The Lantern has been lit.
Every Friday at 3:00 p.m. CT, I'll be tending the lantern, making sure the oil is abundant and the flame is steady for anyone who would like to stop by.
Hello, Friends!
Whether you're reading this with a cup of coffee or sometime later in the week, I'm so glad you're here. Come on in and stay a while.
I hope you've had a good week.
The Louisiana heat has definitely settled in here, and I think we've reached the point where stepping outside in the afternoon feels a little like opening the oven door. My garden doesn't seem to mind nearly as much as I do, though.
Most evenings, while RK is making dinner, I sneak outside with the watering wand. I water everything that needs a drink, pull a few weeds, and check to see what's ready to pick. Right now, there aren't enough tomatoes to justify carrying a basket, so I gather them in my palm and carry them back to the house and immediately feed the husband.
Listening to him say, "Mmm," makes me smile every time.
Besides my sweet cherry tomatoes, Ralph's red pepper is finally ripe, and we'll be enjoying that soon. And then there's my cantaloupe.
My very first one. Ever!
I check on it almost every evening, even though I know it isn't quite ready yet.
Standing out there, watching everything grow a little more each day, I realized my garden isn't the only thing that's changing.
I've been thinking a lot lately about the path I'm on.
For the last several years, I've done what I think most of us do when we're trying to build something we've never built before. I've listened carefully to people who have gone before me. I've taken classes, read books, attended conferences, and learned from some incredibly generous teachers.
I'm grateful for every bit of it. I honestly don't think I'd be where I am today without those lessons.
But somewhere along the way, I started hearing another voice.
A much quieter one.
It kept whispering, "This isn't exactly your path. It's not wrong; it's just ... not yours."
I've tried to ignore that voice more than once because it's much easier to follow a map someone else has already drawn. There's comfort in knowing you're doing what everyone says works.
But lately I've realized something. God, the universe, Spirit has never asked any of us to become someone else. He simply asks us to become who He created us to be. And maybe that's what I've been learning all along.
I'm beginning to trust my own intuition. I'm paying attention to the stories that won't leave me alone. I'm making room for the ideas that don't quite fit inside the usual publishing boxes.
It's exciting. It's a little scary. But it also feels like coming home.
Last week, Ralph and I spent a few days in Chicago, and I found myself thinking about that word again ... home.
We took an architectural boat tour down the Chicago River, and while our guide pointed out one incredible building after another, my mind kept wandering to the people in my own family who had once called the Windy City home.
I couldn't help but wonder if they'd ever stood along those same riverbanks. If they'd watched boats drift past. If they'd dreamed about what their future might look like.
Because we were only there for a few days, I didn't visit every place I'd hoped to see, but somehow that didn't matter.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you look back on your life and that reflection helps you recognize where you're meant to go next?
For me, that next chapter keeps leading back to New Orleans, NOLA, the Crescent City.
When my mom was pregnant with me, my parents lived there. My older sister, Anna, learned to speak not far from Bourbon Street.
My mom was so inspired by the jazz she must've heard every day, she ended up earning a degree in jazz years later. Every time I walk through the French Quarter and hear music spilling out into the street, I think of her.
When I visit New Orleans, it doesn't really feel like discovering someplace new. It feels like remembering my original home.
That feeling has quietly found its way into the novel I'm writing now.
The streets.
The old houses.
The wrought-iron balconies.
The hidden gardens.
The music.
The mystery.
I can't wait until I can share more of that world with you.
Maybe that's why New Orleans is speaking to me so deeply. I don't think all of us are called to become someone new. Maybe many of us are simply remembering the person we were before life convinced us we had to be someone else.
A Line I'm Keeping
Every now and then, while I'm writing, a sentence appears that makes me stop for a minute.
This week, it was this one.
"The house wasn't waiting for her to become someone new. It was waiting for her to remember who she'd always been."
I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Maybe it's because I needed to hear it, too.
What My Garden Taught Me This Week
Remember how I said I water my garden in the evenings? Well, after I finish giving it a good drink, I wander over to check on my cantaloupe patch.
While I was learning more about the cantaloupe dos and don'ts, I read that gardeners say the best cantaloupes don't need to be picked. They simply slip from the vine when they're ready.
I love this idea!
We can't rush them. We can't force their sweetness by picking them too soon.
The tiny yellow blossoms come first, carrying the promise of what will be. Then, tucked beneath broad leaves and curling tendrils, the fruit spends weeks growing where almost no one notices.
For weeks, it doesn't seem like much is happening. Then, almost overnight, everything changes. Makes me think about life and how that's true for us, too.
The sweetest things in our lives—our dreams, our healing, our faith, our purpose—can't be hurried. They need time to grow beneath the surface before they're ready to be seen.
Our job isn't to force the timing. It's simply to keep tending the garden until, one day, the fruit is ready to let go.
Thank you for spending part of your day with me.
I hope you'll leave feeling just a little lighter than when you arrived.
That's really what The Lantern is all about.
It's a place to slow down. To remember. To notice beauty. To discover stories. And, every now and then, to find your way home again.
Until next time, may your path be gently lit. And may you be blessed with quiet moments that restore your spirit, the courage to follow the path that has been placed before you, and the eyes to notice the beauty growing around you, even when life feels ordinary.
With love and gratitude,
