​Choosing Community Over Chaos
"Seek the peace and prosperity of the city… for if it prospers, you too will prosper."
—Jeremiah 29:7
 
Black Friday is everywhere these days. From stores opening at midnight to online deals flooding our phones, it’s easy to get swept up in the frenzy. But the chaos of crowded aisles, long lines, and short tempers can test our patience and even dim our joy.
 
There is another way. Supporting local businesses on Black Friday (and every day!) is a way to nurture the long-term health and vibrancy of the places we call home. When we shop at local shops, we keep dollars circulating right here, funding public services, supporting jobs, and strengthening a sustainable local economy.
 
Independent shops, restaurants, artisans, and service providers shape the unique personality of our neighborhoods. They offer experiences and treasures you simply cannot find anywhere else. Each small business is more than a storefront. It is a dream, a livelihood, and a gift to the community.
 
Choosing not to chase the biggest discounts is not about missing out. It is about living intentionally. It is about generosity, faith, and the joy of supporting our neighbors. When we step back from the frenzy, we show that contentment and connection matter more than any sale.
 
Here are just a few ways to love your local small businesses this season:
 
•            Shop Local First – Find gifts with stories behind them.
•            Dine at Local Restaurants – They are amazing, and every meal supports a neighbor’s dream.
•            Buy Gift Cards – A simple way to give future joy.
•            Shop Locally Online – Many small businesses have websites too.
•            Spread the Word – Share your favorite finds with friends.
 
Together, we can build a stronger, kinder community, one small step, one local purchase, one act of love at a time.
 
Shop Local. Love Local. Grow Local.

​Feeling Down? Take a Walk.
 
I feel like so many of us are carrying the burdens of the world right now. There is so much happening, and some of it is simply horrifying. The hardest part is realizing how little we can actually change. At the end of the day, the only person I can truly change is the one staring back at me in the mirror.
 
I’m just an old gardener, but I’ve discovered one small thing that helps: when I feel myself getting overwhelmed and down, I take a walk.
 
It helps that I have an angel wrapped in fur who insists we get out every day for a neighborhood check‑in. Lately, it’s been multiple times a day. Not for very long, just enough time for the old person to clear her head and the pupper to check on her constituents. I’m convinced this little doodle girl believes she is the Mayor of Carondelet.
 
The holidays can be full of festivities and joy, but for some of us, they also carry a quiet ache. I’m one of those people who tends to get a bit blue this time of year. That’s why I’m so grateful for the love of Dr. B and her steady, eternal optimism. And I’m grateful for the furball who doesn’t give me the choice of staying stuck inside my head, she pulls me outside and onto my feet.
 
Walk those blues away.
 
Pray.
 
Ponder.
 
Putter.
 
And remember sometimes the holiest thing we can do is just keep walking.
 
“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”
— 1 Peter 5:7
 

​Grace in the Waiting, Gratitude in the Giving
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”
— Isaiah 9:2
 
It is the final week of November. The week of Thanksgiving. Winter is just around the corner, and the last of the autumn leaves are holding on as best they can until the next gust of wind comes roaring in from the west. The rains and winds have stripped many trees of their glorious color, yet a few beauties remain. A bit of grace as we move into the darkness of winter.
 
Advent is coming this weekend. The waiting begins. Waiting is what this time of year is all about. When we were small, we waited for Santa Claus. As we grew older, we waited for the New Year’s Eve party invitation. As an old gardener who is finally beginning to understand a little, I now wait for the light to return once again.
 
Advent is the season of waiting. Waiting for the story to begin again. Waiting for the child to be born and change the world once more, as that story does every year. The waiting changes us. We learn patience. We take time for reflection. We take more time to pray. As we light the candle each evening, we stop, pray, read, and remember. The light of the world is coming once again.
 
We are looking forward to Thanksgiving. A day to eat, drink a little, enjoy football, family, and friends. A day to be thankful for all the blessings we have received. Yet it is also a time to remember that not everyone has as much to be thankful for as I do. This season calls us not only to gratitude but also to generosity. Generosity in thought, in deed, and in giving. It is Thanks-giving after all.
 
In the fading light of November, we wait and we give thanks. And in the waiting, we find the promise of light returning.
 
I pray today that gratitude fills our table.
I pray that the quiet of waiting teaches patience and prayer.
I pray that the flicker of the Advent candle reminds us that the darkness is never final.
Finally, I pray that the season ahead is filled with hope, with joy, and with peace.
Amen.

Prayer in the Mist
“What does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
— Micah 6:8
 
The rain has paused, and the fog begins to lift as the little Doodle girl, and I step outside for a walk among the trees of our urban neighborhood. A hush of calm and wonder washes over us on this autumn morning. Ours is an old neighborhood, where century‑old homes stand beneath trees of equal age. Droplets fall softly at our feet. The critters stir. Birds begin to sing. The sweetness of wet leaves perfumes the air.
 
There is something sacred about a walk in misty fall. The city hums around us, yet everything feels quieter, gentler. Solace and inspiration rise as we engage with nature. Science affirms what the soul already knows: time outdoors heals us—emotionally, physically, spiritually. This morning’s walk is medicine.
 
Surrounded by beauty, my heart lightens. My mood brightens. We move more slowly today, even the Doodle pausing to notice. The details matter: rustling leaves, misty drops on our faces, the sounds of life awakening. It is prayer by walking around.
 
For years, this has been my practice—prayer woven into footsteps. Something happens when you simply walk and allow yourself to be present with the Artist of Creation. The world reawakens. It is more than walking; it is silent contemplation. A simple, profound prayer in motion.
 
I am humbled by the beauty I so often overlook. Nature’s wonder opens the door to gratitude. In these thin moments, we sense the interconnection of life. We feel the presence of the Creator. We are humbled. We are loved. We are blessed.
​
May each step today be a prayer, each breath a reminder, each glance at creation a moment of gratitude.
 
Go forth in the mist,
walking humbly with your God,
and may you find yourself
loved, blessed, and renewed.

Putting Things in Order
“Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”
—Psalm 51:10
 
It’s still dark outside as we walk through the Garden this Wednesday morning. The little Doodle girl is bouncing around, delighting in the chill and the quiet. I’m walking slowly, realizing that the Garden is finally put to bed for the season. The list of outdoor chores is complete. The list of indoor ones, however, is growing by the day.
 
This is the time of year when we repair the tools. Clean everything. Organize and reassess what’s needed. What can be salvaged, and what must be replaced. As Dr. B likes to say, it’s about putting things in order.
 
It’s also the season for pruning, not just in the Garden, but in life. I’m sorting through the clutter that’s accumulated, letting go of what I no longer need or use. It’s a good thing to do. Necessary, even.
 
And it’s a good time to look inward.
 
What in my heart needs to be surrendered to make room for grace? What hurts, frustrations, or old angers have taken root and need to be pulled up? More than I care to admit, if I’m being honest. But it’s time. Time to forgive. Time to move on. Time to lighten the load on these old knees. A little less to carry on this aching back.
 
Let go. Move forward. Forgive. Be thankful. Fix what I can. Release what I can’t. And above all, be grateful for what I have.
 
Spend a little more time with the Creator of all things. Listen more. Listen closely.
 
Lighten the load.
 
“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”
—1 Peter 5:7
 
Let stillness be a sanctuary.
Let the pruning bring peace.
Let my heart find rest in the One who tends all things with love.
As I walk through the quiet Garden,
may I feel the gentle whisper of grace
reminding me: you are loved, just the way you are.  Right now.

Gathered and Remembered
 
“Even the leaves, once fallen, find purpose again.”
 
It’s that time of year again in the Carondelet Garden. We gather fallen leaves from in and around the beds, rake them up, mow them over, and pile them into the compost cube to rest for the year ahead.
 
Through the quiet magic of fungal action—helped along by a bit of moisture, those leaves slowly transform into a rich, earthy concoction known as leaf mould. It’s one of nature’s finest gifts to the garden. With most of the leaves now down, this task should be wrapped up today.
 
The Garden is nearly tucked into its Winter mode. It’s the second half of November, and the forecast echoes what we already feel in our bones: winter is just around the corner. A gentle reminder to stock up on birdseed—watching the birds flit in and out of the feeders is one of my favorite seasonal joys.
 
We’re also deep in Thanksgiving preparations: planning menus, baking, shopping for ingredients, and readying ourselves for the big day. But it’s not just about the feast. It’s also a time of remembering. There are a few more empty chairs this year—some long gone, others more recent. We remember. We tell stories. We share a bit of Jameson Irish Whiskey. We laugh. Sometimes we cry. They’re not truly gone. They live on in our hearts, and we will see them again. For now, we give thanks for their memory and their love.
 
Thanksgiving, indeed.
 
“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”
— Isaiah 40:8
 

The Sacred Art of Puttering
“The earth has music for those who listen.”
— George Santayana
 
The winter cold that wrapped us in freezing temperatures has finally loosened its grip, and Fall has returned with a soft sigh. Sunshine spills across the yard, the air is crisp but kind, and the trees, still dressed in their golden garments, hold on just a little longer. It’s the kind of day that beckons you outside, inviting you to cross a few more chores off the to-do list while soaking in the beauty.
 
When I was younger, the very idea of raking leaves or mowing grass filled me with dread. I’d invent any excuse to avoid yard work. But many years later, you’ll find me most days puttering about in the Garden, pulling a weed here, moving a plant there, or simply sitting and pondering.
 
I putter and I ponder. These quiet rituals have become more than a hobby for this old Gardener. They are my sacred rhythm, my way of connecting with the Creator of all things. The Garden is my sanctuary, my teacher, my place of spiritual growth and wonder. Working the soil, nurturing life, and watching the seasons unfold reminds me to slow down, breathe deeply, and truly connect.
 
We all need that connection with nature. For me, it’s essential. Even a short time outdoors fills me with wisdom, beauty, and a sense of awe that lingers long after I’ve come back inside. Nature has long been a spiritual guide—whispering truths, offering comfort, and revealing the divine in the ordinary.
 
By embracing nature as a teacher, we deepen our awareness and cultivate a more profound sense of spiritual growth. Gardening, in particular, offers a unique opportunity to explore this connection, to nurture not just plants, but our souls.
 
So today, I’ll put on my boots, pick up my rake, and head outside to putter a bit. I might ponder a bit too. And I know, without a doubt, I’ll feel better when I’m done.
 
“You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”
— Isaiah 55:12
​

Winter’s Alchemy
“What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.”
—1 Corinthians 15:36
 
We planted garlic in the Garden this week. The first few weeks of November are the perfect time to tuck garlic cloves into the soil, just before winter’s chill settles in. Though it may seem counterintuitive, garlic needs the cold to grow. The freezing temperatures of winter activate its transformation, without them, the bulbs are still small and timid. But with time and patience, the harshest season becomes the spark for abundance. By next summer, the transition is complete, and we are graced with a robust, fragrant harvest.
 
Garlic, in its quiet way, teaches us about growth through adversity. Planting it now is an act of faith in the unseen, a trust that what lies dormant will one day flourish.  As we peel back the layers of this humble bulb, we uncover its deeper gifts: abundance, resilience, and renewal. Garlic reminds us to look beyond the mundane and recognize the sacred in everyday things. It whispers of prosperity and spiritual awakening, of cycles that begin in darkness and end in light.
 
Our garden, too, is a sacred space, a sanctuary where the soul can rest and reflect. It offers us a place to meditate, to grow, and to reconnect with the Creator of all things. In the garden, we learn to embrace change, to trust in renewal, and to find beauty in every season. Just as garlic transforms beneath the frost, so too do we, rooted in faith, nourished by grace, and always reaching toward the light.
 
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
​—John 12:24

​The Garden Knows: Embracing Change with Grace
The garden teaches me: what fades is not lost, but transformed.
 
Isaiah 43:19
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
 
The first hard freeze of fall arrived last night. We feel it in the crisp air, but more poignantly, we see it in the garden, the tender plants have faded, their vibrant energy gone. This is the moment when you know: something has shifted. A quiet change has taken place.
 
I’ll admit, I’m not a great lover of change. I cherish the familiar. I thrive on routine and flourish with a set schedule. Surprises? Not my favorite. I am, without a doubt, a planner. Yet, as this old gardener continues down the winding path of aging, I’m learning that change is not only inevitable, but also essential. To grow, I must be willing to adapt. And by adapting, I’m discovering, is its own form of spiritual growth.
 
I’m not sure I’ve fully embraced change and uncertainty just yet. But I’m trying.
 
Writing has become one of my most faithful companions in this process. It helps me navigate the ups and downs, the trials and tribulations, with a bit more grace. Gardening does the same. Both offer me a sense of peace, a sacred rhythm, a place to reflect, a way to find balance. They remind me that this journey, with all its twists and turns, is where spirit meets strength.
 
Even after the frost, the garden whispers: there is still beauty to be found, and strength to be grown.

​The First Frost: A Time to Harvest and Reflect
“Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”
—Mary Oliver
 
The first hard frost of the season is on the horizon, and we’re working quickly to gather the last of the tender vegetables before its arrival. The carrots were especially abundant this year, what a grace to witness that vibrant orange rising from the rich, dark soil. Carrot soup is surely on the menu soon, a warm tribute to the season’s generosity.
 
Frost signals the end of the growing season. Its frozen touch transforms everything it meets. And yet, we know the frost is not just an ending, it’s necessary. It reminds us that even under the harshest conditions, life continues. Nature endures. It adapts. It survives.
 
As we watch and wait, we learn. We learn that when life brings hardship, we too can adapt. We can endure. We can survive. And not just survive… but thrive.
 
This season teaches us that the hardest times often carry seeds of growth and rebirth. Renewal and change may come wrapped in cold and quiet, but they are no less sacred. As the growing season draws to a close, let us take time to rest, reflect, and renew.
 
We can adapt. We can survive. And in time, we will thrive.
 
As the frost settles and the soil rests, may we pay attention to the quiet gifts of the season. May we be astonished by resilience, by grace, by the beauty of endings. And may we tell about it, with warmth, with hope, and with the courage to begin again.
 
“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”
—Ecclesiastes 3:1

Rooted in Wisdom, Ready for Winter
"They will be like a well-watered garden, and they will sorrow no more."
—Jeremiah 31:12 (NIV)
 
It’s that time of year when this old gardener heads outside to finish buttoning up the garden for the coming winter. We’re expecting our first hard freeze this weekend, so it’s time to bring in the last of the houseplants. They’ve already been “quarantined” and treated with an organic spray to keep any little hitchhikers from sneaking indoors. Believe me, it’s far easier to deal with unwanted invaders before they settle in than after they’ve taken over. If you know, you know!
 
But the work of closing the garden isn’t just about scrubbing pots and prepping soil, it’s also about preparing myself. This is my time to dig a little deeper, clear out what’s no longer needed, and make space for spiritual renewal. As I create a healthier garden for the next growing season, I’m also cultivating a more grounded, spiritually healthy gardener.
 
This season reminds me to reconnect with nature and remember that everything, and everyone, is connected. We are stewards of harmony, both in the garden and in our lives.
 
The only thing that is good for any of us is that which is good for all of us. That is wisdom. And wisdom isn’t about clinging to the way things have always been done, it’s about making ancient truths come alive in the present. To stay vibrant, to stay truly alive, we must open ourselves to life’s eternal dream: the dream of becoming a better person tomorrow than we are today.
 
The work we do—and the way we do it is the legacy we leave for future generations.
 
As for me, my main goal is simple: to live. Truly live, until I die. That may just be one of life’s greatest virtues.
 
As I tuck the garden in for its winter rest, I’m reminded that dormancy is not death—it’s preparation. Beneath the surface, life stirs. Roots deepen. Soil settles. And so do I. May this season of quiet tending bring peace to your spirit and strength to your roots. Let us live fully, even in stillness.

​Twirling Leaves and Ordinary Wonder
“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” — Socrates
 
Luke 18:17 (NRSV):
“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”
 
The month of Thanksgiving has begun—and it’s arriving at just the right time for this old gardener. The world feels heavy with anger and division lately. I don’t know if things are truly getting worse or if I’m simply more aware of the news. But maybe that distinction doesn’t matter. What does matter is how we choose to respond.
 
We respond with gratitude.
 
We give thanks—for the big and the small, for the beauty that still surrounds us, for the grace that quietly sustains us.
 
The leaves are changing now, and the kaleidoscope of color is spilling across the autumn skies in untold glory. I’m so thankful to live in a place that offers four full seasons of wonder. Just this past weekend, I walked with a little two-year-old beauty who was utterly captivated by a single leaf. She picked it up, twirled it in her tiny hands, and giggled with sheer delight. That moment reminded me to pause. To notice. To bear witness to the wonder that’s always around us—if only we take the time to truly see.
I’m afraid of losing that wonder. Afraid of forgetting how to be thankful for the simple things. But then I remember: You must become like a little child. A child still sees the miracle in a solitary leaf.
 
This month let’s take a moment to rediscover the joy of youth. Let’s rekindle wonder and amazement. Let’s feed the soul—and remember to say thank you.
 
So, as the days grow shorter and the skies turn gray, may we hold fast to wonder. May we notice the twirling leaf, the giggle of a child, the hush of grace in ordinary things. And in all of it, may we whisper our thanks—softly, sincerely, and often.

Remembering as an Act of Love
 
The garden rests beneath fallen leaves, and the air carries a hush that feels sacred. All Souls’ Day invites us to pause, not in fear or sorrow, but in reverence. It is a day for remembering the departed, for honoring the ordinary saints whose lives shaped ours in quiet, enduring ways.
 
I think of hands that once planted seeds beside mine, voices that said grace over meals, laughter that filled kitchens now quiet. These souls, neighbors, friends, family, live on in the way we tend our gardens, share our recipes, offer kindness. Their legacy is stitched into our lives, not in grand gestures, but in simple, sacred rhythms.
 
All Souls’ Day reminds us that remembrance is an act of love. We carry our beloved dead not just in our hearts, but in our habits—in the way we stir soup, prune roses, greet strangers with warmth. Their stories become our own.
 
So today, I walk slowly. I listen deeply. In the hush of November, I feel them near, not gone, but woven into the fabric of this life. Saints, not by title, but by tenderness.
 
May we honor them with memory and with mercy. May the garden bloom and reflect the beauty they left behind.