At the age of 26, with a baby on my hip, standing in the kitchen on a Friday, I heard the words, “he didn’t make it.” Those words shattered my vision for the future. My husband, Chris, was dead.

The years since have been a rebuilding – and, slowly, a rejuvenating. And then this blog was born, a scattered collection of informal essays on life and grief and gratitude.


Several years after death brushed so close by, I found my heart stretched by a man who made me smile again. I married him, we had a baby, and now life looks like grade school homework, dirty diapers, good books, lots of prayer, and wine with beautiful friends. Now I write in the margins. In stolen bits of time.

I’m also a little bit in love with Jesus. I don’t say that lightly – 10 years ago, I would have cringed at that uncomfortable sentence. But death has a talent for turning your world upside down. When Chris died, I discovered my tidy empirical world was inadequate. Things like love, faith, and mystery gaped in the hole that Chris left, and, try as I might, I couldn’t mend that hole without admitting there was a God.

One more thing. The biggest secret I uncovered in these last few years is this: When your world comes crashing down around you, you feel like you’re the only one. And I want to say that this is never true. Don’t believe it. Find a story to believe in and keep pushing forward.

I’d love to hear from you. Please feel free to send me a message.

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