Author: Joy Hurt

This morning, the temperature outside is a nippy 44 degrees, and the coffee tastes yummy next to our roaring fire. Across the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, homeowners perform the autumn ritual of turning off the sprinkler system. It’s not glamorous or festive, but part of survival in snow country. A frozen pipe in January is a bomb waiting to ruin a wonderful spring day in 2026.

The thing that makes this ritual go smoothly is that our tools have a specific resting place. If anyone asked either of us at any point, “Where is the sprinkler key?”, we’d know what to retrieve and where it sits. That’s important information to remember, because around here, disaster can strike at any moment. We’re ready!

Before beginning, we’ll assemble our sacred gear. One special 4′ sprinkler key, a flathead screwdriver, a piece of rebar for leverage, and courage. We also need a flashlight for peering into dark corners where, inevitably, a Black Widow spider the size of a walnut has taken up residence. Gloves are necessary, although they provide minimal emotional protection from the sudden appearance of a startled arachnid.

Our main valve is under a freshly painted little house. Located underneath are drains for this and that. As a new widow in 2020, I avoided this area like the plague. Mr. B’s Garden Service would come and take care of it for only $75. These days, we take a deep breath, remove the house, and prepare to do battle with cobwebs and debris from six months of irrigation glory. For all this, I am so grateful to HHH.

After finding the shut-off valve, and with the finesse of a surgeon and the patience of a saint, he’ll turn it until the hissing stops. There’s always that one moment when I’m not sure if it’s the right valve, and then, there’s the faint gurgle in the distance. That’s the signal the drains are working and the job is almost done.

At this point, the October air reminds us that we’re just in time for the first frost. After draining completely, we’ll have avoided any unwanted plumbing bills for another year. Every valve in sight will be closed, while I hope we remember the ones we opened last spring. The sprinkler system is my favorite thing to forget about.

This morning, as the sun rises over the sagebrush and the chill lifts, the water shut off marks the true change of seasons. The sprinklers are silent, the trees are shedding, and the desert prepares for winter’s quiet. The Great Sprinkler Shut-Off is complete! Come on winter, we’re ready any time you are.

More tomorrow.

Wedding preparations for Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird are in full swing and, as with every great love story, the details are what will make it magical.

It all began at the Lutheran yard sale last Saturday, where Mrs. Lovebird spotted a slightly weathered but perfectly charming “Mr. & Mrs.” plaque. Plain wood in cute script, she clutched it like buried treasure, declaring it perfect for the head table. Even the cashier smiled, knowing that little sign that had been waiting all year for the right couple.

Quickly delivered to the Flower Wizard, it will be transformed into something truly lovely for the big day. How in the world did THE DAY sneak up on us??? What was I thinking volunteering to be the CO-ORDINATOR???

Mrs. Lovebird proudly wears her “Bride” badge wherever she goes, whether the grocery store, Bible study, or even the post office. It sparkles against her sweater like a tiny proclamation of joy. As friends grin and ask about the big day, the newly engaged glow has dimmed ever so slightly by “Less-Than-A-Week Jitters”. “Almost ready,” she says, though everyone knows she’s been ready in her heart for a long time.

Her list is checked twice: bouquets completed, dress ready, and even a delicate lace handkerchief tucked away for happy tears, because everyone knows there will be tears. The good kind. The kind that say, “I’ve found my forever.”

Mr. Lovebird, on the other hand, gets a little more nervous with each sunrise. He straightens his tie for practice, rehearses his vows under his breath, and wonders if his shoes are too shiny. Yet, when the music begins, the one they chose together, slow and full of promise, he’ll see her walking down the aisle, and everything else will fade away.

Meanwhile, the all-female attendants are in a delightful flurry of final outfit decisions. Shoes, jewelry, and the perfect shade of lipstick are being debated with equal parts laughter and excitement. Texts fly back and forth, photos are shared, and the air is filled with that unmistakable mix of nerves and joy that only a wedding can bring.

And somewhere in the mix of all the excitement, there’s a sweet touch of nostalgia. The wedding cake, three tiers of pure love, is being made by one of Mr. Lovebird’s former sixth-grade students, now 55, who insisted on the honor. On Sunday morning, the cake will be frosted right at Winterpast, filling the air with the scent of buttercream and memories.

But even the most well-planned wedding has one last-minute quest. The search continues for folding chairs, enough to seat all the well-wishers ready to celebrate the Lovebirds’ big day. If you have a few to spare, please bring them to the Lutheran Church at 8 a.m. Saturday morning. Every chair has a story, and each one will help make this day even more special.

The “Mr. & Mrs.” plaque will stand proudly at their table, a small reminder of how love finds beauty in simple places. When Mrs. Lovebird dabs her eyes with that pretty handkerchief, all will be as it should be — two hearts, one promise, and a future already humming its very own wedding song.

More tomorrow

It had been years since everyone was under the same roof. Sisters, brothers, cousins, and the next generation or two all made the effort to come. The oldest living child, now a spry 87, was the guest of honor, keeping the family stories, recipes, and a sharp sense of humor that somehow survived eight decades and an entire brood of siblings. Everyone gathered with hearts full and expectations simple, bringing plenty of laughter, food, and perhaps a little bit of family mischief.

I won’t mention the name of the oldest cousin, but I will say I know him quite well. All the guests knew me very well, having enjoyed our wedding two years ago. That day remains a bit of a blur in my mind, which can happen to the best of brides. As each guest arrived, I could remember them celebrating with us, but some names remained elusive, and I needed to be reminded.

One cousin brought a smokeless fire pit which is the modern miracle that promised warmth without the eye-watering haze. Within five minutes, the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of coughing. “It’s smokeless,” someone said, waving a paper plate through the air, “but it forgot to tell the smoke!” If you’re considering such a contraption, plan to try one out first.

Everyone gathered around in spite of the smoke, swapping stories of barefoot summers and cousins who could run faster, climb higher, and stay outside longer than any of them could now. The laughter bubbled up like it used to, back when knees didn’t creak and adulthood meant dessert whenever you wanted.

And then came the cabinet.

It had been sitting there for decades. A relic from Grandma’s kitchen or maybe someone’s “temporary” storage project that had lasted half a century. Uncle T, a bit too full of energy, declared, “It’s time for that cabinet to disappear. Tonight, it burns!”

Before you knew it, there was a family engineering project underway. Chairs were moved, doors ripped off, and thrown into the fit pit. Quicker than “Burning Man”, we experienced “Burning Cabinet 2025”.

As the sun was replaced by moonlight, hugs replaced handshakes. The air was thick with “I love you”, “Remember when,” and “Let’s do this again soon”, even though everyone knew “soon” might mean a year or two.

This time, HHH volunteered ME for something. Next September, the family reunion will be at Winterpast! I’m already envisioning which piece of furniture we can offer to the bonfire gods. Thank goodness we have plenty of time to plan!

More tomorrow!

Sometimes in life, God places someone in our path as if to remind us that kindness, thoughtfulness, and gentleness still exist in the world. Last week, I met one of those rare souls, a man named Bruce.

After Friday Bible Study, we decided to follow The Love Birds next door to their wedding reception hall at the Lutheran Church. It was the first day of their annual yard sale, and we were some of the first customers. It was there I met the octogenarian, Bruce.

At first glance, it was the wooden cross around his neck that caught my attention. Simple. Beautiful. A cross lovingly worn and polished smooth by the years. As I complimented him on the cross, Bruce quietly slipped it off and placed it in my hands. “I make them,” he said, his voice soft, carrying no pride, only generosity.

But that wasn’t the end of it. He walked to his car, rummaged around for a moment, and returned holding a small hand-carved church. It was humble, yet exquisite, every detail carefully shaped. Tied to its steeple with a pink ribbon was a handwritten poem, words strung together with the same care as the wood itself. The little church wasn’t just a gift but was a piece of Bruce’s heart.

The Church of Love

Here is a little church of love

To help you through the day.

So when your feeling down and out,

Just grab the church and pray.

You might just keep it handy

On a shelf or bedside stand

Just pray and God will help you out

With his ever loving hand.

The church will always be a sign

God’s love is everywhere.

Remember God is listening

And waiting for your prayer — Bruce

After we left, I found myself wondering just how many “Bruce”-s there are out there in this world, quietly living their days? Sweet. Kind. Quiet. Thoughtful. Talented. Lonely. How many do we pass by without noticing? How many are offering up their gifts and talents, waiting for someone to see?

Meeting Bruce was more than just a pleasant encounter. It was a holy reminder of the beauty that still exists in people. It’s the kind of beauty you can’t buy, polish, or mass produce. The kind that lives in hearts and hands, in faith and in simple acts of giving.

So here’s to the “Bruce”-s of the world. Please notice them, appreciate them, and never forget the quiet blessings they bring.

More tomorrow.

They say “two are better than one.” I wholeheartedly agree, especially when one of those two is HHH and the other is me. Somehow, though, I keep signing him up as if he’s a four-armed, four-legged superhero instead of a normal human being while assuming he’ll be thrilled to help.

It all started innocently enough: “Honey, wouldn’t it be nice to take a gardening class?” Next thing you know, HHH was knee-deep in mulch, spending afternoons reading up on the subject about which he’s already an expert. After graduating to the Master Gardener portion, we turned from hours of volunteer requirements to more meaningful work.

HHH had offered to mow the church lawn once a week. That mysteriously morphed into taking care of the community and meditation garden through the growing season. What began as “let’s pull a few weeds” has turned us into full-time caretakers. HHH has become intimately acquainted with every rose bush, sprinkler, and windchime in the place. I think the squirrel even recognizes him now. This was added to the heavy demands of the gardens of Winterpast, which he kept blooming and thriving all summer long.

Then came “Grief Share”. A beautiful ministry, yes, but apparently I failed to mention to HHH that “we” were doing it. (Surprise, sweetheart!) He showed up, bless him, and now people think he’s the resident comforter-in-chief along with the most amazing cook ever.

Me –“Chicken Cordon Bleu for ten, pretty please?”

And just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, it did. Yesterday, the pastor needed help little moving furniture from the shed into the bedroom. Naturally, we volunteered. After 90 minutes, the heavy mattress and furniture were safe from mice and winter weather, making our pastor very happy. (Translation: HHH has been doing more heavy lifting than a moving company on discount day.)

So yes, two are better than one. But only if one of them remembers that the other is not an octopus. I really must stop volunteering HHH as if he has extra limbs and a hidden superhero cape in the closet.

I’m sorry, HHH.

Really.

And, I TRULY appreciate your willingness to help with everything I manage to volunteer for. After the upcoming Love Bird wedding, I’ll do better and the next time someone asks for help, I’ll keep my mouth shut. (Well… maybe.)

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

Somehow, I’ve started receiving a morning email with the word of the day. These words aren’t those used in everyday language. Each day, I’m excited to learn about a new word and the meaning. I’m especially fond of the timely word that arrived two days ago. As news grows more dim, it seems I’ve been experiencing the feeling of WELTSCHMERZ.

Some mornings it feels like the world wakes up with a bruise. A shooting here, a murderous church burning there, these headlines accumulate like tombstones. The German word “Weltschmerz” aptly captures this sentiment, defined as a sorrow that comes from the realization that the world isn’t what it could and should be. Lately, it seems to wash over me daily, like waves against a weary shore.

The devil is having himself a field day. He’s busy planting fear in headlines, fanning the flames of hate, and distracting us with despair. That ache in your chest when you scroll through the news? That heaviness when you hear of another tragedy? That’s the weight of Weltschmerz. Pressing down on us, it suffocates joy while trying to convince us all is lost, while the devil delights in his handiwork.

But the truth is, we can’t allow Weltschmerz to rule our days.

Yes, evil is loud, but so is love when it speaks. For every act of destruction, there are countless random acts of kindness that never make the news like a neighbor carrying in groceries, a nurse holding a trembling hand, or a teacher speaking hope into a tired child. God has always been in the business of turning ashes into beauty, and He still is.

Weltschmerz finds us stuck in despair, but faith calls us to lift our eyes. Weep for the brokenness, but don’t let it poison the hours we’ve been given. Instead, plant joy in the middle of sorrow. Laugh, pray, sing, and love so defiantly that the devil’s so-called field day is cut short.

So, when that wave of Weltschmerz comes, let it wash past you without stealing your faith and hope. Anchor yourself in God’s goodness, look for the sparks of kindness all around, and remember that our world doesn’t belong to the devil. It belongs to the Lord.

More tomorrow.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. Turns out, it also takes a congregation of forty slightly feverish saints to pull off a wedding when half of them are coughing their way down the aisle. In our small town, we share everything, including hacking coughs and Covid.

In less than two short weeks, the Love Birds will marry despite the uninvited guest of COVID. The bride has a supply of tissues along with her delicate hankie, the groom has the thermometer, and the attendants will have enough hand sanitizer to bathe in. Somehow, this will work because this ball is rolling.

As a church family, there was no need for a professional wedding planner. HHH and I stepped up to the plate. As with many things, I stepped up and included him. As the days have gone by, he’s enjoying himself, (but don’t tell anyone). With our entire church membership ready to leap into action even while sniffling and sneezing, this wedding is going to be splendid.

The small but mighty ring-bearer promised not to swallow the rings before delivery. Just in case there is any misunderstanding, the maid of honor will guard the real rings with her life. The flower girl will scatter petals like a germ-free fairy princess.

The bride and groom will walk down the aisle to harp music played by our own personal harpist. While the overflow crowd will watch the nuptials on the jumbotron in the second seating area. It will be an incentive to arrive early for the best seats in the house. Being on a Sunday afternoon, I would assume half the guests will stay after the last “Amen” to help.

After the first-look, photographs, ceremony, and reception line, the bride and groom will lead their adoring guest to the second venue, just up the road, for a scrumptious meal and wedding cake. There, the fellowship ladies will have assembled the reception feast with gloves, Lysol, and prayers for a happy life. Everyone has a role, even if their biggest contribution is bringing their own box of Kleenex.

What could be better than one pastor officiating a wedding? Two pastors. Together, they’ll make sure the “I do’s” happen before anyone has to excuse themselves for a coughing fit.

Through it all, our brave bride and groom will shine with their own happy glow. COVID might have taken away the sound of clear voices and replaced them with sniffles, but it can’t steal the joy of two hearts finally saying “YES”. Because, at the end of the day, love is not measured in centerpieces or flawless ceremonies. It’s measured in determination, laughter, and maybe a few negative test results.

In less than two weeks, forty church members, two pastors, one heroic ring bearer, and a handful of cough drops will make the impossible possible. The Love Birds will tie the knot. And we’ll help them do it in true small-church fashion—together.

More tomorrow.

There comes a moment each year when the change in seasons isn’t announced by calendars or clocks, but by the world itself. You don’t need to be told that summer has faded, just trust your senses. As the daily temperatures drop,the transition isn’t loud or demanding, but more like a subtle whisper inviting us to slow down and listen.

Yesterday, the winds were the first to speak. They picked up with a soft and steady edge, bringing the faintest chill signaling change. What once was a warm, lingering breeze now passed briskly, tugging at sleeves and tossing fallen leaves across the yard. Here on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, the air itself has grown restless, ready to guide us into a quieter season.

In the distance, the soft clickety-clack of a train travels across the landscape. Its sound is haunting and steady, a reminder of both movement and distance. The train’s whistle, carried on the wind, echoes throughout the desert as a reminder that life is always in motion especially here at the Port of Nevada. There is something deeply comforting about its rhythm, like a heartbeat beneath the hush of autumn’s stillness.

From the porch, the wind chimes respond in their own delicate way. Soft, silvery, and fleeting, their voice never plays the same song twice. Each note rings clear and then drifts into silence, as if the air itself swallows it up. The music feels both fragile and eternal, reminding us that beauty exists in the smallest passing moments. The chimes speak the language of autumn in their quiet, thoughtful, and unhurried way.

And then there is the quiet. The stillness of autumn is not an absence of sound but a fullness. It’s the hush that falls when the world begins to rest. It’s the silence between falling leaves, the train’s distant call, and the notes of the chimes. In that quiet, you become aware of things you might otherwise miss, like the faint rustle of quail in the leaves, the deep breath of the earth cooling itself, or even your own heartbeat slowing in response to the season’s calm.

Our bees are listening to the changes these days. As the hive shrinks in number, the trips to gather nourishment are more purposeful. The hive is doing its best to survive in spite of the odds against it. We pray they have enough of everything needed to make it through the winter.

Autumn teaches patience while us that not everything needs to be rushed or filled. It tells us that pauses have their own beauty, and rest is not the end but a necessary part of the rhythm of life. Just as the trees shed their leaves, we’re invited to let go, listen, and make space for what’s next.

The train in the distance, the wind through the branches, the soft chiming notes, and the growing stillness all weave together into a gentle symphony. Together they sing of endings that aren’t losses, of quiet that isn’t emptiness, and of pauses that are not final. They speak of a world that knows how to move gracefully from one season to the next.

Listen as autumn offers us peace and a chance to notice the beauty in silence, honor the quiet gifts of change, and trust that even in stillness, life continues its steady, faithful rhythm.

A Prayer for the Season

Lord of all seasons,
thank You for the gift of change,
for the winds that remind us to let go,
for the quiet that teaches us to listen,
and for the beauty that lingers even in endings.

As autumn settles in,
help us to rest in Your presence,
to hear Your voice in the stillness,
and to carry gratitude in our hearts.
May we trust Your rhythm for our lives,
just as the earth trusts the turning of the seasons.

Amen.

Five years. 1,825 days. A lifetime, yet only a breath. It cannot be overlooked that on September 24, 2020, the first word of my story was written for all to read. What a crazy story it’s been!

Everything began with a word whispered in sorrow and written through tears. In those early days, when grief was fresh and heavy, words became the thread that stitched my world back together. Journals, prayers, and stories carried me through heavy fog. All while God surrounded me with His love and encouragement.

Five years ago, I stood outside a life I no longer recognized. As a widow, I learned how to breathe again and live as a single adult for the very first time in my life. Every day was a lesson (some were harsh, some gentle) in how to stand, laugh, and find purpose when life had changed in ways I never wanted.

As a Grieving Gardener, I found comfort within the walls of my precious Winterpast. She became my world for a time, making sure that I had a soft place to heal. She provided the perfect pace to watch the seasons roll by, while I realized I could survive and thrive in the new place that would become my forever home.

God, in His tender mercy, didn’t leave me there. Step by step, He led me. Through words, through tears, through prayers, through the ordinary days that somehow become extraordinary now that I look back on them. Slowly, I found more than just survival. I found myself. I found Him. And with Him, I found peace.

Day after day, writing gave meaning to my new life. Grievinggardener.com became the friend and ear that listened to my words as I explored and grew. As a brilliant 5th grader once reminded me, “Writing is life.”

My journey did not stop there. For in this season of rebuilding, love found me once again. My beloved life mate now walks beside me. HHH came at the perfect time to share our golden year. Such a beautiful gift I never imagined, but now treasure so deeply. From a widow, I have emerged a wife again. And so, the circle of life continues.

Looking back over these last five years, I see so much more than grief. I see transformation. I see faithfulness. I see the hand of God guiding out of darkness into the light.

Five years. 1,825 days. Such a journey. Such a milestone.

And, it all began with a word.

More tomorrow.

It’s hard to believe how quickly this year has slipped through our fingers. One minute we were planting seeds, and the next we’re preparing the gardens for winter. High desert mornings have taken on an unmistakable crispness, carrying with them the scents of damp earth as the leaves begin to fall.

Autumn is here, as October is peeking around the corner. We’ve traded t-shirts, shorts, and ice water for cozy sweaters and steaming cups of coffee. As September ends, whispers of the first snow of the season loom. It’s another reminder of how quickly one season gives way to the next.

After just putting away last winter’s mousetraps, it’s time to start the process of mouse extermination again. As God’s creatures, we all need food and shelter. However, Winterpast is full, and disease-ridden furballs need to move along or meet their end.

As for the birds, the hummingbirds have left on their migration south. Thank goodness we can still enjoy the quail and dove. We’re doing our part to feed the winged wildlife as the days are shorter and the nights colder. As soon as we put seed out, it’s gone, and so it goes in the gardens of Winterpast.

Yesterday, the arborist arrived to remove three more trees. Since 2020, an apple tree has been more work than it’s worth. That first year, I had high hopes for wonderful pies and applesauce. Unfortunately, these apples weren’t a variety suitable for cooking. Attracting disease and worms, hundreds of rotten apples littered the ground. To add to the unpleasantness, they became Oliver’s favorite “under-the-dining-room-table” snack. Work on top of work, with no benefit to the humans of the house.

Yesterday, that tree was removed to make way for a new pond. All that remained were remnants of the 2025 crop, which are now gone. Along with that tree, a scrawny ornamental plum and the JuJube tree are now history. Sometimes, you need to clear the slate, and yesterday was the day. So long and farewell.

With the yard demanding so many hours of love and care, “spring cleaning” has quietly been renamed “fall cleaning”. It’s time to tackle a long list of projects put off for “later” as we prepare our home for the season of gathering, slowing down, and tucking in. With cooler weather, the garage needs attention, while the man cave needs a good cleaning. Inside, dust bunnies will meet their end. As we keep up with the falling leaves, we’ll keep moving forward as we keep pace with the changing seasons. But, we’ll also take time to enjoy the quiet show of falling leaves and changing skies.

Autumn teaches us to notice the swiftness of time, not with regret, but with gratitude. Each season has its own beauty, rhythm, chores, and joys to savor. As this year winds down, there’s still a season of rain-soaked mornings, colorful leaves, and autumn light to enjoy. Take time to pause and be thankful.

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