Muddy Hands. Dusty Feet.

Still Creating. Still Becoming.

I grew up with Arkansas dirt under my feet and somehow ended up with much of the world beneath them. Between those two places came family, ministry, running, travel, friendships across cultures, a few wrong turns, a great deal of laughter, and more stories than I can remember. These days, my hands are usually in clay, my feet are still finding roads to wander, and there always seems to be another story waiting to be written down. Through Arkansas Traveler Mudworks, I make pottery meant to be held, used, shared, and occasionally argued over at the family table. My writing is much the same: stories of people and places, laughter and struggle, and those unexpected encounters that have a way of changing us. At this stage of life, I’ve discovered I’m less interested in arriving than I once was. There are still pots to make, miles to travel, people to meet, and stories to tell. And I’m not finished with any of them yet.