Grieving Gardener

Yesterday, HHH and I set out on what can only be called a magical drive through the quiet backroads of Nevada. Leaving in the early morning, driving by a cottonwood full of turkey vultures and a handful of mustangs, we grabbed some breakfast sandwiches and headed towards of Pyramid Lake.

With miles left to travel, we drove by Gerlach and Empire, winding along canyon roads beneath a Nevada-blue sky scattered with every kind of cloud imaginable. The farther we went, the more the world became more wide, spacious, and beautifully untouched. It seemed nothing could be prettier than the pristine little Squaw Reservoir. Named years ago on native land, this little body of water will keep her name forever. 100% politically correct in Nevada.

Once the pavement ended, the real adventure began. For hours, we bounced along dusty dirt roads, the truck collecting its first true “Nevada pinstriping” along the way. ( Scratches from very large sage brush). Out here in the wild, wild west, these scratches are worn like a badge of honor that you’ve stepped beyond the ordinary and into something far more real.

The wildlife alone made the journey unforgettable. We saw burros and wild mustangs roaming freely, as they always do until someone unruly ruins the tranquility.

Jackrabbits darted across the road to show up for a lesson on how to escape coyotes hiding in the sagebrush.

Flocks of geese and ducks flew off the water as we drove by, being startled by the one truck they would see for the entire day.

Three separate herds of antelope crossed our path, each one a quiet reminder that this land still belongs, in many ways, to the wild. Both animal AND human.

But the most remarkable part of the day wasn’t what we saw but what we didn’t. For ten full hours, we didn’t encounter another person. NOT ONE. Just endless sky, open land, and the gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) rhythm of the road beneath us. There wasn’t any sign of people either. No trash littered on over-used campsites. In fact, no trace of campsites at all. In a world that often feels crowded and loud, this kind of solitude is a rare and precious gift. One that would shake city mice to their core.

HHH outdid himself, creating a day that was completely thoughtful, intentional, and full of quiet beauty. Much more than a than just a drive, it was memories stitched together with dust, sky, and love. We’re already planning to return, this time to camp beneath that vast, dark Nevada sky where the stars shine brighter than anywhere else on earth. Thank you, HHH, for truly understanding my soul. I love you.

Unseen Nevada is much more than neon and slot machines. Most days, the best parts of it are found far beyond the pavement.

Have a terrific Tuesday. More tomorrow.

Last Saturday, HHH and I went on a bit of an adventure. This wasn’t just any adventure, but, but a glimpse into the future of our little town. Amazing things are happening just a little east of Winterpast. Expansion and growth. We were invited, along with the rest of the town, to come take a look.

We found ourselves standing on 4,400 acres of what used to be nothing but wide-open, untouched virgin desert. Dirt moved by wind, sitting in silence, while migrating mustangs for longer than man has been around to notice. It was across this barren land the settlers made their way towards the Sierra Nevada Mountains before arriving in the golden land of California.

This land has a new name now. Victory Logistics. If all the plans come to life the way they’re being described, it’ll become the birthplace of something entirely new. Not just an addition to our town, but the beginning of a whole new version of it. It’s especially exciting to be related to the Mayor at this special time in history.

For years, we’ve been that dusty little wide spot off Interstate 80. The kind of place people pass through without thinking twice. Just the once-a-year gateway to Burning Man. But standing there, looking across that massive stretch of land, it became clear, we’re not just a “pass-through” anymore. People are stopping here.

The vision is big. New homes stretching across the desert floor. Schools filled with the laughter of children not yet born. A hospital close to home. Retail shops, restaurants, and (yes, the rumor mill is already spinning) a Maverick truck stop and a Chick-Fil-A somewhere down the road. Imagine that.

Of course, there’s a catch. Or maybe not a catch, but a goal. In order to support all of this, our little town needs to grow our population to around 40,000 people. We’re not quite there yet. But, for the first time, it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels like something already in motion.

And then there’s the power behind it all, literally. A brand-new natural gas power plant is planned, built to support the data centers already rising as we speak. Not just small-town additions, but something much bigger. Something that ties our quiet corner of Nevada into the larger, humming world of technology and growth. The Port of Nevada will have a real purpose.

Walking through those beautiful new buildings, you could feel it. Not just construction, but intention, care, and investment. A belief that this place, our little town, is worth building into. It’s the center of this big, beautiful dream.

What a strange and wonderful thing to watch the future take shape in real time. To stand in a place that still smells like sage. dust, and sun, and yet see, just across the interstate, neighborhoods, lights, laughter, and life.

For those of us in our golden years, it brings a quiet kind of comfort. The sense that the place we’ve chosen isn’t fading away. It’s rising. Expanding. Becoming something strong enough to carry on long after we’re gone.

After the tour, HHH and I still have one lingering question. With all this growth, all these plans, all this promise just where are they going to put the UPSCALE Senior Retirement Village?

Because if they’re building a brand-new town out here in the desert, it seems to me they ought to save a very nice little corner for those of us who were here when it was still just wind, sky, and a dusty, wide spot off the interstate on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada..

I, for one, want a front-row seat to this show.

Grief is not a straight road. It twists and turns, much like travel, filled with unexpected moments, detours, and landscapes you never planned to see. Some days feel like progress, and you begin to believe you are finding your footing again, that perhaps the heaviest part is behind you. There is a quiet confidence that starts to grow, a sense that healing is happening in ways you can’t always see.

And then, without warning, you are sideswiped. A song plays. A familiar scent drifts by. Or something as simple as a stapler sitting on a desk—ordinary to anyone else—suddenly carries you back to a moment you thought you had already walked through. The emotions return just as strong, just as real, and for a moment, it feels as if you are right back where you started.

But you are not.

Healing, like travel, is not measured in straight lines. It is measured in distance. And when you stop to look, you’ll see that you’ve come a long, long way. Further than you ever imagined possible in those early days when even getting through the morning felt like a mountain too high to climb. Progress in grief is quiet. It doesn’t always announce itself. But it is there, steady and faithful, carrying you forward even when you don’t feel it.

And now, it’s spring.

Spring doesn’t ask permission to arrive, but simply does. Quietly at first, and then all at once. Trees that stood bare and weathered begin to soften with new buds. Eggs hatch. The air shifts. The heavy fog that lingered for so long begins to lift, and in its place comes clear, steady light. The world itself seems to take a deep breath and begin again.

A season of gentle renewal, it reminds us that life continues to move forward, even after the hardest winters.

The high desert spring is a sneaky one. Technically still winter, we have experienced record breaking heat. The fruit trees are loaded with fruit and lush green leaves. The ski resorts are closing while the icy Truckee river is dangerously high. And now, the weather will turn back towards normal.

This morning, the temperature hovers around 35 degrees. Next week, snow is predicted. What will happen to those tiny little apricots? With any luck a few will hang on, but most will be lost to the weather. And again, we’ll be back to the beginning. Just like grief.

Allow yourself these new beginnings. Step outside and feel the warmth of the sun on your face. Notice the small signs of life returning all around you. Remember that your story is still unfolding, even now.

Life will not always be saturated with grief. There will be space again for laughter, for curiosity, for simple, quiet happiness. Spring reminds us of that in the most tender way. So today, put on your shoes and step outside. Breathe deeply and lift your face to the sky. You’re still traveling, healing, and becoming. And you have come farther than you know. 💛

Even the mustangs are fighting.

Driving to Bible study one week ago, we noticed something new. Five stallions were grazing on the unusually green desert. Stopping in the middle of the road, we watched. Not the familiar band we’ve come to know over time, two horses were striking greys, a rare and beautiful sight out here.

One of the best things about living out here in the wilds is that it’s possible to stop right in the middle of the road for any reason. Especially for front row seats to a battle between two wild mustangs. That would be impossible in New York City or San Francisco. But out here on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, there’s no need to pull to the side if you’re the only car for miles. There are a different set of rules out here in the wild west.

Sitting quietly, we were drawn in by the scene. And then, without warning, the peace shattered and the fighting began.

Sharp hooves found their mark. Powerful back legs kicked high into the air. Front hooves struck with precision. Bared teeth, snapping and biting, found flesh. Their snorting filled the air and mixed with the churn of fresh desert dust rising around them. It was intense, wild, and impossible to look away from.

In the distance stood one white mare.

She was separate from the chaos, quietly watching. In that moment, I recognized her as the same white mare who once stood faithfully outside my bedroom window when I was newly widowed, as if keeping silent watch over me in those long, lonely nights. And now, she watched again.

These stallions fought for her as well as for territory and dominance. Something as old as time itself unfolded as she remained still. Observing. Watching. Waiting. This scene was riveting.

As real world nations clash, leaving people divided, in the quiet of the desert, similar struggles plays out. The strongest claim their ground. Sage brush fights for sunlight, choking out its neighbor. Five stallions battle for the attention of one mare. All this to the rhythm of life in a fallen world. Both unsettling and strangely clarifying, this isn’t new or surprising, but simply the way of things… for now.

As we watched the dust settle and the horses begin to separate, I felt a quiet gratitude rise within me. A reminder that this is not the end of the story. We’re not meant to live forever in a world defined by struggle and conflict. There’s a promise of peace, love, and harmony waiting for us, where struggles will cease and our souls will find rest. A place where there’ll br no more fighting or wounds to heal.

Heaven.

Until then, we’ll watch, live, and learn. Moving through a world both beautiful and broken, hold onto the truth that something better is ahead. For now, even the mustangs fight.

There are so many ways a church shows love.

Sometimes, it looks like a plane ticket placed gently into someone’s hands so they can go be with an ailing mother. And sometimes, it looks much simpler and includes just showing up.

Last Saturday, our resident author, Mr. Robert Kahn, held a book signing at our local Bible store. It was one of those moments where a community gathers not out of obligation, but out of genuine care and celebration.

I have to admit, it stirred something deep inside of me. For years, one of my long-held dreams has been to finish a book, sit behind a table, pen in hand, while greeting a long line of smiling faces. There is something about the connection, conversation, and shared joy that feels so tangible. It’s a kind of moment a cyber-writer can’t experience in the same way.

Robert’s journey has been one of service long before it was one of storytelling. As a D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) officer, he spent decades educating children, reaching thousands with messages about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. He didn’t just speak to them, but cared and invested in them, helping to shape their futures.

Then, he began to write.

Through the characters of Bobby and Mandee, his lessons found new life on the page. What he once spoke in classrooms became stories that could travel far beyond them, continuing to teach, guide, and encourage.

Last Saturday, the church showed up.

Friends stood in line, not just to purchase a book, but to honor a life of quiet faithfulness. There was laughter, conversation, and a sense that something meaningful was happening, not only a book signing, but a celebration of purpose fulfilled. And there sat the star of the day, humbly signing each book, taking in every moment with a quiet joy that said more than words ever could.

Maybe the line wasn’t endless. Maybe there weren’t flashing lights or national headlines. But what filled that room was something far greater—love, respect, and the beauty of a life that has made a difference. Perhaps, in the end, that’s the kind of “adoring crowd” that matters most.

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.