Hello, old friend.

My first story, written in third grade, was about a pig on a farm who didn't want to bring home the bacon—he wanted to play with his friends and do something meaningful. Somehow, that story earned me an invitation to the Young Authors' Society in our county, and I haven't stopped writing since.

The stories I love most are the ones that resonate long after the ending—ones that attach themselves to you and become part of who you are.

Because our stories shape us.​

My story is not ordinary. But whose story is? From growing up on a Southern farm through the woods from my grandparents and extended family to learning about God's love for the nations in the basement of a Baptist church, to moving with my husband to Nepal and experiencing devastating earthquakes, to serving local churches and nonprofits, to investing in ESL learners and international friends in the States, to our middle child having developmental dysplasia of the hip and torticollis and enduring multiple surgeries and therapies, to adopting our youngest daughter from India, and then relocating to the Middle East with our three girls only for my husband to be medically evacuated for an emergency liver transplant—every chapter has marked us and lingered with us far beyond its end.

Some experiences led us to the depths of the house of mourning and others to the heights in the mountains of rejoicing. It’s all a part of the short story long.

And here we remain, between the what was and the not yet, following and trusting that dear Man, Lord, and Savior—Jesus—from the far East and telling our story in the land of the living.

—Courtney, age 37, still wandering through life writing stories