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This is the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. Some stories live in dirt under fingernails, some in the noise of a crowded room, and some in the quiet after midnight. Here they gather—scraps of faith and failure, flashes of joy, and the weight of questions that refuse to stay buried. These stories aren’t polished artifacts; they’re living things. They walk with me, wrestle with me, and surprise me.

If you follow along, you’ll discover stories filled with soil, laughter, doubt, and grace. You might see your reflection in them or discover something you didn’t know you were searching for. Either way, this is the place where my stories live.

Send us a text

This is the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. Some stories live in dirt under fingernails, some in the noise of a crowded room, and some in the quiet after midnight. Here they gather—scraps of faith and failure, flashes of joy, and the weight of questions that refuse to stay buried. These stories aren’t polished artifacts; they’re living things. They walk with me, wrestle with me, and surprise me.

If you follow along, you’ll find stories filled with soil, laughter, doubt, and grace. You might see your own reflection in them, or discover something you didn’t know you were searching for. Either way, this is the place where my stories live.