I can't say I like this process. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Sometimes it is downright painful. But no one ever said death by fire was a pleasant experience.

This open letter is born out of my observations and conversations with family and friends who are mothers. It is the brainchild of a woman, not yet a mother, who sees the burden your glorious role is on you.

There was a desperate longing in her to be. Not just to exist as others were content to exist but to be…

There are two types of death. One which begets more death; it kills and kills until the light and life are obliterated forever. Then there is the death that begets life.

Neatly printed on a telegram are words that steal her breath and bring her to her knees. Her husband is dead. Now there is no need to check the black and white pages.

Now you’re a jester in Lady fool’s masquerade

Here lies the harsh reality of choosing a leader: we will always only have one option, electing a sinner.

Abounding all around; pride and fear. Together they intermingle like webs in a rotting garden, catching all who dwell there.

I have a few friends who have loved me boldly.

Social media is a melting pot of ideas, personalities, and perspectives. I am all for it and yet....I have some thoughts.

I wonder why these little kingdoms and ruthless self-made beasts are more central in our affections than family, community, and most importantly, God? Our comfort comes at a cost. One that I believe is not worth paying with our lives.

Why is satisfaction as fleeting as a daydream? Why does beauty always leave me wanting more?

Months ago my Dad turned a documentary on about a submarine. It lay on the ocean floor, useless and rusted.

One day I asked my mom and sister for four words…Here’s the poem that came out of it.

Independence is the message they preach from the modern pulpit, but it is a lie. You are needy, and no matter how old or capable you are, that will remain true.

Just this week, I've had to ask myself some hard questions. They are questions I've asked before, but are always important to revisit, especially after a season of storms and doubt. What do I want? This one little question has vast implications, and its answer has boundless repercussions.

Keep feeding this nefarious hunger with food that reeks of the monster I malevolently ignore. Keep me hidden in my “truth,” where I can die willfully oblivious to the disease I created.

I recently went on a walk. Right in the center of my neighborhood is a small bird sanctuary. It adds a touch of undisturbed nature to the very suburban city in which I live. Most days I marvel at the greens and browns of the square of land, but not that day.

What did she want?

No more Importantly...

What did she need?

There is nothing glamorous about my current space. It is not idyllic or quaint; it does not contain rare beauty or hints of the extraordinary. It is the ordinary sprinkled with a bit of the dull. This space is my reality. What has it been like living here?