There is something in the atmosphere. I can’t quite name it, and maybe that’s what unsettles me most. It isn’t loud or obvious—it’s quiet, almost hidden—but it lingers, pressing gently against the edges of my thoughts. It feels like a whisper brushing against my soul, hinting at something just beyond my understanding.

For a moment, my mind drifts to the Book of Revelation—those ancient, mysterious pages filled with symbolism, warning, and wonder. The kind of words that have made generations pause and ask, “Is something about to unfold?” There’s a certain gravity in that thought, a pull that feels both sacred and unsettling.

But as I sit with this feeling a little longer, I begin to notice something else.

It’s not fear.

It’s not urgency.

It’s something softer… deeper.

Maybe this feeling isn’t something to fear.

Maybe it’s God.

Not in the way of thunder or sudden revelation, not in a way that brings confusion or dread—but in a quiet, persistent whisper that reaches deeper than words ever could. A gentle stirring that won’t let me stay the same.

Maybe He is waking me up.

Calling me—not away in panic, but closer in love. Closer than I’ve been before. Away from the noise, the distractions, the endless weight of things that don’t truly matter. Because this sad world, it is indeed ending and my soul is being invited into something more eternal.

There is a tenderness in that thought.

That this uneasiness is real, but also an invitation to surrender. To loosen my grip on what is temporary, and return to what is lasting. To remember that I was never meant to be consumed by this world, but to walk through it with my eyes set on Him.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Maybe that is the voice beneath it all.

Not urgency—but stillness.

Not fear—but calling.

An ending, but also a new beginning.  

So I will lean in. I will keep listening to God's voice.  And if it is your will, Lord—

then draw me closer.

Gently, faithfully… completely.

“Look, he is coming with the clouds,”

    and “every eye will see him,

even those who pierced him”;

    and all peoples on earth “will mourn because of him.”

So shall it be! Amen.

 

At the threshold of March, the landscaping crew arrived—quiet stewards of renewal—tending to the roses with careful hands, lifting away the remnants winter had left behind in the garden beds. What had gathered in stillness and cold was, in a matter of hours, gently cleared away. I found myself deeply grateful for those young workers who restored order and readiness, as if preparing the earth itself to welcome spring once more.

Soon, another company will come to anoint the trees and shrubs—guarding them against the unseen threats of insects and disease, and giving special care to the roses, which so deeply need it.

As for me, I lingered in the smaller tasks: cleansing the fountains and birdbath, pulling stubborn weeds, gathering the quiet traces left behind. And in the morning light, something sacred unfolds—the sun pours down new mercies, and the sky, reflected in the clear water, seems to dance with joy.

There is still a bit left for my hands to do—old pots and garden ornaments waiting to be renewed with fresh paint, small touches of beauty yet to be restored. I’ve also reached out to a company to transform that far corner beneath the tree, where time has quietly settled. They will lay new slabs and gently remove the old vegetable garden—no longer a place of harvest, but a little box visited more often by wandering cats than by seeds.

In its place, a new beginning: two standing garden boxes, chosen with hope from Costco, waiting to be assembled. We plan to build them once the city water begins to flow again and the porch is washed clean—because that is where they will now rest, lifted into the light, ready for new life to grow.