Labor Day has always been an oxymoron to me. On a day dedicated to the working man, no one works. Unless you have a yard, a house, and a family—then you spend the day working on those or for those. Your day off really isn’t.
For some it is the last weekend for a family getaway. Thousands head to the coast or the mountains in search of a favorite tent site, a last campfire, and a gooey s’more. One final memory is made of the vacation season. With our packs in place we wave goodbye to another summer of adventure.
Labor Day is really a dividing line between the end of summer and the beginning of fall. Even though autumn’s official arrival isn’t for three more weeks, the days are growing shorter, the weather is cooling, and summer flowers are showing their age. Children and teachers will return to school, and harvest of most things has finished. Or soon will be.
I enjoy fall. Where I live we often get an extended summer where the days are nice but not as hot. The leaves take on hues of orange and red, the barbecue gets a few more workouts before we clean and tuck it away for the winter. Fall means pumpkins to carve, and leaves to rake—a return to routine.
I am a fan of routine. I’m a list maker, a planner, someone who likes to know what to expect in their days. A week of surprises leaves me feeling disoriented, my focus shot. A week of routine and I function like a well-oiled machine, looking to my heavenly Father to work out the details, while I hum along.
Proverbs 16:9 says, “A man’s heart plans his way, But the Lord directs His steps.”
A good way to live.
My flowers top to bottom: Dusty Miller, Heron and Ferns, Zinnias (left) Lantana (right) Marigolds (bottom)