Julie Echols Reyburn

Did you see the picture last week of the young coal miner at a college basketball game with his son? His face was masked in coal dust and he was still wearing his work clothes. Famed Kentucky basketball coach John Calipari shared the photo with a touching note about his family ties to coal mining, and the story quickly spread across the internet.

I felt an immediate affection for this miner. He reminded me of my daddy. My daddy was also a coal miner, and once showed up to my brother’s high school baseball game covered in coal dust. He sat quietly alone on the bleachers, a focused attention on his face as he watched the team play. I can’t recall much about that day but I remember daddy was there even though he was dirty.

Daddy was always showing up for my brothers and me (though usually he had time to shower and change clothes.) He rarely missed a ballgame or a band performance, even when 6 day work weeks were his usual.

The months between my freshman and sophomore years of college in 1996 I served as a summer missionary to Harrodsburg, Kentucky. My missions partner Tina and I led Vacation Bible School classes and Backyard Bible Clubs at a different church each week. None of the churches had VBS or BYBC scheduled the week of July 4^th so Tina and I were off duty those days. Tina’s family made plans to visit her so I asked daddy if he and mom could come to see me. I was disappointed when daddy said he couldn’t take time away from work. I began to pray that God would make a way. 

A few days later I got the news I hoped to hear… sort of.  Daddy had broken his ankle while working in the coal mines. It was his left ankle. Which meant he could still drive with his right foot. And drive he did – 6 hours and nearly 400 miles – to show up for me.

My daddy and the coal miner from Kentucky have inspired me to think about the ways I show up for my children. It can be complicated for my teenager who mostly likes to be alone. Abby Kate, who is 13-years-old, got some disappointing news a couple of weeks ago that caused her to break into tears. I sat on the bed beside her as she sobbed, “I just want to be alone!”

“OK,” I answered, still sitting. “I’ll only stay a minute.”

I stayed (and I stayed quiet) and between her choked cries she began to confide why this particular letdown mattered so much to her. After 10 minutes she said, “I’m better now and I’m ready to be by myself.”

Sitting down was showing up.

I’m fortunate to have a job that allows me to drive my kids to school and pick them up in the afternoon. I’ve noticed something as the students file out of the 6^th grade hallway towards the car line loading zone. They have to turn right to get where they’re supposed to be picked up, but inevitably the kids walk out of the building and they look to the left. They’re looking for us, moms, because they care if we show up.

Car line is showing up.
Washing laundry is showing up.
Saying “I love you” is showing up.

The little boy in Kentucky probably doesn’t realize the way his daddy showed up for him at the Kentucky scrimmage game. He may not know the hard work and danger his dad shoulders while working underground. I didn’t understand my daddy’s sacrifice when I was young but I do now. Maybe because I no longer have my daddy (he died in 2007) or maybe because I have two daughters of my own.

Our sacrifices are significant no matter who sees them. The love and care we demonstrate to our kids doesn’t have to be caught on camera and shared with the world because we aren’t showing up for the world. We’re showing up for our children, whether it’s sitting courtside at a basketball game covered in coal dust or around the kitchen table eating dinner clean and comfortable.

One of the letters my daddy mailed to me while I was serving in Kentucky – what I call a Postmarked Prayer – reads:

            “A child will remember the love you give them more than anything else. Keep loving them.”

Daddy was talking to me about the boys and girls I was meeting on mission. He may never have considered the impact those words would have on the way I want to raise his granddaughters.

I don’t always get it right. I’m impatient with their moods and messes and sometimes my irritation speaks louder than my love. But each day is a new day to show up for them, and I hope that’s the mom they will remember.

“Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? The fruit of the womb his generous legacy?”

(Psalm 137: 3)
The Message

Did you know there’s a national competition for people who shell purple hull peas? I didn’t until our pastor shared a picture of the championship contestants as part of a Sunday morning sermon. At his mention of purple hull peas, my daughters looked at me with their eyes and mouths open in surprise, the way kids do when the preacher is talking about something they know. They have shelled purple hull peas.

I would venture that almost anyone who’s grown up in the south has shelled peas and snapped beans with their mother or grandmother.  My mom spent hours during the summer months, snapping and rinsing, scooping and canning: purple hull and black-eyed peas, pole and green and lima beans. Squash and okra she washed, cut, and stored in the freezer. It was enough work that she planned her summer vacation around it.

The volume of my mom’s work may seem contrary to the idea our pastor presented around purple hull peas as an example of slow living. Peas were almost always shelled on the front porch, and front porch sitting was about as slow as you could get when I was a girl. There was no email to answer or texts to check. If the phone rang it was for relaxed conversation. Often, passersby would see us rocking in chairs on the porch and park their car on the side of the road to talk.

Times have changed, haven’t they?

Instead of the front porch, my family gathered around the kitchen table one afternoon so Jeff and I could teach our girls how to shell purple hull peas. We didn’t buy a bushel as my parents did, just a small basket from our local farmer’s market. The girls talked and giggled as they shelled and inspected each pea; they were particularly fascinated with the tiny ones.

“No pea is too small to be in the world,” AK said as she saw Lily remove a pea she had placed in the communal “keep” bowl.

“No! It was brown,” Lily explained as she moved the bruised pea to the stack of hulls to compost.

Sorting the good peas from the inedible is the practical lesson in shelling peas but we can learn other things through this labor: the value of working with our hands, stewardship when we have an abundance and, as Abby Kate recognized, that small things matter. We can also take a cue from my pastor and see permission to slow down and seek simple. Shelling peas may not become a regular example for us but we can relax our pace through other activities. In our house, slow and simple looks like laying down with Lily at bedtime to share a chapter in her book. It’s a weekend movie night when Abby Kate pulls a blanket over her legs and lays her head on my shoulder. It’s laughing together at the dinner table as we indulge homemade cheeseburgers.  

The same table where the girls shelled peas in the summer is now home base for homework. Abby Kate and Lily hunch over computers and calculators, completing middle school math and science assignments. I watch them work and realize their childhood is fading a little faster than I’d like, sort of like the sunsets do when autumn begins to arrive.

When I feel a shift in seasons, whether on the calendar or in my kids, my faith directs me to Ecclesiastes and the Bible’s guidance that there is a time for everything:

“There is a time for everything,
            and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
             a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
             a time to tear down and a time to build,
     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
   a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.”

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

I have known the delight of giving birth to my daughters and carried the grief of burying my daddy. I have spent time in friendship and walked away when that time was up. I have generously spread joy and selfishly held it tight. I weep and laugh, search and give up, keep and throw away almost every day it seems.

My daddy wrote in a card to me many years ago “May God keep you in His providential care.” What a gift to know He has and He will!  Whatever the circumstance I can say with confidence that God is near to me, and He is near to you, too. From purple hulls to pumpkin spice, through toddlers and teenagers, He is a constant presence along the winding path and the same God through all of our seasons.

Lightning bugs dotted the night sky during my childhood summers, tiny flickers above our front yard. The summer air stuck to our skin as we chased the fireflies, cupping them in our hands to see their glow up close. Some we released, others we sealed in Mason jars, poking holes in the lids then setting them on the chest of drawers in our bedrooms to shine as nature-made nightlights.

Catching lightning bugs was a summer tradition, a seasonal rhythm of outdoor play as natural as riding bicycles with the neighborhood kids or satisfying our thirst with water from the hosepipe. The epitome of simple, southern, summer fun.

It had been years since I’d tried to spy fireflies, until last summer. We don’t see lightning bugs in our yard, presumably because there aren’t a lot of trees where we live. So when our local botanical garden emailed a list of summer activities, and it included a firefly hike, I wanted my family to go.

Bugs, even the glow-in-the-dark kind, do not automatically spark wonder and curiosity in my daughters. Their feelings are closer to fear and disgust.  They have been known to abandon entire rooms in our house after seeing an insect on the wall or floor. As we waited in an amphitheater to begin the hike, Abby Kate and Lily cowered at the creepy crawlies they noticed on the ground.

“We are here for bugs, girls,” I told them as I laughed. “It will be OK.”

An expert volunteer guided us through trails, educating us at the start about habits and natures of fireflies. The bugs were hard to see at first and the girls were frustrated as they squinted to spot them. The deeper into the trail we walked, the easier the flashes were to find. Abby Kate and Lily began to light up too as they learned to catch and cup the lighting bugs in their hands. These bugs were fun! The girls weren’t afraid anymore.

Like those lightning bugs, our faith is easier for others to see when the places around us are dark. It’s a cinch to shine when life is good, when we feel God’s presence and are certain of our path. But like a lightning bug on a dark garden trail, our light – our faith – shines more brightly in the difficult days when we display courage and continue to trust God.

I learned from an early age, probably the same age I was chasing fireflies, that Jesus is the light of the world. We are called to be light, too. Not so the spotlight shines on us but so that we can illuminate a path for others to find Jesus.

“You are the light of the world. A city situated on a hill cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and puts it under a basket, but rather on a lampstand, and it gives light for all who are in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16)

The world is looking for light. For good. For hope. We can show them the way to the One who gives – the One who is – all of those things.

Our faith binds us to God’s promises. He will never leave us. He will never forsake us. He is always with us. Let’s shine those truths like lightning bugs on a summer night and remember that just as we hold lightning bugs gently in our hands, God holds us in His.

My favorite fireworks story to tell is the time our family sought the perfect spot to watch a July 4^th celebration over downtown Birmingham.

Daddy pulled to the side of the road on top of a viaduct to give us a decent-but-distant view of the Birmingham skyline from our cream-colored, four-door Oldsmobile. After he parked, he got out of the car to see if he could bend back some bushes to improve our line of sight. I’m not sure any of us were paying him much attention until we saw him sprinting back to the car, chased by two very menacing, very loud guard dogs! There was a “No Trespassing” sign he either hadn’t noticed or didn’t take seriously. My brothers and I had never seen Daddy move so fast! The memory still makes us laugh.

Daddy didn’t always choose free seats for fireworks watching. Some years we paid for tickets to see Birmingham Barons baseball with fireworks following the game. Other years we bought our own fireworks and shot them at home from the top of our driveway. We launched bottle rockets from mom’s Mason jars, spelled our name with sparklers and held Roman candles as jets of light shot high, like spells cast from the wands of wizards during the Battle of Hogwarts.

I wanted Abby Kate and Lily to experience the simple fun of fireworks the same way my brothers and I did, from a glass bottle or jar or held (safely) in their hands. So we drove to my mother-in-law’s home in rural Mississippi where there was plenty of room to shoot and the noise wouldn’t bother anybody. We visited a local fireworks stand and paid a whopping $10.97 for bottle rockets, sparklers and those tadpole-shaped things that snap and pop when you pitch them to the ground.

Whatever spirit the girls lacked in mixing homemade ice cream (see last week’s writing) they more than made up for with old-school fireworks. They loved lighting the fuse on the bottle rockets and watching them launch into the night sky. They swish-and-flicked their sparklers, writing their names and starting mock lightsaber battles. They played the way I did when I was their age, when life was simple and summer was slow.

Now that I’m a mom watching fireworks, whether backyard blasts or a professional display, I often find myself looking away from the fireworks and focusing instead on Abby Kate and Lily’s enchanted faces. Their eyes fill with awe and delight, and I understand why Jesus says the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.  

Fireworks have taught me something else about faith this summer and that is you have to look up to see them. Look up. Those two words remind me of Psalm 121:

            “I lift my eyes toward the mountains.
            Where will my help come from?
            My help comes from the Lord,
            the Maker of heaven and earth.
            He will not allow your foot to slip;
            your Protector will not slumber.
            Indeed, the Protector of Israel
            does not slumber or sleep.
            The Lord protects you;
            the Lord is a shelter right by your side.
            The sun will not strike you by day
            or the moon by night.
            The Lord will protect you from all harm;
            He will protect your life.
            The Lord will protect your coming and going
            both now and forever.”

My life feels really vulnerable right now for a lot of reasons, especially as the girls begin a new school year.   Lily leaves the comfort of elementary school to start 6^th grade in August. Abby Kate is in the throes of middle school and all the social anxieties that come with 8^th grade. Faith feels precarious as what-ifs and worst-cases creep into my thoughts. Fear and worry chase me, very menacing, very loud like those two dogs that nipped at daddy. So, I run. Into God’s presence. The Hills. My Help.

Does your faith feel wobbly today, too? I encourage you to take a cue from summer fireworks shows. Your faith, however feeble, can be a bright spot, piercing the darkness. Look up. Keep looking up. And rest in the wonder and peace of God’s promises. 

The odds were in my favor that tasting homemade ice cream would be the hands-down favorite old-fashioned summer fun activity for my daughters. Leave it to them to beat the odds. Abby Kate checked out as soon as she found out our batch wasn’t cookies and cream flavored. Lily at least sampled a spoonful but decided she didn’t like it.

Crazy kids.

Ice cream colors a lot of my summer memories: red, orange and purple popsicles passed out each night of Vacation Bible School at Bayview Baptist Church, vanilla and chocolate swirls served in a miniature plastic baseball hat at a Birmingham Barons baseball game, and the light-pink hue of homemade cherry ice cream churned in an electric ice cream machine in my mom’s kitchen.

I can still hear the whir of the motor as it mixed the milk, sugar and maraschino cherries, ice crystals forming on the outside of the metal can beneath the ice and rock salt. The hum stirred my excitement as much as it did the ingredients. I loved that sound. I knew something special was happening because homemade ice cream wasn’t something we enjoyed every day. It was a celebration food for the July 4^th holiday and other summer occasions.

I found this picture of my daddy supervising a double batch of homemade ice cream outside in our yard. I don’t recall the day but the picture itself is important to me now. Daddy passed away in 2007. He loved homemade cherry ice cream. He also loved Jesus and wrote letters to me to encourage me in my faith. In one of his letters he advised, “When in doubt, PRAY and then wait on God to lead you.”

Wait.

Waiting on ice cream is easy. The instructions tell us exactly when we will get what we want. And if we’ve followed the recipe, we are practically guaranteed it’s going to turn out alright. If only waiting on God was so simple and assured. Unlike an ice cream recipe, it can be difficult to discern the next step He wants us to take. Sometimes it’s hard to believe His answer for us will be good, at least in the sense that we want it to be. Like a kid who can’t wait to eat ice cream, we pace the kitchen floor, our emotions churning, asking God to please hurry so we can be satisfied with something sweet in our lives.

Sometimes we have to wait for what is good, whether homemade ice cream or answers to our prayers.

I have asked a very specific request of God for the last year. My prayer pendulum has swung between pleading cries and trying to convince myself I’m OK without the answer I want. As I wrestle with doubt and discontent I have found consolation and hope in Psalm 37. Verses 3-7 of that chapter are a recipe of sorts for what to do while we wait:

“Trust in the Lord and do good;
     dwell in the land and enjoy safe pleasure.
Take delight in the Lord,
     and He will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord;
     Trust in Him and He will do this:
He will make your righteousness reward shine like the dawn,
     your vindication like the noonday sun.
Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him;”

Trust.
Delight.
Commit.
Be Still.

Are you in a season of waiting? I invite you to sit beside me with Psalm 37 because I believe God can do more than we can imagine (Ephesians 3:20).

A couple of weeks ago I made a list of ways God has been faithful to me and my family. I noticed the specific ways He has answered prayers, particulars that could not possibly be called coincidence. God cares about the details of our lives and orchestrates them more beautifully than we ever could. Don’t take my word for it. Take His.

Here are a few Bible promises to encourage you as you wait to receive what is good.

“But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:31)

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.” (Lamentations 3:25)

“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.” (Psalm 5:3)

As you wait, you may feel better to indulge a bowl or two of ice cream. I highly recommend the homemade kind.

Clear packing tape holds warped lids in place on two plastic bins in our home office. The boxes stored plates, cups and assorted snacks in my 1995 college dorm room. Now, they keep handwritten notes, cards and letters, hundreds of them reaching back to my middle and high school days. The ink is fading and some of the paper has turned but the memories kept inside are vivid.

Among the mix of white and brightly-colored envelopes there are several with a return address marked Grand Bay, Alabama, from my loyal, long ago pen pal, Pam. We met in New Orleans in 1990 at a New Kids on the Block concert. As soon as we returned to our respective homes -roughly 300 miles apart – we began to exchange letters. Our stories stretched for pages, filling envelopes to their limit and occasionally requiring tape to keep them closed. We decorated those paper pouches with such color that a 64-count Crayola crayon box looked downright bland. I couldn’t wait for my daddy to come home from the coal mines carrying the letters he picked up from our post office box to see if one was for me. Pam’s letters, and the ones I wrote to her, became the best part of my summers.

In the spring of 2020, our school switched to virtual learning and Lily began to miss her best friend, Brooke. For fun (and maybe to give her something to do) I suggested she write Brooke a letter. Lily meticulously penciled a message to Brooke using her very best handwriting. I taught her how to address the envelope and the next morning she marched it to the mailbox. My heart couldn’t help but smile as I remembered my own love for letter-writing and the joy I felt whenever my pen pal replied.

As I searched for a way to make letter-writing a relevant 2022 summertime activity (Isn’t Facetime faster? Email easier?) I came across this quote by author Sara Sheridan:

“To me, reading through old letters and journals is like treasure hunting. Somewhere in those faded, handwritten lines there is a story that has been packed away in a dusty old box for years.”  

Pam’s letters are a part of my story. They are a reflection of a friendship and a space in time I might have long forgotten without handwritten words to remind me. Letters may seem an antiquated way to keep in touch but they capture our life in ways technology cannot, with heartfelt expression that no emoji can communicate. Nothing compares to a handwritten letter, signed, sealed and delivered the old-fashioned (summer) way.

There is a simple sentiment penned post-script in many of the cards I’ve kept through the years. It is a bible verse written by Paul to believers in the city of Philippi:

“I give thanks to my God for every remembrance of you.” – Philippians 1:3

Paul’s words here are not especially profound… except they are. He sets an example for us not just through his faith and leadership but in the affection he communicates using only a few words.

Summer with it’s slower pace is the perfect time to take a moment as Paul did and give thanks to God for special people in your life. Then, take another moment to tell your special people, too. It takes only a few minutes and words to make a difference in someone’s life, one that may carry through generations.

Here are a few tricks to help excite your kids (and maybe yourself!) about writing letters:

• Look for fun stationery at a nearby dollar store.
• Let your kids choose stickers to decorate the envelope
• Buy them their own sheet of stamps. There are a lot of designs to pick from at the post office.
• Gather at the kitchen table and encourage every family member to write a letter. (This is also a great time to teach your kids how to address an envelope.)

If you don’t have time to shop, a piece of notebook paper and a pencil from their backpack works just as well. Remember what really matters, and that is the words themselves.

Happy writing!

Hear me out, y’all.

A family vacation sounds the exact opposite of simple summer fun. The planning, the packing, the paying. Also, the laundry. How often have you returned home (All. The. Laundry.) and wearily wished you could have a vacation to recover from your vacation?

Me, too.

Pictures are popping up in my Facebook memories this week of our family road trip last summer. Jeff, Abby Kate, Lily and I drove from our home in Alabama to the Grand Canyon, exploring more than 3,500 miles over seven states. It was an incredible nine days together and we are ready without doubt or hesitation ready to get on the road again.

Not everyone has the time or money to indulge an extended, expensive trip. I know because growing up, my family didn’t. I was 9-years-old when we took our first family vacation. We traveled to Chattahoochee, Florida to see my Aunt Betty and her family. I also recall family trips to Gatlinburg, TN and Panama City Beach, FL. But there was one vacation we played on repeat: an Atlanta Braves baseball game and overnight stay in Stone Mountain, Georgia. I have faded photographs of hiking and pedal boats, my brothers and I squinting our eyes at the sun in the southern summer heat.

Travel, however near or far, is something a lot of us take for granted. We learned just how much when COVID restricted and even cancelled our vacation plans. Several of my friends are just now taking trips they intended in 2020. For all the curses we have uttered at COVID I can recognize one gift, and that is the ways the pandemic re-introduced the value of home. 

COVID pushed me to be creative within my family’s four walls. I was inspired one evening to plan a camp-themed movie night. We made s’mores and hot dogs in our oven, played tic-tac-toe with sticks and rocks from our yard, and watched the original Parent Trap movie starring Haley Mills. Abby Kate and Lily loved it! The evening allowed me to share a fun memory about the summer my cousin Donna and I watched The Parent Trap on VHS (“What’s a VHS tape, Mom?”) so many times we memorized the entire movie. My brothers were annoyed enough that they hid the tape!

Maybe you’re parked at home because of a crowded schedule or creeping gas prices. In what small ways can you make memories?  Your family doesn’t have to travel far to enjoy intentional, uninterrupted time together. We see God’s goodness reflected in the people we love, not just the places we visit. The trip you take could be as close as your living room, your vacation a break from the real world of email or virtual world of video games. The goal, regardless of destination, is simple summer fun.

As you consider what’s left of your summer, here is my encouragement to you:

• There is remarkable fulfillment to hear my girls say “I’ve been there!” when they hear mention of faraway places. Once in a lifetime travel is a gift. If you can, go.
• Trips that turn into tradition are special, too. They forge a family bond that is uniquely yours and will hold belonging and nostalgia in ways you may not see right now.
• Don’t dismiss the small moments you create at home. A staycation may be exactly what you need to see God’s goodness in your everyday life.

The Bible tells time and again the significance held in little things: lilies (Matthew 6), sparrows (Matthew 10), a mustard seed (Matthew 13). Coincidentally, those same things can lead you into simple summer fun.

“Learn how the wildflowers of the field grow; they don’t labor or spin thread. Yet I tell you that note even Solomon in all his splendor was adorned like one of these!” (Matthew 6: 28)

“Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s consent.” (Matthew 10:29)

“It’s the smallest of all seeds, but when grown, it’s taller than the vegetables and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the sky come and nest in its branches.” (Matthew 13:32)

“I tasted honeysuckle!” Abby Kate practically shouted to me as she clamored away from the crowd of students waiting to be picked up from the afternoon car line.

She haphazardly shed her backpack as she climbed into the car, chatting so excitedly I could hardly understand what happened in P.E. class. She told me she and some friends were walking the woods behind her middle school when a classmate named Kate spotted honeysuckle and taught her how to try it.

“I pinched off the end and pulled out the piece with honey on it and put it in my mouth,” she described. “It tasted sweet. I liked it!”

I was stumped for a moment. This child of mine, who turns up her nose at tasting any new food I put on the table tasted without hesitation a flower she found in the woods.

“Have you ever tried it?” she asked.

I smiled as I told her that I had, in fact, tasted honeysuckle. The memories are fuzzy – it’s been more than 35 years – but I remember enough.

Honeysuckle vines grew at the top of a hill behind my childhood home. Some mornings before school I would pick one of the fragrant flowers and taste its sweet honey. My mom says the honeysuckle still blooms, though she’s put up a privacy fence and we can’t get to them.

My daughters spend a lot of time at my mom’s house (my daddy passed away in 2008) and I love to share memories with them of what my home and neighborhood were like when I was growing up.

A few weeks after Abby Kate tasted honeysuckle we visited my husband’s home in Mississippi. Abby Kate discovered some honeysuckle vines behind my mother-in-law’s house. She stepped through the brush to show the yellow-and-white blossoms to her little sister Lily. Lily had to pick a few flowers to find one with enough honey to taste. She liked it, too.

Nature can pull us into deeper fellowship with God, and our sampling of honeysuckle made me think about the significance of honey throughout the Bible. Honey represents abundance in the Promised Land (Exodus 3:8) and provision in the wilderness (Matthew 3:4; Mark 1:6). Honey is so precious and pure that David uses it to express the beauty and worth of God’s own words (Psalm 19:10; Psalm 119:103). If our intention is to find God’s goodness in summer fun, honey seems a good place to start.

Summer is an invitation to connect with our kids in ways that aren’t complicated: exploring the outdoors, experiencing its beauty and enjoying the sweetness it gives to us. Our sample was honeysuckle but there are all kinds of fresh flavors to taste this season. Let your children pick one to try!  Find fun in tasting something fresh and sharing simple pleasures.

Whatever summer food you choose to satiate your stomach, remember nothing can satisfy like Jesus. He created this wonderful world and the goodness it gives. As we fill our bodies with nature’s incredible eats, let us not forget He is nourishment for our soul.

“How sweet Your word is to my taste – sweeter than honey in my mouth.” (Psalm 119:103)

Fresh watermelon.
Homemade ice cream.
A cold glass of lemonade.

We can literally taste summer and its refreshing sweetness. The season invites our senses to come alive and not just our taste buds. Summertime brings the smell of sunscreen, the sound of crickets, and the feel of sunshine on our skin.

Maybe we are more keenly aware of summer’s simple pleasures because we feel permission to slow down. The absence of schedules for our kids allows us room to relax. There aren’t homework assignments to check, lunches to pack, or car lines to join. We can trade our “to-do” list for a “today” list and indulge longer, lazy days.

My childhood summers were made of sleeping late, playing with friends, and a family vacation. The calendar for my daughters is different, crowded with assorted camps and organized activities. I don’t mind it, really. Summer camps give them experiences I can’t at home, things such as canoeing, horseback riding and rock climbing.

I’m careful to build in time to relax. Our rhythm is one week on, one week off. Rest is underrated. Kids need time and space to build forts from couch cushions, adventure through books and endlessly play video games. My brothers and I thumbed hours of Nintendo’s Super Mario Bros and RBI Baseball!

“We had a good childhood,” my little brother texted recently as we reminisced with our big brother about favorite cartoons. “I miss those days.”

I miss them, too.

About a year ago I made a list of things I enjoyed during summers as a little girl. I wanted my daughters to glimpse what life was like when I was their ages. I still carry those moments close and thought it would be meaningful to make new memories with Abby Kate and Lily with what I call “old-fashioned” fun.

Eating homemade ice cream.
Watching fireworks.
Catching lightning bugs.

These are the moments summer is made for. The leisurely pace opens our eyes to God’s creation and the beauty around us. We are not only allowed but encouraged to simply
 
Taste.
See.
Be.

The Bible tells us to “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” (Psalm 34:8) These words of praise and gratitude are my inspiration to find God’s goodness in simple summer fun. So, throughout June and July I’ll share 7 fun ways – one each week – to make memories with your kids this summer. None of the experiences has to be fancy and a few of them can be enjoyed for free!

I would love for you to join me as we play our way through summer. I will share our experiences on my website julieecholsreyburn.com and on Instagram @julieecholsreyburn using the #tasteseebe hashtag. Let’s make memories together this year – with our kids and with each other!

“I’m hungry,” Abby Kate said. “I want waffles.”

“Well, let me show you something!” I replied, pulling our toaster from the kitchen cabinet with flourish. “You can cook them yourself.”

(I have neither the energy nor the want to make waffles from scratch. Frozen is faster. L’eggo my Eggo.)

Abby Kate stood beside me, watching, as I plugged in the toaster and showed her how to check the browning controls so her food wouldn’t burn.

“But I’ll burn my fingers!” she said, wondering how she would take out the waffles when they popped hot and ready.

I offered her a small pair of wooden tongs and a warning, “Do not ever put anything metal into a toaster.”

I’ve learned it’s best to assume she knows nothing.

As Abby Kate placed the waffles on her plate and poured (way too much) syrup on top I said with a smile, “Now you will never go hungry! Because you know how to make waffles.”

In a lot of ways I feel behind the curve in raising my kids. It’s my fault. I fancy myself Supermom and enjoy it. But as the girls are growing, so is my frustration over doing the things they are capable of taking care of themselves.

Life Lesson #1: Make your own breakfast.

It’s long overdue. Abby Kate will turn 13 years old in May and I am acutely aware of the dwindling amount of time I have left to teach Life Lessons #2 through 2000. I have felt inadequate a lot lately, as if she will never be ready to walk confidently into the world on her own.

The painful truth is, I have almost always felt behind in raising Abby Kate. The toddler years were the worst for me in terms of measuring milestones. She didn’t cut her first teeth until she was more than a year old. She was almost 2 before she started to talk (and I don’t mean sentences, I mean words). She couldn’t write her name when she started Kindergarten.

One Sunday morning when Abby Kate was still very young, a more experienced mom offered me the best piece of parenting advice I have ever heard:

“She’s not going to take her paci to the prom.”

On that particular day I could very well have been wondering if or when to wean Abby Kate from her pacifier. But this mom’s words weren’t really about the pacifier at all. She was reassuring me that Abby Kate would develop and grow as God intended. It was her way of letting me know Abby Kate was going to be fine. And that I would be, too.

I carry a lot of hopes and dreams for my daughters, a picture of what I want their lives to be. These days I find myself wondering of Abby Kate:

Will she move away for college?
What career will she pursue?
Who will she choose to marry?

It’s easy to get caught up in the end game. I wrestle with worry, doubt and guilt. Part of preparing Abby Kate for what’s to come is quieting my questions and paying attention to what she is experiencing now. I can’t predict her future but I can:

Coach her through an essay for English class.
Engage her interests and hobbies.
Mirror what a healthy relationship looks like.

And I can teach her how to toast waffles.

There’s another pivotal piece of parenting advice that I have bookmarked, literally. It comes from actor/comedian/author Paul Reiser in his book titled “Familyhood.”

Reiser writes:

“Kids are like a plane. And you’re like the pilot, but only a little. In truth, the kid takes off and flies less because of what you do and more because of how the kid is designed. Once they’re up, they’re going to be buffeted and pushed around plenty by bad weather and strong winds and angry turbulence. No way to avoid it. As the pilot, you make your adjustments. That’s your job. Do it as best you see fit. But take comfort knowing that in the end, they’ll fly. Because they want to fly.”

The flight path is different for every child. God picked you to be the pilot your son or daughter needs. So, don’t let the pressure to be a “good mom” paralyze you. Resist the impulse to second-guess yourself. Take captive any comparison that makes you feel like a failure. If we are present with our kids and take the time to teach them, they are going to find their way, in their time.

The most important thing we can do to impact our kids for their lifetime is to love them. Teaching our children – whether to ride a bicycle, cook a meal, or create a budget – is an act of love. I would venture it is the greatest measure of our love. Because in teaching them, we are not just preparing them for life. We are also preparing ourselves to let them go.

“Start children off in the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.”

(Proverbs 22:6)