Life with Santa | June Reflection
There’s something about summer evenings that makes the world feel softer.
Maybe it’s the way the light lingers a little longer across the yard, or how the heat of the day slowly gives way to stillness. The garden settles. The birds quiet down. Even the wind seems to move differently.
Summer evenings for us usually end on the back porch beside our little backyard pond, or as we lovingly call it, Foster’s Pond.
By then, most of the work for the day has already been done.
The garden has been watered. The flowers settle into the evening light. And Richard and I sit quietly, staring in amazement at all the work we managed to accomplish over the spring.
It never feels finished.
Gardens rarely do.
But there’s something deeply satisfying about watching it slowly come alive season after season. The tiny plants we worried over in April now stand taller. The beds we cleaned, weeded, and replanted begin to fill in. What once looked like bare soil now hints at meals, bouquets, and memories yet to come.
In the spring, you’ll usually find us watching OU softball in the evenings. By summer, baseball takes over, Go Cardinals!
And somewhere in the middle of all that, our tastebuds start waiting patiently for one of our favorite summer traditions: Richard’s eggplant parmesan.
The eggplant, onions, peppers, and tomatoes all come straight from the garden, which somehow makes the meal feel even more special. Like the season itself found its way to the table.
Years ago, I probably would have kept moving.
Straightening the kitchen.
Starting the next task.
Thinking about tomorrow before today had even finished.
But summer evenings seem to ask something different of us.
They remind us that not every meaningful part of life happens while we’re hurrying.
Sometimes the best moments arrive quietly.
A conversation that lasts longer than expected.
The smell of fresh-cut grass drifting through the yard.
Dogs stretched out in the fading light.
A garden hose left in the grass after watering the tomatoes.
Someone you love sitting nearby without needing to say much at all.
I suppose the things we return to day after day begin shaping us in quiet ways.
Maybe that’s true of gardens.
Maybe it’s true of people too.
After all these years, I suppose Santa has taught me something about slowing down, too. The best moments are rarely the rushed ones. They’re the ones we make room for, notice, and carry with us long after the season has passed.
The world encourages us to move faster every year. To consume more. Produce more. Fill every empty space.
But I’m beginning to think there’s wisdom in leaving a little room for stillness.
For evening light.
For rest.
For noticing.
Maybe that’s part of what summer is meant to teach us before the busy seasons return again.
Not everything important announces itself loudly.
Some things grow slowly, softening us little by little over time.
And perhaps that’s why summer evenings stay with us long after the season has passed.
Not because of what we accomplished in them,
but because of who we quietly became while living them.