The book launch week of The Long Run Home came and went like a shooting star burning bright across a midnight sky—brilliant, stunning, and singular. As I reflect on it all, I realize: I will never publish my first book again.

I find it incredible that it took me eight years to publish this book. Eight. Years. Four years writing, two years creating and pitching the proposal, and another two years giving it to God. Okay, God, this is your story, I prayed. I’ve done all I can. I’ll wait until you show me the door. I’ve learned I often have to come to the end of myself before God moves—lest my sneaky ego try to take credit for the work.

And yet, those eight years went by in a blink. Which feels comical when I think about how many times I was frustrated with the process and wished it would just move the fuck along.

But now, looking back, it’s so clear that this is the right time. And I’m truly glad it didn’t come sooner.

Eight years ago I didn’t have the full breadth of friendships that filled the room at my book launch event on Monday night. Thinking about the love they poured over me during launch week still makes me teary. Years from now, it won’t be the media interviews I remember—it will be the long drives they made to be there that night and the way my local friends decorated my lawn and driveway launch morning with words of love, encouragement, and praise.