💛The Things That Quiet My Heart💛
Some people collect things.
I collect moments.
The quiet kind. The kind that slows my breathing, settle my heart, and remind me that God is always creating something beautiful—even when I can't see it yet.
One of my happiest places is with my hands in the dirt.
I love planting something small, tending it faithfully, and watching it come to life. There is something deeply satisfying about watering, pruning, feeding, and patiently waiting for new growth. Every Saturday you'll usually find me caring for my plants, checking on new leaves, taking cuttings to grow another plant, and yes...even talking to them.
Oddly enough, I can spend far too much time watching videos of people harvesting vegetables from their gardens. It never gets old. There is something peaceful about seeing tomatoes ripened by the sun, baskets overflowing with beans, or fresh herbs gathered for dinner. Those simple moments feel like home.
I think that love began long before I realized it.
My grandfather had a huge garden in Kentucky, and during summer mornings I would follow him through the rows while he harvested, weeded, and cared for everything he had planted. He wasn't just teaching me how to garden. He was teaching me patience, stewardship, and the quiet reward of caring for something over time.
Fresh flowers have the same effect on me.
They move something deep inside my heart.
I love trimming stems, arranging blooms, and creating something that feels effortless and whimsical. Every flower carries a memory for me.
Hydrangeas will always remind me of my Nanny, whose enormous bushes burst into color every summer.
Yellow flowers remind me of my mother. She adored daffodils because they were the first promise that winter was ending, and daisies because they carried the untamed beauty of wildflowers.
Tulips have become one of my favorites because they remind me so much of people. At first, they're tightly closed, hiding their beauty. But with warmth, light, and care, they slowly open into something breathtaking. Aren't we all a little like that?
Lilies always draw my thoughts back to Jesus' words:
"Consider the lilies..."
They don't strive to make themselves beautiful. God simply clothes them in beauty. Every time I see them, I'm reminded that if He cares so lovingly for the flowers of the field, surely, He will care for me too.
And roses and peonies will forever belong to my grandmother. She loved them because she believed they were the most romantic flowers God ever created. She used to tell me, "Just look closely at the petals. They'll speak to your heart."
I think she was right.
The older I get, the more I find myself slowing down long enough to notice these little gifts.
A blooming flower.
A fresh bouquet on the table.
New leaves unfurling on a houseplant.
The smell of damp earth after watering the garden.
The first daffodil of spring.
None of them seem particularly extraordinary to the world.
But to me, they are gentle reminders that life returns, beauty survives, hope grows quietly, and our Creator delights in both the grand and the smallest details.
Maybe that's why I love them so much.
They remind me that God isn't only found in life's biggest moments.
Sometimes He's waiting for us in the garden.
🌿 Hope
People often ask me what hope looks like.
Sometimes...
It looks like two little children kneeling in the dirt, completely captivated by a tiny rabbit.
Sometimes it looks like watching your child's children grow into kind, curious little people.
For me, hope isn't always found in the extraordinary.
It's found in moments like this.
When life feels lonely...
When grief feels heavy...
When I wonder if anyone remembers me...
I come back to moments like these.
Because this is the evidence.
Love continued.
Life continued.
Our family continued.
Hope quietly kept growing, even when I couldn't see it.
And maybe that's what hope really is.
Not pretending life hasn't been hard...
But recognizing that beautiful things are still unfolding right in front of us.
🤍 Hope Lives Here.
🌿 Peace
When I was in my twenties, my grandmother told me something I've never forgotten.
"Guard your peace... and pay attention to the people who disrupt it."
At the time, I smiled and nodded.
Truthfully, I had no idea what she meant.
Now I do.
I've lived through seasons where peace was absent.
Where I confused chaos with normal.
Where I carried burdens that were never mine to carry.
And I grieve those years.
Not because they define my story...
But because I now know how precious peace really is.
That's why creating Hope Lives Here matters so deeply to me.
I want this to be a place where tired hearts can rest.
Where women who have spent years carrying too much can exhale.
Where beauty is noticed, hope is rekindled, and peace is protected.
If something I've learned helps even one person find their way back to peace...
Then every difficult chapter of my story has been worth it.
Because peace isn't something I stumbled upon.
It was something I fought to find.
And now...
I intend to guard it.
🤍 Hope Lives Here.
There’s a strange grief in finally arriving at a season you once wished for—and realizing that peace and quiet are not always the same thing.
You can be grateful that your children have lives of their own, proud that they’ve built families and futures, thankful that you no longer carry all the responsibilities you once did—and still miss the sound of people needing you. Those feelings can exist together.
And I think a restful heart in this season may come less from trying to recreate the life that was and more from slowly discovering who you are in the life that is.
The quiet can become something other than emptiness. A morning cup of coffee can become a ritual instead of something you drink while waiting for the phone to ring. A day without plans can become freedom rather than evidence that nobody needs you. And looking forward to the next visit with your children, grandchildren, or sisters doesn't have to mean that everything between those visits is simply waiting.
Maybe contentment now sounds like:
“I miss them, and I am still okay here.”
“I wish they were closer, and I can still make today beautiful.”
“I loved being needed, but my life still has purpose when nobody needs anything from me.”
And perhaps that last one is the hardest.
For so much of adulthood, purpose comes preassigned: raise the children, take care of the family, build the career, solve the problems, keep everyone moving. Then one day the house becomes quiet and we're handed something we haven't had in decades—a life with space in it.
At first, space can feel an awful lot like loneliness.
But space is also where something new gets to grow. 🌿
You don't have to figure out the entire next chapter. I'd start much smaller. When the house feels especially quiet, instead of immediately asking “Why am I feeling this way?”, try asking:
“What would make this particular day feel meaningful to me?”
Not productive. Not busy. Not impressive.
Meaningful.
Maybe it's working in the garden. Calling your sister instead of waiting for the phone to ring. Making something wonderful for dinner. Sitting at the table with your journal. Taking a long walk. Creating something. Helping somebody. Or simply sitting in the morning light and realizing, I have nowhere I have to rush off to right now.
I also wouldn't make “being completely content” the requirement for doing this season well. Some mornings you may feel peaceful. Other mornings you may ache for a noisy house and little feet and conversations happening in three rooms at once.
You can miss the life you had without missing the life you have.
Maybe that's what a restful heart eventually becomes—not the absence of longing, but the ability to hold longing and gratitude in the same heart without believing one cancels out the other. ❤️
You can miss the life you had without missing the life you have.
Baby chicks begin communicating before they ever hatch.
Late in incubation, a chick can make tiny sounds from inside the egg—and the mother hen responds.
I can't stop thinking about that.
Before anyone else can see the new life emerging, something is already happening beneath the surface.
How often have we believed nothing was changing simply because we couldn't see it yet?
There have been seasons of my life when, from the outside, it probably looked like I was standing still.
But inside?
I was learning.
Healing.
Questioning old beliefs.
Finding my voice.
Learning what peace felt like.
Becoming brave enough to imagine a different life.
The shell hadn't cracked yet.
No one could see what was happening.
But something was changing.
I think we sometimes give up on ourselves because we expect transformation to come with visible evidence. We want the breakthrough. The new beginning. The moment when everyone can finally see that we've made it.
But maybe some of the most important work happens long before that.
Quietly.
Deep within us.
So if you're in a season where it feels like nothing is happening, don't be so quick to believe that nothing is.
You may simply be in the part of the story where the shell hasn't cracked yet. 🐣
🤍 Hope Lives Here.