Spring in the Pacific Northwest has a way of sneaking up on you. One day the sky is gray and brooding, and the next it’s as if the whole region exhales—cedars brightening, rhododendrons bursting into color, and the air carrying that unmistakable scent of rain‑washed earth. This year, that sense of renewal feels especially personal.
After months of planning, dust, decisions, and more trips to the hardware store than I care to admit, my kitchen remodel is almost finally complete. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a space come back to life—new cabinets, fresh light, a layout that finally makes sense. It feels like a metaphor for the season: clearing out what no longer works, making room for what’s next, and rediscovering joy in the everyday rituals of home.
This April, we celebrated our sweet Lucy turning fifteen. Fifteen. In dog years, that’s a lifetime of loyalty, naps in sunbeams, and quiet companionship. She’s in good health, still bright‑eyed, still wagging her tail with that gentle enthusiasm that only an old soul can muster. Watching her age with such grace has been a blessing—one more reminder to savor the small, sacred moments.
My husband and I have been spending a lot of time together lately as we continue renovating our mid‑century home. There’s something intimate about shared projects—choosing paint colors, sanding old wood, discovering the quirks of a house that has lived many lives before ours. It’s messy and beautiful and grounding. These projects have become a kind of spiritual practice: patience, teamwork, laughter, and the occasional “Why did we think this was a good idea?” whispered into the abyss.
This spring also marks my first season with my new church community in Montesano, WA. Joining a congregation is a bit like planting roots—you don’t always know how deep they’ll go or how quickly they’ll take hold. But this community has welcomed me with warmth and sincerity. I feel held, seen, and invited into something meaningful. Singing in their choir is a spiritual experience all its own.
Perhaps the most profound part of this season is my journey toward becoming a Certified Lay Minister in the United Methodist Church. It’s a path I’m walking with humility and hope. I feel a deep call to bring encouragement to those who feel overlooked or forgotten—to be a voice of compassion in places where people have learned to expect silence. Spring reminds me that new life can emerge in the most unexpected places, and I want to be part of that work.
So here I am, standing in the middle of a Pacific Northwest spring—kitchen nearly finished, dog joyfully aging, home mid‑renovation, heart rooted in a new church, and spirit leaning into a call that feels both tender and bold.
This season is teaching me that renewal isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s the quiet shift of light in a room you’ve just remodeled. Sometimes it’s the steady heartbeat of a dog who’s been by your side for fifteen years. Sometimes it’s the courage to say yes to a calling that’s been whispering to you for a long time.
Spring is here, and I’m grateful—for the growth, the grace, and the gentle reminder that life keeps unfolding in beautiful ways.
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