Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.

The challenges in this place are real and sometimes very difficult, but I've learned to slow down and look for beauty in my days, for the mysteries and blessings woven into everything, into the very words we speak.

She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.

She saw herself moving through another life, an exotic, difficult, satisfying life.

Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.

You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.