Dante from Bedrest
All Aboard the Turner Express: Rain, Steam, and the Holy Audacity of Becoming
The Monastery in My Mind and the Gravity I Refuse to Obey
Downtown in the Oxygen Tube: Fear, Faith, and Healing Under Pressure
Glass remembers the fire. So do I.
Faith, Place, and the Religious Imagination of South Carolina
La Commedia è Finita: When God Finally Stops Laughing at My Plans
What the Doctorate Refined, Art Restored
Learning to Stop Telling God the Plan
INTELLECTUALISM - FAITH - FACADE: BEAUTIFUL, WOUNDED, COMPLICATED, AND STILL SPEAKING.
The Ground That Made Me: Faith, Place, and the Southern Intellectual Tradition
At the Gate of Surrender
“On a Dark Night”: St. John of the Cross and the Grace to Begin Again
I Will Buy the Flowers Myself
Salt in the Wound:The Terror, Mesalt, Dakin’s Solution, and the Strange Mercy of Healing
Discerning the Call: Finding My Way with Dante Through Service, Faith, and the Road Toward Ministry
When the Prayer Sounds Like an Aria: Vissi d’arte and the Dark Night of the Soul
When God Spoke Through the Lens
Two Doctors at the Foot of the Cross, Edith Stein, Faith, Scholarship, and the Work of Being Wounded
I am learning, sometimes painfully, that the body has its own theology. A wound can preach. A wheelchair can become a classroom. A hospital room can become a chapel. The fear of amputation, the uncertainty of healing, and the daily practical limits of disability have forced me to see life differently. I do not say that lightly. I do not believe suffering is good simply because it exists. But I do believe that God can take what wounds us and turn it into a ministry of recognition.