Every year, we spend our final week of summer together at our property on Cross Lake. It is the sweetest little slice of heaven. Cross Lake is tiny, only about 4.5 miles long, with the Seneca River flowing directly through it and replacing its water roughly every seven days. It’s beautiful and peaceful, and it has become the place where our family slows down together before summer gives way to another school year.
My father-in-law found this spot for us in 2018, just months before he unexpectedly left this earth for eternity. It was his final parting gift to us… although I don’t think any of us could have known then just how much this place would come to mean. Over the years, members of the Wilson family have bought properties next to each other, turning this little stretch of lake into a place where cousins grow up together, family gathers, and some of our favorite summer memories are made.
There is something especially sweet about this final week of summer. The long walks down the fire lane. The late-night campfires. The quiet reading. The games and puzzles with the kids. The sound of the wind chimes while I write. The gentle sway of the hammock while Dave relaxes. It has become our way of squeezing every last drop out of summer before alarms are set and another school year begins.
Maybe that is why this year feels different. Next summer, instead of ending our summer here the way we always have, we will be moving our oldest into college.
I always struggle with the final weeks of summer. From an educator’s perspective, I love the excitement of a new school year. From a mama’s perspective, I dread saying goodbye to the long days when all of my kiddos are home. But this year, that familiar ache feels heavier because I know we are entering our final year with everyone living under our roof.
And this week, I find myself noticing things I might have otherwise missed. How the kids stay up later than me these days, roasting s’mores and laughing late into the night. The shoes and towels thrown everywhere. How brightly the sun rises in the morning and how clear the stars look at night.
I think that’s what this season is teaching me. Sometimes you know you’re living the “good old days” while you’re still in them. And that is both a gift and a little heartbreaking.
I know change is good. I know raising children means raising them to eventually go. I know there are beautiful things waiting for us in the next season.
But knowing something is good doesn’t mean you have to rush through the goodbye.
So this week, I’m not rushing it. I’m soaking it in. The late nights. The slow mornings. The noise. The mess. The laughter. All of us together in one place.
Because next August will look different.
And on this final day at the lake, I’m especially grateful for one more summer when it still looks like this.
Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. — Psalm 90:12
Grace in the Disarray 