Our God is paradoxical. He speaks through thunder and storms, earthquakes and fire, yet He also speaks through stillness and quiet. Scripture shows a God who parts seas and stills hearts, who roars in whirlwinds and whispers in caves. In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah is weary, afraid, and ready to abandon his calling. God comes to him first in a powerful wind, then an earthquake, then fire. Yet Scripture tells us that “the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper” (v.12). God reveals that, despite His immense power, He often meets us most personally in quietness, in still moments of prayer, reflection, and listening.

That experience taught me something important: fiction can speak truths to us that headlines cannot. Storytelling creates encounter, not argument. It reaches us on a visceral, emotional level rather than a purely intellectual one. Narrative allows readers to inhabit another life from the inside.

Writing about my characters’ pain and trials isn’t always easy. I often find it difficult to separate my own emotions and struggles from theirs. While writing can be cathartic, there are seasons when exploring grief or injustice feels like carrying someone else’s cross. I become weary and depleted, and I need time to rest, reflect, and heal.

The geography of our lives and stories is deeply intertwined. People are shaped by the soil beneath their feet.

Memory is like an old photograph that never fully fades. Even as the colors soften and details blur, the image keeps returning, asking to be seen again. Memories surface at unexpected moments, carrying joy or sorrow, reminding us of who we were and who we have become. They do not remain in the past. They speak into the present.