Why I Write

I begin this new series by sharing—as much a reminder to me as an explanation to you—why I write.

I did not choose writing so much as discover it waiting for me—already there, patient. Over time, it became a place where I could slow down enough to listen—to life, to faith, to the quiet truths that don’t announce themselves.

I have written through seasons of clarity and of doubt, through publication and obscurity. The writing remained, even when the audience did not. It stayed with me when certainty thinned, when questions pressed harder, and when faith felt more fragile than firm. In that way, writing was less a craft and more a companion.

Writing is a place where grief can speak without explanation. Through stories, suffering can have a voice without being minimized, sanitized, or explained away. Pain is allowed to speak plainly about loss, injustice, fear, or grief. When tested, faith demands language that could hold both doubt and hope at once.

I have learned that some experiences resist tidy answers, but they will respond to honesty. Story gives me a way to hold what is broken without trying to fix it too quickly. It allows sorrow its voice and faith its wrestling, without forcing either to behave.

I don’t write to instruct so much as to accompany. For me, writing is less about proving and more about paying attention and staying. If someone feels less alone and closer to God after reading, then my writing has done its work. If someone recognizes themselves in a character or a moment and realizes they are not abandoned, the words have gone where they were meant to go.

I am a pastor who writes.

In ministry, I have stood in many pulpits, hospital rooms, living rooms, and in moments of crisis with people I loved. This has never ended. It simply changed form.

In writing, I stand inside the story, walking with readers through danger, doubt, grief, evil, and hope—often farther than a sermon could go.

My novels and devotionals do what my pastoral presence did. They stay with people in dark places, refuse easy answers, and insist that God is present even when he is not explained.

I do not argue faith. I embody it by telling the story of Jesus through the power of story to an unsteady world. Rather than telling readers what to believe, in stories I place belief under pressure:

•faith tested by violence,

•prayer whispered in terror,

•obedience offered without certainty,

•and love that costs something real.

This is pastoral theology at its most honest. It reflects how Jesus often taught—through story, encounter, and consequence rather than explanation.

I write because I believe truth deserves patience.

I write because faith deserves honesty, even when it costs something.

I write because stories are one way God keeps company with us—especially when answers are slow, or silence feels long.

So as long as words come to me, hoping to be part of sentences, paragraphs, and chapters, I will treat them with humility and respect, so they will become a meaningful gift to readers someday.

In a few days, I’ll share a companion piece called “Why I Keep Writing.” It’s less about beginnings, and more about staying.

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Coming soon: the inspirational suspense thriller, The Permission, a story of faith and courage. Spiritual warfare as timely as tomorrow and as ancient as Job. The first novel in the exciting new series. The Cain Family Chronicles.

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Hi everyone. It’s been awhile since I’ve written. A year ago, Master and I came to live with Michele, my other trained handler, and Mark, who plays with me and takes me with him in his ‘rig.’ That’s what they call his pickup truck here in Wenatchee, Washington, my new hometown.

Many of you prayed for me a couple of weeks ago when I came within hours of dying from GDV. In big dogs like me, that’s when your stomach fills with food, fluids, or gas, then twists itself, cutting of blood circulation to the heart and spleen. It’s very painful. I went into shock. Master and Michele rushed me to the vet hospital where a doctor and her team untwisted my stomach, saving my heart, spleen, and my life.

Now I have a big long scar on my belly to show off to my doggy friends. Master and I Know that someday one of us will have to say goodbye to the other, but now was too soon. I’m only eight and I still have a lot of “woofs” to offer up to kids and big people that I am trained to help. Master and I like hanging out together, too, so thanks, guys, for all your prayers and the many notes you sent. Of course, I read them everyone.

—GAGE, the wonder dog