I am a professor of English at a small Christian college in Texas, and recently I wrote an article for the college’s newsletter. We’re running a series on the fruits of the spirit for our college students, and I was assigned the fruit “Love,” a topic on which I’ve written before. I enjoyed writing this short piece, and I thought perhaps you’d like to read it, too.

Love. The word itself is simple. Four letters. Easy to write. Sometimes, easy to say. “Love ya!” “I love that for you!” “Love my matcha!” (a sentiment I don’t quite understand). I, personally, love coffee. I also love my children. And, we all know that I can’t (and shouldn’t) love my coffee like I love my children. Perhaps modernity has normalized overusing the word “love” to the point it’s lost meaning. The satirical, dystopian film Idiocracy (2006) epitomized this concept in a scene wherein a Costco worker greets customers by saying, “Welcome to Costco. I love you.” No, you don’t. That’s not love. But, I get the joke. I’ve been known to “love my outfit” and “love this book” and “love my latte” (not matcha, never matcha). How have we come so far with this little word?

“Love” is all over Scripture. The Bible is chock full of verses about it. “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:39). “Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). “Let all that you do be done in love” (1 Corinthians 16:14). There are even warnings about love: “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils” (1 Timothy 6:10). And then there’s the famous section on love in 1 Corinthians 13: “Love is patient. Love is kind….”

But, the Bible wasn’t written in English. It was written in Greek and Hebrew. These languages have many versions of “love,” which the writers purposefully chose, allowing early readers of the Bible better contextual understanding of the word.

Phileo = love in friendship

Eros = love in romantic relationship

Storge = love in family

Agape/Chesed = love in covenant with God

We don’t have different words for love in English, but we can feel those semantic differences. Again, I don’t love my coffee like I love my children. Attempting to define our modern English word for love can seem a difficult task, leaving our heads spinning at times. Do I really love this book? Can I truly love a piece of clothing? Should we maybe not use this word unless we really mean it? Probably. I should work on that. But, I do truly love some things and people, so when I use the word I want it to carry truth. I think I’ve figured out the best way to do that — find its true origin.

No matter what type or language or usage of the word, love boils down to one singular verse: “God is love” (1 John 4:8). As Christians, this verse is our compass. Our North star. Our definition. God is where love comes from, the true origin. Without Him, all other definitions of love, all other glimpses of its practice, all other meanings of the word are hollow. We can attach other people, other things, other ideas or even ourselves to the word “love” all we want, but it won’t be true love if they’re not attached to God, because God is Love. Once we realize this, some of the things we try to attach to love won’t even stick anymore. Try attaching “self” to “love” now. Doesn’t work, does it?

We must know Love first. We must rewrite the definition in our hearts. Before we even think about “loving others as we love ourselves” (Matthew 22:39), we must know the One who loved us first. John tells us how to do this as he continues in 1 John 4:9: “This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him.” So, how do we get to know God as love? We look at His Son, Jesus.

But who is He? Do you know Him?

If you want to know Him better, if you want to actually KNOW LOVE, spend time with Him. Read His love story, the greatest love story of all time. And, before you do, pray this simple prayer:

Here’s a snippet…

As he stood there in his crisp white button-up shirt and pointed cap with matching orange-striped apron, Jimmy knew he was going to be fired. Sweat beaded on his temple. The ice cream scoop slipped from his trembling hand and clanged to the floor. He adjusted his orange necktie, which had suddenly tightened, and walked toward the mob of angry customers. Is my first day gonna be my last?

At fifteen years old, Jimmy hadn’t done much more than mow neighborhood lawns and run a brief paper route. Sure, he’d reshelved canned goods and helped with deliveries at the corner store over Christmas break. But this was different. This was a real job with a uniform and everything. And what’s more, he’d have to serve people. Real people. Adults, too.

Old man Otis had noticed Jimmy’s hard work stocking the back rooms of his store. Jimmy had noticed him noticing. He hadn’t really thought anything of it. He’s probably just missing his son since the war. So, when Otis asked Jimmy on full-time as a soda jerk, Jimmy had no words. He just stood there.

“Well, boy. Wha’d’ya think?”

“Uhhhh … yeah.” Jimmy stammered finally.

“Good. You start tomorrow. Be here at 8am.”

“Yuh yuh, yes sir.”

Jimmy parked his bike near the back entrance at 7:58 the next morning. Phew, just in time. Otis opened the back door.

“Good. You made it on time. That’s a good start. Come on.”

Otis took Jimmy through the hallway and showed him how to clock in before giving him a nickel tour of the soda shop’s back rooms. He showed him the employee restroom, the stockroom, and the break room. He talked him through the day’s operations, not giving Jimmy any room to ask questions or make even so much as a head nod. By the time he finished, it was only 8:15, but with all the new information swimming in Jimmy’s head, it felt more like noon.

“Jack will be here in about half an hour. He’ll be takin’ orders and managin’ the register today. You’ll be at the counter. You can scoop ice cream and make sandwiches and coffee, can’t ya?”

“Sh-sh-sh-sure,” Jimmy stammered.

“Of course you can.” Otis slapped Jimmy’s back. Jimmy stumbled forward from the force. “Well, let’s get goin’!”

Jimmy followed Otis to the end of the hall and out into the front store. Otis buzzed around flicking on all the shop lights and machines. Jimmy just stood in amazement. The shop was beautiful. He’d been by before, of course, on his way home from school, but he wasn’t allowed to stop in. He’d never had money for frivolities—he was saving for college. To be on the inside felt like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting. Actually, he’d just seen such a picture thumbing through the latest issue of Time while waiting for his mother to finish her shift at the beauty parlor. This soda shop looked quite like that one. How about that! The chrome malt mixers and syrup rails gleamed. The scalloped glass sundae cups glistened. The air was cold and sugary.

Jimmy breathed it in.

“Don’t just stand there, boy!” Otis’s voice made Jimmy jolt. “Put your apron and hat on and acquaint yourself with the back bar area. Jack’ll show you the ropes.”

He waved a hand and Jimmy turned to see another boy, who seemed to be just a couple years older, standing in the hallway behind him.

“Jack, this is Jimmy. He’s going to help out this summer. I’ll open shop in ten minutes, boys.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack replied with a nod.

Otis went up the stairs to the left of the register to his office.

“Hey, Jimmy.” Jack finished tying his apron strings and popped on his hat. He held out his hand. “I’m Jack. Nice to meet ya.” His handshake was firmer than Jimmy’s.

“Uh, hi. Nice to … meet you, too.” Jimmy put his hand behind his back and wiggled his fingers to loosen them up out of Jack’s sight.

“You ever work at a soda shop before?”

“Nuh uh, no.” Jimmy shook his head.

“Oh, well, it’s a cinch! You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Just ask if you need anything.” Jack grabbed his pad and pencil near the register.

The first hour was pretty slow. The boys only had a handful of customers who ordered simple things—coffee, orange juice, toast, and one cheese sandwich, which Jimmy thought odd for 10:00 in the morning, but what did he know? He had once eaten a pickle for breakfast. Who was he to judge?

Jack had made the first batch of coffee while Jimmy was busy stocking shelves, but it was starting to run low.

“Hey, can you start another batch of coffee, Jimmy?”

“Oh, uh, sure.”

“It’s gonna pick up here pretty soon the closer we get to lunch.” Jack wiped down the counter.

“Ok.”

So far the pace had been comfortable. The thought of a lunch rush tightened Jimmy’s chest a bit. Still, he wasn’t alone. Jack was there. Jack was confident. Jack would help if something went wrong.

Jimmy took the coffee pot and rinsed it out in the sink. He didn’t think he was supposed to use sink water to make the coffee, so he took it over to the soda fountain where there was a handle labeled “water.” He put the pot under the spout and pulled the lever. He thought the bubbles in the water were funny, but maybe it made sense they were there. The fountain water must just be more purified. He poured the bubbly water into the coffee machine reservoir, filled the coffee filter with ground coffee, and flipped the “on” switch. The machine purred. Jimmy smiled, relieved.

The bell above the shop door dinged and with it came the lunch rush.

Jack took order after order. Jimmy made two ham and cheese sandwiches and a chocolate malt. Ding! Ding! The boys couldn’t tell the register bell from the door bell for all the ringing. Sodas, sundaes, and sandwiches. And then coffee. Cup after cup. The boys were flying to keep up pace. All of Jack’s coffee had been served, and the customers began asking for refills. When the delivery boy came in from the back door and motioned for help, Jack stepped back from the register.

“I’ll go get that,” said Jack. “We’re expecting a big delivery today, but don’t worry, I’ll be back in a flash!”

Balancing two plates, Jimmy panted but smiled. He was getting the hang of it. Maybe this job would be alright after all. Besides, Jack would be right back. What could go wrong “in a flash”? Jimmy started refilling the customers mugs with the coffee he made. His confidence was building.

And then it happened.

Crash!

Read the rest of the story here!

“For the Cultivators”

I praise Your name, oh Gracious One,

for coming down again

upon and in and through the Saints

whose faith appeared herein,

who pushed through fear,

who muscled doubt

and wrestled with their snakes,

to touch Your robe

and glimpse Your heel

trample Death and Shame.

I praise Your name, oh Word of words,

for coming down again

and ask that You would follow us

from head to heart to pen.

Breathe into our poetry.

Meter all our rhymes.

Motivate our characters.

Plot our storylines.

Calibrate our treble-n-bass.

Tune our instruments.

Direct our plays from page to stage.

Beautify our laments.

Breathe into our kitchens, yes,

and cubicles and classrooms, too.

But bring us ever safely back

to clicking pens and keyboard clacks.

Stave the Wretched Thief, the Hack,

whose methodology Distract

engages only in the Lack.

Fill us, fill us, fill us, Lord.

Love us into loving You

with words that fly sure and true.

*written May 30, 2026

The C.S. Lewis Writers’ Conference hosted by the C.S. Lewis Foundation and Cultivating Oaks Press happened at the end of May. It’s held at a beautiful castle called Glen Eyrie in Colorado Springs. The location is heavenly, and so are the people. It has been the highlight of my past two years as a writer in particular. This year was particularly special as my husband joined me.

Many folks have shared their post-conference thoughts ( expressed theirs beautifully. Read them! ) I don’t really have much to add. Except this—it’s really good to be physically with people who cherish and chase the same things you do. It’s also really difficult to leave.

I’ve realized that the “afterglow” of such a gathering is really just Jesus. It’s as simple as that. No different than my 13-year-old son’s post-church camp vibe last week upon returning from his similar “mountaintop experience.” It’s like having been Moses coming down from the mountain after glimpsing a loving and powerful God. Only instead of seeing Him as Himself, we’ve seen Him in each other. My son even said his experience on his particular mountain “wasn’t really as fun this time, but it was deeper,” meaning he was spiritually fed instead of simply entertained. At age thirteen, he recognizes the significance of studying and worshipping in a beautiful place with beautiful people. And that’s really my takeaway this time.

Corporeal. Habitual. Auditory. Visual. Tactile. Embodied by the Holy Spirit.

So, what do we do when we have to return to base camp down off that mountain and perhaps away from most, if not all, of those particular people? We keep each other’s faces in view. Aside from maintaining “facetime” with God, of course. We must first attend Him there. But, if what we’re missing, longing for was felt upon that mountain in seeing one another’s eyes, touching one another’s hands, hearing one another’s voices, why would we be satisfied with waiting one or two more years to experience that again?

If Covid taught us anything it’s that embodiment matters. And, we now have tools to keep our bodies connected even if only visually, audibly, verbally.

So, that’s it. That’s my post-conference tip: stay connected. To God, of course, but to each other also. In body if possible, but Zoom or FaceTime or social media, email, text, etc . . . those are good and sometimes singular means of connection for some of us.

Stay tethered. To Him and then to each other. The Body in many places.

For fun: My post-conference thoughts after the first C.S. Lewis Writers’ conference two years ago. First experiences are awesome!

I’m going back in 2028! Would you join me?

Follow and Cultivating Oaks Press (website: www.cultivatingoakspress.com | Instagram: instagram.com/cultivatingoakspress ) to stay in the loop.

Trust takes vision, childlike vision. And it all starts with seeing the unseen. My daughter taught me all I needed to remember in her comment that day ten years ago. It’s the first line of my most recent short story, “Trust Like a Child.”

Here’s an excerpt…

“Don’t the raindrops look like little stars?” Tilly asked from the back seat.

“What?” Mommy turned her head slightly back in Tilly’s direction, but her eyes stayed forward toward the intersection. The light was still red. The car purred. The rain sprinkled. “Oh, no, honey. We can’t see the stars tonight because of the clouds,” Mommy replied.

Ting. Ting. Tuh ting.

“The raindrop stars, Mommy.”

“Oh yes, it is raining, isn’t it?” Mommy mechanically replied, eyes still trained on the stoplight.

Mommy’s eyes had changed. She used to see all kinds of things like raindrop stars. On one of their afternoon tea picnics last spring, Mommy had noticed something wonderful even before Tilly did.

“Tilly, look!” Mommy had beckoned her over. “Lay on your tummy, babygirl. Look closely at this flower here. It’s called gomphrena. Can you see it?”

Tilly flopped on her tummy and peered at the pink wildflower.

“See what, Mommy?” she whispered so as to not blow the flower too harshly with her breath.

Mommy got on her tummy too and whispered in reply, “The specks of yellow on the tips of each spiky petal. They look like little lights. Can you see?”

Tilly squinted her eyes and then gasped. “Oh yes, Mommy! I can see them! Oh, they are so bright! I bet they help the busy bees to find the flower.”

“I bet you’re right, baby.”

Tilly first noticed the change when she had to go to daycare for longer. Mommy used to drop her off at daycare when it was light outside and pick her up when it was still light right after nap time. But now, she dropped her off in the dark and picked her up in the dark. Tilly didn’t mind; she liked being with her friends at daycare, and they liked being with her. And now she got to see the real stars more often. Still, it would be nice if Mommy’s eyes changed back again.

Click here to read the whole story!

Here is an excerpt of my essay…

When a little child receives a gift, she often plays with the box as much as, if not more than, the gift inside. The parents relish her innocent adoration. It’s cute. It’s fun. For a time. But at some point, they direct her to play with the gift and decline the box. They discard it in the garbage or recycle bin. They teach her how to play properly with her gift, to be grateful for it as intended.

When the little child grows and begins to speak, she receives a new gift in a box. The parents direct her to open it up and say “thank you” for the gift inside. This time, the child tosses the box. “It is trash.” They’ve taught her to play properly with her gift, to be grateful for it as intended.

The parents are training her up in gratitude—a good thing, to be sure—but they’re also calibrating her vision. They teach her to see as they see.

* * *

Many of us know the famous line from Anne of Green Gables when Anne Shirley celebrates autumn by saying, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” But we forget that just two chapters later she shares the same sentiment for winter:

“Oh, Matthew, isn’t it a wonderful morning? The world looks like something God had just imagined for His own pleasure, doesn’t it? . . . I’m so glad I live in a world where there are white frosts, aren’t you?”

We don’t see this frosty quote embroidered on pillows or painted on canvases like we do its autumnal companion. Who decided it would be autumn and not winter with which we should embellish our homes, coffee mugs, and stationery? Do we think winter is not as beautiful as autumn? Perhaps we think Anne’s fictional setting permitted a more pleasant experience of winter than that which is possible in “real life.” Perhaps we assume that because she walked around the world wearing proverbial rose-colored glasses (or because she is, indeed, a fictional character), we can simply pick and choose to believe her, if and when we agree with her. Still, something has calibrated our vision that autumn is the gift worth gratitude and winter is merely a box to toss aside. Regardless of interpretation, we can, at least, agree that Anne Shirley saw beauty where others did not. She saw gifts in the boxes themselves, so to speak. She turned a simple body of water into a “Lake of Shining Waters” and a regular cherry tree into the “Snow Queen.” And this vision enriched the lives of those around her. Anne carried and employed unique sight. And it was contagious. One might even call it evangelical. In the end, for Marilla, Anne’s foster mother and a constant curmudgeon, “. . . crispness was no longer her defining characteristic.”

Anne’s desire to maintain her singular vision also played into her greatest fear, that when she grew older she would lose her “scope for imagination,” allowing others to calibrate her vision to theirs. She feared such a loss would impede her gratitude, create in her an apathy and inability to experience joy as she had in childhood. Yet, we see that even after death and disappointment, Anne was able to look upon her life and say, “Dear old world . . . you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.” She kept her glorious vision; the boxes remained gifts to her eyes.

The key to gratitude lies in unencumbered adoration.

For this issue, I have a children’s story for you! (I have high hopes of creating a children’s book series out of this little glimmer one day. We’ll see what the Lord wants to do with it!)

Here is an excerpt…

Deep in the forest, down on the earthy floor, on a skirt of moss between the two tallest trees, sits the Village of Maker Mice. Nestled here beneath an arched root, the village has housed Maker Mice for hundreds of years as they help each other make this part of the forest beautiful. Each mouse has a special skill passed down from great-great-great-grandparent mice to wee newborn baby mice, and each one is important. There are Teacher Mice and Farmer Mice, Writer Mice and Thinker Mice, Painter Mice and Builder Mice, Baker Mice and Garden Mice, and many, many other kinds of Maker Mice.

Maple is a Tea Mouse. She lives on Tea Leaf Lane in a cottage at the end. She likes it because she can see all the other Maker Mice houses from hers. She loves all the Maker Mice. And they love her.

The one rule by which all Maker Mice faithfully live is stitched on pillows, painted on plaques, and hangs in their homes. They all know it by heart.

Painter Mouse helped Maple paint her house a periwinkle blue with sage shutters. Garden Mouse helped her plant chamomile in her front garden. Maple loved how the flowers looked like cloud confetti in the grass. Builder Mouse built her a honey oak cabinet, where she kept her tea cups and saucers that Art Mouse handpainted with acorns and leaves. Seamstress Mouse sewed ginger gingham curtains for her tea room window. And Maple, naturally, made them all tea according to their likes and needs. Maple was so good at making tea, in fact, that she knew her friends’ tastes better than they did. Maple knew when adding a pinch of nutmeg and orange would feel like a hug they didn’t expect but needed more than they knew. Some even whispered that Maple’s tea could wipe the very tears from a mouse’s eye.

Every day, Maple made tea. Sometimes the tea was just for her. Sometimes it was for her neighbors. At the best of times, it was for special occasions—a birthday, wedding, or book club. But the best of best times was Christmas Tea, and the highest honor for a Tea Mouse was to be chosen as its host.

This Christmas was especially thrilling, for it was Maple’s first as an official Tea Mouse. All the streets were abuzz with festivity, each mouse excited to share their gifts. Maple was no exception.

On the morning of the Christmas Tea announcement, Maple sprang from her bed. “It’s today!”

She threw on her red velvet robe and made for the cottage front door. She scurried to her teapot mailbox and lifted the lid. She thrust in her hand. “Aha!”

Her fingers curled around an envelope. She pulled it out. It was emerald green. Her thumb brushed across the ruby wax seal stamped with a Christmas tree. She took a deep breath and opened it. The paper inside was opalescent cream; the calligraphy was handwritten with care.

Maple gasped. “Oh yes! It’s me!” Her robe flew up as she jumped. She clutched the announcement to her chest. “I will make the most marvelous Christmas Tea ever!”

Usually, Maple had no problem accepting her friends’ gifts, and seeking them out should have been her first step, but she was so excited about hosting her first Christmas Tea that she plumb forgot. Her head and her heart only thought of all she could do.

She started back inside but stopped, dismayed at the sight of her cottage. Only moments before, she’d seen it as beautiful and cozy. Now, the paint looked chipped, the shutters hung crooked, and the chamomile needed weeding. She went back inside and scoffed at the dingy floors, the saggy pillows, and the dulled silver teapot. To Maple’s eyes, everything was suddenly pale, rusty, clouded, and dusty.

“This simply will not do,” she announced.

She tucked the announcement into her desk drawer and set her mind firmly. She was the Christmas Tea Mouse, after all, so she would make everything perfect herself.

For this issue on fidelity, my goal was to give you a lens through which to view the tension of living as amphibious creatures of body and spirit, particularly when we are given the difficult choice—to be true or to be comfortable.

Here is an excerpt…

She sat at the water’s edge with her legs bent and feet toward the sea, pulling piles of sand together in her hands and lifting them up to let the sand sift down beside her. The salty air soothed her lungs, purifying her breath. Strands of her long, black hair glided across her face. Her eyes never left the horizon where the sea met the sky and where the sun had stopped.

She had a decision to make. And pointing her face above the waves felt right.

The water touched her toes every few seconds, carving a curved path in the wet sand as it slid up and back. Her heart beat slowed to match pace. The wind picked up a bit. She pulled her coral cardigan tighter around her chest and put her hands back to the sand. Scooping. Lifting. Sifting. The once bright yellow of the sun had burned to blood-orange. The sky above reflected the sea below. Deep blue spotted with globs of gray. The clouds moved with the waves. But the horizon singed with firelight as the sun sent a molten line of glass along the water’s edge. She was sure it shot out into forever.

“Is this what happens in the In-Between?” she thought. “When we hold both sky and sea?”

She wanted to stay.

To be born not of this world but in it was her burden and her gift. She couldn’t deny her eyes since the day the veil had lifted. It would lift for everyone eventually, but when precisely that time would come she didn’t know. All she knew was that He had lifted hers. She had seen it happen in the Others before her, though she hadn’t realized it at the time. But it was different being on this side, the side of Sight. And not only because so many of those around her couldn’t see what she could. She had tried to describe it to them, but their veils were still down. Dark. Full of “knowledge” and “experience.” They believed her to be fooled.

It is a difficult thing to convince those who think you’re fooled that you’re not.

Every day I sit in this chair,

this one right here by the side door. 

Every day I look through this window 

and watch the patio come into view 

with the sun.

One week, a mama bird appeared

and day after day trained her baby.

And then one day, as if by design,

the baby arrived but the mama

did not.

The baby bird hopped from the grass onto the stone patio between the metal chair legs until he reached the wooden table. He perched atop the bar between the table legs and waited. Alone. He scratched his beak on the wood and waited. He looked around at the microscopic bugs crawling across the ground. And he waited. Then she came. She was larger than he, and she brought comfort. He hopped down from his wooden perch to stand beside her. She let him come close. They snuggled down together. The wind blew. The ants kept marching. The mama and baby stayed still. Together. And then, then she fluffed her chest and stretched her wings, shaking them both awake. He stayed, but she took a step and then another, away from their snuggle spot. Away from him. Toward an “unknown path.” She turned to him again, beckoning him to follow. He was scared of the “unknown path.” But, he wanted to be near her. He reluctantly obeyed. Where she had stepped he stepped shortly after. Bit by bit, they made it to the other side of the garden patio where the grass grew taller near the fence. A safe place. Away from home, yes, and away from her. But a good place for him. He could be on his own here. Not just that, but he could get here on his own.

This happened again the next day and the day after and the day after that. He arrived, perched, and waited. She came, snuggled, and guided. Each day her guidance insisted on his lengthening the distance between them, the time between her steps to the safe place and his. She would not let him come toward her down the “unknown path” as quickly as he had the day before.

Until one day, her steps ceased.

This day, the baby bird arrived right on time. He hopped from grass to stone to wooden perch. And he waited. She did not come. He scratched his beak on the wood. She did not come. He watched the crawly bugs. She did not come. He hopped down, looked around—no snuggles this time—but he remembered the safe place down the “unknown path.” Only, it wasn’t unknown any longer. He stepped. He stopped. He looked around. He stepped. He stopped. He looked around. His steps quickened. He made it to the safe place. Away from home, yes, and away from her. But a good place for him. And he rested. He was proud. He was strong.

But he was not alone.

The mama bird had not, in fact, been absent. Just out of sight, she had been looking on from high atop the gate. She had watched him make the “unknown path” known to himself. By himself.

Then, like her baby bird, she left.

On the same day I first let my youngest child walk the mile from school to football practice, I witnessed the final fledging of a baby bird. It had been occurring in a series of training days at the same hour each afternoon for a week. And the final day taught me that the word “fledgling” is really about both of them, the baby and the mama, and that this is what parenting is all about—training them up to go out without us.

I haven’t seen the mama or baby bird since. She did her job, and he did his. He grew up. And she let him. I feel certain if he could speak he would thank her for it.

I am pleased to announce my next book will be published by Book Monkey Press and is scheduled to arrive in 2027.

Here is a peek at this knightly tale, The Boy Who Would Be a Knight:

This work feels timely.

I solicit your prayers, brothers and sisters, above all else. And I would love it if you could follow along with me here and on Instagram as I embark upon the Good, Beautiful, and True work of co-creating this tale with Christ.

Thank you!

Batten down the hatches, mateys! Enjoy!

The storm tossed Emmett like a marionette with broken strings. He clenched the ship’s railing with both hands as tightly as he could, but the sea spray made it difficult for his hands to stay true to task. Between swells, he quickly wiped the water from his brow and strained his eyes over the port bow, hoping for even the faintest sight of land.

“Still nothing!” he shouted to his mate, James, who was crouching beside him in fear, clutching Emmett’s leg. The younger boy had just joined the crew.

Ah, if only James had known what fate had in store when he scratched his signature on that contract line before leaving home. But, seven was the age when young men were to leave on their big adventure. Emmett was eight, so he knew more than James. He could help guide him. If they survived the storm, that is.

“Here comes another! Hold onto me, James!”

James reached higher and clung to Emmett’s back. The boys swayed left and right, up and down. James’s grasp tightened around Emmett’s neck, cutting off his air, as the boy scrambled higher up his back.

“I can’t hold on!” James cried. “I’m slipping!”

Emmett hooked his left arm to the railing and tried to readjust James’s hold with his right. Just then a colossal wave hit the side of the ship washing the boys apart. Emmett’s hooked arm held him fast. It ached as he wiped his face again and gasped for breath.

“James!” Emmett looked around the deck. “James!”

No sign of his mate. The wind and rain had displaced the sails, shredding and pulling them from their masts. He tried to lift himself onto his feet, but his boots slipped from under him and he crashed to the deck.

“James!” he shouted louder.

He would not give up. He strained his ears to hear. Then he caught a faint cry from overboard.

“Help!” James gurgled, off the port bow. “I’m here! Help!”

Emmett looked for a life preserver. More determined now, he tried again to stand. The fore staysail rigging had broken loose from the boom and its tack ropes were flapping in the wind. A rope whipped near his face, and he grabbed hold of it. He unhooked his arm from the railing and pulled himself up. He steadied himself as best he could and trained his eyes on the preserver.

It’s just a few steps away.

One step. Steady. Two steps. Steady more. Three. Pushing through a crashing wave of water and fear. Four. Steady on. Five.

“Got it!” he shouted as he grabbed the preserver from its keep.

The vessel rocked suddenly, knocking him to his back and sliding him toward the port bow where James had been flung overboard.

Slam! Emmett crashed into the bulwark.

“Help!” cried James again, sounding weaker now.

Emmett ignored his aching arm and tossed the preserver over the port side in the direction of James’s voice. He kept hold of the attached rope and pulled when James grabbed the preserver. He leaned over the railing and pulled again. The force of the sea was strong.

“Hang on, James!” he cried. “Don’t let go!”

He leaned back, rope in both hands, and put his boot against the bulwark. With all his might, he braced against his foot and pulled. He heaved as if wrestling a whale on the end of a fishing line. But the sea would have its way. Emmett felt his arms weaken. He tried another strong pull, but the force from the swelling sea pulled him over.

Splash!

He landed not too far from James and was relieved to see him buoyed up inside the lifesaving ring. Emmett was a strong swimmer.

“I’ve got you!” he assured James, grabbing hold of the preserver with one arm and treading water with the other. “Put your hands on mine. Keep your head above water, James.”

Just then, a great tentacle shot out from beneath the ship and up over its hull. The boys screamed and tried swimming faster away from the monster. But it was difficult to find direction in that dark sea on a moonless night. All seemed hopeless.

The issue is full of beautiful perspectives and wordsmithing. Be sure to peruse the entire issue here at cultivatingoakspress.com — a feast of Merriment!

I have three new things to show you, the last of which being an announcement of immense proportion. Scroll to the end if you simply cannot wait. But please do put it in reverse again so as to not miss these first two fun bits entirely.

1. My last podcast interview of 2024.

Over the Christmas holiday, I had the pleasure of meeting and chatting with Julie Ross from A Gentle Feast. She is doing beautiful work for the homeschooling community, and part of that service includes a lovely podcast called The Feast Life. She invited me to chat about fairytales and education and a few other fun topics. We had a wonderful time together! And, because she is amazing at what she does, there are three (yes, THREE) ways you might enjoy our conversation. Choose your favorite:

• Read and listen on the blog

• Listen on YouTube

• Listen on Apple Podcasts

2. My first podcast interview of 2025.

of The Purposeful Pen welcomed me to chat with her about life as a writer. She is doing a needed service for the writing community. Her episode on “Lies Writers Believe” is particularly edifying. I didn’t feel I had much in the way of advice to give as I’m quite new to this space of “being a real writer,” but I thoroughly enjoyed sharing what I do know with all manner of enthusiasm befitting a philologist and storyteller. Come hear some of my writing journey and more of my heart as a person of childlike faith. Amy, too, has given you three ways to listen:

• Substack

• Spotify

• Apple Podcasts

3. The BIG NEWS!

In 2020, I first heard of The Cultivating Project while on a walk. With earbuds in and arms swinging, my feet stomped to the beat of my heart listening to interview Lancia Smith on The Habit Podcast. I knew instantly that Cultivating was where I belonged. Isn’t that audacious? In fact, I was so confident that I emailed Lancia and asked to be part of the selective group. Audacity. Cultivating is a carefully curated, invitation-only fellowship, but I was unmoved by that road block and shot off my email anyways. I was met with kindness, courage, and then Covid. The world shifted. And I entered a great waiting period. So, I started praying. Praying for a creative community. And I kept writing.

I wrote a book and queried it. Audacity. And in 2024 it was published! I found a beautiful group of like-minded hearts in and the team at Calla Press Publishing. What a gift! What an utterly unexpected gift! I was a “real boy” indeed!

Next, I flew myself to Colorado and met Lancia Smith et al at the Cultivating/C.S. Lewis Foundation Writer’s Retreat. Audacity. And I fell in love. Not in love with the high altitude—cue the heavy breathing for this below-sea-level Texas gal. In love with the people. In love with creating. In love with Christ (again) as Creator.

And I knew it, I knew that I belonged. I knew I had found my people.

I wrote about it here:

Mind you, this experience was not without it’s tribulation. The Enemy was coming at me the entire trip and with even more ferocity after I returned home and thereafter ever since. Part of me wonders if that’s the very thing that has caused my heels to dig more deeply and my pen to write more freely—the catalyst for reticence—if Evil doesn’t like what I’m doing, it must be good. So keep going. And I did. I published some poetry. Who knew?!

Then I hit the wall. The great deception. “Who are you to write words?” Recognize that voice?

I simultaneously entered the longest period of radio silence from God that I have ever endured. Three months. Nothing.

I was ready to give up. My prayer from 2020 had nearly faded into oblivion—audacity diminished to fragility. I threw a Hail Mary prayer one Sunday night at prayer group, the meeting I attended out of sheer obedience to my Father. I was angry but obedient with my little mustard seed prayers. Two days later, He answered. And loudly.

The Lord blessed my entire family that Tuesday. We wrote it down and stuck it on the wall. And we all prayed praise to our Father. He showed up BIG. I will leave my husband’s and children’s news to their testimonies, but as for me, here is mine:

I have been invited to join The Cultivating Project!

To say that I am humbled and honored is to scratch the surface of my feelings. It is as though I’ve joined the Inklings themselves! And I cannot wait to see what the Lord will do as He’s placed me there. I’m not sure yet whether my contribution will be the like Gimli’s ax, Legolas’ bow, or Aragorn’s sword. Perhaps it is as yet unseen, like Sam’s exhortations. But join the fellowship I will heartily do nonetheless.

May God ever mold my pen and allow me to wield it if only ever for His glory.

I will share here, of course, but more on Instagram as that is where I engage more regularly online. Please join me there! instagram.com/melody.trowell

*If you’d like to know more about it, check out the website: cultivatingoakspress.com/about

Here’s a poem for you, Beloved. Remember God’s faithfulness. I know I will.

November was busy. Good busy!

My First Author Visit

I made the trip to my hometown of Abilene, TX (Storybook Capital of America) for my first author visit at the school where I grew up from Kinder to 12th grade. The elementary invited me to speak to the K-5th graders who are in a Young Authors program. It’s a very cool thing! Each year they write a new book, so by the time they move up to middle school, they have six books of their own.

Here’s me next to my first grade teacher at that school. This girl had no idea what the Lord had in store for her or that her teacher wasn’t actually ancient (she’s probably my age now in this picture):

We gathered in the library of my childhood, the one which hosted the annual Scholastic book fair and housed the giant stacks of research books for SAT prep. I lived there from age 5 to 17.

Group by group, each class came and crisscross-applesauced their little leggies onto that library rug the librarian had ordered special and received that very morning. The students listened to me read a chapter of my book, bantered about story development, and asked as many questions as their teachers would allow. I even had one little girl walk pointedly to within six inches of my nose afterwards and say, “YOU are so cool.” Another boy shouted, “Sign my face!” I did plenty of autograph signing (sans faces) and hugging, too. Little kids love hugs even from perfect strangers, it seems, but we weren’t strangers after our 30 minutes together. Nope. We were friends. Co-authors.

I vowed to return. And I must do more visits. I must. If you know of any schools or co-ops or groups of children who would like a visit from an author, please let me know!

A Book Signing

The next day, I went to a book signing (pictured above) at a local shop I visited many times in my adolescence. The building next door houses the museum where I worked in college and the ballroom where my husband and I held our wedding reception. It doesn’t get more small town than that! Many friends and former teachers came to visit, which made the experience unforgettable, the least of which was when my freshmen composition prof burst through the shop door promptly at 1:00, smile beaming from ear to ear and arms open. This is him, Dr. Steven Moore:

I have more pics with more friends, which you can find on Instagram if you like. And if you weren’t able to attend, we left a few copies of the book in the shop, The Texas Star Trading Co. It’s downtown—you know where it is.

Again, I vowed to do more book signings. It’s incredible seeing people hold your art in their hands. Some of them even patted and stroked and smelled it, which is exactly what I do, too.

My Face in Cartoon!

The last bit, for now, that I’ll share is my most recent interviews with RAPT, an online Christian magazine. https://raptinterviews.com/features/melody-trowell

Here’s where my cartoon face enters the scene. RAPT turns each of its interviewees into a cartoon for publication, and I’m getting the biggest kick out of it!

The interview with RAPT was so much fun because the questions were so different from any I’ve ever been asked before. Here’s a snippet:

Q: There’s much more to food than palate and preference. How does a go-to meal at your favorite hometown restaurant reveal the true you behind the web bio?

A: Twenty years ago I went out with my roommate and best friend for a girls’ night out. Before the evening activities, we met with her fiance and his friends for dinner at Red Lobster….I don’t remember much about the actual meal, except that I was trying to limit myself to just one cheesy biscuit, because I was trying to impress the “cute boy” sitting across the table. Afterward, as we were getting in our cars…my friend told me one of the guys had asked for my phone number. Excited about the idea of the “cute boy” across the table taking an interest in me, I said, “Oh! Who was it?” Not the “cute boy” across the table. (Click here to read the rest!)

Check out the for more news on more featured creative Christian artists. Justin and Jenn are doing good, true, and beautiful work with Gather Ministries.

Well, that’s all for now! I might send out another post before Christmas. It’s nearly finals week here, which means lots of reading and grading papers and fielding students’ last-minute Hail Mary attempts as restoring their grades. You never did that in college, did you? Of course you didn’t. Me neither.

Cheers!

Interview with Jenny Marcelene in her quarterly newsletter: To The Ends

Interview with (Library Binding)

Library Binding

Meet Melody Trowell, author and poet

Welcome back…

Read more

2 years ago · 14 likes · 7 comments · Michelle Watson

Poem “To Give You Mere Hope” published with An Unexpected Journal

Poem “The Gardener” published in Calla Press Publishing Literary Journal

There are more wonderful things forthcoming! I recorded a podcast episode with Simply Jesus (Cheryl Moore) and have two upcoming book signings plus my first school visit. I will take pictures and share more thoughts in the aftermath! Until then, I do hope you’ve been able to get a copy of The Girl Whose Frown Shook the Ground (you can order either directly through the publisher or Amazon) or request it at your local library. I love hearing from you and your kiddos, so please send me or tag me in pictures! And, if you’re around either of my book signings on October 31st or November 16th, please stop by for a hug and howdy (and a free bookmark).

Upcoming Book Signings:

Book release day for my chapter book fairytale, The Girl Whose Frown Shook the Ground!

You can find it on the Calla Press Publishing website and Amazon. (I’m searching for good independent bookshops with which to partner, so please tell me if you know of one that might be interested in stocking their shelves with this little delight!)

Writing this book has been the most exciting writing experience of my life! Since I’m a college professor and teach primarily introductory writing courses, my world is fairly academic most of the time. Therefore, my writing has remained academic. Until now! I threw out all the rules and WROTE! Helter skelter and higglety pigglety, the words, plot, and characters took over. And, boy, was it a BLAST! Now, it did undergo heavy editing after the initial garage band session of the first year of writing, and I learned a lot.

I learned that I adore this writing life! I learned that I write better now than I used to. Huzzah! I learned that I’m not a “those who can’t do teach” teacher. Phewph! I learned that I can, in fact, write fiction (I swore it off after my one fiction workshop in college. I passed the class, but, man, was I ever convinced I would never be Stephen King. And good thing, too!) I learned that the writing community feels like Heaven. (I described that here.) I learned that fictional characters (that I made up, mind you) can surprise me. I learned that God has something to say through stories and is allowing me, for the time being, to tell them. Most of all, I learned that I have a lot to learn. And isn’t that fantastic—to know I’m not finished growing yet, even at age forty-two!

So, tell me in the comments, those of you who have dared to dream of this wild, creative life, whether you write or paint or compose or draw up a killer spreadsheet, what have you learned?

And now I leave you with this gem of a video from a former student-turned-friend’s precious daughter reading my book. Is there anything better?

The Girl Whose Frown Shook the Ground is available for preorder NOW! You can find it on the Calla Press Publishing website here: www.callapresspublishing.com

If you are as excited as I am, or even if you’re just a little bit excited, would you please help spread the word by sharing this graphic on your socials? I would be so grateful!

Thank you for joining me in pushing back the darkness and re-enchanting our world!

Download the PDF here: The Girl Coloring Page

This beautiful pen & ink drawing was done by the book’s illustrator, Amy Grimes, who I wrote about here. I can’t wait for you to see the rest of her whimsical drawings inside the book! If you want to see them before anyone else does, sign up for my Book Launch Team! (Email me if you want to be on the team!) You’ll get even more freebies that way! And, of course, still more freebies are coming for those who pre-order. I’ll announce the Book Launch Team and pre-order freebies later.

I can’t wait to see all your beautiful coloring pages! Please post on social media and tag me (@melody.trowell) or email me at melodytrowell@gmail.com.

Blessings, Beloved!

Melody

And I won’t keep you waiting any longer.

First Announcement: Cover Reveal…

I cried the first time I saw it. It’s exactly what I had in my head when describing it to my publisher and illustrator. Amy Grimes did a beautiful job! The cover will be a soft matte texture with a gold foiled title. I can’t wait for you to see the inside pen & ink illustrations! It’s truly a beautifully illustrated and formatted book.

Second Announcement: Preorder & Release Dates…

My hope has always been that this book would be in your hands in time to gift it for Christmas. Well, hold onto your britches, y’all! Write these down…put ‘em on you calendars…

• Preorders open September 12th via Callapresspublishing.com

• Book releases October 16th

That’s all for now! I have lots more beauty and fun coming your way (including free printables!) so be sure to stay in touch via this newsletter and Instagram (I love connecting on IG! It’s my favorite place to be online.)

And please, if you’re excited about this book, share this news with others! I would be so grateful.

Blessings, Beloved.

-Melody

www.melodytrowell.com

You hold in your hands a delectable chocolate bar of the finest quality. It takes two hands to hold it. You’ve waited your whole life to taste it, and now that you finally have it, you’re afraid. “It will be gone too quickly,” you whisper. “What if I’m not meant to have it after all.” Mustering your nerve and sloughing your doubt, you peel back the wrapper slowly, close your eyes, lean in, and breathe — the smell of rich, creamy cocoa and fairy-light sugar lifts your head and your pulse. Your heart drums a concert through your limbs. As you open your eyes you see something glimmer. “The chocolate sparkles,” you wonder. And you realize that it is not merely wrapped in gold, like in that story you’ve read. The chocolate actually sparkles. Then you hear the Candymaker softly urge, “Taste and see that it is good.” You believe Him. You steady your feet and ready your mouth. Your eyes close once more as your teeth sink in, taste buds rushing with delight. Bite after bite, the smooth, glimmering chocolate fills your soul. Before you know it, the chocolate bar is gone. Disappointment begins to creep in. But, the Candymaker speaks again: “Now it’s your turn. Make more.” “But how?” you ask, having never before made such fine chocolate. “I will give you my recipe. Step one: Open your eyes.” Slowly, with swelling tears, you open your eyes and gasp. The world has been changed — sparkles are everywhere!

***

This is how my life has felt. In a nutshell. (Or candy wrapper.) I will tell you more about that someday. Suffice it to say, I’ve always felt . . . different. Childlike. Recently though, my experience at the C.S. Lewis Writer’s Conference edified this childlikeness, and not just because it was held at a glorious castle nestled in idyllic mountains. But, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t contribute. I mean, look at it!

*Glen Eyrie Castle in Colorado Springs, CO. Conference hosted by the C.S. Lewis Foundation and Cultivating Oaks Press. I will be forever grateful for them both.

And the only way I know to describe it to you is this way — childlike.

Like a kid who brought her own candy to a candy store, I wafted into the conference bearing the tension of “This is my dream!” and “Am I meant to be here?” But then I met other kids who brought their own candy to the candy store too, and we all realized that it wasn’t merely a candy store. It was a candy factory! And, we were not just kids. We were candymakers, eating each other’s candies and showing each other how the Candymaker’s reflection sparkled in all of the candy. “Look at this! Do you see Him? Me too! This is the best I’ve ever tasted! You can make some, too. Yes you can!”

Something I’ve realized about creatives who know their gift is from God and for His glory is this: they are ready and able (that able part is crucial) to cheer each other on even before they see the finished product. They have “the eyes of God” to practically predict the product’s goodness. Because they know that no matter what, it will reflect God. It will sparkle. Predictive goodness. It still requires encouragement because we live in a fallen world where doubts are seen and manipulated by the “enemy of our hearts.”1 But, being able to see the sparkles and predict the goodness and then speak it, actually speak it — that is a special language. A secret code that once cracked ignites the human soul and triggers a pulse that does more than simply sustain the body — it brings the dead to life!

***

Still not sure about this candy world? The good news here is this: you don’t need a golden ticket to meet the Candymaker. He’s already everywhere. Can’t see Him yet? It’s ok — I can. Take my hand. Come with me. Let’s get some candy together.

I’ll show you how it sparkles!

iiiiiit’s a website!

www.melodytrowell.com

Isn’t she pretty? I do not yet have many bells and whistles, but I do have a place on the Internet now for all the things to land. And that feels like a win!

Please share with your friends!

www.melodytrowell.com

I hope to have activities for the kiddos soon. I have many fun ideas, but I’ve been using most of my creative time to finish writing The Girl Whose Frown Shook the Ground, which is coming along beautifully! I’m entering the fourth draft this week!

Be sure to tell your friends to sign up here on Substack to be the first to get notified of the book’s release!

And, please send me your feedback on the website! I’d love to know your opinion on all the things, good and bad and in between. I know next to nothing about techy things.

Big things are coming soon!

Instagram is my favorite place to hangout online, so let’s be friends on Instagram where you get daily fun and book sneak peaks in stories: www.instagram.com/melody.trowell

In Christ,