The forgotten raspberries

Years ago, a dear friend gave me some frozen raspberries from her garden. I tucked them away with every intention of turning them into raspberry jelly.

But life became busy, and the raspberries waited.

They waited through seasons, through ordinary days, through all the things that once seemed so urgent.

And now, years later, I finally had the time to make the jelly they were always meant to become.

As I stood at the stove, stirring those berries and filling the little jars, I realized I was doing more than making jelly.

I was holding a memory.

Those raspberries had been preserved all these years—and somehow, so had the love that came with them.

My dear friend passed away last month, and I miss her deeply. As I watched those berries simmer, I thought of her hands picking them from her garden, of the simple kindness of giving them to me, never knowing how precious that little gift would one day become.

Perhaps not everything that waits is wasted.

Some things are simply waiting for their season.

I wish I could place one of those little jars in her hands and say, “Look—I finally made something with your raspberries.” ❤️

Instead, I thank God for her friendship, for the memories she left behind, and for the small gifts we sometimes fail to recognize as treasures until time makes them precious.

Some memories are preserved in photographs.

Others wait quietly in the freezer for years… until love gives them new life.

The days are changing.

Temperatures are dropping, the mornings linger beneath gray skies, and the garden—once wild with color and movement—now stands like a dying giant, giving its last breath to the cool autumn air.

There is something almost sacred about watching a garden surrender.

Only weeks ago, everything seemed determined to bloom. Roses opened their faces to the sun. Bees moved lazily from flower to flower. Leaves stretched toward the light, and every corner seemed to whisper, Grow. Bloom. Become.

Now the same garden is learning another language.

Release.

Petals fall without resistance. Stems bend beneath the weight of cold nights. Leaves curl at the edges and slowly lose their green. The flowers that once demanded attention quietly bow their heads.

And yet, I do not find it ugly.

There is beauty here too.

A quieter beauty.

The beauty of something that has given everything it had to give.

Perhaps this is one of the lessons God planted into creation from the very beginning: not every season is meant for blooming.

There are seasons for growing and seasons for letting go.

Seasons when God asks us to stretch toward the sunlight, and seasons when He invites us to draw inward, to become still, to trust what is happening beneath the surface.

Because winter does not mean the garden has been abandoned.

Life is simply moving somewhere the eye cannot see.

Beneath the dying leaves and cooling soil, roots remain. Seeds wait silently in the darkness. What looks like an ending is already holding the beginning of something new.

And perhaps our lives are much the same.

There are times when everything around us seems to be fading—plans change, people leave, familiar chapters close, strength is not what it once was, and we find ourselves standing beneath a gray sky wondering where all the summer went.

But God is still there.

He is God in the flowering.

He is God in the falling.

He is God when the garden is bursting with life, and He is God when the garden becomes quiet.

I am learning not to fear the quiet seasons.

Not everything that disappears is lost.

Not everything that dies has ended.

Sometimes God allows the visible things to fall away so He can do His deepest work underground.

So this morning I look at my tired garden differently.

I see the dried petals, the fading leaves, the empty spaces where summer once lived—and instead of mourning only what is leaving, I thank God for what was.

For every rose.

Every bird.

Every morning spent among the flowers.

Every little glimpse of His goodness hidden among leaves and petals.

And then I remember:

Spring does not have to hurry.

The garden knows how to wait.

Maybe I can learn to wait too.

To release what this season is taking.

To rest beneath gray skies.

To trust the God who is already preparing life beneath the soil.

The garden is giving its last breath to autumn.

But it is not saying goodbye.

It is simply whispering,

Until spring.

The last of the roses

I have been collecting the last roses from the garden.

Roses in full bloom, soft petals drinking life from the morning light...

How happy they make me—their vibrant colors and fragrances. 

And as I take into my mouth some of the ripe grapes I gathered from the garden this very same morning, I marvel at the goodness of God revealed in nature. I marvel at the beauty of roses and at the simple sweetness of grapes, at how wonderful they feel in my hands before bursting upon my tongue—round and full, carrying the goodness of a season that has patiently ripened beneath the sun.

Nature enthralls me, and yet there is something bittersweet about it. One day, everything is so full of life; and then, almost without notice, everything begins to fade.

The roses that one day were overflowing with life—petals soft and radiant, holding all the beauty of the moment—the next day begin to dry and fade. What was so full of color and fragrance is gently surrendering to time.

There is something so tender about watching the roses surrender their petals. They remind me how quickly time passes—how one moment we are gathering sweetness, holding beauty in our hands, and the next, we are watching it quietly slip away. Nothing in this earthly life remains forever; everything has its season, its moment of flourishing, and its time of letting go. Perhaps that is why I treasure each bloom so deeply.  For a little while, we are given the gift of beauty to hold.

There is also something deeply spiritual to learn in watching the roses fade. As their petals soften and their colors deepen, we begin to notice a different kind of beauty—one we might have missed when they were in full bloom. Colors seem to deepen, soft blushes become richer, darker shades. Their fading does not seem merely like an ending, but part of the quiet mystery of life: a gentle reminder that even surrender can hold beauty, and that perhaps there are things God can teach us only as we learn to let go.

And, maybe.... maybe roses and grapes in my garden are trying to teach me something...

There is beauty even in the fading. There's even hope and perhaps, endings are not always meant to be feared, because God can bring something deeper and more beautiful out of what seems to be passing away.

The roses from my garden remind me that life is passing. The grapes from my garden remind me to taste its sweetness while I am here.

Both are gifts from the same Gardener.

One teaches me to let go.

The other teaches me to receive.

And together they whisper the same beautiful truth:

There is a season for everything under heaven. Some things wither, some things ripen, and some things must wait for another spring.

But nothing is wasted in the hands of God.

Even the fading rose points toward resurrection.

Even the sweetness of a ripe grape reminds me that God is still filling this present moment with goodness.

So today, I will not mourn what is fading without also giving thanks for what is still blooming, still ripening, still filling my hands with sweetness.

There is beauty in the ending.

There is joy in the present.

And there is hope in what is yet to come.

The garden in the gentler season

I love this time of year, when the fierce heat of summer is finally a thing of the past and a renewed mellowness settles over the garden.

There is a softness in the air now. The mornings feel gentler, the afternoons carry a cooler breeze, and everything seems to breathe a little more slowly. The roses, as if they have been waiting for this moment, begin to bloom again. Black-eyed Susans awaken the earth with their deep golden faces, swaying gracefully in the afternoon breeze. The garden seems to be finding its second breath.

I love watching this quiet transformation. Nothing happens all at once. There is no announcement, no great display. A bud simply opens. A seedling pushes through the soil. A tired-looking plant suddenly sends out a new blossom.

And as I walk among them, I can almost hear the voice of God whispering:

“The kingdom of God is as if a man should scatter seed upon the ground, and should sleep and rise night and day, and the seed should sprout and grow, he knows not how.”
— Mark 4:26–27

Perhaps that is one of the great mysteries of the garden—and of faith.

We plant, we water, we wait. And then God does what only God can do.

The gardener does not command the seed to grow. He cannot pull it from the earth and make it bloom by force. He simply trusts the hidden work taking place beneath the soil.

And perhaps our lives are much the same.

There are seasons when we feel as though nothing is happening. We pray, we wait, we wonder if God is doing anything at all. We may look at our own hearts and see only dry places, unfinished growth, or branches that seem to have stopped blooming.

But beneath the surface, God may be doing His quiet work.

Roots are deepening. Faith is growing. Something new is forming where we cannot yet see it.

The garden reminds me that God is not finished simply because I cannot see the flowers.

He is working in the hidden places.

And then, sometimes when we least expect it, a rose appears again.

A forgotten seed blooms.

A tired branch becomes green.

And we realize that grace was growing all along.

So I want to remember this as I enter another season of my life: I do not have to understand everything God is doing. I only have to trust the One who planted the seed.

He knows the season.

He knows the soil.

He knows when it is time to rest, when it is time to grow, and when it is time to bloom again.

And perhaps that is what the garden is whispering to me today:

Be patient, dear heart.

God is still growing something beautiful in you.

Something spiritual is moving in my garden. 🌿

The breath of God seems to blow a different kind of light over the roses and black-eyed Susans. The trees are quietly changing, their green slowly surrendering to gold.

Nothing announces the transformation.
It simply happens—
softly, faithfully,
in the presence of the One who created it all.

And as I watch, I wonder if God is doing the same in me.

Changing colors I cannot yet see.
Teaching me to let go.
Preparing me for another season.

Perhaps this is what grace looks like—
God breathing over His creation,
and everything quietly becoming new. 🍂🌹

Thank You, Lord,

for working in my garden—

and for working in me.

Change what needs to change.

Let go of what I have outgrown.

And teach me to trust the beauty of the season You are bringing me into.

Even when I cannot see what You are doing,

I know Your breath is upon me.

🍂 “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.” — Philippians 1:6

The beauty of re-blooming

Most people think gardens are for spring—for new beginnings, tender shoots, and young blossoms reaching toward the sun.

But any true gardener knows a secret: some of the most lavish blooming comes late.

After the heat has softened.

After the roots have gone deep.

After the garden has weathered the storms and learned the rhythm of the seasons.

In the mellow light of late summer, the roses bloom again—sometimes fuller, more fragrant, and more beautiful than before. They are no longer trying to prove anything. They simply bloom from the depth of what they have become.

And perhaps life is like that, too.

We are not finished when summer begins to fade.

We are not forgotten when the years become more mellow.

We are not past our season of beauty simply because we are no longer in spring.

God does not waste a season.

He can take the years we thought were behind us and bring forth something we could never have produced in our younger days: depth, grace, wisdom, tenderness, and a quiet beauty that comes from having walked with Him through every season.

The striving of early summer begins to settle. The roots are deeper now. The heart knows what truly matters. And there is a fragrance to a life that has been softened by grace.

Maybe this is your season of re-blooming. 🌹

Not to go back to spring.

Not to become who you once were.

But to discover what only this season can reveal.

A beauty that is settled.

A faith that is deeper.

A heart that is peaceful.

A soul that is still fully alive.

So bloom where you are.

Let God tend the garden of your life.

And trust Him with the timing of your flowers.

Some of His most beautiful blooms are reserved for later. 🌿🌹

Shine where you are, my friend!

Be still

Sometimes God calls us away from the noise to simply be with Him. Like the lavender swaying in the breeze, like the sun painting the sky — He reminds me He is still writing beauty, still keeping His promises.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

In this season, I am learning that peace isn’t found in perfect plans, but in His presence. He clothes the wildflowers, He watches the sunset with me, and He holds my tomorrow.

Thank You, Lord, for Your quiet, faithful love that meets me right here in the meadow of my life. 🌸

God Speaks Through the Skies and the Scriptures

 

“The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of his hands”

(Psalm  19:1).

Nature is not merely scenery surrounding human life. It is a testimony. It worships. It proclaims. It sings.

There are moments when I look at the natural world and feel as though I am standing at the edge of a great mystery, wanting to understand its language, wanting to ask questions of the things God created. I’d begin asking the wind:

“Tell me, Wind, where have your footsteps wandered today? What distant lands have you brushed with your breath? What have you seen? What stories have you gathered as you moved across snow-crowned mountains and hidden valleys, sun-scorched deserts and moonlit seas? What prayers have you carried in your wings, and what longings have you lifted from trembling souls? Have you scattered tears into the heavens like dandelion seeds caught in the air?

“What is it like to dance with the trees, weaving through their branches in a rhythm only they know? What is it like to stir the ocean’s surface and coax the waves toward the waiting shore?

“Oh, Wind, although you are invisible, no one can deny you. You leave no footprints, yet you shape everything you touch. You can whisper through the leaves or roar across the earth. You cannot be seen, yet your presence can be felt everywhere”.  

And, perhaps, that is why the wind reminds me of another divine breath—the Holy Spirit.

Jesus Himself spoke of this mystery when He said, “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.” — John 3:8

We cannot see the wind, but we know when it has passed by. We see its evidence in the trembling leaves, the bending branches, the dancing grasses, and the waves it awakens upon the sea. In the same way, we cannot see the Holy Spirit with our eyes, but we can recognize his presence by what he does within us. 

He moves quietly, sometimes so gently that we almost miss Him. But he does speak!  He speaks thought that sudden thought that brings conviction. A Scripture that speaks directly to a wounded heart. A prompting to forgive. A sudden peace in the middle of uncertainty. A strength we did not know we possessed. A longing for God that seems to come from somewhere deeper than our selves.  

And sometimes the Spirit does not whisper. Sometimes He roars. Sometimes He comes like a mighty wind, disrupting what has become comfortable, stirring what has grown stagnant, and pushing us toward places we never intended to go. He may move us out of our carefully constructed plans and into the unknown—not to lose us, but to lead us. 

The wind does not ask the trees for permission to move their branches. It simply comes, and the trees respond.  Perhaps there is something for us to learn in that.  The Holy Spirit moves, and we are invited to respond. And so, when the wind moves through my garden, I want to pause and listen. Perhaps beneath the rustling leaves, I will hear a gentle reminder: You do not have to see me to know that I am here. You do not have to understand where I am taking you to trust me. Let Me breathe new life into you. Let me move you.

 

 

I can’t believe how fast the days are moving.

As I sit down to write this, I realize we’ve already drifted into the middle of the year. How did that even happen? It feels like January was just yesterday—fresh beginnings, quiet hopes, new pages waiting to be written.

And yet here we are… halfway through the story already.

Time has this strange way of slipping through our fingers. One moment we are planning, dreaming, adjusting our lives one small step at a time—and the next, we pause and notice how far we’ve actually come without even realizing it.

Where is time taking us?

Maybe it’s not just about where time goes, but what we are becoming as it passes. The small changes we don’t notice day by day. The quiet growth. The lessons learned in between ordinary moments. The laughter, the losses, the waiting, the becoming.

Maybe time isn’t rushing ahead of us—it’s carrying us.

And perhaps the real gift is not in trying to hold it still, but in noticing it while it moves. To pay attention to the ordinary days that somehow build an extraordinary life.

So here I am, halfway through the year, pausing for a moment.

Breathing.

Noticing.

And wondering not just where time is going—but who I am becoming as it goes with me.

There is something in the atmosphere. I can’t quite name it, and maybe that’s what unsettles me most. It isn’t loud or obvious—it’s quiet, almost hidden—but it lingers, pressing gently against the edges of my thoughts. It feels like a whisper brushing against my soul, hinting at something just beyond my understanding.

For a moment, my mind drifts to the Book of Revelation—those ancient, mysterious pages filled with symbolism, warning, and wonder. The kind of words that have made generations pause and ask, “Is something about to unfold?” There’s a certain gravity in that thought, a pull that feels both sacred and unsettling.

But as I sit with this feeling a little longer, I begin to notice something else.

It’s not fear.

It’s not urgency.

It’s something softer… deeper.

Maybe this feeling isn’t something to fear.

Maybe it’s God.

Not in the way of thunder or sudden revelation, not in a way that brings confusion or dread—but in a quiet, persistent whisper that reaches deeper than words ever could. A gentle stirring that won’t let me stay the same.

Maybe He is waking me up.

Calling me—not away in panic, but closer in love. Closer than I’ve been before. Away from the noise, the distractions, the endless weight of things that don’t truly matter. Because this sad world, it is indeed ending and my soul is being invited into something more eternal.

There is a tenderness in that thought.

That this uneasiness is real, but also an invitation to surrender. To loosen my grip on what is temporary, and return to what is lasting. To remember that I was never meant to be consumed by this world, but to walk through it with my eyes set on Him.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Maybe that is the voice beneath it all.

Not urgency—but stillness.

Not fear—but calling.

An ending, but also a new beginning.  

So I will lean in. I will keep listening to God's voice.  And if it is your will, Lord—

then draw me closer.

Gently, faithfully… completely.

“Look, he is coming with the clouds,”

    and “every eye will see him,

even those who pierced him”;

    and all peoples on earth “will mourn because of him.”

So shall it be! Amen.

 

At the threshold of March, the landscaping crew arrived—quiet stewards of renewal—tending to the roses with careful hands, lifting away the remnants winter had left behind in the garden beds. What had gathered in stillness and cold was, in a matter of hours, gently cleared away. I found myself deeply grateful for those young workers who restored order and readiness, as if preparing the earth itself to welcome spring once more.

Soon, another company will come to anoint the trees and shrubs—guarding them against the unseen threats of insects and disease, and giving special care to the roses, which so deeply need it.

As for me, I lingered in the smaller tasks: cleansing the fountains and birdbath, pulling stubborn weeds, gathering the quiet traces left behind. And in the morning light, something sacred unfolds—the sun pours down new mercies, and the sky, reflected in the clear water, seems to dance with joy.

There is still a bit left for my hands to do—old pots and garden ornaments waiting to be renewed with fresh paint, small touches of beauty yet to be restored. I’ve also reached out to a company to transform that far corner beneath the tree, where time has quietly settled. They will lay new slabs and gently remove the old vegetable garden—no longer a place of harvest, but a little box visited more often by wandering cats than by seeds.

In its place, a new beginning: two standing garden boxes, chosen with hope from Costco, waiting to be assembled. We plan to build them once the city water begins to flow again and the porch is washed clean—because that is where they will now rest, lifted into the light, ready for new life to grow.

 

Spring is around the corner

Things are changing quickly around here. The sun has begun to warm the land with new strength, and spring is quietly peeking into the garden. Mourning doves fly everywhere, as if they already know that the season of love is near. Some of them have begun building their nests among the thorny branches of the Eden rose.

This year we had a landscaping company come to do the spring cleaning in the garden. Now that I’m retired, you might say I have all the time in the world to do it myself—but I’m not the same girl I was ten years ago. The work has become too exhausting, so I let them accomplish in a couple of hours what might have taken me weeks. I’m very pleased with that decision.

Now the only things left for me are the gentler tasks: pulling a few weeds, gathering the debris they left behind, and tending to the perennials.

The garden is already looking so much better. Narcissus and tulips have popped up everywhere, and soon a soft carpet of white flowers will spread across part of the garden, because the candytuft has grown so much that it now covers a large stretch of the west side.

Next will come the penstemon, lupine, balsamroot, and some of the sedums and asters—each one taking its turn, as the garden slowly wakes again. 🌿🌷

I love the moment in the afternoon, around two o’clock, when the sun is high in the sky and its light falls straight down into my room—right where my computer sits among my plants.

For a little while, everything feels warm and alive. The leaves glow in the sunlight, shadows soften across the desk, and the whole room seems to breathe with quiet life. It’s one of those small, simple moments that make an ordinary day feel peaceful and full of grace. 🌿☀️

“See! The winter is past;

the rains are over and gone.

Flowers appear on the earth;

the season of singing has come.” (Song of Songs 2:11,12)

“See, I am doing a new thing!

Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness

and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:19)

Spring Is Near

The long winter loosens its grip,

and quiet signs begin to appear—

a softer wind,

a brighter sky,

a small green whisper in the soil.

What once seemed asleep

was only waiting.

God writes His promises

in the language of seasons:

after the cold, warmth;

after the silence, song;

after the night, morning.

And just beyond the last frost of sorrow,

hope is already

pushing through the earth. 🌱