Before asking Siri where she the nearest pharmacy was.
There was me.
Two babies.
A shopping cart.
And absolutely no clue where anything was.
The morning after moving into our new apartment, I realized we had a serious problem. We didn’t have a phone, we didn’t know anybody, our car wasn’t working, and I had no idea where the nearest grocery store was.
Modern people will never truly appreciate how spoiled they are.
Today, if you need milk, you tap a screen.
Back then, I loaded one child, bundled another, pointed a shopping cart down the sidewalk, and hoped civilization would eventually appear.
I must have looked like the world’s least successful pioneer woman.
There I was, pushing that cart through an unfamiliar neighborhood as if Lewis and Clark had left me in charge of the expedition.
My mission:
Find food.
Find medicine.
Find a laundromat.
Return alive.
Miraculously, I succeeded.
By the end of the morning, I had mapped the neighborhood, located supplies, and probably walked enough miles to qualify for an Olympic event.
The babies survived.
I survived.
And for one brief moment, I felt oddly triumphant.
Not because I’d done anything extraordinary.
But because motherhood has a way of turning ordinary tasks into heroic adventures.
Sometimes courage isn’t climbing mountains.
Sometimes courage is pushing a shopping cart through a strange neighborhood with two small children and figuring things out one block at a time.
And honestly?
I still think pioneers had it easier.
At least they got covered wagons. I got squeaky wheels.
“What’s a personal mantra or philosophy you live by?”
I laughed when I saw it.
Not because I didn’t know the answer.
But because I’ve spent the past few days thinking about it without realizing it.
If you had asked me this question when I was young, my answer might have been very different. I might have talked about hard work, determination, goals, faith, family, or perseverance.
Today, after many decades of life experience, my answer is much simpler.
People Are Carrying Stories We Cannot See
Life has taught me that every person is carrying a story.
Some stories are obvious.
Others remain hidden.
People carry grief.
People carry illness.
People carry loneliness.
People carry regrets.
People carry fears.
People carry disappointments.
Sometimes they carry burdens so heavy that simply getting through the day requires more courage than anyone around them realizes.
The longer I live, the less interested I am in judging people and the more interested I am in understanding them.
I’ve learned to ask questions.
What happened to this person?
What struggles have they faced?
What losses shaped them?
What strengths helped them survive?
Questions don’t erase accountability.
But they often create understanding.
And understanding makes room for grace.
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These Are the People Who Made the People Who Made You
Many years ago, I became fascinated with genealogy.
As I researched ancestors, collected records, and pieced together family histories, I discovered something remarkable.
Every person is built upon countless lives that came before them.
People crossed oceans.
Survived wars.
Endured poverty.
Raised children.
Buried loved ones.
Started over.
Took risks.
Made sacrifices.
And because they did, we are here.
One of my favorite phrases in a baby book I created for my great-granddaughter was:
“These are the people who made the people who made you.”
I still believe that.
None of us exists in isolation.
We belong to a much larger story.
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The Lord’s Tender Mercies
One of my favorite phrases comes from the scriptures:
“The tender mercies of the Lord.”
Over the years, I’ve learned that tender mercies aren’t always dramatic.
Sometimes they’re surprisingly ordinary.
A phone call.
A memory.
A photograph.
An old file discovered on a hard drive.
An encouraging conversation.
A relationship beginning to heal.
A little more time than I expected.
Sometimes the greatest blessings arrive quietly.
They don’t remove the trial.
They simply help us continue walking through it.
I’ve experienced many of those tender mercies throughout my life.
Some appeared exactly when I needed them.
Others weren’t recognized until years later.
Love Survives More Than We Think
I’ve lived long enough to learn that life rarely unfolds exactly as we planned.
Families face difficulties.
Relationships become strained.
Illness enters the picture.
Dreams change.
Mistakes happen.
There have been seasons when I wished circumstances were different.
There have been times when people misunderstood me.
And there have been times when I misunderstood others.
But one lesson keeps returning.
Love can survive more than we realize.
It can survive distance.
It can survive disappointment.
It can survive misunderstanding.
It can survive time.
Love does not always prevent pain.
But it often outlasts it.
The Philosophy I Live By
So if I had to summarize my personal philosophy in a few words, it would be this:
People are carrying stories we cannot see.
Look for the story.
Offer grace whenever possible.
Notice the Lord’s tender mercies.
Remember where you came from.
And never underestimate the power of love to survive difficult things.
Life has taught me that understanding another person’s story doesn’t change the past.
Every now and then, it’s fun to look back at the posts that first connected us as writers, readers, dreamers, and storytellers. As our blog continues to grow beyond that exciting milestone of 500 visitors, I found myself revisiting an old favorite: “You Might Be a Writer If…”
When I first wrote that post, I reflected on the habits, quirks, and passions that seem to unite writers everywhere. Looking back, I realize those same qualities have followed me through every project, from Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast to George and the Brave Eagle, and now into my newest work, The Collector.
So, let’s take another look.
You See Stories Everywhere
Writers don’t simply observe the world. They imagine what lies beneath the surface.
A quiet beach can become a magical kingdom. An eagle soaring overhead can become a symbol of courage and determination. And sometimes a simple object, forgotten by most people, can become the centerpiece of an entirely new adventure.
That spirit of curiosity helped inspire The Collector. What begins as an ordinary discovery can quickly lead to extraordinary questions, reminding us that stories are often hiding in plain sight.
You Never Stop Asking “What If?”
What if mermaids lived along the Emerald Coast?
What if a brave eagle taught valuable lessons about courage?
And now, what if someone discovered something so unusual that it changed the way they viewed the world around them?
Writers thrive on “what if.” It is the question that opens every doorway to imagination and invites readers to step through alongside us.
You Fall in Love with Characters
One of the greatest joys of writing is creating characters who begin to feel like family.
Misty’s determination, George’s bravery, and the personalities taking shape within The Collector all started as ideas. Over time, they grew into companions who taught me lessons of their own.
Writers know this feeling. Characters stop becoming words on a page and start becoming voices in your heart.
You Daydream Without Apology
If you’ve ever stared out a window and lost yourself in a story, welcome to the club.
Writers spend a lot of time in two worlds at once. There’s the everyday world where dishes need washing and errands need running. Then there’s the story world where adventures unfold, mysteries deepen, and possibilities seem endless.
Many of the ideas behind The Collector arrived during those quiet moments when imagination took the lead.
You Keep Going, Even When It Isn’t Easy
Writing is rewarding, but it’s rarely simple.
There are moments of doubt, rejected drafts, editing headaches, and days when inspiration seems to hide. Yet writers continue because storytelling is more than a hobby. It’s a calling.
Every book I’ve written has required persistence, patience, and faith. The Collector was no different. Each challenge became another opportunity to refine the story and make it stronger.
You Hope Your Words Matter
Perhaps the biggest sign that you’re a writer is this: you want your words to make a difference.
Whether through the friendship and adventure found in Discovering Misty, the courage demonstrated in George and the Brave Eagle, or the themes explored in The Collector, my hope has always been to create stories that encourage, inspire, and spark imagination.
Stories have the power to bring people together. They help us see through someone else’s eyes, discover new perspectives, and find hope when we need it most.
Looking Back and Moving Forward
Revisiting You Might Be a Writer If… reminds me how much this journey has grown and how grateful I am for every reader who has come along for the ride.
The signs of being a writer haven’t changed. We still collect ideas, chase inspiration, daydream endlessly, and obsess over the right words. But each new story adds another chapter to the journey.
As we celebrate the past and look toward the future, I’m excited to share The Collector with readers and continue creating stories that spark wonder, curiosity, and hope.
So let me ask you:
Do you see stories everywhere?
Do you daydream about characters and adventures?
Do you carry a notebook just in case inspiration strikes?
If so, you just might be a writer.
And if you’re not a writer, perhaps you’re exactly who writers create stories for.
Thank you for being part of this journey. Here’s to the next adventure, and to the magic waiting to be discovered in The Collector.
I’ve spent the past several months living inside a building that doesn’t exist.
At least not the way I’m writing it.
It’s an apartment building in Cincinnati, populated by bricklayers, widows, schoolteachers, bakers, artists, maintenance workers, immigrants, flood survivors, and countless ordinary people whose names never appeared in history books.
And yet, the more time I spend with them, the more convinced I become that their stories matter.
Perhaps even more than the famous ones.
The novel I’m currently working on is called TheCollector.
At its heart, it asks a simple question:
What survives after we’re gone?
A photograph?
A letter?
A favorite recipe?
A journal?
A building that remembers the people who once lived inside it?
As I’ve written, I’ve been surprised by how often the story returns to the same idea:
Most people believe their lives are ordinary.
But ordinary does not mean unimportant.
In fact, the people history forgets may be the very people worth remembering most.
I’m not ready to share many details yet.
The mysteries are still unfolding.
But I can tell you this:
The story begins with a young immigrant bricklayer in the 1850s and stretches across generations of lives connected by a single Cincinnati apartment building.
And somewhere within those walls lives a question that refuses to go away:
Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to follow Jesus Christ.
We often talk about faith as if it’s a destination, something we arrive at once we’ve learned enough or become good enough. But the more I reflect on my own walk with God, the more I realize it’s a lifelong journey. God isn’t looking for perfection overnight. He’s patiently shaping us, teaching us, and changing us one step at a time.
One phrase that has stayed with me is the idea that God is preparing a people who know His voice, feel His Spirit, and are willing to follow Him wherever He leads.
That kind of discipleship is both beautiful and challenging.
A few years ago, I found myself facing a decision that felt overwhelming. I had prayed for direction, but no clear answer seemed to come. I wanted certainty. I wanted a detailed roadmap. Instead, what I felt was a quiet assurance to simply take the next faithful step.
Looking back, I realize God wasn’t asking me to see the entire path. He was asking me to trust Him with the next step.
That experience taught me something important: faith isn’t always knowing where God is leading. Sometimes faith is choosing to follow even when you can’t see very far ahead.
I believe Jesus Christ lives. I believe He knows us personally, loves us completely, and is actively involved in our lives. Even when I don’t understand everything that’s happening around me, I find peace in knowing that He does.
More than anything, I want my life to reflect a simple but profound choice:
I choose Christ.
Not just on Sundays.
Not just when life is going well.
Not just when it’s convenient.
I want to choose Him when prayers seem unanswered. I want to choose Him when life feels uncertain. I want to choose Him in the ordinary moments that rarely make it into anyone’s testimony but often shape who we’re becoming.
One of the most moving thoughts from this message was the desire to be able to say to the Lord:
“I am Yours, totally and completely, without reservation or condition.”
If I’m honest, that’s easier to say than it is to live.
There are still dreams I cling to, plans I want to control, and questions I wish God would answer more quickly. Yet every time I try to hold too tightly to my own expectations, I’m reminded that God’s perspective is so much greater than mine.
The invitation Christ extends isn’t merely to believe in Him. It’s to trust Him. To know Him. To follow Him. To place our lives in His hands and believe that wherever He leads is better than anywhere we could go on our own.
Today, my prayer is simple:
“Lord, help me hear Your voice. Help me recognize Your Spirit. And wherever You lead, help me have the courage to follow.”
Because at the end of the day, above every other choice life offers, I want my life to say:
I choose Christ.
Reflection: Can you think of a time when God asked you to trust Him without showing you the entire plan? Looking back, how did that experience strengthen your faith?
Sometimes the greatest testimonies are built not in dramatic miracles, but in the quiet moments when we choose, again and again, to follow Him. ❤️
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