So many things have happened—and somehow, nothing at all.

Life has a quiet way of rearranging our vision. What once felt urgent softens, what we overlooked begins to speak. The noise fades, the pauses grow louder, and we realize that change doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it comes like a slow dawn, teaching us to see differently—not because the world changed, but because we did.

…and thus, I am home again after weeks and months away— good days, and days not so good, caring for my aging father. Now we are back home, retired, and life feels like a smoke signal: thin, drifting, here for a moment, pointing to something beyond itself.

The days rise and fade quietly. What once felt solid now feels fragile, almost borrowed. And yet, in this softness, there is a strange clarity—a knowing that time is both brief and sacred, that love shows up most truthfully in presence, not permanence.

Home no longer means a place only, but a pause. A breath. A reckoning with what matters, as the signal thins into the sky and reminds us to pay attention while it still rises.

I am content with the quietness of home and the settled grace of winter days. The slow hours, the pale light, the way time loosens its grip. Birds at the window, houseplants reaching silently for life—

These are my measures of abundance now. Nothing loud, nothing urgent. Just breath, presence, and the gentle assurance that this, too, is enough, if I have God by my side.

Sabbath morning…

I’m sitting by the big window in our bedroom, watching the new day slowly awaken outside. The light rises quietly, as if creation itself is stretching its arms after a peaceful night of rest. And as I sit here, simply looking, simply breathing, my heart slips naturally into adoration.

There is something sacred about these still moments—when nothing is demanded of me, when the world feels soft and unhurried. It’s here that I sense God the most. Not in grand gestures, not in busy hours, but in the quiet hush of morning when His presence feels like warm light on my skin.

A deep contentment settles inside me… a holy calm. I feel grateful—not only for the things I have, but for the unseen blessings He continually pours into my life: peace, protection, guidance, strength, and the gentle reminders that I am held.

This is Sabbath for me:

A window, a sunrise, a heart resting in God’s goodness.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

Every year, without fail, my Christmas cactuses surprise me. Just when the days grow shorter and the air turns crisp with winter’s breath, these humble plants begin to bloom again—quietly, faithfully, almost as if they are whispering a secret from heaven.

Their blossoms arrive like soft hymns of color in the middle of December’s stillness. They do not demand attention or effort. They simply receive what is given—gentle light, a sip of water, a quiet corner—and in return they offer beauty, generosity, and grace.

There’s something holy about their timing. Something tender about the way they wait all year, holding life within their stems, until the exact moment appointed for them to unfold. And when they do, it feels like a reminder to my own heart: even in seasons that seem silent or dormant, God is quietly preparing something new.

These small flowers teach me that life does not always bloom in the loud or the grand. Sometimes it blooms in the hidden places—slowly, steadily, faithfully—just as God works in us. Their petals feel like little parables: of hope in the middle of winter, of beauty birthed from patience, of promises kept in the quiet.

When I see the first bud open, I remember that His timing is always perfect, even when mine is impatient. His seasons are wise, even when I don’t yet understand them. And His grace continues to blossom in ways I could not have predicted, but deeply needed.

“To everything there is a season,
and a time for every purpose under heaven.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1

This year, I came close to getting rid of all my Christmas decorations. I held each piece in my hands and felt how much I’ve changed. Minimalism has become a quiet refuge for me — a way to breathe, to think, to rest. I wasn’t sure I wanted anything extra in my home, anything that might disturb the sense of calm I’ve worked so gently to create.

But then, something shifted in my heart.

Instead of decorating the inside, why not decorate the garden?  Just a few ornaments along the bird feeding stations, a few simple touches — nothing overwhelming, nothing loud. And somehow, it feels exactly right. A peaceful home within my walls, and a soft glow just beyond them.

It reminded me that less isn’t about emptiness… it’s about intention. It’s choosing what truly matters, and letting go of what doesn’t. It’s making room for peace, not clutter. It’s discovering that simplicity can still shine — quietly, gently, beautifully.

So this year, my home is calm on the inside and glowing softly on the outside… like a small reminder that even in simplicity, beauty still has a place to stand, and light still knows how to find its way.

“Let your light so shine before others, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” — Matthew 5:16

I love birds…

Their flight is free and light, as if they carried the secrets of heaven upon their wings. When I watch them glide between the branches and sing without fear, my heart rises with them. They remind me that life is simple, beautiful, and that there is always a reason to lift our eyes and give thanks for a new day.

Today, however, was something special. A small group of quails wandered into my garden. They moved with that shy, curious grace that only quails possess—like tiny keepers of silence, tiptoeing through the morning light. Their unexpected visit filled the air with a gentle peace, a soft blessing that touched my soul with tenderness.

As I stood there watching them, time seemed to slow down. The rustle of their little feet, the quiet rhythm of their steps, and the way they paused to look around made my garden feel sacred for a moment. It was as if God Himself had sent them to whisper, “Be still. Breathe. You are surrounded by beauty.” And in that simple, fleeting encounter, my heart found a deeper rest.

Beautiful! How very beautiful the garden looks during the last leg of autumn—its final glories lingering a little longer in the stretch of the seasons, like jewels under November's golden sun.  As in the spring of their prime, some of the roses are again in full bloom. What a lovely vision they offer to the tired eye in the warmth of the day, adorned in their beautiful reds and creamy pink crowns. They seem to be applauding the Creator, as if saying: “Thank you! Thank you for another chance to shine!” 

Can this joy I found in nature be impersonated in our human life! Can we imitate roses in our joy for the house of the Lord--our place of refuge from the turmoil of this world and the place we turn to when life overwhelms and to where we can turn to in times of crisis. 

David’s love for the Lord was deepened by worshiping Him.  His psalms are filled with a longing to abide in God’s presence, within his house.  In Psalm 26:8, he declares, “Lord, I love the house where you live, the place where your glory dwells”.

Our hearts, too, acknowledge this yearning.  We seek you, Lord, our hearts look after you with quenching thirst.  May we dwell in you, all the days of our lives.

Days go by as if on wings of birds—swift, light, and impossible to hold. Yet within their fleeting rhythm, I find a gentle beauty that carries me through each season. Autumn has arrived softly, laying golden crowns on every leaf, tinting my garden with warm tones of amber, copper, and fading green.

In this tender season, I return to the comfort of my kitchen. A pot simmers on the stove, filled with vegetables that melt into a soothing warmth—rosy cabbage, tender kale, potatoes soft as clouds, and the comforting flavor of turkey sausage. The steam rises slowly, curling through the air like a blessing, as if reminding me that nourishment is not only for the body but also for the soul.

When the pot rests, I step outside. The path is covered in crisp leaves that sing beneath my feet. Birds dart from branch to branch, their wings a quiet prayer of their own. Some fly close, as if curious about my presence; others watch from above, guardians of this enchanted little world. The trees whisper ancient stories, tales carried by the wind, reminding me that even in change there is peace.

In this autumn garden, every walk becomes a meditation, every meal becomes an embrace, and every swift day leaves behind a spark of wonder. I move slowly through it all, grateful, wrapped in the soft melody of nature preparing for rest.