The Story.

Wild and mysterious, life leaves me in love and in ruin.

This blog is the wreckage of a spirit in motion—shattered, searching, and strangely beloved. It is the living archive of one soul’s pilgrimage through doubt, wonder, and a creative ache that will not rest. Here, the imagination is not an escape from reality, but a compass that guides me back to it—and to myself—with humbled and learned eyes.

These words are not content. They are consequence.

I long to know, experience, and be wrecked by the world’s persistent beauty.

There is an anguish inside me that's restless, often inconvenient, and undeniably holy. It has driven me to ask unwelcome questions, to peer into uncomfortable truths, to bleed a little on the sharp edges of real life. What's there is both broken and made whole, full of sorrow and unwavering peace. The beautiful truth of the whole is what it is to be divinely human, and that is the altar on which I lay my words.

In the process of unfolding, I've been wrong more times than I can count. But the ache demands I look anyway. That I feel it all. That I work out my own salvation with fear and trembling. That I wrestle in the dirt with mystery and contradiction—in the dim corridors of faith, doubt, art, and humanity.

I do not expect to arrive. But the fire of seeking is what keeps me alive, and the courage of writing it down, risking being seen in the messy process, is what makes this space between my mind and the page sacred.

Why Sunday Morning Misfit?

Because I've always asked the questions that didn’t belong in the belief system.
Because the truth never arrived wrapped in politeness or clarity.
Because safety was never the point...

I was always a seeker—drawn instinctively to the deep and the difficult, unable to settle for easy answers. That hunger shaped me through years of study and soul-scouring honesty, and it left marks: beauty and bruises in equal measure.

My faith was forged in the fire of relentless pursuit, but not without cost. That same fire once led me away from belief, into anger and disillusionment, even despair. It had to be tamed—not extinguished, but surrendered—so I could finally rest in the peculiar mystery of God.

I am a mystic at heart—not content to simply know truth, but to touch it.

To be consumed by it. To be remade in it.

In every project, every word, every work of creation, my obsession with the language of truth leaks through. I can only hope to be bold enough to spend my days stretching imagination like canvas, building bridges across chasms, initiating conversations, and fanning the flame of curiosity until it becomes a raging fire.

I do not want to be safe. Or palatable. Or sanctified in the eyes of the world.

I want to be undone—by wonder, by grief, by glory.

I want to be a misfit to this world, molded for heaven, shaped for eternity.