We stepped outside, the warm light from the kitchen glowing behind us, nothing but darkness before us. The air carried an autumnal chill that stung our cheeks, filled our nose, and cut right through our exercise clothes. Silence permeated the landscape. I pulled out my phone, cued up the app that would play our morning prayers, and familiar, beautiful words spoke out into the darkness:

Lord, open my lips. And my mouth will proclaim your praise.
Come, let us worship the Lord…

My husband and I have been taking morning walks each day for over a year. We’ve been listening to morning prayers together for a couple months. But as our schedules demanded we move things earlier to be able to get out of the house on time, we decided to combine the two…and to do them both at 6 a.m., despite the fact that this time of year, that meant before daybreak. “Do we really want to walk in the dark?” we’d asked. And we answered, “Why not? Let’s give it a try. We can always bring a flashlight.”

It isn’t as though I’ve never taken a walk in the dark before, even in those last minutes before dawn. But there’s something about walking with prayers singing out around me that made me view it all in a different way. Or maybe in a very old way–certainly, none of my thoughts were new, either to me or to other people who have observed light and darkness and how the very physical versions remind us of so many Truths on a spiritual, mental, and emotional level.

Not new, but worth dwelling on again nevertheless.

The first day, we went out without a flashlight. Just to see, we said. Just to see if we could walk without it. The first side of our driveway we walked down, overhung with trees, was so dark in those first moments that my instinct was to reach out and grab my husband’s arm. Even though it isn’t exactly conducive to the brisk pace we always set, I wanted to lean in. To feel his presence. To know that though I couldn’t see him even a foot away in that darkness, he was there.

And I thought, How beautiful, Lord, to know that even when I can’t see You through the darkness, I know You’re there. Right there.

As we reached the bottom of our driveway and prepared for our first turn, usually executed with quickness and precision and knowledge, we both hesitated. Where was the bush that marked where we turn? The slope of the hill, the feel of the place said we were close, but where was it? Finally we turned; at that same place on the next day, when we had a flashlight in hand, we made the initial turn without the hesitation–but then I came to a halt, waiting for that beam of light to swing around. Because without it, I had no idea where my feet should land. I had no idea, having simply turned 180-degrees, where I was now.

And I thought, How lost I am when I turn from Your path, Lord, even a little. Even when I think I should know what I’m doing. Without Your Light guiding me, I can’t see a thing.

We traveled up that arm of the driveway again, under the thickest covering of trees. The prayers still sang out around us, filling my soul with the beauty of the Psalms, but I could see less even than before. I nearly tripped–as I often do even in the daylight–over that uneven spot where the driveway passes over some sort of culvert or pipe or something. But then–just then, when I stumbled a bit–I looked up. There, the trees end. There, starlight pierced the black sky with  bejeweled points of light that literally took my breath away. This is what Bram stayed up all night to behold in Worthy of Legend. This was the beauty he waited for daily.

And I thought, You positioned each star just so in the universe, Lord. Suns in those far-off solar systems, worlds unto themselves. Yet here they are, visible in my sky, showing up in lines and shapes, shining their glory to remind me of Yours. You call each star by name. You see it from every position, as we never can. We see only how each one looks, studded against our darkness. But You know the true measure of their light. We see only the beauty or the usefulness, but You created them with far more grandeur than what we can perceive.

On that side of our looping driveway, the neighbor’s house shines its own porch light out into the darkness. It spills out onto the drive, illuminating the general slope of the land, but not quite strong enough to show every rock or dip that could trip us up. Still, it’s helpful. When that light is at our back, illuminating our path, we can walk with confidence.

When You, Lord, are illuminating our path, we can walk with confidence.

But then at the bottom of that end of the driveway, we turn again. That porch light–so helpful a second ago–is now blinding. If we look up, we can see nothing but that globe of light. It makes the darkness around it seem darker, the things we could see a minute ago invisible in contrast to it.

Like when we look toward Your face, Lord. Your glory blinds us to all else. Your Light makes what had seemed bright-enough in the world suddenly cast in shadow. Beside You, nothing is visible unless You choose to illuminate it.

Then we pass by the house with its light, and we have to blink a few times. The darkness that had seemed navigable before now seems so dark.

When we’re in the world, we think we can see. We think we can navigate it with success. But looking at Your Light shows us how dark it really was and is. It makes us not want to enter that darkness again–certainly not without a Light of our own, shining a path.

How blessed we are, that He has called us out of darkness. How blessed we are, that He has called us into His marvelous light. And it makes me marvel. It does. Something as simple as a walk before daybreak can make it so clear–we are nothing without Him. We fumble about, we think we know where we’re going, we may even convince ourselves that the world is just as we like it. That it isn’t that dark. But the moment His Light touches that darkness, we see the truth.

The fifteen minutes of our morning prayer ended long before our walk. We got to watch the darkness lessen, degree by degree, lumen by lumen. Then a new beauty began to creep into view–the sun, warming the sky there between the mountains in the east. It started as a low blush of orange. Then it spread its fingers out, up and up and up into the sky, turning it from black to blue, to purple, to red, to orange, to yellow.

Dawn had come. Day had broken. Darkness was banished for another twelve hours. Light had found the world.

Thank you, Lord, not just for the sun we see each day, but for the Son that lights our eternity.

We reached the end of our walk, turned back into our warm, glowing kitchen. Our cheeks were cool, pink from autumn’s air. Our bodies were warm, invigorated from the 45-minute walk. Our spirits were renewed from the Scripture we’d just heard. Our minds were set from the conversation that followed.

And our hearts…our hearts were attuned to the Light of His coming. Today, tomorrow, forever. Each day and night a reminder of the glory of the God who reigns over the heavens.

Thank you, Lord, for Your Light.

Back in the days when I spent an hour of every weekday reading aloud to my kids for school, it was no great surprise to me which books from our reading list my kids loved best: the novels. We always had a novel going, and they were usually classic (often Newbury Award winning) historical fiction selections that tied in with what we were studying in history. But it wasn’t long before Rowyn (as a primary schooler) would start asking the same question with every book.

Is this true?

At the time, I would explain historical fiction to him–that the characters themselves were from the author’s imagination, but that they were interacting with true events or showing us a true glimpse of the world in which they were set. And Rowyn would always make a face and say something along the lines of, “But I want it to be true.”

These old memories, now nearing a decade old, came back to me the other week as David and I were talking about theology on one of our morning walks. What, we were asking, does it really mean to believe in something? It’s an interesting question when you dig down below the face of it. We believe in God. We believe in Jesus. Using the word belief there tells us that the very word gets at something important, some need planted deep within the heart of humanity. 

But we use the same word for other things. We ask if children believe in Santa Claus. We talk about whether we believe in ghosts. And as a novelist, I hear all the time whether my plots or characters or twists are believable.

Combining that thought with Rowyn’s question brought me to a rather odd but inescapable quirk of the human mind and heart: Our belief does not hinge on whether something is true…but on whether we want it to be. We can be “willing to believe” something not because  the evidence is irrefutable or the facts beyond dispute, but simply because we find the story compelling or convincing.

Then there’s the flipside–we can choose not to believe something because we don’t like it. We once sat in a Bible study in which there was a questionable version read of a verse. We had the Greek in front of us, so we could say, “Actually, that’s not accurate. It reads like this.” And someone replied, “Well, I just don’t believe that.”

I recall just blinking at her. Here was a woman who professed to be a Christian and “believed the Bible to be true,” but who was unwilling to believe a particular statement irrefutably from the Bible and upheld in the majority of translations through time (if not that one particular one) because it didn’t align with her worldview. And it wasn’t even one of those verses that you can take out of context or which was poetic. It was a concept expounded on over and again in the Epistles (to put others above yourself). How, I wondered, can you just say you don’t believe it and expect that to be an argument against it?

And yet…how often do we all do that? Reject something because we don’t like it? How often do we cling to something untrue because we do like it? How often do we think that our very belief or unbelief is all that it should take to convince the world to think like we do?

It’s a concept that we’ve been talking over a lot as we think about miracles through the history of the Church, of healings associated with things like relics, of the mysteries of faith. When we’re looking on those things from the outside, our questions tend to be, “Did that really happen? I don’t know if I can believe it.” But the “truth” of it isn’t really what we’re objecting to. There are Eucharistic miracles, for instance (when communion wafers have been turned into flesh), that have been scientifically examined and confirmed. But people will still dismiss it. Not because it isn’t true according to the definitio of factual–but because they can’t believe it. Why can’t they believe it?

Because if they believe it, they have to admit to other things too. They have to accept the whole of faith. They have to accept as Truth other things they’ve denied. You can’t believe in a miracle without granting the validity of the God, the Church, and the people who performed it.

The real beauty is the reverse though. When we surrender our wills and our logic to God, suddenly we can believe in things that seemed impossible, because we hold Him as the ultimate Truth. We can believe in the Red Sea parted. We can believe in the dead rising. We can believe in Peter’s shadow healing people. We can believe in the blind receiving sight, in storms being calmed, in angels battling for us in the heavenly spheres. We believe it not because it’s believable, but because when we put our hand in God’s, He gives us the grace to accept as Truth what defies logic. He gives us the grace to want to believe, and so, to do so. The cry of that desperate father–Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!–suddenly comes into clarity.

We’re all capable of believing in what isn’t true…but the real triumph of faith is being able to believe in what is.

It’s that time of year again! The time that I and my best friend/crit partner head out of our towns (1,000 miles apart), meet up at a cute little AirBnB somewhere or another, and do nothing but WRITE for a long weekend! That’s write, it’s Writing Retreat time!

What is a writing retreat?

I’ve shared about quite a few of our retreats over the years, but if you’re new to my world, you may be asking, “What in the world are you talking about? What’s a writing retreat?”

A writing retreat will look different depending on the people. Some people host large groups for a retreat, where there are dedicated times for fellowship, brainstorming, and writing. Sometimes writers will also set up a reader-interaction event to piggyback on their writing time. Others will spend some hours writing but also schedule time for reading, watching movies, or other creative endeavors.

But when Stephanie and I say “Writing Retreat,” what we mean is a long weekend in which we do NOTHING but write. We have no music, no television. When one of us has to take or make a phone call, we go outside so as not to disturb the other. We do brainstorm some, yes, and take daily walks. We chat over meals and at the end of each day. But the main goal of our retreat is to focus on the thing that is often so hard to get done in our everyday lives, with kids and families and community responsibilities all vying for our time: WRITING.

How long do you write a day on a writing retreat?

The beautiful thing about having a retreat with one other good friend who works mostly the same way you do, is that you can do your own thing and also complement each other’s scheduled. I tend to rise a bit earlier than Stephanie, which gives me time to do my Bible reading, clear out my email inbox, and then get my brain in gear. In general, I start my writing day at about 6:30 a.m. when I’m on retreat. We don’t usually wrap up our day until about 9 p.m. So my total writing time is 14-15 hours a day!

Now, that does include breaks for meals and at least one walk or jog a day, so don’t think we’re total couch potatoes! We find that those scheduled breaks, including one really good physical activity, gives our brains time to reset, work out any knots in our plot, and also gives us a chance to update each other on how everything’s going in our fictional worlds and brainstorm.

How much do you write on a retreat?

Our goal on a writing retreat is to hit 10,000 words a day.

To put that in perspective, my usual goal for a normal workday is 2,000 words. Most of my books are between 100-120,000 words. So if I have a 5-day retreat and hit or exceed my daily word count goal, that means I get just about half a book done in that one stretch of time!

Many days I can squeak out 11-12K in a day while on retreat. Other days I’m barely pulling myself over that 10K line at 10 p.m., when my brain is tired and ready for SLEEP.

What are your goals for this retreat?

This year, I’m in a slightly different place than usual. I’m usually working on a book already or have one plotted out to get started on retreat. This year, I just finished book 1 in a series and got the notes on it, but I haven’t yet fully worked out my plot for book 2. So while I like to start my retreat with a chapter-by-chapter outline in hand so I can just sit down and start pounding out words, this year I will be spending the first day or so of the retreat working first on a sample chapter for a project, and then outlining my next Imposters book so I can begin writing it. I hope to still have 3 good days to dedicate to book 2 in the Imposters series, A Noble Scheme. I don’t usually like to play it by ear so much, but it’s been a crazy summer, man, and I’ve been playing catch-up since July! I’ve decided to make use of this dedicated time by giving myself grace to use it as I need, not hold myself to decade-old expectations that no one but me requires of me. Still, my hope is to get that sample chapter done, my outline written, and then get about 30,000 words into my new book, which will get me to about 30% finished. If I manage more than that, I won’t complain! But if I come in a little short, that’s okay too. I really hope this weekend proves to be one of refreshing and inspiration above all.

How many writing retreats have you done?

Wait, did I just say decade-old? Gracious, that’s about right! My first writing retreat with Stephanie was when I was writing Circle of Spies, which came out in 2014, so I would have been writing it in 2013. Nine years! We’ve gotten together all but one of those years when Stephanie had a newborn, so very nearly a decade, yes! I’ve also done one retreat with a group of friends in North Carolina, and several “at-home retreats” where I either go to my parents’ house while they’re out of town (just during the days) or to our office or just my own desk, but with the caveat that no other work is to be done but writing.

I’m sure I’ll check on in social media during the retreat itself, posting updates on how much I’m getting done. If you’d like to follow along and cheer me on, keep an eye out on Facebook and Instagram!

I am under deadline…and on vacation (my goal was not to make those two overlap, but alas! We were hit by sickness, so I now get to finish my book at the beach.) So in short, you’re getting some short-and-sweet musings today.

One thing I’m doing in September is going through some Spiritual Formation exercises with my Patrons & Peers group, led by our resident Spiritual Director, Laura Heagy. She’s starting us off with Colossians 3:1-17. This whole month, we meditate on those same verses, breaking them up into sections if we want, swallowing them whole, reading and rereading, studying, dwelling, reciting, praying them over and again to see what God shows each of us.

This morning, I focused on just the first couple verses:

If then you were raised with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ is, sitting at the right hand of God. Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth.

I had no big, earth-shattering thoughts here that I’m sharing…just musing on what others have no doubt mused on countless times. But maybe they’re musings you’d like to share in, so I thought I’d write about them here. 😉

Let’s start with the basics: we were raised with Christ. Christ was literally raised–from the dead, from the tomb, from within the ground. So we too have been raised, resurrected, lifted from the ground–to a new existence, a new place.

Why, then, do we look so often to the things of this earth? To money and power and food and clothes and things? We’re not buried here anymore. We shouldn’t be living under all this rubble.

We have been raised. RAISED. And so, our gazes, our attention needs to be raised too–to Christ. Our eyes should always be on Christ. And where is He? Above, in heaven.

If that’s where He is, then that’s where I should be looking. That’s where our attention needs to stay fixed.

Where are we looking today?

My summer, especially the second half of it, has been insane. And as I sit down at my computer to write out this week’s blog post, I feel a bit low on insight and inspiration. My mind and body and spirit are all longing for the vacation coming up in a few weeks…but before that, I have SO MANY things that need done. Things on deadlines. Things I can’t just put off. I’ve had a few moments of stress-out and overwhelm, I’ll admit it. And some moments of profound joy amidst it all. I’ve had friends and family wow me with their love. And I’ve had some impatient folks too, ratchet it all up again.

When I sat down to write this, the temptation to stress about even this post was strong. I have to come up with something great, after all. People are expecting it! Waiting for it! It’s one of my greatest joys to invite you all to contemplate along with me.

But…this week, I offer you exactly what I have: a muddled mind, a vulnerable heart, some things I’m stressed about, and some things I’m excited about.

A bit of context: I was just diagnosed with a small, benign tumor on my pituitary gland (in the brain). This is not a diagnosis that will change my life forever or anything. It’s treatable with medication. Having read up on it, I know it’s “no big deal.” And because of that, I told myself I shouldn’t let it bother me. But…dealing with it right now is still a big deal. And I had to give myself permission to feel that. To indulge in a bout of rare tears. To just admit that, yes, it’s distracting me. I’m reading medical articles when I should be writing a book. I’m on the phone with doctors and insurance companies when I should be doing design work. And that then adds to my stress, because I now feel behind on all that work–work necessary to pay for all the medical stuff.

But here’s the truth: This moment, like every moment, is in God’s hand. I may let some people down if I can’t get projects back to them when they expect. I am sorry for that. But maybe I need to let go of the thought that I am in charge of pleasing people all the time. Maybe I need that humbling reminder.

I’m writing this on the Saturday before it will post. On Monday, my kids start the new homeschool year. Both of them are in high school this year! A senior and a freshman! I can’t believe it. And there are still SO MANY things that need done before they start, from the very practical (rearranging Rowyn’s room with a new desk and organizing all the books) to the overarching (working out their daily schedules). Every year, I say, “We’re going to have a great year.” And every year things slip. You want openness and vulnerability? I question, every year, whether I do a good enough job with my kids’ education. Would they be better off with a “regular” school? Do I not push them hard enough? Have I done them a disservice? Are they behind their peers? Then every spring when we do portfolio reviews, I hear “Wow, you do so much. You do a great job. Your kids are doing great.” Still…funny how hearing that once a year doesn’t silence the questions, isn’t it? Those questions are always, in all we do, so persistent.

Am I doing enough? Am I doing it well enough?

But here’s the truth: We all always have room for improvement, yes. We should always strive to be and do better, not falling into complacency. But if we pour our heart into what we’re doing, if we give our best, then God says “Well done, beloved.” All the things we worry about with our kids…the truth is that most of the time they’re inconsequential. The most important thing we can ever do for them is model the love of God and teach them of the love of Christ.

One week from tomorrow as of the writing and three days as of the posting of this, my family will be confirmed in the Catholic church. (I mentioned this in my 40 Things post, but if you didn’t read that, this may surprise you, LOL.) We are SO excited and joyful at this step on the path down which God has been leading our family for years. We have a few things yet to sort out before The Day in terms of logistics, but this one is pure joy. I am so looking forward to that celebration to cap my crazy summer!

Because here’s the truth: There are many churches in the world but One Church. I have always believed that and I always will. The fractures that have split believers for centuries cannot fracture God, cannot fracture Christ. Praise God, He is bigger than our human failings and divisions, and His Truth will always see us through. We will worship now in the place we know He’s called us to, but we’ll do it knowing He works everywhere.

My final muddled thought–total product placement. 😉 When I was in Chicago for a convention a couple weeks ago, on the trade show floor I came across a group called Peace + All Good, who sell lotions, soaps, and candles. After trying the lotion (so fabulous!) I was impressed. After hearing about their mission–all their products are handmade by women who have escaped from human trafficking, giving them a fresh start–I was determined to add the products to my store. And when I realized that the book tie in was actually pretty obvious (Sally from Shadowed Loyalty!!!!!), I put in an order. They arrived this last week, and y’all…these products are amazing. I’m excited to share them with you!

I got three of each scent of each of the products I wanted to carry–bar soap, travel size lotion, and 4-oz candles–so that I can determine which scents you all like best. 😉 I hope you’ll browse the Peace + All Good products available now in my shop, knowing that each product you buy helps a woman build a new life. And when you use these truly excellent products and smell the sweet scents, you’ll be reminded too that that’s what our prayers smell like to God.

Because here’s the truth: We serve a gracious God who will never turn away someone seeking redemption. A God of second chances. A God who delights in taking our stinking mess and turning it into a sweet-smelling thing of beauty.

Thank you, Lord. I may be a muddle right now, but you are exactly the detail-oriented, always-there, ever-loving Lord you’ve always been. I may be overwhelmed, but your hand is big enough to hold it all. I may not know how to squeeze everything into the hours of the day, but you are the holder of eternity.

And thank you, too, friends, for bearing with me when I’m a muddle. For bearing me up. Thank you for never being stingy with your encouragement, for being enthusiastic about my stories, my store, my posts. Thank you for being shining lights in my life, especially in those moments when I need each sparkle to remind me of my purpose.

Because here’s the truth: You are all beautiful reminders of what this Church is that we’re a part of, and I thank God for you.