The sky is grey, clouds hang oppressive over the beach. Through the fog comes the sound of engines, hundreds of vessels prepare for the largest land invasion of the second world war. Tens of thousands of men hold their collective breath as the ramps lower on their boats. They grip their rifles, some take a last puff on a cigarette, some stare at the beach knowing this will be their last day. Some pray.

Eighty years later:

The sky is grey outside the window, inside a lone lamp illuminates the room. In a chair sits the man of the house. Bible open on his lap, steam rises from the cup in his hand. The crackle of onion skin paper breaks the silence as he turns another page. As he finishes his time reading, he closes the book, kneels at his chair, and enters the battle field.

What is a hero?

According to Webster’s 1828 Dictionary

1. A man of distinguished valor, intrepidity or enterprise in danger

2. A great, illustrious or extraordinary person

I pause on that important two letter word. OR

Our modern ideal for heroism generally consists of the words, “enterprise in danger” or “great and illustrious.” To be a hero in society, the world says, you must have either paid the ultimate sacrifice or be known for acting bravely in the face of grave danger. But if you ask a child who his hero is, if he has any relationship with his father, he will reply with one word. “Daddy.”

So which is it?

The correct answer is both, and that answer depends on perspective.

The men who stormed the beaches of Normandy, parachuted into the hedgerows, and paid the ultimate price in blood were undoubtedly heroes. So too is the man who lays down his own ambitions to pour out his life in service to Jesus.

Call of Duty: Excerpt from White Harvest Media’s Romans Field Manual

Romans 12:1

This calling does not look the same for any man. Every man’s terrain is different.

• Different people

• Different occupations

• Different time in history

Yet every man is called to sacrifice himself.

• To take up his cross. Luke 9:23, Matthew 16:24, Mark 8:34

• To die daily. I Corinthians 15:31

• Be crucified with Christ. Galatians 2:20

• Take on the sacrificial-servant mindset of Jesus. Philippians 2:5-8

• Present his body a living sacrifice. Romans 12:1

• Be transformed by the renewing of his mind. Romans 12:2

• Be sober and vigilant. 1 Peter 5:8

• Endure Hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. 2 Timothy 2:3

• Disentangle himself from the affairs of this life. 2 Timothy 2:4

• Watch and stand fast, be strong in the Spirit. 1 Corinthians 16:13

• Rule well his own spirit. Proverbs 16:32

• Show the Love of Jesus. John 15:13

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FIELD EXERCISE: THE LIVING SACRIFICE

Mission:
Present yourself to God as a living sacrifice.

Scripture:
Romans 12:1–2

Supporting Orders:

• Luke 9:23 — “Take up his cross daily...”

• 1 Corinthians 15:31 — “I die daily.”

• Galatians 2:20 — “I am crucified with Christ...”

• Philippians 2:5 — “Let this mind be in you...”

• 1 Peter 5:8 — “Be sober, be vigilant.”

Situation

The world honors dramatic sacrifice.

A man who dies in battle is remembered.

A man who spends decades dying to himself often goes unnoticed.

Yet Scripture calls believers to become living sacrifices. Unlike the sacrifices of the Old Testament, living sacrifices have a unique challenge:

They can climb off the altar.

Objective

Identify one area of your life where self still demands to rule.

Offer that area back to Christ in practical obedience.

Enemy Resistance

Expect resistance in the form of:

• Pride

• Comfort

• Bitterness

• Self-preservation

• Lust

• Anger

• Fear

• Spiritual apathy

The flesh rarely surrenders quietly.

Field Exercise

Ask yourself:

Where am I most tempted to choose myself over obedience?

Then choose one practical act of surrender today.

Examples:

• Apologize first.

• Forgive someone who has wronged you.

• Turn off the screen and engage your family.

• Pray with your wife.

• Read Scripture before entertainment.

• Refuse the hidden sin no one else sees.

• Serve without being noticed.

• Encourage rather than criticize.

• Stay faithful in ordinary responsibilities.

• Ask for help and confess where you have failed.

Debrief

At the end of the day, ask:

• Where did I climb off the altar?

• Where did grace sustain obedience?

• What must I surrender again tomorrow?

Operational Reality

Dead sacrifices remain where they are placed.

Living sacrifices must return willingly.

Every morning offers another opportunity to say:

“Yes, Lord.”

Not because yesterday’s surrender was insufficient,

but because His mercies are new every morning.

The Christian life is not won in one heroic moment.

It is forged through thousands of ordinary acts of faithfulness.

The mission remains the same:

Present yourself to God.

Again.

I am honored that you’ve joined me in this little corner of the internet.

Today is release day.

White Harvest Access is now live, including the foreword, dedication, and first chapter of my novella inspired by the 1960 classic The Magnificent Seven.

This story is especially dear to me because it is dedicated to my father—a man who taught me what faithful leadership looks like by simply staying.

Click here to Read NONE

If you take the time to read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Whether you loved it, found areas that could be stronger, or simply want to share your reaction, your feedback helps me grow as a writer.

Thank you for being here.

— Jess

s

The sun sinks in the west, daylight fading into twilight. The breeze carries the faint scent of smoke and cooking meat. The shepherd picks up his harp, strums the strings and tests his voice. A good day by all accounts. He reaches for his supper and hears the disturbance in the flock. Suddenly, resting sheep scatter in noise and fright, and a lone lamb bleats painfully.

The shepherd does not hesitate. Taking his sling in hand and loading it with a stone, he sprints toward the retreating shadow of the thieving predator. Within striking distance the shepherd lets his stone fly. The lamb drops to the earth and the wounded lion turns with a roar. The shepherd stands his ground, despite the very real danger to himself. He grips his knife, as the big cat advances. With a ferocious roar of his own the shepherd reaches for the lion’s beard. With a violence born of cold fury, the shepherd buries his knife deep, ending the threat.

He steps back and with shaking hands sheaths his knife. He wipes the blood from his hands, walking to the lamb. With gentleness that belies the violence in which he just participated, the shepherd picks her up, speaking in soothing tones and tending to her injuries.

Such is the scene painted of 1 Samuel 17:35.

A man who did not go seeking battle, yet when the fight came to his doorstep he proved himself more than capable of ending the threat.

What makes a good man?

Using scripture one can determine with certainty that a good man is not:

• brave

• competent

• masculine

• wealthy

• merely moral

While every good man will possess these traits, they do not make him good.

Jesus was very clear in Mark 10:18 There is none good but one, that is, God.

Therefore, any goodness a man displays will first originate from God.

According to scripture a good man is a wise man, one who fears God, rejects evil, calls wickedness what it is. He is:

• A man who aligns his thinking with God’s thinking. Psalm 1

• Faithful. Noah, Boaz, Joseph, Daniel

• a sacrificial giver, of his time, his wealth, his care. He is a shepherd of those under his influence. John 10:11

• Bears in his actions the fruit of the Holy Spirit. Galatians 5:22-23. Goodness appears right beside gentleness and temperance.

• A good steward. He watches, he guards, he feeds, he sacrifices, he stays.

• He repents: And this is perhaps the most important one on the list. A good man is not a perfect man, rather he is a man humble enough to admit when he is wrong and offers vulnerable recompense.

In all, a good man is one who faces God and orders his life accordingly.

The Lions of Mercer

Now for the book review. White Harvest Media is featuring a book this month that speaks to men choosing to do right, and staying faithful in it despite the danger and cost.

John Lovell and Harrison Kone teamed up to write The Lions of Mercer. A military thriller exploring the truth of a dark world, where politics and optics are more important than protecting the innocent. When the CIA tells him to abandon the daughter of his Afghani interpreter, Micah Mercer decides Rangers do not leave children behind.

What The Lions of Mercer does particularly well.

1. Realism.

Micah is not a saint, not even close. No spoilers, but suffice it to say, John Lovell has an author letter at the beginning of his book explaining why he published this book himself and why it is not marketed as Christian fiction.

There is military culture, brotherhood, violence and human brokenness in stark detail.

2. Sacrifice

The decisions that Mercer and his team makes ultimately cost them good standing with Federal agencies. A forced resignation, the real danger of losing precious NGO status, even death. They cannot save everyone, despite trying.

3. Endurance

Despite the grief, Mercer and his men do not quit until the job is done.

4. Morally grey characters

Perhaps the most interesting character in the whole story is not Mercer. It is the Australian mercenary. A man obviously on the wrong side of the fight, yet compelling precisely because of that. There again no spoilers, but the authors did a fantastic job of capturing the outlook of a man who would be capable of great good if his moral compass were not so skewed.

My quibbles

I gave The Lions of Mercer four stars.

There were times in the narrative I felt that military culture was over explained, or gear was listed more like an advertisement rather than naturally flowing from the story. I felt that Micah’s redemption arc was a bit rushed, especially where his relationship with his wife was concerned. Lastly, I found the leniency of the final oversight decision to be more “happy ending” than perhaps would be realistic.

That being said. I genuinely enjoyed the book, because it was a good story, with the highest of stakes and it kept me keyed in until the last page.

Lions of Mercer

Why White Harvest chose to feature this one

Men need good fiction, they especially need good fiction in an arena where there is a gap.

Christian fiction should ultimately serve the purpose of drawing readers back to the truth of the Creator and the principles of his Word. This story, told from a Christian perspective, put me in mind of King David. He was far from perfect, he sinned grievously, after he allowed the world to soften him. Yet God described him as a man after His own heart.

As a warrior, David committed extreme acts of violence. As a man he controlled his capability with extraordinary acts of restraint. He suffered immensely with intense emotion, fury, sorrow, love, and lust. Yet so many psalms begin in darkness and end with God’s light.

Micah Mercer is not King David, but he is a man seeking to do righteousness with the portion he has been given. This is why I chose the book. Men need heroes still, fictional though they may be. Lovell and Kone gave us one.

June’s Theme

Stories matter because they give us examples to remember. This month, both of the projects I am launching wrestle with that question in different ways.

NONE

My father introduced me to spaghetti westerns when I was young. I was named for the Jessica in The Man From Snowy River, with Kirk Douglas. I read my first Louis L'Amour when I was eight. The grit of cowboy culture was prevalent in our home. When I was fourteen I watched the 1960 version of The Magnificent Seven. Over the next two years I would watch that movie dozens of times. The scene from that movie that stuck with me the most was the quote delivered by Steve McQueen’s character Vin. He is responding to Chico, the youngest of the gunslingers, who says, “Your gun has gotten you everything you have. Isn’t that true?”

Vin replies. “Yeah, sure everything. After a while you can call bartenders and farrow dealers by their first name. Maybe two hundred of ‘em. Rented rooms you live in, maybe five hundred. Meals you eat in hash houses a thousand.”

Then the iconic line.

“Home, none, wife, none, kid… none. Prospects zero.”

That hesitation gets me every time, because it is the hesitation of regret.

So in my early adulthood I decided to give Vin a story. Dedicated to the man who shouldered the burden of responsibility to stay and raise my sisters and me. The first chapter in that book drops Friday.

White Harvest Access Serialized fiction

Tristan’s Reckoning

The second launch is the next book in Songs of Redemption. Crown Prince Tristan Aurelio Cassian Valmor, born to be the next king of Gershan, grows from boyhood into a man.

His crown demands everything. Even what should never be sacrificed.

He was raised to become king.
Not to love.

Tristan has spent his life mastering control—of his kingdom, his future, and himself. But when he binds himself in secret to a foreign maid, he sets in motion a chain of events that threatens everything he was born to protect.

Exiled through betrayal and hunted at sea, Tristan is stripped of title, power, and position—forced to survive as nothing more than a captain under another man’s command. And when the truth of the woman he loves is finally revealed, it is far worse than he imagined.

Because Alana is not who he thought she was.

And the enemies circling his crown have been waiting for this weakness.

When war comes and his kingdom begins to fracture, Tristan fights his way back to reclaim what is his. But victory comes at a cost he cannot ignore.

His crown—or his family.

And this time, he may not be able to keep both.

Tristan’s Reckoning is a story of power, betrayal, and the cost of choosing what truly matters - When who you were trained to be collides with who you were created to be.

Tristan's Reckoning Pre Order

Men in story

Every character featured this month wrestles with the same truth from different perspectives. Who are you when God strips everything, when life is hard, when danger comes?

As I write this month, I will be exploring the stories of the good men in my life who have influenced me. Men who loved, men who gave, men who protected.

I am very excited to share their journeys with you, and maybe you’ll find a story worth sharing with a good man in your life.

Happy June everyone.

— Jess

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The air is cold. Fog off the Potomac creeps across green grass, trees and white headstones. The smell of fresh rain hangs in the air and a slight breeze tugs at jackets and trousers. The mood is somber and not one person speaks.

The sharp sounds of a rifle inspection are the only things to be heard in the stillness. It is broken by a barked command. Two soldiers exchange places on the black mat, and with that the ceremony closes. The tomb of the unknown soldier, guarded twenty four hours a day, every day.

The white mausoleum glows startlingly white as the sun momentarily breaks through the clouds. Then it is gone again.

I pause on the word: Unknown.

More than their dogtags

The truth is that the men entombed at that place in Arlington were known. The tragedy of their end is that they remain shrouded in mystery of their identity. So we have honored them as best as we are able.

It does not however stop my grief at the idea that there was likely someone out there who missed them. They were not unknown in life. It is sorrowful then that falling in battle meant being unnamed in death.

In 1916 our American military began using dog tags as a means to identify those incapacitated or killed in action. Service members are issued two, one to stay with the body, the second for records. A safe low tech way of keeping track of casualties, and their basic information. A system that has likely kept multitudes of service members from the fate of being buried unknown.

I cannot help but think however, that these men and women are more than their system identifiers. Just as the men inside the tomb of the unknown soldier were more than their own designations. They were sons, perhaps husbands, perhaps fathers. They had dreams, and lives, and friends.

They were known.

Carried forward in memory

I often speak of my dead. I believe it is healthy when they come to mind to honor their impact on my life. I am a collector of stories and a bit of a romantic so perhaps that is why. Their story mattered, their life mattered, their impact has influence.

This Memorial Day I wanted to do something as a tribute. To honor the fallen, to remember more than just their deaths, to remember their legacy that they left.

I reached out to my many friends who are veterans and asked if they would like space to remember a name, and something unique about the person they named. I was honored and privileged to be entrusted with three names who left an impression. Whose lives meant more than just the sum of their death.

“Dave was killed in a mission overseas. We dated off and on for ten years, and while we went on to marry other people. Dave became my best friend.”

“When Spirit03 went down in Desert Storm, I lost several friends. All the gunship guys had come together, sensing that something was wrong even before we heard the news. We lost great men that day, courageous and bold. Paul was the kind of man who makes our country strong.”

“Math was my spotter. I called him Math because he could calculate figures in his head at unbelievable speed. Wind, distance… When the attack on the USS Cole occurred, everyone else was running away, Math ran toward the danger.”

I want to personally thank the individuals who allowed me to include these men and their stories. They sound like amazing people whose lives rippled to touch mine indirectly.

No Man Is An Island

A famous phrase from Meditation XVII in Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, written by the English poet and cleric John Donne in 1624.

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

The prose asserts that no individual is self-sufficient and that every person’s death diminishes the whole of mankind.

I did not have to know these men to thank God for their lives. They touched those who have touched me. Perhaps that is why I am so contemplative this Memorial Day. Perhaps it is my own grief and loss, perhaps it is both.

Whatever the reason, I hope you will take time to carry the names this holiday. Remember them, toast them, and bless them for their sacrifices. I encourage you to say their names. To remember the jokes, the smiles, the fact that they loved pancakes or waffles. Whether they perished in battle, came home wounded, or never quite made it home whole; they loved, they are loved, and they touched you, and in so doing touched the lives of countless others.

I wish you all a safe and blessed Memorial Day.

~ Jess

Title quoted from Jim Darenkamp U.S. NAVY (RET.)

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Monuments

The black is so polished I can see my face. Thousands of people gather at the wall, using charcoal pencils and scraps of paper to copy names. Behind me sits the Washington Monument and the Reflecting Pool on the mall in D.C. I am astounded by the amount of names. I search meticulously for the name of my great uncle killed in Vietnam.

Stone shaped to remember, memorialize the 58,318 recognized casualties of that war. There is a reason we mark such things. The stone will long outlast the men and women who gather daily to collect names. There is precedent for using geological material to honor moments of great importance.

In the book of Joshua, the new leader of Israel is instructed to gather twelve stones to pile in the midst of the parted Jordan River, and another set of twelve to set on the west side after the miraculous crossing. Joshua even tells them why.

That this may be a sign among you, that when your children ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean ye by these stones? Then ye shall answer them, That the waters of Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the LORD; when it passed over Jordan, the waters of Jordan were cut off: and these stones shall be for a memorial unto the children of Israel for ever.

Lively Stones

It is interesting then that in the book of First Peter, saints are called living stones. The imagery of a Keystone and subsequent living stones are used to describe a beautiful house of which God is the architect. Another monument, this time to the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross for the purpose of redemption of mankind.

Both monuments are symbols of the grand mercy and grace of our God. One memorial was compiled by men to remember. The other is actively being shaped and built as a tribute to The Keystone, the Lord Jesus.

The Shaping

When I consider my life, I am frankly awed. Not because God has a plan for my life, though He absolutely does. I am more amazed that I have been shaped to live a life to suit God’s plan. That He has made me to be a supporting character in the narrative He has written from creation. The story is thousands of years old, with millions and perhaps billions of saints who have gone before me and yet, He still wants to use me.

And I am not the only one.

For those of us who have in Peter’s words believed on Jesus Christ, He is the stone most precious. The reason for our life, our breath, our joy, our everything is the why we are shaped.

Read that again!

I know I needed to do so. Because let’s be honest, shaping hurts. It chisels away at things we would rather hold. It conforms us to be useful for His glory.

We are not the key— He is. And the fact that we are included in the monument He is building should humble everyone of us.

It is the shaping that gets us there. And for each of us that shaping was different, in this beautiful building not one of us are the same.

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The Instruments

When I think of what God used to shape me, I find nouns; People, places and things.

Some of them I’ve mentioned in past posts, My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. Some I will mention in the future. (June we celebrate fathers and for me that includes good men who influenced me)

The Person

But as we near Memorial day there is one man I do want to mention. A man I recently said “see you later” to. My uncle Neil. Air Force veteran, Competent, always smiling and a habit of pronouncing my name Jess-eek-uh instead of the common Jess-i-kuh. I can still hear it when I close my eyes. From my earliest memories, I felt safe with him.

Since my own grandparents, Neil’s brother and sister in law, were missionaries I spent more time in his home as an adopted granddaughter rather than a niece. In 2009, when I set out from Oklahoma where I reside back to my native Colorado, for medical appointments pertaining to my traumatic brain injury. My uncle called me every ninety minutes just to make sure I was safe and still on my way. He loved me, and I never doubted it.

The Places

Being homeschooled through all twelve grades had certain advantages. One of which was the ability to pack up school work and travel. When I was a senior in high school I got to travel with my missionary grandparents on their furlough up and down the east coast of the United States. We visited from Maine to Virgina and every state in between except Vermont.

On that trip the place that stuck out the most. Gettysburg. You could feel the sorrow. Like the wind itself respected the fallen. We walked the fields, climbed Little Round Top. The hair still stands up on my arms when I think about it.

My Grandpa made that portion of the trip, as well as the tour of D.C. possible. Arlington, The Vietnam wall, The WWII memorial. The names and rows of gravestones that never seemed to end. Those shaped me.

They were people, and the thought I had on that hill that day is forever burned in my memory. It sobered me to tears. They were more than their uniforms and dog tags. They had families, and preferences and favorite songs. We set headstones to mark them, so their names may not be forgotten. That experience was a chisel that shaped the way I still think today.

Markers

These are some of my memorial stones. Good memories that shaped me as much as hard ones.

Nothing was wasted, they all served a purpose. And the Father isn’t done yet. He is still working on me. Making me what He planned for me to be. In the midst of that I get to be used as an instrument in His service, in shaping the living stones around me.

May the Master Builder find me faithful to the call, and joyous in the opportunity, both to shape, and be shaped in this design He is creating until the day He calls me Home too.

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The wind rustles the branches overhead, and somewhere deeper in the cemetery a cardinal chirps softly. It is peaceful here in the way only cemeteries can be. Quiet. Still. The sun dazzles against pale stone as I stare at the dates and dashes etched beneath my feet.

I place the flowers carefully and blink hard once.

“I miss you, Mom,” I whisper.

Mother’s Day is supposed to be a celebration, and it is. But sometimes celebration and sorrow sit in the same pew.

My oldest daughter slips her hand into mine, always sensitive to the pain of others.

“Is Sunshine buried here too?” she asks softly.

I look down at her, tears clouding my smile.

“No, baby. Sunshine is in heaven with Jesus.”

“And Nana,” she adds.

I nod.

“Yes. And Nana.”

Sunshine was my first child. The one who made me a mother. I found out I was pregnant the same week my mother was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer.

Two weeks later, I miscarried.

The Matriarch

At thirty-six years old, I am the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter in my family line. An odd thing to realize at my age. My mother has been gone ten years now. My grandmother went home to Jesus last June.

Mother’s Day feels different now.

I come from a long line of women who loved Jesus deeply.

Some of my earliest memories are of my great-grandmother sitting on her daybed in our Colorado home, her Bible open in her lap while morning light streamed through the window. She would see me lingering in the doorway and smile.

“Come pray with me, Jessica.”

And I would.

My Grammy was a missionary to South America, the survivor of a coup in Chile and cartel carjacking attempts in Venezuela. She was loud in all the best ways, full of joy and dry humor. The kind of woman who would grin and ask, “Why pray when you can worry?”

Dementia took her slowly. Cancer sped the process. When she finally entered Jesus’ presence, I sat at her feet singing “Coming Home,” and those gathered around her nearly missed the exact moment she slipped away because it was so peaceful.

My mother was gentler.

She homeschooled me and my sisters. She taught me to read, sew, garden, cook, bake, and keep house. But more importantly, she taught me Scripture. She prayed for my soul daily. When I was three, she led me to Jesus. When I was fourteen and full of questions, she sent me traveling the West Coast with my grandparents.

Somewhere along that road, Jesus stopped being merely my Savior and became my King.

In 2014, pain in my mother’s spine finally drove her to the doctor. Stage four breast cancer, metastasized to the bone.

Every Wednesday after teaching fifth grade boys, I drove to her house. She became my best friend.

She lived long enough to meet my first rainbow baby, my son D. In February of 2016, she admitted quietly that she was afraid to let go because she worried about my father. I promised her he would be cared for. Two weeks later, she went home to heaven.

The Children No One Sees

I have nine children.

Five wait for me in heaven, perfect and sinless.

Four are here in my arms, beautiful little sinners whom I have the privilege of discipling.

After losing Sunshine, joy became complicated.

When I became pregnant with D, I hesitated to even test. Fear has a way of stealing innocence from motherhood. But six weeks passed, and my ultrasound showed a tiny little boy kicking and squirming.

The first time I felt him flutter, it stole my breath.

Alive. Whole.

He was born healthy that August, our rainbow after loss. But by February, my husband had lost his job in the energy sector, my mother had entered hospice, and D was hospitalized with methemoglobinemia after nitrates in squash caused his blood to stop carrying oxygen correctly.

The doctors told us seventy-two percent conversion is fatal.

My son was admitted at sixty-eight.

I am convinced the prayers of the saints carried us through those days.

D survived. He was released just in time for us to rush to my mother’s bedside before she slipped into eternity.

Life kept moving because life always does.

There were more pregnancies after that. More hope. More fear. More tiny lines appearing on tests while I held my breath instead of celebrating.

The Dream

Blessing came next.

I lost her at ten weeks.

The night before, I dreamed I was underwater above a rusted shipwreck while a baby sank just out of my reach. The next morning during prayer, peace settled over me alongside the distinct understanding that I would not keep this child either.

I birthed her at home and held her in my hand, barely an inch long.

Two arms. Two legs. A face just large enough for features. She was beautiful because she was mine.

We buried her beneath the pines in a place sacred to my husband and me.

Then came Valentine. By then grief had numbed me so deeply that when I lost that baby too, I hardly cried at all. That frightened me more than the miscarriage itself.

The Miracle

When I became pregnant again, panic arrived with the bleeding. My HCG numbers dropped sharply. I expected silence at the ultrasound. Instead, the room filled with the fluttering whoosh of a heartbeat. I broke right there as relief and disbelief tangled together.

My sweet girl A survived scare after scare. Water on her brain. Calcium in her heart. More ultrasounds. More waiting. More prayers whispered in fear.

Then, two days before my twenty-seventh birthday, labor hit hard and fast.

My husband delivered her on our bathroom floor while horrified young EMTs stood nearby trying to catch up with reality.

She was beautiful.

The Surprise

I told everyone we were done for a while.

I was exhausted. Five pregnancies in three years had left my body and mind wrung thin. I loved my children fiercely, but I was tired in places sleep could not fix.

Then another faint line appeared.

I cried.

Not because I did not love the baby already growing inside me, but because I was overwhelmed. Gratitude and exhaustion can coexist. So can joy and sorrow.

J arrived after twenty-seven hours of labor, grumpy from the very beginning like a tiny old man trapped in a baby’s body. God knew exactly what I needed when He gave me that little boy.

But by then I had reached the edge of myself. My husband worked constantly. I was drowning in diapers, speech delays, hormones, and the strange loneliness that can settle over motherhood even inside marriage.

For the first time, I truly thought we might be done.

The Twins

Eventually we decided to try once more. When I became pregnant again, I let myself feel excitement. The nurse congratulated me after my bloodwork, and I drove home smiling.

Then the cramping started. The bleeding. The waiting.

Again.

My numbers rose strangely this time. Then, four days before Christmas, sharp pain exploded through my shoulder.

I already knew.

Emergency ultrasound confirmed two babies growing inside my fallopian tube.

No heartbeats.

I thank God often that He took them home Himself rather than asking my husband and me to make impossible decisions.

I was rushed into emergency surgery.

That was the worst day of my life.

Mentally I stayed steady. I focused on Christmas music, my children, ordinary things. But trauma settles into the body whether we acknowledge it or not.

Six weeks later I returned for a follow-up appointment and had a panic attack in the hospital parking lot simply from seeing the building.

I named them Butterfly and Sparrow.

Because the Father watches the sparrows.

Because He transforms caterpillars into butterflies.

Because somehow, even on the worst day of my life, Jesus remained King.

That loss broke me open, but it also drew me nearer to Him than I had ever been before.

Sassy Pants

We waited a long time before trying again.

My body needed healing. My heart did too.

Then in September of 2021, after two exhausting weeks of prodromal labor, P was born at home.

For years September 11 had carried grief for me.

Now it also carried joy.

This little girl sparkles. She teaches us to laugh, to slow down, to find delight in ordinary things. After her birth, both my husband and I finally felt peace about closing this chapter of our lives.

She was our completion.

Bethan and Child Loss

Perhaps that is why I wrote Bethan the way I did.

In the middle of her story, she loses the son she loves most in the world. That chapter wounded me to write because grief is no longer theoretical to me. I know what it is to carry children in both my arms and my heart.

But I also know this:

God has never abandoned me in my sorrow.

Not once.

With every loss, He drew nearer. He sustained me on days I did not think I could breathe. He placed people beside me who understood grief intimately. He reminded me again and again that suffering is not evidence of His absence.

It was the catalyst that kept drawing me back to Him.

So this Mother’s Day, I celebrate the women who came before me.

I celebrate the children I can hold and the ones I cannot.

And I grieve too.

Because celebration can still mourn absence.

I will probably always count four little heads climbing into the car while feeling in some deep place that someone is missing.

On those days, I whisper a quiet prayer.

“Hug them for me, please. Tell them I love them.”

I will see them someday. Of this I am certain because I have believed on the Lord Jesus Christ.

If you are a mother carrying grief this Mother’s Day, I am so sorry. And if you are struggling to breathe beneath the weight of loss, turn toward Jesus.

He is the only reason I survived mine.

The blessed hope I have in Christ keeps me discipling the children He left in my care while trusting Him with the ones already home.

Because God sees my grief.

He sees my joy.

He sees me.

And every woman, whether this day brings sorrow, joy, or both, is fully seen by Him too.

The crowd grows silent as the runners take their marks on the track. Heads up, muscles engaged. The crack of the starting pistol reverberates through the arena as the contestants rise from their crouch and spring forward into motion. The crowd roars with excitement as the announcer’s voice fills the air.

The race has begun, there can only be one champion.

Preparation for that prize began long before the runner ever leapt off his mark. And it is that discipline that will determine—not his start, but his finish.

On My Mark

White Harvest Media was not born in a grand scheme. It honestly wasn’t even a thought to me until sometime last year. Writing, dreaming up stories and connecting them to biblical truths was how I often passed the time washing dishes or folding the laundry. Publishing, editing, formatting—learning KDP, IngramSpark, MailerLite—never even felt possible

In truth I have always wanted to write a book or ten. Motherhood, homeschooling and homesteading had a way of keeping me busy enough, that writing was a “maybe someday” for a good while. Then last year, my faith got put to the test in a painful and sometimes terrifying way.

Get Set..

When I was eighteen I was rear ended on the freeway. I was at a dead stop, the driver behind me was going sixty miles per hour. The accident left me with an occluded right shoulder, and traumatic brain injury that would go undiagnosed for the next nine months. Those days were dark and it is only by God’s grace that I am alive today to tell my story.

At a routine appointment, my neuro-ophthalmologist tested my midline. Something was off. An MRI confirmed it—my midline had shifted fourteen degrees to the right.
It was a miracle I was still walking.

Special lenses corrected the shift but the damage persists, flaring in times of stress. Last year was such a time. My husband and I were preparing to downsize from a large ranch house, to a four hundred square foot fifth wheel. We wanted to be debt free, including the mortgage. We wanted him home more, tired of a job that had demanded fifty and sixty hour weeks for twelve years of our marriage. This was our chance.

We remodeled the fifth wheel, I worked on it on weekdays after schooling and he worked on it on weekends. Every day for two months. Then in January 2025. My body rebelled. I would spend the next one hundred ninety days in bed. My TBI had flared. Migraines, memory gaps, and the kind of thousand yard stare that frightened my family became my normal.

To hold my thoughts steady, I had to write.

It helped.

It wasn’t always pretty, but it was story. Written words bridged the gap between what I could not articulate in reality, and what I needed my family to know. Processing anything required committed time to putting words to paper. The more I did it, the better I was able to focus.

I drafted over thirty stories last year. All unique, all integrating a different aspect of faith in the God who is bigger than trauma and setbacks.

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Go!

Bethan’s Identity was not the first of the stories I drafted. It had actually been sitting in my filing cabinet since that accident eighteen years ago. It had reflected the darkness of that time, and I was determined to never publish it. At least not as it was. Too dark, too broken, too uncomfortable.

I told myself it would require too much of my reader, that I would have to clean it up, make it easier.

With maturity I have found the easy thing is rarely what endures. In the words of Abbie Halberstadt I have learned that “hard is not the same as bad.” I even let one of my character’s quote her in the book.

So where does White Harvest Media come in to all this? The truth is that I could independently publish my stories and be content. But last year, God was working on something else too. Not only do I enjoy writing, I enjoy helping others to write as well. A veteran with a memoir, a missionary with translation, a fellow author with wanting to take his books to audio.

The time I had spent on my back had left me with hours of time to research, methods, practices, and advice from those who had trailblazed the way to independent publishing success.

By the end of last year I was back on my feet. My husband and I sold our house in just five days. We are now living tiny with our four beautiful children, on land we own outright. A portion of proceeds from our house sale purchased my ISBN’s to own my own distribution rights.

All of this has prepared the way for me to start an imprint dedicated to telling the kind of stories that have weight. Stories that walk the reader through the cost of endurance when it would be easier to quit. Stories that question the lenses through which we view the the world. Stories committed to truth; Honest about sin, showcasing redemption and relentless about sanctification.

Press Toward the Prize

White Harvest has started well. But the start never matters like the finish. There will be other flares. Other setbacks, more trials. The work will be slow, tedious and mundane at times. The excitement of a launch will fade when sales slide or bad reviews land.

But if White Harvest is to become anything useful to the God who gave me the idea. Then that endurance is measured in quiet moments, not the loud ones. The days when a migraine steals my breath, or the better portion of my time was rightly poured out on my family first; those are the days when faithfulness to calling has both cost and reward.

Because the measure of success in the Father’s economy is never finishing first—it’s finishing well. As for me, when I finish this race, I hope to leave with nothing left.

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The bell above the door rings, a chiming sound that echoes through the shop.

The light is warm as the air, and the whole place smells like coffee and paper and ink. Shelves full of books line the walls and floor.

An older man in spectacles and disheveled white hair looks up from his own book at the counter with a smile.

“Ah, how may I help you?” he asks, obviously eager to attend me on my journey through his literary keep.

His mission is singular: to guide me toward the book with a world that will hold my imagination captive. To stir my heart with truths hidden in narrative veins like treasure.

When I imagine printed books, that is the picture I see.

Cozy. Warm. Safe

Books Are Friends

Books were some of my earliest friends.

My mother read Blueberries for Sal, A Duck Named Ping, Cranberry Thanksgiving, and Marianne the Steam Shovel.

Circumstances in my life being as they were, I often found refuge from loneliness in the pages of Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey, or Gilbert Morris.

Odd choices for a child, perhaps.

But they were my father’s, and they were there on a shelf in the basement of our Colorado home.

As I grew older, Marguerite Henry replaced the westerns.

Misty of Chincoteague.
King of the Wind.
The Black Stallion series.

That was when books began to color my dreams.

I had a stallion in my imagination who came when I whistled.

It was not long before I began writing stories of my own.

Notebooks full of pirates, horses, noble ladies, and a curious fascination with spycraft.

Then on my tenth birthday I was given a hard back special edition copy of Black Beauty. Red cover, embossed title, and picture card, red ribbon for a place holder. That book, I read entirely through in one sitting and cried when it was done, for Beauty had become my friend and I mourned having to see his story end, despite his restful circumstances.

By the time I was a teenager, I had discovered sci-fi and fantasy, though I often returned to historical fiction.

Genre did not matter much.

I simply loved to read.

Authors challenged the way I saw the world. They pushed me to think, to research, to discover.

Every one of those stories was borrowed from a library, purchased from a bookstore, or gifted to me.

And every one of them helped shape the stories I now tell.

“Paper Made Me Slow Down.”

Then came digital books.

To be clear, I am grateful for them.

A Kindle opened access, convenience, affordability, and eventually helped make my own publishing possible.

But digital reading created a problem I never had before.

Excess.

Too many books.

Too many freebies.

Too many titles sitting unread.

And worse, a kind of noise.

I would finish one book and, with a click, begin another before the first had time to settle in my mind.

Stories still moved me.

Some still stayed.

But paper slowed me down.

Turning pages.

Feeling weight in my hands.

Seeing progress in the thickness of pages already read.

Holding a story long enough for it to sink deeper.

A screen has advantages.

But it cannot fully replace that.

Bethan's Identity Paperback

Print Is Still Popular

A A 2026 Pew Research study found 64% of U.S. adults read a print book in the past year, while 31% read an e-book and 26% listened to an audiobook. Print remains the only format used by a majority of Americans

Print books are still popular for a reason.

They invite focus.

They reduce distraction.

They engage memory differently.

They become gifts, keepsakes, companions, heirlooms.

And sometimes, they become old friends.

Digital gave me speed.

Print gave me presence.

Digital let me publish on a deadline.

Print let me hold my own work in my hands as a real book made of real paper.

And if you have ever opened a new book, breathed in the scent of ink and paper, and felt the quiet thrill of possibility—

Then you already understand the case for paper.

One of the most dangerous lies in the world is that nice equals good. It does not.

The serpent in the garden was, by modern definitions, nice to Eve. He offered an alternative perspective. Invited her to see differently. Questioned boundaries. He was pleasant and agreeable. Yet that niceness ended in death.

Many readers often expect a villain to be cruel right off. Some see that predation lurks behind a smile. Tarren is not a caricature, he is complex. Rather than write him with brutality from the start, I left him murky. Nice, but never kind.

Why Tarren Had To Be Nice

Tarren enters the story by stopping another man from harassing Bethan. He tells her where to stand in the auction pen. He buys her for more than she is worth. Once aboard his ship, he offers her a blanket, though none to the other slaves. He clothes her. Feeds her. Gives her gifts. He takes her ashore and buys what catches her eye in every port. To Bethan, there is the illusion of safety inside captivity. The illusion of freedom inside possession. The illusion of being chosen.

That is how Tarren earns trust. None of these things are kindness. They are strategy. He often asks Bethan personal questions. When she refuses, he does not rage. He smiles.

“I do not need to force you, Pet. I have time.”

Tarren is not kind. Tarren is controlled.

The Difference Between Nice And Kind

Nice

• Avoids discomfort

• Maintains image

• Gives to gain leverage

• Pleases when beneficial

• Uses gentleness transactionally

Kind

• Seeks another’s good

• Speaks truth when costly

• Protects without controlling

• Gives without demanding ownership

• Is gentle from character, not strategy.

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Why This Matters Beyond Fiction

I wrote him this way on purpose. Not because Tarren represents Satan, he doesn’t. No Tarren is the allegorical manifestation of a villain much closer to home. The fallen heart of man. Proverbs 18:12, Jeremiah 17:9, Matthew 15:19, and Mark 7:21 all warn of the capacity for destruction found in the human heart. But perhaps the one that sums it up is Proverbs 14:12-16.

There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, But the end thereof are the ways of death. Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful; And the end of that mirth is heaviness. The backslider in heart shall be filled with his own ways: And a good man shall be satisfied from himself. The simple believeth every word: But the prudent man looketh well to his going. A wise man feareth, and departeth from evil: But the fool rageth, and is confident.

Scripture repeatedly warns that our hearts can deceive us. We call dangerous things destiny. We rename bondage as freedom. We baptize desire as wisdom.

Just as Tarren manipulates Bethan into feeling chosen and cared for, our hearts will justify, quantify and emote us into chains of slavery to sin and ruin. James sums up the seed of lust once planted in the human soul and the end is always death.

Our hearts naturally

• avoid discomfort,

• seek to make ourselves look better,

• give in hopes of return

• Practice cooperative rebellion when it is easier to get along

• And offer gentleness as a way of getting ahead

All of this results in pain, not just for us, but for those left in our wake. Our default setting is nice, we are our own worst predator and enemy. Tarren never needed chains or force to control Bethan. Our hearts rarely need chains either. Only lies repeated long enough to feel true.

Sometimes the worst thing God can let us have is what we think we want.

Bethan wanted to survive and it cost her everything. Thank God her story does not end there. Next week we look at the hero of my story. Tristan. And how Kindness is demonstrated by a heart clearly turned to the work of the Spirit.

Discover Bethan's Identity

Every man thinks he has more room than he does. Until one decision proves he doesn’t.

“Every sin ever committed—every sinner, under proper provocation, could commit.”
— Bob Jones Sr.

And it never stops with you.
It lands on the people who never chose it.

This is the truth of capability behind the story White Harvest just published.

Not a woman who set out to destroy her life—
but one who made a choice.

And then another.
And then another.

Until the cost was her freedom, her faith, and her very identity.

Until the chains forged by those decisions became a cage
that stripped her of everything she thought she knew—
about herself, and about God.

The chains are not accidental.
They are forged—choice by choice—
until ruin is no longer a possibility, but a direction.

Which Road Are You On?

There is a way that seems right to a man,
but its end is the way of death.

The phrase “follow your heart” should give a Christian pause.

Scripture is not vague about it:

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked—who can know it?

Left unchecked, it does not lead us to life.
It leads us to justify what we already want.

And choices made in desperation rarely stay contained.

They spread.
They compound.
And result in disaster of our own making.

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Narrowed Options

David chose where to stand.
And he chose wrong.

The man after God’s own heart learned the truth of James 1:14–15 the hard way.

He did not begin with adultery.

He began by putting down responsibility.

He sent his mighty men to war—
and stayed in Jerusalem.

That decision placed him somewhere he had no business being:

on a rooftop,
instead of in the field with his men.

Sin did not start on the rooftop.

It started with where he chose to stand—
or where he failed to stand.

This week I restacked a quote that resonated, and added this note:

When men don’t lead, someone else carries what they were never meant to.
And the longer that happens, the fewer choices everyone has left.
Sin doesn’t just wound.

It narrows.

David’s sin—and the sins of us all—do not stop with us.

Bathsheba lost her husband.
She lost her child.

David’s sons murdered one another.
His daughter was raped by her half-brother.

And like it so often does,
the cost fell hardest on the most vulnerable.

The women.
The children.
The ones who never chose it.

This is what sin does.

For God So Loved..

David reaped the consequences of his sin.

But his entire household had to eat the harvest.

And yet—God.

Stop there for a moment.

And yet, God.

Because on this day, we remember:

Jesus died for that too.

Bathsheba stood in the line of Christ.
So did David.
So did Rahab.
So did Tamar.
So did Ruth.

Not by accident.
Not by oversight.

Because we serve a Kinsman Redeemer.

A God who looked at the wreckage of sin and said,
I will pay for that.

David’s house was not the only one to eat a harvest.

Christ took that one too.

Not of grain—but of sin.
Not of one family—but of the entire world.

He took the wages we earned
and made them His own.

His sacrifice does not erase our consequences.
But it breaks the chains that bind us to them.

This is the truth that makes us free:

That Jesus Christ paid for our sin in full.

And the proof that it is finished—
is an empty tomb.

Jesus did not just reap the harvest.

He bought the field.

And we now reap what He has planted.

Choices have consequences.
Choices have weight.

But praise God—

we serve a Savior who is greater than both.

A God who stepped into the harvest with us,
took it on Himself,
and redeemed it—

for our good,
for the good of those around us,
and for His eternal glory.

Happy Resurrection Sunday everyone, because Jesus died for this too.

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“A stitch in time saves nine.”
A proverb we learn as children and ignore as adults.

This is not a comfortable thing to admit publicly, but it is necessary. As I enter the final phase of editing Bethan’s Identity, the first book in the Songs of Redemption series, I am forced to confront something honestly. My stewardship has been lacking.

I tend to put things off because I am busy doing something else. I prioritize what needs to be done, and then “later” never comes.

In truth, my life would be better served by building the habit of finishing a task when it arises, rather than waiting until pressure forces my hand. Cleaning a counter because guests are arriving in ten minutes is not the same as maintaining order day by day. One is reactive. The other is disciplined.

Stress is not an abundant life.
It is the byproduct of neglected stewardship catching up all at once.

My shoulders tighten. My heart pounds. And the same question comes every time. Why did I wait this long?

If I made a habit of putting things away when I finished with them, I would not be facing ten days of unfinished work all at once.

Now, as I approach my deadline, that same pressure is present. But this is not the way.

In John 10:10, Jesus contrasts Himself with the thief who comes to steal, kill, and destroy. “I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.”

So I have to ask myself a harder question. Is my rushed pace honoring to the quiet leading of the Holy Spirit as I edit? Is last-minute pressure a picture of abundant life?

I cannot say that it is.

Mary, Martha, and Responsibility

In Luke 10, Jesus visits the house of Lazarus, Martha, and Mary. Mary sits at His feet. Martha carries the responsibility of hosting and becomes overwhelmed.

When she complains, Jesus tells her that Mary chose the better portion.

The issue was not that Martha worked. The issue was the order.

Martha carried the weight of responsibility. Mary chose the priority of presence.

Both matter. Scripture makes that clear. “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” (1 Corinthians 10:31)

Work can be worship. Responsibility can honor God. But when responsibility becomes frantic and misaligned, it shifts from stewardship into burden.

That is the difference. Not the task, but the posture.

Calling Requires Discipline

Mary likely felt the pressure to help her sister. She chose Jesus anyway.

There will always be pressure to prioritize something else over what we are called to do. True callings are rarely glamorous. They are built in tension. The constant pull between comfort and obedience.

Discipline begins in the mind.

A man may finish a book and think, “I should write one.” But that thought alone produces nothing. He must choose discipline. He must write daily. He must submit his work to critique. He must be willing to revise structure, pacing, and content. Only then can he publish.

The finished work does not happen without disciplined practice.

The time between the first thought and the finished product is built on quiet, consistent obedience.

That is the lesson I am learning.

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Practice Is Habit

Practice is not perfection. It is habit.

Writing is art. Action is worship. Both require practice to become habit.

Stewardship is not a single decision. It is a pattern. A repeated choice to act in alignment with what God has given.

When Jesus told the parable of the servants, one returned tenfold, one fivefold, and one did nothing. The one who was rebuked was not the man who produced less. It was the man who did not act at all.

We are not responsible for outcomes. We are responsible for obedience.

A gardener is not judged by which seeds take root, but by whether he sows faithfully.

In the same way, I am not responsible for the outcome of my calling. But I am responsible for whether I steward it with discipline.

The Choice to Practice Now

The pressure I feel at this deadline is revealing something. Somewhere in the process, I neglected the quiet work.

I can respond in one of two ways.

I can sit at the feet of Jesus, seek His guidance, and make the necessary corrections with clarity and peace. Or I can push forward in panic, chasing opinions, and produce something that does not reflect the calling well.

The choice is mine.

If I wait until the next book to apply this lesson, then I have not learned it. I have only recognized it.

The practice starts today, or it does not start at all.
And if I delay it again, then I have not learned the lesson. I have only seen it and walked away.

Discover Bethan's Identity

When I first began writing Bethan’s Identity, I struggled to decide what to call God in the fantasy series. Many books use the name Elyon, and that is what I had originally intended to do.

But one afternoon, sitting in a Panera Bread with a dear friend, we were discussing Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis for our monthly book club. As we talked, I explained my plot and the struggle I was having.

“Why don’t you call Him Yah-Roi?” she asked.

I promptly wrote the name down on a napkin and shoved it into my purse.

Yah-Roi.

The combination of YHWH and El-Roi, Hagar’s name for God in the wilderness.

It stuck.

Because the series truly is about the God who sees individuals where they are and loves them too much to abandon them there.

Bethan is a woman broken, discarded, and abused by authority. Yet it is in the midst of her deepest pain that Yah-Roi meets her.

Hagar — The God Who Sees (Genesis 16)

The pattern for Bethan’s life draws heavily from the woman who first named God El-Roi.

Hagar.

The Egyptian maiden who had no standing, no voice, and no protection.

She was separate from Abraham’s people—a slave, a woman, a concubine. Used and discarded by the very household that carried God’s covenant.

Yet it was to this woman that God first sent a theophany.

The Angel of the Lord—the pre-incarnate Christ—appears to her and makes a promise. Interestingly, He finds her beside a spring of water in the wilderness (Genesis 16:7).

God Himself finds her and calls her not by her function, but by her name.

He promises that she will bear a son and that he will become a great nation. This promise does not contradict the covenant made with Abraham, yet the similarity is striking.

Before Israel.

Before the Law.

God reveals Himself personally to an Egyptian handmaiden in the desert.

He tells her to return to Sarai. The obedience and trust in God this must have required from Hagar is incredible. Yet she does it. She returns to her mistress despite the mistreatment and submits.

But before she does, she gives God a name.

El-Roi — the God who sees.

Hagar did not have to trust that Sarai would treat her better. Instead, she chose to trust the God who met her at the spring.

Hagar Again — The God Who Opens Eyes (Genesis 21)

Hagar seems to disappear from the scriptural record for the next fourteen years. Then Sarah sees Ishmael mocking her son Isaac and demands that Abraham send them away.

Abraham is reluctant to do so, yet God speaks to him, reassuring him that Hagar and Ishmael will both be taken care of.

Abraham sends them away with provisions, but eventually Hagar and the boy run out of water. Ishmael becomes so dehydrated that Hagar places him under a bush.

Unable to bear watching her son die, the mother walks away and weeps.

Then the Angel of the Lord calls to her from heaven and once again speaks to her:

“What aileth thee, Hagar? Fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is.”

God speaks from heaven to tell Hagar that He not only sees her—He hears her son as well.

And then Scripture tells us that God opened her eyes so she could see the well.

The Bible is clear: she went and filled the bottle, gave the boy water, and he lived.

Because he grew, and God was with him.

The Samaritan Woman — Living Water (John 4)

Millennia later, Jesus tells His disciples that He must go through Samaria.

While there, He sits beside Jacob’s well, and a woman approaches.

The timing suggests she is an outcast even among her own people, much less by Jewish standards.

Samaritan.

Female.

An adulteress.

Yet Jesus does not address her by any of those labels.

Instead, He sees her.

And at that well, God the Son once again stops to meet someone with no standing and essentially tells her:

“I know your life, and I am offering you living water because I see you.”

He does not turn away because she is broken, rejected, or an outcast. The character of God had not changed since the day He met Hagar in the wilderness.

Because the name El-Roi is not ultimately about Hagar.

It is about the God who saw one person as worth the time of a personal encounter.

The world saw Hagar as a slave.

The world saw the Samaritan woman as a sinner.

But the God of the Bible saw both women as worth stopping beside a well for.

And He is the same God today, still inviting the lost, the weary, and the broken to come to the well and drink the living water.

Jesus stood and cried out, saying,

“If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water

If the themes of redemption, faith, and the cost of walking the narrow road resonate with you, you may enjoy my novel Bethan’s Identity, the first book in the Songs of Redemption series. Coming March 31.

Discover Bethan's Identity