My Hiding Place

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.