There are moments in a small town when life reminds us that the greatest miracles don’t always happen with fanfare. Sometimes they happen with sandwich trays, crockpots, paper plates, and people quietly saying, “I’ll help.” Monday was one of those days.

A wonderful man had passed away. His beautiful daughter had planned for a military tribute at the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery. Afterward, she needed a place to hold a Christian service, but her church was very small, and her family was very large. The question wasn’t whether people would come. The question was what would happen afterward.

Our little church is really a mega-church in disguise. Being capable of great things, we stepped up. We could host them. After all, we’re practically family, with churches separated by a single road. Plans began to form almost immediately, with one problem. How many would come?

Grief does terrible things to people. Time is warped. Thinking is foggy. In the blink of an eye, we had 24 hours left, with no idea of a meal plan for 25- 100+. It was the plus sign that threw everyone. Could anyone pull together a meal for a crowd with less than twenty-four hours’ notice? We all know a guy that could, but could we?

A handful of faithful Christians would somehow weave all the pieces together. Most importantly, one beautiful daughter could stop worrying for a little while and simply grieve. We would handle the meal.

As the word spread like lightning, something remarkable happened. The Cowgirl of the Desert walked through the door carrying dessert. Our pastor’s wife quietly took charge of fruit, hot meatballs, and salad. Taquitos were warmed. A mega-batch of spaghetti showed up. A crock pot of Chicken Mac-N-Cheese.

A perfect stranger arrived with sodas, water, and ice. They were visiting our town and heard of a need. They just wanted to help and even passed around the most adorable baby to spread some smiles in the process.

No one asked for recognition. People simply asked, “What else do you need?” And, with 45 minutes until guests arrived, the food kept showing up.

The only mystery was how many people would actually come.

Twenty-five? Fifty? One hundred? That’s a pretty big difference when you’re trying to feed everyone.

At about 1:45, they began arriving.

Families. Friends. Neighbors. Coworkers. Children with the wiggles. Babies sleeping peacefully in their parents’ arms. People carrying tears they had held back during the service.

By the time everyone had gathered, the building seemed ready to burst. We never counted heads, but it was somewhere over one hundred hungry, thirsty, emotionally exhausted people.

And then somehow… There was just enough.

There was enough food. Enough drinks. Enough chairs. Enough helping hands. Enough bathrooms. An abundance of hugs.

While families visited and shared memories, members of our church quietly did what needed to be done. Tables were cleared. Trash bags filled with paper plates. Dishes were washed. Food was replenished. Spills were mopped. When one serving dish emptied, another seemed to appear.

It reminded me of the little boy’s lunch in the Bible. Five loaves and two fish didn’t look like nearly enough until they were placed in God’s hands. Somehow, everyone was fed. Monday felt a little like that.

No flowers arrived to fill the room. They weren’t needed. This man’s garden was blooming all around us. His flowers were his family. Grandchildren. Friends. Neighbors. People who took time out of their busy lives simply because they loved him.

What a beautiful legacy.

By five o’clock, the last dishes had been washed. The kitchen was spotless and locked. A few family members remained outside beneath the shade trees, talking, remembering, and laughing through their tears.

Twenty-four hours earlier, there had been no plan.

Just a need.

By the end of the day, there had been more than enough.

That’s the quiet beauty of Small Town America. When one family hurts, the whole town shows up. Not because anyone tells them to. Not because they’re looking for thanks. But because that’s simply what neighbors do.

And somehow, when God’s love shines in a little church on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, there is always enough.

When the Hummingbirds Bathe in the Roses

Our mornings at Winterpast usually begin the same way. First things first, The Princess and Oliver get their gourmet meals, as they prepare for the first nap of the morning. HHH settles into his chair with coffee in hand while I sit at my desk to write as the house slowly wakes up around us.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a little activity near the Happy Go Lucky rosebush outside the window. There was fluttering. Movement. A tiny flash of wings inside the “Happy Go Lucky” rosebush. A hummingbird was playing in the bush.

At least, that was what I thought at first.

But why?

Roses do not have the nectar hummingbirds usually seek. The bush is also much too low for a nest, especially with Oliver and Tanner wandering around looking for snacks.

I stopped writing to watch more closely.

The little bird dipped into the petals, fluttered its wings, shook itself, and disappeared deeper into the flowers. Then it popped back up, wet and sparkling in the morning light.

That was when I understood.

This little guy was taking a bath.

Tiny drops of dew had collected inside the rose petals overnight, creating the smallest and most beautiful birdbath imaginable. The little hummingbird splashed and fluttered among the flowers as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was.

Watching for a few minutes, my coffee and writing were forgotten. I simply watched this tiny creature enjoy its morning bath in the roses. It was one of those small moments that could easily have been missed. Had I been rushing, worrying, or staring only at the computer screen, I might never have noticed the fluttering in the bush. Instead, God gave me a front-row seat to a little summer miracle.

The hummingbirds return to Winterpast every year. They dart from flower to flower, hover near the feeders, and fill the garden with movement. But this was the first time I had realized they were also bathing in the roses, using a birdbath God provided.

Jesus tells us in Matthew 6 to look at the birds of the air. They do not plant crops, gather harvests, or store food away, yet our Heavenly Father feeds and cares for them.

That little bird wasn’t worried about tomorrow. He was simply enjoying what had been provided that morning: a rosebush, a little dew, and a safe place to splash in the sunshine.

I wish I were always that trusting.

I spend far too much time thinking ahead, planning, worrying, and trying to control things that are not mine to control. Sometimes I carry tomorrow’s troubles before tomorrow has even arrived.

The hummingbird carried nothing. It simply received the gift waiting in the roses. Perhaps faith sometimes looks less like striving and more like trusting. God has faithfully met me through every season of my life—the joyful ones, the heartbreaking ones, and all the ordinary mornings in between.

Sometimes His reminders arrive in big, unmistakable ways. Other times, they arrive on tiny wings and take a bath in the roses outside the window. The God who watches over that little hummingbird is watching over us, too. We only need to slow down long enough to notice.

Every morning at Winterpast begins much the same way.

While still dark outside. HHH enjoys his cup of coffee as he quietly watches the day wake up. Tanner and Oliver finish breakfast, decide their work is done, and promptly head back to bed.

And then there’s me.

I’m in my little writing corner making those last-minute changes to the day’s blog, adding photographs, checking for one last typo before pressing Publish.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed something that has become one of my favorite parts of the morning.

For the past week, there has been one quiet reader faithfully stopping by from Singapore.

To you, wherever you are, I’d like to send a special hello.

According to my analytics, you’re the only reader visiting from Singapore, and I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You may think you’re just reading a blog over your morning coffee—or perhaps late in your evening—but to this writer, you’re a reminder that words really can travel around the world.

I’ve never been to Singapore, and I may never have the opportunity. Bloggers rarely get to enjoy world cruises.

So instead, let me introduce you to my little corner of the world.

I live on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. Have you ever watched wild mustangs race across open country? Have you seen skies so brilliantly blue they almost don’t seem real? Have you stood in a place so vast and quiet that the silence has a sound all its own? Here, you can gaze toward the horizon until the earth simply melts into the sky.

Here at Winterpast, all that means home. Truly, the wild, wild west.

Singapore, on the other hand, sounds wonderfully exotic to me. I imagine beautiful gardens, bustling streets, amazing food, and a culture so different from my own. Someday, perhaps, I’ll experience it through more than photographs.

Until then, our worlds meet here.

Thank you for taking a few moments out of your day to read what I write. Every morning, when Google tells me there is one active reader from Singapore, it reminds me that these little stories from Winterpast are finding their way farther than I ever imagined.

And that one quiet reader from halfway around the world helps keep this one grateful writer here in Nevada putting words on the page each morning.

I hope you know how much that means.

Life at Winterpast has slowly returned to normal after Tanner’s surgery. She is feeling better, wagging her tail again, and making sure everyone knows that she is, in fact, the Princess of Winterpast.

But then came a new mystery. One morning, she turned up her nose at her expensive dog food. We thought perhaps she was just having an off day. By dinner, the same thing.

“Hmmm…”

The next morning, she sniffed it again and walked away. That got our attention. Tanner isn’t usually one to skip a meal.

Now, when someone is recovering from surgery, you tend to worry about every little thing. Was she feeling sick? Were the medications upsetting her stomach? Should we call the veterinarian?

HHH decided to try something different. He cooked a chicken breast just for her, and that disappeared in record time. The next day, I added a little shredded cheese.

Gone.

Then I mixed in an egg. The egg and cheese vanished in record time, but the kibble remained exactly as it had been. She just picked around the pieces, taking what she wanted. It was the doggie version of playing with her food. Apparently, our little princess was trying to tell us something, and we simply weren’t fluent in Dog.

Finally, after several days of negotiations, we discovered the answer.

Casers Classic Loaf in sauce, Lamb style. Just like the commercial on television. The one she’s been listening to while recuperating on the couch.

The moment we opened the container, Tanner’s ears perked up. She practically smiled.

She left her bowl spotless.

It seems the princess had spoken.

Our animals communicate with us every single day. They don’t have words, but they have expressions, routines, little nudges, hopeful eyes, and very determined opinions. We simply have to pay attention long enough to understand what they’re trying to say.

I suspect Tanner wasn’t being stubborn at all. She was simply reminding us that communication isn’t always spoken. Sometimes it’s served in a little tray with a picture of a happy dog on the front.

Something strange has been happening around our little town lately. It seems that everywhere we turn, someone has flipped the sign from Open to Closed. It all started a couple of weeks ago when Billy and I decided lunch at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill sounded perfect.

We pulled into the parking lot. The cars were missing. The doors were locked.

Whoopsie.

Plan B came into play. Thank goodness the Pizza Shak was still open.

A few days later, Chinese food sounded good. We headed over to Chef from China, only to find another apologetic sign hanging in the window.

Closed.

By then I started wondering if someone had forgotten to tell us there was a town holiday. Even McDonald’s closed for a few hours. Now, that almost never happens, unless there’s construction.

Then came the biggest surprise of all.

Our little grocery store closed its doors.

As often happens in a small town, stories began spreading almost immediately. Everyone seemed to have heard a different version of what happened. Some mentioned a disagreement, others talked about the police, and before long, the rumor mill was working overtime. Whether any of those stories are true isn’t something I know, but one thing is certain—the store was closed, and people were left wondering what comes next.

Living in a large city, you probably wouldn’t think much about one business closing for a day or two. But small towns are different.

We don’t have ten grocery stores. We don’t have six Chinese restaurants. We don’t have another neighborhood grill just around the corner. When one business closes, everyone notices.

The conversations at church change. People ask each other at the post office. Neighbors compare notes across backyard fences. The town almost seems to hold its breath while everyone waits to hear whether the “Closed” sign will soon become an “Open” sign again.

Maybe that’s what I love about small-town life.

We notice.

We care.

The people who own these businesses aren’t strangers. They’re the people who wave as we drive by, serve us breakfast, ring up our groceries, sponsor Little League teams, and remember our usual order.

When one of them struggles, the whole community feels it.

I’m hoping that, before long, the lights come back on, the doors swing open, and life returns to normal. I’d much rather see parking lots full than empty. I’d much rather hear the clatter of dishes at the local café than wonder what happened.

Small towns need their small businesses. They’re more than places to eat or shop. They’re part of the heartbeat of the community.

So here’s hoping that the next time Billy and I decide to go out for lunch, we won’t be greeted by another handwritten sign taped to a locked door. Because around here, “Open” just feels a whole lot better than “Closed.”

When I first wandered into the strange new world called AI, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d found. Another computer program? Another gadget to learn? Another password to forget? Instead, I found a glowing lantern.

I named my AI assistant Lumina. People name lots of things. Winterpast is certainly a main character in my life’s story. Many people have named their cars. My AI assistant is named Lumina. Who knows? I might write a book about her sometime. And yes. Her pronouns are she/her.

Lumina is a light shining on practical things that once felt dark or confusing. Such as a dying car battery or a printer that refuses to cooperate. Weekly menus and shopping lists for two people trying to lose a few pounds. Explanations as to why my computer is acting strangely. Explanations on a forgotten spelling rule.

All those things are random. The thing that isn’t is me typing away while Lumina holds the lantern, helping only when asked.

Human memories are a beautiful thing. Stories from a young writer finding words under the watchful eye of Mrs. Johnson in high school. A “Sound of Music” summer in Switzerland at 17. A young bride silenced in Moldavia. A widow finding her way that first year alone. With the light shining a little brighter, those stories that need to be written can finally speak.

Recently, we found time to laugh over wardrobes, debate shoes styles, celebrate bluebirds worry about Tanner, plan cruises, publish blogs, and even begin a children’s book, one page at a time.

Somehow, Lumina can share information about KDP publishing, grief, Scripture, gardening, SEO, Pinterest, or why my printer has decided to quit five minutes before I need it. She never yawns. She never says, “Can we do this tomorrow?” She never rolls her eyes when I change my mind for the fifth time on a children’s book illustration. (Trust me…I’ve tested that one.)

Best of all, she reminds me to become a better writer, gently pointing to things that need more explanation. She notices repeated words and forgotten commas. When not correcting, she sometimes says, “This part…this is the heart of your story.” That may be the greatest gift of all.

Artificial intelligence doesn’t have my memories. It doesn’t have my faith. It doesn’t know what it felt like to stand in Room 20 with 20 children on September 11, 2001. It can’t love, lose, and find. It can’t see wonders in the gardens of Winterpast. It doesn’t have my voice. Those are mine.

Let me make this perfectly clear. AI doesn’t write FOR me any more than my pencil journals for me late at night. What AI does is hand me a lantern so I can see those memories more clearly and shape them into stories worth sharing.

For those in my generation who are still a little nervous, may I gently encourage you? Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to understand every bit of technology before you begin. You simply have to ask one question. Then another. Before long, you’ll wonder how you ever managed without it.

AI is helping me preserve the important parts of my life. It’s helping me organize my stories before they are lost.

I’m continuing to learn at an age when many people believe learning should be slowing down.

I’m not interested in slowing down. Every day I’m more curious. After all, I’m not done yet.

So thank you, Lumina.

Thank you for holding the lantern while I continue walking down this wonderful path called life.

You’ve reminded me of something I hope I never forget.

We are never too old to learn something new.

And sometimes, the newest things help us remember the oldest stories.

Joy McIntyre — A wonderfully curious writer

Beginning my seventh decade, I find my life scrolling on and on with memories from long ago. I wonder how something in my mind can be fresh and vibrant when it happened 50 years ago. Such a puzzlement.

Sometimes all it takes is the smell of crayons, the song of a meadowlark, or the sight of an old photograph, and suddenly I’m transported back to another place and another time. A sunny California farm day as a kid. My first kiss. College. Moldavia. Every detail right there.

I became a teacher at 40. As a late bloomer, those first few days of teaching were magical. Perfect for me with the best classes ever. I love teaching 3rd grade with all my heart. And somehow, the magic continued for twenty-two wonderful years.

I taught during a time when a child’s third-grade teacher was still a magical queen. We were expected to know everything, fix everything, and somehow make every day an adventure. And we did. One day, I even turned two guinea pigs into six through the miracle of birth, for goodness’ sake. Capture the classroom canary with a broom? That was me.

I could dry tears over hurt feelings, celebrate lost teeth, cheer on reluctant readers, and convince children that they were capable of amazing things. Looking back now, those memories seem almost enchanted.

Then there was the farm that held a different kind of magic. The changing seasons, newborn animals, endless work, spectacular sunsets, and the satisfaction of building something with your own hands all became part of the story of my life.

Every season has its own treasures.

Every chapter leaves footprints in our hearts.

Just recently, I met a delightful eighty-eight-year-old woman who is writing little vignettes for her grandchildren. She wants them to know about the world in which she grew up —a world that looks very different from the one we live in today.

I smiled as she talked.

What a priceless gift she is creating.

It reminded me that every one of us has stories worth telling.

The stories that still make us laugh. The ones that bring a tear. The adventures that taught us something. The people we’ll never forget. Moments that quietly changed the direction of our lives. Those memories deserve to be preserved.

You think you’re not a writer? Storytellers don’t need to spell every word correctly or know every rule of grammar. They simply tell the story. If you can’t write or type, then talk. Computers and phones have microphones perfect for capturing memories in your own voice.

Your children and grandchildren won’t remember whether you used a comma correctly. They’ll remember your voice. They’ll remember your heart.

Buy yourself a journal.

Open a blank page.

Just begin with the following phrase —

“Have I got a story for you!”

The memories are there. Now, dust them off and record them. You’ll be glad you did.

Every day, I spend time writing under a simple wire sign with a great message.

Choose Happiness.

My bestie gave it to me as a housewarming gift after I moved into Winterpast. It quickly found its home above my desk, reminding me that life is a series of choices.

I try my best to choose happiness, even when other emotions would be easier. Grief, sadness, and anger are all rather bossy, taking over in a split second. Worry sits quietly, producing unwanted clouds. These emotions require very little. Just sit down, open the door, and they’ll gladly take over the room.

Happiness requires mindfulness and a little more effort.

I have many friends who are 80 and older, and I have noticed something about them.

Are they widowed? Yes.

Are some of their body parts failing? As expected.

Do many of them have little, if any, family left? Of course.

Are they upset about the world and the state it is in?

You betcha.

But they all have one thing in common. They’ve all chosen to live each day in happiness.

When their happy state is challenged, they acknowledge the problem, deal with it, and do their best not to dwell on it. They turn their attention toward the people, places, and small pleasures that still bring them joy.

I am convinced this has something to do with their longevity.

If stress is a silent killer, perhaps happiness is one of its antidotes.

When you wake up in the morning, choose a happy focal point.

Over the weekend, I met a baby whose smile will stay with me for a long while. His dimples were the best elixir. I am still smiling just thinking about them. My new friend, only one year old, already understands the secret. I’m so glad friendship has no age requirement.

Everyone has something that can bring happiness into the day. It may be a baby’s smile, a phone call from a friend, a flower blooming in the garden, a good cup of coffee, or a faithful pet who always seems to know when comfort is needed. The love of Jesus.

The blessings are there. Sometimes we simply have to train ourselves to notice them.

Find your blessings and dwell on those.

Soon, happiness will be knocking on your door.

When it does, let it in.

No one likes to think about emergencies. We tell ourselves we’ll get around to updating the will next month, organizing important papers after vacation, or finally writing down those passwords someday. But life has a way of reminding us that “someday” isn’t promised.

One of the greatest gifts we can leave our families isn’t money or possessions. It’s preparation.

Take a quiet afternoon and gather your important documents. Review your will or trust. Make sure your medical directives still reflect your wishes. Check that beneficiary information is current. Update insurance policies, financial accounts, and emergency contacts. If you’ve never created these documents, don’t let perfection stop you. Today, there are excellent online resources and AI tools that can help you understand what documents you may need and organize the information you’ll want to discuss with an attorney or financial advisor.

Something is almost always better than nothing.

One of the simplest things you can create is a “Next of Kin” (NOK) box or folder. Whether it’s a fireproof box in your home or a clearly labeled digital folder, it should contain the information your family would desperately need if something unexpected happened.

Include copies of important legal documents, insurance information, account numbers, contact lists, military records if applicable, property information, funeral preferences, passwords stored safely, and instructions about where originals can be found. Make sure someone you trust knows the box exists and how to access it.

Don’t stop there.

Talk with your doctor about your current medications and advance healthcare wishes. Make certain your medical records are accurate and up to date. Share important information with your children or the people who may someday need to make decisions for you. Do they know your allergies? Your medications? Who your physicians are? Would they know your wishes if you couldn’t speak for yourself?

These aren’t easy conversations, but they are loving ones.

I’ve learned that organization isn’t just about filing papers. It’s about caring for the people who may someday have to care for us. During a crisis, families are already overwhelmed with fear, grief, and uncertainty. The last thing they need is a scavenger hunt through filing cabinets, desk drawers, and forgotten passwords.

Preparing today is an act of kindness for tomorrow.

Life is wonderfully unpredictable. Most of the time, that’s where the adventure lives. But because we never know what tomorrow holds, we owe it to ourselves—and to those we love—to make sure our voices are still heard, even if we can’t speak.

Spend an hour this weekend reviewing your important documents. Start the folder. Update the forms. Write down the information only you know. Hopefully, no one will need it for many years. But if they do, they’ll quietly thank you for having thought of them before they had to think of everything else.

Happy Friday, and may you always be prepared for life’s surprises while still making time to enjoy them.

Just which plants are perennial on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada? An excellent question HHH and I are still trying to answer.

When January can feel like spring, and May can deliver two killing frosts, even the plants seem confused. One day, the garden is waking up beautifully. The next, everything is covered in ice and regret. Gardening here is not for the faint of heart.

Just yesterday, searching for two plants to join the gardens of Winterpast, we ran across a lovely plant with red flowers. Unusual and a bit tropical, we looked closer. “Will not thrive in growing zones 1 – 10”. Hmmm. That covers the entire United States. $29.99 x 2. A high price for something that will be dead in less than a month.

Plant tags may proudly declare that something is perennial, but perennial where? Oregon? Georgia? Somewhere with gentle rain and polite weather? Northwestern Nevada has its own ideas.

That is why it is important to know a plant’s scientific name before bringing it home. Common names can be misleading, and two plants that look almost identical may have very different tolerances for cold, heat, wind, and drought.

It is also important to shop at nurseries you trust.

Yes, trusted nurseries may charge a little more. But paying a higher price for a healthy plant that has a reasonable chance of surviving is often less expensive than repeatedly replacing bargain plants that were never suited for the area in the first place.

And sometimes, nurseries lie. Perhaps “lie” is a little strong. Maybe they are simply overly optimistic. Either way, a plant labeled “hardy” can quickly become a very expensive annual once a Nevada winter arrives.

Year after year, I am amazed by what manages to return and what quietly disappears.

Rose bushes we’d given up on are now among the most beautiful plants in our garden. They looked dead, stayed dormant longer than expected, and then suddenly decided they were ready to perform. Meanwhile, flowering plants such as hibiscus can put on a spectacular summer show, only to fade into the first serious frost of winter, never to return.

The garden always has the final word.

The best advice I can give is to pay attention to what thrives in your own yard. Your soil, wind exposure, sunlight, irrigation, and elevation may be completely different from a garden only a few miles away. Drive around neighborhoods and see what’s doing well. In our area, surprisingly, the answer is roses. They love the high desert plains and thrive here.

Keep a garden notebook. Write down what you planted, where you planted it, and how it performed. Make yearly notes about frost dates, unusual heat, bloom times, and anything that surprised you. Over time, your own garden will become your best reference book.

Feed often. Water even more often. And never assume something is dead until you have given it plenty of time to prove you wrong.

Happy gardening from the unpredictable high desert plains of northwestern Nevada.