This is how we are restored.

(Plus, the cover reveal of my next book! 🎉)

I’m gazing at an icon of a shepherdess that one of you mailed to me last month. She has her arms wrapped firmly around a little lamb. There is kindness in her eyes, but also fierceness. She’s a woman you don’t want to mess with.

She’s standing sentinel above a stack of books I’ve been referencing while finishing a project I’ll tell you about sometime this year, watching over my hands as I type these words. Feed my lambs, her eyes say. Shepherd my sheep. 

She’s a physical reminder of the weight of words, that there is a sacred responsibility in these sentences. I am not writing to dazzle or even dream. I am writing to feed. To feed you.

And though I’ve been silent here in Embodied for a few months, I’ve been both the shepherd and the lamb. In these months of silence, I’ve wandered and I’ve wept. I’ve been sick and scared. And I’ve been wrapped up in the warmth of God’s chest, cradled against the chaos of another dark valley. 

The day after you last heard from me here, January 7th, I spiked a fever and came down with an infection. And then I spent the next three months almost entirely in bed… My specialists are still piecing together the puzzle, but so far we know that on top of my long-term autoimmune disease, I have adrenal insufficiency, reactivated Epstein Barr Virus, postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), and a lot of abnormal bloodwork indicating a large amount of inflammation and infection in my body. (Please, please don’t inundate me with suggestions. I’ve got a team of specialists helping me.) 

So, you haven’t heard from me here on substack for a while because, well, until recently, I’ve barely been surviving. In the last few weeks, I’ve started to feel more like myself, and I’m no longer living every day in bed. So I’ve been back at my desk, preparing a meal for you. I’ve been setting down sentences tender enough for the valley. Because I know what it is to be lost. And I know what it is to be found. 

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Right now a rose and cedar candle is crackling by my side, conjuring up memories of charcoal fires by the beaches of the Michigan lakes of my childhood. And in my mind, I’m transported to a seashore under the peach canopy of dawn, where Jesus sits by a charcoal fire with Peter, cooking him breakfast, feeding him with the love he had just denied knowing.

Maybe it’s the shepherdess watching me write. Or maybe it’s the echo of Peter’s denial that rang from my lips so recently in my despair. But I am in this story. I am on this beach. 

Where do we go when our hearts have crumbled under the weight of fear’s pressure?

On the night that Jesus was betrayed, while the Chief Priest treated him with contempt, Peter stood outside warming himself over a charcoal fire.¹ Three times, when asked if he knew Jesus, Peter disowned his friend. On a cold, dark night, with all of his hopes of revolution for his people falling to ash, Peter’s fear overshadowed his friendship. The weight of hope can break us. 

But Jesus was more than Peter knew. And having defeated death, Jesus came to find Peter at the sea, back in the place their friendship was first forged. We do not know what was in Peter’s heart, but I can imagine. Shame. Confusion. The start of hoping again. 

Peter and his friends are on the water. They’ve fished all night and come up with nothing. And a man on the shore calls out to throw their net onto the other side of their boat. And suddenly, the net is so full of fish it’s overflowing. Just like before. Just like the beginning of being with Jesus.² In such abundance, they recognize Jesus for who he is. And Peter dives into the water, adamant to get to his friend as fast as possible. His denial clearly wasn’t the whole truth of what lived in his body and heart. 

And on the beach, Jesus has started a charcoal fire,³ just like the one Peter stood over in shame. And instead of asking why he denied him, Jesus cooks Peter and the other disciples a meal. 

Anthrakian—this Greek word for charcoal fire is only used here and at Peter’s denial.⁴ The scent had to bring his lowest moment back to the surface. But this time, Jesus extends a friendship that no fear could extinguish. 

And having fed his friends breakfast, Jesus walks with Peter on the beach and asks him three times:

“Do you love me?” 

Each denial is gathered up in the curl of this question. Each answer, a restoration.

Yes. Yes. Yes. 

And with each yes to love, Jesus gives Peter a purpose. 

Feed my lambs.

Shepherd my sheep.

Feed my sheep.

And back at my desk, this candle burns. In these long months, I’ve been brought back to the same places of angst and sickness as years past. I’ve stared at the canyon walls, cold and afraid that my Shepherd won’t find me and bring me through. There have been days that my fear has overshadowed my friendship with Christ. And, he has still come back to find me. 

And in the company of Peter, I know what can set the broken heart back to strength. 

Repetition can bring restoration. 

Finding ourselves in yet another dark valley doesn’t have to mean we are stuck. It can mean we are precisely in the spot where the Shepherd is coming to find us again. And just like the disciples on the water, Christ will not only return us to the scent of our shame but the sight of abundance. And we will be fed. Fed more than enough. And so filled, we will feed others.

So, it’s here, following the Shepherd out of another dark valley, that I am finally ready to share with you my newest book: The Lord Is My Courage: Stepping Through the Shadows of Fear Toward the Voice of Love. 

And, gah, I can’t wait for you to hold the real thing! All that gold on the cover will be gold foil. 😍

In The Lord is My Courage, I’ll walk you through Psalm 23 phrase by phrase to encounter the presence of the Good Shepherd. You’ll see the way Psalm 23 offers the same mysterious pattern of repetition and regulation in returning us to love. You’ll read so much more about the landscape where I’ve most learned to practice courage—in healing from religious trauma. And, I pray, you’ll hear the Shepherd’s Voice calling you home. 

You can preorder The Lord is My Courage today (non-amazon options: here), and she will show up on your doorstep in less than 2.5 months—because, yes, this book is releasing so soon! 🤯 June 21st, to be exact.

(Just FYI: Preordering is basically reserving your copy. You won’t be charged until it ships, and you’ll get it at the lowest price between now + release day. PLUS, preordering is the biggest way you can support me + my work! It tells the powers that be to share this book with more readers, which helps it get into more hands + hearts.)

And save your receipt numbers/order confirmation emails, because we have some really fun preorder bonuses coming your way. Get it today, but you’ll also get more surprises later. 💃🏻🎉 And stay tuned, because we will have some sort of group to process the book together + spread the word about it.

I’m overjoyed to finally get to share the book with you! 😭🙌🏼 I hope you’ll celebrate with me by being one of the first to preorder it right here right now!

1. John 18

2. Luke 5

3. John 21:9

4. John 18:18