Grieving Gardener

Little in this world can match New York Cheesecake. While Oreo’s may come close, they don’t match the cream deliciousness of a slice of this fabulous dessert.

Growing up in a German household, cheesecake wasn’t on the menu. With five little women all watching our waistlines, it’s best this was never introduced. I first tried the dessert in my 30’s and ran to buy my first spring-form pan. Only made for special occasions, it was a treat I managed to perfect.

Every July 30th, dessert lovers across the country celebrate National Cheesecake Day! Whether you love baked or no-bake and topped with fruit or chocolate, cheesecake works great with any meal.

My most beloved variety is the rich and velvety New York-style Cheesecake. Known for it’s dense, creamy texture and tangy flavor, it’s the perfect way to celebrate this indulgent holiday. Unlike other cheesecake varieties, New York-style Cheesecake is baked and ultra-creamy thanks to a generous amount of cream cheese, eggs, and often sour cream. Typically made with a graham cracker crust, it’s baked slowly for a firm, yet silky finish.

If you have a little time today to create a mouth-watering dessert, try this. Lately, I’ve noticed that AI has given me some really good recipes. This is an unexpected benefit in our technological world.

🥄 Classic New York Cheesecake Recipe

Ingredients:

For the crust:

• 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs
• ¼ cup granulated sugar
• ½ cup unsalted butter, melted

For the filling:

• 4 (8 oz) packages cream cheese, room temperature
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1 cup sour cream
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 4 large eggs
• 2 tbsp all-purpose flour
• Zest of 1 lemon (optional)

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 325°F (163°C). Grease a 9-inch springform pan and wrap the bottom with foil to prevent leaks.
2. Make the crust: Combine graham cracker crumbs, sugar, and melted butter in a bowl. Press the mixture into the bottom of the pan. Bake for 10 minutes. Let cool.
3. Prepare the filling: In a large mixing bowl, beat the cream cheese until smooth. Add sugar and beat until fluffy. Mix in sour cream, vanilla, flour, and lemon zest (if using). Add eggs one at a time, mixing just until blended.
4. Assemble: Pour the filling over the cooled crust. Smooth the top.
5. Bake for 55–70 minutes, or until the center is almost set but still slightly jiggly.
6. Cool: Turn off the oven, crack the door, and let the cheesecake cool for 1 hour. Then chill in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours or overnight.
7. Serve with fresh strawberries, berry compote, or simply as is!

💡 Tips for the Perfect Cheesecake

• Always use room temperature ingredients to avoid lumps.
• Don’t overmix after adding eggs to prevent cracking.
• Bake in a water bath for the smoothest texture. (thank you AI)

Whether you’re hosting a summer dinner party or just treating yourself, National Cheesecake Day is the perfect excuse to indulge in one of the most wonderful desserts ever created. This New York-style cheesecake is rich, tangy, and worth every bite. Of course, if you are not in the mood to heat up your kitchen, the local Walmart often has mini-cheesecakes with slices of four different flavors.

Enjoy today and celebrate!!! It isn’t often desserts have their own day!! Especially desserts as wonderful as this! Enjoy!

More tomorrow.

July is that magical time when the sun shines a little hotter, the air smells vaguely like sunblock, and gardeners everywhere are living their most generous lives. These days, our kitchen is overflowing with fresh produce, while we’ve been actively trying to offload our bounty onto anyone with opposable thumbs and a heartbeat. Now, at the end of July, few takers to be found.
In June, zucchini was cute. HHH and I whispered sweet nothings to our first little green squash as we lovingly sliced it into a sauté pan. We boasted about the flavor while posting pics on Facebook. It was all about that first zucchini.

But now it’s reproducing faster than a pair of rabbits in a vegetable patch, and the one “forgotten zucchini behind a leaf” accidentally grew into a club big enough to fend off a wild mustang.

There comes a point in every gardener’s life when walking into church with a brown paper bag full of tomatoes is met with sidelong glances and polite excuses.
“Oh, I would, but… I just picked up some at the farmers market.”
“No thanks, Janice gave me six yesterday. I’ve been making sauce for the last week.”
“I’m allergic to… freshness. Yeah. Sorry.”

And, it’s not just tomatoes. The last few plums are falling from trees like fruity meteors, staining paths and attracting ants. Last week, we stealthily secreted them in church like a fruity Santa Claus.

“Oh, weird, who left 44 plums on the table?”

Hmmmmm. Must be the Produce Fairy.

Zucchini bread. Zucchini muffins. Zucchini lasagna. Zucchini noodles. After awhile, everything begins to look and taste like zucchini. Enough already.

We could start leaving them in unlocked cars in parking lots or “google”crafts made from zucchini. We briefly consider drying and stringing them into a Christmas garland. No inventive ideas will be rejected if it means we can offload the zucchini.

Meanwhile, at the garden center to the east, roses are on sale for 60% off. Nothing says “fall is coming” quite like a rack of half-wilted tea roses in pots that say “hope” but smell like “we tried.” Just as we are trying to push produce, the nursery is dumping the last of its plants before fall arrives. We’re planning to hit the August sale starting Friday, with our front yard to finish.

Here at Winterpast, the sad, crunchy remnants of early spring flowers sit in flower pots awaiting removal. Once full of marigold ambition they’re now reduced to brittle botanical fossils. It’s time to dump them out, hose them off, and stack them in the greenhouse with lots of hope for a better crop next year.

These days, my imagination plays tricks on me as I wish for a hint of cool in the morning air. Sunday’s thunderstorms brought much-needed rain, making everything feel like we managed to skip August altogether. Fall will be here in just a few more weeks and then the zucchini will freeze, the tomatoes will give up, and the garden will finally sleep.

Until then, we’ll keep the faith and our stack of paper bags ready. We’ll just leave them at home next Sunday.

You know what really brings a yard together? Not solar lights, gnomes, or a fountain shaped like a fish spitting water. Nope. It’s big, chunky, beautiful, ground-covering redwood bark nuggets.

In 2020, when Winterpast was knew to me, the backyard needed some sprucing up. Each morning at 6 am, I’d drive to Lowe’s, where I would lift eight huge bags of bark onto my cart. Pay. Load. Drive home. Unload. Wheel-barrow them. Spread. This was repeated for weeks until all the beds were covered. Who needs a spa when you garden?

And so, five years later, it’s finally time for the front. HHH and me. Two people with a dream, a front yard in desperate need of mulching, and a whole lot of false hope.

At 6 am on a glorious desert morning, we headed to Lowe’s to get the bark. Seems in 5 years, not only prices have changed a bit. The bay where it used to be now held rubber bark in five, non-fading colors. Not choosing to cover our beds in rubber, we traveled to the east. Just a month before, we’d checked at our toney little nursery, which had the stuff for $90 a yard (27 cubic feet) with a delivery charge of $100. They’d been hoarding piles of glorious Redwood Bark just for us.

But, just a month later, they weren’t hoarding anymore. A large “We’ve Retired” Sign hung on the gate. The place was an empty yard where we’d just bought the cutest pot and our 2025 Portulaca, along with ladybugs and praying mantises.

All wasn’t lost because their next-door competitors were thriving. Surely, they’d have the same thing. But again, we hit a brick wall. It seems there’s a shortage at the moment, and no one is delivering Redwood Bark. They hadn’t seen any for quite some time, but assured us they’d call us when it came in.

We waited weeks. Phones remained silent and emails were unanswered. HHH even began talking to the answering machines in a hopeful tone, like they might eventually respond if we were polite enough. We made calls to the very best nurseries just to the west. Some associates didn’t even know what we meant by redwood nuggets. We might need to drop the dream and come up with a new plan.

And then—defeated, barkless, emotionally mulched—we decided to take a break. A “StayCayAway.” No bark talk or landscaping drama for 24 hours. Just us, cold drinks, and an evening at our favorite resort. But one minute we were relaxing, and the next minute we were saying, “Let’s just go check out that huge landscaping and rock store to the West. No big deal. It’ll take an hour.”

We pulled in, walked up to the counter, and casually asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have RedWood Bark Nuggets, would you?”

The guy didn’t blink. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask us to spell it.

Instead, he said, “Yes. Bin #82. $62 a yard. How many do you want? By the way, it’s $27 a yard cheaper than those jokers to the east.”

I looked at HHH. He looked at me. We high-fived in that slow-motion, movie-ending kind of way. Cue music. Cue sunset. Cue the brother with a borrowable trailer. Fer-get-about-delivery-fees. Just 48 hours later, the front yard looks like it just came back from a spa weekend at the redwoods.

Neighbors have been walking by while nodding in admiration. One lady whispered, “Where did you get that bark?” as if we’d mulched with shredded Benjamin Franklins.

HHH and I just smile, sip our ice water. Sometimes, the bark you’re looking for isn’t across the state or hidden in a secret mulch vault to the east. Sometimes, it sits just down the road from a StayCayAway to the West.

Sometimes the best vacations are the ones closest to home. Traveling without an international boarding pass, hours in TSA lines, or an exhausting cross-country drive feels just right. As soon as the sun comes up, we’re off. With our destination only 40 minutes away, we’re going to turn a regular weeknight into a rejuvenating, soul-filling escape.

This isn’t your average staycation, but a quick jaunt from the front door to a place that feels like it’s a world away. With overnight bags and a feeling of freedom, I’m not looking back as the gardens of Winterpast fade in the rearview mirror. Even retirees need to take a break sometimes. The tomatoes. The plums. The zuchinni. It’s all just too much!!

Whether sipping wine on a terrace, hiking down to the pool, or sleeping in, we’ll be reminded that beauty and fun aren’t only found on the high seas. With our next oceanic adventure a little less than two months away, this is the next best thing.

Nestled where the high desert meets alpine peaks, resorts at the base of the Eastern Sierra Nevada’s offer an unforgettable blend of rugged beauty and sophisticated comfort. Not just pit stops for skiers or hikers, these are full-service retreats with hot tubs, farm-to-table dining, and coffee shops that take their espresso as seriously as we take our vine-ripened tomatoes. With dramatic mountain backdrops, we’re not just stepping out of our routine but into nature’s majesty.

Even the dogs need a break. Oliver and Wookie will go to puppy camp to visit their friends. Shhhhh… Don’t tell them. It’s a secret until the car starts. They won’t be moping at home but romping through fields, playing tug-of-war with new friends, getting belly rubs from people who call themselves “counselors,” and passing out in cozy kennels after full days of doggie adventures. We’ll get to recharge our batteries, and they’ll come home cleaner, happier, and somehow more socialized than when they left. It’s a win-win when the dogs get their own “camp story,” while we’ll enjoy an uninterrupted sunset soak in a mountain-view hot tub.

So here’s to the stay-cay, the underappreciated gem of vacationing. Just minutes from our little town of industry, we’ll find the kind of peace, beauty, and perspective that people fly thousands of miles trying to find. When we return, the dogs will greet us like we’ve been gone for years with wagging tails and sparkling eyes. What a great weekend for a reset.

Ill be back on Monday! Have a great weekend!

Here at Winterpast, days move at their own pace. Morning sunlight dapples through the trees, birds call from hidden branches, and the breeze carries with it the quiet reassurance of routine. Another pair of Robins busy themselves feeding the newest babies in plain sight on the patio. The bees are buzzing about, while Oliver continues on his hunt for anything edible, including grubs.

Oliver will never change. After he finds something delicious and nutritious, it’s off to his lair under the dining room table. Slowly, I’m being trained that if I offer him a BETTER treat than the one clamped between his jaws with the strength of a pit bull, he MIGHT consider a trade. So far, I’m up three rotten apples and a very disgusting grub that measured at least 2.5″. Well, at least some progress has been made.

The peaceful rhythm of Winterpast is one that invites reflection. Lately, HHH has found a new way to engage with that rhythm by simply changing his location. In various spots around the yard, he’s placed seating, some more comfortable than others. Each seat offers a different view of the same space. Some days, he faces the back fence and watches for the dreaded squirrel. Other days, he turns toward the house, letting memories and stillness settle in.

It’s the simple act of changing perspective, which changes everything because changing your seat changes your sight. What was once overlooked becomes the focal point. A path you’ve walked a hundred times becomes new again. From a different angle, a patch of weeds becomes a wildflower bed. That’s the power of perspective.

And what’s true in the yard is just as true in life. The way we choose to see the world shapes how we experience it. Optimism and pessimism face the same reality, but from two entirely different seats. One sees challenge as a possibility while the other sees it as a wall. One notices beauty in the overlooked corners while the other only notices what’s missing.

Choosing optimism doesn’t mean ignoring difficulty but looking at life from a place of hope. It means pausing, shifting your stance, and saying, “Maybe there’s more to this than I first thought”, or “What lessons can I learn from this?”

That’s what HHH has discovered here at Winterpast. Sometimes the most powerful change doesn’t come from going somewhere new but from seeing the same place with new eyes.

So, whether you’re in a backyard, a busy season of life, or just a quiet moment with yourself, try moving to a new vantage point. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and look again. You might be surprised by how the view changes.

More tomorrow.

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.