Even on vacation, as always, I’m up and at it. Soon, the rest of the Thoma family will awaken, and then we’ll be off to Zion Lutheran Church in Winter Garden. The service is at 9:00 AM if you’re in the area and interested.

We never miss worship. Not even on vacation. Why would we? God doesn’t take vacations from us.

Until it’s time, I’m sitting in my usual early-morning writing space, a swimming pool just beyond the wall to my right. What to write about? Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that we’re already about halfway through the summer. Thankfully, that realization comes to mind at a relatively impenetrable moment. What I mean is that, first, I’m typing this from what is, more or less, my happy place: Florida. And second, we just arrived here last night, so we have almost two full weeks of rest and relaxation ahead of us. Together, these two facts form a perfect moment for perspective—a kind of balance that vacations alone seem to offer.

In the early days of time away, there is an abundance of freedom. You look ahead and think, “We have so many days for anything and nothing. The time is wide open, and we can fill it however we’d like.” But then, something subtle happens a little past the halfway mark. It’s a quiet shift. Without warning, instead of looking toward a seemingly endless expanse, a countdown of sorts begins: “Only five days left. Now four. Now three.”

Maybe it isn’t this way for you, but it can be for me. And if I’m not careful, it can become almost like a thief. It steals my mind away from the present and into a kind of preemptive grief over what hasn’t even ended yet. And so, I do my best to savor rather than tally. If anything, my family makes that easy to do. They’re so much fun to be around, and the blessing is that when the vacation ends, we end it together. When we go home, we go back home together to just be what we were before we left—and for me, that’s enough.

There’s a well-worn line in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s epic poem “Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie” that takes a straight aim at the tallying urge I described before. For me, it translates into pondering what’s left of anything and instead dwelling in the enchantment of right now. As only Longfellow could scribble, he sets before us, “Then followed that beautiful season… Summer… Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape lay as if newly created in all the freshness of childhood.”

I’m 52 years old. Childhood seems so far away. And yet, I get what he means. He wraps his words around something that doesn’t seem to fade with age. He describes a kind of freshness that isn’t necessarily about being young, but about being present in something that has been given.

I don’t want to get too esoteric this morning. And yet, vacation time certainly does provide access to an entirely different and yet unrestricted level of thinking for me. I just feel good, more thoughtful. It’s the one time during the year when I can better see the things I already know. For example, as a Christian, I already know that life is far more than droning schedules. But on vacation, I can actually see it. It isn’t just symmetry on a calendar. It’s not something mathematical. Instead, life is a great big grace-filled opportunity that doesn’t need to spend any of its time worried about its end.

By faith, there is no end, and so, this is good, and it’s enough, whatever it is.

Maybe that makes sense to you, and you agree. Maybe it doesn’t, and you don’t. Well, whatever. For me, it’s enough. And either way, God’s Word agrees with me. Or better said, I agree with God’s Word.

If and when I find myself worrying about life’s fast-fleeting days, my Lord is there to remind me, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34). These words are not intended as motivational poster material. They’re powerful. By the Holy Spirit’s power, they instill what they commend, which is a divine permission to stop counting what’s left of anything and simply receive what is. They’re words that stir believers to begin each day ready to hum along with the Psalmist, “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24). The Psalm-writer didn’t say “was made” or “will be made.” He said, “This is the day.” This one. For me, it’s the one that begins with this little eNews message, a cup of tolerable coffee, and eventually a trip with my still-sleeping family to church at Zion Lutheran Church in Winter Garden, Florida. I don’t know what comes after that. Although it’s more than possible it’ll involve laughter echoing from the pool after eating a meal that makes it far too hard for me to swim.

Whatever the family and I decide to do, Lamentations 3:22–23 will rise and shine over all of it, even more brightly than the Florida sun. We’ll soak up the time remembering that the “steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

I suppose I’ll end with that. Indeed, life is not dwindling by the day. Not with Jesus. By faith, I know that even if I only have a few more days of vacation or a few more days of mortal life, it’ll be perfectly enough.