God is Holding the Watering Can

Today, while running errands, something triggered me to feel the absence of my dear beloved Kelly. I couldn’t name it at first, but I could feel the weight of it. I was running errands and doing what this season of life requires of me, but I felt overwhelmed. I found myself wishing for a pause button, just a moment to stop feeling like I was running on empty.

As I drove, I thought of the song Thankful by Forest Frank. My granddaughter Ellie introduced this song to me, and I listen to it almost every morning.   It reminds me of all I have to be thankful for. But today, even though it helped, it wasn’t the one that reached the deepest part of me. It was the song that followed, “Flowers” by Samantha Ebert that really touched me as it echoed a message that I could really relate to. 

It has been a year and a half since Kelly’s passing. For the first year, my mind kept drifting to how much I wanted to be with him again. Living without him felt unbearably hard, and those thoughts were a reflection of the depth of love and the depth of loss.

The lyrics of Flowers speak of desperate prayers, about asking God why He keeps us in certain places or seasons. It tells the story of someone going through a long, heavy season of struggle. In desperation, they cry out to God, asking why they’re being kept in such a hard place. God responds with reassurance that He’s planting seeds, working a good plan, and using this difficult valley to grow something beautiful in time.

As the person learns to trust that promise, they begin to see their suffering as a season with purpose. Eventually, when they’re on the “mountain” looking back, they recognize that the pain produced growth, gratitude, and peace. The valley is full of flowers from the seeds He planted during that journey.

Those words went straight to the tender place in me, the place where I still long for Kelly’s presence, the place where I’m learning to live without him, the place where I’m trying to trust God with the parts of my life that feel unfinished or overwhelming.  The valley I’m  walking through is not wasted as God is planting seeds here. Seeds of strength. Seeds of compassion. Seeds of endurance. Seeds of deeper trust. Seeds of becoming. And someday, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, I will look back and see that the valley was not barren. It was blooming.

 Psalm 30:5  reminds us that “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

Missing Kelly is part of my journey. It doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I’m going backward.
It means I loved deeply, and that love still echoes.

So, I learned from this song that the Lord is not done with me. He is not done with my healing. He is not done with my story as it is still being written.

I love how the song reminded me that  God holds a watering can over every valley I walk through. And because of that, I can have peace.

A Better Way A Christlike Way

 This morning, as I listened to a news report from Capitol Hill, something unexpected caught my attention. A ranking member began to speak, and from the very first sentence, his voice carried a sharp edge. Not calm conviction. Not steady reasoning. Just what appeared to be his anger on the matter at hand.

For a moment, I found myself wondering why he felt his frustration had to be shared in such an angry way.  I questioned why he couldn’t share his message without all that intensity.

Then almost immediately, the Spirit brought something to my remembrance.

Just a few days earlier, I had made a phone call on behalf of Mom. I had followed every instruction the credit card company had given me, only to be told they had no record of anything I had done and that I would need to start all over again.

I felt the frustration rising. My tone tightened. My words grew sharper. There was no question that I was not happy.

Then, right in the middle of my irritation, I heard myself. And I didn’t like what I heard. So, I paused and I said to the man on the other end of the line, “I’m sorry. I know you’re not the one who caused this. I shouldn’t be speaking to you in this tone. Please forgive me.”

He responded with kindness and with patience.

I don’t want frustration to shape my voice. I don’t want stress or exhaustion to spill out onto people who are simply doing their best. I don’t want to echo the world’s anger. I want to follow the example of my Savior.

Jesus knew frustration. He faced opposition, injustice, and cruelty. He confronted hard things daily. But even in His anger, He was godly, measured, purposeful, loving. His anger never belittled, never demeaned. His wounded pride never took place of His love.

Proverbs 15:1 says: "A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger"

The Lord isn’t simply teaching us how to speak. He is teaching us how to be.  How to be calm in the storm, gentle in frustration and kind even when we are right.

I am not there yet, But I am learning and I am trying.

So, when moments like these, whether on Capitol Hill or on a customer service call, I want to choose a better way, a Christlike way.

James 1:19–20 “Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath:  For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.”

 or

James 1:19–20  “Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.”

Learning to Walk Again

Watching my friend and neighbor struggle after losing part of his leg (and an arm) has given me a deeper understanding of what it truly means to relearn how to live. Years ago, an infection in his foot led to an amputation, and ever since then he has faced challenges most people have never witnessed. Some days the prosthetic fits well enough for him to move forward. Other days the smallest change in his body, a sore spot or a shift in weight, makes it painful or impossible to even put it on. What looks like a simple act of walking becomes a daily negotiation with pain, balance, and determination. Every step requires patience, courage, and a willingness to try again.

I admire him deeply. He has every reason to be angry about the circumstances that led to losing his leg, yet he chooses kindness. He chooses hope. He chooses to keep going. His attitude is a quiet testimony of strength.

The more I have watched him, the more I realize how much strength it takes to rebuild life from the ground up. He has had to relearn how to stand, how to trust his footing, and how to move through the world with a body that no longer works the way it once did. There is humility in that process, a quiet bravery in choosing to keep going even when the journey is slow and the progress is uneven. His perseverance has shown me that healing is not a single moment but a long series of small, faithful steps.

As I have reflected on his journey, I have seen pieces of my own story in it. Losing Kelly felt like losing a leg of my life. We walked together through everything, working, serving, praying, laughing and loving. We moved through the world side by side. When that was gone, I had to learn how to walk again too, just in a different way. My balance was off. My rhythm was gone. Even the simplest parts of life felt unfamiliar. Every step since then has required intention and a kind of emotional rehabilitation.

Part of my healing has come from returning to the things that steady me. Music, the outdoors, and writing have always been therapy for my soul, but grief pushed them aside for a time. I am now returning to those blessings as they become therapy for my heart and soul once again. They help me find rhythm again, fresh air again, and words when life feels too heavy. Learning to live after loss is slow, imperfect, and sometimes painful, but it is still movement forward. And like my friend, I am learning that every small step counts.

Isaiah 40:31  But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

Birds, Squirrels, and Me

I have a bird feeder that my children gave me after Kelly passed. It has a little camera on it so I can watch the birds that come to visit. It’s brought me a lot of comfort — but also one big problem: the squirrels. They show up uninvited, bold as ever, acting like the feeder was made just for them.

I’ve tried more than ten different ways to keep them away. Every idea, every gadget, every “guaranteed” solution has failed. The squirrels don’t care what the advertisements say. They climb, jump, stretch, and wiggle their way to the food every single time.

Sometimes, when I have a moment, I watch the camera and as soon as I see a squirrel, I run outside to chase it off. At this point, I think it’s fair to say I’ve become the crazy squirrel lady. I laugh at myself, but it’s true.

Lately, though, I’ve realized I can’t keep fighting this battle. The squirrels are going to come whether I like it or not. So I’m learning to accept the uninvited guests. The birds still come. The squirrels still come. And somehow, there’s room for all of them. One of these days, I may try relocating the feeder or even giving the squirrels their own food source — but for now, I’m choosing peace.

Sometimes life brings things we never asked for and would never choose. These moments arrive like uninvited guests, settling themselves right into the middle of our days. Our first instinct is often to fight, to fix, to control every detail so nothing feels out of place. But all that striving can leave us exhausted and discouraged.

There comes a point when we realize that some things simply won’t bend to our will, no matter how hard we try. And in that moment, we’re given a choice. We can keep wrestling with what we cannot change, or we can loosen our grip and allow a little peace to enter the room.

When we choose acceptance, something shifts. The situation may not change, but our hearts do. Even in the middle of uninvited trials, blessings still find their way to us with small comforts, unexpected joys, quiet reminders that we’re not alone. 

Sometimes acceptance isn’t letting go of hope;

 it’s making room for a new kind of hope.

Glasses and Eggs: Real love doesn’t require sameness

 

After we were married, Kelly unloaded the dishwasher one day and put all the glasses away with the openings facing up. I noticed it immediately and said, “Haven’t you seen that I always put the glasses face down?” He smiled that gentle, knowing smile of his and replied, “I see you’ve noticed that I don’t.” That moment still makes me smile. It was such a perfect picture of us, two people who loved each other deeply, even when we did things differently.

We had other little differences too. One of them involved something as simple as eggs. I always emptied the carton from one side, working my way across. But Kelly liked to take eggs from both sides to keep the carton balanced. It used to bother me, and I’d quietly rearrange them the way I preferred.

Funny how time softens things.

Now that Kelly has passed away, I find myself doing it his way. I take eggs from both sides, just like he did. And instead of feeling annoyed, I smile. These tiny habits, once insignificant, have become tender reminders of the man I love.

None of these things ever caused contention. They were just small differences in the rhythm of our life together. I might have grumbled inwardly, but I’d simply change it and move on. Now, I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Grief has a way of turning the ordinary into something sacred. A cupboard of glasses, some face up, some face down. An egg carton emptied from both sides. These simple moments have become gentle echoes of a life shared, a love lived, and a companion dearly missed.

And in these quiet reminders, I feel both Kelly’s love and the Lord’s tender mercy, teaching me that love endures in the smallest, most unexpected places.

Real love doesn’t require sameness. It simply makes space. These everyday actions become symbols of a life shared and hearts still connected.

I miss my beloved Kelly!

1 John 3:18 

My little children, let us not love in word, niether in tongue; but in deed and in truth.

or  

“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” 

Love is shown in the way we live, not just what we say.

When the Roads Freeze, Hearts Thaw

 Every so often, Texas gets quiet. The roads ice over, plans pause, and the usual rush slows to a gentle crawl. And in that stillness, something beautiful happens.

Moms bundle up and head outside with their kids. Makeshift sleds appear, laundry baskets, pool floats, even cardboard boxes, tied behind pickup trucks and pulled through the neighborhood with laughter trailing behind. The air is cold, but the joy is warm.

It’s a rare kind of day. One where time bends a little, and families find themselves together in ways they hadn’t planned. No schedules. No errands. Just tiny snowflakes on top of iced covered land providing different kinds of activities.

We may only see ice or snow once a year, but when we do, it reminds us to slow down. To enjoy the moment, to be present with the people we love.

It’s a  gentle nudge to pause, to gather, to remember what matters most.  In the laughter, we feel the joy God intended for families. And in the unexpected pause, we find a sacred kind of rest.

Maybe that’s the real gift of a frozen road.

A Broken Spatula and a Full Heart

Today, my long‑used spatula broke. It may seem like such a small thing, but it was my favorite. I’m not even sure why, I just liked it. It fit my hand perfectly, flipped pancakes just right, served up meals with ease, and quietly helped me through countless ordinary days.

As I thought about replacing it, tears welled up because this wasn’t just a spatula. It was the one I used to prepare many meals for Kelly and me. It stirred more than food tonight; it stirred memories.

Now that Kelly has passed, this simple kitchen tool carries a weight I never expected. It’s a reminder of love, of shared routines, of our everyday time together . Today, as it broke, I felt the ache of loss in a new way.

Grief shows up in the most unexpected places. Today, it was the spatula. It’s still usable in a gentle way, and I will find another one, but this one will stay with me for the rest of my life. I never would have guessed that something so small could trigger such a powerful reminder of my love for my dear, sweet companion.

I also felt something else. A quiet reassurance that the Lord is aware of me, even here in my kitchen, holding a broken utensil and the tender memories that go with my spatula. He knows how deeply I love Kelly, and He honors those feelings.  Nothing good is ever lost to Him. Not love. Not memory. Not the life Kelly and I built together.

One day, all broken things will be made whole again. Until then, even a spatula can become a reminder that love endures, and that God walks with me through every small, unexpected corner of grief.