Lydia’s Stillwater Homestead is a heartfelt, modern-day middle-grade series rooted in Christian values and inspired by the quiet strength of Little House on the Prairie and the charm of Anne of Green Gables. Set in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, it follows Lydia, an eleven-year-old homeschooler raised on a homestead where faith is central, the outside world is filtered through Scripture, and life lessons are learned through service, suffering, and simple joys.

Though the tone is gentle and wholesome, Lydia’s story deals with real-world challenges: peer pressure, growing up in a culture that often conflicts with truth, and learning compassion by helping her mother in what Lydia calls the “Dying Home”, a free hospice for families who can’t afford end-of-life care.

Lydia’s Stillwater Homestead offers a fresh, relevant perspective for today’s Christian youth.

She’s got muddy boots, quiet mornings, and a cousin who doesn’t get any of it.

Lydia Fernsby lives a quiet, joyful life on her family’s Ozark Mountain homestead—planting seeds, gathering eggs, and learning timeless lessons from her faith-filled parents. But when her cousin from the city comes to visit, everything starts to feel different.

With a glowing phone in her hand and the latest trends on her tongue, Lydia’s cousin seems to come from another world—a louder, faster, flashier one. As the girls struggle to understand each other, Lydia begins to question her plans to attend public school.

But through weeding gardens, helping at Mama’s “Dying Home,” and sharing quiet talks under the stars, Lydia learns that some things—like truth, beauty, and love—never go out of style.

A heartwarming story about friendship, identity, and holding fast to what matters most.

Available now as an eBook and a paperback on:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Google Play | Apple | Kobo | Smashwords | Everand | Tolino | Vivlio | Fable |

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

Hi all—it’s Lydia again.

I didn’t plan on a journal entry today, but something happened, and I figured it was worth talking about.

Y’see, we live in a big ol’ house on our homestead, and have a couple extra rooms downstairs that my Mama uses to help take care of dying people. One room used to be my Mama’s painting room, but when she heard about a lady—Miss Dulvaney—from our church who had gotten cancer and had no place else to go, Mama decided to clean all of her painting stuff from the room and let Miss Dulvaney move in.

“But, Mama,” I had asked that day, “why doesn’t she have a place to go just because she got sick?”

Mama rested her hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, Lydia, sometimes people who don’t have enough money or anyone else able to care for them, when they get sick, they need somewhere to go. Places like that are expensive.” She smiled and folded her hands on her lap. “I figured, since we have an extra room here, why not let Miss Dulvaney stay for free?”

I thought it was a wonderfully kind idea😄, and so I helped Mama that day clean out the rest of her art supplies to get the room ready for the poor old lady. 🎨

That was two years ago, and since then, dozens of people have called our home home in their last days. I don’t like to go in there much, but I do help Mama when I can.

Today, we got a new resident. Her name is Geraldine Wainwright, but she told my little brother, Levi (I overheard them talking—Levi loves visiting the dying people), that we could call her Mimi Dina because that’s what her grandkids call her.

Someday, I might not be so uncomfortable around the “guests”—that’s what Mama says is best we call them—but right now, I think I’ll leave the visiting to Levi.🤗

Besides, Mimi Dina has that weird look that all of the guests seem to get about a week before they die. I can’t describe it well, and nobody seems to notice it but me, but she has it, and I don’t think she has much longer.

It’s really sad and all, but at least she loves Jesus, and she’ll get to see her husband again! (I overheard her telling Levi all about that, too.)

Well, thanks for readin’!
Love,
Lydia 💛

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

I highly recommend watching the video for this post, located at the end.

Also, I apologize for the “bad writing,” but I took the text from an unscripted audio file and didn’t want to change it too much from the original.

One of the hardest things to face, or even talk about, is suffering.

It’s in those moments of deep pain, loss, or trauma that we begin to question everything, including God Himself. When we’re hurting, nothing seems to make sense. We struggle to understand how a loving God could allow such things to happen to us or to the people we love. We may blame Him. We may use that pain as a reason to stop believing altogether.

But suffering is precisely when we need God’s strength the most. We need Him at all times—in joy and in hardship—but in our darkest moments, we feel that need more intensely. We want Him to fix what’s broken. If we’re honest, we want anyone to fix it. Yet some wounds, some traumas, simply can’t be healed by human hands. Only God can sustain us through them.

I’ve been trying—really trying—to lean on God in those desperate times. I always have, in a way. But trusting Him has been harder. Like so many others, I want to believe fully, without wavering, especially when life falls apart. I don’t want to rage at Him or question His goodness. But when pain grips our hearts, our humanity shows. It is hard not to ask Why, Lord?

Still, even in our trials—whether sudden blows or long, creeping sorrows—there are glimpses of beauty if we look closely enough. A flower’s quiet perfection. The strength of an old tree. A mountain’s steady presence. A sky painted with clouds or stars. These small wonders are gifts from God, moments of natural healing for our emotional, spiritual, and physical selves. If we bring our whole hearts to Him—our grief, our anger spoken with reverence, our honest questions—He will meet us where we are. And if we look back, we will remember the countless times He has carried us before.

I have seen God’s hand in my life more times than I can count. I have lived through things I should not have survived. Unmistakable, unbelievable moments where the only explanation was His protection. Yet when something new goes wrong, it’s so easy to forget every good thing, every past deliverance. Instead of remembering blessings, our minds rush to every old wound. I’ve done this too often—telling God, My whole life has been nothing but hardship. Will it ever change? Will it ever get better? And sometimes I even add, But if it doesn’t, Your will be done. I will still love You.

Years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to say that. I saw my suffering only as punishment or failure. I remembered my past sins and assumed that my hardships were tied to them. But I know better now. I have confessed them, one by one, and repented of as many as memory could hold. God has forgiven me. He is not punishing me. And because of that, I must stop looking backward. I must not be like Lot’s wife, turning toward what God has already freed me from.

None of us would ever ask God for suffering. But when it comes—and it will—I wish more of us knew how to live with it, learn from it, and grow through it. Even when life is grey and heavy, we still have a choice. We can look for beauty. It’s hardest to see when everything feels dark, but that is precisely when beauty matters most. That is when our faith is being tested. That is when peace in suffering becomes a holy strength.

I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, to grow with my suffering. To lean on God in the everyday, not just in the emergencies. To ask Him for strength, endurance, and peace of mind. And He has been faithful.

If we never ask, we will never know what it means to be strong through our suffering, not just beyond it.

May God bless you, your family, and your life.

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

Music Credits:

“A Familiar Smile” by Sunfish Grove via Epidemic Sound

“A Love That Once Was” by Gavin Luke via Epidemic Sound

“Cain” by Lo Mimieux via Epidemic Sound

Hi! It’s me again.

A few days ago, I went down to Clifton’s Creek (it’s one of my faaaavorite places! 🌊), and you won’t believe what happened while I was turnin’ over rocks lookin’ for crawdads.

All of a sudden, I heard somethin’ rustlin’ through the leaves. Just as I turned around, the biggest dog I’ve ever seen came barrelin’ toward me, tongue hangin’ out, slobber flyin’ everywhere. For a split second, I thought about Daddy’s story of a rabid dog (don’t ask me if it was real or just from a movie he watched once). Either way, I was scared silly!

I screamed so loud it probably echoed off the hills, and I fell flat on my backside—splat!—right into the creek.

Next thing I knew, that dog was on top of me, lickin’ my face like I was her long-lost best friend, tail waggin’ like a windshield wiper on high. 🐾 Turns out she wasn’t scary at all, just a big ol’ sweetheart. Thank the Lord in Heaven—He’s always lookin’ out for me.

When I headed home, she followed right along beside me. I begged Mama if I could keep her, but she said we’d have to wait and see what Daddy thought. When Daddy got in from work at Mister Chambers’ farm, he told me I could feed her, but I had to let her come and go, just in case she belonged to somebody else.

I named her Dusty. She follows me everywhere now—down to the creek, through the woods, even when I hike over to Hazel’s house. I heard Daddy whisper to Mama, “I think God sent Lydia a protector with four paws.”

Oh, I know He did! 😄

I hope y’all will love Dusty as much as I do, ‘cause I have a feelin’ she’s gonna be a big part of life here on the homestead.

Thanks for readin’!
Love,
Lydia 💛

A note from the author:

Dusty in Lydia’s story is based on a real-life German Shepherd that was my great-grandmother’s dog. Whenever I’d go “up home” to visit on Greer’s Ferry Lake, Dusty would follow me everywhere. She was so protective that my family knew it was OK to let me roam the woods and the creek alone.

Below is a photo of the real Dusty—and me! 😊 I sure miss her.

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

I highly recommend watching the video for this post, located at the end.

Also, I apologize for the “bad writing,” but I took the text from an unscripted audio file and didn’t want to change it too much from the original.

When we finally come to Christ, when we reach that point where we’ve had enough of the world’s cruelty, suppression, and pain, it’s often those very things that drive us to Him. Sadly, that’s usually what it takes to wake us up and see the truth. Because when life is smooth, when everything seems fine, we don’t feel a need to search for help or hope. It’s like a person with a healthy leg not thinking to visit a doctor for a cast.

But faith doesn’t work that way. It should be the reverse.

I’ve known this truth my whole life, but I ignored it. I knew my life had more meaning than what I pretended it did. But as long as everything looked okay, I didn’t seek the truth. God should be the first One we go to in everything, in joy and in sorrow, in peace and in pain.

When little children wake up, who do they run to? Their parents—for hugs, breakfast, and love. Not because they’re hurt or in trouble, but simply because they crave that closeness. They don’t wait until they fall or scrape their knee to seek out their mother or father. It should be the same with us and our Father in heaven.

Since coming to Christ, a whole new world has opened up to me. Yes, it’s a world where darkness still exists, but now I can see it clearly. I see the things I once ignored, the sins I excused, the truths I hid from. And once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. I wouldn’t want to. I never want to lose what God has revealed to me.

When we become aware of our sin—the guilt, the shame, the stain it leaves—we realize it can’t be washed away by our own strength. Only the blood of Christ can do that. And though we sin again and again, His mercy remains.

There truly is no place like Home, not even the one we build here on earth. Our eternal home with Christ surpasses everything this world could ever offer. And that’s where my heart longs to be. I know my works don’t earn salvation, but my faith drives me to live for Him with sincerity and purpose.

Now that the Holy Spirit has awakened me, I see and understand things I never could before. I see the wrong I’ve done, even the things I once thought were harmless. And every day, I strive to be the woman God created me to be, to wash away the darkness within and walk in His light.

But awakening also brings pain.

Seeing the truth means facing it. And coming to Christ doesn’t erase our pain or shield us from suffering; Scripture promises the opposite. Yet I’ve learned that pain isn’t meant to disappear, but it’s meant to teach. We learn to live with it, to walk through it, and to surrender it all—not just the hardest parts, but everything—into His hands.

Becoming aware of my sin hasn’t been easy. Even now, as I walk closely with Christ, I still stumble. We all do. It’s part of being human in a broken world. But now, when I fall, I recognize it. I feel that nudge from the Holy Spirit, a gentle reminder that I’m not who I used to be.

I used to think things like overeating or losing my temper were just part of me, flaws I couldn’t change. But now I know better. Each time I feel conviction, I know God is helping me grow, teaching me repentance, and showing me grace.

I’m not where I want to be yet, but I’m not where I was. And that’s the beauty of this walk. God knows my heart. He sees that I’m trying, that I’m asking forgiveness, learning, and growing. And that’s what carries me through each new day.

May God bless you, your family, and your life.

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

Music Credits:

“Ever After” by William Claeson via Epidemic Sound

“Starlit Fantasia” by Amber Glow via Epidemic Sound

“Try Your Wings” by Helmut Schenker via Epidemic Sound

This mornin’, when I stepped outside, the air felt different—cooler, kinda crisp, like fall finally showed up on our doorstep. I had to grab my flannel shirt before headin’ to the garden, which made Mama smile because she says fall is her favorite season. (A little secret: Mama and me are just alike when it comes to favorites—when winter arrives, that’ll be her favorite, too. 🤫)

We went out to check the pumpkins first thing. They’re turning orange now, finally! Some are still half-green, but I don’t mind. It’s like they’re puttin’ on their fall coats one piece at a time. Daddy says by next week we’ll be able to pick the first one. I’m already picturin’ them lined up on our porch rail. 🍂🎃

Levi was busy diggin’ around in the dirt “lookin’ for treasure.” He came back with about five acorns and a bent nail, which he swears is “pioneer gold.” (Don’t ask me how a nail counts as gold, but he sure looked proud.)

We pulled up the last of the beans, and Mama says soon we’ll clear the beds to get ‘em ready for winter. That part always makes me a little sad, like sayin’ goodbye to summer. But I kinda like it too, ‘cause it means bonfires, s’mores, and the Fall Festival are right around the corner.

The best part of the mornin’ was hearing geese fly over in a V. They were honkin’ so loud it made me laugh. I always wonder where they’re going and if they ever get tired of flying.

So yeah, that’s today. September feels like a goodbye and hello all at once—goodbye to hot summer days and hello to pumpkins, chilly mornings, and all the cozy things. God sure knew what He was doin’ when He made the seasons.

Love,
Lydia 🌻

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

I highly recommend watching the video for this post, located at the end.

Also, I apologize for the “bad writing,” but I took the text from an unscripted audio file and didn’t want to change it too much from the original.

One thing I remember so well about myself as a teenager was how badly I wanted to leave home. I hated everything. I didn’t even know why—I just did. I hated where I lived. I was resentful of being made fun of for my southern accent. I don’t think it’s as strong now as it was then, but back then it made me feel small. People often assume that having a southern accent means you’re less intelligent.

Spoiler alert: they were wrong!

It wasn’t just that, though. It was rebellion.

I wanted to be anywhere but home, anywhere but where I was born and raised, where my family loved me deeply. I wanted to go where I could make my own rules, where I could be anyone I wanted to be. I thought the world would give me more than home ever could.

I used to say I grew up poor, and in a material sense, I did. We lived in trailer parks, wore off-brand clothes, and got by on very little. But the truth is that I believed I was poor, and that belief helped define me. In a negative way.

I wanted better.

I wanted more.

I wanted to make something of myself.

By thirteen, I was already dreaming of California.

I tried several times to get there, and every time, God intervened. Looking back, I thank Him for it. If He hadn’t stopped me, my life would have been an even bigger mess. But that restless spirit stayed with me for years.

Even within Arkansas, I was always running—from home, from family, from the life that grounded me. I moved in with friends, or people I thought were friends, always chasing something that never quite filled the emptiness. I spent my whole life trying to get away, trying to do more, be more, prove myself, to the world, to the people who mocked me, and even to myself.

But what I didn’t know then was that who I already was—the girl from Arkansas with the accent and the small-town life—was exactly who God made me to be. I just kept rejecting her.

Eventually, I made it to California. I lasted about six months before I came home. I missed everything—the rain, the trees, my kids, my little dog. I missed simplicity. I missed peace. And when I came back, I said, “I never want to leave home again.”

That was in 2017. But by 2019, the cycle began again. Restlessness crept in. I thought I needed more. We started planning to move to Mexico.

It’s funny, though—today it’s chilly, rainy, and gray outside, and it feels perfect. Whether it’s hot and humid or freezing cold, this place is perfect to me now.

There really is no place like home.

For years, I believed home wasn’t enough. I thought I needed the noise, the opportunities, the glitter of the world. But none of it ever filled the emptiness the way home does. The peace I was searching for was never out there—it was always here!

So many people feel the same way. They want to leave their small towns, chase careers, chase dreams, chase lives they think will be better. Sometimes we have to leave—for safety, for opportunity, for reasons beyond our control—but many of us leave simply because we’re restless or bored. Because we think we deserve more. Because we believe happiness is “out there.”

But for most of us, home has everything we need. And when we leave for the wrong reasons, we often come back with a deeper appreciation for what we had all along.

I used to think Arkansas wasn’t enough.

But before I turned fifty, I realized it was everything I’d ever need. This is where I belong. When we leave home, we miss moments we can never get back—births, holidays, the small joys, and the big heartbreaks. Life goes on without us, and we can never reclaim that time.

Now, I’m no longer chasing other lives. I’m no longer reaching for more. I’m no longer rebellious. It may have taken me fifty years to figure it out, but better late than never, I guess.

This is home.

North Little Rock, Arkansas. My park, my peace, my sanctuary. The trees here turn yellow, red, and gold in the fall, and today they glow like sunlight. I have four seasons, the sound of rain, the stillness of the woods, and the whisper of wind through the branches.

What more could I ever want?

This is where God placed me, and this is where I’ll stay—with gratitude in my heart for the simple, beautiful life He’s given me to cherish until I get to go to my ultimate and eternal Home to be with Him.

May God bless you, your family, and your life.

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

Music Credits:

“Love That Once Was” by Gavin Luke via Epidemic Sound

“Evening Love Song” by Arden Forest via Epidemic Sound

“Ingaroo” by Franz Gordon via Epidemic Sound

“Will You Ever Know?” by Anna Landstrom via Epidemic Sound

I highly recommend watching the video for this post, located at the end.

Also, I apologize for the “bad writing,” but I took the text from an unscripted audio file and didn’t want to change it too much from the original.

Trees are so beautiful. I often wonder about their strength—how long they’ve stood, how tall they’ve grown, how their roots reach deep beneath the earth to hold them firm. We can learn so much from nature, but especially from trees.

They are majestic—unchanging, yet always changing. Their leaves turn in the fall and fall away in the winter, but they always return in spring, renewed.

I often think about this in relation to my own life. Everything changes, but not all of us stand as strong as we could. I know I haven’t always been as strong as I should be. Yet, in fifty years of living, I’ve learned more about myself than I ever imagined. People have shown me how strong I truly am and how much strength I bring to others.

For most of my life, I thought I was weak. I let people run over me. But I’ve come to realize that even that can be a kind of strength—a gift. Those of us called pushovers often love so deeply that we’ll do anything for others.

My greatest weakness, though, has always been fear—especially the fear of death.

That fear fed my depression, my anxiety, and much of the darkness that consumed me for years. I feared disease, accidents, loss—death in any form.

When my mom was dying, we moved her into my aunt’s house, the same house where I live now. She passed away in the very room where I sleep. I mention this often because it changed me. I thought watching her die would traumatize me, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her side. I stayed, and instead of fear, I felt peace. Her death made me stronger.

My mother made me stronger, even in her passing. And looking back on her life, I see now that she was the strongest person I ever knew. Life was hard for her, and little seemed to go right, but her spirit never broke.

It’s a windy, beautiful day today, and in my quiet moments alone, I’ve learned that even when I thought I was weak, I was strong. Of course, it is God who gives me strength in everything I do. But even in moments when I thought it was all me—when I believed I was the weakest woman alive—I was still strong, because I endured. I survived. And when I look back at all I’ve come through, I can’t deny that strength anymore.

I’m no longer afraid of death. I’m finding strength in other places now—in the trees, in the wind, in the way nature moves and breathes. When we step away from the noise of the world long enough, we begin to see how nature heals us. It brings peace, clarity, and joy.

God gave us nature. Sometimes it’s the only medicine we need, the only therapy our souls crave.

Now my great-aunt Peggy is dying in hospice, also from cancer. She said something recently that would have once made me anxious or sad, but it gave me peace. She told me she isn’t afraid of death—only of pain. She hopes it comes quickly, and she’s ready because she knows where she’s going. That kind of faith, that calm acceptance, makes me stronger too.

We draw strength from others, just as we give it. Our emotions are contagious—our sadness can weigh others down, but our strength can lift them up. I don’t mean we should never cry or never show pain; we absolutely should. But I don’t want to live in darkness anymore. I don’t want to spread my sadness. I want to be strong, for others and for myself.

No matter what we’ve gone through—our traumas, our trials—we can still smile, laugh, and look for beauty. I want to have the strength of trees. I want my roots to grow deep and strong.

That’s my prayer.

I want to be strong like my mother, like my Aunt Peggy—like the woman God created me to be. I know now that everything I’ve endured has shaped me for that purpose. Our pain is not a competition; it’s a testimony.

When we share our weaknesses, especially in the middle of them—not just after we’ve overcome—we show the world what growth really looks like. That’s how others connect. That’s how they find hope.

I want to be a tree that stands tall for a hundred years or more—one that sheds its leaves each year, then returns more vibrant and beautiful than before.

That’s the woman I want to be.

May God bless you, your family, and your life.

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

Music Credits:

“Box Full of Memories” - Anna Landstrom via Epidemic Sound

“How Long Is Tomorrow” - Franz Gordon via Epidemic Sound

“Redolent” - Ever So Blue via Epidemic Sound

“Smell of Morning Coffee” - Franz Gordon via Epidemic Sound

I highly recommend watching the video for this post, located at the end. Otherwise, you’ll miss my argument with an angry squirrel.

Also, I apologize for the “bad writing,” but I took the text from an unscripted audio file and didn’t want to change it too much from the original.

Every time I cry from sadness or grief, every time I get angry, no matter what the reason, every time I feel nothing but sorrow and despair, even for a moment, the enemy claps.

He enjoys it when we worry, when we fear. He delights in it because he knows he has successfully drawn us away from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Even if only for a moment, he revels in those times. And I am tired of being tired. Tired of allowing darkness to consume everything I am—every part of me—until it suffocates the woman God intended me to be.

The woman I want to be for Him.

Today, I choose to fight for that woman, with every bit of strength I have. It’s time I take back the life God gave me and live for Christ in the way I didn’t realize I hadn’t been.

I can do all the right things: read the Bible, go to church, have fellowship, and leave behind the secular life. I can pray daily, through tears of sadness or joy—I can do all these things.

But if I still live in the shadows, if I let the enemy press me further beneath his foot, pulling me away from Christ, then none of it matters.

I don’t want to live like that anymore.

I don’t want to be sad.
I don’t want to be depressed.
I don’t want to be angry, afraid, or anxious.

I don’t want to walk through life with slumped shoulders and a lowered head.

I want the world to look at me and see someone who lives for Christ. But I can’t do that if I keep letting the darkness consume me. I know I have my moments, and sometimes they last longer than they should, but I don’t want to let that happen anymore.

I want to focus on the beautiful and the good. I want to live in Philippians 4:8—on whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, and praiseworthy.

I want to focus on good things, not just in the light, but especially in the dark.

(See the video at the end for visuals.)

Are you threatening me? Bring it on! He really is. He’s mad that I’m on his territory.

The squirrels out here are big and red and not afraid of people. They own the place.

There’s no place in the world I love more than this—except Greers Ferry Lake in Arkansas. Burns Park is a close second, and that will never change.

It’s chilly today. It was cold this morning, and I loved it. I’m wearing a sweater and a turtleneck, and the wind is blowing softly. It’s so beautiful. I want this to be my everyday—even when it’s not.

This is my soft hallelujah.

Most days, I feel too weak and exhausted by this world to lift my head, my eyes, or my hands. And when I finally can, everything feels robotic—my movements, my thoughts, my emotions. They’ve become something foreign to me, like they don’t even belong. But I wear them anyway, like something that doesn’t fit.

I’ve lived that way my whole life—so familiar with the darkness that it became comfortable. Anything else, anything other than sadness, depression, grief, or sorrow, felt uncomfortable. And that’s exactly what the enemy wanted.

But I don’t want to live that way anymore.

They say if you keep doing the same thing over and over and expect a different result, that’s insanity. I think they’re right.

So, this is my new motivation: to renew my mind and my heart—to live differently.

And I know I can do this only with Christ. Only through Christ.

May God bless you, your family, and your life.

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The text in this article is copyright © 2025 Jessica Tacu.

Music Credits:

“A Familiar Smile” by Sunfish Grove via Epidemic Sound

“Cain” by Lo Mimieux via Epidemic Sound

Animated Arrow:

Surkhab Ahmad via Vecteezy

I’m a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and #1 Amazon best-selling author. I’m also an international bestseller and award winner. I began self-publishing in 2011, and soon after, with success, I signed several titles with traditional publishers. My works have been translated into more than twenty languages, and one of my novels was adapted into a Spanish-language action film starring William Levy.

However, despite the success, and after more than three decades of using my gift for the wrong things, I have given it all up to praise and honor God instead.

I removed sixteen secular books from sale, including my popular crime & suspense series—one of my only means of income. Four secular books remain, as I no longer own the rights and cannot remove them.

Now, I’m writing Christian Middle Grade and Teen fiction under the family name, “Bradford”.

Here on my Substack, in addition to updates—and fun stuff—about my fiction projects, I write about peaceful living in simplicity and the love of Jesus Christ in a video project titled “A Soft Hallelujah”.

So happy to have you here!

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