About

I belong to the trade winds off the islands and the silky swaying rice fields nestled under the Himalayan clouds. I belong to dahl and rice eaten with tiny hands. I belong to kimchi and seaweed and rice pots always plugged in on the counter. I belong to sun-baked dung walls and bathtubs warmed in the sunshine. I belong to the Sandia Mountains and fresh roasted green chiles and a morning sky filled with hot air balloons. I belong to Oregon winters and the bitter cold, the summer lakes thawed under July’s days and the wildflowers that bloom beneath my feet. I belong to the lodgepole pines standing guard and the windy roads that lead me home.

I belong to a family of nomads and roots that go deeper than blood or coordinates. I belong to the rag-tag and the downtrodden and the never-enoughs. I belong to the abundance and the redeemed and every measure of me that has been paid for. I belong to a legacy of faith.

I belong to the grateful and forgiven.

I belong to freedom.

I belong to mothering. I belong to story time and all the character’s voices done just right and again. One more time before lights out. I belong to pictures on the fridge and smudgy handprints everywhere and traces of a messy lived life. I belong to wonder.

I belong to stretched out and weary skin and a body that has birthed miracles. I belong to swimsuits in the summer and tan lines across stretch marks and jumping in even when it’s cold. I belong to brave.

I belong to my man. To the slip of his hand into mine and the pull of his arm around my hips. I belong to the curve of his body and the whisper of his promises made clear when he brings me coffee in bed on Saturdays and circles the best garage sales, when he teaches the kids to ride their bikes and runs alongside them steady, hand outstretched to keep them up as their little legs pump. I belong to the years we’ve shared and the shape I’ve been sharpened and soothed into. I belong to the vows we said. I belong to love.

I belong to the church. To the eternity in us and the holy mystery. I belong to the rickety hymns and the songs strummed on battered guitars, the earnest voices, and the lifted hands. I belong to the Psalms and the Gospels and the whole counsel of God’s word. I belong to the peacemakers, the baptized new, the called. I belong to brazen hope and ridiculous grace. I belong to the body broken and made new. I belong to the great hope.

I am the daughter of a book lover and a storyteller and in that birthing, I belong to writing’s call. It whispers to me that I belong to an anthology of justice and faith and so many broken stories needing told to be made right. I belong to the narrative and the truth, the glory, and the joy, and every word penned sounds like ransom has come.

I tell my stories and hope you’ll find yours in the words I share. I used to write to know I was not alone, now I write so you know you’re not either.

If you want to know details, stick around and make yourself at home. I’m glad you’re here.

Be sure to subscribe to my monthly newsletter where we explore ways we retain our fluency in the language of hope by training our eyes to see wonder, our tongues to be truth-tellers, and our hearts to know grace.

You can also find my words at (in)courage, GraceTable, She Loves, and The Mudroom, Patheos: The Fluency of Hope, where I am a regular monthly or quarterly contributor. I am also a member of Redbud Writers Guild.

My first solo book, Glorious Weakness: Discovering God In All We Lack releases April 2nd and is available for preorder now.