Grieving Gardener

Six years ago, on a quiet morning atop Mt. Davidson in Virginia City, Nevada, the world lost a special man. This morning, I remember the high desert air, the stillness, and the way the sky seems to stretch a little wider up there. At 6200 feet, heaven didn’t seem quite so far away.

Some people pass through life quietly, but leave behind an echo that never really fades. VST was one of those rare souls. The kind you can’t even imagine their absence until they’re no longer standing beside you. Widowhood shattered my world into a million little pieces. The love and comfort of Jesus carried me through the worst time of life.

Six years sounds like a long stretch when said out loud. But when it comes to the loss of someone you’ve loved and respected, time is confusing. Some days it seems like it all happened 1,000 years ago, and others, it seems it was yesterday. Moments feel close again. Conversations replay. Laughter lingers. The absence becomes something you acknowledge as the road of life stretches on.

Here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, where the winds sweep across the hills, I remember him. Not with heaviness, but with love and a kind of quiet gratitude. For time shared. For the mark he left. For the ways he shaped the lives around him, loving us with all his heart.

Today, I send a simple thought upward.

Enjoy heaven, VST… and don’t work too much.

Some habits are hard to break.

This song is for you.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
Nothing in life is random. Even the moments hard to understand have their place, purpose, and time.

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot.
Some beginnings that hearts with joy, while some endings are difficult to accept. Still, both are part of the rhythm God has set in motion.

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build.
There are things in life that must fall away so something stronger, healthier, and more beautiful can take their place.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
Feel deeply. Tears and laughter both belong here. God wastes neither.

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.
Hold some moments close and let some go. Both require courage. Both require trust.

A time to search, and a time to give up; a time to keep, and a time to throw away.
Not everything is meant to stay forever. Some things are gifts for a season, not a lifetime.

A time to tear, and a time to mend; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
There is wisdom in knowing when to be still and when to be heard. Lord, teach me the difference.

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. _{Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8}
This world holds both struggle and serenity. But even in the hardest battles, Your peace is never out of reach.

Through it all, I see this truth:
There is a time… and I am held in it.

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🌿 Closing Prayer

Lord,
Help me to trust Your timing in every season of my life.
When I am waiting, give me patience.
When I am grieving, give me comfort.
When I am rejoicing, give me gratitude.
And in all things, remind me that You are present in every moment, every change, every season.
Amen

At 5:10 a.m., we gathered as a church and made our way out of town. Traveling up the side of Olinghouse Mountain, we bumped along a wash-boarded dirt and gravel road. Rutted beyond belief, the road made its way past thousands of brand-new solar panels, stretching across the desert.

Rolling by Hooterville, it would be easy to miss a scattered collection of very old trailers that don’t use much of the power being generated next to them. This collection of rag-tag souls work together to live off the grid making this little village work. Strangers aren’t welcome or needed.

Hiding in the darkness were what I’ve always called the “uglies” of the cattle world. Thin, rugged creatures with enormous horns, these beasts look as though they’d be offended at the mere presence of humans. If you ever run across one, just back away slowly. They don’t want or need your help either.

Near the top of the mountain, among broken-down corrals and weathered remnants of ranching days gone by, we gathered together. In total darkness, we picked our way across the “parking lot” of flat ground dotted with sage brush and tumble weeds. A strange group of people, wrapped in layers of sweatshirts, coats, gloves, hats, and an occasional blanket began to grow in number.

From littles to seniors, we were the hardy group that gathered to praise God for the resurrection of Jesus. Remembering the events that unfolded almost 2,000 years ago, we stood below three crosses.

Of course, there were last minute details. Lighting the three crosses is a yearly dilemma. In the middle of BLM land (the real BLM — Bureau of Land Management), it’s tough to find an electrical plug. But, somehow the Pastor made it happen.

Minute by minute, more headlights turned to head up the hill, resembling a string of pearls. Just before daybreak, our beloved guitar player strummed to tunes everyone knew without looking at words. New and old hymns blended together as we sang songs to the Lord.

For those that might not know the words, a QR code was available to bring up the lyrics, even atop the mountain. Our pastor had prepared for weeks, and with three churches attending, it became a beautiful blend of denominations, all united in one powerful truth: HE HAS RISEN.

As the sun rose over our little town, just as it has since the beginning of time, we lifted our voices in song to the Lord.

Atop a rocky outcropping, three rustic crosses, weathered and slightly crooked, were perfectly placed against the vast Nevada sky. There, singing and worshipping, our voices carried on the cold desert air. After days of hard frost, only the hardy had come for this early service, knowing a more traditional Easter gathering would follow later, with a warm and welcoming breakfast in between.

After the inspirational message, we left the mountain in full sunshine. A perfect beginning to Easter Day 2026 on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

He has risen, bringing hope to the faithful. Hallelujah.

The cold weather outside has slowed me down has caused me to reflect on what truly matters inside. Maybe it’s the early light stretching across the high desert, or the quiet hush before the wind picks up again at Winterpast. Of course, today is Good Friday, the day we remember Jesus’ crucifixion almost 2,000 years ago .

Recently, I learned of an old Jewish tradition called Dayenu, a Hebrew word meaning “it would have been enough.” It’s a song of gratitude, listing blessing after blessing, each one declared sufficient on its own. After hearing it for the first time, I found myself wondering… what if we looked at the life of Jesus that way?

Dayenu: The Life of Jesus

If He had come into the world as a humble child in a manger,
and simply shown us that God draws near to the lowly,
it would have been enough.

If He had grown in wisdom and favor,
teaching us how to walk with God in quiet obedience,
it would have been enough.

If He had called fishermen, tax collectors, and ordinary souls,
showing us that all are worthy to follow Him,
it would have been enough.

If He had healed the sick, given sight to the blind,
and touched the untouchable with compassion,
it would have been enough.

If He had calmed the storm and fed the multitudes,
revealing His power over creation and His care for our needs,
it would have been enough.

If He had spoken in parables of seeds and soil,
teaching us the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven,
it would have been enough.

If He had entered Jerusalem on a humble donkey,
received as King by those who cried “Hosanna,”
it would have been enough.

If He had broken bread with His disciples,
offering Himself as the bread of life,
it would have been enough.

If He had gone to the cross and died for our sins,
giving His life in love for all mankind,
it would have been enough.

If He had been laid in the tomb,
and we had known the depth of His sacrifice,
it would have been enough.

But He did not stop there.

He rose again on the third day,
defeating death and offering eternal life,
and this is more than enough.

He ascended to the Father,
and sent His Spirit to dwell within us,
and this is more than enough.

He walks with us still,
in every sorrow, every joy, every quiet moment,
and this is more than enough.

Out here, where the land is simple and the sky feels endless, it’s to overlook what we’ve been given. We wait for the next thing, the bigger thing, and the answered prayer we can see and hold.

And yet… if He never did another thing, it would have been enough.
If all He’d done was love us, it would’ve been enough.

But He didn’t stop there.

He gave us everything.

Today, I continue to choose to live a little differently. Noticing more, I’ll give thanks sooner and rest in the quiet truth that I’m already deeply, completely loved.

And that… is more than enough.

There’s something that’s been quietly irritating me lately, and in this day and age, where everyone seems to have an answer for everything. I suppose it’s my turn to ask a question. What ever happened to being comfortable in the dark?

When I first moved to Winterpast, just six short years ago, the darkness here was something to behold. On certain nights, it was so deep I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. The kind of dark that makes you pause and sharpen your senses. I remember lying in bed, hearing soft movement outside my window, knowing the white mustang had come to settle in for the night. Not fear… just awareness. Out here, you learn the difference.

And I loved it.

In fact, the darker it was, the better. Because only in true darkness can you really see the night sky. Not just a few scattered stars, but the whole magnificent stretch of it that makes you feel small in the very best way. Back then, I would sit in the hot tub on those quiet desert nights and look up without distraction. No glare or light pollution. Just stars upon stars, quietly shining over this little patch of earth we call home.

And then, it all changed. Just across the backyard fence line, a light appeared. Not just a light, but the light. The kind that doesn’t gently glow, but one blindingly bold and bright. And just like that, the night sky wasn’t quite the same anymore. It’s a small thing, I suppose. Just a miniature backyard street light with four LED bulbs. But out here, small things matter.

Lately, with the disappearance of Nancy Guthrie, I’ve heard more than a few comments about how dark it is around her neighborhood with no streetlights, glowing porches, or constant hum of artificial light. And to that I say… yes. Exactly the point. The residents made it that way on purpose.

The people who choose to live in places like this are not afraid of the dark but welcome it. We trust our eyes adjust and our senses to settle, while using our own special sort of night vision. We get to see a sky that much of the world has lost. The wild, wild west remains one of the last places where the night still belongs to the stars, not the streetlights. That’s not something to fix but a gift to protect.

But, even here, little by little, the brightness is creeping in, not from necessity, but from a discomfort with darkness that I’ll never understand. The neighbor across the street is giddy with pride over hundreds of night lights illuminating his front yard. I doubt he’s ever looked up to see God’s light show.

So, I need to say this as kindly as I can. To those who are new here… welcome. Truly. We’re glad you’ve come. There is room for you in this wide-open place. But the darkness is part of what makes it home.

You are safe here. There are no shadows waiting to harm you. No need to flood the night with light just to feel at ease. Let your eyes adjust. Give it time. Step outside for a moment and look up. You might just discover what the rest of us have known all along.

Darkness isn’t something to fear, but a gift to treasure.

Try it tonight. Be bold. Be brave. Turn off the porch light.

We’d all appreciate it.

Well, it turns out I’ve been doing something right all these years. According to a recent “study” making its way around the gardening world, talking to your plants can increase their growth by as much as 300%. Three hundred percent!!! Which, explains quite a lot about what’s happening around here at Winterpast.

The dining room table is overflowing with excitement. Each day, after the pep talk I give, the seedlings respond. Stems are thickening, as true leaves are busting out all over. This year, the topics have been exceptionally positive ones, and I can see the results before my eyes.

For years, I’ve been chatting with my seedlings like they’re old friends. Encouraging them on slow mornings, I check in when they look a little tired. I always remember the occasional pep talk when the weather decides to skip spring altogether and head straight into summer, which, as we all know, happens around here more often than we’d like. Apparently, there’s more to it than simple encouragement.

Botanists at University of Nevada have just reported that plants respond differently depending on what you say. Zinnias, for example, prefer compliments. Tell them they’re beautiful, and they’ll stand a little taller. Tomatoes, on the other hand, seem to appreciate steady reassurance. A quiet “you’ve got this” goes a long way. And sunflowers? Well, rumor has it they enjoy being sung to, and especially love 70’s music. I’m not entirely sure how they figured that out… but I’m willing to try.

Out here in the high desert, where the soil is more “determined dirt” than anything resembling rich garden loam, we take whatever help we can get. If a few kind words can coax a bloom or two out of stubborn ground, then I’m all in.And honestly, it changes something in us, too.

Now, HHH sings a lot. I’ve heard him outside with the tomatoes, that are thriving in “Walls of Water”. In their tropical oasis, they are busting out all over, and have already started blooming. In March!!!!!

There’s a gentleness that comes with slowing down long enough to speak to something that can’t answer back. In hushed tones, it reminds us that growth, whether in a garden or in a life, doesn’t always come from force. Sometimes, it comes from attention and patience as e show up day after day, even when nothing seems to be happening.

I’ve noticed that on mornings when I linger just a little longer, coffee in hand, saying a few words to the tiny green things pushing their way upward, the whole day seems to settle into a better rhythm. The act of tending to something small and hopeful sets a positive tone for everything that follows.

Now that the study has been released, we should all be talking to our plants a bit more. Remember to compliment and encourage them. Maybe even sing, if you’re feeling brave. Just don’t be surprised if your neighbors start to wonder. Around here, they already do.

And if, by chance, you happen to read this on April 1st, and you’re questioning whether scientists have truly confirmed that zinnias enjoy compliments and sunflowers prefer a good tune…

Well…….

Let’s just say the plants and I are still in discussions.

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.