An evening stroll around the property is a common occurrence three seasons out of the year; common at least before this year. But last night James felt up to the task and so we headed out the door with a very excited dog, a drink in my hand and a walking stick in his. Our pace might have been even slower than usual, but it felt wonderfully normal, which does both of us good.

Our oncologist had said that these new treatment drugs tend to have an immediate impact, with small but steady improvement happening quickly. Being able to walk to and from the garden confirmed her experience and made us even more optimistic about the days and weeks to come.

We hadn’t walked far when we both spotted an unusual leaf on a sapling just off the driveway. James reminded me of the app I have that identifies plant life (“Seek”) and it very quickly identified our t-shirt shaped leaves as those of a tulip tree. It had been years since I had been up close to a tulip tree and I was so excited about finding one on our property! We talked about clearing some brush out from around it so it might stand out a little more and have more room to grow. We made a note to do more investigating and planning later on.

As we walked by the pasture, we talked about our mixed feelings about rehoming the cows. We know they are beyond my capabilities and will eventually be beyond James’ and we want to make sure they go to a place like ours – to be enjoyed and loved. We have a farm of exactly that sort that is interested and wants them closer to the end of the year, which is closer to when we might be ready to see them go – if we can ever be ready for such a thing. We briefly mentioned talking with the girls across the street who are amazing breeders of all kinds of beautiful creatures, to see if they might be interested in using the pastures. But that’s a conversation for another day far down the road.

As we turned the corner we found ourselves in mulberry heaven. The trees are abundant with fruit and it is ripe and ready to be picked – if we wanted to. We have never been big mulberry fans – James even tasted a couple again just to be sure we weren’t wrong on our previous impressions – so we just marvel at all the berries and keep right on walking. It won’t be too long, however, until the black raspberries are ready and those we do get excited about.

The garden needed some water so while we ran the sprinklers, we both wandered up and down the rows checking in on all the veggies. Our June-bearing strawberry plants have all but called it quits for the year. There were just enough for a small snack, not enough to carry back to the house. Peas are coming along nicely. I can’t really explain why I love growing peas so much; there isn’t much bang for your buck, but I love to see them climb and grow and I love to sit in the yard and shell them when they are ready.

I had a few flowers starting to bloom, so I cut a few to take to the house. I trimmed off the blooms on the rhubarb, picked three stalks of asparagus and wondered once again what the strange gourd is growing in the asparagus patch. The leaves don’t look quite like our pumpkin or zucchini leaves, so we will just have to wait and see what blooms! There was basil galore to pick; my second harvest already. I got excited about using the new dehydrator that Jacob got me to dry the basil.

Before leaving to head back to the house, I stopped to cut some wild daisies growing near the pond. Soon there will be Queen Anne’s lace growing there, but for now, we still had lots of daisies to enjoy. I added those to my fresh cut flowers from the garden, the blooms reminding me of the wildflower arrangements my sister had for her wedding thirty years ago. This time walking past the mulberry trees we spotted elderflowers growing nearby. They were gorgeous and huge and really captivated our attention.

On our return trip up the drive to the house, we stopped by the orchard and admired all the peaches we have growing – a first for us for sure. We have maybe a dozen apples on one tree so we will just have to see what becomes of them. But the biggest excitement of the night was when James spotted one ripe tart cherry on my little Charlie Brown style cherry tree. I’m not sure how the birds hadn’t spotted it already, but after cheering wildly for our first ever cherry and taking a celebratory picture, I plucked it right off the tree and ate it. I didn’t even offer to share it with James, which was incredibly rude and selfish of me. I would never have done that with the peaches or apples, but the little cherry tree was something I had wanted and so the first ripe fruit seemed rightfully mine. Hopefully he won’t hold a grudge.

James was ready for a seat when we returned to the house, but we were both impressed with his ability to go all the way down to the garden and back. I collected six eggs from the coop, gently taking Della out of the nesting box once again – my silly, broody hen.

It was no small thing to walk with my husband tonight. It is no small thing to stroll hand in hand looking at all the things we have built from dreams and created with love and forged together. From the house to the barn to the coop to the garden and every thing along the way, we love our creatures and our property. Back at the house, I arranged the flowers on the counter, knowing how fleeting their beauty is. The basil is in the new dehydrator and the eggs are in the fridge. Charlotte will be ready to go out hunting soon and Trudy and The Mister are both ready to sleep. A beautiful walk completed, it’s time for bed.

Goodnight, Someday Farm.

It will come as a shock to absolutely no one when I say that James does a lot around here. I mean, a LOT. Since many stores were on his route home from work and because he had the opportunity with his work schedule to be at the stores mid-day and not on busy weekends, he did almost all of the errands for our household. I expressed my gratitude regularly for the groceries that just “magically” appeared in the cabinets and for the chicken feed that just “magically” appeared in the garage and for the oil changes that just “magically” happened while I was at work, but I’m not sure words of gratitude could ever be enough.

To help as I transition into unfamiliar roles of Chief Lawn Mower and Chief Errand Runner, I now have pictures in my phone of the brand of dog food we buy for Trudy, which hitch we use for which trailer, and of how to hoist the lawn mower up with the tractor so I can detangle whatever I ran over (hypothetically, of course, not that it might have been a doormat by the barn) from the blades. He still answers every text I send while I am learning the ropes as I ask where we usually buy this or that, or even in what aisle at Meijer can I possibly find the Craisins. He is ever patient and helpful.

But sometimes pictures and texts just aren’t enough. Like when James was showing me how to disconnect the water to just the dishwasher in the case (God forbid) I have to replace the dishwasher again (for the fourth time since we moved here). Or when he showed me how to start the zero turn mower – these kinds of things need a video.

And so it is that I have started a folder of videos on my phone of my beloved teaching me how to do the myriad of things that he does around here. And yes, before you even ask, each and every one is absolutely heart-wrenching to make. But I would rather have him teach me all of these things than to have anyone else try to show me later.

Which is why, last night, he made a video on how to cut chicken wings apart. He was showing me how to cut the “wing” from the “ding”. I’m honestly not sure I could ever do it on my own as it really grosses me out, but I really do love wings, no, I love the “ding” it would seem, so he agreed to make a video so I would know how to do it should I ever decide to. And he was super funny and had to explain why some people use a knife, but why he uses scissors and then he used his own arm to tell me what part of the wing was which, and well, it was just very typical, funny, James.

And at the end of the video, as I make him do for all the videos, he tells me he loves me. And of that, I have no doubt. For who else could stand in the kitchen, knowing all the reasons for why we are making these videos and still find a way to be funny about it? Only James.

I was in my car, in line at the drive-through when I noticed the SUV and RV parked at the back of the lot. A grandfather and his three grandchildren came around from behind the RV with a dog on a leash. There were children’s bikes on a rack on the back of the RV and I started to imagine the week these kids were having with their grandparents, on a vacation without Mom and Dad.

While I continued to wait my turn, Grandma came out of the restaurant with bags in her hand, obviously having gone inside to get their orders. She had several bags, but only one drink and I chuckled at what I imagined had taken place – surely cheaper to drink the water or drinks they had in their own cooler than to buy more than one at the restaurant.

I pulled up and ordered my food and was waiting to pay for it when I saw Grandma returning to the restaurant with her long receipt in hand and I laughed out loud. Her expression told the whole story. Something was clearly wrong with their order and she was bound to set it right. As I collected my meal and drove home I offered up a quick prayer for those three hungry children who probably just wanted to eat and get on with the drive.

Later, I was in the grocery store, waiting my turn at the self-checkout lane when I saw a woman stop scanning her items and open up the weekly printed flyer, I presume to check a price. Again, I shook my head as I approached the register and started scanning my own items, never once looking at the screen to make sure the price was correct (in all honestly, I only had a vague notion of what each item cost, so even looking up at the screen would have done me little good in terms of checking the pricing as it rang up).

All of this reminded me of the take-out meal we had with my dad and Judy while we were in TN. We initially thought the restaurant had forgotten to include part of our order, at which point my dad was eager to call and let them know so they could credit James’ debit card for the error, but upon further investigation, we found the restaurant had actually given us everything we had ordered and had included a bowl of chicken gumbo, which we had not ordered. My dad was still ready to call to let the restaurant know this error, “in case the people who were missing their gumbo called,” he explained.

It occurred to me driving home from running errands today, that we are in big trouble. We have only so many years left of this elder generation being around to correct all the mistakes that are happening around us. Whether it’s wrong take-out orders, or grocery store prices that don’t ring up correctly, it is this older generation that currently voices these mistakes and holds people and businesses accountable for the errors. Left up to my generation, well, we aren’t going to see quality control like that.

If James and I get fast food and discover ten miles down the road (or even in the parking lot) that the order isn’t complete, we just shrug, make some comment about getting what we paid for and we make do. And as I’ve mentioned above, I would never notice unless it was extremely glaring that a price rang up differently than advertised – I have to correct that statement – I wouldn’t even know what it was advertised for – so a price would have to just be absolutely staggeringly wrong for me to even notice. Like the time at the nursery when the woman rang up nine flats of perennials instead of just nine perennials. That was a huge mistake. I caught that one. But if the grapes rang up at $2.99 a pound instead of $2.49? I’d have no clue. (Man, if my dad had any idea how I calculate a tip in a restaurant he would lose his mind!)

So, to this older generation, I have to say thank you. You are probably the only reason that the rest of us aren’t being hoodwinked on a more regular basis. Thank you for the hours you spend on the phone letting customer service representatives know about the errors they are making. Thank you for drawing attention to the food orders that were doled out incorrectly. And thank you for price checking to make sure grocery stores don’t just run away with an extra $.50 for grapes.

For the businesses out there, all I can say is be patient. In twenty years you will be left with just us and we don’t have the energy or concern to argue or spend time on these things. There will come a day when you won’t have to worry about someone (ahem, Dad) showing up at your branch office with your most recent mailing in hand letting you know all the ways it was infuriatingly wrong. Quality control. It’s just going to be so hard to come by.

My sister and brother-in-law went to visit my niece and her new husband across the state today. They had several things they were taking to my niece, including her wedding photos and a whiteboard organizer that my brother-in-law had built for his daughter. While they were there, he was also asked to help the two of them with a few small projects around their apartment.

The idea that my niece wanted her dad to help hang pictures and build a whiteboard isn’t because she is incapable of doing these things herself. It might take her (or her husband) a bit longer since they don’t have as much experience with these projects, but I have no doubt either one of them could handle the tasks.

It got me thinking about my own dad coming to help me with things around whatever home I lived in at the time. Whether I was married or not, Dad always helped me with something. Many times it was hanging something he built for me – a quilt rack, a shelving unit – other times it was to help with whatever project I had created, which often meant hanging pictures. As I thought back to times my dad has lent a hand I realized there really was no point in my life in which he stopped doing so. Even after I began crafting some small woodworking projects myself, my dad continued to build things for me. Even after I moved so many times that I was forced to hang my own pictures, that didn’t stop Dad from helping when he was there to do so.

Even now, at 50 years old, I recently asked my dad to make me a writing table – a project I could probably figure out, although certainly not to the caliber of my dad’s craftsmanship – but still, I asked him. Just like my niece, it isn’t that I’m not capable, that I’m not smart enough or patient enough or strong enough. It’s just that I want Dad to do it.

Throughout my childhood, my dad was my provider and my protector. He helped me with so many things growing up I couldn’t begin to count them. In many ways, it was how he showed us he loved us – he helped. And still to this day, my dad is there to help – whether any of us need advice, a listening ear, a roll of quarters for the laundry machine, extra clamps to help hold our project in place, sharing financial or medical experience, or making something for us that we could buy or perhaps make ourselves. And every time he helps, he is telling us how much he loves us.

I haven’t asked my niece, but I suspect we both share the same hope. I hope I’m never too old to be my dad’s little girl, and never too old for him to help me see his love.

We aren’t hiking Bald River Falls. We aren’t driving through the Smoky Mountains. We aren’t even sure about eating out at one of our favorite restaurants, but we will play that by ear and go if James is up to it.

He is so very tired. He is the first to bed and the last to rise and is napping twice in between. He hadn’t been up for long today when I found him asleep in the living room. I joined him on the couch, resting his head against me and just sat.

I am acutely aware that every moment matters and so while my phone was nearby and Wordle had yet to be completed and I had news to catch up on and reservations to book, I chose, instead, to be as present in the moment as I could possibly be.

My hand rested across his chest, feeling his every breath. I could smell the memory-inducing scent of One Egg Cake that I had just put in the oven to have with strawberries later. George Winston’s all-too-familiar album was playing softly in the kitchen. Dad was shooting pool at the clubhouse and Judy was working on her crossword in the other room.

I looked around the living room, a home I didn’t grow up in, nor the one the older grandchildren associate with their grandparents, and yet one filled with familiar furniture and knick-knacks. The rocking chair in the corner has been reupholstered, but still reminds me of my grandparents’ house. The washstand makes me remember a childhood hiding place that still elicits a giddy joyfulness in my soul.

The sunshine pouring in through the windows leads my gaze to the feeders hanging from the trees outside and the constant motion of feathered wings as the birds gather for a bite.

As I look back at my beloved, lying in my lap, and I watch his peaceful sleep, I realize this might not be the typical itinerary for our time in Tennessee, but being here, in any capacity, has the same effect as always- it does our souls good. And I am mindful, especially, of how precious such moments are.

We were talking about what we should take along with us tomorrow, on our very spontaneous trip to visit my parents. Our list already included fresh strawberries and rhubarb picked from the garden (the first my dad will love, the second he will complain about), some snacks and goodies we have already in the fridge and freezer that we could take to share, and even a few wildflowers from the farm. But when James suggested we bring along the bananas on the counter, I had to laugh. “We’ve definitely crossed over into the habits of retired people when we take along the two bananas on the counter so they won’t go bad,” I quipped.

We decided just this morning to go visit my dad and second mom for a few days and within hours my nephew had agreed to house-sit, his girlfriend had agreed to clean our house while we are away and my sister and her husband are ready to jump in if there’s anything else we need. We are surrounded by such an amazing group of family and friends that are ready to help with whatever we might need. It is a blessing that goes far beyond any words of gratitude I could express.

Last night we met my sister and brother in law for dinner at a favorite pizza place on Lake Michigan. It was a beautiful night and a great kick-off to summer as we sat and talked, laughed and ate delicious, indulgent food.

On our way home, James and I stopped at my staff end-of-the-year party where we enjoyed talking with colleagues who have been so supportive, encouraging and helpful this year. James even got up and sang karaoke with my principal, to the delight of all. It was a beautiful evening with family and friends.

While we are in Tennessee, we hope to plan the rest of our summer – at least as much as we can right now – including a trip to the Upper Peninsula to the Soo Locks; visiting friends and family on the east side of the state and into Canada and perhaps even a trip to see the beautiful redwoods in California.

It isn’t hard to see how blessed we are by friends and family. From parents who are willing, able and excited for us to come on a day’s notice to a nephew who readily agreed to take care of the dog, cat, hens, cows, yard and watering needs of our home, and even to his sweet girlfriend who will help me reestablish my sanity through a cleaner house. My sister and her husband were such great company last night and the people I work with have been a blessing beyond words this past year. We are surrounded by support, every way we look.

So tomorrow, we will set out with two bananas in tow. I expect James will sleep much of the drive and I will listen to podcasts and try to keep my mind off things that are painful and heartbreaking and just live for the moment. But the summer awaits and there’s no time like right now to seek joy, laughter and love. Fortunately for us, none of those things are hard to find with friends and family like ours.

I met with a therapist today. We made counseling a priority right from the start for James, so he has been seeing someone for a while now, but I’ve been on a wait list for about as long as he’s had this diagnosis. Today was finally my day to meet with her.

I wasn’t even sure how to begin the conversation. “Hi, my name is Amy and my husband is dying,” sounds like I’m either at an AA meeting or the opening line to “Love Story”. Either way, it seems far too simple of a statement for a situation that is so complex.

During our conversation, she asked me how I felt I was dealing with all of this, especially the news we received on Tuesday. Without needing a beat, I said, “Not well. Not well at all.” When she asked me why I thought so I shared the details of my day from just hours earlier that made me feel like I had lost control completely, like I was having a breakdown.

I told her how we have a tradition on the last day of school, where all the teachers and staff stand outside and wave goodbye as the buses leave with the students. There are squirt guns and smiles all around and when the last bus pulls out, the teachers all let out the loudest cheer yet, signaling our own relief at having survived another tumultuous school year.

I had made it through the morning without difficulty. I had been able to separate all that I was coping with at home from my classroom for one last day and I was standing on the sidewalk alongside my colleagues, happily waving goodbye to the buses when a tsunami of emotion overtook me. I’m not sure I have ever felt any rush of emotion as powerful as I did just then and I all but ran back into the building and back to my classroom, ignoring the last of the buses, ignoring the parent in the hallway, wanting nothing more but the solitude of my classroom. I entered the darkened room and went straight to the windows where I collapsed on my knees sobbing. I couldn’t catch my breath, I couldn’t stop the tears, I couldn’t even stand. I was so overcome with emotion, overcome by the uncertainty of what that same scene would feel like for me next year that I didn’t know how to bear the weight of the thought.

I was still on my knees many minutes later, still sobbing, still unable to breathe, when I felt a hand rub my back and stroke my hair and I heard the familiar voice of a friend saying, “It’s okay, let it out. This is how it’s going to go. You’re going to break down and lose it, and then you’re going to get yourself back up again and you’ll be fine for a while. And then you’re going to break down again. This is how it goes. It’s okay.”

The voice came from one who knows all too well what I am feeling. She lost her husband suddenly, unexpectedly just three years ago, a loss that hit me harder than it had any right to. And here she was, rescuing me.

As it turns out, there’s a name for this, according to my new therapist. It’s called, “anticipatory grief.” And her take-away from this episode was that I was actually responding in very appropriate ways to all that we are going through. And through our short time together today, I realized just how well James and I have already begun to prepare ourselves for what’s to come, how lucky I am to have the family that I do and just extensive our support system is, including this angel today who saved me from drowning in my grief.

My next appointment isn’t for nearly another month, but we scheduled several appointments weekly thereafter so I should have steady and consistent counseling soon, but in the meantime, I know that I have people around me who will hold me up when I cannot stand, who will pray when my own faith is lacking and who will get on their knees beside me in my grief and help me find my feet again.

Thank you, Heather, for being right where I needed you to be today. For sharing wisdom that came from your own excruciating journey through and around your own grief. And for giving me the strength to get back on my feet again.

We were frustrated with our conversation with our oncologist yesterday. I expressed as much when I was sharing the latest update with my dad. My dad is the first person I call for advice, support, encouragement or to vent because he, unfortunately, has traveled this same road with my mom. I always feel bad because I know our conversations make him relive, remember, and as is the human condition – regret- things from the twelve years my mom battled a recurring brain tumor. But there is no one else I know and trust like Dad, and I know his advice is true, honest and spoken from experience.

As is always the case, he explained it well. And what he said didn’t just help me understand the oncologist’s position better, but it helped us process our feelings about seeking a second opinion. “It’s a 180 degree turn,” he explained. “You are in fight mode. You are thinking about symptoms and solutions and treatment and progress,” he went on to say. “But at some point that shifts. You make a complete U-turn to where you are now thinking about just living, about being in the moment and about making the most of the time you have.” Our oncologist had already made that turn in her mind for our situation; we were just lagging behind. We were still focused on getting as many years together as we could, while she had made the turn to preserving the quality of that time, instead of zeroing in on length of time.

Which is why, when James texted me to say he was thinking about stopping to hang out with his old boss for a little bit, but then hesitated because his boss had recently come out of COVID quarantine, I responded by saying, “Go. Have a wonderful time. You have to live for today.” And so he did.

And which is why I found myself in the garden, in the pouring rain, balancing an oversized umbrella and a quart container so I could pick the ripened berries before the chipmunk got to them. I found myself delighting in the thought of homemade jam with our own berries – a first in a number of years – and for a few brief moments, I didn’t think about cancer, I didn’t cry or worry or stress, I just focused one by one on those beautiful red berries.

We haven’t made that complete one-eighty yet, but with Dad’s explanation ruminating in our hearts and minds, I think we are feeling a pull in that direction. We know there is no cure. We know the options are limited. A second opinion might buy us some time, maybe, but the same amount of time might be lost sitting in doctor’s offices or waiting on scans, or traveling to God knows where.

James and I both have been struggling with the unfairness of it all. The injustice feels particularly harsh when we look at all the time, energy, money and effort we have put in to building our dream here on Someday Farm. We want more time. But, if I look at this through the advice Dad gave me, maybe that’s exactly the blessing. Our dream is all around us here, right now. There is so much to savor, so much to appreciate, so much to enjoy. Maybe we have spent all that time and effort so that right now, for this next while, we can find peace and comfort from all of it. This, right now, this is our Someday.

This is the new direction we face.

I have tried all day to find a way to share the news with words that make sense, or bear meaning. The truth is, there is no way to say it, no phrase or turn of words that makes any of it make sense.

The immunotherapy treatment isn’t working. We’ve seen the signs, symptoms and indicators, but we held on to hope and remained optimistic. But yesterday, the normally wait-until-we-have-cold-hard-data oncologist didn’t wait for the next scan; she started preparing for our next and last option. We will have another scan, to be sure, but we are also doing all the preliminary work to make the change to the BRAF inhibitor drugs, the only option we have left.

We have known, in our minds at least, that there is no cure for Stage 4 melanoma. Our hearts have been reluctant to follow that truth to where it leads. So as the doctor spoke, as she explained the process, procedures, side-effects and cautions, we found ourselves at a loss for words, at a loss to be honest, to even comprehend.

All of this is palliative care and yet we were fighting to add years to his life. We were fighting with the immunotherapy to put the cancer on notice and to have some feeling of longevity to this disease. But that effort only had a fifty percent chance of working and as we have been since the start, we are on the wrong side of the percentages. The BRAF inhibitor is no longer about buying years. It’s about buying months.

A year. A year is the best case scenario for us. One year. One fall, one winter, one spring and one summer. 12 months left together.

If we thought we were struggling to get our minds around the diagnosis before, we are at a complete loss now. 525,600 minutes. James feels at a loss as to how to help me adjust to that reality while I am similarly struggling to help him in any meaningful way.

Tomorrow I wrap up the school year with my fourth graders and we begin summer vacation. We are working on plans to travel to northern Michigan and we have visits with family already on the calendar. It is a daunting task to say the least to try to prioritize all that you want to do, but that’s the task we are faced with.

I can’t help but hear the song from Rent playing in my head.

Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand moments so dear 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
How do you measure, measure a year? 

In daylights, in sunsets 
In midnights, in cups of coffee 
In inches, in miles 
In laughter, in strife 

In five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
How do you measure a year in a life? 
How about love? How about love? How about love? 
Measuring love Seasons of love Seasons of love 

Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand journeys to plan 
Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes 
How can you measure the life of a woman or a man? 

James’ life won’t be measured by what he chooses to do in the next 365 days. His life is already one well spent even though it is cut far too short. James’ life will forever be measured by how much he cared about the people, animals and land that he was blessed with. This next year won’t be about adding to his legacy, that is already cemented in gold. This next year will be about celebrating that legacy with him. “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee…” Whether we travel the world or sit on our front porch, those 525,600 minutes will be the best I’ve ever had, as long as I am with him. That is the reality I chose to live within.

I have said, more than once, that we were silly for even putting in a garden this year. But when we start pouring over catalogs in January and start sprouting our seeds in the basement in February and March, by May, we are already too invested emotionally with the vegetables and flowers to easily call it quits. But with all that we have going on, and for as difficult as it is for James to do things he easily did B.C. (before cancer), some days it feels more like an added burden than a blessing.

This weekend was perfect gardening weather, however. I’m not sure we even quite hit 70 degrees, which made weeding a much more pleasant experience than it is later in the season. While we felt like we just finished getting the garden in, the weeds had clearly not taken notice that other parts of the property needed our attention and had grown exponentially in that short amount of time. I didn’t have just one or two beds to weed, they ALL needed it. In addition, I still hadn’t finished putting down the mulch, so I knew that I could easily spend both weekend days out there and still not finish.

I set a goal to get all the long beds weeded on Saturday. There are 13 such beds, each probably 10-12 feet long, so it was a hefty goal. I started with the tomatoes, and inching myself down each row, I slowly made progress and could see the fruits of my labor. By the time I reached the last long row, however, I was long since out of steam and was ready to be done. To make matters worse, the last row was carrots, which is, in my opinion, the worst to weed. I mean, the WORST. Carrots have such delicate little sprouts that come up and the weeds like to root right against those sprouts and it requires such patience and delicacy to get the row weeded without pulling up the carrots as well. Just looking at the row made my head hurt, and by this point, my back was aching, my hands and fingers were sore and I was really tired of scooching through the mulch.

As I started weeding, however, I realized that for all the reasons maybe we should have abandoned the garden, I could list just as many for why I’m glad we didn’t. The garden, especially when school is out, is my refuge. I love being out there in the cool mornings when dew is still wet on the plants. I love seeing the growth of the plants each time I go, and I find myself talking to them and celebrating their milestones as if they were living beings (What? In a way they are!) So as I carefully and patiently weeded the carrots, I thought about what blessings the garden holds for us each year. I thought about how we planted the strawberries so that the row right next to the main walkway was the “everbearing” variety, which gives us snacks all summer long. Cherry tomatoes, likewise, are positioned at the end of the row so we can easily grab a handful any time we just happen to be passing by. The wisteria climbing up the arbor was a Mother’s Day gift from James last year and it is full of blooms already, eagerly climbing and growing. So far, the villainous creatures that somehow get in to the garden haven’t destroyed the peas or eaten the zucchini sprouts, definitely miraculous. Flowers that I chose during snowstorms last winter are starting to bloom already, with bees and butterflies enjoying the blossoms as much as I am.

Just like the row of carrots, I realized that there are always blessings around, sometimes they are just really difficult to see. Looking down the row, it’s hard to imagine there is anything worthwhile growing here, even from directly overhead, I have to train my eyes to spot the variations of a carrot leaf over the weeds around it, and then I have to be patient, carefully removing all the things that are not carrots – all the things that will not bear fruit – so the carrots can grow.

It’s the same with blessings. I’m having such a hard time seeing them or feeling them lately. Even when I am desperately trying to find them in our life, I struggle. Everything feels like weeds, choking the joy and the life out of us. But, if I very slowly, pick it apart, if I take the time to slowly remove all the things that are not bearing fruit – I start to see the things that are.

James might not be able to do all the things he once could, but he is still here and he is still wickedly funny and he still loves me deeply. We might cry – gut-wrenchingly sob – more days than not, but we also laugh and smile and enjoy all that is around us. We don’t have too many indicators that things are going well, but we realize we have amazing doctors and we have an amazing network of friends and family and strangers praying for us. We may not know how long this will last, but we have today. We have this moment. We have right now.

So, I will sit, with my rear on itchy mulch for as long as it takes, to slowly but surely pull every weed so that my humble row of carrots might grow. And I will dig deep within myself to find the patience and the vision to see the joys and blessings that surround us now – and always will be around us – and I will do whatever I can to help those blessings grow.