I’m thinking of those nouns–hope, peace, and joy–in the deep-seated, faith-filled way… the way that calm joy can settle down into your fiber but make no sense in your thoughts… the way that soothing peace can level out your racing heart and slowly end your tears but make no sense with what your eyes, or bank account, or aching heart tells you.

When you have nothing to give

Two Christmases ago was the only Christmas I have lived through that I had no pressents under the tree. And had no tree until hours before Christmas morning when I yanked a broken, pathetic artificial one from the recesses of the barn attic. One I had rescued from the dump years prior, thinking I would set it up on an outside back porch.

Two Christmases ago was the first Christmas I had lived through without a mom, and the loss was fresh and deep.

Two Christmases ago was my dad’s first Christmas in 55 years that he had lived through without his Queenie, as he tongue-in-cheek called my mom since long before I was born.

But we were together. We sang Silent Night elbow to elbow at our church’s candlelight service on Christmas Eve, and prayed that indeed our tears over loosing mom so suddenly to cancer would soon be silent. Then, back home on the couch in his slippers, Dad looked at me with shocked sadness in his handsome brown eyes when he realized, “I don’t have any presents for anyone.” Of course none of us had any gifts for anyone. We had just lived through the most difficult 6 weeks we’d ever navigated.

Dad’s grief over being empty-handed was something I decided I could surely rectify. I rummaged through closets desperate for something, anything, he could give to his 4 granddaughters. I dug out 4 lip glosses and 4 gift bags from odd corners, and my Dad played Santa with great pleasure. When he presented each gift to each granddaughter on Christmas morning, you would have thought he had wrapped up gold jewelry or green-monster-seating tickets to Fenway. Having something to give brought him sincere joy. Watching him slowly place his meager gifts under the crooked tiny (okay I’ll just admit it… ugly) tree and face me with a nod and sly smile brought out my dimples and my tears simultaneously.

Along with Dad’s humble offerings, a sweet neighbor had dropped off small, wrapped pairs of cozy socks for each of us. So with moist lips and warm toes, we spent the afternoon creating a gingerbread farm the likes of which will never be repeated.

The sun began to lower in her course across the Christmas sky. And I found myself wishing the morning that I had dreaded–the morning that I thought would be depleted of any reason to smile–could linger because, to my shock, it was filled with deep-seated hope and peace.

Dad turned to me and said, with a little shock but no hesitation, “It was my most joyful Christmas I ever had.” Dad felt it too. That calm joy can settle down into your fiber but make no sense in your thoughts. A deep-seated joy that is independent of circumstances.

When you feel so alone

Then the next Christmas was the first one I lived through without my Daddy. But that loss had settled in for almost a year by the time Christmas arrived. Dad went to be with his Queenie only days after his most joyful Christmas ever–our gingerbread Christmas–one month after Mom died, and, much more importantly he would want me to explain, he went to be with his gracious God who had saved a wretch like himself and been oh-so-good to him.

Just weeks before, on the oncology floor of the hospital near my childhood home, I sat holding mom’s thin hands and massaging her legs that no longer agreed to hold her weight. Only weeks later, I was shivering in a fluorescent-lit, sterile ER room, after a long ambulance ride, in a New Year’s Eve blizzard. The long dark drive that night from my New England farmhouse, which had become Dad’s home too, ended with me standing over Dad’s tired, limp body. I kissed his cool forehead and said goodbye to the man who still had stories he never told me and songs he never sang me. He was already with his Savior, and I was left standing there in a cold hospital in a pool of pain and loneliness.

When you feel helpless

As I tried to define my days after two sudden losses, I had reason to rejoice when my daughter saw an end in sight to years’ worth of almost-unbearable chronic pain. Just a few months after sitting with Mom as she fought cancer with every breath, I was sitting in a hospital room with Jordyn after her successful spinal fusion. We worked through recovery and physical therapy and were just starting to glimpse a true reason for hope, which was the point when I wrote this article. But then the lowest point of my life crept in.

Just as snow was melting and spring buds were filling the horizon with faint colors, Jordyn started screaming with pain that doctors seemed unable to define.

Then they put a name to her agony–Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, from surgical nerve damage–and she and I both entered a long, dark night that stretched from spring into summer.

I didn’t notice that maple sap supplies needed to be cleaned, garden seedlings tended to, and rows of vegetables planted.

Jordyn was experiencing pain that words can’t define.

I was experiencing the hopelessness of a mother who can call experts around the globe, yet have no way to offer her daughter any relief. I make notes, read medical journals, insisted on personally speaking with head surgeons, and had pharmacists on speed dial, all while living in the ICU with no sleep, no showers, and little food, yet I could do nothing.

When you don’t know if night will end

It was a long, dreadful, deeply dark night that stretched across two seasons and ended with a 10-day clinical trial 400 miles from home. The trial offered Jordyn some relief and the ability to return to a life outside of an ICU. Her life will never be pain-free, and college, which she had worked toward so eagerly for so long, is now a severe struggle. If you’d like to know more about Jordyn’s battle with an uncommon neurological syndrome, you can read a little more on her Go Fund Me page.

When life is painfully raw

That Christmas… last Christmas… I was a different person. I welcomed the Advent Season as a woman who had seen how brutally, painfully raw life can be and who also had seen and felt the raw sovereignty and love of God co-existing with the dark pain.

That was the point that I sat down and wrote the little Advent ebook that is available in my Subscriber Library (download my 7-pg pantry checklist there as well): Hope, Peace, and Joy, Even in the Midst of Tears.

This Christmas? I was overjoyed to welcome this Advent Season.

The first day of Advent, I attended an elaborate, gorgeous Christmas Gala. The vaulted-ceiling sanctuary was filled with the sounds of the orchestra and the melodious voices of 5 college choirs.

The next night I had the joy of decorating our own simple, tired church with my teen daughters. We put up a diminutive tree and simple wreaths that we accented with pinecones, red berries, and burlap for ribbon. The church bells tolled 7, then 8, and all the while our humble efforts were serenaded by Christmas iTunes, stories, and giggles.

Both evenings were a perfect way to usher in the Advent season, one reminding me of God’s majesty and the other of the humbleness of the first Christmas and the importance of quiet moments, free of clutter, with the ones who are imprinted on my heart.

I truly wish glimpses of both for you this Christmas season–glimpses of the indescribable majesty of a God who goes to unimaginable extremes to build a personal relationship with you. And glimpses of a God who wants to be in the small, simple moments that define your day and your life.

Stop over on my winter-themed pinterest board for lots more winter-themed reading.

Take a second to stop over in my Subscriber Library and download the advent ebook.

Not a subscriber? It’s easy peasy to access not only my little book Hope, Peace, and Joy, Even in the Midst of Tears, but all my ebooks and resources, by signing up right here (and snag my 7-pg Pantry Checklist too). I truly hope it is a blessing to you this holiday season.

When you have nothing to give…

when you feel all alone…

when you feel helpless…

when you don’t know if night will end…

and when life is simply and totally painfully RAW…

Please, friend, know that you are not alone. Know that you are loved with an undefinable, indescribable love. I can’t tell you the “why” for your pain. Life is so painful and hard. It always will be, on this side of heaven. But it offers deep, simple joys as well.

I can assure you that I’ve been at the bottom of that black, dark, bitterly lonely hole of helplessness and sheer “alone.” And even there, there was a glimmer of hope, peace, and joy.

This post is the last in my 4-part Grief Series. I wrote about the stages of grief, resources that comforted me in my grief, and questions I wished I had asked.

Other holiday-themed articles:

Reflections on why nativity scenes should include muddy cows,

Christmas “riches” to a homesteader,

How to make a gingerbread farm, and

How we decorate our old farmhouse with all-natural choices.

For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to give strong support to those whose heart is blameless toward him. 2 Chronicles 16:9

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted. Psalm 34:18

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Please take a second to follow along here on SoulyRested to catch up on a few of my memorable mishaps, discover fascinating things about my centuries-old farmhouse, glean a little parenting/homeschooling insight from this momma who’s been failing at the effort for almost 2 decades, or enjoy the inside scoop on the secrets other legit homesteaders might not tell you.

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This is the third in a four-part series about grieving the loss of a loved one. 

Since I can’t send mom and dad a valentine this year, I decided to send out some valentines to others whom I normally wouldn’t have. So after the joy of running some of our first maple sap lines last weekend (more on that in an upcoming post!), I got out some of my favorite letter-writing supplies and used a fun scratch-off technique to hide a message of love. I noticed I was appropriately wearing my “Love” sweatshirt that my daughter screen printed for me with my recent favorite verse–I John 4:18. It reminds me that if I focus on God’s perfect love I have nothing to fear, even on the hard days.

To see the scratch-off tutorial I used, hop on over to Ellan Rose. To see some letter-writing art supplies my daughters and I love to use, scroll the links  at the end of this post.

As I work through the 4 stages of grief, I’ve been cherishing memories.

Slowly, as someone who is addicted to the cathartic process of writing, I’ve allowed emotions to travel from my heart to my head, then from my fingertips to the keyboard, where they ultimately fill the screen, molding themselves into black symbols on a white screen.

Why I Write

So it was a natural thing to do on our trip down the East coast. With the love of my life, and our four daughters, and our two stinky beloved dogs, and a few suitcases, piled in a mini van, we were traveling on the truck side of the Jersey turnpike. We were driving to my Dad’s funeral service. We were driving to say one final “goodbye” to my daddy… So I wrote his story. I share it below, with a little wink and a nod to mom and dad on Valentine’s Day.

I encourage you to take a few minutes and write down what you know about your own parents and their love story.

It is, after all the prelude to your own story. So you should know it.

If you’re like me, you’ll realize there are many holes in your knowledge and gaps in your outline. What better thing to do than ask mom and dad on Valentine’s Day to help you fill in the blanks, while you’re still able to do so.

Questions to Ask Your Parents About Their Love Story

If you need some ideas, here are a few questions to ask mom and dad. Things I wish I knew about my parents. Things I can no longer ask.

• What was your first impression of each other?
• What did you do on dates?
• Tell me all about the marriage proposal.
• Where did you get the wedding rings and how did you save the money to buy them?
• Do you remember a way you celebrated a favorite anniversary in the early years?

While there are so many things I wish I could still ask mom and dad, I am very thankful for the story I do know.

His Best Story

They met near diminutive PawPaw, in beautiful West Virginia. She had been working at the Avon factory and had recently faced more heartbreak than a 21-year-old ever should. He had been working for Coca-cola and needing a purpose to life, besides playing the guitar and hanging at bar rooms with different girls on his arms and trouble on his lips.

So he took her to meet his mom.

When Rosa said, “I think that’s the girl to straighten Tom out,” he wasn’t too sure he wanted to be straightened out. He wasn’t too sure he didn’t wanna keep right on being crooked. But he seemed more calm, and he started hanging around home more and Benny Clark’s bar room less.

To Tom’s younger nieces, Tommy and Irene looked like flesh-and-blood Romeo and Juliet. He was wild and crazy; she had both feet on the floor. So he said,“We outta get married.”

He called her his “Queenie,” they started a family, and they moved to where they had Opportunities with a capital “O.”

A new life in Newark. A crisp-cornered, daily-tended vegetable garden and a deep, lush lawn of Delaware Blue Grass growing around Queenie’s castle.

Every Thanksgiving week would mean a 4-hr drive back to the dirt roads of their youth. The week was filled with deer hunting and old-fashioned, home-cooked meals on her family farm in West Virginia, with a hand pump to draw the water, a wood stove to supply heat and a cooking surface, and four walls to hold lots of family, stories, songs, cards, and more stories.

Years passed, 55 Thanksgivings in all, with lots to be thankful for amidst pain and arguments, difficulties and brokenness.

But he kept strumming his guitar for his granddaughters, albeit slower than he used to, telling stories to anyone who would sit and listen, and doing almost anything his children asked of him, if he could and it was legal.

He and his Queenie were devoted to their jobs, even on the hard days.

They were devoted to their marriage, even in the hard years.

They were devoted to their Lord, always. In everything. Even in their hardest, saddest hours.

One cold November night, they held hands, in a circle with their son and daughter who were their world, and Tommy said goodbye to his Queenie without words. 

But it was only a brief separation until he was again singing to her and telling her stories, now with an eternity of perfect opportunities.

I was surprised when I looked back to see how much I have written about my parents over the years… There was a a thank you to Mom; an ode to the joys of being raised on a farm, on Dad’s birthday; a few about gardening with dad–even before I ever thought he’d get to visit our homestead; a few about Mom’s diagnosis, good prognosis, and two (here and here) about verses that comforted me; and then there was last Christmas, and this Christmas’s gingerbread house that Dad loved building with us. And, my most read post so far this year… What My Parents Taught Me About Broken Heart Syndrome.

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We love these products for journaling, which is a great way to start writing down your family’s story.

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{ This is the second in a four-part series about grieving the loss of a loved one. In the final post, I’ll be sharing very specific ways others helped me throughout these difficult months as I floundered through the heartbreak of loosing both of my parents in such a short time. My hope is to provide my own personal experiences with grief as an insight into what others in your life might be feeling, as well as a practical list of ways we can help others who are grieving. }

On the Homestead This Week

One daughter braided many new rows on her rug. The chicken have been enjoying increased hours of daylight and are back in the egg-laying business, at least part time. My husband excitedly spent many hours assembling his reverse osmosis system for our maple syrup making set up this year. (Much more about that in upcoming posts… we’re getting excited as syrup season nears.) And we baked. A lot. (I’ll also be sharing my daughter’s amazing Artisan bread recipe in a post soon.) While I enjoy the productivity, the beauty, and the deliciousness then sings my soul.

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Yet the loss of my parents is still a very fresh scar on my heart, and I spent many bittersweet hours again this week going through another box. As I flip through pages and hold well-worn memorabilia and memories from my youth (like Dad’s straight razor and Mom’s hair teasing comb), then sings my soul.

The Last Evening of November

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bear my innermost silent chambers of my heart today, but I realized that doing so will help my soul sing louder. And after rolling the thoughts over in the corners of my mind, I decided it’s just too beautiful not to share. Ultimately, out of respect to my immensely beautiful Mom, knowing she would want me to tell everyone that I can, because it would give honor to her Savior, I decided to share…

One chilly evening, the last one of November, my brother, parents, and I shared precious hours that will always be a part of who I am. Mom was happy to be home, out of the hospital where she had spent 17 days battling the difficult results of chemotherapy treatment.

She smiled as I read to her my aunt’s note that had come in the mail that week, and she spoke to her baby brother on the phone—appropriately discussing farm animal difficulties and details about our cow, chicken, and ducks (one of Mom’s favorite topics to discuss with her brother, who still runs the family farm on the broad, gradually sloping hillside in West Virginia).

She listened as a few of her life-long friends and I stood around her bed and sang one last hymn (one of my daughter’s favorite as a young girl: What a Friend we have in Jesus). I read (for the tenth time probably) a daughter’s note to Mom—about how she treasures Isaiah 41:10. With hands all joined around Mom’s bed, I prayed over her. I prayed for my oldest daughter too, that she would not feel too far away or lonely while she was studying in South Africa.

The Joy of Life

After company left, we dimmed the lights. I sat holding the hands of the two most important people in the world to me—Mom and Dad’s hands were clasped within mine.

My brother held mom’s other hand, and we sat quietly listening to hymns together.

Knowing mom would need medicine around the clock, my brother offered to take the wee hours of the morning shift if I wanted to take the late-night shift. Being the night owl that I am, I was glad to sit with mom, with quiet enveloping us, over the hushed hymns playing on my computer.

I had done this before many times in the prior 17 days, but that night there were no IV lines climbing up her arm, plastic hospital bracelets wrapped around her wrist, or buzzers and commotion intruding upon our time. It was just mom and I sitting together in the home where she had fixed countless meals for my family, baked Easter cakes and dyed eggs with my daughters, played cards and board games, and watched World Series games surrounded by the people who meant the world to her.

In the quiet minutes of the dark morning, with the men of our immediate foursome sound asleep, it was just her and I.

The two of us who had the joy of bringing life into this difficult-but-wonderful world were the two who were privileged to witness her moment of crossing out of this world. She left behind the current painful joys for eternal beautiful realms that I must only imagine for now.

She was sleeping deeply. Soundly.

I had just put in a new CD. With “How Great Thou Art” playing quietly and with me gently holding her head, she took her last breath and met Christ.

Then Sings My Soul

While I will forever miss her, in this life, I know with certainty I will spend a beautiful eternity with her, and she is experiencing a level of bliss right now that is beyond understanding on this side of eternity.

I am blessed, not only to have been born into the beautiful foursome that sat holding hands together that chilly November night, but also to have known sweet Irene as “Mommie.” I am blessed, not only to have gotten to spend almost every minute of her last weeks with her, but also to have a husband and daughters who joyfully let me lay aside all responsibilities to them and the homestead for an indefinite time so I could be with my mother when I longed to do so.

A Tremendous Blessing of Homeschooling

The last few long months have made me more thankful for homeschooling than any other life season ever has.

1-  I’m thankful my teen daughters could focus on the work they could complete independently, and simply set aside the other work until I returned. For the month I was absent, they focused heavily on certain subjects and since I’ve been home we’ve caught up on the others. If I had younger children when a major family event pulled me away from school work, they would have just traveled with me and we would have finished school later in the year, no biggie.

2- I’m thankful that my teen daughters could be home, in my absence, to keep the homestead running, make sure laundry and cleaning was done, and keep meals on the table, all between their school lessons. And of course they learned how to do all those things early on in their lives because they were home with me during the day to be part of meal planning and house chores. They were part of all of that, intricately, when they were young, when they still found it all fascinating. They were part of it when it was a privilege to be doing the “grown up” things, so when it was time that they were needed to support others, and truly do the “grown up” things, they were willing and prepared to do so.

3-  I’m thankful they could connect with me, in Mom’s hospital room, via FaceTime and messaging, whatever time of the day that I was available and mom was alert and could hear them, not having to coordinate around a typical school day timetable.

4-  But I am mostly thankful that my daughters were an intricate, daily part of a major family event as it played out, day by day. I had the joy of having my daughters there every day when Dad came to live with us for his last month. Dad got to spend long quality hours with them every day, as an integral part of their day. He sat with us as we worked through stoichiometry problems and read about ancient Egypt. He enjoyed leisurely breakfasts and long lunches with them. He joined in on afternoon farm chores with them. He even went sledding with them during their PE time. I appreciate now, more than ever before, that homeschooled children can be an intricate part of major family life events as they happen, right in the midst of their lessons.

5- And, finally, I’m thankful that major family events become a lesson–a writing lesson and a life lesson–as my daughter explains on her blog this week.

How Great Thou Art

But in the midst of so much heartache, I am most blessed by my assurance that I will indeed be with my Mommie and Daddy again. “When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation, and take me home, what joy shall fill my heart. Then I shall bow, in humble adoration, and then proclaim: “My God, how great Thou art!”

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“Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” II Corinthians 4:17

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I want to share with you a few resources that have given me great comfort over the past few weeks.

First, I pulled a Spurgeon devotional off the shelf (Morning and Evening) a few days after Dad died and it spoke volumes to me. It was extra special to me given that it was a copy from 1955, a second printing, from my grandmother’s bookshelf. But no matter when your version was printed or what the cover looks like, you absolutely can’t go wrong with this devotional. There’s one page for each morning… He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being instructed. Isaiah 50:4. And one page for each evening… On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night. Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. Psalm 63:7. 

Then, at Dad’s funeral service, a friend handed me a devotional book that I can’t get enough of: The Songs of Jesus, by Timothy and Kathy Keller. I find I revisit most day’s teachings more than once. It’s that kind of book, and it’s been so good for my aching heart. As Keller explains, the Psalms are a “medicine chest for the heart and the best possible guide for practical living.”

Then there’s my daughter’s new journaling Bible that she purchased right after her PapPap passed away.

Time spent meditating over God’s word while she makes it look artfully pretty has been a soothing balm for her, as well as for me when I discover her latest design left open on the kitchen table.

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__________________________

{ This is the first in a four-part series about grieving the loss of a loved one. }

– 1 –  Cherishing Memories

The day after Mom died I filled the hours by unfilling boxes. Sifting through memories. Organizing black and white images and Polaroid moments, hallmark sentiments and handwritten journals. I can’t think of anything at all I would have rather done. It was the only thing I could do to camouflage the gaping distance between mom and I that grew larger with each hour that passed.

One month later, when Dad’s heart couldn’t beat anymore without her to synchronize its rhythm, I had already organized all the still shots of their memories, so I pulled out Mom’s phone book and searched for oral memories. I reached out to Dad’s cousins, friends, and barroom buddies of his wayward youth. Everyone I called shared more beautiful memories that helped me fill in the frames of “Kasey and Irene” between the Brownie Camera images.

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

– 2 –  Acknowledging They’re in a Better Place

My sweet daddy, on New Year’s Eve, (exactly one month after Mom passed away) went to meet his Savior of whom he always spoke of highly and frequently. Yes, I imagine he’s been playing electric guitar for a few heavenly square dances; tending prolific, beautiful, weed-free gardens; growing some green beans, tomatoes, and squash the likes of which cannot be fathomed in this limited earthly realm; and perfectly painted some immaculate mansions. (Or maybe not that last one–I can’t imagine him doing that without his painting sidekick of more than a decade, my Uncle Thurman. But don’t worry, T.R., you know Dad’s never in a rush.)

I love the thought of Mom greeting him, in her young, cancer-free, joy-filled body saying, “What took you so long, Jim?” (Jim was my grandfather’s name–the name mom dubbed him whenever she wanted to emphasize his tortoise-like tempermant.) And I like thinking of all the people he has sat with, with his long slender legs crossed, his nodding head tipped down in concentration, and his voice in no rush at all, taking in all of their beautiful stories and sharing his own in slow and steady determination.

But the most beautiful thought is of him hugging his savior, singing praises to Him in his drawn-out, country-cracked-melodious voice, and hearing “well done, my good and faithful servant.”

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. Revelation 21:4

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73:26

– 3 –  Completing One Last Special Task

But, oh, I miss my Daddy. And I was very happy to have one last little task I could do for him when I ordered a special bouquet, the one that would grace his casket. 

You see, my Daddy was a homesteader who loved to garden–flower gardening almost as much as vegetable gardening. As long as I can remember he had many lovingly tended flower gardens.

So when the funeral home assistant asked which of the handful of “standard” floral arrangements I would like to choose from for Dad’s service, I explained that my Daddy was no “standard” floral arrangement kinda guy.

I knew that the guests at Dad’s service would be encouraged to pick from that arrangement to adorn the casket at the grave site, as one final little “goodbye” to my Daddy. So I talked with the florist about including some of his favorites. I’d hoped that maybe it would make the goodbye a little easier.

I guess hollyhock and zinnea are hard to come by in florist circles in December, so they substituted delphinium and gerber daisies. But I was happy to see a generous supply of snapdragons in his arrangement; they’ve always been my favorite flower ever since my Daddy introduced me to the simple charm of a snapdragon a long time ago. They were my favorite part of my wedding bouquet, and now they’re part of my bittersweet memories of my Daddy, memories of one last special task I did for him.

For mom, her happy place was always her well-kept pretty home. Dad called her his Queen; their home was her castle; his manicured Kentucky Blue Grass lawn was their moat (that neither child nor beast could walk across without facing my father’s wrath for not using the sidewalk).

So making her castle regally prepared for sale was a chore I took on with joy. Cleaning her tile floors and pantry proved to be the perfect last task I could do for mom.

So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’ I Corinthians 15:54

– 4 – Conceding That You’ll Always Miss Them

YESTERDAY, a few days after Dad’s funeral service, our farm was coated in a beautiful but solemn cloak of grays and whites. Inside, I gathered the final few stems of brilliant color that I had brought home from Dad’s funeral. I separated and pressed the petals.

And I cried just a little.

Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4 

Everyone born of God overcomes the world. This is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith. I John 5:4

TODAY the gray sky was striped with powder blue azul. And a neighboring couple knocked on our heavy, old red door with a gift: multiple bars of my favorite chocolate, along with a gift of growth and color and the promise of spring. A gift that made me momentarily consider sharing with Dad, knowing he’d love it. A gift that reminded me how much I miss my favorite gardener.

And I cried.

Just a little.

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