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.
