I’ve spent over three decades in the wild, beautiful trenches of ministry and nonprofit design, creating, leading, questioning, undoing, rebuilding, and occasionally starting creative fires where polite people might have preferred a scented candle instead.
I am a chief questioner. A pattern-hunter. A researcher who falls down rabbit holes intentionally. I swim in ideas like it’s an Olympic sport. I’ve designed global campaigns, helped shape justice initiatives, built ministry resources, mentored women, and sat in countless rooms asking, “Okay, but what is God actually doing here?” My spiritual gift might be disruption. Or typography. Hard to say.
I’m wired for symbolism, for color that speaks, lines that tell truth, and art that asks. Iconography calls to me because it carries mystery. Look slowly, listen longer. It welcomes the God who prefers to arrive through whispers, creatures, shadows, and questions.
Life on the eastern coast gives me the light and space I need to notice. I collect fragments, the shape of a tide line, a sentence overheard in a grocery aisle, the way morning fog holds the street like a promise. These fragments become sketches, paragraphs, prayers, sometimes arguments, and eventually the art and writing I use to trace God’s nearness.
My creativity has never been tidy. My spiritual life has never been linear. Everything I make is stitched together from curiosity, theology, instinct, and the unshakable sense that the presence of God is always closer than we think, especially when we’re looking in the wrong direction.
The Girl, The Whale, and A Donkey, my current endeavor, was born out of interruption. Divine ambushes disguised as ordinary moments. Because God does not wait for clarity. He shows up mid-sentence, mid-run, mid-denial, and rearranges the story from there.
I write and create for the ones who live with holy restlessness. Who notice too much, ask dangerous questions, and sense the world spiritually humming just behind the curtain.