Tomorrow could be an ending or a beginning, and I won't know until I'm in the room. But I've learned this summer: sometimes the beautiful and the hard are the same light.
Personal Growth
Grace, Mercy, and Power
He showed me His grace at the sunrise, His mercy at the sunset, and on the last night of summer, in a storm full of lightning, He showed me His power.
The Altar I Built
The first altar I built was made to hold a man, and it could not bear the weight of him. The one I stand at now holds up the sky.
The Lion Roared
For a long time, the sun rose and set in my husband. Now I chase the light at the water's edge, and I have learned the difference between an idol and a God.
Enough, Without the Fireworks
Three years ago I wrote that I was enough without the fireworks, and hoped it was true. This year, by the river, I found I could hold both the rare light and the daily one.
New Every Morning: 30 Days of Chasing the Light
Thirty mornings at one pier on the York River, and the sky never repeated once. What thirty sunrises taught me about mercy that's new every morning.
The Sun Rises and Sets on an Author
There is a white wicker loveseat on the sand. It does not belong there… and neither do I, quite, living in three pasts at once through three books. A sunrise spot visited at sunset, and the quiet realization that I've been so busy surviving — and so busy writing about God — that I forgot I was made to delight in Him.
Firsts After the Lasts
This was a week of firsts — the kind I've come to know by heart this season. Working through every first after what I hadn't known would be lasts. The knife I reached for was packed. So I reached for my own, the one I had before him. What you put in the ground is never what comes back up.
Memories, Anchors, and Prisons
The sunrise is supposed to be the opposite of the prison. Then Sunday morning, he was there. Tonight, I begin the part of trauma therapy that's supposed to help me leave the room I'm still trapped in.
The Week the Book Left My Hands
My book has been out for one week. In that week, I sent over two hundred personal messages and watched the responses break me open in a way the writing never did. The book is finding the people it was written for.
Writer's Growth 