Grieving Gardener

The weather here at Winterpast has been as close to perfect as weather can be.

Even though July arrives tomorrow, we have been gifted with days that feel more like a gentle invitation than the beginning of a high desert summer. The afternoons have been hovering in the eighties, warm enough for flowers to stretch their faces toward the sun, but not so hot that everything wilts by noon.

Last night, the desert remembered it could still be cold.

By bedtime, the night air chilled the house, and the electric blanket earned its place on the bed. There’s something wonderfully comforting about that. Summer by day. Almost-autumn by night. It’s a nice change when living on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada.

There is a rhythm settling over Winterpast now. The frantic pace of spring chores has eased a little. The trees are full. The flowers are finding their places. The birds keep arriving as if they own the yard, which of course, they do. Oliver and Tanner have also settled into their summer schedule, which mostly includes keeping a careful eye on me, barking when necessary, and napping as if they have worked a double shift.

HHH has found his golf clubs again.

They’d been waiting quietly for him, probably wondering if they had been forgotten. On Mondays, he dusts them off and heads out to golf with his brothers. There are old friends to see, stories to tell, and a ball to chase across green grass. I love that for him.

There is something good and healthy about watching someone you love return to something they enjoy. Golf gives him fresh air, brother time, laughter, and a few hours of being exactly where he wants to be.

It gives me something too.

Quiet.

Delicious, uninterrupted quiet.

While HHH is golfing, Winterpast becomes my writing nest. The house settles down around me. Oliver and Tanner give up on supervising and fall asleep nearby. The coffee cup sits within reach. The garden waits outside the window. My words begin to gather.

For a few hours, there is no hurry.

It is just me, my thoughts, my memories, and the page.

There was a time in my life when quiet felt empty. After loss, silence can be a room too large to stand in. It echoes. It reminds. It waits.

But life is tender in the way it changes things, and quiet does not feel quite the same anymore.

Now, on a good day, quiet feels like a gift. It gives me room to breathe. It gives me space to remember without being swallowed by remembering, allowing me time to listen for the next sentence.

Sometimes I write a blog. Sometimes I work on the book. Sometimes I simply sit and think about how far life has carried me from the days when breathing itself felt like work.

These days, I am learning the grace of simply being, without rushing, proving, or fixing.

Just being.

Being in a home I love.

Being married to a man who can spend Monday mornings golfing with his brothers and come home smiling.

Being watched over by two dogs who believe naps are holy work.

Being surrounded by a garden that keeps teaching me patience.

Being grateful for eighty-degree days and electric-blanket nights.

There is beauty in this kind of ordinary, and just maybe that’s what makes it feel so extraordinary.

After seasons of grief, change, work, worry, and rebuilding, a simple Monday can feel like a miracle. A husband golfing. Dogs sleeping. A woman writing. A garden growing. A house resting in summer light.

Nothing that would make the evening news.

Just life, quietly offering its hand again, while I reach back.

Golf is happiness.

Writing is Life.

Go enjoy this last day of June!!! It’s going to be a beauty.

Some of the best advice I ever received came wrapped in words I did not want to hear. Get over your grief, they said when I was seventeen and had no idea how the death of my first love was supposed to be survived. Instead, Spend the Summer in Switzerland, they said when I didn’t speak German and needed the comfort of family and friends.

Go to college, they said when all I really wanted was an MRS degree and a life that felt settled.

Years passed. Babies came. Advice sounded less like wisdom and more like warning. You’ll be sorry if you divorce, they said, when I knew deep down I was saving my life and the lives of my children.

Move into an apartment, they said, when my boys needed the breathing room of a small house.

Don’t marry again, they said, when I had already met the love of my life.

Don’t move away, they said, when we were not running from something, but moving toward the life waiting for us.

Advice comes from everywhere in life. Family, friends, neighbors, church people, strangers in grocery store lines, and occasionally people who knew almost nothing about the road I was walking. Most meant well. Some were speaking from love. Some were speaking from fear. Some were remembering their own wounds and handing me directions that belonged to their map, not mine.

Even Oliver has offered unwanted advice, usually with one eyebrow raised and a look that clearly says, Mom, this is a terrible idea. His advice is considered from time to time.

And later, after loss had done its awful work, the advice came again.

Some of it was loving. Some of it was fear wearing a sensible coat. But I’d lived long enough by then to know the difference between advice meant to protect me and advice meant to keep me small.

Not every word of advice was right. Not every warning was wrong. But every piece of it forced me to listen for the quieter voice underneath—the one God had been teaching me to recognize all along.

That voice encouraged me when it said, LIVE.

It cheered when it said GO!

The voice comforted me and said, BEGIN AGAIN.

These golden messages were quieter. Holier. Easier to miss. The Holy Spirit has never shoved, scolded, or demanded center stage. It has usually come as a whisper, a nudge, a strange peace, or a sudden knowing I could not explain. Too often, that still small voice was outshouted by the advice of mere mortals, including my own. But when I look back, the guidance that saved me most was rarely the loudest voice in the room. It was the one that stayed after all the other voices finally grew quiet.

These days, I listen carefully when people offer advice. There is wisdom to be found in those who love us, and I would be foolish to believe I have all the answers. But I have also learned not every opinion deserves equal weight.

The advice most treasured is the quiet counsel of the Holy Spirit. His voice has never shouted over the crowd. It has simply waited…patiently…until I was willing to listen.

Looking back, I don’t regret the times I ignored the loudest voices. I only regret the times I ignored His.

If there is one piece of advice I would gladly pass along, it is this:

When everyone else is telling you what to do, be still long enough to hear what God is saying. His whisper has never led me wrong.

When I look back on widowhood, survival didn’t come in large, dramatic moments, but in tiny little things.things.

A listening ear saved me. Not advice. Not explanations. Just someone willing to sit quietly while my words wandered, even if I told the same story more than once.

A healthy hug saved me. The kind that didn’t rush me past my sorrow, but simply helped me hold the weight for a few seconds.

Time over coffee saved me. Some mornings, the cup warmed my hands before anything else could reach my heart.

Time to think saved me.

Time to cry saved me.

Time to remember saved me.

A calendar saved me. After Terry died, time became strange. Days stretched too long while weeks disappeared. Little squares on paper proved I was still moving forward. A bill due. An appointment. A balloon release on the eighth. Another day survived.

My journal saved me. There were words I couldn’t say out loud, but I could write them down. Messy words. Angry words. Lonely words. Prayers that didn’t sound polished. The journal didn’t correct me or rush me. It simply held what my heart needed to spill.

A little dog with a big heart saved me. Oliver didn’t understand widowhood, but he understood me. He needed breakfast. He needed outside. He needed me to keep going. Sometimes love comes with fur, short legs, and a very important opinion about the day’s schedule.

Winterpast saved me. This home became the place where grief and life had to learn how to live together. The birds still came. The fountains still needed tending. The gardens still changed with the seasons.

Summer’s late sunshine saved me.

Autumn’s chill saved me.

Winter’s soft snow saved me.

Grocery delivery saved me. So did Subway. So did a freezer full of Marie Callender pot pies. Not every rescue looks poetic. Sometimes survival looks like food appearing at the front door because walking through a grocery store is too much.

God’s love saved me.

The Bible saved me.

Faith did not erase my grief. It walked through grief with me.

Nevada skies saved me. When my world felt very small, the sky reminded me there was still something vast above it.

Hope saved me.

Faith saved me.

Belief saved me.

Love saved me.

Not all at once. Healing came like little drops of water on dry ground. One conversation. One cup of coffee. One hug. One journal page. One sunrise. One small dog waiting by my chair. One pot pie. One prayer. One more day.

We often look for the big miracle, but sometimes God sends a thousand tiny ones.

During widowhood, I was not saved by one thing.

It was all those tiny little things.

And every one of them mattered.

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

Before we decided to go on vacation, a beautiful robin family moved onto the rafter of our porch cover at Winterpast. They didn’t ask permission, fill out a rental agreement, or check with management before moving in. They simply chose the spot, gathered their supplies, and built a home.

For several days, we watched the two parents work. They were amazing. Back and forth they flew, carrying grass, twigs, and whatever else robins use to build the perfect nursery. Bit by bit, their nest took shape. Tucked high on the rafter, it looked safe enough. At least, it looked safe from where we stood.

Of course, Oliver and Tanner were the first to notice the new tenants.

From their point of view, the nest was the most interesting thing to happen on the porch in a long time. They watched the robins. Listening, they kept their hopeful little dog eyes aimed upward, just in case something important fell out of the sky.

Like a baby robin.

Once the eggs hatched, life around the porch became very busy. The parent robins hunted all over the yard, pulling worms from the soft garden soil and delivering them to little gaping mouths. The babies were never satisfied for long. As soon as one parent flew away, the next arrived with another meal. It was constant motion. Wings, worms, chirping, and those tiny mouths opening toward the world as if breakfast, lunch, and dinner should arrive every three minutes.

We held our breath through all of it.

Vacation was coming, and before we left, Oliver and Tanner would need to go to puppy camp. That meant danger from the dogs would be gone, but the robins had their own schedule. We counted the days, hoping the babies would grow fast enough and fly soon enough. Every time I looked at the nest, I gave the same silent instruction.

Wait for Puppy Camp. You’ll be safe then.

Then Monday morning came.

To our horror, a hawk began circling the gardens at Winterpast. It was not the peaceful kind of circling one sees in the distance, where a hawk rides the wind like poetry. This hawk was close. Too close. It knew exactly where it was and, worse yet, what it might find. Our little wildlife sanctuary.

The robin parents went wild.

They screamed, swooped, bluffed, and attacked. They did everything their tiny, brave bodies could do against a bird much larger than they were. There was squawking from the robins, circling from the hawk, and HHH outside waving his arms like a man who had suddenly been appointed security chief of the nursery.

For a little while, it looked as though we might win.

But then we had to leave. The dogs needed to be delivered to puppy camp, and life does not always stop for a crisis happening on the porch rafter. We left the robin parents fighting and the hawk circling. When we came back, it was all over.

The nest was empty.

The parents were gone.

Nothing remained. Not even a feather.

The porch was quiet in that terrible way a place becomes quiet after something has happened. No more frantic flights across the yard. No more little mouths reaching up from the nest. No more robin parents scolding us from the fence.

Just a vacancy on the rafter. My first response was not generous. I hated that hawk. For one hot minute, I hated everything about it. It had taken the babies we had been watching, worrying over, and cheering toward flight. It had turned a sweet little story into something sharp and awful.

But then I had to stop myself.

What if the hawk was not simply a horrible villain? What if she were hunting for her own family? What if, somewhere higher in the trees or farther across the desert, there were young hawks waiting for their mother to return? What if she were doing exactly what the robins had been doing all week?

Feeding babies.

Nature often gives us moments we want to organize into good and bad. Robin, good. Hawk, bad. Nest, sweet. Empty nest, tragic. But the truth is not always that tidy. The robin parents were brave and devoted. The hawk was fierce and hungry. The babies were innocent. The dogs were hopeful. The humans were horrified.

And nature went on being nature.

There is a lesson there, although I don’t especially like it.

The garden is beautiful, but it isn’t always gentle. Life grows at Winterpast, but not everything that grows survives. Some stories end before we are ready. Some nests go quiet. Some mornings remind us that the world is not as soft as our hearts want it to be.

Still, I will keep watching.

The nest remains empty for now. Maybe another robin family will try again. If they do, I hope they consider the front yard. It’s quieter there. Fewer dogs. Less traffic. Better shade. A much better neighborhood, in my humble opinion.

Of course, robins will do what robins do. Hawks will do what hawks do. Oliver and Tanner will continue believing anything that falls from the sky belongs to them.

And the gardener at Winterpast will keep learning.

Nature isn’t always kind or pretty.

Sometimes, it simply is.

Today, I’m bringing out the two crates.

They sit quietly for most of the year, tucked away with all the other things that only get to breathe for a season. Eleven months out of twelve, they wait. Inside are buntings, flags, little bits of red, white, and blue, and flower decorations that have somehow survived more than two decades of summers, moves, dust, heat, wind, and life.

Little flower arrangements were made by Auntie TJ and Eldon more than twenty years ago. I can still hear them giggling together as they planned their last Independence Day party. When she downsized, she gave them to me. Every time I lift them from the crate, I’m a little surprised all over again. They remain beautiful. Not “still pretty good for their age.” Not “almost ready to retire.” Red-white-and-blue beautiful.

Maybe that is because I only take them out once a year. And quite possibly, beautiful is bathed in memories.

There’s something to be said for things we don’t overuse. Things we don’t leave in the sun until they fade or are tattered in the wind. These little decorations have been given the gift of rest. They’re packed away carefully, protected, and then, for a few days each summer, they return to the light.

I suppose memories are a lot like that, too. Some aren’t meant to sit out every day. Some are too tender. Some are too precious. Some need to be wrapped in tissue and placed gently in a crate until the right season comes around again. Then, when the time is right, we remember.

Decorating for the Fourth of July has always felt different from other holidays. Christmas carries wonder. Thanksgiving carries gratitude. Easter carries resurrection and hope. But Independence Day carries something brave. It carries porch rails draped with bunting, flags snapping in the wind, children with sticky fingers, neighbors gathering outside, and the reminder that freedom has never been free.

Here on the high desert plains, summer doesn’t tiptoe in. It arrives with heat, dust, wind, and a garden hose in HHH’s hand. By the time the Fourth gets close, the flowers are proving they’re tough enough for Nevada. The flags don’t care. They wave anyway. The buntings don’t complain, but simply take their places.

That might be one of the reasons I love decorating for the Fourth. It doesn’t need perfection. It doesn’t ask the garden to be flawless or the porch to be freshly painted. It just asks for a little effort, a little color, and a little remembering.

When I open those crates, I don’t just see decorations. I see TJ’s hands making flowers years ago, never knowing they would still be loved so many summers later. I see family. I see old celebrations. I see houses we’ve lived in, porches we’ve stood on, and seasons of life that have come and gone. I see how something simple can become sacred if it carries enough love.

The Fourth of July comes with noise, fireworks, barbecue smoke, watermelon, paper plates, and all the usual summer chaos. And then, there is gratitude.

Gratitude for freedom and this beautiful country we call home.

Today, Winterpast will begin to look like the Fourth.

Red-White-and-Blue Perfection.

Because it is time.

Leaving the house in the hands of a very capable young man, we drove away not knowing what would live and what would die.

That is the thing about gardening on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. You can make plans. You can plant seeds. You can water, fuss, mulch, pray, and whisper encouragement over tiny green things. Then you leave town for a few days and hope for the best.

When we came home, summer had finally made up her mind.

The weather is no longer flirting with warmth. She has thrown open the oven door and announced herself. With 100-degree days lined up for the foreseeable future, it is time to be on high alert with the hose. Around here, that means morning patrol, evening patrol, and the occasional emergency rescue mission when some poor plant looks like it has given up the will to live.

But some babies made it.

After weeks of wondering if the seedlings were ever going to do anything besides sit there looking fragile and offended, they have finally decided to take hold and grow. It is such a small miracle, but I’ll take it. Every little leaf feels like a victory.

Of course, we are still fighting mildew, because gardening would apparently be too easy without a little drama. But the babies are growing. That’s what matters.

And I am already waiting for next February, when I will put the seeds out way too early again.

I know better.

I will do it anyway.

The roses have gone through one full bloom, and oh, the roses we have. Every color. Every fragrance. Every form of beauty standing right outside our door like a living bouquet.

HHH didn’t want any grocery store flowers for his bride.

Nope.

He wanted the real deal. Flowers growing in the ground. Flowers that bloom and fade and bloom again. Flowers that need pruning, water, patience, and love.

Just like the rest of us.

The dogs will be home from puppy camp in a few hours. I must say, it has been rather quiet around here without them. Too quiet, maybe. But then again, we all need a break from time to time. Even dog people. Even garden people. Even retired people who somehow remain busier than they were before retirement.

Our reunion will be action-packed. There will be barking, wiggling, joyful chaos, and probably a few hurt feelings over being abandoned at camp, even though they were spoiled rotten the entire time.

Along with the plants that are supposed to be growing, the weeds are also in full production. They did not need encouragement. They did not need pampering. They did not need carefully timed watering or whispered prayers.

They simply took one look at summer and got busy.

And so, the summer begins.

The roses are blooming. The seedlings are growing. The weeds are winning for the moment. The dogs are coming home. The hose is ready.

Some babies made it.

And in this garden, that is always enough reason to rejoice.

Last week, we enjoyed giving and receiving the gift of time.  Without any real agenda, we drove over Donner Pass and through the Wild-Wild-West toward pockets of California love. HHH and I suspect there’s a true “Blue Zone”, although longevity may flourish when one embraces daily happiness and fills their heart with love for others.  Whatever the case, time stops when we visit these wonderful friends, and love multiplies in the best ways possible.

Without HHH, this wouldn’t be possible.  Without giving it a second thought (but maybe a few grumbles), he navigated and drove through an active shootout with police and news cameras.  Through an entire town that was shuttered due to a burst water main.  Through truck drivers looking down at their phones instead of the road (I counted eight, which should concern every driver).  Through erratic drivers who shouldn’t be on the road.  Ten hours of nerve-wracking near collisions, all avoided because of his expertise.  HHH, giving me time with family is the most precious gift of all.

Time to laugh with a true Goddess of the Central Coast.

Time to meet the Goddess of the Coastal Forest.

Time to hug my Godmother, who has gotten her assignment right for nine decades. Heaven knows, it’s not always been an easy assignment.

And then there is Miss Firecracker.

Miss Firecracker, didn’t merely sit beside her birthday cake. She became the sparkler on top of it. 40 years old, with 50 more in the rearview mirror, she’s still shining, laughing, and casting light into the room because each year has only made her brighter.

Between all of us, we’ve lived 494 years, which sounds almost biblical. Nearly five centuries of birthdays, babies, heartbreaks, recipes, funerals, gardens, road trips, prayers, mistakes, forgiveness, and laughter. Almost five hundred years of stories sitting together in one small bubble of time. 

Auntie TJ has witnessed all of my 70 years.  Always there.  Always smiling.  Choosing happiness every day, even when it was hard to find much to be happy about.

That is no small thing.

It made me realize once again that time is the most precious gift we are given. Not things. Not money. Not perfect schedules or polished plans. Just time.

Time to listen.
Time to talk.
Time to hold a hand and receive a hug.
Time to make a new friend.
Time to sit beside someone who has walked this earth for ninety years and understand that wisdom does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it comes wearing lipstick, eating birthday cake, and sparkling all over the room.

Each day, HHH and I had 24 hours of vacation time to spend as we chose. Some of those hours were spent on the ordinary business of living. But those hours spent in the presence of these women made priceless memories. 

Last week, every story mattered.  Every giggle was golden.  Holding hands again, we were suspended in one big ball of happiness.  Time stopped in a blue zone.  I think that must happen a lot in their little spot of heaven on earth.

We stood by the steps of a brand-new house in 1998 that would be Auntie TJ’s home in 2026. We went dress shopping in San Francisco, and were invited to watch a young bride walk down the aisle in Rhode Island. We met family members in Pennsylvania. Stories were shared about this stubborn little blonde (me) who knew what she wanted out of life early on. All while sitting in a magical kitchen that brought out the best in everyone.

Last week, while driving down highways, sitting at tables, laughing over old memories, and making new ones, time didn’t need to be fancy to be sacred.  I wish it could’ve stopped for a bit longer, because, as we all know, there is never enough time to be with those you love.

Everyone has the gift of time waiting to be given.  Last week, we spent some of ours on true-to-life Goddesses and Firecrackers.

You just might have some of those in your life, too.

The question is, just how will you spend yours?

More tomorrow.

I need a vacation.

There. I said it.

Not a vacation from life. Not a vacation from Winterpast. Certainly not a vacation from Oliver and Tanner, who would immediately file a formal complaint unless they are going to puppy camp.

I simply need a vacation from my own brain.

For the past several months, I have been buried in words. Thousands upon thousands of words. I’ve been reliving widowhood one chapter at a time while turning six years of blogs, journals, memories, tears, laughter, and life lessons into a book.

It has been wonderful. Every single moment.

It has also been exhausting.

Writers live in two worlds at once. We inhabit the present while constantly visiting the past. Most days, I find myself sitting in my comfortable chair at Winterpast while simultaneously standing in 2020, trying to remember exactly what happened on a particular day, how something felt, or what lesson God was teaching me at the time.

After a while, even the most enthusiastic writer needs to come up for air.

Poor HHH has gardened about as much as a man can. He would like a wife who actually walks and talks, like he used to have.

So, we are taking a little break.

The flowers will continue to bloom without his supervision. The birds will continue to argue over real estate rights in the yard. Oliver will continue his campaign to destroy anything made of plastic. The weeds, unfortunately, will continue their relentless march toward world domination.

Life at Winterpast will carry on.

And that’s a good thing.

Sometimes we need to step away from our routines to appreciate them again. We need new scenery, new conversations, and perhaps a few new adventures to remind us that life is meant to be lived, not merely documented.

When I return, the words will still be waiting.

The book will still be waiting.

The garden will still be waiting.

And hopefully, so will you.

Until then, be kind to yourselves. Notice something beautiful. Take the scenic route. Eat dessert first once in a while. Laugh loudly. Call a friend.

And if you happen to find yourself needing a little break, too, take one.

The world will survive.

Away.

Oy vey.

Enjoy the last few days of spring. I’ll be back on June 22.

I’ve spent the last several weeks working on my book, sorting through old journals, blog posts, and memories from the first year after Terry died. It has been a little like opening a giant puzzle box and dumping thousands of pieces onto the table.

Some pieces are easy to place. They belong exactly where I remembered them. Others have surprised me.

There have been stories I was absolutely convinced belonged in one chapter. The tone matched, the timing seemed right, the memory fit the theme, and I was certain I knew exactly where it belonged. Yet every time I tried to place it there, something felt off. It wouldn’t quite fit.

Like any stubborn person, my first instinct was to make it fit. So, I rotated it. I looked at it from different angles. I tried again.

If I’m being completely honest, there were moments when I would have happily reached for a hammer.

But puzzles don’t work that way.

Neither does Life.

Sometimes we need more pieces before we can see where one belongs. A memory that makes no sense standing alone suddenly becomes clear when another piece is placed beside it. A difficult season reveals its purpose years later. A friendship, a move, a loss, or an unexpected blessing finds its proper place only after the surrounding picture begins to emerge.

On many days, writing reminds me how often I have done this in life. There were seasons when I thought I knew exactly how my story was supposed to unfold. I had plans. Expectations. Certainties. Then life quietly picked up the piece I was trying to force and placed it somewhere entirely different.

At the time, I didn’t understand.

Looking back, I can see that life was right.

Losing Terry felt like the piece that shattered the entire puzzle. Nothing made sense. The picture I thought I was building disappeared overnight. Yet over time, new pieces appeared. Winterpast. New friends. A church family. A blog. Writing. A deeper faith. Love and laughter where I never expected to find them again.

None of those pieces were visible when I was staring at the empty spaces before me.

The same thing happens in the garden. A bare patch of dirt looks hopeless until spring arrives. Then, suddenly, tiny shoots appear where there seemed to be nothing at all. What looked empty was simply waiting for the right season.

Perhaps that is true of life as well.

We spend so much time focusing on the missing pieces that we forget to step back and look at the picture as a whole, becoming frustrated by what isn’t finished. We worry about what doesn’t make sense and try to force things into places they were never meant to go.

Meanwhile, God sees the entire picture.

He sees the pieces we’ve already placed. He sees the ones still waiting in the box and knows how they fit together long before we do.

Faith isn’t about understanding every piece. It’s about trusting the One who holds the picture on the front of the box.

Today, I’m grateful for the pieces I understand. And I’m learning to trust the pieces I don’t.

After all, the puzzle isn’t finished yet.

I thought I was looking for background information for my upcoming book.

Instead, I found a binder.

Not just any binder, mind you. A thick, heavy one that was stuffed with printed blog posts, journal entries, notes scribbled on scraps of paper, and thoughts I had carefully tucked away years ago. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten it even existed.

Lately, I’ve been spending my mornings working on the book. Digging through old blogs. Reading journal entries. Trying to piece together the story of widowhood’s first year. Some days it feels a bit like archaeology, while dusting off old memories to decide which ones still belong.

After reading a journal entry from January, 2020, I remembered the binder.

Years ago, when I first started writing, I printed many of my blog posts. Not all of them. Just the ones that seemed important at the time. The ones that made me stop and think because they carried a little extra weight.

As it turns out, those pages of yesterday were yesterday’s found treasures.

Sitting in my chair with the binder on my lap, I began turning pages. Some made me laugh. Some made me wince. A few brought tears to my eyes. More than once, I found myself thinking, Did I really write that?

Apparently, I did.

What surprised me most wasn’t the writing itself.

It was meeting the woman who wrote it. Grieving the loss of her husband, she was so very lonely while trying to figure out what would come next.

She was learning how to live in a house she had never planned to occupy alone. Learning how to make decisions by herself. Learning how to survive birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and ordinary Tuesdays.

She was far stronger than she knew.

At the time, she didn’t feel brave. Most days she felt frightened, exhausted, and overwhelmed. Yet there she was on those pages, getting up every morning and putting one foot in front of the other.

Writing.

Praying.

Walking.

Trying again.

And somehow, without realizing it, she left breadcrumbs for the woman I would become.

One journal note simply read:

“I miss dating. But I need to be very careful not to confuse loneliness for anything other than what it is.”

Wise words.

Words I had completely forgotten that I wrote.

There were other notes as well. Little observations. Tiny moments. Thoughts captured before they could drift away. Most would never mean much to anyone else. Yet together they told the story of a life slowly rebuilding itself.

Page after page reminded me that healing rarely arrives all at once. It comes in small pieces.

One day, you manage breakfast. Another day, you laugh unexpectedly. A few months later, you realize you have gone several hours without crying. And one day, years later, you open an old binder and discover that God was doing far more than you realized at the time.

As I read through those pages, I began to see something I couldn’t see at the time.

The book didn’t begin this year when I sat down to organize chapters. It didn’t begin when I decided on a title. The book began in every moment I chose to keep going.

Every blog post.

Every journal entry.

Every prayer.

Every tear-stained page.

Every tiny act of faith.

God was writing the story long before I knew there would be a book.

Maybe that’s true for all of us.

We spend so much time looking ahead that we forget to look back. We assume growth is happening somewhere in the future, just beyond our reach. But sometimes the evidence is already there, tucked away in a drawer, a photo album, an old journal, or a forgotten binder.

Waiting patiently to remind us how far we’ve come.

So today, I am grateful for a dusty old binder. Not because it’s helping me write a book, but because it reminded me of something much more important. The treasure was never hidden somewhere else. It was hidden in the story all along.

And sometimes, all we have to do is turn the page.

— Joy
Where new life grows from grief.