One letter. Every Sunday.
From our home to yours.

Friend,

Welcome to the Sunday Letter.

If you're reading this, you found us. Maybe through one of the apps. Maybe a friend sent you. Maybe you stumbled in. However you got here, thank you for showing up. We don't take that lightly.

Here's what this is: a short letter every Sunday, from our home to yours. Sometimes I'll write. Sometimes Kristie will. Always real. Never spammy. We won't sell you anything in these letters. That's what the rest of the website is for. Here, we just talk.

Here's why it exists. About a year ago, I was reading my son Roman a bedtime story. Halfway through, I changed the hero's name to his. His eyes went wide. Mouth open. Pure, unfiltered magic. The kind of look you spend your whole adult life trying to remember what felt like.

I started building the next morning.

What started as one app for one moment became something larger. Three apps live on the App Store as of this week: Dreamspun, His Path, Lampside. More coming. And before any of it earned a dollar, Kristie and I signed a covenant: a binding firstfruits commitment that as God grows this business, an escalating share of revenue returns to ministry. We didn't start a company. We signed a covenant. The business came after.

So that's what TDIH is. That's what these letters will be: small windows into the work, what we're praying through, what the Well is funding, where we're stuck, where we're seeing God move.

If you want to keep getting these every Sunday, you can sign up below. If you'd rather just visit when you remember, that works too. The letters live here either way.

One more thing: this letter is going out on Mother's Day. That's not an accident. Kristie's letter is just below this one, about the women in her life and yours. Read it next.

Mama,

A blessing for you today.

Mother's Day can be tender. The good is real. The hard is real too. The faces you have loved more than yourself. The prayers you've whispered over a name only you have spoken that many times. The years that didn't go the way you thought they would.

God sees all of it.

May the Lord lift your face when you have stopped lifting it yourself.

May He remind you that He has not missed a single year of your motherhood, including the hidden ones. The ones no one celebrated. The ones you mostly survived. The ones that broke you. He was there.

May the long middle, the season that feels like nothing is changing, like no one notices, like you are losing yourself in lunches packed and laundry folded, may that long middle become the place you finally feel found.

May your name be spoken tenderly in heaven this Mother's Day. May you sense, somehow, that you have been celebrated by the only One whose celebration matters.

And may you know, deep in your chest, in the part of you that's gone numb from carrying, that you are seen by El Roi, the God who sees.

He is with you. He always has been.