The New York Times Morning newsletter recently pointed out something I had never considered before: This year contains the longest summer possible.

 

That’s measuring by the calendar, obviously – not astronomically.

 

Memorial Day arrived as early as it could while Labor Day will show up as late as it can. Put the two together, and summer 2026 stretches farther than usual.

Of course, in Louisiana, hearing we’re about to experience “the longest summer ever” sounds suspiciously close to a threat. Around here, summer already tends to overstay its welcome. By August, you learn to grab the steering wheel carefully, avoid blacktop parking lots and wave constantly at mosquitoes, halfway expecting them to wave back.

 

Still, the phrase itself stayed with me: the longest summer.

 

The Longest Summer. Sounds like a movie title. (Actually IS a movie title, but we won’t go there lest we digress.)

 

Maybe an ultra-long summer is not that strange a concept, though, because I remember – as a child – already feeling that every summer was endless.

 

Back then, time moved differently. Summer afternoons seemed to unfold without limit. We stayed outside until Mama called us home. We rode bicycles, caught lightning bugs, attended Vacation Bible School, listened to cicadas and watched darkness arrive slowly, almost reluctantly. There were lawn-chair and swing-set conversations, watermelon slices, garden rows and long stretches of simply doing nothing in particular.

 

Children, I think, understand something adults forget: They know how to settle into a moment instead of willfully rushing toward the next. Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped experiencing seasons and started scheduling them instead.

 

Even rest now feels oddly competitive. We multitask sunsets, not content merely to observe but obsessively driven to record every ray of orange and gold. We check phones while sitting beside lakes. We hurry through conversations. We fill quiet moments with noise because stillness makes us uncomfortable.

 

Scripture often speaks of seasons. Ecclesiastes reminds us there is “a time for every purpose under heaven.”

Some seasons feel painfully short. Others seem unbearably long. Some are devoted to work and responsibility. Others are meant for renewal.

 

Maybe that’s partly why this unusually long summer catches my attention. Perhaps we need reminding that not every valuable thing happens quickly.

 

Tomatoes take time. Friendships take time. Healing takes time. Faith certainly takes time.

 

Sunsets should, too.

 

Most of us spend our lives wishing for more time – more time with children before they grow up, more time with aging parents, more time to say things we should have said earlier, more time to notice the blessings we rushed past while worrying about tomorrow.

 

Maybe that’s why the idea of “extra summer” feels strangely comforting. We’ll have extra daylight. Extra evenings. Extra chances to listen to birds at dawn, visit an old friend or simply watch clouds drift across a sky that God painted without asking anything from us in return.

 

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” But we’ve grown so accustomed to hurrying that stillness can feel almost irresponsible.

 

We should realize that some of the clearest moments of God’s presence arrive when nothing dramatic is happening at all – just a quiet evening, a familiar hymn, children laughing outside or the sound of wind moving through trees before a quiet summer shower.

 

In the end, the longest summer ever should not be about calendars or holidays. Instead, we should use it as a gentle reminder not to rush through the season – indeed, through life.

 

The fireflies will not stay forever, although in keeping with The Longest Summer theme, they seemed to arrive early this year. The warm evenings, sultry sunsets and voices around our supper tables will eventually fade. But for a little while longer this year, summer will linger.

 

Let it. Let the calendar crawl. Let the days dawdle and the evenings soften. And in the long, warm quiet, may we remember that every season is held in the faithful hands of the God who never hurries and whose steadfast love endures.

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