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.
sanctuary
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.
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.
The First Right Choice
I took a year off to write a book, then went back to work. Finally, the story underneath the stories. Fearfully, Wonderfully, and Bipolar-ly Made: From Shame to Sanctuary releases April 14.
Going Through the Motions
I don't feel alive, but I was grateful for breath in my lungs. For quiet. For stillness. I keep showing up. Sunrise. Gym. School. Sea glass. Repeat. The daffodils came back, so will I.
What the Fire Couldn’t Touch
Mama Marci mailed me a letter last week. It was in Joshua's fireproof lockbox—one of the things he chose to protect from everything that could destroy it. I didn't know it existed. He never told me he kept it.
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.
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.
The Book I Didn’t Know I Was Writing
In October 2024, an acquisition editor told me I didn't have the platform publishers need. Fifteen months later, a VP publisher said the same thing. They weren't wrong—I hadn't earned the trade publishing route. But in those fifteen months of waiting, I discovered something: I would have published the wrong book.
Writer's Growth 