Grieving Gardener

As a child, I attended a small German church nestled in the middle of the bread basket of the world, Central California. Today, the stately structure still stands quietly amid a crumbling country town. Since the early 1900s, it’s been the center of every major family event of the Volga German Christians living in the area. My parents, aunts and uncles, and cousins were all married there. Babies were baptized. Families said “Goodbye” to loved ones.

The bell tower was always a curiosity, yet I never braved the narrow stairs to check it out. The early community knew what each pattern of dongs meant. One set of rings meant a wedding, another signaled that church was about to begin. This wasn’t a preprogrammed AI-generated announcement, but produced by the bell-ringer who was a very real person. Before the memorial service for my 92-year-old father, the bell rang 92 times, once for each year of his life.

Upon entering the church, I remember being greeted by the warmth of the space. The air smelled of old wood and candle wax mingled with the faintest hint of pine. Simple wooden pews lined the room, their surfaces worn smooth by decades of worshippers. Stained glass windows cast colorful patterns on the stone floor, their designs depicting nativity scenes that glowed softly in the fading sunlight. The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of wind outside and the quiet hum of something timeless lingering in the air.

Each Sunday, the service started with the first delicate notes of a familiar hymn. A small choir of voices rose in unison from a corner near the altar, their melody pure and hauntingly beautiful. When the Christmas season arrived, “O Come All Ye Faithful” filled the room, each verse swelling with a reverence that seemed to transcend time. I stood still, captivated by my mother’s beautiful voice. There was something wonderful about the way the hymn echoed in the room, wrapping itself around me like a warm embrace.

Singing old hymns today stirs memories from my childhood—Christmas Eves spent with my family, sitting together in the living room as the fire crackled in the hearth. Singing Christmas carols while my mom played the piano, the words connecting us to something far greater than ourselves. In our little chapel, that sense of unity and wonder was nurtured for years assuring that beautiful traditions would never fade away.

This church was built by Volga German immigrants decades earlier, a labor of love creating a new home in a foreign land. They brought hymns, customs, and faith, weaving them into the fabric of California’s cultural landscape. “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” was a hymn that crossed oceans and centuries, just as those early settlers had. My earliest memories are of the old Germans sitting in the front row while singing the song in their native tongue. Mysterious to a little one that could barely sing the song in English.

The last time I sat with my family, I quietly sang along. My voice was unsteady at first, but soon blended with others, carried by the same unseen force that filled the room. “O come, let us adore Him,” we sang as the words floated up to touch the heavens.

When the hymn ended, the silence returned, but the church was somehow thick with peace and the lingering echoes of something eternal. Sitting in one of the pews, I let the moment settle into my heart while time seemed to stand still.

As I left the church all those Christmas’ ago, I felt a quiet sense of joy, as though I’d been given a gift. The strains of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” stay with me, a reminder that some things—faith, music, tradition—can transcend time and place. Decades later, I still think of that little German chapel nestled in the vineyards of Central California and the hymn that connected me to a world both past and present. Every Christmas, when I hear those familiar notes, I’m transported back to that sacred space, where voices blended in perfect harmony.

December 16th is a date that sits perfectly on the edge of the Christmas season, where the festive spirit is undeniable, yet the full holiday rush hasn’t entirely taken hold. It’s a special day to celebrate a birthday—a day when the warm glow of the season adds an extra layer of magic. Or, in my case, a day where I politely dodge the pressure to party like it’s 1999.

As a December 16th baby, you’re naturally part of a season steeped in nostalgia, lights, and togetherness. The Christmas tree might already be up, twinkling in the corner. There’s likely a faint scent of pine in the air and the promise of hot cocoa or mulled wine later in the day. If snow graces the ground, it’s the cherry on top, turning the birthday backdrop into something straight out of a holiday card. But let’s be real: the birthday cake is already fighting for attention against gingerbread cookies, eggnog, and Aunt Martha’s inexplicably green holiday Jell-O.

Sneaking to the computer at dark-thirty this morning, how surprised I was to find HHH has other ideas about birthdays. Right next to the key-board, (where I spend hours each morning), he had placed the sweetest card and present, just for me. One of HHH’s great qualities is his ability to make every day special, but he went the extra mile to surprise me this morning!

After sharing time with HHH, I found a thoughtful card from a person I’ve known longer than anyone in this world. Miss Song Bird had sent a lovely birthday wish. With six months time between our ages, she already entered her last year as a sexagenarian. It will be strange to begin a new decade next year. I plan to suck the life out of the 60s while I still can.

As much as I appreciate the thoughtfulness of others, I’ve never been one to enjoy celebrating my birthday. Maybe it’s the timing, so close to Christmas that it feels more like a dress rehearsal for the big day than a moment just for me. Or maybe it’s the idea of being the center of attention that gives me flashbacks to every awkward childhood “Happy Birthday” song.

Whatever the reason, today I prefer to let the day pass quietly, finding joy in the little things rather than grand gestures. Later today, HHH and I will join others for our third Griefshare meeting. It’s hard to believe it was three weeks ago that we wondered who would join us on this journey. Last week, we were six. Hopefully, we’ll gain a few more people today. If you have a program in your area, check into it.

There’s a poetic connection between a December 16th birthday and the broader themes of the season. Winter often represents a time of reflection and renewal, a pause before the new year begins. It’s an opportunity to embrace the stillness, to appreciate simplicity, and to find beauty in the little things in life. Or, you know, to binge-watch holiday rom-coms with zero shame while eating an entire cheese platter meant for four.

So, if your December 16th birthday aligns with the holiday season, let it remind you of the joys that this time offers: the warmth of home, the kindness of loved ones, and the quiet moments that often hold the most meaning. Embrace the day—or don’t. Because whether you spend it wrapped in tinsel or wrapped in a blanket, it’s uniquely yours, and that’s worth celebrating (quietly, of course).

More tomorrow

On Christmas Eve, 1914, the Western Front of World War I was a place of desolation. Trenches stretched for miles, and the air was thick with cold and tension. Yet, as night fell, something extraordinary happened—a moment of humanity that has resonated through the ages. It was in this unlikely setting that the timeless carol “Silent Night” became a bridge between enemies, a song of peace that transcended the horrors of war

The Christmas Truce of 1914 stands as one of history’s most poignant examples of shared humanity. For months, soldiers from opposing sides had been locked in brutal combat. But as Christmas approached, whispers of a ceasefire began to spread. On that frosty night, the guns fell silent, and an unexpected calm took hold. From the trenches came an unfamiliar sound—singing.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,” the German soldiers sang, their voices carrying through the frigid air. British soldiers, startled but moved, recognized the melody. It was “Silent Night,” a Christmas carol they recognized from home. Slowly, they joined in, their voices mingling across the no-man’s-land that had separated them. In that moment, music replaced the sound of artillery, and a profound stillness descended over the battlefield.

“Silent Night,” composed in 1818 by Franz Xaver Gruber with lyrics by Joseph Mohr, had already become a beloved Christmas hymn by the early 20th century. Its gentle melody and message of peace connected men from different cultures. That night on the front lines, it became a universal language. Soldiers who moments earlier had been shooting at each other now found themselves united in song, their voices rising in a fragile harmony against the backdrop of a fractured world.

The carol’s verses, speaking of a holy night and the hope of salvation, brought an almost sacred stillness to the battlefield. Men emerged cautiously from their trenches, meeting in the middle of no-man’s-land. They exchanged small gifts—chocolates, cigarettes, buttons—and even played impromptu games of football. For a brief moment, the war was forgotten, and what remained was a sense of shared humanity that defied the boundaries of conflic

It is almost impossible to grasp the emotional weight of that night. The contrast between the devastation of war and the quiet beauty of “Silent Night” must have been overwhelming. Imagine the stillness of that holy night, the way the carol’s melody might have stirred memories of home and loved ones. For the soldiers, it must have been a moment of aching clarity—a fleeting glimpse of what life could be without the ravages of war.

Reflecting on that night, we are reminded of the power of music to connect us, even in the saddest circumstances. “Silent Night,” a song born from modest beginnings in a small Austrian village, became a beacon of hope on a battlefield. It transcended language and ideology, speaking directly to the hearts of those who heard it. That night, it was not just a song—it was a prayer for peace, a yearning for the world to be whole again.

Today, as we sing “Silent Night” during the holiday season, it’s worth pausing to reflect on its legacy. The same melody that once brought peace to a battlefield still carries a message of hope and goodwill. It reminds us that, no matter our differences, we are all connected by our shared humanity. And perhaps, if we let its message linger in our hearts, it can inspire us to create our own moments of peace—moments that echo the spirit of that remarkable night in 1914.

As December days go by, we are patiently waiting for snow. As a warm weather transplant, the first snow of the year is always a special day. It just might be later today as it’s now falling on Donner Pass.

The very first year as a Virginia City homeowner, I hadn’t tired of winter snow. I was enjoying all the seasons, which were pronounced and definite. The Central Valley of California has two seasons — burning hot and fog. The skies are usually a dull grey, even on nice spring days. From late May until October, the mercury can hover in the 100’s and then the foggy season begins.

The fog isn’t just a light marine layer of fog, but dense Tule Fog. So dense that when driving in it, cars appear before you have time to hit the brakes. Every year, people die in the fog and feel like they are going to die in the heat.

This——

Or this——

Here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, the weather is pretty close to perfect for me. There are four distinct seasons. Spring can be sprinkled with late snow. Summer days are hot but the evenings cool down to a comfortable temperature great for gardening. The cottonwoods and aspens give a brilliant show in the fall. And then, there is winter.

Winter in the desert is nothing to fool with. Black ice can kill you if your taking a curve while hitting it. Almost invisible, it causes many to lose control of their cars. Then, there are multiple snow storms during the season. It’s one of those we’re awaiting. After all, what’s Christmas if its not white???

As for the gardens of Winterpast, I must admit, I haven’t been out to see what’s going on in a while. The rose bushes stand frozen in time. The last blooms fade in the Autumn sun as they were when the frost hit with a magical beauty all their own. Soon, it’ll be time to prune. HHH and I look forward to practicing skills learned this year while taking the Master Gardener course.

It’s time to assess projects for early spring. We need to refresh the decomposed granite walkways. Brickwork around the lawn and flower beds might be a consideration. We need a truckload of new rock to mulch our flowerbeds. (Yes, rock is considered a type of mulch in the desert — so strange this land where we live). Two trees may be removed. Any time one considers taking out a 20-year-old tree, there better be a good reason. Unfortunately, these are sick and not expected to recover. Hard decisions will need to be made.

This year Winterpast will get a facelift with some new paint. And then, the debate about fencing the front yard continues. When sharing the desert with wild mustangs, barriers are important. There’s no point in spending hundreds of dollars on new plants when wild horses show up in the night to eat them. The fencing debate continues.

A soft fresh covering of snow is the most beautiful look for Winterpast. Every day things take on a new and magical look. The inches of snow are measurable on the outdoor table. Last year, the biggest storm dropped 17″, all gone in a week. Snow in the desert is like that.

Wherever you are today, I hope you have clear blue Autumn skies. The winter solstice is just around the corner. Take some time to consider what changes you’d like to make in your yard next year. Fall is a great time to plan for a beautiful spring. It will be here before we know it.

Writing became my first love from the first time I put a pencil to paper. The pages of a new journal call out to me, and a few are waiting to be filled with the documentation of life. For me, writing is life.

In high school, I was blessed to be taught by two strong, beautiful, English teachers. At opposite ends of life, “hot pants’d” Mrs. Johnson encouraged (24) me to write my truths, while elderly southern belle Mrs. Gash (74) taught me to watch for grammatical errors. Both women were perfectionists who encouraged us to write with passion and precision. Under their guidance, I became a writer.

As a cub reporter for the high school paper, I was always looking for new topics for human interest stories. One week, we took a student around the campus in a wheelchair to find obstacles be in their way. Throughout four years, we memorialized the life of Central Union High School students. To this day, I still enjoy digging out ancient copies from time to time to remember the fun we had in school.

Throughout my 20’s, while raising two little boys, I lost my words. Overwhelmed by the life of a mom, every evening before sleep I fell into the words of others. Books took me to places I only dreamed about. Through all my reading, thoughts of someday writing my own book would run through my head.

In 1996, elementary teaching provided the perfect platform for growing new writers. As we wrote, there were days my kiddos would beg to stay in at recess because they were in the middle of finding their own words. We wrote, shared, critiqued, revised, and shared again. Through them, my love of words and the written language for purpose.

Almost five years ago, words again became very important in my life. Too young to become an unprepared widow, life became silent. In the middle of Covid, while moving to a brand new town, I talked very little each week with the quarantine in full swing. Neighborhoods were empty, while people I hadn’t met hid inside to avoid the deadly virus. Some weeks, the only one I talked to was Oliver, and sadly, he wasn’t very good at holding a conversation.

One September morning I woke up to the idea of writing a blog to help other widows. It was such a detailed vision that Grievinggardener.com was up and running in a few hours. Since September 24, 2020, there have been few days that I haven’t written or spent time considering future topics.

Through words, a shattered world started to heal. Writing gave me a reason to wake up before the sun to make contact with the universe. My readers let me know someone out there was checking to make sure everything was okay. To this date, if I don’t write for a day or two, I can be sure someone will call to make sure I’m alright.

Written words.

Beauty. Creativity. Reason for being. Sharing. Venting. Dreaming.

Yes-sir-ee.

Writing is Life for me.

Whatever you do today, consider documenting your daily activities. Then, add anything nice that might’ve occurred. If you perform a Random Act of Kindness to another, write about it. Every day, write down three things for which you’re grateful. Write about your plants. Tell a story about your dog or cat. Write from their point of view. Write about anything you like. Just write.

Give it a week.

You might discover Writing is Life for you, too!

More tomorrow.

Our church community is a place where bright minds think alike. Along with shopping for our loved ones, everyone decided the church would do something as a group. We’d adopt a family for the holidays—a delightful idea for another way to give at this lovely time of year.

The chosen recipient is a lovely young mom currently overwhelmed by the needs of two small children. Christmas has become so expensive. What does one do when paychecks barely cover the necessities, let alone presents under the tree?

When asked if we could adopt her family, this woman had an immediate answer. She didn’t want help for herself. In far-away Oklahoma, Her sister was in a far worse predicament.

Her sister, also a young mom, had just escaped an abusive relationship. She had a new place to live, but that had taken all her available funds. Someone had given her a small refrigerator, but other than that, she was starting from scratch with two pre-teen boys. Would we please help her sister?

And so, Operation Amazon is in full swing. Our friend made a list of everything her sister would need and listed the items on Amazon. It will be up to us to shop for those items, which will soon be delivered. From toys to soup bowls, this young mom who lives halfway across the country and her two sons will have a peaceful Christmas thanks to strangers they’ve never met. That is the true spirit of Christmas at work.

At City Hall, there is a Giving Tree decorated with personal ornaments. Each ornament has information about a Senior Citizen who won’t have Christmas any other way. Yesterday, we stopped by to pick ours but the tree had already been picked bare. I love our small town.

Whatever you do today, find a way to make Christmas a little brighter for someone you don’t know. Random Acts of Kindness are a gift to the recipient, but also the giver. Call your local church or Senior Center to find out how you can help. It will look a lot more like Christmas in your world.

More tomorrow.

The holidays are a time for rushing around and getting things done. Unfortunately, some of our church family have not managed to stay upright. Two have fallen, resulting in broken bones and the necessary medical care that follows. Two others are hospitalized with serious illnesses.

During crisp Autumn afternoons, we’ve enjoyed intense desert sunshine and clear skies however the mornings have been a different story. Every winter, we endure a few days of pogonip. Pronounced just like it looks, Po-go-nip is a Shoshone word for a dense winter fog with frozen particles in the western high desert plains. If you don’t need to go outside, it’s absolutely beautiful. On a clear morning the sky dancings with particles of ice resembling tiny floating diamonds.

Outside, things look desert dry. There’s been no rain or snow for weeks, yet the pogonip coats the ground with a thin layer of slick, invisible ice. Ice is any senior’s biggest fear. Falling often results in broken bones. What a way to end the holiday festivities!

Last week, we held our first Griefshare meeting with friends from the church. Neither HHH nor I knew what to expect. How could we lead a group of grieving adults when we’d never done that before? At that time, no one had yet signed up for the class. With a box of yummy snacks and our faith, we headed to the church to wait for attendees.

During the first meeting of four, we learned a lot about each other. With plenty of time for sharing, those who needed to speak did so. Personal experiences added to the lesson and the time flew by.

After hugs and well wishes, everyone seemed to leave with a lighter heart. HHH and I were both relieved that the first class was a success, although smaller than we hoped. Since then, two more people have joined our group. If we double each week, we’ll need more chairs by the end of the class!

Just this week, I was talking to a friend about the class.

“Well, I wouldn’t have anything to add to the class. I’m still really angry with my late husband.”

Anger. It’s part of the grief package. Along with every other emotion one might feel is inappropriate. With a little more discussion, maybe she’ll join us.

During Week 2 , we’ll speak of the unique nature of grief. I’ll be up early to bake a fresh Lemon-Blueberry pound cake drizzled with deliciousness. Add something salty and we’ll be ready for our group.

If you’re struggling with grief during the holidays, Google “Archive.org/details/Griefshare and watch a few of the videos you’ll find there. These videos were produced in 2014 and contain helpful and comforting information.

“It’s a God thing” describes an event or situation people believe was influenced or guided by God. The circumstances that surround what happened occur in such a way that only God himself could have orchestrated them, or that is at least how it appears. — _{Internet Definition}

Yesterday, before going to see the angel that makes my nails pretty, I had errands to run. Growing the grief support group has taken thought and time. So many people are grieving in the world. News of our group must spread around our little town. We have something comforting to offer. Support.

After gassing up the car, which seems to be on “E” a lot lately, I dropped off flyers at a local doctor’s office and the assisted living facility in town. Glancing at my phone, I noticed a message from a very old friend.

I met KayDee in high school. In the class behind me, we became best friends and did everything together. When I graduated, she became very close with my cousin, just a few years younger than me. KayDee and Auntie TJ became very good friends, spending quality time together.

On my phone was a picture of a Christmas stocking Auntie TJ had made for her in 1975. Her post was simply, “TJ made this for me in 1975. It’s been my stocking ever since.”

KayDee didn’t remember that yesterday, TJ celebrated was celebrating a milestone birthday.

Quickly, I asked if she’d like to call TJ and wish her a Happy Birthday! In the blink of an eye, two old friends were on the phone talking as if a day hadn’t gone by. TJ was elated to hear from KayDee. KayDee was over the moon to talk to TJ. Some friendships are just like that.

Later in the day, it was my turn to talk to Auntie TJ. She was planning to enjoy Filet Mignon and a baked potato for dinner. But, the real present of the day came in the form of a surprise phone call from her old friend.

Here’s the mystery of the entire story. I don’t talk to KayDee as often as I would like. She chose yesterday to send me a random picture of her Christmas stocking. It just happened to be TJ’s milestone birthday and I turned into the conduit between the two of them.

Almost as payback for helping the two get connected, I received a surprise phone call from my little 3rd grade student who has somehow bloomed into a 30-year-old beauty!! Laughing and catching up as two old friends do, I couldn’t help but smile at the loveliness of the day. Old friendships are the best part of a beautiful life.

The Christmas season is such a lovely time to spread love and friendship. There are so many ways to let someone know how significant they’ve been in your life. Don’t wait. Do it quickly while the tinsel still sparkles on your tree. You’ll never regret reaching out to an old friend while you still can.

More tomorrow.

With the first week of December nearly gone, Christmas is upon us. HHH has been spending his days on the ladder as he makes Winterpast sparkle. Warm and toasty inside, I’ve been putting out items while remembering Christmas’s of long ago.

Everyone in the area is gearing up for some old-fashioned Christmas fun. The little town to the east will hold its tree lighting tomorrow night. Some dear friends are going to join us for dinner and the fun. Down Mainstreet, the elves of this little town make snow in case there’s not much of the real stuff. This all leads to a magical evening of old-fashioned fun.

Saturday night, our little town can’t be outdone! After a day of pancakes and pictures with Santa, we’ll enjoy the lighted parade. Then, the town will light the town’s Christmas tree while the countdown continues.

Even though years have passed since that first Christmas of grief in 2020, special yet random memories pop up reminding us of loss. It could be a favorite Christmas carol or a silly ornament. Memories of those we’ve lost are always close by.

Here are some hints that might help.

1. Plan and Prioritize. There’s no rule that you must do everything, or anything for that matter. Pick 2 or 3 events that you don’t want to miss, or plan to miss them all. The big thing is to choose the look and feel of YOUR holiday season. Do You.
2. Pace Yourself. If you need help getting those boxes down from the rafters, for goodness’ sakes, ask for help. It might be the year to sort through your Christmas stash and donate a few things. If the boxes are just too much, skip them altogether.
3. People vs. privacy. Make a choice. It takes a lot of energy to entertain others. It’s okay to skip a holiday if the pressure is too much. Friends and family will understand.
4. What does the season mean to You? It’s a great time to think about why we celebrate. Take some time to consider the personal meaning the holidays have for you.

Take a deep breath and find a smile. Cozy up and enjoy a cup of hot chocolate. If you live anywhere like my town, it’s cold outside. Autumn is a lovely time of year to reflect.

More tomorrow.

I once met a girl I’ll call Vee who’d now be 23 if she’d beaten HIV-1 and lived. Fourteen Christmas’s ago, we were student, teacher, and friends in a most unlikely place. The Pulmonary Unit of a Children’s Hospital.

I met her in early October. AIDS had dealt her a pretty horrible blow. Her lungs were shot and even at 9, her body was not strong enough to fight for much longer. With an extended stay in the hospital, she joined school at the hospital. It was she that taught me so many important lessons about life.

During her time at the hospital, she became a living legend. Although not a child that demanded attention, her determination and vision about her purpose in the world demanded a second look. Her father had already succumbed to the AIDS virus. Her mom and brother weren’t as sick as she. She wasn’t interested in laying around when there was so much life experience. So, Vee really lived!

Pediatric Intensive Care is a strange place to teach 3rd grade subjects to a small girl. Each day, I’d look forward to my visits with her. At nine years old, she was a bit young to work on a computer, but that didn’t stop her from dreaming of having her own.

At the time, I knew a lady named Leslie Morrissette who sent free computers to hospitalized kids all over the country. My students were eligible if they 11 or older. I’d just received a beautiful laptop for a 12th grader who’d been battling leukemia. When her computer arrived, she was grateful but asked that I give it to another student more needy than she.

On the morning I visited Vee, I happened to have the computer with me. Missing nothing, she saw the extra and asked to whom that particular laptop belonged.

“Well, Miss Vee, it doesn’t have a home right now.”

“Wow, Teacher Joy. I could sure use one!” Her amazing hazel eyes and impish smile just melted my heart.

With a few calls, the computer was hers. On each bedside visit, she had questions about another subject that had interested her. My favorite memory led us underground and into an Egyptian tomb. With monitors beeping and nurses checking on us, we slowly followed the hallway deep into the ancient tomb without ever leaving her hospital room. Her curiosity was limitless to her teacher’s delight.

In the months I knew her she made and sold jewelry. Earning over $500, she sent the money to an AIDS hospital in Africa to help her internet friends across the world. She was interviewed on television. She made lots of computer videos as little girls do. She stole the hearts of everyone who knew and loved her. Vee was just that kind of gal.

We lost Vee on December 21, 2010. That day, she had gone downstairs to watch hundreds of Hells Angels Bikers drop off gifts for the children at the hospital. She was interviewed by the local television channel that afternoon. Before she fell asleep, she told her mom it was the best day of her entire life. And then, she left us for adventures in heaven.

I tell you about Miss Vee because even all these years later, she inspires me to be the best I can be. The strongest. The most tenacious. Inquisitive. Thoughtful. Generous. The brightest light I can be in a world of darkness. Miss Vee, as one of my angels, knows that someday I’ll get there. It’ll be time for school when the bell rings. She won’t be late. We have a lot more to learn together.

Whatever you do today, take some time to remember inspirational people in your life that beat all the odds to remain happy under the worst conditions. Inspiration can come from the most unusual and unexpected places. As for Vee, she’s walking on sunshine!!

More tomorrow.