Welcome to my desk— weathered, knotty, reclaimed wood devoid of veneer.
Run your hand across my desk and you may gain a splinter.
But it’s real. Truthful. Unpretentiously beautiful.
That’s how I hope to write. That’s how I hope to live, fail as I do.

Upon my desk sit cherished things. Black coffee. My sweet family. A stack of book-friends. The big one with the handle at the bottom is my favorite, different from the rest. You may love that book too. Maybe it’s the foundation for your life as well. Or you may be rolling your eyes, ready to tuck my writing and me into a box with a tight fitting lid. Either way I’m glad you’re here. Because here we all are, trying to do this thing called life, leaning on this thing called faith, hoping to uncover truths greater than ourselves. 


The Ground Beneath Us         Mother of My Son

The Ground Beneath Us

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