This feels like the right time to write it. Not when the applause was still ringing and not when you were rushing from one commitment to another. Sometimes the body forces us to sit still long enough to understand what just happened. 

Tonight, I find myself sitting with gratitude.

The past two weekends have been full. There was the intimate book talk and signing. Then there was the public book launch. For months, these events existed only as plans, messages, drafts, and rehearsals. Now they belong to memory.

I have always imagined that if I ever published a book, I would be grateful if people simply came. What I did not expect was how deeply I would be moved by the people who chose to journey with me through it.

The book talk reminded me that poetry does not need a large audience to matter. There was something beautiful about gathering people and speaking honestly about writing, longing, healing, and the stories behind the poems. I was nervous before the conversation began. I prepared notes and anticipated questions. Yet when the discussion started, I found myself trusting the person beside me. Gia went off script many times. The serious atmosphere we initially imagined gave way to laughter and genuine conversation. I now realize that the event became stronger because of it.

One lesson I learned from the book talk is that people often connect more deeply with sincerity than perfection. The moments I remember most clearly are not the polished answers. I remember the laughter. I remember being surprised. I remember the feeling of being understood.

The book launch taught me something different.

I have spent most of my life keeping my worlds separate. My friends from one community rarely meet friends from another. My work life, creative life, ministry life, and personal life often exist in different spaces. Last Saturday, many of those worlds occupied the same room. The experience felt unfamiliar at first. Yet as the evening unfolded, I felt grateful that people from different parts of my life were willing to gather around something I created.

I learned that a book is never only about the author. A book may carry one name on its cover, but many people help bring it into the world. I saw this truth in every rehearsal, every performance, every poem reading, every technical run, and every conversation that happened behind the scenes.

I also learned that art becomes richer when it is shared.

One of the most meaningful moments of the evening was presenting the spoken word piece inspired by Come Home. I wrote it because a song moved me. I wanted to enter into conversation with another work of art. I did not expect the response it would receive. Seeing someone cry because they felt seen by words reminded me why people continue creating despite uncertainty. Art is not merely self-expression. It is also recognition. It is one person saying to another, “I heard you.”

As I reflect on both events, I find myself grateful not only for the success of the programs but also for the people behind them. They gave their time, talent, patience, and presence. They carried responsibilities that I could not have carried alone.

Perhaps the greatest lesson from these past weeks is that creative work flourishes in community. We often speak about the solitary writer. We rarely speak about the friends who host conversations, sing songs, ask difficult questions, rehearse late into the evening, move chairs, test microphones, arrange tables, read poems, and remain present through the entire process.

I began this journey believing I was launching a book.

I now realize that I was also witnessing the generosity of a community.

What a gift it is to be truly grateful. 🌙