A collection of artistic artifacts chronicling my anxiety, God, and the wilderness.
Wanderers. The fact that nothing is coincidence--that every event, every soul, every offhand word we speak has meaning and significance--is as beautiful to me as it is strange. The idea should make more sense to me than it does, especially since I am a writer. Good writers don't like coincidence--they create symbols and foreshadowing and patterns in… Continue reading Tapestry.
Christmas Eve. What a strange day to leave behind a home. My father is driving as I'm writing this. The sky is dark with clouds, and it's raining, cold and dreary. It occurs to me that this is probably the last time I will make this drive through all these trees, past all these corn fields… Continue reading The strange and winding road.