08/14/2026
The apothecary kitchen still stands.
There is something difficult about writing those words when, not far beyond this field, others cannot say the same.
These past days have left me holding two things I never knew could live so closely together: an overwhelming gratitude for what was spared, and a deep ache for what was not.
And perhaps that is part of the holy lesson in all of this: there are seasons when being spared is not something we are meant to question, but something we are meant to receive with reverence and profound responsibility.
As I look again at what remains in my hands, I ask what it might now become for someone else.
The jars are still lining the shelves. The formulas remain. The familiar work is still waiting.
But, suddenly, none of it feels ordinary anymore.
There is joy here.
And there is heartbreak here.
And I am learning that gratitude does not dishonor grief. But when gratitude is true, it deeply asks something of us.
While the smoke still hangs beyond this field, I am quietly working on a way for this little apothecary to help carry some of the weight for families in our community who have lost so much.
For tonight, I humbly give thanks to the Almighty Father for the gift of what remains, holding close those who are hurting, and remembering that sometimes what survives the fire has been entrusted to us for a greater reason.
Love always, T
