Author: Joy Hurt

There are vacations, and then there are adventures. Our anniversary trip to Yellowstone fell squarely in the latter category. Think big skies (occasionally angry), wild animals stuffing their faces for winter, and an apartment so new the shine hadn’t worn off. The Airbnb apartment was a spotless, cozy, and modern nest, perfect for two seasoned travelers capable of making our own delicious meals.

We celebrated our anniversary in style with a homemade steak and lobster dinner. There’s something wonderfully rebellious about creating fine dining in a rental kitchen surrounded by pine trees instead of waiters. The sizzle of filet mignon and the buttery aroma of lobster tails may not be traditional park cuisine, but then, we aren’t your average campers.

Of course, no celebratory vacation would be complete without a pilgrimage to the “Million Dollar Cowboy Bar”. After a very long drive, the bar was just as we remembered. Filled with stories, antiques, and more saddle-seated stools than common sense, there was a lot to take in. We toasted our marriage and mileage with a laugh, both aware that this might be the last time we drive 1,800 miles in a single week.

Thanks to the government shutdown, there were no park fees, which was both a blessing and a bit surreal. Despite the circumstances, visitors were respectful, leaving no trash, awe-struck by the beauty surrounding us. It was a rare, beautiful harmony between humans and nature. Majestic buffalo lumbered across the roads with an ancient calm that said, “I was here before you, so get out of the way.” Elk posed out of harm’s way, unconcerned by our gawking.

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone was its usual mystery of light and shadow, forever majestic, moody, and humbling. Standing there, watching water plunge into endlessness, I thought: God really outdid Himself here. It’s impossible not to feel small and grateful all at once. And then, the sleet began. Rushing back to the parking lot, it didn’t take long for my hair to be drenched.

Of course, our trip to Yellowstone wouldn’t be complete without visiting “Yellowstone Bear World”. Little “Captain,” the cub I bottle-fed last year, was in the “big kids’ enclosure”. Looking proud, strong, and just a touch mischievous, he’s proof that love (and formula) can go a long way. Everything at the gift shop was half off, including the best fudge on the planet. We may have stocked up for emergencies, of course.

Packing up to head home, we had to admit this may be the last time we tackle 1,800 miles in 7 days. That being said, it certainly won’t be our last celebration. Yellowstone reminded us how vast and wondrous the world still is and how lucky we are to wander it together.

Here’s to big skies, buffalo crossings, and the sweet, chocolatey taste of adventure.

I’ll be back next week! Have a wonderful weekend!

After exactly ONE wedding, my career as a wedding planner has come to an abrupt and triumphant end. Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird made it official. The deed is done, and with vows exchanged, I’m hanging up my clipboard before anyone can book me for a sequel. And, yes, there have been inquiries.

Months ago, it began with endless lists, color palettes, and frantic “what-if” conversations. Finally, the big weekend arrived. Once a humble multipurpose room, the hall was transformed into a wedding wonderland of flowers, ribbon, and magic. It became the thing nervous brides dream of and WE made it happen.

On a crisp and cloudy Saturday morning, HHH became my rockstar co-conspirator. Lifting, hauling, and smiling through it all, he kept his cool even when “we” discovered there were many possible placements for a heavy oak table.

On the wedding day, he helped with food delivery, setup, and prevented me from hyperventilating. Throughout the day, his gaze across the room said, “You got this. It’s great. Now, keep serving the food!”

On three long tables, the food sat in a glorious array. Along with everything else, HHH had prepared his world-famous Shrimp Macaroni salad, our go-to recipe for any family function. I must say, the Bible story about five loaves and two fish came to mind many times. Standing behind the buffet table as the multitude of guests filed by, I worried many times that the food wouldn’t last. As it turned out, we had the perfect amount. Not too much, not too little.

The food was amazing. The florist was a genius. The bride was radiant and exquisite, and the groom, handsome, teary-eyed, with just the right amount of nerves.

And then there were the attendants. Twenty-eight of them. Yes, you read that right. Twenty-eight! Bridesmaids, groomsmen, flower girls, and ring bearers were perfectly coordinated in a chapel designed for 100, now holding 200 people and one frantic wedding planner whispering prayers.

But somehow, by the grace of God and sheer determination, it all came together. The music played, the bride made it down the aisle to her waiting groom, the candles glowed, and two beautiful souls became one.

It was a beautiful day, and perfect wedding for the loveliest couple.

And those are the very reasons it’s my last.

Satisfied, exhausted, and forever grateful, I’m a retired wedding planner, thankful that everything went right just once. Why tempt fate? I’m ending my career at the top of my game.

More tomorrow.

The symbol for the second wedding anniversary is soft, woven, practical cotton that’s strong enough to stretch without tearing. Hmmmmm, sounds just like marriage to me. Even though life tries to find ways to test the seams, HHH and I keep stitching our way through.

Two years! It feels like we just blinked. Between projects, commitments, and the endless “busy” of daily life, we’ve been running on love. Next week, we’re slowing down, trading the to-do lists for open roads and quiet moments. Packed, with coffee in hand, we’ll roll out into the morning sunshine like a couple of newlyweds chasing adventure.

Our days have been full as we’ve tended to the Meditation Garden at church and mowed the lawn at Winterpast, all while keeping everything blooming and beautiful. Our calendar has been full with things like wedding coordinator duties, helping hearts heal through Grief Share, or capturing Oliver and Tanner after an escape. HHH and I have woven our lives together through service, purpose, and a deep love of God. Now, it’s time to hit the pause button.

We’re heading back to our favorite spots filled with memories, laughter, and the occasional “shortcut” that wasn’t. No, HHH, the reservations are for Twin Falls, NOT Idaho Falls. And, there’ll be no wild goose chase looking for an illusive Walmart just down the road. I promise.

HHH, I am so blessed to be your wife. You are the calm in the chaos, humor on hard days, and my favorite co-pilot through life’s winding roads. The cotton anniversary reminds me that the best things in life are both sturdy, soft, and worn with time and grace.

So we’re off where the four winds blow, Baby. If not now, when? The open road is calling, the sunshine is waiting, and we’ve got snacks, because love might make the journey beautiful, but snacks make it possible.

I’ll be back on Thursday, October 23rd to share stories, laughter, and maybe a few pictures from our anniversary adventure. Until then, take time to celebrate love in all its simple, cotton-soft forms.

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.