Change

When the Seasons Change

There’s a hush that falls over the world this time of year—a quiet whisper of endings and beginnings all at once.The trees loosen their grip on golden leaves, and I feel something inside me loosening, too. Maybe it’s the passing of time, or maybe it’s the ache that comes when the house grows too still and the laughter of my grown children lives mostly in my memories.

The days slip away so quickly now. Even the sun seems weary, sinking earlier each evening,leaving behind the kind of soft, lonely light that makes me wish for one more cup of coffee shared across the table, one more story told before bedtime, one more day that didn’t move quite so fast.

When the clocks turn back, I feel that missing hour of light like a tug on my heart. It’s strange how much one small hour can change a person’s spirit. I find myself reaching for the lamp a little earlier, and for comfort a little more often.

Perhaps that’s part of growing older—learning to see beauty in the quiet and grace in the gray.

And yet, even as the chill creeps in and the shadows stretch long across the evening, I am reminded that every season carries its own purpose. Autumn may bring loss, but it also brings reflection, gratitude, and peace—a slowing down that makes room for God’s whisper.

Dear Lord, when the days grow dim and my heart feels the weight of change, wrap me in the warmth of Your unchanging love. Let Your light be the glow that fills my spirit when daylight fades.Comfort me in the quiet moments and remind me that love—whether near or far—never truly leaves us.Teach me to cherish each season, each breath, each memory, knowing that even as the world turns and time moves on,You are here, steady and sure. 

Amen.

Growing Together: When Love Grows Older

There is something about growing older together that changes the way we look at love. When we are young, we imagine a lifetime stretching out before us, filled with more tomorrows than we could ever count. We build homes, raise families, make memories, and dream about the years ahead. We rarely stop to consider how quickly those years will pass or how different the person beside us will look when time has written its story upon both of us.

Sometimes, I look at my husband and find myself remembering the younger man I fell in love with. His hair has turned silver, his strength has waned, and the years have left their unmistakable marks upon his body. Time has changed him in ways neither of us could have imagined when we began our journey together. And yet, when I look into his eyes, I see something that time has not taken away. He still loves me with all his heart. Our bodies have changed, our steps may be slower, and our days may look different than they once did, but the love that binds us together remains.

Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful gifts of a lasting marriage. We have the privilege of knowing one another beyond the outward appearances that first drew us together. We have seen each other through good days and difficult ones, through laughter and tears, through seasons of certainty and moments when we had no idea what tomorrow would bring. We have watched our lives unfold one ordinary day at a time. Somewhere along the way, love has become more than a feeling. It has become a history, a promise, a familiar hand to hold, and a quiet assurance that we do not have to face life alone.

But growing older together also brings an awareness that can be difficult to put into words. We begin to understand that we are on the downhill slope of life. The years ahead may be fewer than the years behind us, and the thought of that can settle heavily upon the heart. I find myself wanting to hold tightly to every minute we have left together. I want to savor the conversations, the shared laughter, the simple evenings at home, and even the ordinary moments that once seemed too insignificant to remember. I want to pay attention to the little things because I know that one day, those little things may become the memories I treasure most.

And if I am honest, there is something that frightens me about growing older. Sooner or later, one of us will likely have to continue this earthly journey without the other. The thought of waking up one morning and reaching for a hand that is no longer there is almost too painful to consider. After sharing so much of life, how does a person learn to live in a world where the other half of so many memories is gone? How do we prepare our hearts for a loss we cannot yet imagine?

The truth is, we cannot fully prepare for every sorrow life may bring. But we can choose how we live the days we have been given. We can love more intentionally, forgive more readily, speak more gently, and stop postponing the things that matter. We can put down our distractions and look into the face of the person sitting beside us. We can say the words we sometimes assume are already understood. We can offer the extra hug, hold the hand a little longer, and remember that the ordinary moments we are living today may someday become extraordinary memories.

Scripture reminds us in Ecclesiastes 4:9–10, "Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow." What a beautiful picture of growing together. Marriage is not simply two people walking side by side when the road is smooth. It is two people helping one another through the uneven places, lifting each other when strength fails, and offering support when the burdens become too heavy for one person to carry alone.

There will come seasons when one of us must be stronger for the other. There may be days when the body grows frail, when memory becomes less dependable, or when the simplest tasks require more patience than they once did. Yet love has a way of changing with the seasons. What once looked like adventure may become companionship. What once looked like strength may become tenderness. What once required grand gestures may be expressed in the quiet act of helping someone rise from a chair or covering them with a blanket when they fall asleep.

And perhaps that is what growing together truly means. It means learning to love the person before us today, not merely remembering the person we fell in love with years ago. It means recognizing that silver hair is not a loss of beauty, that slower steps do not diminish the worth of a life, and that weakened hands can still hold a love strong enough to sustain us through our remaining years.

As Christians, we also have a hope that reaches beyond the limits of this earthly life. Psalm 73:26 tells us, "My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever." Our bodies will change. Our strength will eventually fail. The people we love will not always be beside us in the way they are today. But God remains faithful through every season. He is present in the joy of our early years, in the tenderness of our aging years, and in the sorrowful valleys we may one day have to walk.

I do not know what the future holds for my husband and me. I cannot promise that we will always be together on this side of eternity, and I cannot pretend that the possibility of being left alone does not frighten me. But I can choose not to let tomorrow's uncertainty rob me of today's blessing. I can love him here, now, in the life we are living together. I can thank God for the years we have shared and for the privilege of still having another day to love the man whose life has become so intertwined with my own.

If you are blessed to have someone beside you today, take a moment to look at them with fresh eyes. Look beyond the gray hair, the wrinkles, the changing bodies, and the limitations that age may bring. Look at the person who has walked beside you through the years. Remember the dreams you shared, the hardships you survived, and the memories only the two of you understand. Then give thanks for the beautiful, imperfect, precious gift of growing older together.

Because one day, we may look back and wish we could have just one more ordinary afternoon, one more conversation, one more opportunity to say, "I love you." We cannot stop the clock, nor can we bargain for more years than God has appointed. But while our loved ones are still here, we can make the most of the time we have been given.

Growing older together is not simply about watching the years pass. It is about discovering that even as time changes everything around us, love can grow deeper, faith can grow stronger, and gratitude can grow richer. And if God grants us the blessing of growing old beside someone we love, may we never become so accustomed to their presence that we forget what a precious gift it is to have them here.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the gift of love and for the people You have placed beside us on this earthly journey. Thank You for the years of shared memories, for the laughter that has lightened our burdens, and for the hands that have held ours through difficult seasons. As we grow older, help us not to be consumed by the fear of what tomorrow may bring. Teach us to treasure the moments we have today, to speak words of love while we still have the opportunity, and to extend patience and kindness when the years make life more difficult. When we worry about the possibility of loss, remind us that we are never beyond Your care. Help us grow together in love and faith, making each remaining day a testimony to Your goodness. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Everyday Devotionals by Bonnie Annis 

The Empty Chair at Thanksgiving: Finding God in the Places Where Love Still Hurts

Scripture: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (KJV)

There is something about the holidays that makes us especially aware of who is missing. As Thanksgiving approaches, we begin thinking about family gatherings, favorite recipes, familiar traditions, and the laughter that once filled our homes. Yet for many of us, beneath the anticipation of the season lies a tender ache, because the people who helped make these holidays special are no longer here. Sometimes the hardest part of Thanksgiving is not preparing the meal or gathering the family, but looking at the empty chair and realizing that someone we love will not be walking through the door.

In the South, family has a way of becoming woven into nearly everything we do. We gather around tables heavy with food, pass down recipes written in our grandmothers’ handwriting, tell stories we have heard a hundred times, and laugh at jokes that never seem to grow old. We know who makes the best dressing, whose sweet potato casserole is always requested, and which relative will tell the same story before the meal is finished. These traditions are more than holiday customs. They are pieces of our family history, held together by the people who created them. And when one of those people is gone, even the most familiar gathering can feel painfully different.

This Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to the people who will no longer be at my table. I think of my mother, my father, and my brother, whose places in my life can never truly be filled by anyone else. I think, too, of my Aunt Bonnie, who recently went home to be with the Lord. Each loss carries its own memories, its own story, and its own particular ache. As the holidays draw near, I find myself remembering the laughter, the conversations, the ordinary moments that seemed so unremarkable at the time but have become precious treasures now that I cannot experience them again in the same way.

Perhaps you know that feeling, too. You may be preparing a holiday meal while remembering someone who once stood beside you in the kitchen. You may find yourself reaching for the phone to call a parent before remembering that the familiar voice you long to hear is no longer on the other end. Perhaps a certain song, a favorite dish, or a story told around the table suddenly brings tears to your eyes. Grief has a way of finding us in the smallest details, often when we least expect it.

We do our best to remember the good things. We tell the old stories, share the funny memories, and repeat the expressions that made our loved ones so wonderfully themselves. We smile when someone tells a story we have heard countless times, and sometimes we laugh so hard that, for a moment, we almost forget the sadness. Those memories are gifts, and we should treasure them. But as beautiful as they are, they cannot bring our loved ones back. The laughter fades, the dishes are cleared, and eventually we find ourselves facing the truth again: someone we love is missing.

So how do we continue when a part of our heart seems to be missing, too?

Perhaps the first thing we must understand is that continuing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean we must stop crying, stop missing someone, or pretend that the holidays are just as they have always been. Moving forward is not a betrayal of the people we have lost. It is learning to carry their love with us into a life that looks different without their physical presence. We can honor their memory while allowing ourselves to experience new joys. We can laugh without feeling guilty, celebrate without believing we have forgotten, and give thanks even when gratitude and sorrow sit side by side.

Scripture reminds us in Psalm 34:18, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” Notice what this verse does not say. It does not promise that God's people will never have broken hearts. It does not suggest that faith will make every painful memory disappear or that a believer should be able to move through grief without tears. Instead, it offers a beautiful assurance: when our hearts are broken, God draws near.

What a comfort that is during the holidays. When we sit at a table that feels incomplete, God is near. When we quietly wipe away tears while everyone else is talking, God is near. When we wonder how to celebrate Thanksgiving with a heart that is both grateful and grieving, God is near. We may not always feel His presence as strongly as we wish, and we may not understand why the journey through loss must be so painful. But His nearness does not depend on our ability to hold ourselves together.

Jesus Himself understood sorrow. In John 11:35, we read two simple words: “Jesus wept.” He wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even though He knew that death would not have the final word in that story. His tears remind us that sorrow is not a failure of faith. Love grieves when someone precious is gone. If Jesus could stand beside those who mourned and weep with them, then we do not have to hide our sadness from Him. We can bring our tears, our questions, our loneliness, and even our anger into His presence. He already knows the weight we carry.

As Christians, we also hold to a hope that reaches beyond the empty chair. We believe that death is not the end of the story for those who belong to Christ. Jesus promised in John 14:2–3 that He was going to prepare a place for His followers and would come again to receive them unto Himself. That promise does not erase the pain of separation today, but it gives us something precious to hold on to when the distance between heaven and earth feels unbearably wide. Our tears are real, but so is our hope.

This Thanksgiving, perhaps we can find a gentle way to make room for both. We can set aside a moment to speak the names of those we miss. We can prepare a favorite dish in their honor, tell a story that makes everyone laugh, or invite each person at the table to share a memory of someone who is no longer with us. We can continue cherished traditions, and we can create new ones when the old traditions hurt too much to carry on in the same way. There is no single right way to grieve, and there is no requirement that every holiday look exactly as it did before loss entered our lives.

Most importantly, we can remember that the people we have lost leave behind more than an empty chair. They leave lessons, laughter, values, traditions, and expressions of love that continue to shape who we are. Perhaps we see our mother's kindness reflected in the way we care for someone else. Perhaps we hear our father's wisdom in the advice we give our children. Perhaps our brother's sense of humor lives on in the laughter of the family. Perhaps Aunt Bonnie's memory will remind us to cherish the people God has placed in our lives today. Their earthly lives have ended, but the love they gave us remains part of our story.

And maybe that is one way we learn to continue: by allowing the love we received to become love we give. We cannot bring our loved ones back, but we can carry forward the good they planted in us. We can make the phone call, extend the invitation, forgive the disagreement, and take the time to sit a little longer with someone who needs our company. We can stop assuming there will always be another Thanksgiving to say what needs to be said. Our losses remind us that the people gathered around our tables today are precious gifts, too.

If you are approaching this Thanksgiving with a heavy heart, please do not measure your gratitude by how little you cry. You can thank God for the blessings you still have while longing for the blessings you have lost. You can smile at a memory and still wish you could have one more conversation. You can trust God's promises and still struggle with the silence left behind. These feelings are not contradictions. They are part of being human, part of loving deeply, and part of learning to live with a loss that has changed you.

So when you look at that empty chair this Thanksgiving, remember that it tells only part of the story. It tells you that someone you love is no longer physically present, but it cannot tell you that their love meant nothing, that your memories have lost their value, or that your future holds no joy. And it certainly cannot tell you that God has abandoned you in your sorrow.

The chair may be empty, but the love is not. The table may be different, but the memories remain. And even when grief makes our hearts feel hollow, we can trust that the God who drew near to us in our happiest moments will draw near to us in our loneliest ones, carrying us gently through the holidays until we learn to smile again without feeling that we have left our loved ones behind.

A Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, as Thanksgiving approaches, I come before You with a heart that holds both gratitude and grief. Thank You for the people You placed in my life, for the love they gave, the memories we made, the laughter we shared, and the traditions that became part of our family story. Thank You for my mother, my father, my brother, and my Aunt Bonnie. Though I miss them deeply, I am grateful that I had the blessing of loving them and being loved by them.

Lord, I pray for everyone who is dreading the holidays because someone precious will be missing. Comfort those who will face their first Thanksgiving without a loved one, and strengthen those who have carried their grief for many years. Sit beside those who feel alone in a crowded room. Give peace to those who cannot stop the tears and reassurance to those who wonder whether they will ever feel joy again. Remind us that we do not have to hide our broken hearts from You.

Help us treasure the people who remain, honor the memories of those who have gone before us, and carry their love into the days You have given us. When we see the empty chair, remind us of the love that filled it. When the sadness comes, draw near. And when we struggle to understand how to go on, hold us firmly in the promise that neither death nor sorrow can separate us from Your love in Christ Jesus.

Thank You for the hope of heaven, for the promise of Your presence, and for the assurance that our tears are never unseen by You. Teach us to give thanks not because life has been free of loss, but because Your love remains faithful through every season.

In Jesus' precious name, Amen.

The Empty Chair

Scripture: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (KJV)

There is something about the holidays that makes us especially aware of who is missing. As Thanksgiving approaches, we begin thinking about family gatherings, favorite recipes, familiar traditions, and the laughter that once filled our homes. Yet for many of us, beneath the anticipation of the season lies a tender ache, because the people who helped make these holidays special are no longer here. Sometimes the hardest part of Thanksgiving is not preparing the meal or gathering the family, but looking at the empty chair and realizing that someone we love will not be walking through the door.

In the South, family has a way of becoming woven into nearly everything we do. We gather around tables heavy with food, pass down recipes written in our grandmothers’ handwriting, tell stories we have heard a hundred times, and laugh at jokes that never seem to grow old. We know who makes the best dressing, whose sweet potato casserole is always requested, and which relative will tell the same story before the meal is finished. These traditions are more than holiday customs. They are pieces of our family history, held together by the people who created them. And when one of those people is gone, even the most familiar gathering can feel painfully different.

This Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to the people who will no longer be at my table. I think of my mother, my father, and my brother, whose places in my life can never truly be filled by anyone else. I think, too, of my Aunt Bonnie, who recently went home to be with the Lord. Each loss carries its own memories, its own story, and its own particular ache. As the holidays draw near, I find myself remembering the laughter, the conversations, the ordinary moments that seemed so unremarkable at the time but have become precious treasures now that I cannot experience them again in the same way.

Perhaps you know that feeling, too. You may be preparing a holiday meal while remembering someone who once stood beside you in the kitchen. You may find yourself reaching for the phone to call a parent before remembering that the familiar voice you long to hear is no longer on the other end. Perhaps a certain song, a favorite dish, or a story told around the table suddenly brings tears to your eyes. Grief has a way of finding us in the smallest details, often when we least expect it.

We do our best to remember the good things. We tell the old stories, share the funny memories, and repeat the expressions that made our loved ones so wonderfully themselves. We smile when someone tells a story we have heard countless times, and sometimes we laugh so hard that, for a moment, we almost forget the sadness. Those memories are gifts, and we should treasure them. But as beautiful as they are, they cannot bring our loved ones back. The laughter fades, the dishes are cleared, and eventually we find ourselves facing the truth again: someone we love is missing.

So how do we continue when a part of our heart seems to be missing, too?

Perhaps the first thing we must understand is that continuing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean we must stop crying, stop missing someone, or pretend that the holidays are just as they have always been. Moving forward is not a betrayal of the people we have lost. It is learning to carry their love with us into a life that looks different without their physical presence. We can honor their memory while allowing ourselves to experience new joys. We can laugh without feeling guilty, celebrate without believing we have forgotten, and give thanks even when gratitude and sorrow sit side by side.

Scripture reminds us in Psalm 34:18, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” Notice what this verse does not say. It does not promise that God's people will never have broken hearts. It does not suggest that faith will make every painful memory disappear or that a believer should be able to move through grief without tears. Instead, it offers a beautiful assurance: when our hearts are broken, God draws near.

What a comfort that is during the holidays. When we sit at a table that feels incomplete, God is near. When we quietly wipe away tears while everyone else is talking, God is near. When we wonder how to celebrate Thanksgiving with a heart that is both grateful and grieving, God is near. We may not always feel His presence as strongly as we wish, and we may not understand why the journey through loss must be so painful. But His nearness does not depend on our ability to hold ourselves together.

Jesus Himself understood sorrow. In John 11:35, we read two simple words: “Jesus wept.” He wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even though He knew that death would not have the final word in that story. His tears remind us that sorrow is not a failure of faith. Love grieves when someone precious is gone. If Jesus could stand beside those who mourned and weep with them, then we do not have to hide our sadness from Him. We can bring our tears, our questions, our loneliness, and even our anger into His presence. He already knows the weight we carry.

As Christians, we also hold to a hope that reaches beyond the empty chair. We believe that death is not the end of the story for those who belong to Christ. Jesus promised in John 14:2–3 that He was going to prepare a place for His followers and would come again to receive them unto Himself. That promise does not erase the pain of separation today, but it gives us something precious to hold on to when the distance between heaven and earth feels unbearably wide. Our tears are real, but so is our hope.

This Thanksgiving, perhaps we can find a gentle way to make room for both. We can set aside a moment to speak the names of those we miss. We can prepare a favorite dish in their honor, tell a story that makes everyone laugh, or invite each person at the table to share a memory of someone who is no longer with us. We can continue cherished traditions, and we can create new ones when the old traditions hurt too much to carry on in the same way. There is no single right way to grieve, and there is no requirement that every holiday look exactly as it did before loss entered our lives.

Most importantly, we can remember that the people we have lost leave behind more than an empty chair. They leave lessons, laughter, values, traditions, and expressions of love that continue to shape who we are. Perhaps we see our mother's kindness reflected in the way we care for someone else. Perhaps we hear our father's wisdom in the advice we give our children. Perhaps our brother's sense of humor lives on in the laughter of the family. Perhaps Aunt Bonnie's memory will remind us to cherish the people God has placed in our lives today. Their earthly lives have ended, but the love they gave us remains part of our story.

And maybe that is one way we learn to continue: by allowing the love we received to become love we give. We cannot bring our loved ones back, but we can carry forward the good they planted in us. We can make the phone call, extend the invitation, forgive the disagreement, and take the time to sit a little longer with someone who needs our company. We can stop assuming there will always be another Thanksgiving to say what needs to be said. Our losses remind us that the people gathered around our tables today are precious gifts, too.

If you are approaching this Thanksgiving with a heavy heart, please do not measure your gratitude by how little you cry. You can thank God for the blessings you still have while longing for the blessings you have lost. You can smile at a memory and still wish you could have one more conversation. You can trust God's promises and still struggle with the silence left behind. These feelings are not contradictions. They are part of being human, part of loving deeply, and part of learning to live with a loss that has changed you.

So when you look at that empty chair this Thanksgiving, remember that it tells only part of the story. It tells you that someone you love is no longer physically present, but it cannot tell you that their love meant nothing, that your memories have lost their value, or that your future holds no joy. And it certainly cannot tell you that God has abandoned you in your sorrow.

The chair may be empty, but the love is not. The table may be different, but the memories remain. And even when grief makes our hearts feel hollow, we can trust that the God who drew near to us in our happiest moments will draw near to us in our loneliest ones, carrying us gently through the holidays until we learn to smile again without feeling that we have left our loved ones behind.

A Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, as Thanksgiving approaches, I come before You with a heart that holds both gratitude and grief. Thank You for the people You placed in my life, for the love they gave, the memories we made, the laughter we shared, and the traditions that became part of our family story. Thank You for my mother, my father, my brother, and my Aunt Bonnie. Though I miss them deeply, I am grateful that I had the blessing of loving them and being loved by them.

Lord, I pray for everyone who is dreading the holidays because someone precious will be missing. Comfort those who will face their first Thanksgiving without a loved one, and strengthen those who have carried their grief for many years. Sit beside those who feel alone in a crowded room. Give peace to those who cannot stop the tears and reassurance to those who wonder whether they will ever feel joy again. Remind us that we do not have to hide our broken hearts from You.

Help us treasure the people who remain, honor the memories of those who have gone before us, and carry their love into the days You have given us. When we see the empty chair, remind us of the love that filled it. When the sadness comes, draw near. And when we struggle to understand how to go on, hold us firmly in the promise that neither death nor sorrow can separate us from Your love in Christ Jesus.

Thank You for the hope of heaven, for the promise of Your presence, and for the assurance that our tears are never unseen by You. Teach us to give thanks not because life has been free of loss, but because Your love remains faithful through every season.

In Jesus' precious name, Amen.

Learning to be in this season

As I near 70, I’m learning something I resisted for longer than I’d like to admit, my body has its own agenda now.

It doesn’t always move when I want it to move, and it certainly doesn’t move as fast as it used to. Somewhere along the way, “just push through it” quietly turned into “maybe you should sit down for a minute.” And as much as I hate to admit it, those rest breaks? I need them.

Since my knee replacement, things feel different. Not bad… just different. My stamina isn’t what it once was, and I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I can’t do everything the way I used to. That realization has been humbling. It’s also been a little frustrating, okay, sometimes a lot frustrating.

And then there’s this thought that sneaks in every now and then: I likely have more years behind me than ahead of me.

That one will stop you in your tracks if you let it.

But instead of letting it steal my joy, I’m trying to let it sharpen my focus. I’m learning, slowly, to take life one day at a time and truly enjoy it. Not rush through it. Not wish it away. Just… be in it.

And honestly? This new little life we’ve stepped into is helping me do just that.

We’ve been in our new home for exactly one month and one day. Long enough for the boxes to (mostly) be gone, but not quite long enough to feel like seasoned locals. Our home sits on a quiet cul-de-sac, and behind us is one of my favorite places, our screened-in back porch.

We recently had it finished, and it has quickly become our little sanctuary.

There are large trees that sway in the breeze, offering shade like a gentle hug on warm Georgia days. We sit out there and read, share lunch now and then, and listen to the sounds of nature like it’s our own personal playlist.

And then… there are the geese.

A whole flock of Canadian geese visits the pond behind our house daily, and let me tell you, they do not arrive quietly. There’s nothing subtle about a goose landing. It’s a full production, honking, flapping, splashing… it’s like they’re announcing, “We’re here!” whether you’re ready or not.

We laugh every single time.

Just this morning, a great white egret made an appearance, standing so still and elegant it felt like we were watching something sacred. Moments like that slow me down in the best way.

I’ve spent my whole life with animals, and while we’ve talked about maybe getting a small dog (our fenced yard would make it easy), we’ve both come to the same conclusion, we travel too much. As much as I love animals, I think our pet-owning days may be behind us.

And you know what? That’s okay.

These days, I find just as much joy in the birds that visit our feeders and the wildlife that passes through. There’s something peaceful about appreciating them without needing to chase them down or clean up after them.

(That might be one of the hidden blessings of this season.)

We haven’t made friends yet, but we’ve waved to a few neighbors, and that’s a start. This Sunday, we’re planning to visit a local church, and I’m hopeful we’ll find a place to belong, a community to grow into.

I’ve never been someone who enjoys change. In fact, if I’m being honest, I usually resist it with everything I’ve got.

But this change?

This one feels like a gift.

A quieter pace. A softer rhythm. A chance to breathe a little deeper and notice the things I might have missed before.

I’m even dreaming about planting flowers in the backyard, something that will invite butterflies to join us. Because if this season is teaching me anything, it’s this:

There is still beauty to cultivate.
There is still joy to be found.
And there is still life to be fully lived.

Even if I need to sit down a little more often while I’m doing it.

New City, new season of life

Well, a lot has changed since I made my last blog post. We put our house on the market for sale the middle of February and the day after we put it on the market, we had a solid contract - a cash offer! God is so good and we even got our asking price which was a huge blessing. 

We had one month to pack up, move, and find a new house. So the month of February went by quickly but we were able to accomplish all of those goals. 

We found a lovely home in a city of rural Georgia that is known for agriculture. It has been a huge blessing to be here and be around gorgeous peach trees, pecan orchards, and nature in general. 

We finished unboxing the last few things yesterday and are finally feeling at home in our new house. Now we can focus on finding a good church, making new friends, and getting used to this new city. 

This season of our lives feels so different. We are realizing we have more years behind us than we have ahead of us. With that in mind, we've tried to start focusing on taking one day at a time instead of being long range planners. 

We are looking forward to what the future holds and we know that God has great things in store for us. 

While we will miss our old city, and the friends we had there, we are looking forward to the changes ahead. It is hard to be away from all of our family, but they can come visit whenever they choose. 

Change has never been easy for me. I like things to stay the same, but God is teaching me that change can be good. All I have to do is relax and go with it. So that's what I'm trying to do this year- take one day at a time, enjoy whatever that day brings, and be thankful.

Our real estate agent came by yesterday to bring us a closing gift. She had wanted to do it earlier but was having this special made. It's a carving that is an exact replica of our home. It was extremely thoughtful and kind of her. 

I do want to mention we had an unexpected visitor today - a large black rat snake. I don't know how he managed to get in the yard and get under the fence but he did. Hubby was scared to death! I took a garden rake and flung him over the side of the fence so he can be closer to the pond. You never know what a day is going to hold that's for sure!

Nature Poems to See By - a book review

Recently, I was given a complimentary copy of Nature Poems to See By: A Comic Artist Interprets More Great Poetry, illustrated by Julian Peters, and published by Plough Publishing House. As someone who has long loved poetry—and who also happens to be a visual learner—I was immediately intrigued. This book beautifully marries both worlds, pairing beloved classic poems with expressive comic-style artwork that brings each piece to life.

The collection includes twenty-four classic poems thoughtfully arranged by the seasons of the year. Each selection is accompanied by carefully crafted illustrations that illuminate the heart of the poem without overpowering it. The comic art format offers a fresh and accessible way to experience poetry, allowing readers not only to read the words but to see them unfold.

I believe this book will appeal to a wide range of readers. Adults will appreciate revisiting treasured classics in a new format, while younger readers—especially those who may feel intimidated by traditional literary works—may find the visual storytelling an inviting doorway into poetry. By presenting these works through art, the book gently encourages curiosity and may even spark a lifelong love for verse.

Many of my personal favorites are included—poems I first encountered in high school and others I’ve discovered over the years. Reading Daybreak in Alabama by Langston Hughes (which was new to me and a wonderful surprise), alongside classics like Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, Fog by Carl Sandburg, and Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare, transported me back to my ninth-grade English classroom, where a teacher with a deep love for poetry faithfully introduced us to it each day. Those early encounters shaped my appreciation for the written word, and this book rekindled that same sense of wonder.

I am grateful to Plough for publishing such a thoughtful and creative work. I look forward to sharing this book with my grandchildren—some already in their teen years and others still young enough to sit close and turn the pages slowly. I can already imagine reading the poems aloud, watching their eyes move between the lines and the artwork, and witnessing that spark of discovery as they begin to fall in love with poetry and art in their own way.

A special thank you to Plough Publishing House for providing this complimentary copy in exchange for my honest review.