Grieving Gardener

For years, my friend’s heart has been stretched over miles.

With a life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, she’s been far from the familiar roads that once held her childhood, memories, and family. Life’s adventures had taken her elsewhere, as they so often do. While building something meaningful in this new place, a quiet ache has clouded her present.

Homesickness is a strange thing. It doesn’t always shout, but sometimes sits softly in the background, intensifying with a memory, smell, or story. For her, this homesickness had grown heavier with the years.

There have been family gatherings she could not attend. Holidays marked by phone calls instead of hugs. And hardest of all, the loss of her father as her goodbyes were spoken from afar. Not the same as standing hand in hand, that kind of distance takes a toll.

But God has a way of writing stories we could never arrange ourselves.

Just a week ago, our little church rallied in support of her with a mission of the heart. As her mother 94th birthday was almost here, the time had come. Not someday. Not eventually. Last Wednesday at 1:42 pm, we put her on the plane for a return home.

Boarding the plane with more than a suitcase, she carried years of longing and love, waiting to be shared in person rather than over the phone. On her way, she was covered by prayers that travel farther and faster than any airplane ever could.

As time passes, it may seem doors are closed and that a faraway home can never be visited again. But sometimes… God makes a way. He opens a path where there didn’t seem to be one. He nudges, provides, arranges, and gently says, “Now is the time. Pack your bag. You’re going home.”

This hasn’t been just a visit, but the BEST VISIT EVER. Not built on convenience or timing, it was built on love, longing, and the quiet faith that God still restores what feels impossible.

This morning, in a place that once felt like a memory, she is sitting close to her mom and siblings. Maybe holding Mom’s hand while laughing over old stories with her brother and sisters. Just being together is the birthday gift her mom will treasure the most because, after all those years… coming home means everything.

Every town has their own dress code. Spring on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada demands layer upon layer. I remember the days when true class involved matching everything from the hat to the shoes. Outfits, we called them. Today, the only outfits I see around town keeping a person safe from the frigid morning temperatures in colorful layers.

Along with layering, the quality of the clothing is pretty important. When gardening, clothing takes a beating. The desert sunshine is pretty intense, and a good quality t-shirt might last a season before it fades to a new color. White t-shirts reflect the desert sun, look sharp and were once easy to find.

The REAL men around our town need thick dependable t-shirts that hold their shape and don’t require a second thought before stepping out the door.

Somewhere along the way, many things in life have changed. We’d already visited Costco, only to be stunned at the tiny, thin t-shirts in a package labeled Men’s L. Citified t-shirts arrived on the shelves. Racks and racks of tissue thin men’s t-shirts. Moisture-wicking. Fade-resistant. All the buzz words describing t-shirts until now.

Oy. Vey.

We’ve already endured the renovation of our local Walmart and what seemed like a whole new philosophy on where everything belongs. Last weekend, we found ourselves wandering through the clothing section in search of men’s t-shirts. After a brief search, there they were. Row after row of shirts that looked promising in the packaging. But, soon the truth was revealed. So thin you could practically read a newspaper through it, these shirts were even worse than those at Costco.

The major companies have all joined the same club, now producing the “barely there” collection. Lightweight has become see-through. Comfortable had become questionable. And durability? Well, let’s just say these shirts didn’t look like they planned on sticking around for the long haul.

There in the aisle, holding what used to be a staple of every man’s wardrobe, we had to laugh. Because really… what’s a man to do? Layer up like it’s winter in July? Hope no one notices? Or simply accept that even the humble t-shirt has decided to reinvent itself without asking permission?

It struck me then, in that oddly lit aisle between socks and briefs, that this is the new normal. Nothing stays the same. Not stores. Not seasons. Not even t-shirts. The things we once relied on have shifted beneath our feet. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes… not. Changes in the little things are noticed the most. A shirt that used to feel sturdy now feels flimsy. A store that once made sense now feels like a maze. Familiar comforts slowly trade places with new realities, and we’re left standing there, holding something that looks the same—but isn’t.

Suck it up, buttercup. Smile, nod, and adjust while trying to find the humor. Avoid grumbling and move on. While learning to navigate a new world, accept things as they are even if HANES has changed its corporate mind.

Arriving tomorrow, we’ve ordered heavy weight t-shirts. Although the price for two is the same as the price we used to pay for six, we’re hopeful they’re the ones. They may now hang next to HHH’s formal dress shirts. We certainly won’t take them for granted anymore.

And so, that’s life here on the high desert plains in a town that has only one source for clothing. We’ll continue to enjoy the bright blue desert sky shining down on the gardens of Winterpast. Thank goodness life isn’t all about shopping. Long live Amazon and the beefy cotton Tee.

The church potluck yesterday felt like more than just a meal. Maybe it was the way the tables were lined up in rows, stretching across the fellowship hall like an open invitation. Or maybe it was the quiet understanding that no matter what kind of week we had all walked through, we would meet there, together again. The line for tasty treats went on forever, as guests ate quickly to make room for more.

A moist and delicious spiral-cut ham, glistening under the lights sat the beginning as the anchor of luncheon. The pastor’s wife had wrapped green utensils with orange napkins to resemble little carrots as we celebrated a late Easter meal. Everyone brought what we could. Not just food, but little pieces of our lives.

HHH created his fabulous scalloped potatoes, rich and creamy, the kind that always seem to disappear faster than expected. I made two lbs. of glazed carrots, warm and sweet, their brightness offering a small bit of color on a long table of comfort foods. Others came with rolls, salads, casseroles, and desserts, each dish telling its own quiet story of effort and care.

We filled our plates and found our seats. Simple conversations began, even if sometimes a little awkward at first. Soon enough, the room was buzzing with conversation and laughter followed right behind as it usually does.

I had the pleasure of sharing a meal with someone a bit down on her luck. We met two weeks ago when I learned she’d traveled all the way from Wisconsin. When asked how her week had been, she said she’d met some struggles. God, please bless her as she makes her way through each day. Her path in life isn’t an easy one. The path of the homeless never is.

Some people there carried heavy things, seen it if you looked closely enough. Others seemed light as air, quick to smile and serve. At this potluck, it didn’t matter which one you were. The food didn’t ask questions. The chairs didn’t require explanations. The invitation was the same.

Come. Sit. Eat.

And for a little while, everything else softened.

Watching plates being passed and hands reaching for seconds, I realized that this is what it means to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Not perfection. Not performance. Just presence.

A red-headed, pint-sized and full of himself, had collected a plate full of sugar and dye’s. This was one child that didn’t need more energy. There are some children that bring the winds of terror with them when they enter the room. It’s sad that red-headed boys often live up to their reputation of naughtiness.

As he placed teeny, tiny bunny cookies on his cupcake, I mentioned how cute they were. He smiled and gave me one. He also shared one with HHH. For dessert, I ate this tiny cookie with one bite. It was then a Dr. Mom (an amazing physician and mother not related to this little) came to sit down by him. He offered her one.

“I’ll take the cookie, but I’m not eating it. Remember what your hands touched before dinner?”

My heart sank. I could only wonder what the heck this little had touched. The possibilities were endless.

She continued, “Boogers? Next time, wash your hands and I’ll be happy to share a cookie with you.”

After all those years of teaching, you would think I’d remember one important rule. Never take food from anyone under five feet tall without first watching them wash their hands. With a sinking heart, it was time for HHH and I to leave.

At Sunday potluck, we didn’t fix each other’s problems or solve the war. We shared a meal while making space for one red-headed little and a homeless woman. We remembered, if only for a moment, we’re not alone. Just as the beautiful astronauts reminded us, we’re all part of Crew Earth.

And at Sunday potluck… that is more than enough.

More tomorrow.

Out here on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, the weather has been wild, unpredictable, and just a little bit unruly. March came in like a confused guest, skipping past spring altogether and knocking boldly on summer’s door. One afternoon, the thermometer climbed to 90 degrees, and just like that, the air conditioner hummed to life. It felt as if summer had arrived without permission, a hot slap across the face when we were still expecting gentle spring breezes.

And then, just as quickly, winter returned.

On April 3rd and 4th, the temperatures plunged into a hard freeze. The kind that doesn’t whisper, but takes. Tiny plums, cherries, apricots, still new and full of promise, fell silently to the ground. Just like that, the harvest for the year was gone. No second chances. No undoing it. Just loss.

For a few brief days after, things settled into something that felt almost normal. Soft 70s and 80s. Gentle breezes brushing across Winterpast. The kind of weather that invites hope back into your hands. So I planted nearly thirty little zinnias, each one tucked carefully in its place, a quiet act of faith in the season.

And now… here we are again.

The forecast says the temperatures are dropping. A storm is coming. Sunday morning will bring another freeze.

Really?

The tomatoes are already stretching tall and the new squash is thriving. The lawn is ready for its first mowing. Everything in the garden is reaching toward life and warmth yet winter wants one more turn.

The calendula, the borage, the asters will need to do their best to survive outside. The rest of the little ones remain inside, gathered safely on the dining room table. Outgrowing their tiny pots, they’re reaching for more than I can give them. But, the great outdoors needs to wait because with this craziness, waiting is the wisest thing to do.

This situation isn’t just about weather. This is about life and the slow and steady development of virtues the Scripture speaks of.

Patience, when the seasons refuse to cooperate.

Faith, when you plant seeds without any guarantee they will survive.

Hope, when the blossoms fall and you choose to believe there will be beauty again.

Perseverance, when you keep tending the soil, even after loss.

Gentleness, in the way we handle fragile things—whether seedlings or hearts.

Trust, in a God who governs even the wind and frost, though we may not understand His timing.

And love… love that keeps showing up in the garden anyway.

Just like the garden, we’re all exiting somewhere between storms and sunshine. erhaps in that very unpredictability, our roots grow deepest.

Today, I’ll wait while watching the sky while the weather will remain in God’s hands, where it belongs.

---

A Garden Prayer

Lord of every season,
You who send both sunshine and frost,
teach me to trust You during these changes.

When the winds are harsh and the nights are cold,
help me to remember that You are still tending the garden
outside my door and the one within my heart.

Give strength to what is planted,
shelter to what is fragile,
and patience to the one who waits.

And when the seasons feel uncertain,
remind me that nothing is ever truly lost in Your care.

Amen.

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

Have you ever got up in the middle of the night, wandered into your kitchen, and discovered that a band of helpful idiots had broken into your home to reorganize your entire life? Happily, that’s not a common event, unless you’re talking about our local Walmart. It’s the ONLY store in town for all our needs and the one that’s much to small for our growing town.

Walmart found their answer. I’m quite sure they have a staff of Menehune, (meh-neh-HOO-nay). These little creatures are mystical and shy forest-dwellers brought in from the Hawaiian islands. Six inches to two feet tall, these industrious master craftsmen have completed great feats of engineering and construction in only hours. That must be how the mayhem is occurring. It’s all the Menehune.

These little creatures scurry through the store under cover of darkness, moving entire departments with great purpose and absolutely no warning. By sunrise, their work is complete. By mid-morning, the townspeople arrive… bewildered.

It must be true, because during the day, I haven’t met many industrious human employees.

At our Walmart, mayhem and confusion pepper every shopping experience. Transformation comes at a cost. Not just a little inconvenience, but full-blown chaos. The kind where the salt and baking soda are now tucked neatly in the pharmacy, because both can be used for teeth and gum care. Flat bed sheets? Naturally, they’ve been relocated to the garden section, just in case you need frost protection for your tomatoes. And your canned goods? Why, those are now stacked proudly next to the exercise equipment, ready to double as free weights.

Nothing is missing. Everything is simply… somewhere else. Welcome to the most confusing and disorganized Walmart in all of Northwestern Nevada..

Pet supplies? Moved across the store to where the baby supplies used to be. Baby supplies? Somewhere in the center of the store, like a surprise you didn’t ask for. Diagonal shifts appear to be especially popular. Whole departments move overnight like tectonic plates in a retail earthquake while every shopping trip has become a treasure hunt, minus the treasure.

You’ll see it on people’s faces. Carts moving slowly. Heads tilting. That quiet look that says, “The peanut butter was right here yesterday…”

And yet, here’s the sad truth of this situation. The locals depend on this place for just about everything from amoxicillin to motor oil. In a town growing at the speed of light, Walmart isn’t just any store, it’s the only one. Groceries, socks, garden hoses, birthday cards, dog food, and that one random thing you didn’t know you needed until you saw it.

Most days, a parking space is hard to find and baskets are few and far between. Inside, it’s a shared experience with neighbors circling aisles, helping each other find items that may or may not still exist in their former locations.

Just when we think everything is finally arranged in a way they believe makes perfect sense, it’s moved again.

Oy vey.

There’s a lesson tucked in between the relocated canned goods and wandering shoppers. Patience is a virtue. And if nothing else, Walmart is giving us all a daily opportunity to practice it while helping others along the way.

I’ll try to remember that… as soon as I find the coffee.

Have a great day. More tomorrow.

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.

---

🌿 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.