Why I Started Writing to God There's a particular quiet in a hospital hallway at 2 a.m. I spent enough years in them — first as a nurse, later walking those same halls as an executive with a badge that opened more doors but somehow made me feel less useful — to know that quiet well. It's not peaceful. It's the kind of quiet that presses in on you until you have to say something, to someone, even if you're not sure anyone's listening. That's where my first letter to God happen

My father used to say that faithfulness wasn't loud. He'd know. He left a small village in the Sfakia region of Crete with almost nothing — no money, no promises, more grief behind him than most people carry in a lifetime — and he never once told his story as though it were dramatic. He just kept showing up. Every day, for the rest of his life. That was his whole theology, really, though he never would have called it that: you show up, and you trust God with the rest. I didn'