"They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither. In all that they do, they prosper." Psalm 1:3
It’s the slow afternoons I’ll miss the most. The quiet mornings when the sun begins to light the world at 5:30 am. The birds that begin their song well before the sun rises. And, the days that stretch a little longer into lazy evenings that invite leisurely and meandering walks with the dog or the kids getting on the scooters that are now too small. Even in the heat, there’s a kind of ease to the tail end of summer — the last meals off the grill, unstructured evenings, and the spontaneous pickup game of basketball in the driveway, and the kids’ laughter and screams echoing all around the neighborhood.
Soon, all of that gives way to calendars and committee meetings. To session retreats and stewardship work. To Rally Day Sundays and brochures about events and activities. To the launch of the new program year with its urgency and promise.
But I wonder: What if the gifts of summer — its lingering pace, its gentle hush — weren’t something we just squeezed in before the return to the "real" work? What if they might provide an ongoing lesson of the possibility of a kind of posture for our work in the world?
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