Campfire Conversations & Car Talks: Summer reflections on connection, chaos and the gift of just a little more time

It’s that time of summer where the rhythm is a little less structured and a little more sacred. The college kids are home, the high schooler’s got one foot in childhood and one in grown-up territory, and my kitchen feels more like a revolving door than a calm domestic haven.

There are days when it’s a lot—laundry everywhere, the fridge emptying faster than I can restock it, calendars overlapping with summer jobs, church activities, and the endless rhythm of “Who’s coming over? Who’s staying for dinner?” But as much as it boggles my brain, I’m learning to lean in.

Because this season? It’s fleeting.

During the in-between moments—those unscheduled evenings, late-night hangouts, and long car rides—I’m reminded of the gift it is to still be here. Not hovering, not fixing everything, but close enough to listen, to ask, and to simply be present.

These are the days of seeing them take big steps toward independence. Summer jobs aren’t just about staying busy—they’re funding pieces of their dreams: College tuition, a first car, travel plans, savings accounts. They’re learning responsibility, but they’re also learning about their own capabilities. And I get a front-row seat to witness it and cheer for each one.

There are spontaneous coffee runs, random driveway talks, and the golden moments when their friends pile into our living room and laughter fills the house. I’ve learned that making space for their friends—keeping the door open, snacks on hand, and letting the house be loud and full—is one of the most meaningful things I can do for them. Because when their friends feel safe here, my kids feel even more at home.

It’s not always convenient. Sometimes it’s exhausting. I’ve had days where I just want quiet, where I’d love a clean kitchen that stays clean, or a night without anyone asking, “What’s for dinner?” But I’m reminded again and again—this is temporary. This season of a full house, late nights, chaotic calendars, and a refrigerator that never stays closed… it won’t always be like this.

And while it can feel like I’m running a 24-hour diner, I know what I’m really doing is investing. Not just in meals and rides and folding towels, but in connection. In trust. In creating a space where my almost-grown kids can still land safely while they figure out who they’re becoming.

Sometimes the most important conversations happen without a plan—around a campfire, during a walk, or on a long road trip. I’ve learned to welcome the silence just as much as the moments when they open up, because both are valuable. Both are connection.

We’ve traded bedtime stories for conversations about internships, relationships, faith, and adulting. And they still need my voice—not to direct, but to encourage. To remind them they’re not alone. To remind myself that presence is enough.

So I’ll keep making space. I’ll keep offering time, open ears, and a revolving door that creaks from all the comings and goings. Because as much as they’re growing and going, they’re still mine. And I want them to know that home—real, grace-filled home—will always be here for them.

And that’s worth every dish, every late night, every moment of beautiful, midsummer chaos.

What Easter Has Taught Me About Motherhood

Motherhood has a way of bringing you to the end of yourself over and over again. That’s kind of where Easter begins too!

I used to think Easter was mostly about celebration—and it is—but it’s also about surrender, waiting and trusting God with the things you can’t fix or fully understand. Sound familiar, mom?

If I’m honest, I’ve had seasons in motherhood where it felt like something had to die for something new to be born. Not always in a dramatic way, more like a quiet surrender. A letting go. Sometimes it’s been my pride, or my need to be right. Other times, it’s been my expectations of how things “should” go, or how my kids “should” behave or respond. I’ve had to release dreams I had for them that no longer fit who they’re becoming, and all of that is hard.

Easter reminds me that even when it looks like everything’s over—when Friday feels final—a new morning is still coming. God is always at work in the unseen. I may not understand the path my kids are on, but He does. I can’t always see the outcome, but I can trust the One who’s writing their story.

One of the biggest things Easter has taught me is that my children are still becoming who God made them to be. And so am I. That gives me so much peace. I don’t have to be the perfect mom with the perfect plan. I just have to be faithful with what I’ve been given, one day at a time.

That includes making space for forgiveness. I’ve had to offer it more times than I expected—and I’ve had to ask for it, as well. I’ve snapped when I should have listened. I’ve tried to control when I should have trusted. And I’ve carried guilt longer than I needed to, forgetting that the same grace I offer to my kids is available to me too.

And let’s be real—sometimes the “little deaths” of motherhood feel quiet and unseen. The letting go of the way things used to be. The slow fade of a role you once played. The ache of watching them grow more independent while you grow a little more invisible.

But Easter says that death is not the end. In God’s hands, it’s the doorway to something new and better. Something full of life. Something that looks like trust, hope, and love that never quits.

That’s what I’m holding onto. Even when I can’t see the full picture, I know God is working. He’s shaping my kids. He’s shaping me. And He’s doing it in His perfect timing.

So I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep letting go. I’ll keep trusting Him with every unanswered question and unspoken prayer. Because love—real, steady, resurrection-kind-of-love—always wins in the end.

And that’s what Easter has taught me about motherhood.

The Lasting Joy of Gardening With Your Children

There’s something deeply special about sinking your hands into the soil alongside your children. Gardening is more than planting seeds and pulling weeds, it’s an unspoken language of love, a garden bed filled with quiet conversations, laughter and the tender touch of working the earth together. It’s about more than just flowers and veggies, it’s about roots - both in the soil and in the hearts of those we cherish.

The Bond That Blooms

Gardening offers a gentle rhythm of working together, celebrating small victories and embracing the beauty of each passing season. For young children, digging in the dirt and planting flowers is pure magic and opens their eyes to the wonder of nature. Kids learn patience as they water tiny seedlings, and then joy as they see their efforts transform into bursts of color. 

As they grow, the garden becomes a safe haven, a space where time slows down, even as life speeds up. Maybe your teenager won’t hold your hand anymore, but they’ll still kneel beside you in the soft earth, pressing zinnia seeds into the ground. These hardy, vibrant flowers stand tall and strong, much like the children who plant them. And just like the love poured into them, they keep blooming, a reminder of love that lingers even as seasons change.

One day, my son visiting from college told me, "Mom, when I'm on campus, I notice the flowers and think of you." His words were a reminder that the love we plant stays with them, blooming in unexpected moments, even when they are far from home.

Then comes adulthood, when the garden becomes more than a place, it becomes a memory of your sweet times together. A daughter, now grown, might plant nasturtiums in her own yard, remembering the way their peppery petals made her mother laugh as they tossed them into summer salads. A son, living miles away, might catch the scent of daffodils in the air and be transported back to a crisp autumn day, when small hands helped mom place bulbs into the earth.

The Healing Power of Nature

Beyond the bonds it builds, gardening is deeply healing. Life can be overwhelming and growing up is hard, parenting is hard, letting go is hard. But in the garden, there is peace. The gentle hum of bees, the warmth of the sun on tired shoulders, the cool embrace of soil beneath fingertips give us space to pause and savor the present moment. 

The garden is a place to pause, focus and attend to the rhythmic needs of plants and spaces. The noise and demands of life are turned down in the garden where only the simple tasks are necessary. 

For teenagers navigating the ups and downs of life, the garden offers a quiet escape. It is a place where the world slows, where hands are busy but minds can rest. It teaches them that growth takes time, that beauty emerges even after the coldest winters and that sometimes, all we need is a little light and time to bloom again.

Keep Planting, Keep Loving

Gardening with your children is a love story that never truly ends. It’s a quiet promise, sealed in the soil, carried in the wind, blooming long after hands have let go. So keep planting, keep growing, and cherish every moment spent in the garden together. Because long after the petals fade, the love you’ve sown will keep blooming - in the flowers, in their hearts and in the cherished memories that time can never take away.

Start Your Own Tradition

If you’re a young mom, wondering how to create something lasting with your children, start small. Grab a pack of zinnia or marigold seeds, and press them into the soil with tiny hands beside yours. Watch together as the green shoots break through, as the colors burst open like laughter. One day, when they’re grown, they’ll notice flowers on their own path and think of you. And in that quiet moment, love will bloom again, just as it was planted by you - season after season, heart to heart.