The Patterns of Summer

Some musings

Photo by Aleksandra Boguslawska on Unsplash

Eight summers ago was filled to the brim with stress, anticipation, relief and joy. I married my husband.

Four summers ago began with excitement and anticipation and quickly turned into the most devastating grief I’d experienced thus far—I had my second miscarriage.

Three summers ago I held renewed hope when my sister-in-law threw me a baby shower for my first born daughter.

Two summers ago I thought I was beginning my journey as a stay at home mother of one, when we surprisingly found out I was pregnant again.

Last summer I was reeling from the effects of a traumatic postpartum health scare and trying to adapt to caring for two children under two years old. Last summer I felt like I was being consumed from the inside out from postpartum depression.

As I reflect on the summers of years gone by I am filled with a profound, yet simple feeling: gratitude.

We are entering a new season. One with the many different colors of hope. The hopeful relief that comes with some eased financial burden. The hopeful excitement and anticipation as my oldest will start preschool in our church's homeschool co-op. The hopeful eagerness to plan activities and outings with my children. The hopeful gratitude that for the first time in years my hormones are balanced and my mind is clear.

With this hope comes the gratitude. Because I have spent so many years struggling physically, mentally, I came to expect struggle as my default. I would even worry that if I wasn’t struggling that must mean I was doing something wrong.

So I am celebrating hope. I am rejoicing that I am in a vastly different place now than when I first started thinking about a Substack a few months ago. And I am immensely grateful that my summer days—while still filled with mayhem and hard work (no rest for the mama)—are permeated with a strong undertone of hope and contentment.

Hope. Contentment. Gratitude.

Simple, yet profound.

A taste of the divine.