VICAR
Dear Readers of Country Squire Magazine, the first of July is almost upon us, and the countryside has settled into that deep, drowsy hum that only high summer can bring. The days are long and warm, the evenings soft and slow, and there is a sense, across the fields and lanes at least, that the land is content. It has given its early abundance, and now it rests, gathering strength for the harvest yet to come.
I have been thinking about the particular gifts of this season. Not the showy ones—not the blazing sunsets or the dramatic thunderstorms—but the quiet, steady ones. The way the light lingers at nine o’clock, as if reluctant to leave. The sound of the greenfinch in the ash tree, singing the same four notes over and over, and not caring that he repeats himself. The taste of the first new potato, lifted from the earth with your own hands and boiled with a sprig of mint from the garden. These are the small mercies of July, and they are more than enough.
There is a lesson in this, I think, for those of us who spend our days rushing from one thing to the next. The countryside does not rush. It has its rhythms, its seasons, its own unhurried pace. The oak tree does not try to grow faster than the oak tree next to it. The river does not hurry to reach the sea. They simply are, and in their being, they teach us to be still, to be patient, to trust that what needs to happen will happen in its own time.
So today, a short prayer for July, and for all who find themselves in need of a little summer stillness.
Dear Lord, We thank You for this time, when summer is at its fullest and the earth seems to hold its breath in gratitude. Thank You for the warmth that rises from the fields, for the scent of dry grass and wild thyme, for the drowsy hum of bees in the lavender. We thank You for the gift of light. For the long, golden evenings that stretch out like a blessing, giving us time to sit in the garden and watch the shadows grow long. For the dawn that comes early, calling the birds to their morning song. For the sun that climbs high and generous, ripening the wheat and the barley and the blackberries that will come later. We thank You for the harvest that is growing. For the crops that have survived the spring rains and the late frosts, and that now stand tall and full in the fields. Bless the farmers who tend them, Lord. Let the harvest be good, and let there be enough for all. We thank You for the small creatures of this summer month. For the hedgehogs that shuffle through the garden at dusk. For the butterflies that dance along the hedge line. For the swifts that still scream their joy across the evening sky. Let them remind us that the world is not made for us alone, and that every creature has its place in Your great design. We thank You for the simple pleasures of this season. For the first strawberry from the garden, warm from the sun. For the glass of something cool on the patio. For the book that has waited all winter to be read, and that now finds its moment in the shade of the apple tree. Let us receive these gifts with gratitude, and without guilt. We pray for those who are struggling this summer. For farmers whose crops have failed. For families who cannot afford a holiday. For those who are lonely, even in this season of abundance. Send Your comfort to them, Lord. Send them a neighbour, a friend, a sign that they are not forgotten. We pray for our own hearts, Lord. In this season of fullness, keep us from greed. In this season of rest, keep us from laziness. In this season of abundance, keep us from forgetting that all good things come from You. Let us be generous, as You have been generous. Let us be kind, as You have been kind. And finally, Lord, we thank You for the peace of this Sunday. For the permission to stop, to breathe, to simply be. Let us carry this peace into the week ahead, and let it be a light in the darkness when the world grows heavy. Amen.
God Bless You All, and God Bless This Good Land.