Hello and Welcome!

Born and raised in a small town in western Pennsylvania, I grew up where Friday night lights and church potlucks formed the heartbeat of our tight-knit community. My father, a professor at the local university, instilled in me a love for learning, while my mother, a substitute teacher at nearby middle schools, showed me the joy of nurturing young minds.

Summers were for adventure: family road trips camping from the majestic Rocky Mountains to every state along the East Coast, discovering the vast beauty of our country one mile at a time.

After high school, I earned a degree in Foodservice Management, kicking off a career that took me across Kansas, down to Florida, and to countless stops in between. But no place ever truly felt like home. I've always been drawn to Pennsylvania's four distinct seasons, the rolling hills ablaze in autumn splendor, and the warm, neighborly rhythm of life.

In my 30s, after years of wandering and chasing something more, I returned to Pennsylvania—where I truly belong—to raise my family and pivot to a new path in financial services. I completed my investment training in the Twin Towers in New York, co-founded Stewardship Advisors LLC, and have dedicated the last 30-plus years to building a secure future for my loved ones right here in the place that shaped me.

This journey has taught me that home isn't just a location—it's the foundation for everything that matters.

I was raised in a Christian home, immersed in United Methodist tradition. My parents modeled faith through action: every Sunday, we attended church—no exceptions, no excuses. Even on family trips, we'd hunt down a local congregation and return with attendance certificates as proof. For me, church meant suiting up: crisp shirt, tie, vest, and a pocket watch tucked neatly inside. It was ritual, routine, expected.

College shattered that rhythm. Faith, once woven into my weekly fabric, began to feel like an inherited obligation rather than a personal conviction. In adulthood and marriage, church attendance dwindled to Christmas and Easter—polite nods to tradition, carefully avoiding deeper commitment. I feared slipping into a works-based theology, where salvation hinged on performance rather than grace.

Then came our second child—our first son. He lived exactly two months before slipping away. In the crushing silence of grief, I faced the question I'd long evaded: Was God real to me, or just a borrowed belief? The pain stripped away pretense, forging a faith I could finally claim as my own. It ignited an unquenchable hunger for Him—a pursuit that still burns today.

In the depths of that sorrow, two Mennonite women arrived unannounced, bearing meals and an invitation to their tiny country church—cows grazing lazily beside the gravel lot. Their quiet kindness shattered my illusions: salvation isn't earned through effort or attire; it's a gift, freely received.

One simple meal in crisis unlocked eternity. It birthed a grace-filled relationship with God that has fueled my lifelong pursuit ever since. What began in loss has become my greatest gain.