​IT’S GOOD TO BE OLD
 
One of the many gifts of retired life is rediscovering old hobbies. On a cloudy or rainy day, one of our favorite things to do is wander through an antique shop. We stroll past the “antiques” and laugh because we remember using half of them, the cookware, the furniture, the gadgets that once felt so modern. We think of our grandparents and parents. We think of the ones no longer with us. And we smile.
 
I like old things. I really do. And I like being old. I know that’s not fashionable these days. I’ve heard plenty of folks insist that calling someone old is ageist. Well, I’m old. I like being old. As Mark Twain would say, “It sure beats the alternative.”
 
This season of life is rich and full, busy in the best possible way. I have the time and energy to help others. To tend my garden. To be present for my family and my wonderful chosen family. I finally have the gift of time to give, something I never had when I was working 80 hour weeks.
 
It’s good to be old. I truly believe age is not something to pity or apologize for. And it certainly isn’t something to fear. We older folks have the power to make this stage of life vibrant, fun, and bright. We must, otherwise we waste a full quarter of our lives or more.
 
I think about the Psalm: “O taste and see that our God is sweet.” This is the time of sweetness. The time when the days feel slower, deeper, more generous.
 
It’s good to be old. It feels like stepping into the quiet, green heart of Ordinary Time, where the ancient blessings still breathe.
 
May the sweetness of these days linger.

UNEXPECTED KINDNESS
 
Too often lately I’ve found myself becoming a bit jaded. A bit suspicious of everything.
Is this a scam.
Who’s calling me now.
Is this email or text even real.
 
Every article seems to warn the elderly (of which I am one) to beware. If it sounds too good to be true… it is. Hang up. Don’t click. Be suspicious of everything.
 
And then the unexpected happens.
 
The unexpected kindness of strangers. The unexpected kindness of unknown followers of Dr. B’s blog, @carondeletkitchen. Unexpected kindness still happens; we have proof.
 
We were coming home from a play date with our beautiful niece and great‑niece and decided to stop by the supermarket for a few items to finish a meal we were planning for the week. We gathered what we needed and found ourselves in line with the funniest checker, kind and smart and able to talk to a wall. We were actually having fun at the grocery store.
 
A few young men got in line behind us, and before we knew it, all of us were laughing and having a hoot. The groceries were totaled, and as we reached for our wallet, the young man behind us said, “NOPE! That’s on me!”
 
Flabbergasted, we kept insisting no, but he was so kind. So insistent. He offered us a sweet blessing and sent us on our way.
 
Unexpected kindness.
 
And it doesn’t stop there.
 
Dr. B has been writing her blog for five years now, and it was recently nominated for a 2026 A‑List Award from St. Louis Magazine. So many of her followers have reached out with kindness and support. We have been overwhelmed.
 
Unexpected kindness.
 
As I prayed and reflected on the week, one word rose to the surface: Grace.
Grace is love unearned. Love undeserved. Yet love given anyway.
 
Scripture says it simply and beautifully:
 
“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”
Ephesians 4:32
 
Grace.
Unexpected kindness.
Abundant love.
 
May grace go before you, kindness follow behind you, and love walk gently at your side.
​

​LETTING GO
 
I’ve long loved a line from E.M. Forster: “We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”
 
Lately I’ve been around young folks, all energy and ambition, working hard on their careers, chasing the next promotion, trying to move forward, move up, move on. The gifts of youth. The fire of youth.
 
I’m no longer young. Not even close. And honestly, I’m fine with that. One of the quiet necessities, maybe even the hidden gifts, of aging is becoming comfortable with who we are rather than mourning who we are not. I’ve grown rather fond of the weird old man I’ve become.
 
I’m also comfortable with the word old. Somewhere along the way it became an insult, but I don’t hear it that way. One of the blessings of getting older is realizing that what makes us valuable is the depth of our spirit, the quality of what we say and think, the way we show up in the world. It’s no longer about speed or busyness. I’m grateful for the chance to move slowly now, forward yes, but with less urgency and more intention.
 
I am an old man. I’ve let go of the things I can no longer do, many of which, if I’m honest, I never enjoyed all that much anyway. And I’ve learned that aging itself isn’t the hard part. The hard part is the fear of aging. The fear is what plagues us.
 
But here’s the truth: life doesn’t end until it ends. And when it does, we won’t be in charge of anything anyway. So why let fear run the show now? Let go of the fear. Let go of the script. Let go of the life you thought you were supposed to have.
 
Here’s to growing older without apology,
to moving slower on purpose,
and to noticing the good that was here all along.
a quiet life | deeply noticed

​WE DO WHAT IS POSSIBLE
 
I’ve been thinking, and praying, and struggling with the same question over and over: What can I do right now? What contribution can I make to help change the way things are? And do I even know what “better” looks like anymore?
 
This country that I love, this state and this city where I have lived my entire life, feels so broken. So many people are angry. Hurt. Exhausted. The world is at war. Despair seems to be the word of the day most days.
 
What do I do? What can I do?
 
I do what is possible.
What is simple, sacred, and ordinary.
I do the things that I can do.
 
I can grow vegetables and fruit and share them with my neighbors. I can give money to organizations feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. I can be kind and generous. Tenderhearted. Forgiving. (I’m trying to be tenderhearted and forgiving… I truly am.) I can do what is possible, what is possible for this old man in south Saint Louis.
 
We do what is possible because that is what is available to us right now. We can stop and smell the flowers. Pause and listen. Pray for peace. Live with joy. Yes, it is still possible to have joy.
 
I feel it every time the little guy down the street comes driving by in his tiny electric car, or when his moms pull him along in that little red wagon. The giggles and smiles are full of joy.
 
We do what is possible.
It is possible to still find love.
It is possible to still find hope.
To still find faith.
To still experience joy.
 
That is what we do.
We do what is possible.
 
May the small, possible things we offer become like little lanterns, lighting the path home.

​SIGNS OF HOPE
 
Just when I think my hope is dying.
Just when I think my faith has totally run dry.
Just when I’m at my lowest and struggling my hardest… that’s when I see a small, simple sign of hope.
 
It was a beautiful morning in May. That alone should give me hope. And the Doodle girl and I were doing her morning constitutional around the neighborhood. She was checking in on friends and neighbors and doing her Doodle do when I noticed something new.
 
A food bank box.
Take something. Leave something.
Take freely. Give freely.
It says so right on the post.
 
A small sign of hope when you need it most. A reminder that there is still so much goodness and kindness in this world. In this City. In this neighborhood.
Goodness. Kindness. Hope.
 
“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
(Romans 15:13)
 
Abound in hope.
 
“Let love be genuine; hate what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor. Do not lag in zeal; be ardent in spirit; serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope; be patient in affliction; persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; pursue hospitality to strangers.”
(Romans 12:9–13)
 
Let love be genuine.
Hate what is evil.
Hold fast to what is good.
Love one another.
Rejoice in hope.
Be patient in affliction.
Persevere in prayer.
Abound in hope.
 
What more is there.
What more do we need?
Love one another.
Abound in hope.

May hope meet you in small places,
may kindness find you before you ask,
and may love — simple, ordinary, steady —
be the light that carries you home.

STRUGGLING WITH CHRISTIANITY
 
I’m struggling. Like so many of us, I’m wrestling with the hurtful, angry, and hateful things being said and done in the name of Christianity. I’m struggling with a world that tells me I must follow a false prophet in order to be a “true” Christian. And so, I’ve stopped calling myself one.
 
I am a follower of The Way.
A believer in Jesus the Messiah.
A lover of God’s creation.
But I cannot call myself a Christian.
 
The word Christian means Christ‑like, and goodness knows that does not describe this old man. I pray. I believe. I have faith — most days. I love as best as I can. I hope, though that’s a daily battle. I try to love my neighbors, all of them. I really do try. But I struggle. I’m trying not to be a judge… or a drudge, for that matter.
 
I just can’t use the word anymore. It feels like it’s been co‑opted by a loud, angry crowd who worship a God shaped in their own image. I don’t want a God shaped in my image. My goodness, that would be terrible. Nobody needs that in their life.
 
So I choose something simpler:
to follow my heart,
to follow my faith,
to live this one day as it comes.
 
Not yesterday.
Not tomorrow.
Just today — this small, simple, ordinary time.
 
This is my struggle. I know I’m not alone. I’m not even sure I’m right. I’m simply trying to live according to the good news, the words of Jesus in the Gospels: Love the Lord with all your heart, your mind, your spirit… and your neighbor as yourself. That’s my struggle too.
 
I’m struggling. I’m praying. I’m trying to love everyone. And I’m struggling because some of the people who make my heart ache are also people I know. People who do real good in the world. People who give generously, who stock food banks, who show up for their communities. I love these people even when I cringe at their words.
 
Good people sometimes do bad things.
I know this because I’m one of them.
 
And maybe grace begins here… in the quiet place where we admit we’re all still learning how to love.

​A WEIRD OLD MAN
 
I was reading an article in the @nytimes about “The Gift of Getting Weirder with Age.” It was thoughtful and beautifully written, as expected. I agreed with most of it, though I had to smile at the idea of getting weirder with age. I’m not sure I have much room left for that.
 
I’ve always lived a little off to the side of the main path. Not as a rebel, just as someone who wandered where curiosity tugged. I was the band kid with a reading list that made librarians tilt their heads. Even now, when Amazon tries to recommend books to our shared account, the poor algorithm looks like it needs a nap. Confusing it is one of my small joys.
 
I’ve always marched to the rhythm of my own small percussion section. At this point, changing would require more energy than I possess. I am who I am, shaped by grace and time and a thousand quiet moments. That old saying, “God don’t make no junk,” still feels true in my bones. I hope all of us who feel a bit different can remind the world that being different is not a flaw. We offer color, texture, and unexpected beauty. Without the odd ones, the rainbow would be beige.
 
As I prayed and thought about this whole idea of getting weirder with age, I found myself imagining Jesus during His ministry. Talk about someone who must have seemed strange. Did you run out of wine at your wedding? “Hey, Jesus!” He loved a good party. He welcomed the wrong people. He told stories that unsettled the comfortable. He was not the Messiah the establishment expected. He was the holy troublemaker who kept messing with the tidy order of things.
 
Maybe the world needs that kind of strangeness again. Maybe the time is ripe for people who see differently, love differently, hope differently. We might not fix everything, but we could bring beauty, music, and a few good belly laughs back into the room. At the very least, the soundtrack would be better and the decorations more interesting.
 
Weirdos? Yes. The world could use more of us. And I could use the laughter.

The Mystery of Pruning
 
Gardening is about adapting. Gardening is about changing things when needed. Sometimes a plant needs to be moved. Some plants need to be cut back to the ground in order to flourish. It can be painful to do because the plant looks, well, sad. And to be honest, it can be difficult for this old man to do the necessary pruning. But in the end, the plant gets better. Not simply the same, but bigger, stronger, and more bountiful than ever.
 
“He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit, he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” (John 15:2)
 
The Creator of all things does for us what we do for our gardens. Pruning is difficult. Pruning sometimes hurts. Pruning is scary. Pruning is waiting for the healing. Pruning is doing the work of recovery. Pruning is becoming even more fruitful.
 
Not simply the same, better.
 
When we know it is time for some pruning, it may come as a surgery we hoped to avoid, or bad news that arrives out of nowhere. A sudden death of a loved one. Unexpected. Scary. Difficult. The pruning begins. It hurts. We suffer. Then, sometimes slowly, the healing begins. The work of recovery starts. We begin to heal. We begin to be fruitful once again. Not simply the same, but better. Stronger.
 
May you be tended by grace in every season of your becoming.

​May the Holy Gardener
stand close beside you today,
steadying your heart
as the cutting-back begins.
 
May the quiet wisdom of the garden
teach you to trust
what you cannot yet see.
 
May new strength rise in you
like green shoots after rain,
and may you find yourself, in time,
not simply the same,
but better.

​LOVE THY NEIGHBOR
 
The little Doodle Girl and I walk our neighborhood just about every day, usually several times a day. She is a very active presence in our community. I always carry my phone with me for several reasons, but mostly because I am taking pictures of interesting things along the way. One of the many churches we pass regularly had a new sign up the other day: “Love thy neighbor. No exceptions.”
 
Unfortunately, my first thought was “how brave.”
My second thought was “how true.”
I wish my first thought had been the truth of it, full stop. But I am an old man with a lot of baggage, and the world we are living in has such anger toward so many of God’s people for reasons that make little to no sense.
 
We were given ten commandments to live by. Simple, straightforward rules that make sense. Even those ten were distilled down to two: love the Lord with all your heart and love your neighbor. No wiggle room. No buts or ifs or qualifiers. Love your neighbor. No exceptions.
 
I stood there taking the picture and let it all sink in. I have been thinking and praying about it a lot lately. Imagine a world where we loved our neighbors without exception. Imagine how different our news feeds would sound. Top stories of people helping each other instead of harming each other. Of course there are countless stories of kindness, but they get drowned out by the noise of hatred, anger, war, genocide. The list goes on.
 
Here is the part that hurts. So much of the anger, war, hatred and genocide are done in God’s name. The very God who told us to love our neighbor. No exceptions. There used to be a bumper sticker that said, “When God said love thy neighbor, I think He meant do not kill them.” I think God meant exactly that. Do not kill them. Love them. Feed them. Clothe them. Help them. Love your neighbor. No exceptions.
 
Imagine.

​May the God who calls us to love without exception
soften what has grown hard in us
and steady what trembles with fear or weariness.
 
May the Spirit widen our seeing
so that every face becomes a neighbor
and every neighbor becomes a reminder
that we belong to one another.
 
And may Christ, who loved us first,
teach our hearts again and again
the simple, difficult, beautiful way.
 
Go in peace to love your neighbor.
No exceptions.

BITTERSWEET
 
The end of April is a bittersweet season for this old gardener. We celebrate the birthday of our beloved goddaughter, and we remember my mom’s heavenly birthday. She would have been 90 this year. It is hard to believe she has been gone for 21 years. Yesterday also marked the anniversary of my father in law’s passing, eleven years now. In just a few days we have attended funerals and birthday celebrations. We have received wonderful news and some frightening news. April holds all of it at once.
 
Life is that way. Good things happen. Hard things happen. And we do our best to carry it all.
 
A couple of days ago, on our way to a doctor’s appointment, we were doing our morning readings as we usually do. The passage was from Matthew: “Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” 
I will give you rest. Lay your burdens down. I will give you rest.
The words were exactly what we needed.
 
Life is bittersweet, the good and the hard mixed together, but we are reminded that there is One who is gentle and humble, One who offers rest for our souls when we need it most. We are not alone. We do not have to walk through the darkness by ourselves. We have Someone to lean on, Someone who helps carry us when the weight becomes too much.
 
The Good Shepherd is there.
Listen for the voice.
 
I am trying to quiet myself enough to hear it, that steady whisper saying, “I am here. Come and find rest for your soul.”
 
May the soil beneath your feet
steady your spirit today.
 
May the first green shoots of hope
find their way through whatever feels heavy.
 
May the Gardener of all things
tend the hidden places of your heart
with gentleness and light.
 
And may rest come to you
like soft rain on thirsty ground
leaving your soul renewed
and your path made clear.

Let Us Begin with Lettuce
 
The lettuce starts are tucked safely in the cold frame. I’m still not convinced we won’t get one more frigid night before the month is over, so I’m hedging my bets and letting them stay there a little longer. The onion sets are in too. They’re hardy enough that I don’t worry about them. Most of the beds are cleaned out and refreshed with compost. Spring is definitely springing in the garden.
 
Let us begin. The gardening never really stops, but this is the moment when everything shifts into high gear. Seedlings in various stages. Beds ready for planting. Mulch waiting in the wings. After a long, cold winter, I’m eager to see the garden in full bloom again.
 
And yet, even as Spring does what Spring does, even as pollen coats the sidewalks and life returns to the garden, it can be hard to feel the joy of abundance when the world feels heavy with anger, terror, and grief. I keep praying. I keep praying. I keep praying. Hope is still here. Easter keeps whispering that even in the darkest hour, joy comes in the morning. A new day. A resurrection. A reminder that when evil feels ever present, it is never the final word.
 
This week I found myself thinking about my friend Thomas. We know him as doubting Thomas, though I imagine he would roll his eyes at the nickname. The truth is that he is me. I would be the one who needs to see. The one who needs to touch. The one who says, “Show me.” And when he finally sees the risen Christ, everything shifts. Hope restored. Faith renewed. Love is revealed as the steady thing that never left. It reminds me of the ancient promise: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” We see the flowers bloom with our own eyes, and something in us believes again.
 
Let us begin. Begin again. Renew me. Come Holy Spirit and renew the face of the earth.

Change Is Gonna Come
 
I was listening to the great Sam Cooke singing, “It’s been a long, a long time coming, but I know a change gonna come. Oh, yes, it will.” That song has been echoing in my mind as I have been reading Matthew 21, the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem.
 
A triumph.
Hosanna in the highest.
For the first time in His short life, Jesus is publicly honored as King. The crowds finally acknowledge the King of Kings.
 
But we know a change is gonna come.
 
It did not take long.
The betrayal.
The plots.
The plans already in motion.
 
Those same voices that cried, “Save us! Save, we pray!” soon turn and call for His death. Change comes quickly. It always does.
 
I have been thinking a lot about those crowds. The ones who shouted “Hosanna!” on Sunday and “Crucify him!” by Friday. And I wonder where I would be in that story. I am afraid I might be swept up in the crowd, carried along by fear, anger, confusion. I am afraid I might be one of the ones calling for suffering, for death, for the horrors of crucifixion.
 
Holy Week is a week of change.
Triumph to tragedy.
Palm branches to a cross.
Shouts of praise to shouts of violence.
The anger, the frustration, the manipulation by those desperate to keep their power.
Does any of this sound familiar?
 
And yet here is the good news.
 
We know how the story ends.
 
Change comes.
Love wins.
The crucified One rises again.
 
So, we keep the faith.
We hold on to hope.
We love one another, no matter what.
Love your neighbor as yourself, no matter what.
 
Love wins.
Change is gonna come.
 
Scripture for the Journey
John 16:33
“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”
​

​On the Verge… Almost There!
 
We are on the verge of full-on Spring. Yes, the calendar says it’s already here, but someone forgot to tell the weather folks. We’ve had a taste of summer, only to tumble sixty degrees in a matter of hours and land right back in Winter. It seems like I am forever living on the verge.
 
I often feel like someone who is always almost moving forward. I reach that point where I’m ready to release outdated ideas and long-held beliefs, and then the old ways return. They’re familiar, even when they no longer lead me where I want to go. My heart knows it’s time to let go of what no longer serves, yet my brain clings to the comfort of the known. Why change when my little world feels safe? Maybe the world should change instead. Yes, that’s it.
 
I know I am made in the image of my Creator. I believe that deeply. And yet, there are times when I catch myself creating a Creator in my own image, one who thinks like I do and fits neatly into my comfort zone. I know that is wrong-headed, but dismantling old patterns is hard work.
 
 So here I am, in a season of reflection and release. I’m trying to stay open to shifts in behavior, thought, and habit, especially the ones shaped by that angry old man inside. It is time to welcome new opportunities and insights, to seek deeper relationships, and to renew my communion with the One who made me.
 
Scripture reminds me that this work is holy work. Isaiah offers the invitation: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing.” And Paul echoes that promise in his letter to the Corinthians: “If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come. The old has gone, the new is here.” These words feel like a gentle nudge forward, a reminder that God is already at work in the places where I hesitate.
 
I’m on the verge again. It is time to step out of this comfortable cocoon and let go. To release the control freak in me and be willing to experience it all: Love, Joy, Peace, Hope, and Faith. I’m on the verge. I simply need to take one more step.
 
Prayers welcome.

Music, Memories, and Johnny Cash
 
We enjoyed a wonderful tribute to the music of Johnny Cash at the Repertory Theatre of Saint Louis on Sunday. From his beginnings in the 1950s, Johnny wowed fans with his unmistakable sound. He was a bit of a hero to this old man in his younger days. I loved the music, the stories, and that outsider image he wore so well.
 
Rooted in rural America, country music has long served as a vessel for expressing deeply held beliefs, values, and experiences of faith and spirituality. The country music of my youth was woven from memory and meaning, not just nostalgia, but a way of honoring those who came before us, the land we love, our rituals, and the seasons of our lives.
 
As I sat in the audience listening to the lyrics of “Man in Black,” I felt a moment of reverence in the act of remembering. The words ring truer today than ever. The music felt thoughtful and grounded in the world we’re living in. “I’d love to wear a rainbow every day… but until things are better, I’m the man in black.”
 
It’s the stories that bring back a quiet remembering. A moment of gratitude as the music becomes a way of keeping what matters alive. You don’t have to be overtly religious to feel a kind of reverence in this music, a deep connection to something spiritual, a uniquely human way of touching the soul of both the artist and the listener.
 
The music brings a bit of melancholy to my memories this morning. I’m remembering those who are no longer here, the people who introduced me to Johnny Cash and so many others. Those who shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. Their influence continues to echo in the person I am today.
 
So here I sit, surrounded by music, memories, and Johnny Cash as this Monday morning in Lent moves forward. Today I remember. Today I am a little sad. And today I am grateful for those who came before me and loved me into who I am. “I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember your wonders of old. I will meditate on all your works and consider all your mighty deeds.” — Psalm 77:11–12

​First Day of Spring
 
The long-awaited day has finally arrived. The season of renewal is beginning, a time of transformation, awakening, and quiet growth. As the first flowers lift their heads and the earth begins to stir, I feel energy returning to this old man’s soul. This first day of spring marks the shift from winter’s rest and restoration to the abundance and generosity of Creation.
 
Spring reminds us of the earth’s overflowing goodness. Fields swell with new life, and the air carries the sweet scent of blossoms. It is a season of plenty, a season for giving thanks. Gratitude becomes its own kind of prayer, gratitude for the gifts of Creation, for the wonder that meets us at every turn, for the beauty that unfolds whether we notice it or not. I am in constant awe of the quiet miracles happening all around me.
 
As I witness spring’s beauty unfurl, I pause, breathe deeply, and whisper a simple prayer of thanks. The world can feel so heavy right now, offering too little joy and too much noise. Spring invites us to return to what is real, the warmth of sunlight on our skin, the laughter of loved ones, the simple grace of a shared meal. Even in the chaos, beauty remains if I am willing to slow down long enough to see it.
 
And so, I hold close the promise from Lamentations that God’s mercies are new every morning. On this first day of spring, that promise feels especially true. New mercies. New beginnings. New hope rising from the ground beneath our feet.
 
Take a moment. Sit. Breathe. Give thanks.
 
Welcome to the first day of Spring
 
Thanks to the Creator who renews the earth.  May God also renew our spirit in this tender season.
May gratitude take root in us and may hope rise like new growth after rain.

Pretty in Pink
 
The hyacinths have survived the brutal chill of the past few days and now add a welcome splash of color and joy to the parterre garden. They are certainly pretty in pink. It’s amazing how much color shapes us. Our emotions, our energy, even our spirituality shift in its presence.
 
Pink, especially, evokes warmth and comfort. It carries messages of love, compassion, and healing, a gentle companion on the journey.
 
In the spiritual tapestry, pink reminds us of unconditional love, deep compassion, tender vulnerability, and emotional restoration. It symbolizes healing and balance. It invites openness, softness, and the release of what weighs us down. Standing among the flowers, I feel that invitation again. The journey continues. Life moves forward. And perhaps it is time to set down some of the burdens I have carried too long. It is time to forgive.
 
“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”
Ephesians 4:32 
​
Forgiveness has a quiet but profound power to reshape our spiritual path. When we choose it, we create space for healing and renewal.
 
Letting go of past hurt lightens the heart and reconnects us to ourselves, to others, and to the Holy. Imagine releasing the weight of anger and letting the gentle energy of pink surround you like a soft shawl of grace.
 
When I finally choose forgiveness, it becomes an act of restoring my own peace. Forgiveness is my gift to myself, a way to return to balance, to remember that we belong to one another, and to allow the Spirit to move freely within us.
 
I am allowing the light of pink to guide my steps today, reminding me that healing is possible, forgiveness is within reach, and grace is already blooming at my feet.

​What a Difference a Day Makes
 
Sunday morning found the Doodle Girl and me walking in the neighborhood in shorts on a sunny, balmy 67‑degree March day. This morning, we bundled into our warmest winter coats and stepped out into a frosty 22 degrees with snowflakes drifting around us. Light snow, yes—but still snow. What a difference a day makes.
 
The lovely daffodils that stood so bright yesterday are now bowed and drooping in the cold. The wind is sharp, the wind chills no joke, and I feel every bit of it in these old knees.
 
We are certain of very few things, but change is one we can count on. I’ve been thinking about change a lot lately. In so many ways, I’m praying for it. We long for change in this war‑torn, angry, weary world. We pray for peace. We pray for stability. We pray for more love and less hate. We pray.
 
Looking at the daffodils, this morning was a sad reminder of how quickly beauty can be undone. And yet, we know they’ll return next year in their full glory.
 
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23
 
Change happens. We know this. This is where hope lives. This is why I continue to have faith. Love will win. I have to believe that.
 
What a difference a day makes. By the end of the week, spring will return to our little garden. The sun will shine again. We’ll break ground and plant our lettuce starts soon. The cold frame waits. Today, we walk in faith, hope, and love.
 
What a difference a day makes

Things Change
 
It has been a bit of a whirlwind around the old Carondelet Cottage this week. The tuckpointers finished the east and west walls, and they look beautiful. I cleaned up the gardens on both sides once the work was done. Then came the need for a new water heater. While the plumbers were here, I decided it was finally time to add a water spigot on the back of the house to make summer watering easier. After forty years of dragging a hose around the house, I was ready for a change. And as anyone who lives in a hundred‑year‑old home knows… things change.
 
The water lines were not up to code, so those had to be replaced. The gas lines to the water heater needed upgrading as well. Then, while drilling through the brick on the north side for the new spigot, the brick decided to come loose and fall back into the house. Yes, indeed. Things change. They couldn’t finish that part of the job until the brick was repaired. My mason was tied up with other projects, so it was back to my friendly hardware store for advice. In the end, the old gardener got the job done. The brick is secure and looks pretty good, all things considered. I call that a win.
 
And still, the changes keep coming. You know you live in Saint Louis when you turn on your air conditioner, use your fireplace to knock off the chill, turn your furnace back on, pull out the electric blanket one more time, and then realize you may have put the snow shovel away a little too soon. All in one week. Yes, indeed—things change.
 
Things change. It is the rule of life. It keeps things interesting. It keeps things frustrating. And it can also provide hope. When we look at the anarchy of the world right now, the hope of change is real. It is what we cling to.
 
We are being called to learn perseverance. As we accept the changes that are inevitable, we discover that we come out stronger on the other side. James reminds us, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance” (James 1:2–3).
 
Perseverance:  because things change.

Hope in Stormy Skies
 
The skies above the garden before the storm rolled through were something to behold. The clouds were churning, the colors shifting into shades we seldom see. It was eerie and beautiful all at once. The thunder was foretold in every swirl of the sky, yet the glory was still present. It was a reminder that even when storms are on their way, grace remains.
 
It is Spring in Saint Louis, no matter what the calendar says. The wild swings in temperature and the return of thunderstorms are proof enough. Yesterday brought 80 plus degrees, and tonight we may dip into the 30s. A wild ride indeed. My old arthritic bones are feeling every bit of the change.
 
I used to laugh when my grandparents claimed they could predict the weather with their knees and hips. Now I know they were telling the truth. And yet, even with the aches and pains, I would not trade this life. I have been given the gift of a simple life filled with love. Yes, there are aches. Yes, there are curveballs that come out of nowhere and knock us off our feet. But there is also a certain calm that comes with age.
 
The wonderful thing about getting older is that we have seen it before. Hopefully, we will see it again, though there are certainly some things I would prefer not to repeat. Still, we know that with time and work, things can and do change. That is where our hope lies. We must hold fast to hope. Hope fuels faith. Faith fuels love. And love, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminded us, is stronger than hate.
 
The truth of love is real. It can change the world. It may be the only thing that can. Hatred cannot drive out hatred. We know this. Ask the old men. They have seen enough to guarantee it does not work. As Paul writes, in the end three things abide: faith, hope, and love; and the greatest of these is love. Amen to that.
 
May the changing skies teach us to breathe deeply, trust gently, and walk forward with grace.

​Starting Again
 
“Let us press on to know the Lord; His appearing is as sure as the dawn.”
Hosea 6:3
 
The sun is shining and the daffodils are in full bloom, the first bright signs of Spring showing their beauty after days of rain and clouds. It is easy to be lured into Spring Fever and want to begin the gardening season in earnest. And then I remember that this is Saint Louis, the Midwest capital of wild and unpredictable Spring swings. Cool your jets, old man. Spring has not truly arrived. She has only offered a glimpse of future glory.
 
After the cold, grey, frigid stretch of Winter, it is no wonder we ache for color again. I miss the beauty. I miss the smells. I miss the joy of harvest that comes with the turning of the season. The spring lettuce seeds are ready. We have already started reseeding the lawn in preparation for Summer. There is work to be done, but patience is the key right now. Oh, how I yearn for true Spring and fresh veggies.
 
Gardening teaches me patience more than anything else. There is so much hurry up and wait. There is the hope of planting, the faith of watering and weeding, the love poured into tender care. And yet, disappointment can still come, like last year’s hailstorm that wiped out the entire harvest of snap peas in one afternoon. The weather is unpredictable. Temperatures and rainfall are unpredictable. So, we plant in faith, continue in hope, and wait in loving patience. And when the unpredictable happens, as it always does, we start again.
 
That is the lesson of all gardens everywhere. We start again. We replant. We prepare. We work and we keep trying. In the end, the flowers will bloom. The vegetables will be harvested. The faith, hope, and love will bear fruit, even if there are bumps and bruises along the way. Kind of like life, right? We get knocked down, but we rise again. We keep moving forward in faith. Forward in hope. Forward in love. And in the end, we will harvest once more.
 
Go in quiet courage, held in the promise that nothing planted in love is ever wasted.

Under the Grey Skies
 
Keep calm and carry on.
 
“Keep calm and carry on” popped into my head this morning as we stepped out into the grey for our morning constitutional. The little Doodle girl, of course, is completely unbothered by such skies. She is happy in all weather. The grey hits me a bit differently.
 
The damp weather hits harder as I am getting older. The aches and pains of arthritis hurt a bit deeper in the damp and chill. I sometimes struggle with the constant pain. Then I remember to move. To get up and move. To carry on. I move on, carry on, and keep going. Once you stop, it is almost impossible to start once again. Once you give up, you are finished.
 
“Keep calm and carry on” lands differently when you’re living it. The stolid Brits created this slogan to help people hold onto courage in times of uncertainty. It was never meant to silence fear, but to offer calmness as a companion, a reminder to slow down, breathe in and breathe out, and let the noise settle the way raindrops settle into the soil of the garden. We need the grey skies and the rain for the tender shoots of Spring to flourish once again.
 
I think of the promise in Isaiah: “But those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” These words steady me. They remind me that strength is renewed in the waiting, in the trusting, in the simple act of taking the next small step.
 
It is our purpose to carry on. To keep doing the small, faithful, fruitful work. Today, under grey skies, we still choose kindness in a world that feels saturated with hatred. We continue to offer hope where hopelessness seems to reign. We keep the faith alive. We keep the home fires burning. We keep loving when love is hard to find.
 
I am reminded to be still. I am reminded to listen for the wee small voice. I am reminded to stay grounded. Stay hopeful. Keep loving. I am reminded, again and again, to keep calm and carry on.
 
My hope is that calm walks beside you today, and courage rises quietly with each small step.

RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS
 
The rain has come and gone on this first Monday morning in March. I’ve always loved the old Carpenters song: “Hanging around, nothing much to do but frown. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.” I love the song, the incredible voice of Karen Carpenter, and that beautiful arrangement. But truth be told, I love a good rainy day. And now that I’m an old, retired guy, Mondays are simply another day of the week. Sorry, Garfield.
 
The rains came renewing the earth. The soil is soaking up the heavenly moisture on this almost Spring day. It is cold and wet, but it is a different kind of cold and wet in March. There is a shift in the air, a hint of something waking up. The garden feels it too. As the Psalmist says, “When You send Your Spirit, they are created, and You renew the face of the earth.” The Spirit of the Creator is real and alive in this season. I can feel the change.
 
I need that change. I need the weather to break open into Spring. I need the sanctuary of the Garden, a place to escape the noise and anger and war raging in the world. Not to hide, but to breathe. A bit of white space for the soul. A quiet corner where my spirit can rest and gather strength again. As another Psalm reminds us, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Renewal outside and renewal inside, working together.
 
And maybe that is the gift of a rainy March Monday. The reminder that even in the cold and the gray, something new is already stirring. “His mercies are new every morning.” New mercies for the earth. New mercies for us. New mercies for the places in us that feel tired or worn thin.
 
“When You send Your Spirit, they are created, and You renew the face of the earth.” Send Your Spirit to us. Renew us. Renew me. Renew in me a spirit rooted in faith, restored in hope, and overflowing with love for others and for myself. Renew the face of the earth. We pray.
 
May this be a day of quiet mercies and small renewals, enough to carry us forward with hope.
​

​Grace and Orchids
 
The house is still a construction zone, and I’ve spent the week tucked into the garden corner of the cellar, wrestling with crumbling stonework. It’s dirty, dusty, discouraging work — the kind that makes an old gardener mutter under his breath. I know I can be a bit prickly when the tasks are ones I’d rather avoid.
 
With that in mind, Dr. B, in her inimitable way, decided we were going to take a fun trip to the Missouri Botanical Garden to see the Orchid Show. Orchids? Why yes, thank you. A tiny bit of beauty and grace on a late afternoon in February.
 
Orchids are fussy, fragile, and astonishingly beautiful. Their fragrance greets you before you even enter the greenhouse, and once inside, the world shifts: color, light, and delicate blooms everywhere you turn. It felt like walking into a parable about grace.
 
Grace is what I received yesterday. Grace, unearned. Grace, undeserved. Grace from a loving spouse on a sunny afternoon.
 
On this Friday in Lent, I’m thinking a lot about grace, the truth that there is absolutely nothing we can do to make our Creator love us more. And nothing we can do to make our Creator love us less. We are loved beyond measure, beyond comprehension, beyond anything we can imagine. We are loved. I need that reminder sometimes.
 
But yesterday, surrounded by orchids, I remembered. I am loved by a partner who knows when I need beauty. I am loved by a Creator who loves me, even when I’m grumbling in the basement. The things flowers can teach us. Grace and orchids.

​First Signs of Spring
 
The first signs of spring have arrived here in the Garden. Our earliest crocus have lifted their tiny heads through the cold earth, and once again grace has revealed itself in the smallest, quietest way.
 
The prophet Isaiah reminds us, “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus.”
 
This little flower carries a message all its own. It speaks of hope, renewal, and resilience — a gentle nudge toward inner guidance and spiritual growth. The crocus roots us in the natural rhythms of life, reminding us that challenges are part of the cycle and that newness is always on its way.
 
In its delicate beauty, the crocus invites us to lean closer to creation and to our own unfolding path. It cheers us on with its quiet assurance of strength, transformation, and the promise that life is rising again.
 
To paraphrase the prophet Isaiah:  go in the peace of the One who makes all things new, the God who whispers, “See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth — even here, even now.”

​Ashes to Ashes
 
Yesterday was a whirlwind of a day with a short thunderstorm, a burst of bright sunshine, another shower, then more sun and springlike warmth. By evening the winds picked up, temperatures dropped, and Winter returned with a forty‑degree plunge overnight. Spring had slipped back into Winter in the span of a few hours.
 
“I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope. I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning.”
Psalm 130:5–6
 
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The words echoed in me as I watched the incredible sunset last night. Sunsets are something special. They remind me of death, yes, but also of resurrection because the sun will rise again tomorrow.
 
Last night’s sunset carried me back to another one I witnessed years ago on a Florida beach with my Dad. It was the last sunset we ever saw together, though neither of us knew that then. He was vibrant, fresh from walking more than a mile along the shoreline while helping Dr. B search for shark’s teeth.
 
As the sun began to sink, we stood side by side, watching the sky turn to fire. “A Creator of all things is the only way that could happen,” Dad said. I agreed, and we simply stood there as the sun slipped below the horizon. The beach grew dark and quiet except for the waves. It was just me, Dad, and Dr. B on an empty stretch of sand, none of us moving. Something in us knew it was a sacred moment, and we did not want it to end.
 
Dad passed a few months later. We were not ready, but I think he was. The good news is that even though the sun did set, it will rise again. As the old song says, we will see him again one bright day. Until then, we have the promise of the sunset.
 
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” And that is only the beginning.