Tomorrow, Joshua would have turned 47. He died on St. Patrick's Day, 2023 — suddenly, unexpectedly, the way death sometimes comes. I'm catching up with him now, and I've been thinking about how thin the line is. How suddenly a photo becomes a memorial. How the living keep aging while the dead stay still.
Nature & Reflections
Resilience, Revisited
Last spring, I wrote about chasing sunrises and what they taught me about resilience. I thought I understood it then. I've since learned that sometimes you don't bounce at all—and maybe that's the point.
These Bones Will Say
I've never been able to make typical affirmations work for me. It's easy to lie about myself, but it's difficult to lie about who God is—especially when I'm surrounded by His grandeur at the sunrise every morning.
The Heron and I: Sunrise Companions
The truth is, I hadn't even known it was the same bird until those hospital days. Missing "the birds" at sunrise, I'd Googled Great Blue Herons from Tony's bedside and discovered they're incredibly territorial, returning to the same fishing spots day after day. The revelation stunned me—all those weeks, maybe months, I thought I'd been seeing different herons. But no. It had been him. The same one. My faithful friend I hadn't even recognized as singular until I lost him.
When the Light Returns: Finding Hope for SAD
The same God who designed the sun's predictable arc across the seasons also designed me—a creature who needs light to thrive. He built the solution into creation itself: the promise that darkness never gets the final word. Even at its peak on the Winter Solstice, the night immediately begins to lose ground. The light always returns.
The Thanksgiving Before the Sun
Every morning, I arrive at the pier with empty hands and an open heart, ready for whatever sunrise God chooses to paint. But Thanksgiving? I arrive at Thanksgiving with a script written in my mother's hand, frustrated when God rewrites the scenes.
Between the Rocks: Finding Sanctuary in the Waiting
Sanctuary isn't the absence of uncertainty. It's not found in answered prayers staying answered or circumstances finally settling into place. Sanctuary is the practice of returning to God in the midst of unknowns—the daily choice to sit between the rocks and seek the Rock.
Setting Your Watch by the Sun
My new psychiatrist asked how I get my needs met when I'm busy meeting everyone else's. The answer: At sunrise, every day. I meet God there. For a year now, I've approached dawn like an altar. I can't set my watch by people anymore – their consistency wavers. But the sun rises because God commands it. Every morning, without fail, He proves His faithfulness.
Partly Cloudy at Sunrise: Finding Faith in the In-Between
Santa Billy handed me a red tumbler emblazoned with 'Believe' just as I'm waiting to hear from agents about my rebranded manuscript. But I've discovered something at sunrise: the partly cloudy days are the most beautiful ones. Not the extremes of brilliant sunshine or impenetrable fog, but the in-between spaces where faith has room to grow. Maybe that's why they call it faith – this willingness to wait for what we cannot guarantee, to find beauty in what isn't perfect.
The Ripple Effect of Coming Out: When Vulnerability Becomes a Lighthouse
Two raw, relatable statements arrived in my text messages this weekend that slowed me to a halt: 'I need to be reminded that my grief is valid' and 'I need to know that I can have a future beyond this season.' What I thought would make me a spectacle—being open about my bipolar disorder—was actually making me a resource. This week showed me the unexpected ripple effect of choosing vulnerability over hiding, and how our greatest fears can become our most powerful gifts.
Writer's Growth 