Writer.  Dreamer.  Adventurer.  Journeyman.  Traveler.

I’d like to think I’m about all of the above.

I’ve camped out at the Grand Canyon just so I could wake up and watch the sun rise over such a spectacular backdrop.  I’ve snuck Bibles into China for the underground Church. I hung out with Life Impact International in Thailand, spending time with kids who had been abandoned and/or sex trafficked.  On our second trip to Thailand we crossed the Thailand/Burma border during the ceasefire to spend a few days sharing Jesus with soldiers and villagers.  I’ve survived losing my only child to a heart condition my husband and I didn’t even know he had and I’m still up for more.  I guess some would say the above is the stuff that makes writers – experiences and adventures, but I like to think the writing ‘stuff’ is already inside us, DNA that challenges us to do the things we do, to live the way we choose and to survive some really tore up parts of life with a unique perspective and at times through an eccentric lens.  I think we survive the way we do because we are writers.

I have a bit of age on me and gray hair and I feel time, preciously ticking away.  I don’t have a bucket list though. I don’t want to jump out of a plane or bungee off anything.  I don’t want to climb the Himalayas or scuba dive in some obscure cave but I’d love to be there to watch someone else do it.  I’d simply love to be a part of that space – to take pictures and to journal and to write.

This is me.