As I approach my 65th birthday on July 21, I find myself pausing to remember the summers that have brought me here. One after another, like waves on the shore—soft and slow or loud and full of motion. All of them part of the story.
I remember summers as a child: playing ball in the heat of the day, swimming on a pond or pool, chasing laughter across backyards, slipping into the cool lake, walking barefoot on the beach, eating homemade ice cream, and going to baseball games where heroes wore numbers and hope lingered with every pitch. Life was simple. Summer was magic.
Then came the teenage years. Still swimming, still playing. But in those summers were long walks and long talks under the stars, meals around the kitchen table with family and friends, ball games watched or played, and songs on the radio or albums circling on turntables. Those experiences became the soundtracks of my youth. I remember learning to water ski, trying to improve in basketball, beginning to fall in love with words read and written, trying to learn about this life with God. Those summers were full of discovery, friendship, and the beginnings of love.
Later, summers became moments of marriage and parenting—watching our sons play ball just like I used to, cheering them on from the sidelines, traveling as a family to the east coast of Florida where the waves crashed with confidence, and to it’s calm gulf coast where the water invited stillness. I remember thunderstorms that surprised us, hurricanes that reminded us of our fragility, health issues that changed us, and church services that steadied us. The meals were louder, the stories longer, the songs even sweeter. Pools, beaches, boats, books, laughter, songs, waves, friendships, questions, prayers, vacations, vocations, conversations—these were the building blocks of our summers.
Eventually, we moved back to Georgia. The heat feels hotter now. I seek more shade, avoiding the brightest sun. But I still love a Braves baseball game and time out on the lake. And always, always, time with family and friends. The rhythm of summer has slowed, but it’s still rich with meaning.
The years have traveled by in the fast lane. Sometimes it feels like life forgot the speed limit. I’m doing my best to keep pace. But in this season, I’m also learning to slow down and remember.
Through every summer—childhood to now—I’ve seen the faithful presence of the Creator. The One who made the sun also made me. He’s been in the joy and in the storms, in the songs and in the silence, in the moments I thought I’d never forget, and even in the ones I did. His Spirit is like a cooling breeze—gentle, steady, needed. Especially in summers like this.
So I remember. I give thanks. And I welcome another summer, knowing I do not face it alone.
