​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.

​Ash Wednesday
 
On this day of ashes and humility,
We come with our hearts laid bare.
Remind us that life is so very short.
Let us remember that all we have, all that we are, belongs to You.
 
Wash away our pride, our selfishness, our sins.
Plant in us a spirit of repentance,
and water it with Your grace.
 
As we journey through this Lenten season,
teach us to fast from bitterness,
to feast on Your Word,
to give generously,
and to love without condition.
 
Mark us today not only with ashes,
but with the light of the Creator of all things,
so that our lives may reflect your mercy and truth.

​A Dog and Her Garden
 
Isaiah 55:12: “You shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace.”
 
The sun is shining brightly this mid-February morning as this old gardener and the little Doodle girl set off on our daily ritual around the neighborhood. The last of the snow has melted. Weekend rains washed away the salt and grime. It feels like a fresh start, a beautiful day in the neighborhood to borrow a phrase from Mr. Rogers.
 
Today is also our little Doodle girl’s second birthday. We still carry the ache of losing our first Doodle just before her fourth birthday to a congenital condition we did not even know existed until it was too late. We tried to resist getting another puppy for nearly a year, but the garden, the house, our whole world felt empty without the patter of four tiny paws.
 
There is something necessary and even spiritual about dogs in a garden. This little Doodle has claimed the space as her own. The garden and the dog are intertwined now, each tending to the other in their own way. I have come to believe that the loyalty and protective instincts of a dog can serve as a kind of guardian for the spirit.
 
The garden is my sanctuary, my place of connection and reflection. With the Doodle girl by my side, it becomes an even more beautiful refuge, a place where the spirit can rest, relax, and be refreshed.
 
In a world wrapped in anxiety and chaos, I often need reminders to find peace and joy in the simple things. The Doodle girl offers those reminders daily. She finds delight in the smallest gifts: a treato, a walkabout, a cuddle on the couch with Momma. These are her lessons in contentment and simplicity. She teaches us to appreciate what we have and to notice the small moments of beauty that surround us every day if we only pause long enough to see them.
 
Go out in joy and be led forth in peace. This is the quiet blessing she brings to our days, a furry echo of Isaiah’s promise, carried on four tiny paws through the garden we share.

What Do You Do All Day?
 
The little Doodle girl and I were out early this morning, just as the sun was breaking the horizon. It’s something we do most every day, rain or shine. The snowstorm didn’t stop us. The cold didn’t stop us. It slowed me down, of course, but our daily walkabouts are part of our rhythm, our little ritual of greeting the day together.
 
We’ve been retired for quite a few years now, and inevitably, when we meet someone who isn’t retired, or has no desire to retire, they ask the same question:
“What do you do all day?”
 
It used to get under Dr. B’s skin. She is, as always, busy with her volunteer work, her jigsaw puzzles, her cooking and writing, her craft projects, the list goes on. As for me, the answer is simple:
I putter.
 
I putter about. I putter around. I’m puttering. That’s what I do all day.
 
People give me the most quizzical looks. What does that even mean? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure myself. Yet at the end of each day, I can list the things that were done. Most days I’m bone tired and ready to “rest my eyes” for a bit. Naps are essential after a morning and early afternoon of dedicated puttering.
 
When we retired, our number one goal was to enjoy our lives together and build a home we never felt the need to vacation away from. Our cozy cottage in Carondelet. Our little garden with its flowers and vegetables and fruit. Our little Doodle girl. We are blessed.
 
We are not wealthy in the material sense. But we are rich in love. We continue to have faith. We keep hope alive. Yes, we struggle. I struggle sometimes. But we are grateful for the lives we have been given. Grateful. Thankful.
 
On this last Friday before the season of Lent begins, I give thanks to the Creator of all things for every blessing I have received.
 
“Thank you” is my prayer today.
 
I pray that your puttering is blessed with purpose.
I pray that your resting, with eyes closed, be blessed with peace,
and your days, ordinary as they may seem
be revealed as the quiet miracles they are.
 
I pray that gratitude rise up like morning light,
steady and sure, warming every corner.
And may the One who created all things
meet you in the rhythms of your life today.

​ Winter Morning
 
“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.”
Psalm 5:3
 
The morning chill was a bit of a shock to these old bones as the Doodle girl and I set out for our daily constitutional. Winter mornings have become our ritual, walking the neighborhood in the quiet before the world fully wakes. I move in quiet contemplation while she sniffs and searches for clues, always on high alert for any sign of playtime or one of her many friends.
 
The stillness of early morning, just as the sun breaks the horizon, feels like an invitation to slow down, reflect, and reconnect with the Creator and with myself. It is a moment to offer gratitude for the gift that is today, to remember that goodness still threads its way through this old world even when the news insists otherwise.
 
This morning ritual is my time for peace and clarity. A time to summon a bit of inner strength and reconnect with nature. I use these steps for prayer, preparing my heart for the new day and hoping for growth and renewal. I am praying for an awakening within me, a fresh embrace of hope. Hope is what we absolutely need right now.
 
As we walk, I remember the promise that those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will rise up on wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint. That promise steadies me in the cold morning air.
 
So, we walk and we pray.
We pause and reflect.
We gather strength in faith, hope, and love.
And we remember that God loves us, just as we are, right now.

​Sunrise
 
“Joy comes in the morning.”
 Psalm 30:5
 
The sun was just beginning to rise as the little Doodle girl and I headed out for her morning walkabout on this frosty day. The chill hung in the air, but there was a quiet promise of warmth as the light slowly stretched across the sky. Watching the sun come up gave us both a bit of hope for gentler days ahead.
 
There is something sacred about witnessing a sunrise. Every new morning brings another opportunity. A new day offers a fresh start. As I watch the slow, creative movement from darkness into light, I am filled with hope. I find myself praying to release the burdens I have been carrying and to step into this day with kindness and intention.
 
Today is a gift. It is time for this old gardener to receive it with gratitude. Today is a new day.
“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
 
And all God’s people say, Amen.
 
For now, I pray that the light that rises before us may warm what has grown cold, steady what feels uncertain, and brighten the path we walk.
 
I pray that we breathe deeply of this new mercy, and receive the day as gift, while we carry its quiet hope into every place you go.
 
Go in the peace of the One who makes all things new.

Snow Steps
the paths we choose
 
In the early morning light, the little Doodle girl and I stepped into the chill for her walkabout through the neighborhood. The snow is finally beginning to melt, but remnants still linger in shady corners. Footsteps remain from some earlier pilgrim trying to make their way through a frozen world.
 
Those snowy footsteps remind me how often we try to forge our own path alone. We move through a chaotic world filled with anger and resentment, and too often I think I can manage it all by myself. But beneath the snow are hidden entanglements just waiting to trip up an old man like me. A broken sidewalk can turn an ankle. A fallen branch can send me tumbling. And these days, a fall is no longer a simple stumble, it’s something I may not rise from on my own.
 
These are the moments when I remember that I can’t do this thing alone. The journey is never easy. All the precautions, the heavy boots, the woolen gloves and hat, the walking stick, cannot shield us from every pain or hardship. But those snow steps ahead of us can help. They prepare a way for the times when the journey gets hard. They lead us home. They lead us safely.
 
Each snowy step we make is a choice. A simple, daily choice about which way we will go. Do we choose kindness? Do we choose love? Faith? Hope? Or do we take a wrong turn, walk away, and follow despair and anger instead?
 
The snow steps we follow are a gentle reminder that there is a loving Creator who wants us to cherish this life we have been given. A Creator who invites us to make the most of this journey before it melts away like the snow beneath our feet.
 
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105)
​

​A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
 
It is a beautiful day in the neighborhood as the sunshine beams across this frosty February morning. The little Doodle girl and I braved the sidewalks of the city for our walkabout. Some stretches are perfectly dry, cleared over a week ago. Others have become rutted ice blocks that feel treacherous for this old man. But my Doodle girl is still very much a puppy in her need to go, so out we go.
 
I recently watched Lady Gaga’s new release, her cover of Mr. Rogers’ “Won’t You Be My Neighbor.” If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend a quick YouTube search. It is a powerful, simple message of hope. “It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor.” Such a gentle invitation into a different world, a world filled with kindness, belonging, and shared humanity. A world so different from the one we often experience.
 
This lovely little liturgy of hope feels like an open door, a candle in the window welcoming you in. It reminds us that small things matter. There is a holiness in simple kindness. A gift of grace in the courage it takes to invite others into hope and love.
 
Scripture echoes this invitation. “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27) is not just a commandment but a way of being in the world. And Hebrews reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Hebrews 13:2). These ancient words feel especially alive right now, calling us back to the heart of what it means to be human.
 
Please, won’t you be my neighbor?
 
It feels like a rallying cry for us all. We are neighbors regardless of the color of our skin, the beliefs we hold or don’t hold, or the pronouns we choose or those that choose us. We are neighbors. My faith binds me to love everyone. My faith binds me to want what is good for all my neighbors.
 
Today, I pray that we will come together and ask every person we meet, every person who reflects the Creator of all things, every single one, Please, won’t YOU be my neighbor?
 
You are welcome here.

​Sanctuary
 
I miss the Garden. I miss everything about working with the soil: digging, planting, weeding, simply doing. This frozen tundra of white is starting to wear on me. I need my sanctuary. I need the solace. I need the movement.
 
The daily walks with the Doodle girl are good, but they are treacherous in the City where one sidewalk is plowed and the next two are not. Every intersection becomes a small mountain range of plowed snow. Not the best environment for an old man and a young, energetic Doodle girl.
 
Still, I walk every day. I still head out into the garden, mostly to feed the birds now. It gives me something to do, a small ritual of care. Later I will be doing the dog-owner walk of shame, hunting and pecking for, shall we say, Doodle Droppings. Necessary work, but a bit comical in deep mid-winter snow.
 
There is a forecast for a bit of a warmup in the next couple of weeks, a welcome break from the single-digit frozenness we have been enduring. I am hoping to see my hellebores again. I miss their brave blossoms this time of year. And we are quickly approaching the season to cut back the Autumn Raspberries and the Clematis. Come on, warm-up.
 
I miss working in the front garden and talking with neighbors as they pass by, conversations about gardens and life. They say the surest cure for loneliness is a front garden that needs constant tending. You have to be out there, doing things, and you naturally meet the people who wander by. A simple joy missing from our lives right now, but we know Spring will come. For now, we plan.
 
Orders are going in for spring onions. Lettuce seedlings will be started soon. Gardening will return.
And I am ready. Ready for a bit of joy and hope. Ready to return to the sanctuary of the garden.