We just got back two days ago from our summer trip to the Pacific Northwest. Craig, Gabe, Rowan, and I. It was meant to be a time of rest. Nostalgia. Sacred return.
Craig and I have both lived there in the past. I spent a decade in Seattle. Three of my seven children were born there. Back then, Craig and I didn’t even know the other existed. But we both had our own memories of the region. The salt air. The deep green. The cool hush of the rain. The haunting beauty of trees that seemed to know how to pray.
So we booked a flight into Portland and planned to drive the Gorge. See the waterfalls. Let the boys run on a few beaches. Walk the piers. Visit the Seattle Aquarium, one of the only aquariums I’ve ever thought was worth the time. We wanted to take the boys up the Space Needle. Get chowder at Ivar’s. Coffee in Redmond. All our old places.
But even the aquarium betrayed us.
The place I once praised for its uniqueness and wonder was now a shell. Filthy. Dim. I stepped into the underwater dome that used to shimmer with light and life, and all I could see was rust on the beams, grime on the tanks, and floors that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in twenty years. The smell of death was thick. I could hardly breathe. It broke something in me. This was a place I once told others to visit. A place I cherished. No longer. That chapter is closed.
But what we found was a region dying.
Not in theory. In full view.
It wasn’t just the cities. It was the pulse of the land. Portland. Seattle. The beach towns. Even the mountains.
Rot had set in.
We saw vagrants shooting up in broad daylight. Needles on sidewalks. A woman in her underwear twirling on a lamppost for business while another pissed on the curb not ten feet from a woman pushing a stroller with two toddlers. Fly swarms. Trash heaps. Streets that reeked of urine and vomit and death.
A man danced in the street, clearly high, weaving between moving cars.
Locals told us cruise ship passengers were refusing to disembark.
They’ve cleaned the tourist areas just enough to save the money flow. But one street over? You see the truth.
Seattle has gone hollow. Portland too. Cities that once stood as icons of culture, art, beauty, and freedom now look like a scene from Batman Returns. Gotham wasn’t fiction. It was a warning.
Sure, you’ll still find polished glass towers and high-end apartments that no one you know can afford. Gas was outrageous. So were groceries. But that wasn’t the heartbreak.
It was the way humanity just kept moving like nothing was wrong.
Joggers paced past overdoses. Shoppers stepped over addicts. A mom navigated her kids through a maze of needles and sex workers without even blinking. It was like we were all pretending.
But I couldn’t pretend.
I remembered those streets when they were clean. I remembered pushing a stroller there, safe and at peace. And now, I couldn’t even take a breath without tasting grief.
We went to Leavenworth. And it was the only place untouched.
A woman who lived there told us, “We don’t allow that here.”
Simple. Clear. Brave.
She didn’t say it with shame. She said it with authority. Like she knew what was worth protecting.
But what struck me most wasn’t just the physical decay. It was the spiritual weight.
There’s a vibration in a dying city. You can feel it. The way people stop making eye contact. The way silence swells under the noise. The way your body tenses before your mind even catches up.
I felt the groaning of a land that used to sing.
But more than that, I felt God weeping.
Not the angry kind of weeping. Not judgment. Not wrath.
It was heartbreak.
He showed me how we traded truth for tolerance. Sacredness for spectacle. Beauty for convenience. We exchanged altars for platforms. And the soul of a region cracked under the pressure.
I kept thinking of San Francisco. I spent summers there as a child. It, too, has fallen.
How many of our cities will we watch die before we say, “Enough”?
How many children have to step over bodies before we say, “No more”?
How many churches will stay silent just to remain relevant?
It would be easy to stop here. To end this post with despair. But that’s not the whole story.
Because even in the midst of all this death — God is not gone.
And He’s not quiet.
If anything, His voice is louder now than I’ve ever heard it.
He still speaks through beauty. Through grief. Through the ache you can’t unfeel once you’ve seen the truth.
He speaks in the stillness that falls after witnessing a once-great place rot from the inside out.
And He asks you: Will you return?
That’s why I wrote The Voice That Made You.
It wasn’t just poetry. It was war. It was weeping. It was remembering.
I didn’t write it to impress you. Or to get applause. I wrote it to return. And to invite you to return too.
Return to the Voice that first spoke your name.
Return to the God who still thunders over waters and whispers over wounds.
Return to a faith that isn’t sugar-coated or shame-laced but forged in fire and tenderness.
That book was my yes. Every line, a coal. Every poem, an altar.
And it’s coming. August 2025.
I’m trembling and thrilled to share it.
Because it’s not just about words. It’s about presence. Proximity. Return.
And in light of everything I just witnessed in the Pacific Northwest, I know now more than ever why it had to be written.
We are watching cities crumble.
But we are also watching the Church rise.
Not the polished one. Not the political one. Not the trending one.
The remnant.
The ones who still burn. The ones who still weep. The ones who say, “No. We don’t allow that here.” And they don’t mean people. They mean darkness. They mean deception. They mean decay dressed as progress.
God is not asking for performance.
He is asking for your yes.
Not a passive yes. A trembling one. A willing one. The kind that says, “Even here, in the middle of the ruins, I will listen. I will return.”
He sees you.
He sees your heartbreak over your hometown.
He sees your rage at the state of the world.
He sees the ache in your gut when your kids ask why people are living like this.
He sees the prayer you don’t have words for.
And He is not far.
He is still moving. Still healing. Still calling.
So I say this to whoever is reading:
We may be watching the death of a way of life. But we are also witnessing the birth of something holy.
God does not leave His people.
He will not leave you in this.
And if your soul aches like mine did walking through the streets of Seattle and Portland, then let that ache become a call. A groaning too deep for words. A prayer too heavy for language.
And let it move you.
Let it bring you to your knees.
Let it bring you home.
Because God isn’t done speaking.
He never was.
And I believe The Voice That Made You is not just a book. It’s an altar. An invitation. A burning bush moment in the middle of a broken world.
So stay tuned.
August.
It’s coming.
And He is too.
Welcome home.
As always loving you from here,
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Serhat Beyazkaya On Unsplash
