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The knock came on a Sunday evening just after sunset. That’s usually when I heard it. The front door rattled, drawing me closer. Raindrops tapped the windows on either side of the oak door, wiggling down the glass until they pooled on the sills.  I slowly turned my gaze toward the door, biting my lip, holding my breath. Waiting. I took a step closer to the door, the floor moaning under my bare feet, almost warning me of what was ahead. Another knock. I flinched, my breath tangled in my throat. Heat flooded my chest like flames filling a fireplace.

We’re always waiting for God’s yes. That answered prayer. The thing we can grab from his open palm and hold against our chest. It’s mine now. We imagine how we’ll celebrate when that big yes comes. Pop a bottle of champagne. Call our best friend. Post it to Instagram. We’ve got a whole party just waiting in the wings to acknowledge what God has done. But my friend said something the other day. I wonder if God wants to see what we’ll do with his no. His no? Where’s the hope? Where’s the trust in God? But maybe she’s right.

June 1. Another month. Maybe I’ll do a recap thing. Maybe I’ll share what I’ve learned every few weeks. But can anything really be learned in just one month? Maybe. Maybe. Someone recently told me I say that word a lot. Maybe, I replied. So maybe this May I’ve learned I like to live in a place of indecision. It feels less risky. I learned that time heals nothing at all. Like the clock on the wall, it’s a circle, moving me around. Sometimes I’m distracted on the ride, and other times I’m painfully aware of the ticking that plays

I’m sitting on an airplane. I don’t want my flight to end because I don’t want what comes next. Reality. I miss the snow. I miss the grand sights. I miss my people. I miss the escape. While I was there, we got caught up in this show about some spy who lived so many lies. I kept saying how enticing that sounded. How freeing. I kind of wanted to be her. Funny, I spent so many years peeling back the layers of hurt learning how to be vulnerable. Genuine. To the point where it seems there’s not one person

Feelings are invisible. Passing time has no visual. But have you ever noticed how certain things in life have a way of putting the passing of time on display? Like the growth of gray hairs or the fine lines that spread at the corners of my eyes. The tan that fades and how my long hair brushes against a lower spot on my back. Time passes. Sadness fades. New joy blooms. Sometimes. I’ve come to hate these reminders. I’d rather feel like a week is a day and a month is a moment. Don’t remind me of the minutes slipping

It felt like an electrical current sparked in my jaw. I imagined a hand yanking my chin and squeezing. Clenching. Where did the pain come from? My bottom teeth started throbbing a few days ago, and I seriously contemplated slamming my face into the wall. I joked, saying it hurt so bad I just wanted to punch myself in the mouth…not really too funny I guess. It was throbbing yet sharpshooting. A tug along my bottom teeth. I squeezed my hands, held my breath, bit my lip. Bring the pain somewhere else to numb the gnawing ache in my mouth.

I imagine the foot of the cross to be a messy place. Piles of shame. Mounds of guilt. Pieces of worry, shards of anxiety, and endless scraps of suffering. Bring them to the feet of Jesus. We’re told to do this. We sing about it and pray about it. I did just this morning, in fact. But as someone who tends to make a hobby of overthinking things…like, it’s actually enjoyable for me to run stories through my mind, I never quite understood the method of packing up my cares and dropping them off like a checked bag I’d never

Where do I belong? A little deep. Maybe a tad dramatic, but hey, what’s a writer if she doesn’t have a touch of drama. Today I read a quote about belonging. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t belong there anymore. At first, I may have rolled my eyes, in the subtle way that no one noticed. But as the words sunk a bit deeper, I felt them squeeze somewhere in my stomach. That thought of regrets. I have so many. I’m not the type to sling out the phrase that everything happens for a reason or live

I often say the town I’m from has long winding roads that are home to both clunky pickup trucks and shiny new cars. A place where a beat-up Chevy revs its engine next to a freshly waxed Jaguar. A juxtaposition. Life has many. In one hand I hold such gratitude for answered prayers. In the other, I feel the pain of heartache. One palm carries rich, authentic friendships, while the other bears the burden of abandonment.  In one I feel the soft sand of my healing little beach town, and in the other I feel the harsh winds of painful

I hate losing things and breaking things. I really do. It feels foolish. A waste of money. Another trip to the store to buy a replacement. I actually pride myself on never losing things, not even an earring. But sometimes my fingers slip, and it happens.  The other day I was sitting on my deck, attempting to ward off the swarms of Florida mosquitoes with my little clay incense holder. Wafts of citronella streamed through the decorative holes. I balanced it on the edge of my chair, getting the scent waves as close to my legs as possible. And then

Guilt swallows me. Why did I do that? I wish I could try again.  It eats at my soul, nibbling slowly, painfully. Never a satisfying bite, but always a slow chipping—something that can be felt like a million papercuts. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. The words sink deep into my pit. They live there without fresh air. Dying. I’ve often wondered about others’ guilt. Did they feel bad they did that to me? I wonder if they care? Does that keep them up at night? I’ll never know. But when I taste my own, the bitterness stuns me. It’s

You can hide anything if you really want to. You can hide your pain, and you can hide your sorrow. Gulp down the tears and press up a smile.  But hiding joy, why would we want to do that? I’ve kept a straight face while my heart burst with excitement. Don’t let them know you care. Don’t let anyone see this makes you happy. Why? If you uncover the happiness, it’ll be left in the open to be stomped on. Crushed. It’s better held close to the chest, protected and sheltered. But then it dies in the dark.  You can

Dim bulbs and plastic icicle strands cling to roof corners, holding on for a few final moments of joy. Christmas wreaths hang from doors, soggy with morning dew. The first day of the new year. A sunrise full of new hope, fresh beginnings, and unknown opportunities, yet right outside my window I see clear pictures of the old refusing to go.  What once glittered and sparkled throughout my small, quaint neighborhood now serves as reminders of happiness now faded as distant memories. Light strands dangling without power, bulbs empty of cheer, yards spotted with figurines ready to be packed into

A friend recently asked me a question. It came out of nowhere, making me pause and, at the same time, sending my memory down a path that seemingly had only two possibilities. You see, my friend is raising teenagers and sees life through their eyes. She’s seeing the wonder of their innocence, all while scanning her adult mind to predict the moments — and therefore memories — that could come to pass. When you remember your childhood, is it good? Or is it bad? That’s what she asked. A simple survey between long-time friends. A focus group of comfort, support, and

Words. They say they cut like a knife, but some of them slip by, almost unnoticed, slicing like a tiny paper cut. At first, barely noticeable, and then the cool air hits. It burns. You look down and see a sliver of pink, and it clicks. You’ve been cut. Something so small is now throbbing. Those are the words spoken with a smile, a flip of the hair, a tone of familiarity all the while digging ever so slightly below the skin, leaving a sting. That hurt. I must have cut someone with my own. I’m sure of it. But

A gift. It’s wrapped and then given. The receiver takes and does what she pleases with it.   I met with two close friends recently. We contemplated the act of worship. Is it only singing, reading the Bible and praying? We wondered if part of our daily lives might somehow be an offering to God. That one particular thing we do that is so intertwined with our maker. The thing that makes our hearts come alive, burning, singing on their very own grateful melodies to the one who knitted it together.    Our gifts, perhaps.    The act of our

Deserve.  A word that pulls my face to the center. Sour. Its sound pounding like a hammer. A gavel coming down attached to an invisible hand. I think my disdain for the word birthed somewhere around the time when well-meaning people told me I didn’t deserve to be treated that way.  You deserve better. He never deserved you. You deserve so much more. Piling like flowers at a funeral and sympathy cards in the mailbox. Yet I’d never asked for the condolences to arrive in such a form.  How did they know what I truly deserved? What happened to me

To the girl who feels like she lives in the spaces of the unseen… falling into the cracks of the sidewalk, blending into the pattern of the walls and walking as if a vapor in the breeze. Her voice timid and accustomed to going unheard.  Her opinions brushed to the side and suggestions nodded at like a child’s.  At work she meets deadlines, yet her name is never called.  At home, her list goes and goes, but each checkmark earns no applause. The photos on her social feed somehow slip by unnoticed.  Is that me, or perhaps you? Do you

“Be happy with those who are happy, and weep with those who weep.” NLT -Romans 12:15 The verse that marks the delicate page of my tattered Bible in a perfectly tiny font surrounded by dancing lines of pink highlighter was always a beautiful reminder of how to be a friend. A good friend, at that. Throw the bridal shower for the newly engaged friend, deliver a pint of ice cream when the boyfriend acts up, celebrate her work promotion with a dinner downtown. Be happy with them – easy. Weep with them – short lived. Right?   Today, that verse

I drove down the dark highway, the mist of rain tapping my windshield, softly enough that I pretended it was snow in my little nook of Florida. It was Christmas time, after all. Angelic tunes filled my car. It was one of those peaceful Christmas songs, the type where I didn’t really know the words, but my memory embraced the melody, latching onto the nostalgia as I let the instrumental chorus consume the space. It was truly beautiful. Heavenly. I stopped at the red light, the traffic hugging me at every corner, but the music continued painting images of stained

There are certain things in life that you simply want to know, “has this been used?” A dish. A towel. A car. A t-shirt. A book. Myself. That sloppy feeling in my gut that says some piece of me has been taken solely for the gain of another. Being used feels harsh, icky, degrading and downright unfair. Who would ever want to be used? These thoughts swarmed my head like pesky mosquitoes, because you see, I did something over the weekend. I decided to stand on stage at church and share “my story.” I’m not a book or anything. I