When God Writes Second Chapters

BLOSSOMS IN THE FOG OF NEW BEGINNINGS

The peach trees are beginning to bloom.

Each morning I notice a little more color against the gray—soft blossoms opening while the Central Valley fog still hangs low. Some days the clouds linger longer than expected, muting the light. And yet, there they are. Blossoms. Quiet. Persistent. Unhurried.

Living on a peach orchard has become more than scenery to me; it feels like a living parable.

When I married Don July 2024, I made a significant transition—leaving Spokane, Washington, my children and grandchildren, and a lifetime of familiar rhythms to join him here in Reedley, California. Don, on the other hand, has lived in this valley all his life. This land has been in his family since 1925, passed from his grandfather to his father, and then to him. These acres have been faithfully tended for generations.

So while the geography is still new to me, the orchard itself speaks of rootedness, endurance, and patient hope.

Both of us came into this marriage as widows and widowers after 52 years. I brought with me the ache of leaving what I loved and the courage it takes to begin again. Don brought his own transition—learning to love again after deep loss, adjusting to life with a different wife while honoring the long, faithful marriage that shaped him. Joy and sorrow have met us both here, just in different ways.

And still, the trees bloom.

Fruitfulness in a Second Chapter

Scripture never presents fruitfulness as belonging only to first chapters.

God’s Word is filled with lives that bear fruit later, quieter, and differently than expected. Ruth flourishes in a foreign land. Elizabeth rejoices after years of silence. Sarah laughs at life returning when she thought the season had passed.

Second-chapter fruitfulness does not deny loss. It grows because the ground has been broken open.

These blossoms are not fruit yet. They are promise. They do not guarantee the harvest, but they testify that life is stirring beneath the surface—even while the sky remains gray.

That feels especially true in this season of marriage. Adjustments have been real, especially in this first year. Blending two long stories takes patience, humility, and grace. And yet, God has been faithful. Sweet companionship has grown. Shared purpose has emerged.

Don finds deep fulfillment teaching Bible in his 54th year at Immanuel High School. I have found joy and strength serving alongside the women of WOW—Women of the Word, whose friendship, prayers, and encouragement have anchored me during this transition. God is making our lives fruitful in this land—not hurriedly, not perfectly, but faithfully.

A Word for Widows and Singles

I want to speak directly to those who may be reading this from a quieter, lonelier place.

If you are widowed, single, or navigating a season of transition that feels unseen, please hear this: your life is not paused, and your faithfulness is not overlooked.

Fruitfulness is not measured by marital status or visible milestones. Scripture honors seasons of steadfastness, obedience, and trust—especially when they feel hidden. The Lord sees you. He knows the weight of memories, the ache of absence, and the courage it takes to keep believing that He is not finished with your story.

You are not barren ground.

Even now, God is at work—preparing roots, forming promise, bringing life in ways that may still be tender and unseen.

Faithfulness in the Fog

Living here has taught me something simple but profound: fog does not stop growth. The trees bloom anyway.

We do not need full clarity to remain faithful. We do not need certainty to trust. We are simply called to stay rooted where God has planted us.

“Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish.” (Psalm 92:13)

Flourishing doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like obedience. Sometimes it looks like quiet blossoms opening under clouded skies.

And that, too, is a holy kind of beauty.

Scripture Reflection & Prayer

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
—Isaiah 43:18–19

Prayer:
Lord, help us trust You in the fog. Give us eyes to see the quiet work You are doing beneath the surface of our lives. Teach us to honor what has been lost without fearing what is new. Root us where You have planted us, and let our lives bear fruit in Your time. Amen.

Posted on February 9, 2026 by MarJean Quiring Peters 1

UNFADING LOVE –– Running The Race Together

Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all? You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of the dust You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of us. —Gungor

February already! The bustling holidays passed in a blur, January sped by, and I remember C. S. Lewis’s words: “We cannot fathom the passing of time because we were made for eternity.” I suspect it also has something to do with my age-related metabolism slowing down—time seems to move faster while I move slower. Either way, Valentine’s Day peeks around the corner, stirring different emotions in different people for different reasons: hope for some, loss for others, loneliness for many, puppy love for the young, and perhaps something deeper for the young at heart.

Wherever we find ourselves this February—married or single, widowed or waiting, content or quietly longing—we are all invited into the same deeper love: the unfading love of Christ that meets us exactly where we are. So this month, let’s talk about something deeper—like unfading love and running the race together.

Even in a loving marriage, life is never without its challenges. Marriage at any age is not easy, and when—by reason of more years—we become more set in our ways, it can be even more challenging. There is a bending, and sometimes even a breaking, of the will when we love someone enough to give up our own way. Submission was not easy the first time, but the second time we no longer take the relationship for granted. We come with a more willing spirit.

Still, there are moments when, despite that willing spirit, change threatens my sense of security and I feel the impulse to protect and defend both my point of view and my heart. Years ago, I learned the necessity of debriefing with someone in order to process change well. Change is hard because it always brings loss: loss of relationships, ways of life, possessions, ideas, expectations, hopes, and dreams.

So here’s the line-up: Every change brings loss. Every loss brings grief. And every grief must be processed. When we try to bury grief, shut it up, shame it, guilt it, or replace it with distractions, we discover it does not stay buried. Instead, it comes out sideways—often through the very things we use to numb ourselves. Grief cannot be turned on and off like a water spigot. It may remain contained for a while, but eventually pressure builds, and what is unprocessed leaks into other areas of life.

But doesn’t time heal all wounds? Time alone does not heal emotional pain. It creates space—but healing requires intention. It requires naming loss, processing emotions, finding meaning, and sometimes seeking help. Healing is not passive.

Recently, I came across old photos of us—still young and beautiful. They stirred those feelings of loss again, but I knew where to go. I cast my cares on Jesus. I met Him in His Word and through prayer journaling. In my mind, Jesus looked at those photos with me. I did not turn away. I looked straight into the ache of what I missed.

Then I turned the page of my mental photo album and saw us now reflected in the mirror: older, slower, stiffer, marked by time.

And I prayed, Oh Lord, give me grace—to accept the reality of aging in a fallen world. Help me look beyond this season to the eternal youth and beauty that await us with You.

In the quiet of the night, truth pushes back the lies of hopelessness. God often brings a song, a phrase, a reminder that He specializes in making beauty from brokenness and life from what seems worn out. As Gungor writes, “Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all?” What seems impossible, faith brings to light through the grace, goodness, and faithfulness of our God.

Even out of aging, aching bodies, He is still able to bring something good. My true life is not—nor ever was—found in youth or physical beauty. It is found only in the life of Jesus, poured out for me, into me, and through me to others. That is how God makes something beautiful out of dust—out of this fragile, aging clay pot of a life.

The apostle Paul writes:

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us (2 Cor. 4:6–7).

The glory of God in Christ is the treasure. We are the clay jars—fragile, ordinary, and easily cracked—so that it is unmistakably God’s power at work, not ours. Glory carried by weakness. Light housed in frailty. Christ displayed through us.

Hebrews reminds us that we do not run this race alone:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses… let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus (Heb. 12:1–2).

Because others have gone before me—and now cheer me on—I pray for God’s strength to lay aside what hinders me: old comparisons, lingering jealousy, quiet resentments. I ask for grace to run with perseverance the race God has chosen for me, fixing my eyes not on what once was, but on Jesus. He endured the cross for joy—joy in redeeming clay pots like me.

And so I run—not young, not beautiful by the world’s standards—but deeply loved, still becoming, and carried by a glory that does not fade.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away,
our inner self is being renewed day by day.
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us
an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.
—2 Corinthians 4:16–17

This winter forest is a my painting of unfading love. The season is bare and cold, yet the light remains—shaped not by what is added, but by what endures. The paired footprints move forward together, not in haste, but in faithfulness, marking a shared direction through the long path. Love like this is not loud or fleeting; it keeps walking, through winter, toward the light.

Posted on February 3, 2026February 3, 2026 by MarJean Quiring Peters 0

New Year Thoughts on Light and Salt

AS WE STEP INTO THE NEW YEAR, many of us are thinking about rest, renewal, and what truly guides us through the darkness. A sleepless night—and a bedroom full of glowing gadgets—became an unexpected reminder of Jesus’ call to be light in a dark world. This reflection invites us to begin the year not by striving harder, but by abiding deeper, allowing His light to shine through us in quiet, faithful ways.

When a Little Light Keeps You Awake

I like a dark room in order to sleep—and stay asleep. Actually, let’s be honest—I need a dark room. Don, ever the practical one, says, “Just close your eyes.” That’s adorable. If it were that simple, the sleep industry would collapse overnight.

As a new year begins, I’ve been thinking about rest—real rest. Not just sleep, but soul rest. And I didn’t expect the Lord to use my bedroom to get my attention, but here we are.

When we finally turn off the ceiling light and bedside lamps, it’s dark for maybe three seconds before the glow show begins. The bedside clock shines like a spotlight. The smoke detector blinks as if to say, “Still awake?” The carbon monoxide detector joins in. Blue lights from air purifiers glow on both sides of the room, the motion detector’s red eye keeps watch, and even the microwave shines from the corner (for heating pads… because, well, life).

Add in my phone lighting up with notifications, my Fitbit flashing when I move, Don’s C-Pap machine with its friendly yellow beacon, and chargers for everything plugged into a power strip that twinkles like Christmas—and sleep suddenly feels optional.

I’ve tried covering lights. I’ve tried moving things. I’ve even tried wearing red goggles to block blue light when I prayer journal at night. Between the goggles and my C-Pap, I’m quite a sight—definitely not romantic. Don, on the other hand, prefers a little light so he won’t bump into things if he gets up at night. And honestly, I understand.

Years ago, when I was single, the power went out after I got up at night, and I couldn’t find the bed in the pitch black. Completely disoriented, I felt my way through the darkness like a confused bat. Thankfully, I didn’t get hurt. Don would be another story.

Light in the Darkness

All this nighttime illumination has followed me right into the new year—and it’s reminded me of something Jesus said:
“You are the light of the world.”

That stopped me.

If a tiny charger light can keep me awake, what might even a small reflection of Jesus’ light do in a spiritually dark world? His light in us isn’t meant to decorate our lives—it’s meant to flow through them. It’s His presence, quietly but powerfully at work.

As a new year begins, many are tired. Many are confused. Many are searching for solid ground. We see it everywhere—disorientation, discouragement, hearts stumbling in the dark.

And yet—even the faintest glow of Christ’s truth shining through a willing heart can awaken something in another soul. It can stir hope. It can point the way home. People may trip over the truth at first—but if the light keeps shining, some will eventually see that the very thing they stumbled over is the only thing that can save them.

Salt, Light, and the Work of the Heart

It’s no accident that Jesus talks about salt and light right after the Beatitudes. The order matters.

Before He calls us “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world,” He blesses the heart attitudes that reflect His own life within us. The Beatitudes aren’t goals to strive for in the new year; they’re evidence of what Jesus produces when we abide in Him.

Poverty of spirit. Mourning over sin. Meekness. Hunger for righteousness. Mercy. Purity of heart. Peacemaking. These aren’t boxes to check—they’re fruit that grows when Christ is at work in us.

Only then does His influence naturally flow through us.
Salt preserves and creates thirst.
Light reveals, guides, and gently exposes.

Jesus isn’t asking us to try harder this year. He’s inviting us to stay closer.

Awake on Purpose

So maybe my glow-in-the-dark bedroom is a small parable for January.

The world is full of little lights that keep us awake physically. But Jesus calls us to be a light that keeps people awake spiritually—to shine just enough for hearts to notice Him.

And maybe, when I wake in the night surrounded by all those blinking gadgets, I can quietly pray,
“Okay, Lord—I see the lesson. You’ve made me light-sensitive for a reason.”

May this new year find us resting in Him, walking closely with Him, and shining—not because we’re trying to—but because His light lives in us.

“Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD rises upon you.”
—Isaiah 60:1

Posted on January 5, 2026 by MarJean Quiring Peters 0