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.
Yorktown Pier
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Heron and I: Sunrise Companions
The truth is, I hadn't even known it was the same bird until those hospital days. Missing "the birds" at sunrise, I'd Googled Great Blue Herons from Tony's bedside and discovered they're incredibly territorial, returning to the same fishing spots day after day. The revelation stunned me—all those weeks, maybe months, I thought I'd been seeing different herons. But no. It had been him. The same one. My faithful friend I hadn't even recognized as singular until I lost him.
Writer's Growth 