Author: Joy Hurt

Every week, our Bible Study group gathers with popcorn, cookies, and enough coffee to keep even the sleepiest disciple wide-eyed. We’ve slowly been making our way through the Book of Matthew. At our current pace, we’ll finish around Easter of 2032, asking many questions while sharing important discussions. Of course, we can still be sidetracked over the meaning of a single word.

So this morning, while searching for a topic, it came to me that Matthew has plenty to say. Maybe I should let him take the wheel.

Since focusing on Matthew, our Bible Study discussions have taken us on quite a journey through details. Matthew is a master storyteller, painting pictures of fishermen-turned-followers and miracles. The Gospel of Matthew is a great read whether you’re wearing sandals on the Sea of Galilee or UGG’s in northwestern Nevada.

Some nights, our conversation flows like living water. Other nights, we nibble on cookies while collectively staring at text as if it’s written in ancient Hebrew. From those who could teach the class to those who are new and thirsty for more, we’re a merry band of scholars. Blended together, we unpack treasures in passages read a hundred times, now seen in a new light. The more we understand, the closer we are to the Truth.

Reading Matthew reminds me that sometimes the best stories come from the simplest moments as we sit together, sharing questions, passing the popcorn, and laughing as someone says, “Wait… we covered that last week?”

I’m reminded that learning about Jesus is not a race. Walking slowly through scripture is one way to make sure the message actually sinks into that stubborn part of the heart that needs it most. Most importantly, we show up not just for the study, but for each other.

So here’s to Matthew, our guide and teacher. And to Bible Study, where even on the weeks when we don’t know the answers, we know we’re in the right place.

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

Some people think they hit the jackpot when they find a lucky penny and get a free cup of coffee. At the very beginning of our Staycation on Monday, HHH found such a lucky penny as we did some final errands before we left for the Biggest Little City to the West. I will be searching the ground after he managed to unlock a cosmic bonus round!

It all started innocently enough. During a simple stroll across the driveway at the local gas station, HHH bent down, picked up a crusty little copper coin, and announced, “Well now… this must be my lucky day.” I smiled because HHH is the most positive person I know. He always sees the silver lining in every cloud.

If only he knew what was about to happen. Because, from that single bent penny, Lady Luck apparently looked down from whatever cloud she lounges on, spotted HHH, and said, “Let’s have some fun with this one.”

So, HHH tucked that penny in his pocket without lightning strikes or an angelic choir humming “How Great Thou Art.” But something shifted ever so slightly with a subtle wink from the universe.

We spent two days in the lap of luxury at our favorite spa retreat. But along with lotions and Zen music, the allure of acres of slot machines put us in a wee bit of a trance. HHH COULD NOT lose. Lady Luck was shining so intensely in his direction that she missed me altogether. Wherever he played, he won. On those two days, it mattered not the direction he walked; he won.

Fast forward to yesterday. With the Maytag repairman arriving today at 11, I needed to come home to do a little cleanup in the laundry room. It’d been some time since dust bunny elimination, and I needed some help moving the washing machine out. As my heroic handyman wrestled a broken washing machine out of its dusty corner, he suddenly spied a prize.

“What’s THAT?” he asked, staring at the floor beneath the washer.

There, lounging casually on the tile like it owned the place, was a deformed dime.
Not just any dime. A dime valued at somewhere between $200 and $1200.There it was, minding its own business while waiting for a man with a lucky penny in his pocket to come fetch it.

Who finds treasures under their very own washing machine? Apparently HHH. I clean under things all the time and have found nothing more valuable than a rogue dog biscuit and a missing sock.

So here we are. A penny? A rare dime? Luck at the slots? What comes next?Will he stroll outside and find a gold nugget? A stray winning lottery ticket? A lost treasure map tucked behind the couch cushions? A buffalo wandering by wearing a sign that says, “You win free steaks for life”?

At this point, I wouldn’t bet against it.

Life on the high-desert plains is always interesting, but watching HHH ride this lucky streak has been downright entertaining. He’s walking around with a lucky glow about him.

As for me? I’m keeping an eye out today. If he suddenly comes home with a grin and a story, I won’t be surprised. Lady Luck clearly has him on speed dial.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check under the rest of our appliances…. just in case.

More tomorrow.

There’s nothing quite like the moment the first winter storm arrives on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. One minute, Winterpast was basking in a golden November glow; the next, dramatic clouds gathered like they meant business. The desert paused, waiting for the season to shift, and suddenly the unmistakable whisper of winter settled in.

This morning, as the dark skies cover Winterpast, the crisp bite in the air is exhilarating. Yesterday, the sky turned a moody gray as the sagebrush awaited the first snowflakes of the season. Nothing says “It’s here!” like a good old-fashioned winter storm rolling across the high plains. Sadly, this winter storm is a warm one, so we may need to wait a little longer.

Our single white mustang mare has been hanging close to civilization these days. It’s as if she knows she’ll fare better in our neighborhood. Since 2020, she’s been a guardian, many nights bedding down outside my bedroom window.

With colder weather, HHH and I plan to enjoy a cozy weekend at home. While the storm blows through, we’ll nest indoors with our scrapbooking table set up for two. Over the past three years, we’ve gathered pictures that’ve captured road trips, gardening projects, hikes, laughter, Yellowstone skies, and the sweet, ordinary days that turned into extraordinary memories.

Printing our photos, each one is a tiny reminder of how blessed we’ve been these past few years. Page by page, we’ll stitch together the story of our adventures, our love, and the joy we’ve found in this wonderful chapter of life.

Once this storm passes, we’ll be heading off to enjoy some peaceful days at that beautiful spa retreat to the west. With a little pampering, we’ll rest while breathing deeply before the holiday whirlwind arrives. Lavender lotions, warm robes, and waterfalls call us. Embracing the stillness it brings, we’ll enjoy a fresh beginning to the new season.

I’ll return on November 20th, refreshed and renewed with a few more lovely memories ready to be tucked into future scrapbook pages.

Stay warm. Stay cozy. And enjoy the magic that winter’s first whisper brings. ❄️

In pages worn and softly read,
We seek the truth our Savior said.
Each line a light, each verse a guide,
To draw us ever to His side.

Through questions asked and hearts laid bare,
We find His presence waiting there.
In study, prayer, and friendship’s chord—
We learn to live the Living Word.

Every Thursday evening, as the day quiets, a familiar scene unfolds. A bowl of freshly popped popcorn sits on the table, sharing space with a plate of Mrs. Lovebird’s homemade, always delicious. By 6:30 pm, the faithful begin to gather, one by one, with Bibles tucked under their arms and greetings that speak of friendship and the daily news. This is Bible Study night, a weekly pause from the rush of life and a precious time to focus on The Word of God.

It’s a comforting ritual. Some come early to catch up on the week’s events concerning grandchildren, garden updates, and the latest recipe gone right or wrong. Others slip in right at 7, ready to listen and learn. Around the table sits a beautiful mix of believers with well-worn Bibles that are filled with years of highlights, notes, and underlines, and those whose pages are still crisp, unmarked, and waiting for the first stroke of yellow. Each voice adds something unique. The longtime believers bring wisdom and context, while the newcomers bring fresh eyes and open hearts. Together, they create a rich, living conversation with everyone learning from everyone else.

Some nights, the pace moves slowly. A single verse can spark a dozen questions or open a doorway to deep discussion. “What did Jesus really mean here?” “How does this apply to our lives today?” There are pauses for thought, moments of laughter, and sometimes a gentle hush when truth settles into the room. It’s not about getting through the chapter but about letting the Word get through to us.

Over time, something wonderful has taken root. Faces that once gathered as acquaintances have grown into true friends. We’ve become prayer partners, encouragers, and someone to lean on when life gets heavy. Laughter is a regular visitor as the popcorn disappears quickly and the cookies even faster. The warmth lingers long after the lights are turned out.

If you’ve never joined a study group, it may seem strange at first. You might wonder if you’ll fit in or if you know “enough.” The truth is, you don’t need to know a thing except that you’re welcome. Bring your curiosity and a few questions. God meets us exactly where we are, using these gatherings to bring us closer through The Word.

If you’ve ever felt the nudge to grow closer to God or to find deeper friendships rooted in faith, take that step. Find a group. Sit at the table. Listen, learn, laugh, and share. You’ll find that the Bible isn’t just a dusty old book, but full of life and wonder. Try it. You’ll be amazed at what God can do with an evening of popcorn, cookies, and open hearts.

There’s something downright magical about finding The One. No, not a soulmate like my Hubba-Hubba-Hubby (HHH), but the perfect beauty salon. You know, the kind where you walk in feeling a bit frazzled, and walk out shiny, smooth, and sassy. I’ve found just such an adorable salon right across the street from our church.

It started innocently enough with a recommendation from my mother-in-law, Miss B. I knew of the shop, because it’s where we found an owner for a lost duck swimming in the church fountain. The kindest woman had come after work to rangle the duck and take it home, giving it the appropriate name, Lucky Duck.

Wandering into the little shop, I wasn’t sure if it would be a hit or a hair-raising disaster. But the moment I met the sweet owner, I knew I was in great hands. She greeted me with the kind of warmth usually reserved for long-lost friends and, as it turns out, she’s a long-time family friend of HHH’s clan. What are the odds of that? In small-town Nevada, quite good.

From there, it was pampering perfection. She listened to my long list of hopes and fears for my waist-length hair. You can’t just go hacking away at locks that take years to grow. One wrong snip, and I’d be hiding under a hat until Christmas. But she was confidently handled every strand as if it were spun gold.

Then came the curl. Oh, the curl! She made me feel like I was doing her a favor by letting her use her curling iron on my hair. I almost didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I tipped her and gave her a big hug. I think we’re going to be friends for a very long time because when someone makes you feel that special, you don’t let them go.

So, with a trim and a twirl, I’m good to go until next spring. Long, thick, straight hair may be a bit of work, but it’s a gift from God. Today, I was reminded that a little attention, kindness, and a perfect curl can lift a spirit as easily as it lifts a bang.

Whatever you do today, think about a little pampering. And, never, ever underestimate the power of a great stylist and a relaxing scalp massage.

No buzz, no hum, no golden air,
just silence, thick and deep.
The flowers bow, the wind stands bare,
and even angels weep……..

Yesterday was a still afternoon at Winterpast, the kind where the sun shines brightly and the air feels unusually empty. HHH had decided to check the bees once more before winter, expecting to hear the familiar hum as he approached the hive. We’d planned to spend today insulating the hive for winter but silence met him first. Heavy, hollow silence.

At first, he thought maybe the frosty nights had slowed them. The desert nights freeze now, and even the most determined creatures take their time waking. But lifting the lid, he could see frames littered with the dead. Little golden bodies, soft and motionless, piled as though the hive had simply gone to sleep and never woke up. Some died right where they were working.

Only nature can stir that peculiar mix of sadness and reverence. Examining the hive more closely, there wasn’t scattered comb or broken wax. Just a quiet end. Every cell now sealed spring memories in a bit of honey . It was all that was left.

We formed a strong connection with these little beings. All summer, they’d been our constant companions. We’d watch as they dove headlong into the apricot blossoms, tumbled joyfully among the crab-apple blooms, and drifted through the greenhouse with a hum that blended perfectly with the wind chimes. The bees were tiny, every day beautifully ordinary miracles.

And now, they’re gone.

The greenhouse feels emptier, the lavender lonelier. Even the desert wind seems unsure which way to blow without their song to follow. I keep thinking of all they gave. They stitched together the wild and tended parts of Winterpast. Their life was an example of quiet perfection.

It took HHH and me the rest of the afternoon to harvest what little honey they’d collected. With no sign of stored pollen, their fate was sealed, as is our future as keepers. Next year, our plan is to pray for a swarm to choose us. No more California bees. Just some wild bees that decide Winterpast is the place they want to hang out for more than a season.

And so, today, we miss our little friends as we move towards winter. The desert has its own way of renewing what’s been lost. But today, the garden grieves, and so do we.

More tomorrow.

There must be something in the crisp autumn air that whispers, “It’s haircut season.” Everywhere you look, people and dogs are getting snipped and styled. The trees shed their leaves for free while the rest of us pay dearly to do the same.

It started innocently enough. Oliver, our sweet, shaggy little dog, is in need of a serious fall cleanup. His fur has grown so long that he’s beginning to resemble a dust mop. So, we’ll travel through the desert to the groomer. After a few hours, he’ll return looking handsome in his tiny little tie… along with a bill for $80. Eighty dollars! It’s all part of the cost of owning a dog these days.

This time of year, I question my own judgment. Why do dog owners everywhere cut off a dog’s natural winter coat right before freezing winds howl across the desert? His hair was doing exactly what nature intended, providing fuzzy insulation against the November chill. Yet, he was matting faster than a tumbleweed in a windstorm, and his “natural look” had started leaning more toward “neglected drifter” than “beloved pet.” Don’t worry. Oliver spends 99% of time sleeping inside these days.

This evening, he’ll be a smooth-coated dachshund instead of his wire-haired self. Once I felt so sorry for him that I knitted him a sweater. lovingly made just for him. He kept it on just long enough to get a picture while glaring like I’d insulted his manhood.

Last week, I decided it was time for my own seasonal tune-up with a minor trim of my own. Nothing fancy. Just the ends and bangs. In and out, right? Wrong. Tomorrow, I’ll create my own $85 bill, leaving with my hair smelling vaguely of lavender mist, and bangs that will likely drive me nuts for the next two weeks.

When did this happen? When did the cost of human and canine beauty become interchangeable? Somewhere out there, an economist is shaking their head and muttering about inflation, while a hairstylist and dog groomer are toasting to early retirement.

Still experiencing a little shock, I can’t help remember 35 years of $40 haircuts with Sweet Deb, who pampered me beyond the norm. She’d make me tea, ask about the kids, and somehow send me out the door feeling like a movie star instead of a mop head. Oh, how I miss those days, when a haircut didn’t require a small loan, and you left with more gossip than guilt.

Now, let’s be fair. Both stylists deserve credit. My hair will be sleek and shiny and Oliver will look like a show dog. We’ll both leave with complimentary treats, his a biscuit and mine a peppermint. Still, I can’t help but think I could’ve bought a small leaf blower for the same price while trimming both of us at home.

Here’s to the groomers, stylists, and brave souls everywhere who hold the scissors that keep us and our dogs looking civilized. May your tips be generous, your blow dryers quiet, and your fall haircuts worth every penny.

It’s that magical season again when the trees at Winterpast release their leafy bounty like ticker tape in a parade, and the desert winds take center stage. Every year, we’re convinced its the year we’ll finally need to hire a professional clean-up crew. Luckily, the winds haven’t let us down yet.

Last week, HHH and I were in the back yard with rakes and brooms in hand, while sighing at the sea of gold, brown, and orange carpeting the garden paths. And then, with one fierce howling windstorm, a miracle occurred.

The next morning?

Ground — bare.

Leaves — gone.

So, just where do they go, these thousands of dried leaves???

Not all of them vanish without a trace. A respectable number end up trapped in the greenhouse and shed, while many pile together along the fences, forming mounds. But, this isn’t every leaf grown this year. It seemed as if there were millions of them at the beginning of the season.

They’re not in the gutters thanks to our “Leaf Filter” system. They aren’t clogging the roof valleys or sneaking under the garage door. They’ve simply disappeared, riding the desert thermals like autumn butterflies, never to be seen again.

Wherever they land, we’re sorry. The ferocious winds of fall have done us a favor while redistributing the abundance and sharing a little piece of Winterpast with the neighbors.

So, as we wait for the next wind storm to sweep across the high desert plains, I lift my face to the sky and whisper a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. With a beautiful weekend of warm weather ahead, plenty of autumn chores wait.

Whatever you do this weekend, get out and about. Fill your lungs with the fresh, crisp air and enjoy the colors. Autumn is such a beautiful time of year. The great weather can’t hold forever, so don’t waste a second. As my dad would say, “It’ll be good for what ails you.”

Today, it’s been 85 years since my parents, Elmer and Esther, said “I do.” Can you imagine? Eight and a half decades has passed since that shy young couple met during their high school play, Mummy and the Mumps. It was the kind of country school performance where the costumes were homemade, the lights flickered a bit, and everyone’s parents sat in the front row with big grins. Somewhere between the curtain rising and the applause at the end, the young mummy and his leading lady fell in love, and the rest, became our family history.

After graduation came the real work. Elmer and Esther traded school books for farm tools, building a life together on the land. They worked from sunrise to sunset, side by side, with laughter, patience, and a quiet faith that carried them through every season. When their first daughter arrived on Elmer’s birthday, their hands were already full with more than chores.

During the war years, they ran a Japanese neighbor’s pig farm while his family was sent to Manzanar. This was a selfless act of compassion that said everything about who they were.

Two years later, Daughter #2 was born, followed by Daughter #3 six years later. In 1955, along I came. As Daughter #4, I was quite the disappointment to those holding out hope for a son to carry on the family name. Two and a half years later, Daughter #5 completed the lineup, and our home was officially overflowing with pink dresses, hair ribbons, and shiny patent-leather shoes. How my parents survived 68 years of marriage surrounded by all that girlhood chaos is still a mystery. A lifetime of stories with plenty of drama, comedy, and love!

But they didn’t just survive — they flourished. Their marriage was full of laughter, hard work, and adventure. Once retired from full-time farming, they became world travelers, exploring every continent they desired. From dusty back roads to foreign cities, they saw the world hand-in-hand, proving that love, when nurtured, only grows stronger with time.

Today, I picture them together on their heavenly stage, chuckling over their old lines from Mummy and the Mumps. Elmer still the jokester in his bandages, Esther still rolling her eyes in that affectionate way that said everything. Still performing their greatest role, together.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! We’ll see you on the other side.

There comes a day in every newly married couple’s life when they look around their kitchen and realize it’s less of a functional workspace and more of a museum, curated by generations of indecision. That day, my friends, arrived yesterday.

It began innocently enough with a sponge and good intentions. But before I knew it, I was elbow-deep in The Great Kitchen Purge of 2025.

Let’s start with the elephant in the cupboard, Grammie’s dishes. These weren’t museum quality or one of a kind. They are mid-1900s adorable, and I’ve cared for them most of my adult life. For 50 years, not one plate has been used, not one saucer chipped. Every time I open that cupboard, I can practically hear her whisper, “You might need those for company, Honey.”

Keeping a set for four, because I just couldn’t let them go, I packed the rest, lovingly wrapped, but finally released. Grammie will approve of them finding a new home where they’ll see a Thanksgiving dinner once again again.

Then came the utensil drawer. I found three ceramic knives in a variety of colors, two rusted paintbrushes that had seen their last rack of baby-backs, and a John Wayne coffee cup. Add to that a variety of this and that, taking up valuable shelf space.

Into the spring yard sale box they went, a small moment of victory for functionality. I even matched my lids to my plastic containers. That alone felt like solving a great domestic mystery.

Today, I’ll face The Fridge that hasn’t moved in six years, which, in “kitchen time” is roughly a century. It’ll take bravery, leverage, and possibly a prayer to slide it away from the wall. Behind it? I’m expecting to find generations of dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds, one petrified green bean, a button from a long-lost sweater, and what may have once been a Cheerio.

Once cleaned, I’ll stand back and admire the glistening floor as if it’s a truly historic moment.

As the afternoon rolled on, boxes filled with duplicates, odds and ends, and memories. There’s something surprisingly freeing about saying, “No, I do not need two juicers or a Lake Tahoe coffee cup, never used.” Everything with life left in it was boxed and labeled for the spring yard sale, our future “Winterpast clearance event.”

By sunset, our cupboards were organized, drawers closed easily, and the countertops gleamed. The kitchen looked lighter, somehow, as if it, too, could breathe again. This morning, sipping steaming coffee in a mug I actually love, I feel a little proud, a little nostalgic, and a lot more ready to cook something yummy.

Sometimes, the best way to freshen up your life isn’t by buying something new — it’s by finally letting go of what no longer serves you.

And so…….

Old dishes rest, their duty done,
Held through decades, every one.
Utensils chipped and gadgets bent,
Each a relic of good intent.

I bless them all and set them free,
To kitchens yet to come, not me.
For in the space now clean and wide,
I find a little peace inside.

Less clutter, more calm, the lesson is clear —
It’s amazing what shines when the old disappears.