books, loaves, & fishes.

Today, my third novel is making her grand entrance into the world.

I’m thrilled; I’m absolutely elated. I can’t wait for readers to discover this beautiful book. But today, all I can think about are loaves and fishes.

Let me explain.

In Matthew 14, Jesus performs a miracle that nobody saw coming. I know this story well; I’ve probably read it hundreds of times. But it was only this year that I noticed what Jesus had everyone do before he performed the miracle. 

“And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude.” 

He had them sit down. 

He took their offering and then He performed the miracle. Not them. They didn’t offer the prayer or break the bread. All they did was surrender what they had, and then our Maker told them to sit and watch. He wanted their eyes on Him. He wanted them to see that what they’d offered was enough and that in His hands, He could turn it into something far greater. 

But first, they had to let go. 

I think learning to let go is one of the hardest parts of creating. You start with a lightning bolt of inspiration—an idea. A shiny, beautiful gem of an idea; a tiny thought bubble bursting with possibilities. Then, the real work begins. You examine your idea. You pick it apart. You untangle it. You piece it back together, somehow making something out of nothing. This creative process doesn’t just require your mind, but your heart and your hands as well. It’s a full-body experience, one that lights up all of your senses. 

You belong to your idea, and your idea belongs to you.

But eventually, this process must come to an end, because creative work isn’t meant to be hidden away, tucked out of sight for no one else to see. It’s meant to be shared. It’s meant to be blessed and broken and distributed among the masses. 

Writing A Memory Made Real was one of the hardest, most wonderful experiences of my life. It challenged and stretched me in a way that my first two books didn’t. It required more out of me, and some days, I wasn’t sure I had enough to give. Some days, it felt like all I had was a stale, half-eaten crust of bread and the sorry remains of sad-looking fish. 

With my previous two book releases, I thought I did a good job of letting go. But looking back, I can see how my hands clutched at my offerings, how they grasped to hold on just a little bit longer. Even though my work was done and my part of the process had come to an end, I refused to sit down and watch the miracle unfold. I always felt like there was more for me to do. More for me to prove. 

But the only thing I needed to do was hand over my offering. To transfer the miracle from my hands back into His. 

That’s what I want this book release to be. A true release. A spot in the grass. A seat at the Master’s feet. I want Him to break my work apart and bless it. I want Him to scatter its pieces throughout the multitude, to the hungry and the thirsty. To the ones who are ready for a miracle of their own. 

I made this book, but he will distribute it. And for the first time, I believe that to be true. 

Maybe you have your own loaves and fishes held tightly in your careful grip. Maybe you’re afraid to let them go, too. But aren’t your hands getting tired? Aren’t they aching from holding on for too long? Don’t you want to see what He can make of your offering? Don’t you want to find out what will happen next?

So come grab a seat next to me. Let’s sit together in the grass and hand over our creations to the One who taught us how to create. And let’s see what He will make of it. Of us. 

A miracle, waiting to unfold. 

Happy release day to A Memory Made Real. 

This time, I’m actually letting go.