Since that night I have watched 280 sunrises and 147 sunsets. I captured the light change 427 times. And it changed me every single time.
jesus
Glimpses of Heaven
I have a garden. I've had one for almost two years, only there's sea oats instead of roses. It is a pier on the York River at first light.
Fearfully, Wonderfully, and Bipolar-ly Made
Mary Beth came to the pier last night with my camera and told me where to stand. Fearfully, Wonderfully, and Bipolar-ly Made: From Shame to Sanctuary is available today on Amazon.
Behind the Clouds
This morning, there was supposed to be a blood moon. It was raining. I stayed at the pier anyway. I always stay. There's a particular kind of faith required when you show up for something you were promised and the sky gives you nothing.
Standing in Uncertainty
I've been a planner my whole life. I carried an essay about my future from elementary school into my thirties, and every time God didn't deliver it on my timeline, I blamed the Strategist. This time, the storm is worse—and for the first time, I'm not angry at Him. Something is shifting. I'm learning to stand in the fog.
Laura Joy, He’s Here
Kevin called across the beach to tell me my heron was back after a week and a half's absence. It made me think about John the Baptist — and the women who've spent forty-three years pointing me toward Christ.
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 Journal Returns: A Story of Lost and Found
I actually cried when Hector told me he'd found my "book." I think God knew I would be an oft-wandering soul. That friends and loves and family members would come and go, and I would need something to anchor me, something I could rely on even when those I loved couldn't be there for me. The empty page was always waiting to take my pain or rage or joy.
After the Epic
Sunday's sunrise looked just like that epic one from weeks ago—same impossible oranges, same fire painted across the water. I, however, was different. This time, I wasn't anticipating disaster but processing triumph. God had to prove that when I finally stepped back from the conductor's podium, He could orchestrate something more beautiful than my rigid score ever allowed.
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.
