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Guess what’s happening three months from today — September 8th?

Want a hint?

Have you guessed yet?

Yes, indeed! The fourth book in my Holly’s Choice series will be released by Boys Town Press on September 8th!

I’m so excited about this new book launch because it centers around the simple yet powerful message – let peace begin with me.

What happens when Holly, Clara, and… (heaven help them!) CLARENCE, discover they each want to dress the same way for their school’s American History Day celebration?

It’s a costume crisis!

Holly hatches a sneaky plan to make everything groovy again, but Clara and Clarence aren’t in the mood to change their minds … or their costume choices!

It’s Mom to the rescue as she helps Holly realize that finding peace doesn’t mean always getting her way. Instead, peace can be found within – and with others – through empathy, kindness, and understanding.

PreOrder Peace! @ Amazon

The first three titles in my award-winning Holly’s Choice series are available for sale at Boys Town Press and Amazon. If you’d like to order signed copies, please reach out to me here at Substack!

Wishing you Joy! Hope! Love! and Peace!!

Pentecost always falls on a Sunday, which means Ordinary Time always begins on a Monday morning.

Isn’t that that strangely fitting? Maybe a bit ironic?

There’s no fancy procession and no dramatic liturgy. No poinsettias, no lilies, no candles, trumpets broadcasting the announcing the arrival of a new season.

It’s just Monday.

The hot water still needs to boil for the pour-over coffee. The pile of laundry is growing, the car needs to be filled up, and nobody knows what we’re making for supper tonight.

And somehow that feels exactly right.

The Season Nobody Notices

The calendar is full of seasons that capture our attention. Advent arrives with anticipation, Christmas with celebration. Ash Wednesday and Lent bring reflection, followed by Easter’s arrival with resurrection. A flurry of wind and fire announce Pentecost.

But Ordinary Time?

Ordinary Time slips in quietly while we’re loading the dishwasher. In fact, most people don’t even notice when ordinary time begins.

Which is oddly appropriate, because most of our lives are often composed of days we barely notice while we’re living them.

We remember vacations, weddings, funerals, graduations, holidays, and milestone birthdays.

But life itself?

Life tends to happen in the spaces between those events. On ordinary Tuesday mornings when the sunrise is breathtaking and rainy Thursday afternoons when the grass needs to be mowed. On Friday nights spent watching a movie while we’re folding towels and matching socks.

The Fancy Dress and the Comfy Clothes

I recently ordered a pair of wide-legged floaty pants — lightweight for summer, but nothing super-special — just ordinary clothes for ordinary days. Buying clothes for ordinary days has me thinking about we dress for special occasions.

Christmas has its ugly sweaters, and Easter has dresses and bonnets. Graduations feature gowns and mortarboard caps. Weddings are all about gowns of a different sort. But the common theme is that celebrations all seem to have costumes of one kind or another.

But as excited as we are to dress up, we’re equally excited at the end of the day to come home and change into our comfortable clothes — the clothes we actually live in. The old favorites we love and wear and wear and wear.

Maybe that’s what Ordinary Time is? The comfy-clothes season of the church year.

Ordinary time doesn’t matter less than feasts and festivals. In fact, to the contrary, maybe it matters more because ordinary time is where we settle in and stop posing for the camera. It’s when we stop preparing for big events and find the real magic moments where we simply live.

Where Growth Happens

And that’s the funny thing about growth. It rarely happens during the dramatic moments, but in the aftermath.

I’m rethinking the flower beds in the front yard, so I planted two yellow knockout rose bushes and two puffer fish hydrangeas. They don’t grow just because I planted them. They’re growing because of what’s happened afterward. A slow soaking rain followed by the sun breaking through the clouds. The waiting as the bushes begin to establish their roots.

The unnoticed accumulation of small things.

The same is true for quilts. And gardens. And marriages. And friendships. And faith.

The dramatic moments may point us in a direction, but growth requires time.

The Magic We Miss

I wonder if one of the reasons we struggle with Ordinary Time is because we keep waiting for something special —the extraordinary — to happen.

We imagine that meaning quality living require BIG moments. The lavish vacation. The over-the-top holidays. The milestones and their celebrations.

Meanwhile, life quietly unfolds all around us.

Seeds sprout.

Children grow up.

Friendships deepen.

Healing happens.

Wisdom grows.

Skills develop.

Books get written.

Quilts get stitched.

Gardens bloom.

Not overnight, not dramatically, but steadily. Ordinary Time isn’t the season between meaningful moments. It’s where meaningful moments are made. Ordinary Time makes the meaningful moments possible.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: What ordinary part of your life are you tempted to overlook because it doesn’t seem exciting enough?

An Invitation: This week, pay attention to something ordinary — the morning coffee, getting the mail, a bee on a bloom in the garden, getting the groceries, waiting at a stoplight, the laundry, or a conversation you’ve had a hundred times before.

You don’t have to push to turn ordinary into extraordinary — just notice it! Because the truth is, most of life happens here in plain old ordinary (but really magical) time.

With you in the growing,

Modern homes are built differently, of course. Tight seams. Energy efficiency. Carefully insulated and sealed against drafts.

And honestly, I understand the appeal.

There’s something comforting about controlled environments. Predictable temperatures. Filtered air. Doors that stay open like good little soldiers. Everything contained exactly where it belongs.

But old houses don’t really work that way, and honestly, maybe people don’t either.

Filling The House

And that’s where Pentecost comes in. This story is so unexpected it never fails to capture my imagination. Especially when you consider the action at the end of Acts 2:1.

There they were — the disciples, Mary, and other followers of Jesus — all together in one place, perhaps still wondering what they were supposed to do next.

When all of a sudden…

“A sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting.” (Acts 2:2)

Filled. The. Whole. House.

Not just one room. Not just a polished corner. Not just the tidy parts that are ship-shape and guest-ready.

The whole house!

The more I think about it, the more remarkable that feels.

In the midst of uncertainty and struggling to figure things out. Full of questions, fear, and grief.

The house fills anyway.

Imagine that!?

Not Perfectly Constructed

I think it’s easy to imagine our spiritual growth as becoming more and more perfect. Like if we just work hard enough, we can weather-strip all our vulnerable spots and patch all our cracks.

But Pentecost tells a different story. The mighty wind doesn’t wait for the followers of Jesus to become perfectly constructed little people. The Spirit arrives while — and because — they are still unfinished, uneven, unsteady, uncertain, and completely human.

That feels important to me, and leads me to wonder…what if we’re all just a bunch of drafty old farmhouses?

Our floors are uneven. Our windows rattle. Our walls lean. We’re all just ordinary imperfect people, learning how to live with grace moving through unfinished rooms.

And there comes Pentecost, breezing in!

To Fill. The. Whole. House.

A house that doesn’t have to be perfect before it can be filled.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in your life have you been working hardest to seal every crack?

An Invitation: What if this week, you resist the urge to tighten every seam. You don’t have to become perfectly constructed before life can move through you. You do not have to become flawless before grace arrives.

Maybe growth isn’t about becoming more and more perfect, but becoming more comfortable with just how broken and imperfect we really are?

Maybe that’s the good news we’re looking for?

One of thing I learned spending those long summer days visiting Grandma’s house, the house we now call home, is that not all open windows are created equal.

It’s possible to throw open every window in the house and still feel…nothing. The air sits. The curtains hang still. Everything remains exactly as it was, just with more heat and light coming in.

But open the right windows—on opposite sides of the house—and something entirely different happens.

Air begins to move.

Not just drift in, but travel through. Room to room, end to end, carrying with it whatever the house has been holding onto. That’s a cross-breeze. Once you feel it, you realize it was never just about opening windows. It was about how they work together.

Old farmers like my grandfather noticed the way the air moved. And there’s such a quiet kind of wisdom to catching a cross-breeze. Notice the direction of the wind, figure out which windows best catch it and open them. Open the windows in the stuffy upstairs to draws air all the way through, up, and out.

Cross-breezes are all about paying attention.

The Direction Matters

Remember our line from John? “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.” (3:8)

Yes! The wind is unpredictable, carrying things we didn’t expect (I’m talking about you, Skunky Stinkbottoms!) and moving in ways we don’t control (and you, Crazy Afternoon Thunderstorm!), but what can change is how we live with the wind, how we learn to open ourselves in ways that allow movement, not just entry.

At first, living in the cross-breeze with the windows open might feel a little chaotic, especially if you’re not used to it. Air comes in from one direction and heads out another, curtains shift, and papers rustle on the table.

But a cross-breeze isn’t chaos — it’s flow! It’s what happens when movement has a path: in one window, through the house, and out the other side.

What entered actually passes through, and maybe that’s the difference?

It’s not just letting things in…it’s letting them pass through without holding onto them longer than we need to.

Let the passing irritation…pass. Let the moment of tension be a moment…not an all-day event. Let the negative thought be a short-term visitor, not a weekend house guest.

Because not everything that comes for a visit needs to stay.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in your life might something need not just enter—but move through?

An Invitation: This week, pay attention to the direction of things. Note what’s coming in and what you might be holding onto longer than you need to.

Then open what needs opening. Loosen what you’ve been gripping in those clenched fists. Adjust what isn’t quite aligned.

You can’t force the wind — just make space for it to move.

With you in the open air,

I love this time of spring!

At night here on the farm when the windows are open, we’re treated to a nighttime choir of spring peepers letting us know how much they enjoyed a rainfall. I listen intently, hoping to catch the call of the first whippoorwill of the season, and just the other night my patience was rewarded.

But a few nights ago we had another sort of visitor. Not a peeper, not a whippoorwill, not any other sort of sound.

What came wafting through our open windows was an unmistakeable smell.

SKUNK!

And because the windows were open, that unmistakable scent didn’t stay outside where it belonged. It moved right in…room to room…and fast.

It’s a moment when instinct takes over. There’s no quiet pause. No moment to reflect. There’s no gentle “sit with it.”

It’s all action and reaction!

Windows slam shut. Doors close. And the house, which just minutes before had been wide open, is sealed tight again.

When Fresh Air Isn’t Comfortable

It’s easy to love the idea of open windows until something comes through that you didn’t invite: the smell you don’t want, unexpected rain and chill, or dust, pollen, and noise.

All it takes is one wandering skunk to bring home the uncomfortable reality that once the windows are open, you are no longer fully in control of what enters the room.

Moments like this skunky visit once again remind me of the line from John.

“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.” (3:8)

Because once the windows are open, the air doesn’t ask permission. It moves how it moves. Sometimes, what the wind carries with it is not entirely welcome.

And the moment something uncomfortable comes through — a skunk passing by or a sudden drop in temperature followed by the rumble of thunder — my instinct is immediate: close everything back up and return to control.

Living with the windows open means accepting things I don’t always like. It means being unable to control everything that comes in — not the timing, not the direction, and not the intensity.

I can open the windows, but I cannot manage the wind. Because the wind blows wherever it pleases, I hear it, but I can’t tell where it came from or know where it’s heading.

And maybe that’s the point.

The same air that carries the occasional skunk smell is also the air that clears the skunk smell out of the house. The same shifting winds that hint at a coming storm are also what breaks the heaviness that has settled in.

So here I am, learning—slowly—not to react too quickly.

Not to slam everything shut at the first sign of discomfort. To pause. To wait. To let the air move a little longer before deciding what to do next.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in your life are you tempted to close things up again the moment something uncomfortable comes through?

An Invitation: This week, before you shut everything down, pause. Notice what’s actually happening. Ask yourself if this something that really needs to be closed off? Or is it something that might pass through if you leave it alone?

You don’t have to force anything open…just don’t rush to close it.

With you in the open air,
Gina

Living in a mid-century farmhouse means lots of natural light streaming in the windows found on every side of the house. It’s a design made for drawing cross-breezes in the days before air conditioning. Ventilation wasn’t a luxury; it was how to survive a hot, muggy Missouri summer.

And so, every spring, almost without conscious thought, I start opening the windows.

It’s not a dramatic decision. There’s no date on the calendar that tells me it’s time. It’s more of a feeling. What had been cozy and warm begins to seem closed, settled, and slightly stale.

There’s a subtle shift in the air, a slightly warmer ray of sun. Robins in the yard and bird-song in the breeze.

Then comes THE day, the one where the temperature is just right, and the air outside feels like something I’ve been missing without realizing it.

I find myself walking from room to room, lifting latches, pushing the panes aside, inviting the outside in.

First stop — front door. Lower the glass covering the screen. Then off to the west window, then the dining room.

The house doesn’t transform all at once, and at first, nothing much happens. The curtains shift slightly, like they’re restless and rediscovering their ability to move freely.

But give it a few minutes more and a faint breeze flows from the living room through the kitchen. Air moves. Stillness breaks. Something that felt dead shows signs of new life.

Opening Is Only the Beginning

This Lenten season we’ve spent time noticing what accumulated, clearing what we could and sitting with what remained.

And then…EASTER!

Full of life and breath and movement, reminding me that, even after stillness, life continues.

Today, standing in a house with windows open on every side, I realize opening the windows is only the first step.

There’s a line in from the gospel of John that’s been in the back of my mind as I’ve opened windows this week: “The wind blows where it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it’s going (3:8).

Yes, I opened the windows, but the fresh air doesn’t ask permission to enter or sit politely in the room! The air is the air. It moves as it moves. Coming from unexpected directions, it shifts things we have neatly in place.

For people like me who prefer a little more predictability, that can sometimes feel…unsettling. Wouldn’t it be easier to close everything back up, turn on the air conditioning, and return to the controlled, predictable stillness.

Because open windows bring sounds and scents and unpredictability. A crash as the curtains catch a picture frame and knock it to the floor. The smell of a lilac on the breeze. There’s the irregular clank of the wreath bouncing against the front door.

When I leave the windows open something begins to change, and the house starts to feel different because something new is moving through it.

And isn’t that what the Easter season invites us into?

Not a sudden transformation where everything is fixed and flawless, but a quieter shift of breath returning and movement where before there was only stillness.

Life continuing on.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in life do you to sense something opening — even just a little?

An Invitation: This week, resist the urge to close it too quickly.

Let the air move and the breeze blow where it pleases.

Even if it feels unfamiliar.
Even if it stirs things up a little.
Even if it’s not entirely comfortable yet.

You don’t have to overhaul everything — just open a window and see what happens.

With you in the open air,

A few weeks ago our washing machine finally gave up.

It had been acting wonky for a while, with the sensors periodically filling and draining at the same time. We wondered how much longer it would keep going — until one day it was done.

No amount of unplugging, hitting cancel, or restarting made the slightest difference. A call to the repairman quickly co…

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There are things in my life I cannot fix.

Earlier this week I pulled one of my favorite shirts out of the dryer and —Dag Nabbit! — discovered an unexpected stain on the sleeve.

Then I remembered splooshing coffee on the sleeve of my black cardigan sweater. I was busy zooming around and didn’t think about it soaking through to the light colored shirt I …

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Working through this Lint-y season and arriving here at the last Wednesday before the beginning of Holy Week, I’m reminded that there are some things that don’t go in the regular wash.

They’re marked clearly: Hand wash only. Do not wring. Do not twist.

Because they require different handling, we slow down, fill the basin and add a little soap. It’s a gent…

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After spending the last couple of weeks writing about my adventure behind my dryer (do I live an exciting life or what?), I’ve been thinking about cleaning, especially since the season is officially turning to spring.

When I know someone is coming over, I clean differently. Who cares about lint and a stuffed dryer vent?! Company means it’s time keep up…

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Spelunking for that lost sock wasn’t as simple as reaching down and picking it up. It was also about noticing what was hidden behind the dryer. But no biggie, right? Just grab the vacuum and suck it all up! Presto!

Well….maybe not so much.

In my eagerness to get things cleared away in the laundry room, I banged the crevice tool into the dryer vent line a…

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A couple of weeks ago, I dropped a sock behind the dryer.

No big thing — just one of those ordinary mishaps — the kind that happens when you’re switching loads too quickly and trying to do three things at once.

But there it was. A single dark khaki sock, sucked into the black hole between the machine and the wall. One half of my only pair of dark khaki d…

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Not long ago, we bought new towels. The thick, fluffy kind that feel like a small upgrade in life. I washed them before using them, of course, and when I opened the dryer afterward, the lint trap was packed!

I cleaned it out, ran the towels through the wash again, and still — even more lint! Crazy clouds of feathery fuzz filled the trap each time, but th…

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At the beginning of this Lenten season, I’m beginning a small series of reflections about emotional resilience, ordinary life, and the strange wisdom that can be found in the most mundane places — even the laundry room.

Over the next several weeks, we’ll follow the thread of lint, laundry, and the quiet work of clearing what accumulates in our lives. Alo…

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Each year, around the first of February, we watch the movie Groundhog Day.

My husband and I saw it years ago when it first came out. I remember thinking it was cute and funny — a clever romantic comedy with a fantasy twist.

After years and years away from the film, we thought our son (who happens to love groundhog) w…

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Can you believe it? January 31st…already!??

We’re far enough into the year now that the confetti has been swept away, and I’ve already got coffee stains on my crisp white 2026 calendar. The bright, shiny sense of “new” has softened into ordinary time, and 2026 has had just enough time to show me a little of what it’s going to be.

Mid-Missouri got socked w…

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One word to return to.
One word to steady me.
One word to hold up like a compass when the year inevitably bends and twists.

Last year, my word was adventure, and it turned out to be exactly right. When I picked the word, I was thinking about the the year as …

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Hello friends,

We did it! The waiting is over, and tonight is Christmas Eve, a night holy and full of meaning.

But as I sit here writing in the soft glow of a “not quite Christmas Eve” evening, I return to the question that’s been whispering through this whole Advent season:

What are we waiting for?

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Hello friends,

Here we are in the fourth week of Advent and only a few short days until Christmas Eve.

Today we have four lights glowing and growing brighter against the early winter dark, and this week’s candle is Love.

Hope taught us to light the candle before the dawn.
Peace taught us to breathe in the in-between.
Joy taught us to use the good stuff — no…

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Hello friends,

This third week in Advent, the candle is pink!

It’s the Shepherd’s Sunday, the Sunday of Joy, the bright, unexpected splash of color right in the middle of the deep blues and purples of waiting. Joy arrives in the season not because everything is perfect, but because even in the waiting, there is something to celebrate.

It’s the reminder we…

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