As surely as we believe in the resurrection of Christ, we believe that we will one day be resurrected and meet our Savior in the skies to live and thrive with him forevermore.

I have asked for years that my faith would grow. That I would, I could have blind confidence that good things would happen, that God would hear my prayers and that they would avail.

I got pregnant last year, and as my belly swelled, so too did my hopes and dreams of what would come this year.

I love stories. I love stories because I value what they communicate about us.

We moved in 2015. We packed up our 500-square-foot apartment in a pod, hearing tornado sirens that evening, and I was reminded that snow is better than tornado alley.

My parents were kind enough to drop me off and pick me up every day at school.

On an ordinary day, with very little prompting, I decided I would beekeep.

My husband and I moved to the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio as 22 year-olds with bright eyes, dogged tenacity, and few fears.

There’s a prevailing theme I’ve found in life, and it goes by the name of absurdity. Without a formula to a successful, painless existence, I’ve found there is only lottery.