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
healing
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 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.
Perception Changes
I spent this week fixing a photograph. The cover came back too dark, and the fix wasn't more light, it was raising the shadows until the buried detail came back up. I've been thinking about that ever since, because it's the truest thing I know right now.
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.
Writer's Growth 