Four years ago, my graduate school counseling supervisor handed me a small, flower-shaped succulent. “For you,” she said, “because you, too, have learned to thrive in desert places”…

We walked carefully up the mountain path, our feet straddling the sides of a newly formed spring which flowed through the middle of our trail. A low-lying fog gave the forest a hushed quality, the only sound that of the swollen Waptus river which raged below…

This week, I have the privilege of sharing three of my poems which are published in Issue VI of Heart of Flesh Literary Magazine. Heart of Flesh is a beautiful and earnest publication which features the writing and wrestling of artists seeking to know God and follow Jesus…

It was a dark and rainy night, that fateful night of the apple cider chicken…

It had been a perfect October day the night that I saw the stars. Fall in the Pacific Northwest is a glorious sight to behold, with trees shouting their farewell in magnificent leaves of gold and red which burn against the cool canvas of evergreens…

“Is there anything you’d like to confess?” I asked him. This certainly was not the conversation I had anticipated when I stumbled downstairs to make myself a breakfast of coffee and toast…

It was the quiet that woke me. In the dark before dawn, everything was still—too still. The familiar sound of our whirring fan had gone silent, and I woke up with a confused sense that something was wrong…

I had watched her from afar for weeks, this mysterious woman in the water. Each time I saw her, my curiosity grew…

This week marks the celebration of Michaelmas, a traditional Roman Catholic and Christian feast day honoring three angels: Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael…

She trudged uphill slowly, balancing empty water jugs which clanked and collided with each heavy step. She was thirsty. It was noon, the brightest time of day which guaranteed her hiddenness…

“Dry, numb, unclear, weary”—these are the words I found coming out of my mouth last week when describing my spiritual life, words I didn’t even know I felt until I spoke them out loud to my spiritual director…

As a child, I was terrified of the dark. Every night, my parents had a lovely ritual of singing to us and praying with us before bed. It was a time of deep comfort and peace in which I felt their love and God’s too. But when they left and I was alone with the dark, everything changed…

For several months, I have been meeting with a group of friends for the sole purpose of sharing and holding one another’s stories. These have been stories of laughter, beauty, pain, and complexity. Each time we meet, someone volunteers to tell their story based on a selected theme. It has been fascinating to recognize the Providence in who tells what story and when—often stories we hadn’t planned to share ahead of time…

Dear Friends and Family,

Thank you for journeying with me thus far with Behold…

Last week, I shared the first installation of my recently unearthed childhood story, The Christmas Pony, written at age 9. If you didn’t read it, that’s okay. All you need to know from Chapters 1-2 is that my alter-ego, Julie, found a black stallion on Christmas Day…

This week, I will be featuring a guest writer named “My-9-Year-Old-Self.” She is honored to be here and promises to be on her very best behavior…

Because the sky is not dark until after ten in Washington summer evenings, Drew and I often find ourselves a bit aimless after dinner. In the winter, the sun begins to set around four so we often find ourselves in bed around nine. But in the summer, sun guilt prevails…

Last week Drew and I visited my grandparents in Montana. Being together brought us much joy as we laughed and reminisced about the wonderful life they’d led—a life that has blessed and shaped my own. But our time was also filled with honest conversation about the painful reality of death. As we left my grandparents’ home one evening, my heart was full of both joy and sorrow, levity and heaviness…

This week, I found myself deep in contemplation while driving east on I-90. My husband and I were traveling to visit my grandmother, whose health is failing. On this particular stretch of the journey, I typically look forward to a meteorological phenomenon I call “Toy Story Clouds.” You know, the pristine white ones with the fluffy tops and flat bottoms, brilliant against an endless blue sky—the clouds Pixar perfected…

I wrote this week’s poem in a time of quiet in which I was able to observe the busy bees outside my window, singular in their intent of sweetening and blossoming the world, one flower at a time…