Labor Day was all different in the days when I packed my lunch, loading up my new Holly Hobbie thermos with warm Campbells’ chicken noodle soup, eager and anxious to see the list of teachers and students posted on the big picture window at school the next morning.
And in high school, somehow, I managed to spend the bulk of my holiday stressing over which outfit I should wear on the first day of class. All of my new school clothes were too warm for an Indian summer day but I had an image to present and if that required sweating, so be it.

My recollections are all fuzzy after that until the infamous Labor Day of 2002. On that afternoon, five of us and a 75-pound pooch parked out front of our new house in Dallas, Texas just before noon. The day was a scorcher–a few degrees cooler than my perception of hell. We unloaded our road weary bodies from our black Chevy Venture van, the dog especially eager for some exercise. The yard wasn’t much coming from a couple of country acres but enough to take care of her business. The house smelled like some sort of obnoxious aromatherapy blend of mildew and cat urine. I hadn’t remembered that from the showing…. Our moving truck wouldn’t arrive until the next day and already, the kids looked like somebody popped their imaginary pink Texas balloons.

“Hey, I have an idea!” Those could be the 4 words they write on my tombstone someday.
“How about if we make tonight a super fun camp out in our new house?”
“I’ll run out to the store to get a few supplies.”

Privately, the tears dripped like a leaky faucet through all eight traffic lights, and I parked in front of the nearest Target, feeling like I’d entered some sort of alter-reality. I meandered through the store like a lost puppy looking for a familiar scent. My cart half full, I checked out and headed home. We all laid down on the carpeted floor that night confirming the cat pee. The AC wouldn’t switch on and we might as well have been detoxing in a sauna. I tossed and turned uncomfortably wondering what we had done, sirens blaring in the distance. My final waking thought was straight out of The Wizard of Oz—“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”

Most of my memories of the next 13 Labor Days are connected with the return to our Dallas life. Memorial Day kicked off our summers in Michigan. Labor Day launched another school year in Dallas. Mostly, I’d scramble around our house organizing schedules and gathering up textbooks to start homeschooling, except for the year we spent Labor Day weekend dodging a hurricane along the Atlantic coast instead. But, the summer of 2015, our Toyota Sienna minivan got a new license plate that read Pure Michigan and that Labor Day, we adopted an inaugural tradition. Summer starts and ends at the beach.
It was Robyn’s idea.
“That, I can do,” I told her.
And we did.
And we have.

But this year, it was just me. Closing down the summer. On the beach.
Gratefully melancholy-musing over the memories.
Like the picture perfect Spring day our beautiful girl wore a white dress and made lifelong promises to her handsome man in the blue suit.
And the sunset walk up to Maranatha’s prayer tower with Angela when we were quarantining together for 2 weeks.
Dune climbing with Lily at Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore.
Kayaking with the fam at the Mackinaw bridge.
Hiking the shoreline ridge together then swimming in our clothes in Lake Superior.
Watching the windsurfers catch air from the Grand Haven pier with the hubs.
Birthday camping at the beach with my tribe.
Dune walking to the Big Sable lighthouse with one of my besties.

Today, a red flag with a crude white graphic of a swimmer, a diagonal line across the image, blew in the breeze from the park deck. Not an invitation to swim safely.
I watched little bitties digging holes to China with their shovels,
Mamas and kiddos bouncing around on the white caps in floaties,
Daddies and children constructing magnificent castles,
Doggies paddling out into the water to get sticks.
I saw grandmas and grandpas wave jumping with their grandkids,
Insecure teenagers trying to impress each other with their bodies instead of their character,
Mature friends perched up on the dune reading novels and drinking sweet tea.

Me? I arrived heavy-eyed and like some sort of magical spell, the waves lulled me to sleep. When I woke up, the sun sparkled all diamond-like on the water. I lingered long watching seagulls soaring and diving, dodging waves as they feasted on a decomposing fish floating in the water. I found myself reluctant to leave. To check the box. Another summer complete.

On my way home, I pulled into the Starbucks drive thru, the same one Robyn and I happily ordered our drinks from at a few years back. Hers was a peppermint mocha. Mine a double chocolaty chip frappucinno. Always. We drank to a summer full of everyday graces and anticipated fall mercies.
Honestly, I don’t feel very celebratory this year.
Maybe I need to re-frame my thinking. To repurpose a timeless truth.
The teacher in Ecclesiastes talks about an ebb and flow, like the waves crashing onto the shore then backpedaling their way into deep waters.
Starting and Ending.
Ending and Starting.
The seasons.
Life.
The Teacher in Ecclesiastes says it’s all part of God’s plan for this broken-beautiful world He made and loves.
So, I guess I need to embrace it too, cause if I don’t, I’ll miss the mercies.
That first Monday of September it’s not just the end of summer. It’s the beginning of Fall.
And To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:11)