I walked the floor of the ER once, and that's when I saw them—half a dozen sunrise landscapes decorating the hallways. I stood before each one, these windows to elsewhere when I couldn't get to my own pier. God had provided witness even there. Sometimes making the most of a moment means recognizing that the moment itself—even if it's spent on an ER floor looking at someone else's sunrise photos—is the gift.
sunrise
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.
Believe in the Sunrise: A Christmas Road Trip
When I read the scrolling text on my red coin and thermos, I see an invitation to savor the true message the material world hides this season. Santa Billy knows what that red coin really means: we don't have to be good enough. We just have to believe—in showing up, in choosing the third door, in God showing up in unexpected places like Savannah hotels and beach tractors and a manger because every room was full.
When the Light Returns: Finding Hope for SAD
The same God who designed the sun's predictable arc across the seasons also designed me—a creature who needs light to thrive. He built the solution into creation itself: the promise that darkness never gets the final word. Even at its peak on the Winter Solstice, the night immediately begins to lose ground. The light always returns.
When the Sun Returns (Inside and Out)
Four mornings in a row, I showed up at the pier to see nothing. But I wasn't really seeing nothing, was I? I was witnessing God's faithfulness in the fog. This morning, after four days of grey, pink threaded through purple across the water. The sun rose today, outside and inside. God is faithful like that despite the fog, or perhaps because of it.
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.
When Glory Fades: Recognizing Divine Yes in the Waiting
Thursday morning, standing in that tangerine fire, I'd felt held by something infinite. The sunrise was teaching me something about recognition: This is what arrival feels like. This is what yes tastes like—metallic and sweet on your tongue. But when the publishing offer came, where was the orange glow? Sometimes the holiest ground is right there in the middle, suspended between shores.
Behind the Scenes: A Summer of Cutting, Crafting, and Chasing Dreams
The sun crested the York River this morning at 5:59 AM, and I was there to meet it, rosewood ukulele slung across my shoulder, journal tucked under my arm. Same 9 PM bedtime, same sunrise ritual—rain or shine, whether I'm alone with my thoughts or surrounded by the Fourth of July crowd that descended on … Continue reading Behind the Scenes: A Summer of Cutting, Crafting, and Chasing Dreams
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Writer's Growth 