My Endless Summers

This nostalgic reflection on childhood, heat, and honeysuckle invites you to revisit my endless summers—those long, Southern days filled with frogs, bikes, and backyard magic. More than memories, they reveal the quiet, faithful presence of God woven through every moment. If you’ve ever longed for a simpler time, this piece will help you see how His goodness has always been there.

In a world of heat and honeysuckle, the Lord was always there—just past the monkey bars and singing frogs.

A buddy of mine once said his favorite thing about the South was our endless summers.

He said this while slapping a mosquito the size of a hubcap on his neck, so I knew, in that moment, he was being less than sincere. But even in the sarcasm—and mild blood loss—there was a kernel of truth to what he was saying. If there’s one thing that feels like it goes on forever down here, it’s the dog days of summer.

Summers in the South don’t end; they just linger, like a house guest who is still eating your leftovers and hogging the bathroom three months later. There’s something eternal about them, sticky as they are.

But for all the sweat and skeeters, I remember those summers best because they’re tied up with being young and carefree—when each day felt like freedom and God’s goodness settled over everything like the light of a slow-setting sun.

Down by the Creek

I remember frogs—plump, speckled things, slippery as sin. I used to catch them down by the creek and sit there with muddy knees, listening to their croaks and chirps. It wasn’t quite music, more like a chorus of chain smokers arguing with a blender. But to me, it was as rich as a gospel choir.

I’d listen to their serenade a while and then let them go when it started getting late. I don’t know what frogs think about, but I’d like to believe they were singing my praises for being such a kind soul. More than likely, they just hopped away, fussing because I crashed their party in the first place.

I remember bare skin on hot metal monkey bars and watching kids melt faster than a stick of butter on a biscuit. We didn’t have country club pools or splash pads, but we knew every garden hose and shade tree in the neighborhood. Now and again, the snow cone truck would rattle down the street, and we’d empty our pockets for a shot at a little frozen mercy.

“What flavor you want?” the man in the truck would ask, his voice rough as gravel.

“Blue,” I’d say, as if blue was a flavor. And at that moment, it was. It tasted like joy.

Pop Rocks and Pepsi

I remember the Sentry Drug next to our house and hightailing it across a country highway to buy candy and maybe a Coke.

My sister and I always went on Saturdays although it seemed like every day was Saturday back then. We’d pile our loot into paper sacks and make for my friend Tommy’s backyard clubhouse, which was more splintered plywood than palace. It didn’t matter.

There, we told stories bigger than life. Honeysuckle nectar, we believed, could give you the power to talk to squirrels. Yelling into an electric fan turned you into a cyborg, and Pop Rocks and Pepsi could explode a kid’s stomach. Tommy swore he knew someone who knew someone it happened to. I believed every word.

I remember my three-speed Huffy bike and the long ribbon of asphalt that carried me to the end of my imagination—and sometimes right into a soybean field when I took a curve too fast. The sweat dripping and thunder rolling and lightning flashing across a Carolina sky, and I remember thinking, I’ve never felt so free.

I remember slow-cooked barbecue brisket and hushpuppies so hot they singed the ends of my fingers—but only after church on Sunday if we could beat the Methodists to the BBQ King. The cool swirls in the South Fork River, unseen currents brushing against my arms and legs like the delicate wings of angels.

I remember it all.

Always There

And now, I see it all more clearly. I see the goodness of God painted over every memory. His hand was there in the dirt and the dust, in the laughter and the lightning. He was there when we were wild and barefoot, when time felt like it would never end, and the world smelled like grass and sun and sugar.

God was there—always just past the monkey bars, waiting by the creek, whispering through the breeze.

These endless summers weren’t just about being young. They were about being held—by His love, His joy, and His wonderful grace.

And they still are. The summers may not last forever, but His presence always does.

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