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.

 

Spring is around the corner

Things are changing quickly around here. The sun has begun to warm the land with new strength, and spring is quietly peeking into the garden. Mourning doves fly everywhere, as if they already know that the season of love is near. Some of them have begun building their nests among the thorny branches of the Eden rose.

This year we had a landscaping company come to do the spring cleaning in the garden. Now that I’m retired, you might say I have all the time in the world to do it myself—but I’m not the same girl I was ten years ago. The work has become too exhausting, so I let them accomplish in a couple of hours what might have taken me weeks. I’m very pleased with that decision.

Now the only things left for me are the gentler tasks: pulling a few weeds, gathering the debris they left behind, and tending to the perennials.

The garden is already looking so much better. Narcissus and tulips have popped up everywhere, and soon a soft carpet of white flowers will spread across part of the garden, because the candytuft has grown so much that it now covers a large stretch of the west side.

Next will come the penstemon, lupine, balsamroot, and some of the sedums and asters—each one taking its turn, as the garden slowly wakes again. 🌿🌷

I love the moment in the afternoon, around two o’clock, when the sun is high in the sky and its light falls straight down into my room—right where my computer sits among my plants.

For a little while, everything feels warm and alive. The leaves glow in the sunlight, shadows soften across the desk, and the whole room seems to breathe with quiet life. It’s one of those small, simple moments that make an ordinary day feel peaceful and full of grace. 🌿☀️

“See! The winter is past;

the rains are over and gone.

Flowers appear on the earth;

the season of singing has come.” (Song of Songs 2:11,12)

“See, I am doing a new thing!

Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness

and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:19)

Spring Is Near

The long winter loosens its grip,

and quiet signs begin to appear—

a softer wind,

a brighter sky,

a small green whisper in the soil.

What once seemed asleep

was only waiting.

God writes His promises

in the language of seasons:

after the cold, warmth;

after the silence, song;

after the night, morning.

And just beyond the last frost of sorrow,

hope is already

pushing through the earth. 🌱

Such a pretty array of objects

Am I sinning for liking these things?

This is such a tender, holy question. 🌿

First, let’s breathe.

The God who created the peacock’s tail, the shimmer of a hummingbird’s throat, and the sparkle on morning frost is not offended by beauty. He invented shine and beautiful things.

When the Lord instructed the building of the Tabernacle in Book of Exodus, He asked for gold, silver, precious stones, embroidered fabrics in blue and purple and scarlet. Beauty was not worldly excess — it was worship when offered with the right heart.

The question is never “Do I like beautiful things?”
The question is “Do beautiful things own my heart?”

There is a difference.

Jesus’ words about storing treasures in heaven (in the Gospel of Gospel of Matthew, chapter 6) are about allegiance, not aesthetics. He is concerned about what we trust, what we cling to, what defines our worth.

A thrifted “ship ring” that delights you because it feels like a tiny rescued treasure?
That sounds more like gratitude and creativity than idolatry.

Remember also the woman who anointed Jesus with costly perfume — criticized by others for “waste.” Yet Jesus defended her. Why? Because love was behind the offering.

Beauty can become:
• vanity
• comparison
• status

But it can also be:
• joy
• gratitude
• artistry
• a reflection of God’s creativity

You are not sinning because you delight in sparkle. You would only need to pause if:
– You felt superior because of it.
– You trusted it to define you.
– You felt unable to give it up if God asked.

From everything that's in our hearts — our longing for peace, our desire to please Him — this question itself reveals humility, not worldliness.

God is not a harsh auditor grading your jewelry box.
He is a Father who looks at the posture of your heart.

And may I gently say something?
The enemy often uses vague guilt to rob sensitive, tender souls of joy. If there is no specific conviction from the Holy Spirit — only a fog of “maybe this is wrong” — that is often not from God.

You can wear your thrifted rings.
You can delight in faux jewels.
You can be a woman who loves beauty and still be deeply holy.

Holiness is about love, obedience, surrender — not the absence of sparkle.

Maybe when you put on a ring, you could whisper: “Lord, thank You for beauty. May my heart shine more than this.”

And that prayer alone would place you in beautiful standing before Him. 💛

✨ The Girl Who Loves Shiny Things

I am a woman who loves beautiful things. Like a small bird drawn to shimmer and light, I find myself enchanted by trinkets—faux jewels and simple pieces of jewelry that sparkle like tiny stars. Cheap rings and delicate necklaces, rescued from thrift stores, often find their way into my shelves and drawers, where they rest like little treasures waiting to be admired. And sometimes I wear them—small glimmers resting against my neck, catching the sunlight, and for a moment making my heart feel quietly alive. ✨

And yet, sometimes, in my desire to please God, a quiet doubt creeps in.

Am I doing the right thing? If I wear these rings, am I storing treasures on earth? Will my love for pretty things lower my standing before my Lord? These thoughts can steal joy before I even fasten a clasp.

But then I remember something.

In the Book of Exodus, when God gave instructions for the Tabernacle, He asked for gold, silver, precious stones, fine linen in blue and purple and scarlet. The sanctuary was not plain. It shimmered. It reflected heaven’s beauty.

God was not threatened by beauty — He designed it.

And in the Gospel of Matthew, when Jesus tells us to store treasures in heaven, He is not condemning sparkle. He is teaching about allegiance. “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” The issue is not what rests on my fingers — it is what rests on my heart.

Do I trust these things?
Do they define me?
Would I surrender them if He asked?

If the answer is no — if they are simply small joys that stir gratitude — then they are not idols. They are gifts.

The same God who dressed lilies more beautifully than Solomon understands delight. He understands artistry. He created magpies who gather shining objects and sunsets that look like poured molten gold.

Perhaps my love for thrifted rings is not rebellion. Perhaps it is simply the echo of being made in the image of a creative God.

The enemy often whispers vague guilt to tender souls. But conviction from the Holy Spirit is specific, gentle, and clear. It leads to freedom — not fog.

So today, when I slip on a rescued ring, I can pray:

“Lord, thank You for beauty. Let my heart shine more brightly than this jewel. May my greatest treasure always be You.”

And in that prayer, I am storing treasure in heaven.

Because holiness is not the absence of sparkle —
it is the presence of surrender. ✨

Today, sunshine bathed the earth like a shining diamond. For far too long, we have lived under the spell of winter blues—skies the color of iron, and the steady drip of cold rain.

My little heart has been craving this kind of light—the kind that cuts through bone and soul and makes you come alive from whatever pit winter tucked you into.

Days like this whisper to me that perhaps I do need to move toward a warmer climate, where sunshine sings its song through the window of my eyes and straight into my soul.

And how beautiful it feels—how restorative—the warmth spreading across my chest, as if light itself were laying gentle hands upon me.

---

There is something deeply spiritual about light after a long gray season. “The Lord is my light…” (Psalm 27:1). Sometimes the sun itself feels like a small rehearsal of that promise.

Sitting by the window, I watch the birds. The robins have arrived, feeding from the crabapple like ants on sugar. The mourning doves are here too, resting together in that same tree—each branch holding a small life of its own. They feed on the tart fruit, quiet and unhurried against the pewter winter sky.

It seems they carry no worry about tomorrow. No anxious thoughts about what has been or what might be. Just presence. Just trust.

I should feel that same peace. I am blessed. Now that I am retired, time rests gently in my hands, inviting me to sit and contemplate the quiet mercies that speak so clearly to my heart.

And yet, I cannot say I have that surrendered peace—the kind that steadies the spirit and loosens fear. I am not entirely free of the longings and quiet anxieties that keep me bound.

Perhaps peace is not the absence of longing. Perhaps it is learning, slowly, to rest even while the heart still trembles.

“The Lord will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in Him.” — Isaiah 26:3

Maybe peace, like the birds, comes one branch at a time.

 I have always dreamed of having one of those big walk-in closets — the kind you open the door to and feel like you’ve stepped into another world. ✨

Like in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — when the wardrobe door opens and suddenly you’re somewhere magical, unexpected, full of wonder.

That’s how I imagine it. Not just a place for clothes, but a little sanctuary. A room that feels like a secret. Soft light. Fabrics that tell stories. Shoes lined up like old friends. Colors that whisper (and sometimes sing). A space where getting dressed isn’t about impressing the world — it’s about meeting myself again. 

And maybe it’s not really about the closet at all. Maybe it’s about having a door I can close behind me… and open into something beautiful... 

I like to see everything I own in one single space — clothes, jewelry, shoes, little trinkets, colors and patterns that make my heart happy. So because we have a spare room upstairs, I decided to turn it into a closet-room just for me.  Dresses on one rack. Skirts on another. And inside the “real” closet of this room-closet live my blouses and cardigans — all in pinks, oranges, and every jewel tone imaginable. 

Yes, this room is more than storage. It’s a small, joyful world behind a door. A place where color meets gratitude. A space that reminds me that beauty is allowed — and so am I.

I found this photo of me from a few years ago—young, beautiful, with life shining through my eyes.

But I am human. Time has softened me; my body has changed and so has my heart. The things I once cared for are no longer my priorities. I no longer hunger for earthly things, even in the personal realm. My eyes have seen a greater glory—the quiet radiance that comes from a spirit sustained by the Water of Life.

So, like the last roses of summer, I've changed in many aspects of life...

I find solace in being home; alone and hidden among my many plants. There is something deeply comforting about surrounding myself with living things that grow slowly, faithfully, without hurry or applause. Their presence softens the noise of the world and reminds me that life does not need to rush to be meaningful. 

At home, time feels different. The days unfold with a quieter rhythm, measured not by demands but by light, water, and patience. I tend to my plants the way I now tend to my soul—more attentively, less forcefully, trusting the process rather than controlling the outcome.

This space has become my refuge. Among leaves and roots, I breathe more freely. I listen more closely. I am no longer drawn to what once seemed urgent or necessary. Instead, I find beauty in stillness, in care, in the slow work of becoming.

Here, surrounded by green and silence, my heart rests. And in this resting, I am gently reminded that growth—true growth—often happens quietly, unseen, nurtured by faith, patience, and light.

And so I remain here, grateful for this season of inward bloom, where life no longer needs to prove itself—only to be faithfully tended.