you paste on for a photo. The kind that sneaks up on you when something warm cracks open in your chest.
Theo arrives in the fictional town of Golden with no fanfare. No one knows where he came from or why he's there. He stumbles into a local coffeehouse called The Chalice (yes, that kind of chalice—more on that in a minute) and finds 92 pencil portraits hanging on the wall. Drawn by a local artist, they capture the faces of the townspeople: a homeless woman, a janitor, a music student, a bookstore owner, an accountant, a father whose daughter is lying in a hospital bed.
And Theo does something extraordinary. He buys every single portrait. Then he tracks down each person, one by one, and gives it back to them.
That's it. That's the plot. A stranger returning drawings to strangers and sitting down to listen to their stories.
It shouldn't work. It really shouldn't.
But it does.
Here's the thing about Theo of Golden—it's not a perfect novel. Even the fans will tell you that. The middle sags a little. Theo himself is almost too good, too patient, too wise, like someone ironed all the wrinkles out of him . And if you're the kind of reader who needs car chases and plot twists and people yelling at each other, this book will bore you to tears.
But if you're the kind of reader who has been quietly, deeply exhausted by the cruelty of the world lately—the shouting, the scrolling, the sense that no one really sees anyone anymore—then this book is going to hit you like a glass of cold water on a hot day.
Because Theo does something that feels almost radical now: he pays attention. He looks people in the eye. He asks questions and then actually listens to the answers. He tells a homeless woman that he sees beauty in her face, and he means it. He helps a janitor pay his daughter's medical bills and then disappears before anyone can thank him .
One of my favorite lines comes when Theo is describing what he saw in the portraits: "For anything to be truly good, there must be love in it. Nothing is what it's supposed to be if love is not at the core" .
It's cheesy. I know it's cheesy. But I underlined it anyway, and I haven't stopped thinking about it.
The faith thing (because people are talking about it)
Yes, this is a Christian book. The coffeehouse is called The Chalice. Characters quote Scripture. There's a long funeral scene with pages of sermonizing . If that's not your thing, you should know going in.
But here's what surprised me: it doesn't feel preachy. Or maybe it does, but not in the way I expected. The Christianity in this book isn't the fire-and-brimstone kind or the political kind or the "I'm-better-than-you" kind. It's the old-fashioned, quiet, works-not-just-faith kind. The kind that says faith without action is dead and that mercy is always better than justice .
One character—a grandmother—puts it this way when her family is deciding whether to punish an undocumented immigrant who caused a terrible accident: "Baby, they's justice and they's mercy. If you not sure what to do and you gotta choose one or the other, I say always go the mercy way" .
That line stopped me. Because it's not complicated. It's not intellectual. It's just… kind. And somehow kindness has become the most countercultural thing there is.
Read this if you're tired. Read this if you've been doomscrolling and feeling like the world is getting darker by the day. Read this if you need to be reminded that there are still people who show up, who sit down, who give without wanting anything back.
Don't read this if you're looking for fast-paced action or morally gray antiheroes or prose that will make you feel smart. Theo is not complicated. He's not conflicted. He's a saint, plain and simple—and some readers find that boring .
But here's what I think: maybe we need boring saints right now. Maybe we need someone who just shows up and listens and pays the hospital bill and goes home. Maybe that's the most radical thing a person can do in 2026.
I closed this book and just sat with it for a while. Then I texted two friends and told them I loved them. Then I looked at my own calendar and wondered how much of my week was spent actually seeing the people in front of me versus just rushing past them.
Theo of Golden isn't going to change literature. But it might change you—just a little. Just enough to make you put down your phone, look someone in the eye, and ask, "How are you really doing?"
And then actually wait for the answer.
Have you read this yet? I need to know—did it make you cry, or was that just me?
