Grieving Gardener

Six years ago, I was finding my way toward a blog. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. Week after week, thousands of people visit GrievingGardener.com for many different reasons. Some are grieving. Some come for gardening tips. Some like the adventures. Some probably just stop by to see what HHH and I have gotten ourselves into now. Somehow, over the last six years, this little blog written from my desk at Winterpast has found its way around the world.

Which brings me to Guernsey.

To the person who has been reading from Guernsey, would you please email me? I would love to know about you and your country. I have no inside on your identity. All I know is that one person reads from Guernsey. I must admit, I had to look up the location of Guernsey. Now I am enchanted. Perhaps I could hold a book signing there. Do you have a bookstore? I think a trip may be required for research purposes.

At any rate, please email me. I will send you a beautiful, custom bookmark to use with Widow: A Journey Toward Life, to be released on November 11, 2026. (grievinggardenerjoy@gmail.com)

Six years ago, I never dreamed that with time I would be sitting at my desk on a Wednesday afternoon celebrating the completion of not one book, but three versions of that book.

Hardcover.

Paperback.

E-book.

Complete.

The last proofs are on their way, and Widow: A Journey Toward Life is waiting patiently for November 11, 2026, when all three editions will be ready to fly off Amazon’s bookshelves.

There were certainly days when I wondered if we would ever get here. Covers changed. Pages moved. Things that looked perfect suddenly weren’t. One correction led to another, and another, and probably another after that.

After months of patience, I would say to HHH, “Honey, the book is done.” He doesn’t take that bait anymore. I might have been done with the paperback, but the hardcover needed a small adjustment, which then required a new cover, and I promptly lost it in cyberspace for a bit. Trust me when I tell you, the writing was the easy part.

But we got here. The e-copy of the book is up for pre-sale on Amazon. Just search Joy McIntyre on Amazon to get a first glimpse of the cover. It will be released on 11/11/2026, but I might have mentioned that a few times already.

So now, I’m going to do something rather wonderful.

I’m going to vacation. The work is finished. The last proofs are coming. The book has its very own release date. For a little while, there is nothing left to do but enjoy the anticipation and perhaps dream about what comes next.

Milestones are funny things. Sometimes we’re so busy trying to reach the next one that we walk right past the one we just accomplished. Not this one.

I’m stopping to look around.

I’m remembering the woman who sat down six years ago and began writing because she needed somewhere to put all those words. She couldn’t possibly have known where they would take her. A blog became a community. Readers came from around the world. And now, there is a book with three ways to read it.

On November 11th, I plan to raise the roof. It won’t be long now. Less than two months.

I can’t wait.

Twenty-five years have passed.

How can that possibly be?

September 11, 2001, feels like a lifetime ago. And yet, when I allow myself to go back there, I can remember that morning as though it happened yesterday.

I was teaching third grade.

In those days, I had a habit of getting to school ridiculously early. It was my favorite time of the day. The halls were quiet. My classroom was peaceful. And, most importantly, all the other teachers were still sleeping and the copier was mine. Teachers will understand.

I had a thirty-minute drive to work, and my morning routine included stopping at Klein’s Truck Stop for my first Diet Coke of the day.

Mohammed was working behind the counter. He was a super guy.

That morning, he was watching the television.

He mentioned that something had happened in New York. There had apparently been an accident. Something about a small plane crashing into a building. Thank goodness there was an entire country between New York City and me.

I thanked him, picked up my Diet Coke, and continued on to school.

By the time I reached my classroom and turned on the television, the world had changed.

Once and for all.

Suddenly, New York didn’t feel quite so far away.

Both of my boys were in the United States Air Force.

That very morning, one of my sons and his new wife left their base in New Jersey for a new assignment in California. My other son was stationed in England, serving as a linguist.

Two sons were serving our country while our country was now under attack.

And I was their mother.

But in a little while, twenty third graders would walk through my classroom door.

And I was their teacher.

By the time twenty littles pulled out their chairs that morning, they already understood something was different.

Children always know.

They had seen teachers crying.

They had seen worried, strained faces on adults who normally greeted them with smiles.

Some of their classmates’ chairs were empty because those children had stayed home with Mom.

Our principal’s eyes were red.

The janitor was talking with his family in Mexico.

Everywhere these children looked, the grown-ups were behaving differently.

Something had happened.

Something terrible.

And they needed us to help them understand it.

Should little children know about these things?

Absolutely.

Not every horrible detail. Not images that will haunt them.

But the truth?

Yes.

Children know when adults are frightened. Pretending nothing has happened doesn’t make them feel safer.

So we talked.

And throughout that day, we wrote and drew our hearts out.

We wrote letters to nurses, doctors, firefighters, New York City Police officers. Heroes we didn’t even know. People we would never meet.

Those who could write, wrote. Those who couldn’t find the words, drew pictures.

After finding it on our classroom map, we talked about New York.

Should my third graders have had a geography lesson during math about the distance between Madera, California, and New York City?

That day, they had to. They needed to understand where this was happening. They needed to understand that something could happen thousands of miles away and still matter to us.

And when somebody needed a hug, we hugged.

That day, something happened in Room 20.

Twenty little children and one scared teacher became a classroom of love.

And somehow, we remained knitted together that way for the rest of the school year.

Twenty-five years later, those third graders are adults now, with lives of their own. Some may have children in elementary school like they were on September 11, 2001.

I wonder what they remember. Do they remember Room 20? Do they remember the letters and drawings? Do they remember the adults crying? Do they remember looking at a map and discovering just how far away New York City was? Do they remember their young, frightened teacher trying to comfort them?

I hope they remember something else. I hope they remember that they comforted me, too.

Those children taught me something that day. When the world becomes frightening, we don’t have to understand everything before we can do something good. We can write a letter. Draw a picture. Hold someone’s hand. Say a prayer. Offer a hug.

We can be kind.

There is one number I still see regularly here in Nevada.

343.

On the backs of firetrucks in my little town are the words:

Stay Back 343 Feet.

It is a tribute to the 343 members of the New York City Fire Department who died on September 11.

Twenty-five years later, that number still travels down the streets of my little Nevada town.

I love that.

Because 343 isn’t simply a number. They were firefighters. They were people. They were sons and daughters, husbands and fathers, brothers and friends.

While thousands of others also lost their lives that day, those three numbers have become one small way of saying:

We remember.

Twenty-five years have passed.

There are now adults who weren’t alive when the towers fell. There are children for whom September 11 is something in a history lesson rather than a memory.

That’s why those of us who remember need to keep remembering. Remember every one of the fallen. Regular people who simply went to work that beautiful September morning and never came home.

And remember the extraordinary bravery, heroism, and kindness that appeared in the middle of something so terrible.

Today, do something kind.

Something real.

Watch some of the footage from that day.

Learn about someone who was there.

Listen to the stories.

Sing along with Come From Away and remember the people of Gander who opened their homes and their hearts to strangers.

Tell a child what happened. And then tell that child about the helpers.

Twenty-five years ago, twenty little third graders in Room 20 taught their teacher how people respond when the world suddenly becomes frightening.

They loved.

They helped.

They comforted.

They cared about people they had never met.

Twenty-five years later, I can only pray that some of that kindness remains in their hearts.

It certainly remains in mine.

Twenty-five years have passed.

How can that possibly be?

September 11, 2001, feels like a lifetime ago. And yet, when I allow myself to go back there, I can remember that morning as though it happened yesterday.

You can hear it coming. Before the trees begin to bend and before the first tumbleweed races across the yard, there is a sound in the distance.

The wind is on its way.

Living in the high desert means becoming acquainted with wind. Not a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. We have those, too, and on a warm evening with the windows open, they are glorious.

But then there are the other winds.

The winds that announce themselves.

They come racing across miles of open desert with very little standing in their way. By the time they reach Winterpast, they have gathered speed, dust, leaves, and apparently every tumbleweed in northern Nevada.

Suddenly, the peaceful afternoon is gone. The trees begin dancing. Wind chimes that were pleasantly tinkling a few minutes earlier are holding on for dear life. Patio cushions become airborne. Anything that hasn’t been properly secured is immediately identified. And somewhere, inevitably, a tumbleweed the size of a Volkswagen is headed toward the house.

The desert has wind with personality.

We even have the Washoe Zephyr, the famous afternoon wind that comes barreling down the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada and across the valleys. Some days it arrives like an old friend, cooling the evening after a hot summer day.

Other days, it arrives with an attitude. Those are the days when you look out the window and realize that something you own is no longer where you left it.

Living here teaches you to pay attention. Clouds gathering over the mountains mean something. A sudden change in temperature means something. That peculiar stillness before the wind arrives definitely means something.

And then there is the dust. Desert dust doesn’t simply blow around. It infiltrates. It finds window tracks, doorways, porches, car,s and every surface you cleaned approximately eleven minutes before the wind began.

There are days when the mountains disappear completely behind a curtain of brown.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the wind moves on.

The trees become still.

The chimes settle down.

The mountains reappear.

And the desert exhales.

There is something humbling about living in a place where nature refuses to become background scenery.

The desert demands that you notice it.

The heat tells you when to seek shade.

The cold reminds you that desert winters are real.

The rain can turn dry ground into rushing water in minutes.

And the wind?

The wind reminds you that you aren’t in charge, and perhaps that isn’t such a bad reminder.

We spend so much of our lives trying to control things. We make plans. We arrange our days. We put things exactly where we want them and expect them to remain there. Then a 50-mile-per-hour wind comes roaring across the desert and deposits somebody else’s tumbleweed against the front door. There goes control.

Maybe that’s one of the things I love about living at Winterpast. This place keeps me paying attention It reminds me to look at the sky. To notice the changing seasons. To appreciate the quiet evenings when the windows can stay open and the curtains barely move. And to be grateful when everything I put on the patio in the morning is still there at bedtime.

The winds will always return.

They’ve been crossing this desert far longer than I’ve been here, and they’ll continue long after I’m gone.

Tonight is the New Moon. We finally have a trailer. We finally have the right night. After living in Nevada for 15 years, I planned to finally see the Milky Way over my mystical, magical inland sea. We were ready. Until the weather report this morning. 50 mph winds possible. And so, I’ll look at the Milky Way on YouTube for another month.

Today, when I hear that familiar sound beginning somewhere in the distance, I’ll know what’s coming.

I’ll close the windows.

Check the patio.

Look toward the mountains.

And wait.

The desert will again remind us who’s in charge.

Sometimes dreams really do come true. And sometimes something enjoyed so intensely needs to be revisited. HHH and I are experiencing just such a thing. It turns out that each of us had quietly longed to RV just once more in this life.

And so, we bought a trailer.

Not just any trailer, mind you.

We bought the most beautiful trailer—one that makes both of us positively giddy with delight every time we talk about it. After spending some wonderful time on the high seas, we’ve decided to ground ourselves for a while and enjoy the open road.

And so, we are.

RVing is a funny thing. Either you get it, or you don’t. I’ve had friends look at me with scrunched-up faces and ask, “But what do you do?”

Oh my. There is so much, I hardly know where to start. It’s the entire ritual. It’s deciding where you’re going. It’s planning the route. It’s packing the cupboards and refrigerator. It’s checking all the little things that need checking. It’s pulling out of the driveway knowing that everything you need is traveling right along behind you. And then you hit the road.

For HHH and me, it’s glorious.

It isn’t about rushing from one attraction to another. It isn’t even necessarily about the destination. Sometimes it’s about sitting outside with a cup of coffee in a place you’ve never awakened before. It’s about wandering down a road simply because you’ve never been down it.

It’s about cooking dinner outside, watching the sun disappear behind unfamiliar mountains and knowing that tomorrow you can stay right where you are—or move on. It’s freedom with a kitchen.

What’s not to love?

Our first trip is tomorrow. And what a first night we’ve chosen.

We will finally be under the dark skies of a new moon, away from the lights that usually compete with the stars. For the first time in my life, I may actually see the Milky Way. I cannot wait.

There is something delicious about beginning again at this age. We don’t need to travel around the world. We don’t need to prove anything. We don’t even need to know exactly where all of this will take us. We just need a road and each other. And apparently, one ridiculously beautiful trailer.

So, for HHH and me, it’s Happy Trails and the beginning of a new journey.

Stay tuned.

There will be lots to share along the way.

As more leaves begin to fall, it’s undeniable. Summer is winding down, and autumn is just around the corner. After the relentless heat of only a few weeks ago, we can finally open the windows at night and enjoy the evening breeze. Of course, last week it was the Zephyr Winds blowing through, but that isn’t every night. Weather in the desert can be very random.

As for the roses, they continue to surprise me. Happy Go Lucky has been rather quiet during the heat, but she is getting ready to explode in yellow blooms. The Grand Dame is reaching for the sky. Independence Day is giving it her best. And the only Tequila Sunrise in our garden is absolutely flaming with coral blooms. Bliss is blissful. The bush roses are covered in buds and blossoms, as though they have all decided there is still plenty of time for one more show before the season ends.

Not to be outdone, the chrysanthemums are full and getting ready to explode with blossoms of their own.

The tomatoes, on the other hand, are withering away. They’ve done their job.

The anise is doing its best to get some recognition from the back of the garden, while nearly everything else seems determined to give us one last hurrah.

Perhaps that’s why I love this time of year so much. The garden isn’t finished. It just knows its time is getting short. There is something about these last blooms that makes them seem even more beautiful than the first. In spring, I expect flowers. I’ve waited all winter for them.

But these?

These are gifts.

They arrive after months of blazing sun, relentless heat, watering, trimming, feeding and wondering whether some poor plant is going to make it through another Nevada summer. And then September arrives. Suddenly, something that looked exhausted a few weeks ago is covered with buds.

There is always a sigh of relief at this time of year for desert gardeners. We made it. The plants made it. And perhaps best of all, we can finally expect our water bills to begin their seasonal decline.

Thank goodness.

This August wasn’t nearly as brutal as some we’ve experienced, and I am grateful for that. Still, there comes a point every summer when I’m ready to stop fighting the heat and welcome something different.

Apparently, the stores agree. Halloween displays have already appeared at Lowe’s. Boxes of artificial Christmas trees sit in the empty garden center.

The Burners are on the road home.

Leaves are beginning to fall.

The windows are open at night.

And the roses are putting on one last magnificent show.

Bring it on.

Because as beautiful as spring can be, I think the desert saves something special for the end. The last really may be the best.

It doesn’t get much better than autumn in the desert.

Burning Man is a wrap for another year.

For the life of me, I still don’t understand the annual pilgrimage through the desert to meet up on the playa. Thousands upon thousands of people travel from all over the world to spend days living on a dry lakebed in the Nevada desert. This year was no different.

Last week, we had days of 50-mile-per-hour winds raging across the desert, carrying dust finer than baker’s flour. That dust finds every crease, every cranny, every zipper, every vehicle, every tent and every single thing unfortunate enough to be standing in its path.

Then came the rains, which are now apparently considered monsoonal. I’m not sure when that happened, or why someone decided the word seemed appropriate. We live in the desert. It rains sometimes. Apparently now we have monsoons.

Burning Man affects our little town perhaps more than any other along the route, with the exception of Gerlach itself. We know when the Burners have arrived. The bottled water begins disappearing from the shelves—hundreds of gallons at a time. Walmart is ravaged. So much packaging is removed and discarded before people head onto the playa that extra dumpsters are brought in to handle it.

Restaurants fill.

Gas stations fill.

And then there are the people.

The wonderful oddity of the people passing through is never lost on the residents.

Did you see that?

What was that?

Who was that?

There always seems to be a that involved—something unfamiliar, unexpected and decidedly foreign to our sweet little town.

For a short time every year, two completely different worlds collide here in the Nevada desert. They come through with their bicycles and supplies, extraordinary vehicles, costumes, art, and enough water to survive on a dry lakebed. We watch the parade go by, sometimes amused, sometimes bewildered, and occasionally wondering what on earth we just saw.

Then, almost as quickly as they arrived, they’re gone. The shelves recover. The restaurants quiet down. The dumpsters disappear. Traffic returns to normal. And our little town becomes our little town again.

It’s a strange relationship between them and us. One I haven’t quite figured out yet. Maybe I never will. But there is something rather wonderful about watching people so completely committed to doing something I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to do.

So, bye-bye, Burners. Burning Man 2026 is history.

Safe travels home. We’ll see you next year.

And we’ll try to remember to buy our bottled water before you get here.

There is something wonderful about living in a peaceful home.

Not a perfect home. Not a home where nothing ever goes wrong. Not a home without disappointments, worries, dirty dishes, unexpected bills, a barking dog, or dust bunnies multiplying under the furniture.

Just a peaceful home.

HHH and I value peace tremendously. We strive for it in our marriage, in our home, and in the way we choose to live our lives. We don’t always get everything right, but we agree on something that has become increasingly important to both of us: No Drama.

Life brings enough difficulty all by itself. There is no reason to invite unnecessary turmoil through the front door and give it a comfortable chair.

The Bible speaks beautifully about the Fruits of the Spirit: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I have always loved those words. But the longer I live, the more I understand that they aren’t simply a beautiful list of qualities to admire. They are cornerstones.

Love asks us to look beyond ourselves.

Joy reminds us to notice what is still good.

Peace allows our hearts to rest.

Patience asks us to wait without demanding that everything happen according to our timetable.

Kindness costs very little and can change someone’s entire day.

Goodness guides the choices we make when no one else is watching.

Faithfulness keeps us steady.

Gentleness reminds us that strength doesn’t have to be loud.

And self-control sometimes means knowing when to speak, when to remain quiet, when to engage, and when to simply walk away.

That last one may be one of life’s more difficult lessons.

Peace does not mean agreeing with everyone. It doesn’t mean allowing others to treat us badly. And it certainly doesn’t mean that difficult things never happen. It does require boundaries and requires forgiveness. Sometimes it requires accepting that we cannot change another person. And sometimes peace comes when we finally understand that we don’t have to participate in every argument we’re invited to.

At Winterpast, HHH and I have worked to make our home a place where we can close the door at the end of the day and simply be.

We laugh.

We talk.

We sit quietly.

We enjoy our home and garden. We make plans for tomorrow. We share the ordinary pieces of life that, when added together, become something quite extraordinary. There is comfort in knowing that home is a safe place to land. We don’t take that gift for granted.

God has granted us peace in our lives, and we are deeply thankful for it. That peace is something we have a responsibility to protect. The world will always have noise. Other people will always have opinions. There will always be situations beyond our control. But we are the only ones who can decide what we allow to live within our own hearts and within the walls of our home.

One of the beautiful things about the Fruits of the Spirit is that they begin inside us. We cannot demand love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, or self-control from everyone around us. We can only ask God to grow those things within us. When He does, something remarkable happens. Home is the best place of all to be.

We are so blessed to call Winterpast home.

Have a great weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.

Is it ever too early to begin fall cleaning? With the last few weeks of summer bringing a new book, smoky skies, and summer fires, I’m declaring war on the dust bunnies.

For months, while I sat at the computer, they multiplied as bunnies tend to do. At this point, they are completely out of control. It’s time for bunny eradication.

I learned my cleaning methods from the best. My German mother was a taskmaster when it came to keeping her house the cleanest of clean. For years, she had five little housekeepers-in-training to help her do the job.

Later in life, while working as a professional housekeeper, I had the rare treat of polishing that training by another German woman, Miss Emilie. Her house was the cleanest house I have ever seen. Even the tops of her shiny wooden hangers were dusted each week.

I will confess something right now.

I don’t own wooden hangers. But even if I did, they would not be dusted each week. That was simply over the top for the Queen of Clean.

Still, there are plenty of things around my own house that do need attention.

Windows and screens need to be washed, inside and out. Furniture needs to be moved so the forgotten world underneath can be rediscovered and cleaned. Everything needs dusting—the tops, middles, bottoms, backs, and places no one normally looks.

Pictures need wiping. Mirrors need polishing. Cha-chas need washing. Closets need attention. Baseboards need investigating. And the dust bunnies need to understand that their lease has expired.

Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.

The easiest way to tackle a big seasonal cleaning is to make a plan and stick with it. My own plan takes several weeks as I work through the house one room at a time. There is no need to tear the entire house apart in one exhausting weekend.

Choose a room.

Finish it.

Then move on to the next.

Fall is a wonderful time to begin. The windows can be opened while the weather is still pleasant, summer dust can be sent on its way, and the house can slowly be made ready for the quieter months ahead.

So, the war on dust begins here at Winterpast.

One room at a time.

And those dust bunnies had better start running.

This month, the world lost a true Princess.

Sweet, kind, and thoughtful, she reigned with the most beautiful brown eyes that watched all and made sure her every wish was fulfilled.

We lost our beloved Tanner on August 13th.

Dogs are funny sometimes. They can tell you so much without the use of a human voice. In so many ways, Tanner told us it was time for her to go to the Rainbow Bridge. There was no choice but to let her run free to the Rainbow Bridge..

The first sign that something was wrong came last November, when we found a lump. It was quickly removed. Only seven months later, another appeared. It, too, was removed. But in only six weeks, the new lump was inoperable. Three days after the diagnosis, with a low tail and sad eyes, she told us it was time.

Tanner was only five years and five months old.

She was the only dog I’ve ever known who smiled when something was really funny. Not a circus trick, but a real smile.

She loved to observe her pets (us) with her petite legs crossed in the way only she could do. She gave hugs back when you needed them—and gave them when you didn’t even know you did.

She ran like the wind and loved watching TV, especially if there just happened to be a handsome German Shepherd on the screen.

We loved her with all our hearts.

And, we loved her enough to let her go before she got any worse.

Miss Tanner Girl, run free.

We’ll meet you at the Rainbow Bridge someday.

We love you.

There are some people so rich and wonderful in spirit and voice that they simply stand shoulders above everyone else. They enter your life, take up residence there, and somehow you know there will never be another quite like them.

I knew such a woman for decades.

She was—and remains—the Goddess of the Central Coast.

At 94, she still took enormous pride in driving her original-owner convertible. Always clean and shiny, as you would expect for the car of a Goddess. Just months ago, she renewed her driver’s license all the way to her 97th birthday.

And drive she did. Right to the end. Safely, I might add.

When she wasn’t motoring up and down California’s Central Coast, she kept herself very well informed about current events. She had opinions. Oh, did she have opinions. She was intelligent, interested, curious, and completely engaged with the world around her.

And Grieving Gardener was definitely part of her life.

My blog went with her coffee and breakfast.

Any unexplained absence from my writing was likely to be met with a telephone call asking exactly why I thought I needed time away. Apparently, writers shouldn’t take vacations when the Goddess required reading material with her morning coffee. I tried to give her ample time to make another selection when I was away.

And if I happened to drift too far from her opinion of what a proper lady ought to write?

She set me back on course.

At first, she tried to correct my grammar.

We had to have a little talk about a writer’s voice.

That took care of that.

Mostly.

She was kind, considerate, stern, elegant, funny, and remarkably smart. She was a woman from another time who nevertheless kept up beautifully with this one.

For the last two decades, she lived as a widow in the cliffside home she and her husband bought so many years before, overlooking the blue Pacific.

Timeless and elegant.

Just like her.

Over the years, our visits became treasures. And in these last years, something especially lovely happened: my husband, Billy, fell in love with the Goddess, too.

And she fell in love with him.

Billy had the privilege of making two Valentine’s dinners for her. For the last three Valentine’s Days, we arrived with a single red rose for the Goddess. Just last February, she received a dozen peach roses from a special admirer. Her tree surgeon. She touched hearts everywhere.

A few months ago, this fiercely private woman did something extraordinary.

She invited us to stay with her.

She did not invite people into that inner part of her life easily. We knew what the invitation meant.

We belonged.

Last Thursday, at 94 years old, after enjoying her breakfast, the Goddess of the Central Coast settled in her favorite chair beside her blue Pacific and quietly passed away.

There is something terribly sad and yet wonderfully fitting about that. She was home. In her chair. In the house she loved. Beside the ocean that had been the backdrop to her life for more than fifty years.

Now the practical things begin.

Rooms will empty, doors will close, and eventually, someone else will look through those windows at the Pacific.

Her street will become just another street in Cambria, California.

But I don’t believe the Goddess will go quite so easily.

Some people leave quite a mark on this world.

If you happen to find yourself on the Central Coast, listen carefully.

You might hear a radio playing her favorite station through an open window.

You might hear the rumble of her convertible rolling down Highway 1 toward a hair appointment in San Simeon.

You might even imagine a very proper lady sitting down with her coffee and breakfast, opening Grieving Gardener, and preparing to let its writer know exactly what she thinks.

And somewhere, I suspect, there will always be one red rose waiting for her.

You are so missed, our beloved Goddess.

Heaven is lucky to have you.