I superglued my heel shut last week. I didn’t plan to write that first sentence, but it’s where everything else starts, so I'll begin there. Six days ago, I was standing out on the shoals before dawn, ankle-deep in water I know well, framing a sailboat moored past the shallows with her mast running straight … Continue reading A Beautiful Bruised Capture
grief
Another Sunrise
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.
A Broken Clock
I'm a broken clock, right twice a day, at sunrise and sunset. This has been a hard season. But twice a day, at the water's edge, I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.
The Wildfire Sun: Beauty from Ashes
The sun went red because something far away was burning. The glory I was chasing was refracted grief. And I finally understood why I feel so right beneath it.
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 Same Shorelines
A year ago, my husband renewed our vows at sunrise. This week, separating belongings, I found the card he'd given me that day. So much can change in a year.
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.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Frost wrote eight lines about gold and grief, and I've been teaching them every year. This week, I learned what he didn't say: the gold was real. It just doesn't stay.
He Knows My Name
I brought Mama Marci to the sunrise. She couldn't see the heron. She trusted me. Fearfully, Wonderfully, and Bipolar-ly Made releases next Tuesday, April 14.
Writer's Growth 