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 I reach that point where I’m ready to release outdated ideas and long-held beliefs, and then the old ways return.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.

​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.

​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.