The Gentle Art of Slowing Down: One Brushstroke at a Time

Mornings are a delicate painting of russets, burnt oranges, and fading roses, brushed tenderly across my windows by the gentle hand of autumn. 

I cannot seem to drink in enough of this quiet beauty—the softness that gathers at my feet, the golden leaves scattered like whispers upon the earth, and above me, an endless canvas of crystal-clear blue skies.

There is something almost sacred about these November mornings, as though heaven has leaned a little closer to earth, wrapping the world in a tenderness too beautiful for words. And I linger, reluctant to let the moment pass, wishing I could gather all this loveliness and tuck it away somewhere deep within my soul, where even winter could never steal it.

Even a single tender yellow rosebud resting by my window is enough to fill my heart with joy. So small, so delicate, yet carrying within its folded petals the quiet promise of beauty still to come. A gentle reminder that even in November, life continues to whisper, and God still leaves little gifts of loveliness for those who pause long enough to notice. 🌼

I have begun working on a paint-by-numbers portrait of Frida Kahlo, a thoughtful birthday gift from one of my daughters. What a delicate undertaking this has turned out to be! There are spaces so tiny that my brush can barely find its way into them, and colors that, at least for now, don't seem to do justice to the beauty and richness of Frida's portrait.

But I have decided to embrace this little project as an invitation to slow down, to practice patience, and to find joy in the imperfect strokes of my own hands.

Perhaps that is the beauty of it all. Not every color makes sense when viewed up close, and not every little space seems to belong to the picture. Yet, slowly, one tiny brushstroke at a time, something beautiful begins to emerge.

And isn't life much the same?

We spend so much time wanting to see the finished picture that we forget to enjoy the quiet wonder of its becoming.

So here I sit, brush in hand, surrounded by little pots of paint, learning to be still, to create without hurry, and to appreciate the simple pleasure of an afternoon that asks nothing more of me than to be present.

Perhaps, when all is finished, I will have painted more than a portrait of Frida Kahlo. Perhaps I will have learned a little more about patience, contentment, and the gentle art of growing older without losing the delight of discovering something new. 🌹

When Nostalgia Visits My Heart

Reflections on a November afternoon

I do not know why there are days when nostalgia quietly slips into my heart and settles there, like an uninvited guest who knows every sorrow I have ever carried.

There are days when my longing for the soon return of my Lord burns brightly, like a candle whose flame refuses to surrender to the darkness. And then there are days like today, when that little flame flickers, struggling for breath, as though the very air that keeps hope alive has grown thin.

On days like these, heaven seems so far away. Farther than my eyes can see. Farther, perhaps, than my weary heart can bear.

And I wonder… what if my Lord does not return as soon as I have always believed? What if the glorious morning I have spent a lifetime anticipating is still hidden somewhere beyond the distant horizon?

I hear preachers and trusted teachers reminding us that no one knows the day or the hour. They warn us against those who attempt to set a date for His appearing. And I know the Scriptures. I know the words. I have read them, believed them, and held them close to my heart for so many years.

But sometimes my heart asks questions that my faith cannot easily silence.

Why, Lord? Why must the most beautiful event in all of human history remain wrapped in mystery? Why must those who love You, who wait for You, who have spent their lives looking toward the eastern sky, continue to wait without knowing how much longer?

I do not question Your love. I question my own ability to keep waiting without growing weary.

And perhaps that is what troubles me most.

Sometimes a sadness I cannot explain settles over my soul. A loneliness as deep and quiet as the garden outside, now surrendering itself to November's cold embrace. 

The roses have offered their last blossoms, the trees are slowly relinquishing their leaves, and the earth is preparing for its long winter sleep.

There is something painfully beautiful about a garden going to rest.

Everything seems to be letting go.

And sometimes, I feel as though I am letting go, too.

Yet when I step outside, the beauty of all this dying seems to whisper something entirely different. The fading leaves, the bare branches, the flowers bowing their tired heads—none of them appear frightened by the coming winter. They simply surrender to the season, trusting, without knowing, that spring will come again.

Oh, how I wish my heart could rest so easily in that promise.

This morning, as we drove by the town's cemetery, I saw a gathering of mourners beneath the clear November sky. They had come to say goodbye, I found out, to someone named, Mercedes.. a young woman whose earthly story had ended far too soon.

I did not know her. I did not know the sound of her laughter, the dreams she carried, the people she loved, or the little things that made her happy. I knew nothing of the ordinary mornings that had made up her life, or of the sorrows and joys that had quietly shaped her years.

And yet, somehow, her passing touched something deep within me.

There, beneath that wide and beautiful sky, family and friends had gathered to honor a life that was precious to them, a life whose absence would leave an empty place at their tables and in their hearts.

And I thought of all those who have gone before us.

Those we loved. Those we miss. Those whose voices we can still hear in the quiet chambers of memory. Those whose absence becomes especially tender on days when the world grows still.

How many goodbyes must this weary earth endure before the glorious morning when there will be no more parting?

Perhaps that is why I long so desperately for Jesus to come.

Not because I am tired of the beauty of this world, but because I am tired of its sorrow. Tired of the empty chairs, the unfinished conversations, the flowers placed upon graves, and the tears that fall when no one is watching.

I long for the day when death will finally surrender its prisoners, when the sleeping saints will awaken, and when every broken heart will discover that its long season of mourning has come to an end.

But that morning has not yet arrived.

And today, my heart feels the weight of waiting.

This afternoon, I thought I might make some arroz con leche. There is something about that familiar sweetness, the fragrance of cinnamon, and the slow stirring of rice and milk that carries me back to another time, another kitchen, another life. Perhaps I was longing for more than a simple dessert. Perhaps I was searching for a little taste of yesterday, for the comfort of something familiar in a world that seems to change more quickly than my heart can follow.

But I was missing a few ingredients. So instead, I made myself a little cafecito cubano and stepped outside to walk among my lonely garden beds.

The afternoon was quiet. The leaves rustled beneath my feet, and the garden, once so full of color and life, seemed to understand my melancholy. I walked slowly, holding my warm cup between my hands, looking at the roses that had once filled my days with such delight. And I wondered whether the garden and I were feeling the same thing.

A little tired. A little lonely. A little reluctant to surrender the beauty of a season that had passed too quickly. Yet somewhere beneath the fallen leaves, life remains.

Somewhere inside those seemingly lifeless branches, the promise of another spring is already waiting.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the same is true of my weary heart.

Perhaps faith is not always a blazing fire. Sometimes it is only a tiny ember, barely glowing beneath the ashes of disappointment, grief, and unanswered questions.

Perhaps hope is not the certainty that tomorrow will bring the fulfillment of everything we long for, but the quiet decision to keep looking toward heaven, even when heaven seems painfully far away.

I still do not know how much longer we must wait.

I do not know how many more Novembers will come and go, how many gardens will fall asleep, or how many more goodbyes this heart must endure.

But I know that somewhere beyond these fading autumn afternoons, beyond the cemetery gates, beyond the loneliness of this old earth, there is a promise that has not grown old.

“Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.” — Revelation 22:20, KJV

And so, with my little cup of Cuban coffee, my melancholy heart, and my garden preparing for its winter slumber, I whisper the prayer I have whispered for so many years:

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come before another heart is broken.

Come before another garden sleeps.

Come before the longing becomes more than we can bear.

And if I must wait a little longer, Lord, please keep the little candle of hope burning in my heart.

Even on days like today.

Especially on days like today.

Autumn Outside My Window 🍂

My computer sits in front of the large bedroom window, where I spend many quiet hours writing. Every now and then, I lift my eyes from the screen to watch the little world unfolding just beyond the glass.

It amazes me how the roses are still blooming, offering their last bursts of beauty amid the orange and burgundy leaves of trees preparing for their long winter slumber.

There is something tender about this season—the way autumn slowly takes everything away, yet allows a few blossoms to linger, as though summer isn't quite ready to say goodbye.

And I sit here, watching, writing, and quietly thanking God for the beauty of ordinary things.

And then, there are those delightful, mischievous squirrels! Little acrobats of the autumn garden, forever dancing along the branches, chasing one another through the rustling leaves, and scampering up and down the trees as though they have a thousand important errands to attend to. 

I watch them with childlike wonder as they suddenly vanish into secret little places hidden from my eyes. Where do they go? What tiny treasures are they tucking away for winter? There is something wonderfully amusing about their hurried little lives, as though they know a secret about the changing seasons that I have yet to discover. And sometimes, in the middle of my writing, I simply stop and smile, grateful for these playful little visitors who turn an ordinary afternoon into a moment of unexpected joy.

From my garden, with gratitude and faith. 🍂

My Hiding Place — Where My Soul Writes

Autumn is a little happy bug

The garden is a delicious blend of burnt oranges and deep reds, dressed in the rich, warm colors of autumn. I walk among the fallen leaves of autumn and let joy crawl inside me like a little happy bug.

There is something wonderfully comforting about the rustling leaves beneath my feet, the crispness of the air, and the golden sunlight resting gently upon a garden preparing for sleep.

I have always been a quiet observer of life. I notice things that others might pass by without a second glance—the last rose holding on to summer, the playful dance of autumn leaves, the way the garden slowly surrenders to the changing seasons.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, I find myself reflecting on my own journey. Life, like nature, is always changing. Some things bloom, others fade, and still others surprise us with unexpected beauty.

These days, I find joy in the smallest things. Perhaps growing older has taught me to look more closely, to appreciate more deeply, and to understand that even in the seasons of letting go, there is so much beauty left to discover.

Perhaps growing older has also taught me to find joy where I once hurried past it. I no longer need extraordinary moments to feel extraordinarily blessed.

And as I walk through autumn's fading beauty, I realize that joy does not always arrive with a grand celebration. Sometimes it comes quietly, like a tiny happy bug, crawling into the soul and making itself at home.

And I smile, because I know that even in the falling leaves, God is still planting joy.