Why I Write…

I didn’t begin writing to say something. I began because something had been said to me.

There’s a difference.

For most of my life, I solved problems. Problems had structures. Systems had logic. When they didn’t work, you debugged them. When they broke, you rebuilt. And I brought that instinct—technical, precise, measured—into every part of my life, including my faith.

Until the system failed.

Not suddenly, but slowly. A thousand cracks, then one final collapse. Addiction. Illness. Exhaustion that wasn’t just physical. My formulas stopped working. I couldn’t out-think or out-perform what was undoing me.

I didn’t write then. I didn’t even pray in words. For a long time, I just sat. Mostly in silence. Sometimes in church. I couldn’t explain what was happening—only that something had come undone, and I was still alive.

Eventually, the writing came. But it didn’t come as clarity. It came as a reaching. Not toward understanding, but toward honesty. I didn’t write to teach or persuade or even inspire. I wrote to witness. Quietly. Without answers. Just a record of grace, as I experienced it.

I think that’s still true. I write now to keep that witness active. I write to remember who I was when there was nothing left to manage. I write because, in some strange way, it still feels like a form of listening.

My soon-to-be-published memoir, He Reached Down, came out of that long listening. It wasn’t a plan. It was a series of reflections that slowly became coherent. I didn’t know it was a book until others told me it read like one.

But this blog isn’t an extension of the book. It’s an extension of the silence that birthed the book. It’s not about projects or performance. It’s about presence.

I expect to post here often, but I don’t have a content calendar. I don’t know what shape this space will take. But I do know that I will keep writing. Not because I’ve found answers. But because this is how I stay near the truth.

Thank you for reading. I hope something in these words touches something in you—not to fix, but to name. Not to explain, but to stand beside.