I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of summer. Like most seasons, when the end is drawing near, I’m ready. But when it looms on the horizon – full of promise and unknown – I can hardly contain my excitement. Around September, I ache for the twinkle of Christmas lights; the crisp, cool air and the layers of scarves and pea coats and thick knit socks and worn in leather boots. Around February – right now – I can’t stop thinking of sunshine. The early morning sunrises, the clear blue skies, the iced coffees and brightly colored trees, fresh in bloom. And even the rain. We get a lot of that around here. Around May, I’m ready for the 9pm sunsets and the screen doors and the smell of the BBQ when I walk in the door from work. I’m ready for sweet tea (because even though we’re in the Northwest, I married into a Midwest family, and they know a thing or two about sweet tea) and skipping the gym for a run around the lake. And then, when summer’s stretch has become expected, I’m dying for the leaves. The golden leaves, burnt orange and red, littering the ground and leaving the trees bare and cold. I’m ready for pumpkins, and salted caramel latte, and the familiar drone of football on the TV after church. In reflecting on this, one thing is for certain… I’m always ready. Always looking forward. Always grateful for the time I’m leaving behind – and always expectant of its welcome return. Time if a gift. Time marches on. Time, although never promised, is a constant presence in a world of steady change.