O Jesus, You know that in May and June, I fought hard in the Weed Wars. But now, it’s August. OMG, maybe I, like those who rule highway medians, can declare my yard a “native prairie preservation project”?
This post first appeared on August 8, 2018.
My daughter once wished for a different birthday month. I referred her to God for further discussion.
I see her point. August boasts no holidays — not even a fake holiday like St. Patrick’s Day. Nobody parties on the eve of August 1, as in January.
The hotter the weather, the more we chill. Dressing up is wearing matched right and left flip-flops.
Still, a tiny tadpole of awareness wiggles into our days.
It’s August. Something’s different.
Outdoor projects delayed till warm weather now are postponed till fall. Yards need extreme makeovers, but we’re so sick of yard work, we pay 4-Hers to release goats on our premises.
August presents an end-of-summer reality check. I purchased a “miracle” swimsuit in May. Now I realize the only miracle is that I paid big bucks for it.
August affects mothers strangely. Kids talk Mom into buying cool new backpacks, though 23 uncool backpacks languish at home. Mothers also obsess about changes in schedules: “Go to bed now so you’ll be ready when school starts.” My mother did this. As of August 1, all five of us went to bed at 4:00 p.m.
Even the sun listens to Mom and retires earlier in August. Yet during daytime, it unfurls golden rays as if leading an everlasting summer parade. Eating watermelon in the backyard, we experience a different kind of reality check: It’s been a great summer.
By August, every able-bodied Midwesterner has ridden a Ferris wheel and consumed a warm, crisp elephant ear.
We’re recovering from that gathering of DNA-related strangers known as a family reunion, when we rendezvoused with cousins who long ago sneaked into drive-ins with us. We kissed baby kin’s brand-new cheeks and gave grandmas and grandpas big hugs.
In August, homeowners stop vying for the Yard of the Year. Instead, we concede the grand champion ribbon to God for His spectacular pastures of goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace and Sweet Williams.
He treats us to evening concerts by cicada choirs. Fireflies, now veteran presenters, perform spectacular light shows at dusk with few technical glitches.
Whether we own farms or only farmers’ tans, the cornucopia of gardens, tasseled cornfields and leafy rows of soybeans reassure us: After harvest, we’ll celebrate with plenty of food on our tables.
All during August — the not-so-special month.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What do you like best about August?
With one daughter born on this day, and another who later married a great guy on her sister’s birthday, OMG, how can I help but give You thanks for August 16!
O Lord, part of me longs for the return of autumn’s regular schedules and button-down “Let’s do this!” Not to mention, pumpkin pie and hot cider.
But OMG, when crazy August’s heat wears on me, please remind me that ice cream and other summer delights don’t.
My daughter once wished for a different birthday month. I referred her to God for further discussion.
I do see her point, however. August boasts no holidays — not even a fake holiday like St. Patrick’s Day. Nobody throws big parties on the eve of August 1, as they do in January.
The hotter the weather, the more we chill. Dressing up is wearing matched right and left flip-flops. Days pass before we turn the calendar page.
When we do, though, a tiny tadpole of awareness wiggles into our days.
It’s August. Something’s different.
Outdoor projects delayed till warm weather now have been postponed till fall. Yards need extreme makeovers, but we’re so sick of yard work, we pay 4-Hers to release goat herds on our premises.
August presents an end-of-summer reality check. I purchased a “miracle” swimsuit in May. Now I realize the only miracle is that I paid big bucks for it.
August affects mothers in peculiar ways. They buy pencil boxes, though no one in human history has ever proved pencil boxes serve a useful purpose. Kids talk Mom into buying cool new backpacks, though 23 uncool backpacks languish at home.
Mothers also obsess about imminent changes in schedules: “Go to bed now so you’ll be ready when school starts.” My mother, who had five kids, did this. As of August 1, we went to bed at 4:00 p.m.
Even the sun listens to Mom and retires earlier in August. Yet during daytime, it unfurls golden rays as if leading an everlasting summer, ticker-tape parade. While eating home-grown, ice-cold watermelon in the backyard, we experience a different kind of reality check:
It’s been a great summer.
By August, every able-bodied person in the Midwest has ridden a Ferris wheel and consumed a warm, crisp elephant ear.
While still recovering from that gathering of DNA-related strangers known as a family reunion, we rendezvoused with cousins who long ago sneaked into drive-ins with us. We kissed sweet baby kin’s brand-new cheeks and gave grandmas and grandpas a smile.
In August, homeowners stop vying for the Yard of the Year. Instead, we concede the grand champion ribbon to God for His spectacular pastures of goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace and Sweet Williams.
He treats us to evening concerts by cicada choirs that sing their best in August. Fireflies, now veteran presenters, perform spectacular light shows at dusk with few technical glitches.
Whether we own farms or only farmers’ tans, the ripe cornucopia of gardens, tasseled cornfields and leafy rows of soybeans reassure us: After harvest, we will celebrate with plenty of food on our tables.
All during August — the not-so-special month.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What do you like best about August?