Some celebrations come with balloons, speeches, and cake. Others arrive quietly, while no one notices them but us. Along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that celebrations should be reserved for the really big moments such as graduations, weddings, promotions, retirement, and anniversaries. We wait for life to hand us permission to celebrate.

But why?

Sometimes the greatest milestones are the ones no one else can see.

The first day we wake up with hope after a season of heartbreak.

The first tomato picked from the garden.

The first mile walked after an illness.

The first prayer that feels genuine again.

The first page written. Or perhaps… The last page.

This week, I reached a milestone that has been quietly waiting for more than six years. The final words of my new book are written. My six Beta Readers have started to read their copies. Of course, there is still editing ahead, along with formatting, publishing, and all the little details that come before holding the finished book in my hands. My widow’s journey is finally captured between a front and back cover.

It’s done.

Those three words carry far more weight than they appear to. For over six years I’ve lived with this manuscript. It has cried with me, healed with me, challenged me, and grown right alongside me. Every chapter represents the steps I took toward today, and something unexpected happened along the way.

Now that this story is finished, I can almost hear the others knocking. The floodgates have opened. Ideas that have patiently waited their turn are lining up, each wanting to be told. With publishing dates already stretching well into 2027, I suppose I’ve traded my retirement rocking chair for Kindle Direct Publishing and my writing desk.

So now comes the important part.

The celebration.

I haven’t decided exactly what it will be yet, but lunch followed by a trip to the spa sounds wonderfully tempting. After all, if this isn’t worth celebrating, what is?

We often move from one accomplishment to the next without stopping long enough to appreciate how far we’ve come. We check the box, make another list, and hurry toward the next goal, while missing the main point. Perhaps delight isn’t waiting at the finish line but found in the pauses during the moments when we look back and quietly whisper, “I did it.”

Your celebration doesn’t have to involve writing a book. Maybe you cleaned out the garage you’ve been avoiding or planted your first flowers. Maybe you kept a promise to yourself, or simply got through a difficult week with grace. Whatever it is, don’t dismiss it because someone else might think it’s too small.

It’s your victory.

Celebrate it.

Buy yourself lunch.

Take the afternoon off.

Pick up fresh flowers.

Eat dessert first.

Life gives us enough reasons to carry heavy things. Let’s become just as intentional about celebrating the beautiful ones. This week, choose one accomplishment, big or small, and reward yourself. You may discover that the simplest celebrations become the sweetest memories of all.

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

Some of life’s greatest blessings are hiding right under our noses.

HHH and I are still plugging away on the meditation garden at church. It’s really a lovely place to sit, pray, and breathe. The only problem is that we’ve somehow managed to schedule ourselves to work there around 11:00 in the morning.

On July 8th.

In Nevada.

With temperatures determined to make their way into the triple digits.

I have to admit, it’s a little difficult to get excited about hauling shovels, pulling weeds, and moving rocks when the sun is doing its best impression of a blast furnace. Perhaps the lesson isn’t to avoid the work but simply to start a little earlier.

The truth is, I need the exercise. I need the sunshine. I need the fresh air. Sometimes I just need to adjust my timing.

As always, church has a way of rewarding us.

We ran into the usual Wednesday crew. Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird, happily making their way toward their first wedding anniversary. Mr. Fix It. Our Pastor. They’d spent part of the morning cleaning up after our Fourth of July celebration, which was grand indeed.

Someone suggested lunch. Destination — TeePee Bar and Grill, just a few feet away.

Unfortunately, when we arrived, we discovered the TeePee had been closed by a government agency that will remain both unnamed and unexplained. So, with hungry stomachs and in need of a Plan B, we made a quick decision and headed a few blocks away to Knight’s Pizza.

Sometimes Plan B turns out even better than Plan A.

Honestly, the pizza was some of the best we’ve had in years. We shared a lunch special that included a fresh salad bar, and the whole meal worked out to about five dollars a person. You just can’t complain about that.

But if I’m being truthful, the pizza wasn’t the highlight of the afternoon. It was the laughter, stories, and easy conversation around the table.

There is something wonderfully different about church family. It isn’t perfect people gathering together. It’s ordinary people who choose to care about one another. They celebrate together, work together, pray together, laugh together, and when life gets hard, they carry one another through.

At our church, there really aren’t strangers. There are simply new friends we haven’t met yet.

It struck me on the drive home that the greatest treasures rarely announce themselves with flashing lights. They don’t usually cost much money either. More often, they’re hiding in ordinary Wednesdays, unexpected invitations, shared pizza, familiar smiles, and people who simply enjoy spending time together.

Those blessings have been sitting right under our noses all along.

If you ever find yourself passing through our little town on a Wednesday, stop by and say hello. There’s always room for one more friend at the table.

Mrs. Erika Kirk made an unwanted cameo on television yesterday. Flanked by men who were hired to protect her, but not in the way her “Charlie” always did, she marched into court.

Watching the trial unfold, I wondered how any crime victim finds the strength to sit in that courtroom, day after day, facing unimaginable heartbreak. What would I do in her place? I don’t know if I could’ve chosen God over rage.

When she chose forgiveness, it wasn’t through weakness. It wasn’t saying what happened was acceptable. It wasn’t forgetting. It wasn’t excusing. It was choosing not to let another human being continue to occupy space inside her heart. That takes extraordinary courage.

As I watched, I realized I am not there yet. There are still people from my own journey whom I have not completely forgiven. Their actions still find their way into my thoughts from time to time. Watching Mrs. Kirk reminded me that forgiveness isn’t something we give because another person deserves it. We give it because we deserve peace.

Forgiveness unlocks a prison whose door has been standing open all along. The person we release is often ourselves. Healing begins to multiply, while peace settles where anger once lived. Our hearts become lighter, while the future grows larger than the past.

I don’t know Mrs. Kirk personally, but today she became one of my teachers. Throughout the coverage, nearly everyone referred to her as “Erika.” Perhaps that is perfectly acceptable to her. I certainly don’t presume to know.

Mrs. Kirk is a profoundly beautiful name. It speaks of a marriage. A partnership. A lifetime built together. It honors the man she loved and the life they created. Widowhood doesn’t erase that story, but makes it even more precious.

Mrs. Kirk will always be Mrs. Kirk. Respecting a widow means remembering that her love story did not end because her husband died. It simply changed chapters.

Perhaps one day I will reach the place where forgiveness comes as naturally as it seemed to come for Mrs. Kirk. Until then, I will keep walking toward it, one step at a time.

Because freedom waits there.

And so does healing.

It finally feels as though summer has arrived at Winterpast.

The cherry tomatoes are beginning to blush with color, promising fresh salads and handfuls of sweet little treasures straight from the vine. The medicinal herbs are nearly ready to harvest, filling the garden with wonderful fragrances every time I brush past them. And the zucchini… well… they’re doing exactly what zucchini do. Blink once, and they’ve doubled in size!

The roses have decided that all the waiting was worthwhile. From Tequila Sunrise to Happy Go Lucky (rose varieties, not drinks), each bloom seems to celebrate the arrival of warm weather. Their bright colors greet me every morning with a cheerful reminder that patience is often rewarded.

Of course, Mother Nature wasn’t quite finished teasing us. We enjoyed another little cold snap and even a bit of rain before finally settling into July. Hard to believe we’re already in the second week of the month. Before long, school supplies will be lining the shelves at Walmart. For all I know, Halloween candy may already be making an appearance. That’s just the way the seasons seem to roll these days.

Still, I refuse to rush past this beautiful time of year.

Summer gardens remind us to slow down. To notice. To savor.

If you have a garden of your own, take a few moments to enjoy it. Pick a tomato while it’s still warm from the sunshine. Snip a handful of fresh herbs for tonight’s dinner. Stop and admire a flower that has worked so hard to bloom. Visit the local farmer’s market. Perhaps a neighbor has a few extra zucchini they’d be happy to share. Gardeners are famous for having “just one more zucchini” than they know what to do with!

Whatever you do, try to eat something fresh this week. There is something wonderfully satisfying about food and flowers that’ve been lovingly grown. They remind us that every season has its gifts, and summer is especially generous.

May today be filled with sunshine, the fragrance of fresh herbs, colorful blooms, and perhaps even a zucchini or two.

Happy gardening!

Every once in a while, someone comes along who completely changes the way you think about growing older. Meet our friend, the Queen of the Roundup.

No one is entirely certain whether she’s 92, 93, or 94 years old. At this point, we’ve decided it doesn’t really matter. She’s earned the right to keep us guessing.

What everyone does know is that her smile sparkles, her laugh is contagious, and she travels more than anyone in town, including HHH and me, which says a lot.

Last week, her children needed a little help on their Montana ranch. Nothing too serious. They simply had to round up one hundred prize Black Angus cattle, gather them into the corrals for vaccinations and health checks, and then move them back out into fresh pasture.

Naturally, the Queen of the Roundup wasn’t about to sit on the porch and watch. Settled securely on the back of an ATV, off she went.

Now, the cattle didn’t necessarily agree with the plan. They had ideas of their own. But after plenty of patience, determination, and a little cowboy teamwork, every one of those beautiful black Angus received their checkups and headed back to greener grass. And right in the middle of it all was our favorite cowgirl.

Not long before that adventure, she attended her class reunion in Iowa. Only seven classmates were able to come. She arrived wearing her white cowgirl boots. (Not the silver ones this time.)

She danced in.

She danced out.

Oh, did I mention she loves to dance?

If you ask her what the secret is to living well after seventy, she doesn’t hesitate.

“Don’t stop moving.” A decade ago, she almost stopped moving and decided that wasn’t for her. So, she worked her hardest, every single day, and gained back her life. One foot in front of the other.

Don’t lose your rhythm. Not for a minute. Dance until you wear your boots out.

Keep your mind active.

Keep your body even more active.

Join in.

Don’t become a couch potato.

Keep smiling.

And always—always—be grateful for every single day God has given you.

Smile at someone.

Give a hug every day. Take one back for yourself.

Read your Bible.

Love the Lord.

I think she’s onto something.

Living your best life isn’t about counting birthdays. It’s about collecting moments. It’s about saying yes when someone needs help. It’s about dancing whenever the music starts. It’s about finding joy in ordinary days and giving thanks for extraordinary blessings.

The world needs more sweet cowgirls like our Queen of the Roundup.

They remind us that age doesn’t determine how fully we live.

Our hearts do.

After all, there may still be a hundred Black Angus waiting around the next bend.

And someone has to help round them up.

There is something wonderfully comforting about the Fourth of July in a small town.

Yesterday, Winterpast woke to quiet streets and blue skies. HHH and I made our usual trip to Walmart, where the shelves were stocked and ready for tomorrow’s celebrations. Coolers, paper plates, flags, watermelon, chips, hamburger buns, and hot dog buns waited patiently for the parties soon to come.

On our way home, we noticed another sure sign that Independence Day is almost here.

The men were already preparing the site for Saturday night’s fireworks show. On a huge, dusty patch of desert between the Old Folk’s Home and the tracks, people were scurrying. Fireworks sites are so ugly. Just a bunch of tubes and wires. Unless you knew what it was, you’d never know what beauty it would produce.

Tomorrow will begin long before the first firework lights the sky. The day starts with the pancake breakfast with the Masonic Lodge.

Then, at ten o’clock, the big parade will make its way right down Main Street. This year, there won’t be a high school band. Our local band only marches in this parade every other year. We’ll miss the drums and brass echoing between the buildings. How sad the kids won’t march in the 250th birthday of our nation.

The firehouse will fly its huge American flag, and HHH has already secured the best parking spot along the entire route, right near the towing company across from the firehouse. When your brother is the mayor, it only takes a call if you know the right people. Living in town since the late 1950’s, HHH and his family have been long-time friends of the owner.

After the parade, our church will be cooking hamburgers and hot dogs. There will be a bounce house and plenty of fun for the kids, because small-town celebrations are best when everyone has something to enjoy.

At Out-Of-Town-Park, not to be confused with In-Town Park, an old-fashioned carnival will unfold. And of course, the 4th wouldn’t be the 4th without the pig races. What do you win if you hold on to the pig? The pig or $100. Now, that’s something to chase.

Then, at dusk, the fireworks will begin.

Not pretend fireworks.

The real thing.

Big, bright, booming fireworks that shake your chest and light up the Nevada sky.

Danger of fire?

Well, that’s what the fire department is for, right?

I hope whatever you do, wherever you are, you have a wonderful time celebrating.

Happy 250th Birthday, America.

Shine bright tomorrow.

We love you.

There are dreams that begin with excitement. And there are dreams that begin because there is simply no other choice.

Six years ago, I quietly started something that would become one of the hardest journeys of my life. It didn’t begin with a publishing contract or a marketing plan. It began with calendars spread across the table, journals filled with hurried notes, photographs, old emails, and memories that refused to fade.

For six years, I organized.

I dreamed.

I started.

I stopped.

I walked away.

Then I came back.

Again and again.

Some days I couldn’t bear to open the manuscript. Other days I wrote until the tears finally gave way to peace. There were paragraphs that cost me more than words can measure. There were also moments when I found myself laughing out loud at memories I hadn’t visited in years. Grief is strange that way. It never asks permission to make you cry. It also has a surprising habit of handing you joy when you least expect it.

Writing this book has required something I didn’t know I still possessed—the willingness to remember the smallest details of some really dark days.

Every chapter carried me back into another month of widowhood. I revisited the places, the conversations, the balloon releases, the small victories, and the heartbreaks that seemed impossible at the time. I met that frightened woman again, and with each page, I wanted to tell her what she could not yet know.

You are going to make it.

Just keep walking.

One foot in front of the other.

What did I see when the last word was written? A steady progression finding life again.

Today, I can finally say something I’ve been hoping to write for a very long time. The first draft is finished. Not perfect. Not polished beyond recognition. Just honest.

The manuscript is now ready for my wonderful beta readers, who will help me see what I can no longer see after living with these pages for so many years. After that, it will make its way to the publisher. And if all goes according to plan, on November 11, 2026, Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be available for purchase on Amazon (Hardback, Paperback, e-book). That sentence feels almost unbelievable to type.

This isn’t a book filled with easy answers or five simple steps to healing. It is raw. It is real. It tells the truth about losing my husband to cancer and discovering, one day at a time, that my own life was not over.

If you have ever buried someone you loved, I think you’ll recognize pieces of yourself in these pages.

If you are walking beside someone who is grieving, perhaps you’ll understand them a little better.

And if you’re simply wondering whether it’s too late to begin again, I hope this story reminds you that it isn’t.

Dreams don’t always arrive on our schedule.

Sometimes they need years.

Sometimes they need tears.

Sometimes they simply need us to keep showing up until one day we discover we’ve crossed the finish line we could barely imagine when we started.

Because it’s never too late to keep walking, even at 70.

Just put one foot in front of the other and off you go.

Thank you for walking this journey with me. Your encouragement, your prayers, your emails, your comments, and your friendship have carried me farther than you probably realize.

November 11, 2026, is on the horizon, and I can’t wait to place Widow: A Journey Toward Life into your hands.

Yesterday was one of those long days every pet owner dreads.

Tanner underwent minor surgery and is now safely home, resting comfortably. We’re hopeful for a complete recovery, and if you are the praying kind, we’d truly appreciate your prayers.

One thing a pet teaches us is just how dependent they are on us. They can’t tell us where it hurts. They can’t explain that something feels different. They rely on us to notice the subtle signs—a lump beneath the fur, a cough that wasn’t there before, an appetite that quietly disappears, or eyes that no longer sparkle quite as brightly. They trust us completely, and that trust carries a tremendous responsibility.

Pets are expensive. Food, veterinary care, medications, surgeries, and insurance often cost far more than people ever imagined when they brought home that tiny puppy or kitten. Yet good pet owners somehow make it work because these animals are no longer possessions. They are family.

While we waited at the veterinary clinic yesterday, I met two remarkable German Shepherds.

The first was magnificent with a name that fit. King was tall, handsome, and intelligent with a beautiful black-and-tan coat. He was there to be neutered but was already struggling with advanced hip problems despite his young age.

While we waited, his owner told his story.

She’d found him abandoned in a field near her home. It took several days to earn his trust before he would come close enough for her to help him. Someone had simply thrown him away as if his life no longer mattered.

Looking into those soft brown eyes, I couldn’t imagine who could have done such a thing. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t dangerous. He simply needed someone willing to keep the promise someone else had made and then forgotten. He found that person.

The next woman walked in carrying another German Shepherd—a puppy whose ears hadn’t quite decided whether they wanted to stand proudly or flop adorably to the side. The puppy bounced through the waiting room, full of curiosity and joy. German Shepherds are some of life’s very best dogs.

While cradling her new pup, her owner shared another heartbreaking story.

The puppy had been purchased at eight weeks old by a neighbor. By three months, the novelty had worn off. The owner wanted her gone immediately. Free. To anyone willing to take her. Already having three German Shepherds of her own, this kind woman simply said, “I’ll take her.” That little bouncing bundle of energy had stolen her heart.

Watching those two dogs yesterday, I couldn’t help wondering why it’s so difficult to remember the commitment we make when bringing a pet home. Unless something truly drastic changes in life, they’re ours. Not until they’re inconvenient. Not until they’re no longer puppies. Not until the vet bills arrive. For life.

It’s true that situations arise where rehoming a beloved pet is the most loving decision. Over the years, I’ve had to make that heartbreaking choice myself. It was never impulsive. It involved tears, careful planning, and making certain they would be safe, loved, and cherished. There’s a world of difference between responsibly rehoming an animal and abandoning one. No dog deserves to be driven into the desert and left to fend for itself.

Watching Tanner sleep peacefully beside us today, I’m reminded that love isn’t measured by convenience. It’s measured by commitment.

DOG is GOD spelled backward. Whether that’s coincidence or not, perhaps it’s worth thinking about. Dogs teach us loyalty, forgiveness, unconditional love, and joy. They greet us as though we’ve been gone forever, even if we only stepped outside for the mail.

If you’re able, consider donating to your local animal shelter. Spay and neuter your pets. Support the people who rescue the ones others have forgotten. Most of all, love the ones who already love you with their whole hearts. They deserve nothing less.

As I watched those two German Shepherds yesterday, another thought stayed with me.

The women holding their leashes had never met. They simply happened to arrive at the same veterinary clinic on the same afternoon. One had rescued a young dog abandoned in a field. The other had welcomed a three-month-old puppy that someone else had already decided was no longer worth keeping. Two strangers. Two beautiful dogs. Two women who, without ever knowing it, reminded me that there are still extraordinary people quietly walking among us. People who don’t look the other way. People who open their homes. People who make room in their hearts. For every person willing to throw a dog away, there is another willing to pick one up.

Thank God for people who choose love.

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.