Grieving Gardener

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.

After an exciting ocean adventure on the Pacific, it’s wonderful to be back home on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Home, where there are family and friends to hug during these crazy times. Home with our sweet dogs. Home, where leaves are quietly falling as the rest of the world is going insane. Home at Winterpast.

Months ago, HHH won a cruise to Alaska, and September fit our plans. Avoiding the summer-break kids, it would surely be quieter after they were all back in school. And so, we booked our autumn adventure.

It seemed like an eternity as we waited for embarkation day. For six months, we counted off each day until the Sail-Away party. Throughout the summer, thoughts of lumberjacks and glaciers filled our minds. What would it be like? How vast would the wilderness be? Would we see bald eagles or grizzly bears? Whales? The Northern Lights? The answers to all those questions would wait until mid-September.

Packing was an adventure all on its own. Planning for Mexico is quite different than filling suitcases for Alaska. Two fifty-pound bags overflowed into three, with the addition of heavy boots, parkas, gloves, hats, and rain gear. We didn’t forget a thing, even packing mosquito repellent and sunscreen. There’d be no sunburning, swatting, or shivering once atop Mendenhall Glacier! We were prepared for any situation.

Our trip started out like every other cruise we’ve been on. Sailing away on the 17th floor of our cruise ship, things were grand under a soft Seattle mist. The dancers magically appeared from nowhere to entertain the new guests. We were on our way to an adventure that turned out a little different from what we’d hoped.

The first full day at sea was glorious. On the first formal night, everyone was excited to strut their finery throughout the ship. You would’ve never known we were headed to the rugged north. Fedora atop his head, HHH wore his new suit, with an even newer pink shirt and black tie. I’d been to the salon earlier in the day to have waist-length hair braided around a cobalt blue hair comb. Up-do-ed and shiny shoe-d, we enjoyed a night great memories are made of.

But, things were about to change…….

On Wednesday, the captain announced that the dangerous weather would force us inland. Six ships, including a sister ship to us, would wait together while 70 mph winds would blow through the open seas. It was simply too dangerous to continue towards the glaciers and Endicott Arm. With sadness, any hope of seeing glaciers was gone. Just like that.\

The rest of the trip was quite rough. Gone were any hopes of brilliant blue skies or postcard-perfect pictures. There were no grizzlies, or whales, or northern lights. We were lucky to avoid sea-sickness, even though we did manage to pick up a virus along the way.

While our ship rocked and rolled in the high seas, the mainland met its own turning point. Tumultuous seas with 15-foot swells were nothing compared to the sadness that swept over America. Sadness for a young wife and mom as she found the strength and courage to comfort us during HER time of loss. A turning point caused Christians throughout the country to find their collective voice while inviting others to know Christ.

Through very grey skies, this cruise wasn’t the most beautiful or adventure-filled. It started out promising to show us the beauty of our last great wilderness, but ended up being a time for reflection and acceptance of God’s plan.

How have the last two weeks affected you? Have you taken time for reflection? If life’s seas are rough for you right now, have you opened your heart to Jesus? Now is a great time to talk to Him. It will be the adventure of your lifetime.

More tomorrow.

Headlines on any given day bombard us with disturbing headlines, tragedies, and voices pulling. The noise of social media scrolls on endlessly, the news cycle never pauses, and opinions often clash louder than they connect. Weary, stretched thin, and struggling to find clarity, we find ourselves in the middle of a digital storm.

Taking time isn’t a luxury but a necessity. In quiet moments, away from the constant hum of information, breathe, think, and begin to process what’s truly important. When tragedy strikes, like the sudden loss of Charlie Kirk or Iryna Zarutka, we’re reminded that life is fragile, unpredictable, and too often filled with pain. Grief, loss, and the weight of events like these require space to sit with our feelings, reflect, and simply be.

During that pause, powerful things can happen. We begin to hear not only the noise of the world, but also different perspectives and voices we may not have noticed before. Listening deeply does not mean abandoning belief. It means expanding our understanding, letting compassion and patience guide us instead of fear or anger.

In the same breath, we must lean on deeply held values. In a world where misinformation can spread faster than truth, it’s more important than ever to rely on scientific facts and wisdom that is tested and true. When we pair careful listening with careful reasoning, we move closer to decisions that honor both humanity and reality.

At this time, I’m taking a few days of peace as I watch the quiet dance of falling leaves. I’ll be back September 25. In the meantime, please take time to enjoy moments of stillness and quiet reflection. Offer a smile to a stranger, a helping hand to a neighbor, or a word of encouragement to someone who needs it. Small, random acts of kindness have a greater effect on this old world than we can ever imagine.

Tragedy teaches us not only about loss, but about the importance of faith, hope, presence, compassion, clarity, and love. Taking one step at a time, move forward with grace, wisdom, and deeper love for one another.

I’d been a grandmother for less than a month when the world shifted beneath our feet. A second grandchild was on the way. My two boys and daughter-in-law were all serving in the United States Air Force. I was teaching third grade and farming the same land my great-grandfather, grandparents, and aunt had worked during World War II. The morning of September 11, 2001 felt like every other day, and then, in an instant, what we thought we knew about tomorrow was gone.

At my usual morning stop at Klein’s Truck Stop, the cashier said a small plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. Wow. There was always something crazy in New York. By the time the sun finished rising over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, we’d find out just how much we didn’t know.

As school began, I remember walking into my classroom after being with adults who couldn’t stop crying. The principal, teachers, secretary, and even parents who had come in for a conference were in shock. My littles were small enough to think grownup tears were the most important thing to notice. They asked, quietly and with blunt child logic, “What happened?” I gave them the simplest truth I could. Somewhere, very far away from our little school, something terrible caused lots of people pain. We couldn’t fix it with answers I didn’t have, but we could hold one another, breathe, and keep the room safe while the rest of the world tried to understand.

My kiddos rose to the occasion in the sweetest, most honest way. While the adults tried to make sense of the news, my class drew pictures and wrote letters to NYPD fire and police, doctors, nurses, and strangers who were working, helping, and grieving. They packed those small envelopes with hope and faith that their words would matter. After all, writing is life. At the end of the day, we mailed those letters to the New York City Fire Department, a testament that even the littlest hands can reach out and try to mend something far bigger than themselves.

Years later, on September 11, 2014, at a town service during my last year teaching with the district, a young woman stopped me. She was one of those third graders. She remembered our day together and how we wrote and colored while comforting one another. She told me my words had helped her then. For a moment, we were transported back in time to that classroom table in 2001. Those are the moments that keep the memory alive, showing how small acts of kindness matter decades later.

Life did not — and will not — return to what it was on September 10, 2001. Things large and small, political and personal, changed forever that day. In some places, schools choose not to dwell on it because it is too painful for young children. How silly. I remember the brave, simple compassion of my students who wanted to do something meaningful to help on that horrible day. Remembering does not have to be only about the horror, but can also include the kindness that helped that day.

Today, take a breath and think back to where you were that day. What were you doing to make a difference? Were you small and confused, like my third graders, or grown and scrambling to understand? Twenty-four years later, think about the lives that changed in an instant. Let that memory lead you to a small act of kindness, either by donating, volunteering an hour, or calling someone who would appreciate being remembered.

Tunnel to Towers has become my go-to. As with any charity, it’s wise to learn about its leadership and finances. For inspiration from ordinary people stepping up when called upon, watch Come From Away, the tale of Gander and the small town that opened its heart to strangers.

We can never forget. Not for one blink of an eye. Not for one quiet morning when the sun rises as it always has. Remembering is not merely an obligation but a way to teach the next generation how to be human in the face of heartbreak: to mourn, to help, and to keep showing up for each other. Everyday.

Do something kind today.

Some people think running a church is about Sunday sermons, potluck dinners, and choir practice. Sweet souls. They’ve clearly never tried to calculate the sheer number of man-hours it takes to keep the building and grounds in good working order.

First, we’ve got the maid and her daughter. They sweep, scrub, and polish every other week. While doing so, they’re on the lookout for a broken this or that. They find new things that need fixing each visit. Without them, we’d be holding services in a sea of crumbs, coffee stains, and smears on every flat surface. That’s at least ten hours a month right there.

Next, there’s the small army of handymen. And by “army,” I mean the pastor with a toolbox, his trusty hammer, and a willingness to crawl under and over things most sane people wouldn’t. Add in the ever-present “consulting crew” of church elders who lean on the doorframe and offer advice, such as, “Get the level, that’s not straight.” We’ll call that infinite hours, because the repairs never end. A chip here, a ding there, and mysterious stains that appear out of thin air.

Then there are the volunteers. Bless them as they’re out there watering grass that resists being green, coaxing ancient roses to bloom again, and working to make the little house in the back livable again. They spend hours, even days, kneeling in flower beds, trying to keep weeds from achieving sainthood through sheer persistence.

And don’t forget the parishioners. They’re wonderful at quietly pointing out what’s broken. “Did you notice that spot on the carpet? Also, the toilet handle is loose. And by the way, the picture over the Keurig looks like it’s tilting to the left.” Sometimes they even fix things themselves! But most times, they just add to the list. Either way, they’re a huge part of the equation.

The pastor’s wife handles everything else. All the banking, bills, and communications when needed. She is the face and voice of our church. Gracious and lovely in every way, she’s the first to offer a welcoming hug and words of encouragement. Married decades, she supports our Pastor when he needs encouragement, as all pastors do. Together, they run a tight ship.

Of course, there’s also Ray. Or at least the ghost of Ray, who lives on in our hearts and occasionally seems to rattle around the building, reminding us how much he used to fix, tighten, patch, and mend. He set the bar high, and now in his absence, we hear him whispering, “The Keurig needs water and the fridge is a big smudged.” Thanks, Ray. We miss you.

So, when you add it all up, how many man hours does it take to maintain a church?
Answer: all of them. Every single one. From sunrise to sunset, and probably a few after midnight, someone is sweeping, hammering, pruning, fertilizing, watering, or tightening a bolt.

But you know what? It’s a labor of love. Because while things may get chipped, dinged, stained, squeaky, and occasionally over-watered, it’s the very hands of the maid, pastor, volunteer, parishioner (and yes, Ray) that keep the place standing tall and ready for another Sunday.

Besides, where else can you get a free workout plan that includes scrubbing, hammering, hauling mulch, and climbing ladders while laughing with friends? We call it The Church Challenge, available at a sanctuary near you!

More tomorrow!

The light lingers for less time each day, folding itself away in softer hues. Nights arrive cooler now, carrying the fragrance of late summer and the quiet promise of autumn. September rain has polished the air, leaving a stillness that feels both new and familiar, like a long-forgotten lullaby. HHH and I love fall here in our little town.

City workers have been clearing drains and culverts to prepare our neighborhood for whatever lies ahead. These late summer storms are storybook perfect. The last one gave us a 30-minute lightning show, as huge bolts crashed across the sky.

On the edge of town, the mustangs’ presence is unwavering, a reminder of strength that endures through every season.

Here at Winterpast, the shift is tender. The crab apple is loosening its grip on summer, releasing leaves one by one, each a soft farewell. The apricot tree follows, as if reluctant but willing, surrendering to the rhythm of rest. The garden beds, once alive with color and harvest, stand quiet now, empty, yet dignified in their pause. Everything is ready for a trim.

Even the creatures adjust with grace. The squirrel has left its damp shelter for higher ground, and the hummingbirds, jeweled sparks in the cooling air, drink deeply in preparation for their long southern flight. Every small gesture seems to carry a message: it is time to let go, time to trust the turning.

Summer has been generous. It leaves behind memories of warmth, color, and life abundant. And now, Winterpast begins to undress, preparing itself for the long, healing sleep of winter. The earth reminds us that rest is not the ending, but the beginning of renewal.

In the midst of these comings and goings, there is this promise from God: “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night shall not cease.” (Genesis 8:22)

Fall reminds us that nothing is wasted, nothing is forgotten. Every ending folds into a beginning, and every pause is held in God’s steady hands. With the temperature below 80 today, we can be found in our other office……

There’s a kind of heartbreak that comes quietly when the soft hum of wings no longer fills the air. Again, it appears our bees are failing. We’ve given them a brand-new hive, time, care, water, food, and love, yet something is missing, and something is very wrong. A new honey super sits empty on top of the two main boxes. After months, not even a bit of work was done in an area that should have been full.

We wish they could tell us what we’ve missed. We’ve tried to listen, understand, and do better. We’ve tried different approaches throughout the season, and yet, they are again, failing. It’s not for trying. For goodness sakes, we’ve even got a bee expert on our side coaching our every move. The results have been the same.

Last week, we very carefully opened the hive hoping to see a little something in the honey super. It sat, pristine and quite empty, while the majority of the bees were still trying to figure out how to make wax in the two boxes below. They’ve never found their true home here in the high desert plains.

Bees forage in a two mile radius. Our desert doesn’t provide much in the way of blooms for them to enjoy. Most people in the desert don’t have a wildlife refuge like Winterpast has become. Most people around here buy a house, move in, close the windows, and let the backyard harden into a baked expanse of sand with water at a premium. Time is even more precious. Gardening is a lost art here in our little town.

Xeriscaping has overtaken common sense. Humans need gardens as much as the gardens need us. But, few people appreciate that anymore and the bees around here pay a heavy price.

Beekeeping used to be simpler. Back in the 80s, swarms were caught, and the bees went to work. A few stings were the price of honey, pollen, and a living rhythm that tied us to the earth. The bees were our resilient, buzzing, tireless partners. Perhaps after years of being raided, medicated, and disturbed week after week, they’re tired of it all. Here, they’ve just given up.

Today, mites and diseases strike with merciless persistence. Hives collapse for reasons that no one fully understands. I do mean NO ONE. Universities have their brightest minds working on the problem, which is massive. Last year, 70% of the hives in the US collapsed. We can treat, feed, and tend, but the end often comes the same. And it’s not just here but across the world that hives are dying off, one by one.

A friend of mine was quite distraught about the demise of the bees, predicting the collapse of all human food sources without pollination. No doubt, farmers desperately need bees. Thank goodness there are brilliant minds that propagate bees every year. New resistant varieties show a promising future. We all need to take a breath and remember that bees are not the only pollinators, just the domesticated ones.

There will always be bees, somewhere, just not in our backyard. Not in the new wooden boxes, not under the smoke’s gentle haze, and not in the gardens we hoped they’d roam and thrive. The silence feels heavy and final.

We’ll finish out the year. Their house has been reduced. We’ll check on them a couple more times before winter comes. Then, it’s up to them. If they can make it through months of cold, we’ll give them a glorious “Hello” in the spring. It’s all up to them now.

So, with a quiet kind of grief, we are hanging up our smoker and suits. Our hope hasn’t died, but it feels bruised, tired, and a little bit heartsick. Perhaps someday the hum will return. But for now, we’ll savor a few golden jars of honey, summer’s sweetness, and the lessons our bees have taught us. Even the smallest creatures carry the weight of the world.

Whispers in the Breeze

The wind takes hold of silver strings,
And softly, through the garden sings.
Each note a memory, light and true,
A song of love from me to you.

Though hands are stilled and voices gone,
Their spirit lingers, living on.
In every chime, a tender call—
They are not lost; they are with us all.

This morning, the meditation garden will be filled with activity. The new windchimes, hung with care, catch the late-summer breeze and carry their music into every corner of the church property. On Sunday, we’ll dedicate them, not only as decoration, but as a remembrance to those we’ve lost.

Each chime is a voice of memory, and together, they play a concert that will go on forever. For Marian, whose love of golf and fast cars brought energy and laughter wherever she went. For Ike, whose devotion to the Bible and his family grounded him with strength and grace. For Ray, who chose to move to heaven instead of California, leaving us with a smile and a story only he could tell. For these and the others that have gone before us, we’ll dedicate these beautiful chimes.

After our Bible breakfast this morning, we’ll tend the garden as we spruce up the new roses and spread mulch to keep the beds fresh and pretty. There’s plenty of raking, for the storms have brought down more pine needles. The fountains need water, and we might even put out a little seed for those birds that struggle this time of year. Church gardening always feels like an offering and a way to honor those we miss so dearly. When we’re done, all we’ll need to do is wait for Sunday.

The garden is more than a place of quiet reflection. It is a living memory, growing and blooming with every season. As the chimes sing in the wind, we’re reminded that though we’ve lost Marian, Ike, and Ray in this life, their love still whispers among us—gentle, steady, and everlasting.

Lord, we thank You for the gift of memory,
for the lives of Marian, Ike, and Ray,
and for the ways they touched our hearts.
May these windchimes sing as reminders
of joy, of faith, and of love.
Bless this garden as a place of peace,
where those who enter find comfort,
and where the voices of our loved ones
echo gently in every breeze.
Amen.

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