Author: Joy Hurt

We lost our dear friend, Ray, recently, and while words can’t fill the space he leaves behind, I’ll write them anyway, hoping they help hold on to the pieces of him that meant so much to his friends and family.

Ray was never one to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t loud because he didn’t need to be. His presence, steady and familiar, was more powerful than a thousand speeches. Many of us knew him simply as the kindly old man who sat on the right side of the church, fourth row from the front, rain or shine. That seat might as well have had his name on it. Week after week, he’d be there nodding quietly, folding his hands while offering a warm but brief smile to those who passed him by. For some, he was a gentle fixture of their Sunday routine. For others, he was a source of silent comfort, his faith as solid and unwavering as the chairs on which we sit.

Ray and I had a deep love for South Dakota. Hearing about a planned trip to see the buffalo round-up outside of Custer, he told me that was one of the last trips he and his late wife had made. The next Sunday, he came with three DVD’s about the area. Those videos were so wonderful, it felt as if I’d taken a two-hour trip to one of my favorite places in the world. It brought him such pleasure to have shared something so dear to his heart.

Ray’s connection to the church ran far deeper than that fourth-row seat. Behind the scenes, he took it upon himself to keep the place looking its best. If you ever noticed the shiny floor or how not a single cobweb dared appear in the corners, you can thank Ray although he never asked for it. He found peace in doing, fixing, and maintaining what mattered to the people he cared about.

I’ve been told Ray had his rougher edges, too. Some remember him fondly as a bit of a grouch who’d grumble about the weather, the weeds, or the world. But even in those moments, there was a softness beneath. He was a widower, after all. A man who had loved and lost deeply. I would guess his growls were just his way of keeping the loneliness from growing too loud.

To his neighbors, he was a quiet guardian of the street. His yard was always neat, the bushes clipped, and the driveway swept. He set a quiet standard, and we noticed. He taught us, without words, what it means to take pride in what you’re given.

Ray was also a warrior. In these last months, he faced the daunting challenge of open-heart surgery with a kind of quiet courage that only those who have truly lived can muster. He fought hard to recover, and there were days when we believed he might just pull through it all. But in the end, it became too much for his tired body. Still, he gave it everything he had, just as he always did.

Lately, the challenges kept mounting. He was preparing for a major move closer to family, practical but not easy. Leaving the house he had shared with his wife was a lot to ask of someone who had just turned 80. Every room held memories. Every creak in the floorboard spoke of a life lived fully. Only weeks before, he’d lost his church mate, Miss Marion. Their quiet companionship was a comfort to both old friends sitting side by side, Sunday after Sunday. Losing her and the thought of leaving his home were heavy burdens for one heart to carry.

Now, in the stillness he leaves behind, we listen for him in new ways. The wind chimes that hang in the garden sway gently with the breeze, their soft tones dancing through the air. And in those gentle notes, steady, comforting, and familiar memories of those we’ve lost float by. A whisper of those loved ones that were always there keeping watch, order, and faith.

Ray’s legacy isn’t just in polished floors or a pristine fountain. It’s in the little things like the wave across the street or the stories he told if you happened to catch him in a talkative mood. It’s in the quiet spaces where kindness lives without needing to announce itself. He didn’t try to be everything to everyone. He was just Ray. And that was more than enough.

Thank you, Ray, for all the ways you were here. We miss you deeply. Every time the chimes sing, we’ll remember your spirit as it dances in the wind. Heaven has welcomed a beautiful new angel.

Last weekend, we met the newest member of our family. A summer fish fry was the perfect time to get everyone together for the big introduction. Grandparents, Great Uncles, and cousins all came together to meet our July Firecracker. He’s the newest person I’ve met in a very long time and the only person I’ve ever known born on the 4th of July.

It’s hard to describe the moment you lay eyes on a soul so fresh to the world. Just two weeks old, he quietly controlled the room in a way only a newborn can. Tiny, still, and oozing softness, he was more powerful than any words or gestures offered.

I forgot how tiny babies are. Even though I’ve held a few in my time, the memory of that size fades. The weightlessness of a newborn feels more like holding a feathered thought than a person. With his head barely larger than my hand, his fingers were like delicate threads. His chest rising and falling in barely perceptible rhythm, I wanted to whisper, breathe carefully and not move too much. Of course, his adoring fans went wild with excitement, while he remained unimpressed.

Sleeping the entire time, there were no cries or fussing, just the steady sleep of someone who’s come from somewhere else entirely. Newborn sleep is unlike anything else. There’s a mystery to it, as if they’re still tethered to a world we’ve long since forgotten. You find yourself staring at their face, wondering what their dreams are made of. Whether the tiniest twitch of a lip or the softest sigh, every micro-expression feels sacred.

What struck me most wasn’t just the baby, but everyone around him. All eyes were fixed on his every move. Everyone wanted their turn to snuggle, but no one asked. A nervous new mom stood inches away, sure that any one of us could break her little miracle. I passed on my turn to cuddle him, as there’s plenty of time for that once his newness wears off.

Normally, there’s a hush that falls over a room with a newborn in it, as if everyone instinctively understands that something miraculous has occurred. In our case, conversations drifted into awe. Laughter softens into smiles. Eyes linger a little longer. Even those big strong Marine-types who don’t normally coo or fuss over babies found themselves marveling at the sheer rightness of this new human.

Perfection in a onesie. Plain and simple. We all agreed the newest little family member is a keeper.

In a world that feels perpetually unfinished and chaotic, a two-week-old baby is complete. He doesn’t need to achieve or perform or prove. His very being is enough. In fact, his existence is a kind of quiet protest against the world’s noise and a reminder that life begins in softness, stillness, and love. It’s easy to forget that we all started that small, silent, and perfect in our helplessness.

Present were five veteran teachers with extensive experience and knowledge about child development through our own children and past students. But now that this unique newborn has dropped in to stay, all that has gone out the window. He’s two weeks old and already teaching us so much without ever saying a word.

If there were one thing I would share with our sweet new mom, it’s this:

Now, hurry up and grow. I can’t wait for a proper hello.

More tomorrow.

There’s something timeless about the soft, melodic sound of wind chimes catching a gentle breeze. Whether hung from a tree limb, a porch overhang, or in the heart of a meditation garden, they bring with them more than just pleasant notes. Carrying a deep, centuries-old tradition, wind chimes offer therapeutic benefits, inviting us to pause, reflect, and, sometimes, snag a great deal while walking the aisles of a local store.

Over thousands of years, wind chimes have danced in the breeze. Originating in ancient China, their sound warded off evil spirits while attracting peaceful energy. In India and Japan, wind chimes in temples promoted a meditative environment, their tones believed to enhance mindfulness and spiritual clarity.

As they made their way across cultures, wind chimes evolved from simple bamboo stalks and shells to finely tuned instruments made from metals, aluminum, and glass. Tuned to specific harmonic scales, high-quality chimes create resonant tones that don’t clash, but layer over one another like the notes of a well-conducted choir.

In memory of a dear church member who passed away in late spring, our congregation decided to take up an offering to purchase wind chimes for our meditation garden. To be more inclusive, the chimes would memorialize all those we’ve lost. After that, things went a little crazy!

The pastor brought two from home to help scout out the most effective place to hang our chimes. Suspended 16′ in the air, on a very old limb of a very old tree, we waited below. Of all the places the Zephyrs zip, we chose the two places they didn’t. So, we continued to search.

In the meanwhile, mysterious advertisements for wind chimes started popping up on our phones. Even though the pastor was the one doing the searching, we all got in on the action.

All wind chimes aren’t created equal. Precisely engineered, harmoniously tuned wind chime tubes produce specific notes that complement each other. This tuning transforms random clatter into a soothing, ambient soundscape. Think of it as the difference between banging on a piano and playing a gentle chord progression. These harmonious chimes create a calm backdrop promoting relaxation, introspection, and presence, especially when installed in a space like a meditation garden.

Of course, the bigger the chimes, the more they cost. Soon, we were looking at an investment of hundreds of dollars to hang chimes where they might get stolen. In the middle of all these decisions, HHH and I were strolling through the aisles of Hobby Lobby, when we ran into the most amazing sale. 66% off all windchimes…… With the money raised, we could now afford the chimes, two memorial plaques, and crushed gravel to spruce up the garden. A win/win all the way around. At that price, Winterpast got a set, too.

The next consideration was placement, which is everything. In a meditation garden, windchimes should be positioned where they can catch a slight breeze just enough to activate their gentle song. High above our tinkling fountain, while suspended from a sturdy limb, they’d be protected from direct rain and theft.

Again the pastor climbed the 20 ft. ladder to find a new home for the chimes. With a little pruning, they’ve found their home. The new wind chimes will invite visitors to slow down, breathe deeply, and stay a bit. After braving the ladder, the meditation garden is now even more peaceful.

Whether turning your backyard into a sanctuary or bringing some harmony to your front porch, the right chimes, hung safely, can transform your environment in subtle, profound ways. So, the next time the wind stirs, listen closely. You may find serenity is only a breeze away.

Everyone has chapters in life that we wish we could rewrite. Moments of regret. Words better not said or those that should have been. Choices that led to unexpected pain. Grief over the loss of a loved one. No matter how much we dwell, overthink, or replay the scenes in our minds, what’s done is done, and we can’t return to those moments.

A favorite saying of mine goes way back to days on the farm. When I wished for a do-over for days gone by, a dear friend would remind me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Of course, the improper English is obvious, but that makes the statement all the more striking. We can’t bring back the past no matter how we wish we could.

Have you ever tried to catch a train that left yesterday? No. Of course not. That’s not how trains or time work. Yet, it’s easy to do this with every day problems. Obsessing over yesterday, it’s easy to study it like there’ll be a pop quiz tomorrow.

Chasing after emotional locomotives that have long since pulled out of the station, some cling to the idea that maybe, just maybe, the past can be rerouted. Hence the perfect advice on the subject. You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train.

Still, many remain tethered to what was. We carry emotional baggage like a badge of honor that gives control or meaning. But in reality, it’s just added weight. Regrets and grief will mess with your health, sleep, and relationships besides clouding your happiness.

So, how do we begin to accept the past and finally move on?

Acknowledge it. Look for life lessons. Hold onto the good while releasing the bad. Forgive. Focus. And then, move on.

Of course, the past marks our souls. But here’s the deal. Revisiting it over and over doesn’t change a thing. It’s like refreshing a website from 2007 and expecting new content. All you’ll find are regrets and out-dated design choices.

Focusing on the past or future ignores the present. Living in the past can fan the flames of shame, sorrow, and regret. Living in the future can bring anxiety and fear. Meanwhile, the present sits here like a lonely golden retriever with a tennis ball while waiting for you to come play.

So, just let yesterday’s train go on its way.

Stand on today’s platform. Look around and maybe even buy a coffee from the kiosk of mindfulness that only accepts good vibes and exact change as payment. Today is all we’ve got, and it’s worth showing up for. Because, if you spend all your time trying to re-board a train that’s already gone, you’ll miss the one that’s about to leave the station. A fresh, present-moment express headed straight toward joy and growth.

Now go live like today’s train just pulled in with snacks, legroom, and Wi-Fi. The best route is the one leaving right now. If you hurry, you won’t miss it.

More tomorrow.

Not long ago, I ordered a small bundle of “Footprints in the Sand” bookmarks from Amazon. Intended for members of our GriefShare group, the story serves as a gentle and comforting reminder that even in life’s darkest moments, we’re not alone. Each bookmark carried the familiar line “When you saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

When the package arrived, tucked carefully inside was heartfelt information about the home business from the vendor, signed – With Love, Susan & Eric.

Something about that note stayed with me. Maybe it was the personal touch in such an impersonal age, or just that, amid the rush of life and loss, someone had taken a moment to include some kind words. E-mailing a quick thank-you message, I wanted Susan and Eric to know their small gesture was noticed and appreciated and that their bookmarks are absolutely beautiful.

To my surprise, Susan wrote back.

She thanked me for my message and shared a little bit about their life behind the scenes. Running a small business on Amazon can be, in her words, “brutal.” Every order packed and shipped isn’t just a transaction, but a matter of survival. But most of all, she shared something quietly beautiful. As a shut-in, her mom helps package their orders, giving her a sense of purpose and a way to contribute. She isn’t just packing orders, but rather participating in a chain of compassion beginning in a quiet home and stretching out into the world.

That revelation humbled me.

My small order wasn’t just a batch of bookmarks but part of something bigger. It helped keep a small business afloat while giving meaning to her mom’s day. Finally, it brought solace to people who are walking through grief.

Kindness has a way of traveling from one person to another, often unnoticed, but never without impact. What began as a simple Amazon order became a quiet circle of giving from Susan and Eric, to Susan’s mom, to me, to the members of our GriefShare group, and then back again.

We rarely get to see the full ripple of our actions. But every now and then, life gives us a glimpse.

Kindness. Share it. Receive it. And then, pass it on. Now THAT’s beautiful.

More tomorrow.

Last weekend, we hosted a backyard bonfire party on the hottest day of the year. With desert temperatures soaring over 100 degrees well into the evening, it may not have been textbook bonfire weather… but somehow, it turned into one of the most memorable nights of the summer.

There’s nothing like sharing an evening around a fire pit with ten of your favorite people. Summer evenings are the best time for BBQs and Friday night parties. So, after such a wonderful engagement party for The Lovebirds just two weeks prior, we had a great idea to host a Friday Night Fire, inviting friends who wanted to join us. It seemed the perfect idea when the desert temps were still in the high 80s.

Living here in the desert for over five years now, this is the hottest summer yet. Monday, we topped 108. Of course, native desert dwellers like HHH will tell you it’s quite okay, as it’s a dry heat. Dry as the inside of my oven, you can cook an egg on the cement.

After announcing the idea on Sunday morning at church, many accepted the invitation, offering to help in any way they could. That’s normal for our beautiful church family. Everyone was excited to come and share time with us at Winterpast.

No matter how often we host parties, there is always a list of things to do. We went to work, preparing the backyard for another gathering. After replacing the solar lights around the lawn, and the lighting on each tree needed adjustment. Roses waited patiently for grooming while everything needed a heavy dose of water. Before we knew it, it was Friday.

In the afternoon, I pulled out the ice cream maker I bought during my first days as a desert gal in 2020. I made two batches of vanilla, one regular and one sugar-free using Splenda. Both recipes called for heavy whipping cream, sweetener, milk and vanilla extract and were delicious.

Despite the heat, Winterpast was filled with laughter, good conversation, and the delicious smell of roasting marshmallows and s’mores. Gathering around the fire pit after sunset, we enjoyed s’mores, fresh fruit, and, homemade ice cream, (saving us all from spontaneous combustion).

One of the highlights of the night was seeing Miss Buffy, HHH’s octogenarian mom, holding court from a shady corner of the patio. Thrilled to meet so many from our church community, she was charmed by their stories and quick wit.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the air cooled just enough for us to pretend sitting around a fire was a good idea. Despite the heat, Winterpast was filled with laughter, good conversation, and the delicious smell of roasting marshmallows and s’mores. Guests gathered around in lawn chairs and folding camp stools, swapping stories, sharing snacks, and soaking in the fellowship. There were sticky fingers, full bellies, and lots of laughter which was exactly the kind of night we all needed.

One of our trees has been a mystery to me. Covered with small, bitter, seeded berries, our chokecherry tree has been great bird food. One guest saw them and immediately asked about our plans for the abundant crop. Plans??? We had none. Soon, he’ll be turning the berries into jelly. Expect a report back on the results.

In the end, despite the heat, everyone had a wonderful time. The fire was hot, the treats were cool, and the company couldn’t have been better.

Next time, we might wait for a forecast below “broil”, but until then, we’re grateful for the memories made, the friendships strengthened, and the joy of gathering under the hot desert sky on these high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

More tomorrow.

Certain days etch themselves into our souls becoming moments that time could never erase. July 14, 1979 my oldest son was born, bringing love, wonder, and excitement into my life. God blessed me with the perfect child.

July 13th, the morning was heavy with summer and the air felt thick, as if even the sky was holding its breath. We’d spent the day driving through the Sierra Nevada Mountains while singing “Blood on the Saddle” to lighten the mood. Every good country girl knows a bumpy ride in a pickup truck is a great way to start labor. As kids ourselves, we were terrified about the hours ahead that would turn us into parents.

When labor started late in the afternoon, we’d chosen to stay close to the hospital at the local Holiday Inn. In the middle of a very restless night, it was finally time to meet our new baby.

Checking into the hospital, things quickly became all too real. No longer just a class about labor and delivery, we were experiencing THE EVENT of our lives in real time. The sterile scent of the hospital, antiseptic and cold, mingled with something warmer. The faint aroma of coffee from a distant breakroom mixed with the fragrance of the bouquet of fresh flowers at the nurse’s station. Everything felt surreal while life was suspended in a kind of golden haze.

Time slowed in that room. The morning light filtered through the blinds in pale slats, tracing lines across the hospital walls and my hands. Every sound felt amplified. The rhythmic beep of monitors. The soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Increased interest in Room 2 and the young woman about to give birth.

After more work than I knew was humanly possible, I finally heard that first raw, wild, and sacred screamy cry, ripping through the quiet like a thunderous gospel hymn. The sound of life itself announced his arrival. He was here. My son. My love. My little.

When they placed him in my arms, I felt the weight, not just his tiny body, swaddled tightly, but the magnitude of what had just happened. His skin was impossibly soft, like warm velvet, and he smelled like newness, clean cotton, powder, and something else I can only call innocence. A baby’s scent can’t be bottled or named. It’s the unique smell of beginnings.

His fingers curled in tight fists and his face was scrunched like he was still uncertain about this new world. I remember brushing the downy fuzz of his head, marveling at how something so small could make everything else disappear. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to move. I only wanted to memorize him, imprinting every tiny sound and sensation.

There was a hush around us, even though the world carried on. A nurse said something, gently, but I didn’t really hear. The only voice that mattered was the one in my heart whispering, “He’s finally here. He’s everything”.

Hours later, when the room had quieted, we cuddled, he and I. Outside, life moved forward. Cars passed, people talked, but for me, the world shifted. That very day, I became a mom.

July 14, 1979, will forever be a sacred bookmark in the story of my life. Even decades later, if I close my eyes, I can feel the soft weight of him in my arms. I can hear that first cry, smell that indescribable baby scent, and feel the warmth of the sun dipping through the blinds.

Some memories don’t fade—they grow brighter with time.

Thank you, Jason, for becoming the man I dreamed you would 46 years ago as you grew next to my heart. I hope your day is beautiful.

Remember…. I love you forever, my baby you’ll be.

Happy Birthday! Love, Mom

Something about July demands a pause. Maybe it’s the heat that makes everything move a little slower, or the long days that beg to be filled with something other than gardening. Either way, by the time the calendar flips to July 4, it’s not only about independence but about stepping back, soaking it in, and finally letting summer begin.

If you’re lucky enough to live in (or visit) a small town, there’s no better way to hit the reset button than a classic Fourth of July celebration. Ours starts early with the scent of syrup and sizzling sausage in the air as the Masons flip flapjacks at the 7:00 AM Pancake Breakfast. Don’t dare leave without a second helping.

Then, by 10:00, it’s time to head downtown for the Main Street parade. Not the fancy, big-city kind with floats sponsored by corporations, but a homegrown lineup of fire trucks, 4-H kids, big rigs polished to a shine, and a high school marching band playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” just a little off-key. You’ll see kids scrambling for candy, neighbors chatting from lawn chairs, and maybe even the street department soaking everyone with their water truck.

The heart of the day? That’s at 4:00 PM, when the crowd gathers for the greased pig contest. It’s a messy, hilarious tradition that HHH and his four brothers have won many times while truly bringing home the bacon. There’s just something about watching kids chase a squealing piglet around a coral that makes you forget your worries, even if just for two minutes at a time. HHH retired some years ago, this being a younger man’s game.

Of course, no small-town celebration is complete without food, fun, and fireworks at sundown. We’re talking corn dogs, lemonade, watermelon slices, and the unmistakable smell of homemade food drifting through the air. As the sun dips below the mountains, families will spread blankets in the back of pickup beds while waiting for the big show.

Then, when the sky finally turns black and the first tracer whistles upward, there’s an overwhelming sense of peace, gratitude, and pride for our beautiful country. Something you didn’t realize you needed until you’re in the middle of it.

Immersed in all the hoopla, I’ll be stepping away for a bit of much-needed relaxation while soaking in all that summer has to offer. I’ll return refreshed and recharged on July 14th. Until then, I hope your days are filled with sunshine, slow mornings, and sweet moments that remind you why summer is so special.

Here’s to fireworks, freedom, and finding a little time to breathe.

When I used to think of serving in the church, I imagined leading a prayer, teaching Grief Share, or maybe sharing my testimony. But a whole world of behind-the-scenes service is just as important and sacred. Keeping a church running smoothly takes more than just spiritual leadership. It takes hands-on work from everyday people willing to show love through action. Whether you’ve got a green thumb, a mop in hand, or a willing heart, there’s always something to do to help around the church.

Let’s start with one of the simplest but most important tasks: mopping the floors. After a busy Sunday or midweek service, the floors can take quite a beating from heavy foot traffic. A clean and shiny floor looks good and shows respect for the space where people gather to worship. Whether tile, linoleum, or hardwood, taking the time to mop is a small task that makes a big difference.

Recently, the church hosted a large event. During the day, guests accidentally dropped crumbs and spilled drinks. My mother used to say it wasn’t dinner unless something got spilled. But, home spills are something different. At the end of a Sunday, there aren’t five daughters waiting to help clean up and the cleanup is often left to a tired pastor. Do you have a mop and an extra few minutes to help?

It may not be glamorous, but cleaning the church bathrooms is another ministry of hospitality. Imagine being a first-time visitor and walking into a spotless, fresh-smelling restroom. It communicates care, dignity, and attention to detail. Scrubbing toilets, refilling soap dispensers, and wiping down counters might not make headlines, but play a vital role in making people feel welcome and comfortable. Would this be beneath you?

Many churches have kitchens used for everything from coffee hour to full-scale community meals. A clean and organized kitchen ensures food safety. Washing dishes, wiping down counters, emptying the trash, and maintaining appliances may seem routine, but it supports everything from potlucks to outreach events. A clean kitchen helps feed both body and soul. Don’t you love a shiny kitchen?

The sanctuary is the heart of the church where we worship, pray, and encounter God. Keeping it clean and beautiful is a sacred responsibility. That might mean vacuuming carpets, dusting pews, arranging hymnals, or even watering plants and changing out seasonal decorations. Each small act of care prepares the way for others to enter into worship more fully. Vacuuming the sanctuary can become a time for personal reflection.

HHH and I have found pleasure in caring for the church grounds. With Winterpast in tip-top shape, we’ve set aside 45 minutes every Friday to mow and edge. But, as we looked around, we noticed the meditation garden needed some trimming. There were marigolds to plant and leaves to rake. After daily watering, the meditation garden started to bloom. From red and pink hollyhocks to bronze daylilies, old plants are coming back to life. People notice these things. Even the neighbors have commented on how nice the church looks.

At our church, painting projects await us. Things break and need repair before the following Sunday. The major holidays need the direction of someone with a flair for entertainment. And those with OCD can help keep the closets, supply rooms, and classrooms tidy and functional. Everyone has gifts to share where needed.

Each act of service may go unnoticed, but it is never wasted. With everyone doing their part, the church will shine in the glory of God. Every mop stroke, scrubbed toilet, and shiny window shows love and reverence for God’s house.

Here’s the deal. You only need a willing heart to make a difference in your church. Next Sunday, if you see a mess, a scuffed floor, or an overgrown flower bed, consider stepping in and offering to help out. It’s a wonderful place to make new friends while saving the pastor some time for his own life.

And who knows? That mop might just be your ministry.

One thing we can count on here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada is the wind. The day can be calm as can be, and then, as it happened just yesterday, trash cans can blow in every direction.

Winter, spring, summer, fall, Zephyr winds blow through all.

Currently, a young mother robin, is battling nature on our patio,fluttering against strong gusts. Bringing in twig after twig, she places them and they are blown to the ground, where she swoops down to pick them up and try again.

This isn’t only about nest-building, but about tenacity, fortitude, and the will to build a home, no matter the conditions. It’s all about persistence in the face of adversity while enduring extreme conditions. All those college words mean nothing to this little bird. She’s just preparing her nursery for her new family.

If there’s one thing HHH and I differ about, it’s the wind. He sees it as an ever-present force working against progress. This comes after years of working in outdoors in heavy construction, while the wind played havoc with the machinery and the work site. I must agree there’s nothing worse than working outside on a windy day. This is especially true when temperatures are pushing 100 and the wind feels like a blow-torch.

I love the wind. The windier the better. This comes from living in Central California, where there was very little wind, EVER. The skies never change from a greyish blue, while the stillness of a summer day is absolutely suffocating. Temperatures there soar well above 100 as the residents always assure newcomers that it’s a dry heat. Who cares???? It’s hot and still.

The wind is a force of nature that’s mysterious and unpredictable at times. It can flatten the fences in a neighborhood and then be gone for three months. It flutters the cottonwood leaves, producing the sweetest lullaby, or on really bad days, rattle the windows here at Winterpast. On the desert, you just never know.

Watching this young mother choose her site has been interesting. Although no perfect spots exist, the patio gives a little more protection than the trees on the property. She’s chosen flexible, strong materials such as grasses and leaves and slowly, they’ve taken the shape of a comfy nest. With repeated efforts, each failed attempt has taught her something new.

One thing is for certain. She isn’t giving up. Without one bit of hesitation, she’s kept going even when her efforts blew away in the beginning. The wind scattered her progress, but it didn’t stop the process. Very soon, she’ll sit quietly on a clutch of new eggs, while the cycle of life will begin again.

The next time I experience struggles and the winds of life are against me, I’ll remember this little bird. If you drop your twig, circle back, pick it up and try again. Even if strong gusts are blowing you off course at the moment, keep going. Soon, they’ll subside and things will return to normal.

This summer, take a moment to watch some birds. If you have a bird feeder and a source for water, you may be lucky enough to watch a nest of your own. Birds are a special gift of nature. Their quiet determination can teach us a lot about life.