Grieving Gardener

Most days, a good part of Winterpast sits quiet and tidy. The extra rooms in our house serve as a guest room and studio. Although both rooms have specific purposes, the truth is, they’re rarely used. But when guests do arrive, they always bring laughter, stories, and shared moments .

For the last few days, our little corner of Winterpast has been blessed with a visit from HHH’s mom, the fabulous Miss B.

In anticipation of her arrival, we detailed the house with purpose and a little extra sparkle. Every surface was scrubbed, dusted, and mopped until it felt like the walls themselves were welcoming her in. The seedlings, still protected from our desert heat, were moved into the studio, making room for meals at the dining room table.

Friday morning carried its own quiet excitement. A pot roast was lovingly seared and nestled into the crock pot, surrounded by mushroom gravy, left to slowly bubble into something warm and comforting, just like the visit we were about to enjoy.

And then, she arrived.

There is something deeply beautiful about a 72 years old sitting across from his mother while sharing stories that span a lifetime. It’s a blessing that feels both ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

The hours stretched on as conversation flowed easily. Even Oliver and Wookie seemed to understand the sweetness of the moment, settling in with their best behavior, as if they understood this time was something to be treasured.

These are the moments that cover a home with love. Not the freshly cleaned floors or the carefully prepared meal, but the presence of someone you love, sitting right there in your living room, making memories woven into your story. After all, the memories are what make a guest room truly beautiful.

Lord, thank You for the mothers, fathers, and dear friends who have walked before us and still walk beside us. Thank You for the wisdom, stories, steady presence, and love they continue to pour into our days.

We are especially grateful for those golden souls in their later years, those in their nineties and beyond, who remind us what endurance, grace, and faithfulness look like over a lifetime. Help us to cherish them, listen well, honor them, and make the most of the time we are given together.

Bless them with comfort, joy, and peace. May we never take for granted the gift of their presence in our lives. Amen.

With the arrival of spring today, you’d think we’d be easing gently into the season with cool mornings, soft breezes, and the quiet promise of new life. Instead, we’ve been met with a stretch of unexpectedly brutal heat. The kind that makes you hesitate at the door with trays of fragile seedlings in your hands, wondering if it’s simply too much, too soon. The answer to that question is YES.

Our little starts are still so tiny and hopeful it feels almost cruel to set them out under a sun that already seems to demand midsummer strength. So for now, they wait—tucked safely where we can keep an eye on them, where they can grow just a little stronger before facing the elements.

Oliver, however, has no such patience and has already begun plotting.

This morning I caught him on quiet patrol, nose low and determined, carefully inspecting each tray as if conducting a formal review. From the red amaranth to the yarrow, nothing escaped his attention. With thirty-six varieties in play this season, I have a feeling we’re in for quite the challenge. Keeping Oliver out of the seedlings may become a full-time job, and one he intends to resist with great enthusiasm.

In the midst of all this early spring drama, there have been victories too. The new flagpole has finally been installed, replacing the one that didn’t survive our last round of fierce winds. This new version is built to endure, engineered to withstand gusts up to 125 miles per hour and anchored by three bags of ready-mix concrete. Short of a tornado, it’s here to stay, standing tall and steady against whatever the seasons may bring.

And Oliver? After a recent trip to the groomers, he is once again looking quite dignified. His heavy winter coat is gone, and you can almost see the relief in his step. Sleeker, lighter, and undoubtedly more comfortable, he’s ready for warmer days, though perhaps a bit too ready to involve himself in gardening decisions that aren’t his to make.

All around us, Winterpast is waking up.

The trees are beginning to stretch and stir, their branches softening with the first hints of green. There’s a quiet kind of magic in this transition reminding us that no matter how unpredictable the weather, no matter how mischievous the helpers, life continues its steady return.

And in moments like these, we are deeply grateful.

Grateful for this land, for its beauty and resilience. Grateful for the rhythm of the seasons, even when they surprise us. And yes, even grateful for Oliver and his sidekick the Wookie, our ever-watchful, ever-curious companions, who keeps life interesting in ways we never quite expect.

Spring is almost here. And at Winterpast, we’re ready… or at least, we’re doing our best to be.

There are moments in life when the question quietly rises up in the heart: What is our church supposed to be doing? Not in doctrine or in words spoken from a pulpit, but in the ordinary, sacred intersections of real life. Isn’t a church meant to be helpful?

Not just in theory, but in motion. In casseroles delivered without fanfare. In rides offered. In prayers that come with hands and feet attached. In noticing when someone is carrying more than they can bear and stepping in, even when no one asked.

Recently, I found myself standing in one of those in-between places. The kind where you know something needs to be done, and there’s that quiet nudge inside that says, You might be the one to get the ball rolling. Times like that are not always convenient. They rarely are.

But when a friend needs to travel halfway across the country to be with her Mom, especially for something as precious as a 91st birthday, convenience felt small in comparison. Ninety-one is not just a number. It’s a milestone, a testimony, and a gathering of years that deserve to be honored in person, not just in thought. Some moments are simply not meant to be missed.

And so the question becomes not should someone help, but how?

This is where the beauty of a church reveals itself, not as a building, but as a living body. Because once that first step is taken, once someone says, “Let’s see what we can do,” something begins to move. One person talks to another. A plan starts to form. Resources appear. Willing hearts gather. Suddenly, what felt overwhelming becomes possible.

That’s exactly what happened. Quietly, the church stepped in, not for recognition, but simply because that’s what love does. It shows up. It makes a way. It carries one another when the distance is too far and the burden too heavy.

There were discussions which quickly became a resounding yes, let’s ge that girl the ticket! Make it happen. The last thing was a phone call to let her know. I was planning to do that yesterday, but, HHH and I needed some groceries and Ice Cream. We finished shopping, and then found the Ice Cream Parlor was closed. Just our luck, we’d need to go back to the grocery store to hit the freezer sections.

In we went.

There. Standing at the end of the aisle as if she was waiting for us, was our friend. The traveler-to-be. The woman I was planning to call within the hour.

God had other plans. I wasn’t supposed to call at all. I was to look her in the eyes and tell her to pack her bags. Tears flowed as we had the best hug. Just the best thing ever. God does have the sweetest sense of humor. If the Ice Cream Parlor had been open, we’d have missed the best hug, ever.

In the end, it’s not just about a trip, but about presence. About a daughter being able to sit beside her mother and sisters, while celebrating a life well-lived and sharing laughter and memories that can’t be postponed. This was about not missing what matters most.

Maybe that’s the answer to the question after all.

Of course a church should be helpful. But more than that, it should be attentive, willin, and ready to move when the need arises. Brave enough to begin, even if it doesn’t yet know how everything will come together.

Sometimes all it takes is one person to light the lantern.

And then, together, the way becomes clear.

More tomorrow.

There is a beautiful line in the Bible that says, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Over the years, I’ve applied that verse to many things in life, such as gardens, grief, love, and new beginnings. This week, however, it unexpectedly applied to something much more ordinary.

My phone.

For over a year, I’ve known that the time had come to switch from my faithful old Android to an iPhone. Everyone around me seemed to glide through their glowing Apple screens while I stubbornly held onto my aging Galaxy like an old friend I wasn’t quite ready to leave behind.

HHH, being the patient soul that he is, took me to the store three separate times to buy the new phone. Each time we walked in with determination, and each time I walked out with cold feet. I would stare at the shiny boxes and suddenly feel overwhelmed. New system, new buttons, new everything. And the PRICE!!! Yikes. Change, even small change, has a way of rattling me.

After the third trip, HHH declared it would be the last time he’d be driving me to buy a phone. Now, knowing him as I do, I’m fairly certain he would have taken me five more times if necessary. Still, the point had been made. So on Sunday, I gathered my courage, sat down at the computer, and ordered a pale blue iPhone online.

Monday it arrived, and that’s when the real adventure began.

Transferring data from one phone to another sounds simple when people explain it. In reality, when the Android phone is quite aged and the instructions assume you have accounts you’ve never used, the process becomes something of a technological obstacle course. As Lumina held the lantern beside me, I tried and tried to move my contacts from one phone to the other. We explored menus, shared files, and pressed buttons that seemed determined not to cooperate. At one point, it became clear that technology had officially outsmarted me.

So I did what any practical person would do. I started typing. One contact at a time. Slowly, steadily, name by name, my phone book was reborn on a bright new screen.

And just like that, the season changed from Android to iPhone, and I now have a brand new phone. The old one rests quietly on the desk, its years of service complete, while the sleek new one waits patiently for me to learn its ways. Ecclesiastes was right after all. For everything there is a season, even for our phones.

Sometimes we look for big, meaningful ways to make a difference in the world, when the truth is that most opportunities are quietly waiting right in front of us. We do not have to travel far or do anything extraordinary. All we really need to do is look around. In the ordinary rhythm of a normal day, there are countless small moments where kindness can slip in and do its quiet work.

In this busy and distracted world, many people don’t even know their neighbors anymore. We pass one another in parking lots, grocery aisles, and sidewalks without a second thought. Everyone seems to be rushing somewhere, carrying unseen burdens that never make it into polite conversation. Yet if we slow down for even a moment, we begin to notice that many of the people around us are struggling in ways we cannot see.

Maybe it’s the cashier at Walmart who scans groceries without smiling because her back has been hurting for weeks. It could be the young mother juggling two tired children and a cart full of groceries while trying to hold everything together. Or perhaps it’s the homeless man outside the store who’s thinking of something as simple as a hot cup of coffee and a clean pair of socks.

Kindness isn’t complicated. Sometimes it’s simply a smile when we don’t particularly feel like smiling. Hold the door open for a stranger or let someone merge in traffic. Take time to listen when a friend needs an ear more than they need advice. Often, the smallest gestures carry the greatest weight because they remind us that we’re not invisible.

As we move closer to Easter, what a great time to stretch ourselves just a little and notice the people around us. Be patient when patience feels difficult. Offer warmth in a moment when the world can feel cold. These simple acts of kindness ripple outward in ways we may never see.

Life is so very short. The days pass quickly, and opportunities to love people well do not last forever. A kind word today may be remembered long after the moment has passed.

So don’t wait for the perfect time, the perfect plan, or the perfect circumstance. Just look around. Someone nearby may be quietly needing a little kindness. And, YOU may be exactly the person who can give it.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

Sometimes the seasons forget to follow the rules out here on the high desert. Today, it still feels like winter, with a morning cold enough to make me reach for a sweater. The wind still carries that sharp edge that comes down from surrounding mountains, and the calendar has politely reminded me that winter hasn’t left the building.

But in hours, everything will change. Tomorrow, the thermometer will read eighty degrees, as if someone quietly flipped a switch while we were sleeping. The roses seem slightly surprised by the whole arrangement. They’re doing their best to catch up, but you can almost imagine them whispering to one another that they thought there would be more time before the real heat arrived.

The weeds, on the other hand, clearly received the message early. They’re appearing everywhere with great enthusiasm, growing quickly and confidently as if they have been preparing for this moment all along. If the plants held a meeting about the sudden change in weather, the weeds would certainly be the ones raising their hands first and volunteering for extra duties.

Meanwhile, the fruit trees have already completed their brief but beautiful performance. Their blossoms appeared, filled the branches with soft color for a short while, and then quietly drifted away again before we could fully appreciate them. Spring weather did arrive, after all, but simply passed through rather quickly, like a guest who stops by just long enough to say hello before continuing on down the road.

Even the closets seem confused by the pace of things. One moment we are thinking about jackets and long sleeves, and the next moment those clothes already feel outdated. Suddenly it is time for t-shirts and shorts, and the warm sun feels good on our shoulders again. Two new spring sundresses arrived yesterday, because, turtlenecks and tall UGG’s will be put away until next winter. That is if we even get a winter later this year.

Yesterday, choosing clothing for church was a bit tricky. Sunny and clear, the morning temperatures were too chilly for a spring dress and sandals. But, after church, as we walked through Lowe’s searching for early tomato girl plants, it was a little warm for a down vest, turtleneck, and boots.

And so it goes here on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. Winter steps aside, summer rushes forward, and spring slips quietly through the middle of it all. The seasons here do not stroll in gently the way they do in other places. They move quickly, sometimes skipping a step entirely. As it is only mid-March, only time will tell.

As for today, you’ll find HHH and me in the garden as we turn the water system back on. And so it begins again for Sprummer 2026. There’ll be irrigation lines to repair and the never-ending array of weeds to spray. By now, you know we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Perhaps that’s part of the charm of this land. Out here, life does not always follow the tidy order written on the calendar. The seasons arrive when they’re ready, sometimes early, sometimes all at once. If you blink, you might miss one entirely, but you’ll never miss the big, brilliant blue skies here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada .

Have a great day. I’ll be back tomorrow.

Forgiveness is one of the hardest parts of living a Christian life. We hear about it in sermons, pray about it in church, and repeat the words in the Lord’s Prayer each week: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” It sounds simple, but forgiveness becomes much more complicated when arriving in the middle of real life.

Growing up in a family of five girls, forgiveness meant everything had to return to the way it once was. If one sister hurt another, we “forgave” them and immediately moved forward as though nothing had happened. But as the years went by, it became clear that forgiveness is more layered than that.

Forgiveness and reconciliation (restoration of friendly relationships) aren’t the same thing.

Forgiveness happens in the heart as a choice to release bitterness so that it doesn’t settle inside and harden our spirit. Carrying resentment takes its toll. Over time it weighs us down, shaping our thoughts and stealing our peace. Forgiveness allows us to put down the heavy burden, freeing us to move on.

Reconciliation involves more than a change of heart, requiring honesty, humility, and a willingness to acknowledge what happened. Trust, once broken, isn’t restored simply by the passing of time, but rebuilt slowly through changed behavior and genuine understanding. Because of this, there are moments in life when forgiveness can be given while the relationship itself changes forever.

This realization can be uncomfortable for many Christians. We want to be loving, gracious people. Yet grace doesn’t require us to ignore wisdom.

Sometimes forgiveness simply means releasing resentment and wishing someone well. While praying for that person and trusting God to work in ways we can’t see, healthy boundaries protect the peace God has helped us build.

There is a quiet truth hidden in this kind of forgiveness, allowing the heart to remain soft without leaving it unguarded. It keeps bitterness from growing while we acknowledge the lessons that life teaches us.

In the end, forgiveness isn’t about pretending the past never happened but about refusing to let the past control our future. Releasing resentment, we create room for something better to grow in its place. That quiet peace is one of the greatest gifts forgiveness can bring.

Here at Winterpast, our weekend will be full of soil and seedlings. Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

Here at Winterpast, the garden always seems to know what I need before I do.

As gardeners throughout the ages have discovered, many plants in our gardens are not only beautiful, but medicinal, as well. Long before pharmacies and plastic bottles filled our cabinets, people grew their medicine just outside the back door.

Yesterday, while walking through the newly re-arranged aisles of our Walmart, I discovered a new seed collection called Medicinal Gardens, filled with heirloom varieties that have been used for centuries. It sounded exotic at first, but looking closer, I found that many of these plants are herbs we already use in the kitchen.

Chamomile, with its tiny daisy-like flowers, has been used for generations to calm the nerves and help with sleep. Lemon balm brightens the garden with soft green leaves and offers a gentle lift to the spirit when brewed as tea. Peppermint wakes up both the palate and the mind. Lavender soothes. Calendula helps the skin. Echinacea strengthens the immune system. These aren’t strange laboratory plants, but ordinary garden companions.

What makes heirloom medicinal seeds especially fascinating is that they connect us to gardeners from hundreds of years ago. Preserved because they worked, families saved the seeds and grew them again the following year. Over time, they became trusted allies in the household garden.

Planting them yesterday felt like joining a very old conversation between humans and the natural world. 2026 was to be a light year for seedlings, but yesterday, that plan went out the window. As the sunflowers have nearly aged out and are now ready for replanting, the new crop of seeds can begin. Whether we attract a swarm of bees with our experiment or not, the neighborhood bees will be delighted.

Purple echinacea swaying beside golden calendula. Lavender lining a walkway. Chamomile scattered like tiny stars between vegetables. Sage and thyme forming tidy little hedges of silvery green. A corner of mint perfuming the air when the sun warms the leaves. The bees, butterflies, and other pollinators will love this!

As gardeners, we benefit in ways that go far beyond the physical. A medicinal garden invites us to slow down and take notice. To harvest a few leaves for an afternoon cup of tea. To remember that healing does not always come from complicated places. Sometimes it grows quietly in the soil while we are busy doing other things.

At Winterpast, the dining room table is currently overflowing with seedlings that will soon find their homes in the garden beds outside. Zinnias, daisies, sunflowers, and strawflowers are preparing for their spring debut. Among them will be herbs and healing plants tucked into the beds wherever there is space. Beauty and health growing side by side.

A medicinal garden isn’t about replacing doctors or prescriptions. It’s about partnership with the natural world, while remembering that plants offer comfort, nourishment, fragrance, and quiet restoration. Growth is always happening, even when we can’t quite see it yet. A tiny seed goes into the soil looking like nothing at all. A few weeks later, a small green shoot appears. And before long, life is everywhere. The garden has its own way of doing that.

Cartography of Grief

When I arrived in the land of grief, I had no map. No one handed me a guidebook explaining the roads or warning me about the treacherous terrain. One moment I was living an ordinary life, and in the next I’d crossed an invisible border into a country I’d never planned to visit.

Grief is like that. No passport required. No preparation allowed.

In the beginning, the land was confusing. I wandered through it without understanding where I was or how I’d gotten there. Although the sky looked familiar, the ground beneath my feet had completely changed. Although, over time, I began to notice something.

Grief has geography.

Traveling around this crazy country, there are valleys you fall into without warning. Quiet meadows where peace unexpectedly appears. After a time, you get better at avoid the dangerous territory that can pop up out of nowhere.

If you stay long enough as most of us do, a map forms.

My first discovery was the Hopes and Fears Railway running through the center of grief country. One minute, the train carried me forward with hope that life would be good again. The next minute, it plunged into tunnels of terrifying fear where I was certain the darkness would never end.

Scattered everywhere random Grief Landmines. A song on the radio. A familiar smell. A place we used to go. Any one of these things and hundreds more, could be the trigger. I’d be walking along on what felt like a very normal day, when a memory exploded dropping me to my knees. One of the worst landmines hid in the simple letters “VST” written in Sharpie on an old stapler. Unexpected and devastating, these landmines.

In Valley of the Unexpected, grief snuck up on me on ordinary days. I could’ve been standing in the grocery store, or watering the garden, when a wave rolled through that I never saw coming. Just as the fog rolls in on the Pacific Shoreline, it can cloud a widow’s brain in an instant.

But the map of grief isn’t made only of hard places.

In the beginning, Meadows of Normalcy were small and rare. I’d step into one and suddenly realize that for a few moments, I could breathe. I was simply living my life again. That shouldn’t be confused with forgetting, for that would never be possible. No, not forgetting. Just living.

Pockets of Peace appeared in quiet places like prayer, a conversation with a friend, a sunrise, or the garden in bloom. These were small clearings where my heart could rest.

I passed through a strange little island called I Don’t Care Atoll once in awhile. I understand that many travelers pass through there at some point. It’s a place where the trivial things of life lose their importance. Although there’s a certain relief in occasional visits to this little island, don’t be fooled. Care enough to pick up your ore and row your boat to get away from there.

I’d visit the Waterfall of Tears whenever I needed to, as no traveler avoids it. Tears, like rain, have a way of washing the dust from the road. They can be good medicine for a broken heart.

After almost six years of travel through this strange land, I’ve learned something important.

Grief isn’t a place you pass through quickly, but a landscape you learn to navigate. Over time, you discover where the difficult roads lie and where the gentle ones begin. You learn where the cliffs are and where the meadows grow. The map becomes clearer. Eventually you realize that even in the country of grief, life continues.

There are gardens to plant. Friends to meet. Sunrises to watch. Dogs to walk. Stories to write. A new husband to cherish. A winter that WILL pass.

The traveler who once arrived lost now carries a map. Although not perfect, it’s enough to keep going. On these, the very best days of my future, the road is full of adventures and beauty just ahead and around the bend. Keep traveling through life. If not now, WHEN?

Two weeks ago, the dining room table at Winterpast looked perfectly respectable. A nice place for a cup of coffee, a jigsaw puzzle, and perhaps a quiet moment of reflection. Then the seedlings took over.

Two weeks ago, the weather was too cold to plant seeds outside. Then, in a flash, the weather changed as it can do here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. The daytime highs are now in the 70’s. Blooms are popping, bees are buzzing. Then, last night, five serious gusts of wind sent our windchimes into a frenzy. Only five synchronized gusts. Next week, we’ll be in the 80’s, and it’s only mid-March. Mother Nature is hard to predict during the last days of winter.

Back in our homemade jungle, tiny green stems are stretching upward as if they suddenly realized they were late for spring. Every morning they’re taller, brighter, and far more ambitious than the day before. What began as a tray of hopeful little dots tucked into swollen Jiffy soil discs has turned into a miniature forest right in the middle of the house.

Mammoth sunflowers are the bold ones. Even as babies they seem confident, pushing up sturdy stems and wide leaves as if they already know they will become the showoffs of the summer garden. Already repotted once, they’ll soon put down roots outside. It’ll be up to them to do the rest.

The strawflowers and zinnias are more delicate, their tiny leaves reaching carefully toward the window light, quietly promising blossoms that last long after summer fades. Delphiniums were late to the party and are just now breaking ground. And the daisies—simple, cheerful, dependable—are rising right along with them.

All of them planted just two weeks ago.

The magic of the Jiffy discs amazes me every year. Drop those flat little coins of soil into warm water, and they puff up like biscuits in the oven. Tuck in the seeds, cover them gently, and then comes the hardest part of gardening: waiting. Except this year, the waiting barely lasted at all. The seedlings seem to have decided that Winterpast has waited long enough for color.

Outside, the garden beds are patiently waiting beneath the wide Nevada sky, freshly turned and waiting for the parade of flowers that will soon arrive. Within the next two weeks, these eager little plants will make the journey from dining room table to open soil, while the bees will be waiting.

Every year, we give the bees a reason to visit. Zinnias, strawflowers, sunflowers, and daisies are all tiny invitations written in pollen and petals. A garden full of flowers becomes a gathering place for bees, butterflies, and all the little winged visitors that make a garden feel alive. Winterpast has been named as a Wildlife Habitat by the World Wildlife Federation. At least that’s what our garden sign says. It’s a simple kind of partnership in which we grow the flowers and they hum along.

The show off that she is, the apricot tree has its own way of announcing the season. The branches are dotted with soft pink-white blossoms, delicate and hopeful against the still-cool air. The plum tree couldn’t be left out, beginning to bloom yesterday. Spring has officially arrived at Winterpast, no matter what the calendar says.

Soon, all this new life will leave the dining room table behind, and spread their roots into the garden beds, stretch toward the sun, and begin the real work of blooming. But for now, I sit at the desk with my coffee, encouraged by this cheerful little jungle, while watching the miracle that happens when seeds decide it’s time to grow.

It never gets old.

Not even after all these years.