The Sand-Filled Bathing Suits of Summer (a post for the rule-following mama)

Six people and all of our detritus for a month fit snuggly into the once-new-to-us suburban — that in two years of our vigorous use has become rusty, old. We belted songs, loud, and listened to books and counted hawks on telephone wires all the way across middle America. All of us full of the expectation of what summer might hold.

For me, summer has been rest and rest comes from calm and calm happens when the boxes are checked and the shoes are in their bin and all the trains run on time.

But this June, He began redefining summer for me, this Lord of the seasons.

Ten days into the trip and I’m muttering to Nate from the front seat, “I need to breathe.” Old friends and late nights catching fireflies were colored by “Mommy, I can’t find my shoes in this suitcase again!” and “this seatbelt is scratching my belly!”  I was spent. Already. We had weeks to go.

The tail end of our trip was at the ocean, the place where my heart so often comes alive. The sea births the sun in the morning and the bay welcomes it home at night; the cadence of God’s creation is within my reach at the ocean in the ways it isn’t when I’m locked inland.

The first day we arrived at the beach, the one that saw the spunky teenage version of me twenty years ago trolling with friends from home and making friends out of strangers and calling it all summer love, I was reminded of the expectation I had when our trip had started. I had a history with the beach. It knew me before I knew Him and, summer after summer, as He reclaimed parts of my heart, the ocean became His deep, to me.

This June would [continue reading over here —–>]