The Summer of Small Things
The sun is warm, heavy almost, pressing through the windshield as I shift in my seat. The car is steamy—still holding the heat of a summer afternoon and the scent of sunscreen and chlorine. In the backseat, the kids I’m watching are fresh from the pool, cheeks pink from the sun, hair damp and tangled, sitting on beach towels to protect the seats. They chatter, then bicker, then go quiet—tired in the way only summer can make you tired.
We’re waiting in the slow crawl of the library drop-off line. We’ll hand over our armful of books, then head home for a rinse-off shower and (fingers crossed) some rest time. It’s a rhythm that’s becoming our routine.
This is the summer beat: swim, snack, shower, story time.
Repeat.
Repeat again.
And if I’m honest?
Today it feels less like a rhythm and more like a rut.
It’s one of those days.
The kind that blurs together with yesterday and probably tomorrow too.
The kind that doesn’t feel meaningful or magical or particularly memorable.
The kind that feels routine, repetitive, maybe even invisible.
The kind of day that doesn’t sparkle or shine but just… hums with the quiet buzz of ordinary life. Summer days that blur together like watercolor—bright, messy, and kind of exhausting.
The “thank yous” have worn off. The magic of popsicles and pool time has started to fade. What once felt like a treat now feels like a task—like something I’m expected to provide, not something they’re delighted by.
And if I slow down long enough to pay attention, there’s a quiet ache creeping in.
And if I’m honest, I’m starting to wonder: Does any of this even matter?
Am I doing enough?
Do they think I’m fun?
Am I modeling Jesus in my attitude?
Are my actions encouraging?
Are my words kind?
Later that afternoon, while the littles napped and I stood over a sink full of lunch dishes, I felt that quiet nudge of the Holy Spirit:
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” {2 Corinthians 12:9 (CSB)}
I set the glass I was rinsing down and just stood still for a moment, letting those words wash over my weary heart.
There were so many parts of the day where I felt weak—
Physically weak from the constant lifting and loading.
Mentally weak as I compared myself to other moms and women, wondering why I didn’t feel as put together.
Spiritually weak when I let insecurity steal the joy right out of a sunny afternoon.
So much weakness.
And yet… isn’t that the point?
His grace is enough—not when I’ve done everything right, but when I haven’t.
His power shows up not in my strength, but in my lack.
I’m beginning to see that these small summer days—the ones full of soggy swimsuits, skipped naps, and dishes in the sink—are sacred. Not because they’re glamorous. But because they are full of moments where God’s presence meets me in the mundane.
God isn’t just near when we’re doing “big” things for Him. He’s near when we’re watching little ones, folding laundry, and making mac and cheese for the third day in a row. He’s near when we feel overlooked, empty, and weak.
And because He is near, the small things matter more than we think. Every cup of water handed to a thirsty kiddo, every comforting word whispered through exhaustion, and every quiet act of service done without applause—they echo into eternity. God doesn’t waste the mundane. He uses it to shape hearts (including ours), to build trust, and to make Himself known. When we remember that the God of the universe is present in our ordinary, we can live these normal days with courage, knowing that what feels small to us may be significant in the kingdom of God.
So if today feels like more “have to” than “get to,” if you’re wondering whether your unseen sacrifices matter, know this: Your weakness doesn’t disqualify you—it makes space for His power to shine.
Right here.
In the library line.
At the kitchen sink.
In the messy middle of an ordinary summer day.