This week marks the official start of summer, with Friday’s solstice ushering in the season of longest light. As I prepare for my sabbatical in July, spending time with family, and immersing myself in the rich and diverse beauty of different cultures, people and landscapes, I am especially grateful for the opportunity to reflect meaningfully on this time.
Traditions dating back centuries across the Neolithic cultures have marked the significance of this mid-summer period where time is suspended, the earth is fertile with the promise of new life, and people are encouraged to find deep meaning in the reflective symbolism of growth and rebirth. This is a time for each of us to breathe deeply, move slowly, and reclaim an intentionality in our living, in our relationships, in our purpose.
Throughout scripture, the use of agrarian images and motifs is often used to point us toward spiritual insights and to strengthen our faith. Growing up the granddaughter of Western Kentucky farmers, I am sensitive to this season in ways that are part of my own history and spiritual memory, which are still shaping the way I move and breathe in the world. The connection to the sun and its gift of light, to the shade tree and her growing arms, all echo the promises of a caring and compassionate God for a people under her watchful care.
As a child, my grandmother would write to me from the family farm as we lived several states away in the Mountain West. Her letters always began with a weather report: how much rain the farm had received, what stage of preparing, planting or harvesting they were in at the time. I have kept many of these letters over the years. Rereading them now, I am drawn to the patterns I see, the cyclical nature of life, and the dependency of my grandparents on the natural order of things. In this peak season of extended sunlight, the corn, soybeans, and tobacco would be growing rapidly, soaking up every drop of the sun’s light and drinking deep from the overnight rains that would blanket the earth.
In this transition period, as the days turn from their longest to ever shorter by nightfall, I hear my grandfather’s worries of drought. A dry June could stress the young crops and create devastation in the harvest yield. My grandfather would worry about the high temperatures that July and August would bring; he would fret over his cattle and manage their grazing to minimize heat stress and maximize hydration. The solstice is a reminder that summer is just getting started. And as the days slowly shorten, we’re reminded that God’s love is not fleeting like the light—it is steadfast, present even in the shadows.
Whether you are a seed sower, a gardener, or harvester of the land, you are part of her story—we all are. We don’t have to be farmers to know the significance of our presence in this world, or the power we hold to bring new life or to squander what little or abundant light we are given. We all understand what it is to live in a dried-up land, in a place so desperate for nourishment and hope we can only pray that the rains will come.
Perhaps in this changing season, as the sun makes her final moments in the sky, we will see that she is not disappearing, but rather relocating her light’s beams.
As we soak in the rays, as we gather around the bonfires of night, we are now commissioned as bearers of that light. As each day darkens and the sun hides her face, we’re invited to an abundant feast—calling us to gather close, to dance with joy, and to join in the rhythms of change.
As the days grow dimmer, your light can still shine—bright enough to nourish, to awaken, to transform.
As I step away this July for a time of rest, learning, and renewal, I carry your stories and prayers with me. May this season be one of light and growth—for us all.
Let your light shine!
Pastor Jenny