There’s something sacred about a garden. About dirt under your fingernails, the scent of herbs in the breeze, and the quiet way things grow long before they bloom. This year, my garden has been more than a hobby — it’s been a holy classroom.

My favorite part of the garden this year has been the golden zucchini — bright and full of life, growing stronger each day. I’ve also been learning how to care for my herb garden, discovering how natural herbs can be used not only in cooking but as medicine — healing from the ground up, just as God intended. I planted flowers too, choosing ones that would complement the garden and bring beauty to the space. The salad greens are coming along, but the beets and green beans are still taking their time — not quite ready yet, but steady in their growth.

And isn’t that the story of our lives sometimes?

We look for fruit. We look for fullness. But what God shows us instead is process. Waiting. Patience. Trust.
Some things bloom quickly. Others take time. And that doesn’t mean something’s wrong — it just means the season isn’t over yet.

Just beyond the garden, the bluebird nest we’ve been watching sits quietly now. All the babies have flown. Every single one of them. I’ve watched year after year as the mama and daddy bluebirds return to the same spot, building their nest with such care. This year was no different — except that I paid even closer attention. Their bright blue feathers shimmered in the sun as they stood guard. They were alert, protective, and unshakably faithful. As the babies began to prepare for flight, the parents grew even more vigilant — chasing off anything that got too close, including me as I walked into the garden just yesterday!

And then, when the time was right… they let them go.

As I stood in the garden and looked at the now-empty nest, I realized something deeper was blooming in my own life, too.

You see, the last two years have been some of the hardest of my life. A season of deep grief, of hurt, betrayal, and silence. The loss of my grandchild shattered something in me — a pain so sharp that I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the next morning. There were days when the enemy’s whispers felt louder than God’s promises. Days when I withdrew from people, because being around them was too much, and being alone felt safer. The grief didn’t come alone — it brought with it the sting of betrayal, the ache of broken trust, and the kind of sorrow that leaves you questioning everything you thought was steady.

It became the greatest battle I’ve ever faced — not just with the enemy, but in many ways, with God. And yet, through it all… He never stopped working.

He waited with me.
He wept with me.
He moved, quietly, beneath the surface of it all.

And then, just like the moment the bluebirds took flight, breakthrough came.

It came during prayer — a moment shared with two incredible, Godly women. Women who prayed over me with wisdom and love, who saw me right where I was, and who reminded me through their words and their faith that God still sees me too. It was in that space — broken, honest, desperate — that something lifted. The heaviness started to break. The grip of grief, anxiety, and spiritual battle began to loosen. The lies of the enemy faded. And in their place… came peace.

True, deep, indescribable peace.

That’s the thing about God’s peace — once you’ve experienced it, you never want to live without it again.
His Word began to read differently.
His presence felt closer.
My breath came easier.
And my heart, once again, could rest.

Isaiah 61:11 (NKJV) says,
“For as the earth brings forth its bud, as the garden causes the things that are sown in it to spring forth, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring forth before all the nations.”

That’s what this season has been for me — a slow, quiet blooming. The soil may have looked still… but God was doing something sacred underneath it all. The bluebirds reminded me that even in the waiting, something beautiful is being prepared to take flight.

And it’s not just in the quiet corners of my heart or the soil of my garden where God is working — I’m seeing it in my business, too. In this season, even my real estate journey has become a place of stretching, of trusting, of leaning deeper into faith.

There are days when the doors feel slow to open, when the next step isn’t clear, and when the numbers or timelines don’t match what I hoped for. But I’ve learned — am learning — that faith isn’t about what I can see right now. It’s about Who I trust is leading me. I believe with my whole heart that God is moving in ways I can’t yet see. That He’s preparing clients, opportunities, and divine appointments that align not just with my goals — but with His purpose for my life.

Just like the seeds in the ground, and the baby birds preparing to fly — it takes time. And trust.

This is a season of sowing, stretching, and staying faithful. A season of being still and knowing that He is God — and that I don’t have to strive to make things happen. I just have to show up, heart open, and hands surrendered.

That same message — Be still and know — has become an anchor in my writing, too. As I work on my devotional book, pour out prayers, and explore other creative projects God has placed on my heart, I can feel Him guiding my words, reminding me that my healing has a purpose beyond myself. What once was pain is becoming purpose. What once was silence is becoming story.

I don’t know exactly what the future holds. But I know the One who holds it. And He’s never failed me yet.

So wherever you are — in your grief, your calling, your creativity, your career — hold fast.
God is at work in the soil.
In the silence.
In the next step.

And when the time is right… you’ll see the fruit.
You’ll see the flight.
You’ll see His hand was in it all along.