The Secret to a Wonder-Filled Summer

Welcome to the Overflow! Whether you’re an old friend or a new one, I’m glad you’re here. This is a place where faith is spilled and souls are filled. I hope you’ll linger for a while and be encouraged. I’m over at Proverbs 31 today talking about WONDER, my favorite antidote to weariness. If you haven’t had a chance to read that devotion, you can find it here. (Spoiler alert: It may make you want to chase a sunset, find pictures in the clouds, or marvel at the starry sky tonight!) But before you go, I’d love to tell you a tale of a little boy, a squishy mud puddle and my new summer prayer. And when you’re done reading, don’t forget to grab my free printable packed with ideas on how to amplify your awe this summer.

I was lying beside my littlest boy in the top bunk on a warm August night a few years ago. New backpacks hung on the coat hooks and those carefully chosen school supplies sat waiting in the closet. Soon the big yellow bus would chug up our hill, and we’d bid summer vacation good-bye. So I grabbed that sliver of quiet to pose the question that had been dancing in my mind.

“What was the most wonderful moment of your summer?” I asked my boy as I rubbed his bony back. My question dangled in the darkness while he wandered down memory lane.

I waited for his response and remembered that day at the summer’s start when I’d scribbled this simple plea in my prayer journal:”Lord, please fill our summer with WONDER.”

I’d been lingering in the Psalms and learning from King David’s example of an awestruck life.  I’d begun to realize that our souls are wired for wonder. Our hearts are made to marvel.

We aren’t crafted to merely survive. We are created to be wildly alive.

So, I’d prayed that little prayer for my children and for me. And then I’d promptly proceeded to make plans for a wonder-filled summer, as if our wonder-seeking souls were mine to fill.

My prayer had been earnest, but my method had been erroneous.

But God is gracious with our growing, friends. And He used a used a five-year-old to teach me that wonder isn’t a goal to achieve. It’s a gift to receive. 

My son cut through the quiet with a breathy giggle. “Do you remember that day when all the dirt at the end of our driveway turned to mud?”

I tried to recall that rainy day, but it was the blue-skied memories that lingered in my mind.

“We ran outside without shoes on and we jumped in that big puddle,” my son continued. “And all the gooey mud squished between our toes.”  His voice wobbled with joy as he recalled our barefooted romp.

“And then we we ran up and down the driveway and made brown tracks on the cement.  Remember, Mom?” He wiggled his legs beneath the blanket as if he were racing up the driveway once more. “Then when we got tired of running, we just sat right beside that puddle and threw rocks in the water. And we listened to the plop. And you said it sounded like the mud puddle was just singing us a song. ”

My son wrapped his slender fingers around mine and exhaled a happy sigh. “That was the best day, Mom,” he whispered.

His voice faded with the drooping of his eyelids, and his wiggly legs grew still.

And I lay there trying to remember the best day of summer.

I could remember the way my son’s eyes had beamed as he’d stood on top of a mountain peak in July. I could remember the way his lips had turned into a smile after he’d bravely launched himself from the high dive in June. I could remember the way his lanky legs had danced happy in the dirt when his baseball team had won their first game in May.

But I couldn’t remember the way he’d giggled with glee when we’d squished our toes in a puddle at the end of our driveway. Or the way he’d leaned low to listen to the sing-song of those rocks splashing in the murky water.

After all, it had just been an ordinary summer’s day. One of a thousand small moments I’d shared in the yard with my son.

But, maybe, that’s where wonder is found—in the small and insignificant moments that swell large with God’s immeasurable majesty.

As I lay in the top bunk just listening to the rhythmic thrum of my sleepy one’s breathing, I realized that my approach to wonder was warped.

Wonder isn’t a trophy for the brave or a ribbon for the adventurous. 

It’s not an incentive for the creative or an award for the ambitious.

Wonder is a gift from our wondrous Giver. 

We can’t plan it or produce it; script it or schedule it.

We can only seek it and seize it; recognize it and receive it.

We don’t need to climb a mountain to find it or leave home to see it. Wonder isn’t somewhere out there.

Wonder is always right here— in the dirt under our feet or in the wisp of clouds over our heads.  It’s around our dinner tables and on our driveways, in our neighborhoods and in our workplaces. It’s a glimpse of the holy in our humdrum, the marvelous in our monotony.

Wonder is the “music” in our mud, it’s the “plop” in our puddles.

I guess that’s why my summer prayer has changed since that moonlit night on the top bunk.