Welcome to June. It’s a little chilly. Nevertheless, it’s here.
Ever since I was a kid, summer always belonged to June. The poet, William Carlos Williams, scribbled, “In summer, the song sings itself.” Every kid knows he was right. When June came, that meant life’s doors were opening to easier days—summer days.
As a kid growing up in central Illinois, in the twilight hours, after we’d become bored with jumping ramps, climbing trees, playing hotbox, or anything else we felt like doing, we’d throw golf balls into the air to attract the bats. After an hour of watching them swoop and flitter and spin in this and that direction, and feeling like pitchers in our eighth inning, we’d head inside to watch whichever movie might be playing on whatever tunable station we could manage in our cableless house.
As an adult, the summer doesn’t necessarily promise me the same freedoms. Still, when June arrives, it seems the world starts loosening its collar. The daylight stretches further. Togetherness on the front porch or back deck lasts longer. Solitude’s silence hums with a kind of warmth that winter could never understand. Time itself seems to wander around barefoot.
Summer doesn’t ask for permission. It simply arrives and reminds us to live—that staying inside isn’t the only possibility. We can go outside, too.
A few weeks ago, I sat in a video conference with a publisher. I’ve been sitting on a handful of chapters for a children’s fantasy novel for more years than I can count. Only recently did a wind of inspiration hit me. In truth, it was my grandson’s birth. Inhaling the event’s freshness, I’ve been exhaling newness to the story. Contextually, I’d already been chatting with the publisher about crafting a religious liberty book, which I more or less completed last night. But this conversation was about the children’s book. Just for fun, I sent along the first six chapters, and with that, interest was sparked, and ultimately, encouragement to move forward followed.
Contextually, I began writing the story as a means to help my son, Joshua, navigate the challenging waters of my full-time seminary training. He was four years old when I began what would be three long years of commuting to and from Fort Wayne, Indiana. I would drive down on Sunday night and return to Michigan on Friday night. Meanwhile, even as a full-time student, I would also maintain my full-time Director of Christian Education (DCE) duties here at Our Savior, doing what I could to manage long-distance responsibilities, while also holding regular office hours and participating in activities on weekends.
To prevent the loss of Josh’s childhood along the way, we started writing a story together. The routine was fairly simple. Before I left on Sunday night, we’d sit together to talk about the story. In between classes and paper-writing that week, I’d add to the story based on what we talked about. When I returned the following Friday, not only was he happy to see me, but he also wasn’t dreading my Sunday departure because he knew I wouldn’t share the new material with him until just before leaving. And once again, after reading what I’d crafted, we’d talk about what should happen next, and then I’d go back to Fort Wayne and repeat the process.
In a sense, I share all of this, reminded of something I just read last night from George R.R. Martin. He wrote, “Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” Again, that’s what I was guarding against when I began writing the story in the first place. It was a dreadfully taxing experience, one I’d never recommend anyone else try. Once it started, I didn’t want Joshua to get lost in the mess. With that, while the story endeavor was a relatively simple exchange, it became something sacred between us—a way to hold things in place; a way to let the summer of our togetherness linger just a little longer.
I managed quite a bit of text before the effort no longer seemed necessary. He adjusted, and we found other ways to manage the distance while growing closer, not apart.
Joshua is 25 years old now. His childhood has ended. All is well. Strangely, not long after Preston’s birth, I happened to glance at the story, and I remembered that its primary character, quite literally based on my son (even bearing his name) is the story’s narrator. He is recounting the tale for someone. The reader doesn’t yet know who it is. Something tells me it’s Joshua as a father visiting with his son. My gut tells me that son is Preston.
“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” True. Seasons come and go. But within those seasons, there are seeds of things that continue. The story I began for a little boy served its purpose. And yet, it appears to have waited patiently, like a half-built treehouse in the backyard. Now another little boy has arrived—new to the world, unaware of what stories await him—and suddenly, I hear the hammering again. Interestingly, I feel the warmth of June, and I know what I’ll be doing in my free time this summer. In fact, I created a writing schedule that carries me into July. If I stay on track, I’ll be done before the summer’s end. I really want to finish what began for Joshua, but now, too, for Preston.
Yes, time passes. But just like summer, stories have a way of returning, full of promise and life. King Solomon said it best: “To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven… He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity into man’s heart” (Ecclesiastes 3:1,11).
Childhood, like summer, may come to an end. But the God who governs all seasons is unchanging. In the same way that He weaves beauty into the warmth of June, He plants joyful opportunity among times of potential heartache. We don’t always see it. However, we can know it. Indeed, He interlaces incredible beauty into each of these moments, whether summer-like or winter-like. He reminds us that the seasons are His to orchestrate, and we can trust Him. The faithful God who gives us June, who gives us childhood, who gives us time and story and memory, He cares year-round (Psalm 124:1). And besides, just as Solomon said, He’s already sown eternity in our hearts. That’s a wink at faith—a glance toward the Gospel fact that something happened (the death and resurrection of Jesus), has been sown in us, and remains in full bloom, no matter the season.
I could sit here and continue to unpack this wonder, but I need to wrap up. In the meantime, just know that for believers, the seemingly fleeting beauty of summer and the tender brevity of childhood aren’t really lost to time, not when you have Jesus. With Jesus, nothing truly good ever slips away. Instead, it is preserved, perfected, and restored in ways we can hardly imagine.
And so, welcome to June. Summer is just beginning. Yes, it will eventually end. But the better story of God’s faithfulness is forever being told.
Cruciform Stuff 