A Poem: Maranatha

It’s been a long time since I’ve attempted writing poetry. And I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know a thing about what makes for truly good poetry. But I recently picked up Word on Fire’s latest journal on poetry, and curiosity in this art form reawakened. I took my children on a walk through the countryside to enjoy one of the last warm days of autumn, and then I came home and wrote this. Make of it what you will.

these long-suffering fields
air the Christ tasted
take life into
my chest
grain laid down
more alive
life renewed in
darts of blue and white—
searching gold furrows
for grace
to carry them
as this light
carries me
a colorless land
is not dead
but waiting
dreaming of pollen
as I dream
these swells of earth
held in the
mind of God
His Word endures
only breathe
listen to currents
moving over the immovable
watch cattail cotton
not lost
yes, I am fragmented
not lost

Pre-order The Blood!

After a long delay, The Blood is finally ready for publication! Our expected release is late November. We will be offering hard copies, as well as an eBook through Amazon. In the meantime, you have the opportunity to pre-order and secure a copy—or two!

I am very excited to receive your feedback. The writing process took much longer than I anticipated, but I believe the story is better for it. I also believe the story speaks profoundly to our current times. May it bless you deeply!

Go here to pre-order:


Not Invincible

The coolness of the air burns in the middle of my chest. A clarity of light moves over everything, moves through me. I see the leaves as they are—more frail than they appeared a few days ago, before the wind came and lashed the trees about and stole the heat away, before the light changed. And I see myself as I am. Part of this decaying world. I feel it every year, at this time. Summer is not invincible; I am not invincible. I ache for the words to capture the essence of something more beautiful than anything I’ve ever known, something the chill cannot wilt.

Rain is dripping from the sky. I can hear it past the window, like suds bursting. Grass that was crackling yesterday, whirring with grasshoppers, is now drinking deeply and flushing green, a final stand against the coming autumn. My chest burns. There’s nothing to be done but hold the pain there and let it move my heart closer to Home. And then turn my gaze from the silver sky, from the stillness of the trees, and write.

This Earth in Me

I once believed youth was something like a butterfly—a beautiful thing, scaling the skies. But fleeting. Ungrounded. Here one moment, gone the next. One’s gaze must eventually settle on the earth.

But now I believe youth is actually more like the earth itself.

All my memories from my earliest days of womanhood—they’re so sweet they’re painful. And I realize that to lose them would be to lose a part of me. Because they weren’t just adventures. They are my foundation. I am who I am because I walked the Camino, wandered the streets of Nahant, dreamed on the beaches of Prince Edward Island. It was in those places that I truly discovered suffering, healing, peace, joy, and ultimately love—the pieces of every human heart. I found my pieces in the sun, the sea, the sand, the wildflowers. I still wear a pendant of sea glass around my neck, reminding me that those days aren’t just memories—aren’t just fleeting. They are part of me.

This earth in me continues to grow, to bear fruit—though my marriage, my children, our home. And these, like the lupines of the island, draw butterflies to myself. They are only glimpses, nothing I can quite grasp, but as the butterflies rise to places unknown, I remember that there is more than what I’ve known and loved. I am more than who I am.

One day, when I am Home, the pieces of my heart will fuse and I will be whole.

My Children

I remember sitting on the deck at the farm. I was soon to fly away to the place where I truly became a woman. Not yet married, no home to call my own, except the one I was about to leave. My eyes were closed. I was listening to the rush of waves in the trees.

Soon after I found myself standing by the sea, eyes closed, listening to the whispering of leaves in the waves. Childhood far behind me, and yet so close.

Today, I am again sitting on the deck. Today, I am holding my baby boy, and in his breathing I hear both the leaves and the waves. The past and the future are fused in this small body—everything I dreamed he would be, and more. Yes, day by day he becomes greater than the child I hoped to hold. Like his sister.

I wrote about them, pictured myself wading through creeks with them, picking berries with them. And here they are. Blueberry eyes and honey hair. We live a different life than the one I dreamed about. Our home is not a rustic cabin. But we live by a farmer’s field. White owls ghost through our yard in the twilight and hoot by moonlight. Deer fold their legs and rest beneath our trees.

We spend hours outside together, browning in the prairie sun, dawdling in time with the small-town pace. Every now and then, we find treasure; we carry a bird nest home. There are sweet apples and tart cherries to pick. My girl skips through puddles and fills her boots with murky water. At the playground, my boy climbs up and down, up and down. He eats sand and grins. We wait for the train to come thundering by, a riot of graffiti. And when we pass through the cemetery on our way home, we always keep our eyes on the giant evergreens that brood over the gravestones—hoping to glimpse the Great Horned owl. Even if we whisper, there’s no hearing the silent beat of his wings. Better luck next time.

No, it isn’t what I dreamed. And I don’t mind at all.

The Tree and the Sequel

Dear readers,

I haven’t blogged in several months due to a few reasons, particularly one. God seemed to dry up the inspiration for shorter pieces so that I could focus hardcore on completing the sequel to The Tree. 

Even before The Tree was in print, ideas for The Blood were brewing. The story has evolved dramatically since I first began writing it. I never thought it would take this long, but I truly believe God’s timing is for the best. I can’t express how I excited I am to be so close to sharing The Blood with you. I believe the story is powerful, and I pray it will touch many lives.

While The Blood is being prepared for publication, we are taking this time to finally release an eBook for The Tree. Took us a while—but better late than never, as they say. Now is the perfect time to either read The Tree for the first time or brush up on the story before the release of The Blood.

Check it out!

The Tree and the Sequel


Garden Never Yet Known

This evening, the world is spellbound by fog. I can’t see the field where rose-gold light often pools in the morning and the farmer’s cattle nose mounds of hay. No colors of twilight to gild the decaying trees. Earlier, the sky spun out fat, airy snowflakes, bits of cotton floating down to soften Earth’s surface. Must have been an hour that I rocked and rocked in the wicker chair and held your sister to my chest, her eyes blinking slowly at the falling sky, even as I felt you swimming in my womb. 

Those are the moments that remind me how beautiful is this gift called motherhood. You, embraced by me as much as Rosé was, with me as much as Rosé was, even though I can’t yet see you. I think unborn life this second time is even more surreal than the first. We know the joy Rosé has brought us—immense joy—and it’s difficult to fathom how another child will gift us with yet more joy, but in a different form. What will set you apart from your sister, and how will you mirror her? What beauty will you unfold in our life through your life?

Somehow, I will again fall in love in a moment and come to know the secret pathways of a garden never yet known by anyone but God, an unrepeatable soul. I am moved to stunned silence at the responsibility your existence—and Rosé’s existence—demands of your father and me. You wouldn’t be if we hadn’t aided the Creator in His craft. We’ve set you into eternal motion. You’ll never not be. You will know God and His love—greater than any pain—because you now are. 

In a sense, I feel as if I am Mary, carrying miraculous life in my womb. How can this be?

You exist, sweet nameless one, because even before I, your mother, existed, He was. 

The Blood—And Your Help

I never thought it would take me this long to write the sequel to The Tree, but here we are.

The Blood is close to finished. I’ve done a ton of rewriting, a ton of editing, just as I did with The Tree. The time and effort I’ve put in have been so worth it. But I know the story can be still better. 

For a long time now, I’ve been thinking I need a professional editor I can rely on to help me polish up my work to be the best it can be. What’s stopped me from investigating this avenue before? Not knowing where to look—but also, quite frankly, the cost. 

Recently, however, I discovered a safe online business that’s provided me access to trustworthy editors. And then it hit me: if this is the next step God is calling me to take with my writing, I don’t need to let the cost stop me. He will open His wallet. And that’s where my readers come in.

If you think this is something you might feel called to help me with, please click on the link below, which will take you to my GoFundMe campaign. And please don’t hesitate to share this with your friends, as I greatly appreciate whatever help is given. 

God bless you!


Only Inside Me

There are green places, deep places, that only I know. I’ve always wondered if I’d eventually find them and weep because I was home. I’d run barefoot through virgin grass and lay my head against trees that murmur uninterrupted by civilization’s cries. I’d share it all with my husband, with our children. We’d see and touch and smell this secret world—our world—together.

When I was eighteen, I boarded a plane for the first time and flew to Ontario. I immersed myself in the life of Madonna House for two weeks. They took me to their farm one day, a fruitful place among rugged hills. It reminded me of my dreams—as a smell will conjure memories—but it wasn’t of my heart. I was sitting among empty beehives, scraping the wax from them, sunlight warming me, when I realized I was free. Free to create my own farm. Free to meet God in a poustinia away. 

And yet the path I’m following is meandering in ways I never foresaw. Perhaps it is only the melancholy air of autumn, but like the leaves stirring in the gardens, my heart too is stirring. I wonder now if that farm, that poustinia, those green mountains and deep valleys, only exist inside me. Perhaps my heart is the only place where Christ and I will meet among sweet pines groaning upward from ancient earth, or in the meadow where time passes in the lengthening of shadows. That cabin, where my barefooted children and I sit on the porch in the dusk and watch the light swimming in the creek, is my poustinia of the heart. God alone resides there with me. 

But the desire for simplicity that birthed the mist-bound woods, the smoldering cookfire, the wild strawberries—I can live it out here and now, in this insignificant prairie town. I can walk among fallen apples with Rosé, crouch and touch the moss, look up at the sky and behold the flocks of geese leaving us. I can be still and hold her, hear her, and love the beauty and goodness before my eyes. 

And the silence I long for dwells in the deepest place I know, not high on a mountain of this earth, but in my heart. 

Rosé Posé

Small enough to be captured inside a pocket of sunlight. She’s searching for the perfect apple—or app, as she likes to call them—crouching down, chubby thighs bunching. The ground beneath our little tree is patterned with soft, rosy apples. They crush under my feet, but remain intact in Rosé’s hands. If you look closely, you’ll find many apples half-missing, half-remaining (whichever way you look at it). Tiny teeth marks in crescent moons. My baby is happiest when outside, in shoes or not, an apple in either hand, sunlight roasting the wisps on her head.

Her favorite color seems to be orange. Naturally, as she would eat all the clementines if I let her. We nestle in the hammock together and I point out all the colors of the fabric—blue, purple, green, yellow, red—but we return again and again to orange. Our hammock snuggles never last long, because as soon as Rosé hears the echo of a cow lowing, or the dogs barking in the neighbor’s yard, she’s sitting upright, eager to continue the adventure and discover more names, see more wonders. Like moss and sky and cat and flower. She helps me to see the world closer up. Right down to the smallest berry and pebble. Rosé misses nothing. 

Lately she’s begun patting the rug beside her, signing please until I come sit with her, even if it’s just to have me near and observe her play. My fledging extrovert (born of two introvert parents, ha). Not sure yet who her favorite is: me or her blankie. She takes us both everywhere. Nicholas is doing his best to break even—and you should see her head whip around when he returns from work. She’s begun singing his name throughout the day: da-dee, da-dee, da-dee. He’s winning her heart, even if she doesn’t yet know it.

Everyone says she’s the most expressive baby they’ve ever met. We once penciled in her eyebrows, which made it significantly easier to see just how much they move. No matter how early the morning may be, her grin (with all its spacious pearls) is sweeter than the first glimpse of the sun. Even in the dark, her eyes twinkle. And her sense of humor is such that even the subtlest look from me can burst her into laughter. When she howls like a wolf cub, it’s me who’s throwing my head back laughing. I have a feeling we’ll ever have dinner theatre in our home.

I gaze at my little one, so sweet and sensitive and smart, and I want another. No, not a duplicate of Rosé, but another of our own creations. Captivating blue eyes and flaxen hair and a distinct personality ever unfolding before our eyes. 

All this is to say, if you want to make the world a more beautiful place, have children.