​Still Light
 
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
—John 1:5
 
As evening faded into the darkness of night, the lights still shone through the deep snow in the back garden. Even when the world feels dim and heavy, somehow the light still finds a way through. That verse from John came flooding into my mind: the light shines, and the darkness has not, cannot, overcome it.
 
I admit I am struggling with the troubles of the world right now. With the garden buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, it feels impossible to do anything outside. My usual escape into solitude and sanctuary has been taken away, and a dull melancholy has settled into my old bones. Yet even in the darkness, a light shines through. I am reminded that the light I carry, however small, still matters. It is necessary for sparking hope.
 
Matthew 5:16 calls us to let our light shine before others. Let hope be rekindled. I pray that I will allow myself to breathe. To trust a little. To love others as my Creator loves me. I hear the voice of my late friend, Fr. Jim Costello, S.J., with his gentle reminder: “God loves you. Just the way you are. Right now.” God loves all of us. Just the way we are. Right now.
 
As another week comes to an end, I am going to try to go gently into this day and carry whatever light I have left. To carry it into this dark and frightening world and, hopefully, shine it around a bit. To share it with a steady hand—without fear or shame, but with hope. Hope for a brighter day ahead, where the light shines in the darkness, and with faith that the darkness will never overcome it.

Love, Still
What I can do today…
 
There is an eerie silence as the snow absorbs the sounds of the city on this mid‑week morning. A soft, unexpected hush settles over everything. For a brief moment, in a world that feels increasingly chaotic, there is calm. There is peace. Urban snowfalls have their own kind of magic. The hustle and bustle slow, and even the city seems to pause long enough to breathe.
 
This year has been hard on so many levels. The garden has always been my sanctuary, a place of prayer, grounding, and escape from the noise. But the weather has not been very cooperative for this old gardener. The extreme cold reminded me, rather bluntly, that I can only do so much for so long. It was a lesson I didn’t want but needed. I can only do so much.
 
Henri Nouwen once asked a series of questions that have stayed with me:
“Did I offer peace today?
Did I bring a smile to someone’s face?
Did I say words of healing?
Did I let go of my anger and resentment?
Did I forgive?
Did I love?”
 
I would add one more: Was I kind?
 
These are the questions. These are the things I can do. I can’t fix the world. I can’t quiet every storm. But I can do this. In a moment of absolute chaos, I can choose these small, steady acts of love.
Was I kind? Did I love? Did I forgive?
 
I pray that I will be able to answer yes. Yes, and maybe just a little bit more.
 
“Let all that you do be done in love.”
1 Corinthians 16:14

​Love, still
 
The snow fell in waves this weekend, blanketing the City in a shroud of white. The silence of that quiet quilt was a welcome mercy, a brief break from the relentless noisiness of the news. It feels less like we are being informed these days and more like we are being buried, just as surely as the deep drifts piling against the fenceline.
 
My heart feels broken right now. My soul is heavy and hurting. And yet, I hope that this ache means I have not lost my ability to care. Through the pain, we must continue to care. Continue to love, because love is in such short supply. I cannot allow cynicism, cruelty, anger, or frustration to take that away from me.
 
Our hearts are so heavy. There are moments when we simply have to lay some of the burdens down. Now is the time to do the small things we can. I cannot fix everything, but I can make a bit of soup and share it. I can offer help to my neighbors as they have helped me. I can notice the bright cardinal at the feeder and feel a flicker of joy. I can love more fiercely. I can hold on to hope. I can find a bit of faith to carry on. I can love.
 
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18
 
Fred Rogers, the gentle Mr. Rogers, once said, “We live in a world in which we need to share responsibility. It is easy to say, ‘It is not my child, not my community, not my world, not my problem.’ Then there are those who see the need and respond. I consider those people my heroes.”
 
We still have heroes among us. We cannot let the martyrs die in vain. We must keep holding on to hope. We must keep loving each other through the pain.
 
Love more fiercely.
Hold on to hope.
Find a bit of faith and carry on.
 
We can love.

​The Calm Before the Storm
 
Psalm 46:1
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
 
Isaiah 25:4
“You have been a refuge for the poor, a refuge for the needy in their distress, a shelter from the storm and a shade from the heat.”
 
The little Doodle girl and I went for a shorter morning walkabout in the neighborhood on this frigid day as we await the coming winter storm. The sunrise was spectacular, but it did little to warm us as we quickly did what needed to be done. Now the little Doodle is curled up in momma’s chair while I sit with a hot cup of coffee, trying to feel my toes again.
 
I do not handle the extreme cold very well. The arthritis in these old bones begins to ache, and I am content to sit under a warm blanket in front of the fireplace with some coffee or hot tea. Whether I like it or not, the storm is coming. I do not think any of us enjoy the trials of winter.
 
But we can be certain of this. No matter how long the storm lasts, there is a loving Creator caring for us. The storms will not last forever. The skies will clear. The sun will return and warm us once again. It is difficult to appreciate joy without having lived through the stormy times.
 
The world feels upside down these days. It seems as if we are constantly fighting one storm or another. Hatred, fear, and anger swirl around us like bitter winds. Yet I never want to forget that I have lived through storms before and come out the other side. Maybe with a few scars, but also a bit stronger.
 
There is a country song that says something like, “If you are going through hell, keep on moving.” And that is what we do. We keep moving. We keep praying. We keep doing what we can to change our little part of the world for the better. The storms will come, but we will keep on moving.
 
For now, I am joining the little Doodle girl and resting with a cup of coffee, some good music, and a bit of calm before the storm.
 
A Benediction for the Storm Watchers
 
May warmth find us in small and faithful ways,
in a loyal dog curled close and in the comfort of a familiar chair.
May we remember the storms we have already survived and trust the grace that carried us through.
And may peace settle over our homes like a soft snowfall.

Necessary Pruning
 
The cold that gripped us over the past weekend has finally loosened its hold—for now. But the forecast promises snow’s return with a vengeance by the weekend. Change seems to be the word for this week.
 
January is the time we begin clearing out the gardening storage area, preparing for the season ahead. I have to admit, I’ve let things go a bit, and some reorganization is in order. Isn’t that always the way? Life often feels the same. We take care of the absolute necessities, but the smaller things slip out of control.
I carry an organizational system in my head. I usually know where things are and can pull them up
quickly, but to anyone else it doesn’t look organized at all. My pile of books, files, and folders have grown unwieldy. It is time for a bit of necessary pruning.
 
Pruning is never easy, but it is essential. It helps plants thrive and trees survive. The hard work of putting things in order, cutting away what hinders true growth, can be painful, but it is necessary.
 
Jesus said, “Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:2). Pruning is not punishment but preparation. It clears away what no longer serves, so that new life can flourish.
 
So, I ask myself: what needs pruning in my own life? What habits or time-consuming activities bring little value and need to be cut away? Perhaps it is time to let go of the anger and frustration I’ve been carrying. The weight has grown too heavy. I am too old to keep dragging it along, and honestly, it does me no good.
 
As Hebrews reminds us, “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace” (Hebrews 12:11).
 
It is time for pruning. Time for change. Time to clear away what no longer serves, so that new growth may come.
 
I am praying for the courage to cut away what weighs me down, and the faith to trust the harvest that follows.

Lessons in the Last Light
 
“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he. I am he who will sustain you.”
Isaiah 46:4
 
The sunsets of the past few days have been nothing short of glorious. They have felt like moments of grace amidst the chaos and horrors surrounding us these past few weeks. I feel the passing of each day a bit more acutely now. Growing older can be a gift if we learn to be comfortable with who we are today rather than mourn the loss of who we once were.
 
Saint John of the Cross once wrote, “In the twilight of life, God will not judge us on our earthly possessions and human successes, but rather on how much we have loved.” He reminds us that our true obligation is to age well. Not in terms of monetary wealth, but in spiritual and emotional richness. It is all about loving and kindness, simple truths that are often hard to remember.
 
This incredible journey is about becoming more than we have been. E. M. Forster once wrote, “We must be willing to let go of the life we planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” One of the blessings I am slowly embracing is the realization that it is the quality of what I think and say that shapes who I am, not how fast I move or how busy I stay.
 
The days go by so quickly now. Getting older is not the hard part. The hard part is the fear of getting older. Life does not stop until it stops. When we count aging only as a series of losses, we lose sight of the extraordinary gains.
 
The sunset teaches us not to fear the fear. Each day ends in glorious grace. Every sign of change can be a blessing. And perhaps the very things I fear losing are, in truth, invitations calling me toward a new beginning. A call to love. A call to kindness. A call to grace.

The Work of Ordinary Kindness
 
The sun is shining on this chilly morning. The weather is shifting, and I can feel it in my old bones on this blustery January day. Like the roots in this picture, my arthritic joints are feeling the pressure changes. I keep moving. Keep going. Keep up the exercise and the gardening. But the pain is real, and I am slowing down.
 
Realizing that you are slowing down and cannot do the things you once did with ease is a hard truth for this old man to accept. Yet it is becoming an ever-present reality. I find myself looking for help more often, asking others to do the things I once handled on my own.
 
Fred Rogers once told us, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” Sometimes we have to look a little harder to see them, but they are there. This morning, a young man in a truck full of ladders and tools is outside working on this old brick cottage, doing such a fine job. I am grateful for him, and if I am honest, a bit envious of his strength and skill.
 
It can be difficult to find the helpers in times of need. In the world we are living in today, we need them more than ever. And sometimes it is hard to know who the helpers are. When I was a kid, we were taught that if you needed help, you could always find a police officer. That is not necessarily the case today.
 
Still, look for the helpers. We see them every day. The people who show up. The people doing the necessary work. The volunteers at food banks. The folks at ID sites helping people move forward. The helpers are there.
 
We need to remember that we are called to be helpers too. Helpers in whatever way we can. Sometimes it is physical labor. Sometimes it is monetary support or needed supplies. We do what we can with what we have in that moment. We are called to be helpers.
 
With everything happening in this country and the world, it is easy to feel overwhelmed. We are filled with grief. I ask myself often, what can I do? And the answer keeps coming back. Be a helper in whatever way possible. Be the helper. Be the change. Be kind. Kindness matters.
 
Simple. Ordinary. Kindness.
 
Galatians 6:2
Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.
​

​While the Branches Are Bare
 
“Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord.”
— Psalm 27:14
 
There is a certain quiet in the Garden on this frosty winter morning in early January. The sun rises bright and clear as the Doodle girl and I walk along the glistening paths. We welcome the sunshine and the promise of slightly warmer days ahead.
 
The trees stand bare in this midwinter light. Their tangled branches reveal squirrel nests tucked here and there in our urban oasis. Those bare, twisted limbs remind me of the tangles of life, exposing the trees at their most vulnerable. Nothing is hidden. We see the truth of things. And we are reminded that patience is necessary. Every bud on every branch will soon burst into springtime splendor. The potential is there, waiting for the right moment. The truth is there too, waiting for its moment to be revealed.
 
The wonder of it all is that it happens every year. The shedding of leaves in fall. The winter rest and renewal. The burst of beauty in spring and the deep shade of summer. Everything works together, quietly and unseen.
 
I am in a waiting season right now. My heart feels a bit bare, but I trust the Creator is working quietly. Sometimes a bit of hard pruning is necessary for us to flourish. As Jesus reminds us, “Every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” We endure a measure of suffering so we can truly appreciate the goodness. The change is necessary. The bareness is necessary. We wait. We pray. We do what we can. We endure. We persevere. And soon—every bud on every branch will burst forth into springtime splendor.
 
Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.
 
May the bare branches around us whisper of promise, not loss.
May the slow, patient light of winter guide our steps with gentleness.
May we trust, deep in our bones, that the pruning is not the end, but the beginning of a fuller bloom.

Jesus Wept
 
It is a dark and gloomy Friday as we walk through the Garden on this January morning. Christmastide is quickly coming to a close. The decorations are being taken down and tucked away for another season. The early January darkness lingers as we prepare to enter Ordinary Time this weekend.
 
And yet, in the Prayer Garden, the Hellebores—the “Lenten Roses”—are beginning to stir. Small signs of beauty. Small signs of life. I find myself needing that beauty today. The news coming in from all directions is overwhelming and unbearably sad. The killing in Minnesota was horrific to watch.
 
I am not one to share my politics. I was raised to believe such things were not discussed in polite company. Yet today I find myself in disbelief at what is happening in my country. I don’t understand. I don’t. I am saddened by the actions of people in power, and I feel an overwhelming heaviness that I am trying to fight.
 
I keep coming back to two simple words: Jesus wept.
 
I keep seeing the image of a car filled with little stuffed animals, belongings of children who will never hold their momma again. Jesus wept.
 
I keep thinking about the joy that family shared only days ago. A Christmas tree. Presents. Love and laughter. Now extinguished. Gone. Jesus wept.
 
Grief is not weakness. Grief is love.  It is necessary and even holy to feel sadness. It gives us space to pause, to breathe, to consider what must come next. So, this morning, in the gloom, I am searching for even the smallest glimmer of hope waiting in the darkness.
 
“But they 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.”
—Isaiah 40:31
 
I do not have answers. The tears continue. The sadness stays. But I pray for change, for courage, for renewed hope. Not only for myself, but for this country and this world. I pray that we might grow in compassion. I pray for gentleness. I pray for kindness.
 
Kindness.

​Be Kind
 
It was still quite dark and chilly when I stepped out into the Garden this morning.
 
The beds are mostly bare now, yet they hold a certain loveliness all their own. In the darkness that is January, the waiting garden makes dreamers of us all. We can only imagine what will come once Spring finally arrives. At the same time, we wait with hope, hope that what appears will be even more than we could possibly imagine.
 
I remind myself often: you can’t outdream the Creator.
 
This creation is greater, wilder, and more generous than anything I could conceive. A good thing to remember.
 
Lately, I’ve been thinking a great deal about Kindness. It has become my intention word for the year.
Kindness to others.
Kindness to myself.
Kindness to creation.
The dream — and the hope — of a world changed by kindness.
 
Paul’s letter to the Ephesians encourages us to “be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.” In a world often marked by division and self‑interest, kindness rises as the ultimate community‑builder. The heart of the Creator is filled with kindness and invites us to contribute to a more loving and just world, something we need now more than ever.
 
We are called to reflect the love of our Creator in all things.
We are called to be kind.
We are called to be gentle.
We are called to love.
 
Simple.
Ordinary.
Kindness.
 
And as Micah reminds us: “do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.”
 
Be kind.

Silence and Sanctuary
 
This morning, like most mornings, I start the coffee and then head out into the garden with the little Doodle girl trotting at my heels. My day usually begins with the need to step outside. I crave a bit of fresh air and a moment to watch the birds gather at the old red feeders hanging from our Dogwood tree.
 
It amazes this old gardener how much we change as we age. If you knew me as a younger man, you would never guess that one of my greatest joys would become working in a garden. But now it is something I crave, something necessary for relaxation and renewal. When the world feels as if it is spinning off its axis in the absolute wrong direction, I still have the garden.
 
The garden has become my spiritual home. A place to get away from the noise and the anger and simply be. A place to be one with the Creator of all things. Digging in the dirt and pulling weeds make me a happy old man. My doctor agrees that just twenty minutes outside can lower stress, restore focus, and ease anxiety. I think we could all use a little more of that these days.
 
Lately, I have been burying my head in the sand and avoiding the news as much as possible. I will admit it. I am frightened by what is happening. I feel helpless and scared. The constant buzz of anxiousness can be relentless, and I am no longer able to process a steady diet of chronic stress.
 
So, the garden calls.
The coffee is ready.
The Doodle girl is always ready for a walkabout.
And a moment of prayer by walking is exactly what my soul needs.
 
As I step into the morning light, I remember the promise:
“The Lord will guide you continually and you shall be like a watered garden.”
-Isaiah 58:11
 
Let me slow down.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Reconnect with myself and with my Creator.
 
As Jimmy Buffett taught us all:
“Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.”
 
May the quiet find you before the noise does.
May the morning light rest gently on your shoulders.
May the garden steady your spirit and remind you that you are loved.
And may the One who waters every living thing guide you, renew you,
and lead you toward peace.
 
Go in gentleness, rooted and restored.
​

SIMPLE. ORDINARY. KINDNESS.
 
It was a chilly morning as we stepped into the garden. With the addition of our sweet Doodle girl, we have had to make a few adjustments to the lawn.
 
When we first moved into the Carondelet Cottage, the yard was a full expanse of warm-season Zoysia grass: thick, lush, and lovely. Over the years things changed, and we switched to cool-weather Fescue, which worked well until our newest little Doodle arrived. Our playful girl did quite a number on the grass.
 
After some research, we decided to try miniature white clover, and we didn’t look back. A quick mow twice a season, no brown patches, and a soft green carpet all year long. A dream come true for this old gardener.
 
With the start of a new year, I’ve been thinking a lot about resolutions. No matter your age, the turning of the calendar seems to invite reflection: what will we “resolve” to do differently?
 
Recently, I came across an article in The Washington Post suggesting that instead of resolutions, we set intentions. Intentions are guiding principles, gentle reminders of how we want to show up in the world. They help shape our behavior, clarify our values, and keep our hopes in focus.
 
Sometimes, though, it’s hard to distill all those thoughts and feelings into a single word. The Post even created an “intention word finder” to help. After answering a few simple questions, my word appeared: Kindness.
 
Kindness. Be kind. Kind.
 
What a different world this could be if we were all just a bit kinder. A bit gentler with each other. And with ourselves.
 
As Paul writes in Colossians: “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.”
(Colossians 3:12)
 
It is a daily practice, like putting on a garment, reminding us that kindness is not occasional but continual.
 
Simple. Ordinary. Kindness.
My mantra for 2026.
 
“He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”
(Micah 6:8)
​

From Darkness to Dawn: Certain of What We Do Not See
 
In the long darkness of winter, on this first day of January, it feels as though nothing has changed. Another day, another turn of the calendar. The nights stretch long, the days remain short, and still we face months of waiting.
 
And yet, the reality is that everything has changed. In the garden, the soil holds secrets: new life, sheltered deep, already stirring. It is not the calendar that marks renewal, but the hidden rebirth beneath the frost.
 
Here, the author of Hebrews reminds us: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1). Faith is the seed beneath the soil, unseen yet alive, reaching toward the light.
 
On this first day of 2026, we begin in darkness, but we reach toward the coming dawn. We trust that the light will shine, that better days are ahead. This year may be filled with unseen faith, new beginnings, and the desire to scatter love and joy along the way.
 
Faith begins in unseen soil, grows through perseverance, and blossoms in hope. May the God of peace equip us for the journey ahead, and may the light guide our steps into this new year.