A Little Joy in a Dizzy Month

What two potted flowers taught me about love, waiting, and unexpected joy

For the past four weeks, I haven’t dared to walk alone.
Not because of fear, exactly. But because of a quiet, persistent dizziness — the kind that makes the world feel just slightly off balance. Enough to keep me home, even when the sun is out.

And I miss the outside.

So last week, my husband brought me flowers.
Two little chrysanthemums in soft, cheerful pots. One yellow and rust, the other pink and white. He didn’t just grab them on a whim. He’d been watching for days — passing the flower stand, scanning every row — but nothing seemed right.

“I waited,” he told me, “until I saw ones that felt like you.”

He saw me — not just the need for something bright, but me, as I was. That’s love, isn’t it? Not waiting for strength to return, not needing me to stand tall first. Just being there — in the days when the room spun and I didn’t. When everything was slower, quieter. When I wasn’t overflowing with life, but simply present, barely. And still, He brought beauty. Gently. Not because I was okay, but because he loved me — even there. Especially there.

These chrysanthemums now stand on the table where the sunlight falls just right.
They don't stop the dizziness. But they speak — of care, of tenderness, of being known.

And something in me steadies.

I keep taking pictures. Not because I need them — but because beauty invites attention. And because when someone loves you like that, you want to remember it.

Even more than that, I see God’s hand through it. In this quiet month of slow days and off-balance mornings, I keep receiving small glimmers of joy: a verse at just the right time, a kind message, a good article — and now, these two little flowers.

"In the multitude of anxious thoughts within me, Your consolations brought delight to my soul." (Psalm 94:19)

🌱 Have you received a small joy lately — one that helped you keep going?

Abide in March

                   

Yes, this year, my One Word is Abide. It sounded quiet and peaceful when I chose it. But now, I see how much I need it—especially in a world that feels heavy and uncertain.

🌹Big thanks to Lisa for the idea behind these three reflections (below)—so helpful!

1. Abide in a Time of Worry

Every day there’s new political tension, new headlines, new reasons to worry. I catch myself scrolling, wondering…

What will Russia do next? What if something happens to the nuclear plant in Ukraine? (We have iodine tablets in the kitchen—just in case the wind blows this way 😉). And then there’s the Middle East. Israel. Violence. Fear.

It’s easy to get overwhelmed. And I’ve responded wrong sometimes. I once wrote a sarcastic piece about Trump. Another time, a short story about boycotting American products. They were creative—but I didn’t feel peace afterward. Just more noise in my soul.

What did bring peace?
Sitting with Jesus.
Letting the news go.
Praying.

“Abide in Me, and I in you.” — John 15:4. That’s where I want to be. Not spinning in worry. But staying close to Him.

2. What Abide Feels Like

These words help me picture what it means to abide:

• Dwell – to live somewhere, to feel safe

• Remain – to stay put, not run away

• Rest – to trust, not try to fix everything

If I had to pick a backup word, I’d choose dwell.
Here’s how I see it:

Dwell is where I take off my shoes. Abide is where I stay when life gets scary.

3. When I Don’t Abide…

These are the opposites of abide that show up in my life:

• Leave – I check out spiritually and let fear lead

• Wander – I scroll and scroll, hoping for answers

• Resist – I try to take control instead of trusting God

But abiding doesn’t mean ignoring what’s happening in the world.
It means staying close to Jesus while everything shakes.

When I abide, I stop the noise.
I breathe.
I whisper, “Lord, You are my refuge.”
And it’s enough.

What About You?

Do you have a short abide moment from this month?
A time when you chose peace instead of panic?

I’d love to hear it. Share in the comments or link your blog below. Let’s encourage each other to keep abiding—especially now. 💛

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PS I took the three photos on a sunny morning: tulips from the bouquet my husband gave me, the blue matryoshka dolls on my windowsill, and the leaves of my pelargonium—also on the windowsill

🌹Linked to Lisa's One Word 2025 March Linkup

Abide in February

She stood at the door, a little nervous. Her coat was buttoned up against the drizzle, eyes reflecting the weight of the world. “I just wanted to see your face,” she said. We spoke—briefly—of the world's heaviness: refugees, shifting alliances, tragedies that defy words. I nodded, a shiver running through me—part cold, part weight of it all.

“Strange, isn’t it?” I said, glancing back at my living room. “That when we’re inside at night, curtains drawn, it feels... safe. Almost like none of it is happening.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “even though we know it is.”

“Let’s plan a coffee soon,” I said. She nodded. "Yeah, just a quick bakkie.** I’m passing through today, so I can’t now—but we’ll make it happen."

We laughed a bit, bouncing to lighter topics for a moment—funny things, everyday life—just enough to lift the weight before she had to go. Then, with a quick wave and a smile, she was off again, hurrying down the street.

Safe Inside, Yet the World Spins

Now its evening. I’m here on the sofa, laptop balanced on my knees. The room around me glows softly—the golden hue of the lamps reflects off the ochre curtains that shut out the night. There’s a hint of pine in the air from the diffuser on the mantel, filling the space with the comforting scent of a forest. It’s peaceful here. Safe under this roof, within these walls. And yet my mind drifts beyond them, to the chaos in the world, to the ache of so many hearts.

And then—one word settles in me: Abide.

Abide in Me.

The Invitation to Abide

Such a simple phrase. Such a deep invitation.

To abide means to remain, to stay, to dwell. It’s not rushing past or glancing briefly—it’s settling in, being present. The Greek word menō carries this richness: to continue in a fixed state, to endure, to be at home. Palmer describes it as "practical and warmly personal.... a word for anyone who simply knows how to settle into a genuine relationship and enjoy the fellowship and the view." I love that. Abiding isn’t for the spiritually elite. *

❤️ It’s for anyone willing to pause, to be still, to stay close—not occasionally, but as a constant presence, rooted in Him.

Finding Refuge in Him

Tonight, as I look around this quiet room, I think about that staying. Here, under this roof, I feel safe. How much greater, then, is the safety of abiding in Him? Not a place, but a Person. My refuge isn’t ultimately these walls or this warmth—it’s Christ.

Steven Cole shares that abiding involves three things:

1. Relating to Christ—His person and purpose.
2. Rejecting attitudes and actions that He wouldn’t share.
3. Receiving the life He offers for true fulfillment. *

It’s not always easy. The world pulls, fears creep in, and sometimes it feels like the storm is just outside the window. But then I remember what was said at church last Sunday—about Elisha’s servant, eyes opened to see the hills full of horses and chariots of fire. Those who are with us are more than those who are with them. (2 Kings 6:16) What a powerful reminder: there is more going on than we see, and we are never alone.

With Us in Trouble

Psalm 91 echoes this truth:

"I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in whom I trust... Because he loves Me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges My name. He will call on Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble."

With him in trouble. Not necessarily delivering us from every hardship immediately—but abiding with us through it. That changes everything.

Learning to Stay

This month, I’ve realised how much I still have to learn about abiding. And how patient my Teacher is. The best Rabbi in the world, I whispered to myself earlier this week, heart full of gratitude. The more I lean in, the more I see: abiding isn’t about striving—it’s about staying. Staying in Him. Letting His words settle into me until they feel at home in my heart, guiding my thoughts, my prayers, my desires.

When the World Feels Too Heavy

Earlier this week, I woke up to the news notifications piling up on my phone—headlines screaming of more violence, more loss. My chest tightened: How do I hold all this? How do I pray when words fall short?

I wanted to scroll away the heaviness, to busy myself with tasks. But instead, I paused. I whispered His name—just that. Jesus, help. And then, slowly, I remembered: Abide.

Something shifted. Not that the world’s chaos changed. But something inside me settled. He is my refuge... my fortress... my God, in whom I trust. It wasn’t instant peace, but a deep breath amid the noise. A reminder: He is.

That’s the thing about abiding—it’s not always this serene, candle-lit moment. Sometimes it’s choosing to stay with Him in the middle of fear, doubt, or grief. To simply say His name with your whole confused, sorrowful heart. To trust that even when your heart trembles, His hold doesn’t loosen.

Held

Tonight, darkness rests outside.
The world spins on.

But here, in this stillness, I abide.
Not just under this roof.
In Him.

Safe.
Loved.
Held.

And so are you.

───●◎●───

*    Precept Austin

**  Bakkie (Dutch): A casual cup of coffee, often shared with a friend. In the Netherlands, saying. It is a common, friendly invitation to catch up over coffee.

Stumbling into Sunrise

I set my alarm for 7:15, full of good intentions. I’ll be in the field in time to see the sunrise, I thought.

Fast forward to this morning: me, stumbling out the door, a woolly hat with a pom-pom pulled hastily over my messy hair, my face still carrying the imprint of my pillow. -5°C. Why did I think this was a good idea?

But then—deep, warm red spilling over the horizon, like embers reigniting the sky. The kind of red that makes you forget the cold for a second.

Back home, hands wrapped around a steaming latte, I posted some photos on Insta. Found a Spurgeon quote to match—he has a way with words about nature.

Maybe someone will enjoy it. Maybe just me. Either way, the sun rose. ☀️✨

📖 "But to you who fear My name, the Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in His wings; and you shall go out and leap like calves from the stall."
— Malachi 4:2 

🌞 You cannot be too low, you cannot be too unworthy; the infinite mercy of God, like the infinite light of the sun, can reach you.

🌑 "Alas, I am dark." But what night was ever too dark for the sun to turn into day?
❄️ "Alas, I am cold." But what iceberg was ever too cold for the sun to melt? What winter was ever too severe for the sun to transform into summer?

🔥 Yield yourself, you icicle, yield to the sun, and it will melt you. 🌿 Yield yourself, you dead and withered branch, to that dear sunbeam waiting to kiss you now, and it will awaken life within you and warm you until you are laden with rich fruit, to the praise and glory of the Sun of Righteousness, who has risen upon you.

🙏 May the Lord grant that it be so with us all, for Jesus' sake. Amen.

Source: The Rising Sun, Charles Haddon Spurgeon

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Do you ever wake up early to watch the sunrise? ☀️ Here, the sun rose at 7:45 this morning!

Spring is Coming, Even If I Can't See It Yet

You can’t just bike away the grief of living loss. That’s impossible. But I decided, after my conversation with the psychologist, to do something enjoyable to take my mind off all the heavy things. “Why not go to the botanical garden?” my husband suggested. I thought that was a great idea, so I hopped on my bike for a 20-kilometer ride to Wageningen.

Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart. - Victor Hugo

Oh, how peaceful it was in the garden. And that sun! Slowly, I walked along the sandy (and occasionally muddy) paths. I snapped pictures of the magnolia and cherry trees, full of buds. No leaves on the branches, just bare trees, but then, to my surprise, I spotted a small camellia bush in full bloom. What a delightful surprise! 

I walked closer, took some photos, and soaked in everything around me. There’s so much beauty to discover in winter. Even a cute robin taking a mud bath right on my path. I could barely contain my smile.

After about half an hour, I decided to take a break on a bench and enjoy a cup of coffee from the thermos I brought. I sat here last year too—I remember it well because I wrote in my journal then (and I did again now).

I now wrote: “I am sure it’s going to be beautiful. The garden will bloom again. I saw hundreds of buds on the trees, and the camellia is already blooming! Spring is coming. I expect, I hope. It’s going to be great.”

Waiting for Spring... and for God

I pondered the idea of waiting for spring, hoping for a fresh start, for something to finally leave winter behind. And as I stood there, watching the buds glisten in the sun, I thought of God, who promised to make everything new. That new spring, not just in nature, but in our hearts as well. An end to the dark culture where lies are made truth, flowers are trampled, and truth is so hard to find. Spring is coming, even though it isn’t here yet. I expect, I hope. It’s going to be great.

Just as we wait for the spring to arrive, I trust that God, who promises to make all things new, is working behind the scenes for those who wait for Him. As it says in Isaiah 64:4:
"For since ancient times no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides You, who acts on behalf of those who wait for Him."

I know change is coming. Spring is coming, not just in the garden, but in the culture too. And I wait for my Heavenly Father, who will make all things right, maybe not on my timeline, but someday. And what I know is that it’s worth the wait. Even if it feels like waiting for spring that never seems to arrive.

Just before I left the garden, I saw a tree full of beautiful flowers. I stopped in my tracks, forgetting everything around me, just gazing at it in awe. I picked a low-hanging branch, smelled it. Wow, what an explosion of beauty. Time was running out, though—the sun was almost gone.

I quickly snapped a few photos to show at home.

And then, it was time to leave. As the sun hung like an orange ball above the horizon, I continued on my bike. Come on, just 20 more kilometers.

Goodbye botanical garden, see you next time! Spring is coming, even though it’s not quite here yet. I expect, I hope. It’s going to be great.