Congratulations to the July Writing Challenge Winners

                                                ** Read their winning entries below! **

                          

The Southern Christian Writers Conference's July writing challenge was to write either a true personal story or a fictional story about your ideal Summer day. 

We received so many wonderful responses to the challenge (some of the most we've ever received!), and wish that we could recognize everyone (if you entered the challenge...thank you!). We are thrilled, though, to recognize the SWCWC members who rose to the top.

Congratulations to our top winners:

1st place: Brenda Weimer
2nd place: Saxon Childress 
3rd place: Anne Hendricks 
Honorable mentions: Sandra Hartlieb, Crystal Manget, and Randy Williams

Enjoy reading their wonderful stories...

"The Summer Day"

by Brenda Weimer

The lake was as smooth as glass when I stepped onto the old wooden dock. Morning sunlight stretched across the water like liquid gold, and the only sounds were birds greeting the dawn and the gentle splash of fish breaking the surface. A warm breeze carried the scent of pine trees and fresh-cut grass. It was the kind of summer day people spend all winter dreaming about.

I smiled as I looked back toward the cabin. My family was slowly waking up. Someone was making coffee, children were laughing, and friends were carrying towels and folding chairs toward the shoreline. Before the busyness of the day began, I paused and whispered a simple prayer.

“Thank You, Lord.”

Three little words, but they carried the weight of a grateful heart.

Psalm 118:24 came to my mind: “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” I realized that before there were boats, laughter, or sunshine, there was the One who created it all.

Soon the dock came alive. My grandchildren raced to the edge of the water, daring each other to jump in first. Their squeals echoed across the lake, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Watching them reminded me of how Jesus welcomed children with open arms. Their joy wasn’t complicated. They weren’t worried about tomorrow or burdened by yesterday. They simply embraced the gift of today.

The adults gathered around coolers filled with sandwiches, fresh fruit, and cold lemonade. Someone started telling stories about summers long ago, and every tale became funnier with each telling. We laughed until tears filled our eyes.

It struck me that these moments are treasures money cannot buy.

God gives us blessings that don’t come wrapped in boxes. Sometimes they arrive as a warm breeze. Sometimes as the sound of a loved one’s laughter. Sometimes as the peace that settles over a quiet lake before the world wakes up.

By midmorning, we pushed our floats into the water. One by one we drifted away from shore, letting the gentle current carry us wherever it pleased. The sun warmed our faces while the cool water supported us without effort.

Floating on that lake reminded me of what it means to trust God.

So often in life we fight every current. We worry, we plan, we struggle to control what tomorrow holds. Yet there, resting on the water, I realized something beautiful. The lake held me without my striving. I didn’t have to fight it.

Isn’t that what faith is?

Isaiah 26:3 says, “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in You.”

Peace doesn’t come from controlling everything around us. It comes from trusting the One who already does.

As clouds drifted lazily overhead, I closed my eyes for a moment. The warmth of the sun kissed my skin while the water rocked me gently like a cradle. Every worry I had carried into the week seemed to dissolve beneath the surface.

Bills could wait.

Housework could wait.

The endless list of responsibilities would still be there tomorrow.

Today, God had given me something different.

Rest.

Even Jesus stepped away from the crowds to rest beside quiet places. He understood that our souls need moments of stillness just as much as our bodies need food.

Around noon we gathered back on shore for lunch. Paper plates were piled high with grilled hamburgers, fresh tomatoes from someone’s garden, homemade potato salad, and slices of watermelon so sweet their juice ran down our hands.

We bowed our heads before eating.

“Heavenly Father, thank You for this food, these hands that prepared it, and these people gathered together. May we never take these blessings for granted. Amen.”

As simple as that prayer was, it reminded me that every meal is a gift. Every harvest begins with rain God sends. Every loaf of bread starts with grain He causes to grow.

Nothing we have truly belongs to us.

James 1:17 says, “Every good and perfect gift is from above.”

Every bite became a reminder of God’s faithful provision.

After lunch, the younger ones begged for boat rides. The old fishing boat that had seen decades of summers carried us across sparkling water. We laughed as the wind tangled our hair and the children pointed excitedly at turtles sunning themselves on fallen logs.

One little girl reached over the side, trailing her fingers through the water.

“Look how beautiful God made it,” she whispered.

Her innocent observation silenced us for a moment.

Children often notice what adults overlook.

We become so busy capturing pictures that we forget to admire the masterpiece itself.

The afternoon drifted by as gently as the clouds overhead. Some fished. Others skipped rocks. A few sat beneath the shade of an old oak tree reading books or simply watching dragonflies dance over the water.

No one seemed rushed.

No one checked the clock.

Time itself appeared to slow down.

I thought about how much of life is spent chasing the next accomplishment, the next paycheck, the next season. Yet God continually invites us to notice what He has already placed in front of us.

The beauty of today.

The blessing of now.

The people beside us.

As evening approached, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky with brilliant shades of orange, pink, and purple. The lake reflected every color like polished glass.

We gathered once more on the dock.

No one spoke for several minutes.

There was nothing to say.

Creation itself was worshiping its Creator.

Romans 1 reminds us that God’s invisible qualities are clearly seen through what He has made. Looking at that sunset, I understood exactly what Paul meant. No artist could duplicate those colors. No human hand could paint a sky so magnificent.

Only God.

One by one, the stars began appearing overhead.

Someone started humming the old hymn, How Great Thou Art.

Soon everyone joined in.

“When through the woods and forest glades I wander… and hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees…”

Our voices weren’t perfect, but they were sincere.

The lake became our sanctuary.

The sunset our stained-glass window.

The gentle waves our choir accompaniment.

In that moment, I realized church isn’t only found inside four walls. God’s presence fills forests, lakes, mountains, and every quiet place where hearts turn toward Him.

Before leaving, I lingered at the edge of the dock one last time.

The water had grown still again.

The laughter had softened into quiet conversations.

Fireflies blinked among the trees like tiny lanterns.

I thanked God—not because life was perfect, but because His goodness remained constant through every season.

Summer days eventually fade into autumn.

Children grow up.

Parents grow older.

Friends move away.

The lake changes with the seasons.

But God’s love never changes.

His faithfulness is as steady as the sunrise that greeted us that morning.

Driving home, tired and sun-kissed, I carried more than memories. I carried renewed gratitude.

I had been reminded that the greatest blessings are often the simplest ones: a quiet lake, the warmth of the sun, the laughter of family, faithful friends, food on the table, and the unmistakable presence of God in the middle of ordinary moments.

Those are the gifts that shape a grateful heart.

And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of a summer day.

Not that it lasts forever, but that while it is here, it points us toward the One who is eternal.

Every ripple on the water, every beam of sunshine, every embrace from a loved one, and every laugh shared with friends is a gentle reminder that our Heavenly Father delights in blessing His children.

As I looked back one final time at the fading shoreline, I smiled and whispered once more, “Thank You, Lord.”

For the lake.

For the sunshine.

For family.

For friends.

For today.

And most of all, for the Giver of every good and perfect gift.

"A July Hymn In The Garden"

by Saxon Childress

The sun above Alcorn County dangled like a molten yellow coin in the pale blue expanse of the Mississippi sky. It was the sort of July afternoon where the humidity made the air feel thick enough to sip, yet a persistent, light breeze kept the leaves of the great white oaks whispering.

Bees buzzed lazily around the wild hydrangeas bordering the lawn of Hinkle Baptist Church, where the congregation had gathered under the shade of the wooden arbors to celebrate the fifty-fourth birthday of Reverend Samuel Godsey. Seated at a long picnic table covered in bright white linen, Reverend Samuel was in his element. He was a tall, gray-haired man with gentle, blue eyes that usually twinkled with warmth, though today his brow held a slight, lingering shadow.

Standing nearby, holding a flat, square package wrapped tightly in brown butcher paper and tied with a simple jute string, was sixteen-year-old Geneva Godsey. Her hands were slightly damp against the coarse paper. She smoothed down the front of her yellow cotton dress, feeling the eyes of half the church choir on her back.

The source of the day’s hushed drama sat right in her hands.

Earlier that very week, a heavy shipment of new 78 RPM shellac discs had arrived at the music counter at the mercantile in nearby Corinth. The proprietor had barely unpacked the crates before whispers arose circulating through the pews in Alcorn County. Word had spread that a new gospel disc, penned by C. Austin Miles and heavily championed by the famous revival song leader Homer Rodeheaver, had arrived.

It wasn't the music itself that had the elders wringing their hands, but the rumors surrounding its text. Mrs. Gable, the church’s primary organist, had declared at Tuesday’s sewing circle that the lyrics were far too intimate—almost scandalous for a sacred hymn. "He walks with me, and he talks with me"; she had gasped, fanning herself with a Sunday program. "It sounds more like a parlor romance than proper, reverent worship! It belongs in a theater, not a church!”

Geneva, however, had slipped into town on Thursday afternoon after saving three weeks of her sewing money. She had stood near the listening horn and listened to the needle glide over the dark grooves. She hadn't heard anything scandalous at all. She had heard something that sounded like light shimmering on morning dew.

Now, surrounded by pitch-in dishes, platters of fried chicken, and sweating pitchers of sweet tea on the grounds of Hinkle Baptist, the moment had come. "Well, now," Reverend Samuel said, setting down his glass of lemonade and smiling up at his daughter. "What’s this you’ve been hiding behind your back all afternoon, Geneva?" "Happy birthday, Father," Geneva whispered, stepping forward and placing the flat package in his hands.

Across the table, Patricia Godsey, Geneva’s mother, paused with a serving spoon suspended in mid-air. She looked from the square shape of the package to Geneva’s face, her eyes growing wider slightly in sudden recognition.

"Geneva dear," Patricia began, her voice sinking an octave as she leaned in, "you didn't... that isn't the disc everyone’s been gossiping about from town, is it? The one by Mr. Rodeheaver’s publisher?"

A sudden stillness came over the immediate table. Mrs. Gable, sitting two chairs down, stiffened, her cup of iced tea halting inches from her lips. A few voices spread across the nearby deacon’s table.

Reverend Samuel looked around at the sudden tension, a bemused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "A disc? A recording?" He carefully snipped the jute string with his pocket knife and folded back the heavy paper.

There, resting inside its paper sleeve, was the dark, heavy shellac record. The gold-lettered label caught the brilliant July sunlight, clearly displaying the title and the artist.

Patricia gasped softly, placing a hand to her chest. "Oh my..." she spoke quietly, looking anxiously at her husband. "Samuel, they say the language in that one is... well, unorthodox. Mrs. Gable said." "Mrs. Gable hasn't put it to a needle yet, I suspect," Samuel said calmly, though his eyes showed a trace of quiet curiosity. He held the thick disc by its outer edges, turning it over in his large, rough hands. The smooth surface reflected the bright green oak leaves above them.

"It's for the new Victor machine in your study," Geneva said, her voice composed despite her beating heart. "I thought... Well, I thought you ought to judge it with your own ears, Father. On your birthday."

Samuel looked at his daughter, seeing the honesty in her quiet gray eyes. The strain in his shoulders melted away. "A fair proposition," he whispered. "A shepherd shouldn't judge a tune by the flock's chatter."

He stood up, carrying the heavy record carefully. The Hinkle Baptist lawn was equipped with the congregation's proudest recent acquisition: an oak-cabinet Victrola talking machine that usually sat in the church parlor, but had been rolled out onto the dry grass near the garden terrace for the day’s festivities.

The entire lawn grew quiet as Reverend Samuel stepped up to the wooden cabinet. The light rustle of summer leaves and the far-off call of a meadowlark were the only sounds filling the warm Mississippi afternoon.

Samuel opened the lid, revealing the shining nickel-plated tone arm and the internal horn behind the wooden slats. He lifted the hand crank and wound the internal spring with a steady, rhythmic mechanical click-click-click. He selected a fresh steel needle from the small tin box, fixed it into the soundbox, and placed the black shellac disc onto the felt turntable.

With a tap of the brake lever, the disc began to spin, speed stabilizing into a smooth rotation. Samuel carefully lowered the needle into the outer groove. A light, familiar surface hiss drifted from the cabinet, followed by the mellow, warm tones of an accompanying organ and a clear, resonant vocal track.

I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses; And the voice I hear, falling on my
ear, the Son of God discloses...

A soft united breath seemed to pass through the collected crowd. The melody wafted out across the manicured lawn, carrying over the rows of flowering red roses and white lilies that lined the church wall.

The voice on the record sang with an honest sweetness, recounting the moment Mary Magdalene stepped into the garden on that first Easter morning, finding the stone rolled away and her Savior standing in the morning light.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known.

As the chorus swelled, the breeze seemed to catch the notes, floating them up into the high, sunny canopy of the oak trees. There was no theatrical grandstanding, no improper romance, only a strong, private expression of peace in the presence of the Divine.

Geneva watched her father’s face.

Reverend Samuel stood completely still beside the spinning cabinet, his head tilted slightly, listening to every syllable. The tight lines of fatigue around his eyes smoothed out. The sunbeams shining through the leaves cast speckled patterns of light upon his linen shirt.

When the closing notes of the song faded, and the needle began its quiet, rhythmic click in the run-out groove, no one moved. Even the children sitting near the pie table had grown quiet, lulled by the peaceful grace of the song.

Samuel reached out, gently lifted the arm, and engaged the brake.

The church grounds were utterly quiet save for the soft summer wind in the grass.

Samuel stood for a long moment, looking down at the gold label on the black record. Slowly, he reached up with his thumb and wiped away a single tear that had followed a trail down his aged cheek.

He turned around to face his family and his congregation, a peaceful, radiant smile beaming
across his face. "Daughter," he said, his rich voice clear in the warm July air as he looked directly at Geneva, "I  know not what the fuss is: that is the most perfect song, written about a special time with our
Lord and Savior, that has made my birthday in my beautiful garden here even more precious."

Patricia let out a soft sigh, her anxious expression melting into a warm, tearful smile while she reached for her husband's hand. Nearby, Mrs. Gable slowly lowered her head, looking thoroughly chastened, before nodding in quiet agreement.

Geneva experienced a wave of relief flow over her, bright and warm as the midsummer sun overhead.

Samuel walked back over to the picnic table, holding the record like a priceless treasure. He sat down, pulled Geneva into a warm side-embrace, and looked out over the sun-soaked grounds of Hinkle Baptist, where the roses blossomed bright against the blue sky, perfectly reproducing the song that now belonged to them all.

(NOTE from the writer: "The story is rooted in real historical data surrounding the 1912 publication and June release of the beloved hymn "In the Garden." When C. Austin Miles's composition first debuted, its deeply intimate lyrics sparked genuine controversy among conservative church traditionalists of the era, who worried the language was too unorthodox and worldly for proper Sunday worship. Many purchased the song in July 1912 and I created a story behind the actual release. I took that fascinating slice of history and brought it to life down in Alcorn County, Mississippi, through the eyes of a sixteen-year-old girl named Geneva.")

"Our Ted, on a July Day"

(Dedicated to Our Ted, November 5, 2011-July 12, 2026)

by Anne Hendricks

​On a soft July day, the sun climbed above the valley like a drawn breath of gold, spilling warmth across the porch boards where Ted lay. He was an eleven-year-old Boston Terrier rescue when he first crossed the threshold of the McCloud home, a little gentleman in a permanent tuxedo. He had already lived a full lifetime before he found them, a senior citizen searching for a harbor.

Now, three years later, his coat was frosted with gray around his muzzle, and his breathing was a soft, even rhythm that Jeanette measured by her heart. The vet’s words from a week ago still hung in the quiet air of the house: Kidney failure. His body is growing tired. Make his final days a celebration.
​

Jeanette walked out onto the porch with two cups of coffee, the early mist still clinging to the edges of the distant tree line. Ted lifted his head, his large, dark eyes tinged with age but still luminous with devotion. He gave a single, polite thump of his little corkscrew tail against the wood, his morning greeting, faithful as the sunrise.

"Good morning, my sweet boy," Jeanette whispered, crouching next to him to press a kiss to his velvet head.
​
Ted exhaled a deep sigh, stretching his front paws forward. God in His mercy often lent us angels with four legs and short coats, teaching us how to love without condition. Ted’s kidneys were failing, his frame growing frail, but his spirit held stubbornly, beautifully alive.

​By noon, the summer air had warmed to a perfect, gentle seventy-five degrees. There was no oppressive humidity, just a golden calmness that felt held in time. Jeanette’s husband, David, brought out a soft quilt and laid it under the shade of the mighty oak tree in the backyard.
​

They carried Ted to the quilt, setting him down like he was spun from glass. Ted tilted his head, watching the pattern of light through the overhanging branches above him.
​

"Look at you, old man,"David murmured, stroking the soft folds of skin on Ted’s forehead. "Enjoying the king's treatment."

​Ted let out a low, contented rumble deep in his chest—a sound that was half-purr, half- sigh.
​

When they had first adopted Ted three years ago, the rescue coordinator had warned them: He’s eleven. He’s set in his ways. He might not have much time left. But Jeanette and David had looked into those wide, soulful eyes and seen a story waiting for a happy final chapter. They hadn't cared about the timeline. Love is not a ledger meant to be balanced by years; it is measured by depth.

"Do you recall the day we brought him home?"Jeanette whispered, sitting cross-legged on the quilt beside the dog.
​
"How could I forget?" David smiled, resting his arm across his knee. "He walked into the living room, checked out the sofa, and claimed it as his personal throne as if he’d paid the mortgage."

"He gave us just as much as we gave him," Jeanette said, her voice catching slightly as she watched Ted’s chest rise and fall. "We gave him a soft bed, safety, and a family in his twilight. But Ted? Ted gave our empty nest a heartbeat again. He taught us how to slow down and notice the quiet holiness of ordinary moments."

​Ted shifted slightly, resting his chin on David’s sneaker. His life had been redeemed by rescue, but in truth, they had all rescued one another. God gives us companions to steady us in a restless world, making us remember grace through simple presence. And as Ted aged, growing stiff and slow, he mirrored a deep truth of creation: We all age. don't we? Bodies wear down, strength fades, but the soul, the capacity to love and be loved, only grows more improved through the passage of time.

​

The afternoon drifted by in a warm haze of katydids singing in the canopy as well as the distant swish of maple leaves. Neighbors passed by the open fence line, and Ted lifted his head to watch the known rhythm of the neighborhood he had patrolled like a tiny, dignified sentinel.

​Jeanette sat reading her Bible, her thumb resting on Psalm 36:6: "Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, your justice like the great deep. You, Lord, preserve both people and animals."
​

She looked down at Ted. He was sleeping now, dreaming the twitchy dreams of old dogs, perhaps chasing phantom squirrels or trotting through green pastures of long ago.

His life had meaning. Every slow walk around the block, every evening spent curled behind their knees on the sofa, every patient waiting for a crumb of toast, it all mattered. God does not waste a single heartbeat of affection.

"He looks so peaceful," David said quietly, joining her again with a fresh glass of water.

"He is,"Jeanette replied, combing a stray white whisker. "It’s hard to reconcile the joy of having him with the pain of knowing how close we are to the end. But looking back over these three years... it’s all grace, David. Every single day felt like a gift we didn't deserve."

​Ted woke up then, blinking slowly against the afternoon glare. He looked up at Jeanette with a gaze so lucid and full of timeless wisdom that it took her breath away. There was no fear in his eyes, only a quiet, abiding peace. He trusted them completely, just as they trusted the One who had lent him to them for a season.
​

As night drew near, the sky colored itself in bands of bruised lavender, fiery orange, and soft amber. The summer heat broke, refreshed by a twilight breeze that moved through the branches overhead.
​

They brought Ted back up to the porch, setting his orthopedic bed right where the breeze could reach his fur. The family came together with him, sharing a simple meal of corn on the cob and iced tea on the porch steps, keeping him included in the circle of life as they had every summer evening.

Ted accepted a small piece of roasted chicken from David’s fingers, chewing slowly with the prudent dignity of a king partaking in a feast.

"Well, old friend," David whispered, lifting his glass in a quiet toast toward the dog. "You gave us a perfect day."

​

Ted let out one final, relaxed sigh, resting his heavy head between his paws. His breathing slowed, steady and deep, lulling the porch into a sacred hush.

Jeanette wrapped a light cotton blanket over his back, her hand touching his spine. The soreness in her chest was real, softened only by the overwhelming gratitude that grew beside it. Life was fragile, fleeting, and defined by the inevitable decline of flesh and bone, we all age, we all grow weary, but love remains. It surpassed the running clock.
​

Within the quiet gathering dusk, with the stars starting to prick the night sky one by one at the conclusion of that July day, Jeanette thanked God for the small, snub-nosed rescue dog who had taught her family the true meaning of a blessed life. Ted’s time was short, although his legacy was threaded permanently within the fabric of their home: a reminder that the best gifts come with four legs, a short stub of a tail, plus a heart big enough to touch eternity.

"The Perfect Summer Day"

by Sandra Hartlieb

A long and difficult week finally gave way to Saturday morning. Sandy rolled out of bed and checked her calendar. Yep! Nothing there!

She threw back her room-darkening curtains and was greeted by bright, warm sunshine. It was going to be a perfect day! Because she had nothing planned, it was the kind of day that brimmed with possibilities. After heating yesterday’s leftover coffee in the microwave and inhaling a poptart, Sandy opened the back door. The sun had a hazy golden glow, the air smelled like new-mown grass, and Sandy knew exactly what she wanted to do the rest of the day – RELAX!

Disaster #1: The Great Picnic Catastrophe

Sandy threw on shorts and a tank, packed a perfect picnic—seedless green grapes, ham and cheese sandwiches, a cold ginger ale, and her latest book from the library.

She hopped on her bike and headed to the park. After spreading out her blanket near a shade tree, Sandy settled in and opened her picnic basket. Leaning against the tree, she popped a grape in her mouth and opened her book.

Oh, this was going to be good! The cover art reminded Sandy that this was definitely a guilty pleasure - a historical romance featuring Vikings! Taking a bite of her sandwich, she read “chapter 1 – the unexpected bride.” She was quickly absorbed – “Astrid watched the longboat move swiftly toward the harbor. She
couldn’t help but be captivated by the huge biceps of the man rowing at the front…”

Just as she took a sip of ginger ale, the dog arrived out of nowhere.

A golden retriever, with its leash flying behind him – no owner attached - barreled straight into her picnic, with his tail wagging like a flag at a 4th of July parade. Grapes flew. Sandwiches launched into the air. Ginger ale sprayed up her nose and got the pages of her book wet. The dog’s owner arrived a minute later and apologized between labored puffs of breath, while the dog trotted away triumphantly with a ham and cheese sandwich dangling from its mouth.

So much for relaxing.

Disaster #2: The Bike Ride Breakdown

Determined not to let the day slip away, Sandy packed the remnants of her picnic and hopped on her bike for a ride around the lake. The breeze was perfect. The view was perfect. The water glistened like sparkles as ducks made little waves in the smooth surface.

The moment was perfect. Until it wasn’t!

Halfway around the lake, her back tire hissed like a cobra snake popping out of a basket and collapsed, setting her off-balance as she dove into a ditch. Picking herself up, Sandy tried to brush the mud off her shorts, but it was pointless (at least they weren’t white). Muttering words that her mother would not approve, she walked the bike back the way she had come.

Disaster #3: The Ice Cream Incident

Hot, tired, and hungry, Sandy decided she deserved ice cream. She bought the biggest cone the shop offered—triple scoop, butter-pecan with chocolate sprinkles.

Yum! The first lick and her troubles seemed to melt away. Her tongue sent pleasure endorphins straight to her brain.

As she stepped outside, a huge bird, with an evil glint in its eye, swooped overhead and dropped a “gift” directly onto her ice cream. The entire cone toppled onto the sidewalk like a fallen soldier.

Sandy stared at it. The universe stared back.

Disaster #4: The Sudden Storm

Sandy knew the day was done. Pushing her wounded bike, she trudged toward home. By the time she exited the park, storm clouds had gathered—thick, gray, and brooding. Of course, the TV weather report said nothing about “chance of rain” on last night’s news. The first drops hit her head as she turned into the driveway.

Sandy barely made it to her porch before the sky opened up.

Not a drizzle. Not a refreshing sprinkle. A full, theatrical downpour. Sheets of rain hammered the street. Thunder rolled. A streak of lightning split the sky. The perfect summer day had officially drowned.

Sandy sat on her porch swing, damp and defeated. She drew her knees up to her chin and scrunched up her face as a tear rolled down her cheek and dripped off the end of her nose. This was it! The day had been a total disaster. Sandy got ready to throw herself a full-blown pity party.

And Then—The Rainbow

The rain slowed to a pitter-patter, then finally stopped. The clouds parted like curtains.

A rainbow—a perfect arc, wide, and bright stretched across the entire sky. Its colors were not weak pastels, but impossibly brilliant. It was the kind that looks like a painted masterpiece, the kind that feels like a promise.

The wet pavement glistened. The air smelled clean and new. Birds chirped like they were apologizing.

Sandy leaned back on the swing, letting the cool air brush her skin. She laughed—really laughed—for the first time all day. The rainbow was more than a reward; it was a reminder.

Just like her day, life can be messy and ridiculous and unpredictable. But God was telling her, “See, I am always with you. I know when you need My touch, My warm embrace. I’m always right on time.”

It was a perfect summer day.

"If Only"
(a devotional short story)

by Crystal Manget 

How curious, she thought, that the longing she felt clouded her vision. It was almost as if her heart, so focused on what was missing, couldn’t see the fullness of what was already there. She knew she should be grateful—the trips she had taken, the laughter shared with loved ones—but sometimes envy crept in so quietly, she hardly noticed. Others admired her adventures, some even confessed their own yearning for such freedom, but to her, the glare of what she lacked seemed brighter than the gentle glow of her blessings. Comparison, she realized, often slips into the soul by way of wandering eyes and wondering hearts, unsettling contentment and distorting God’s gifts.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, she imagined her perfect summer day: sunlight dancing across crystal blue water, friends gathered around the pool, laughter echoing beneath a cloudless sky, and the scent of lemonade mingling with the coconut smell of sunscreen. In her mind, it was so effortless—so serene—that she felt a pang of longing for the scene she’d crafted, a vision borrowed from the social media posts she has glimpsed as she sat scrolling the day away. She pictured herself dipping her toes into cool water, basking in luxury and belonging, believing for a moment that happiness was found in things she did not possess.

But as the gentle breeze moved through the trees of her own yard, God’s presence whispered to her soul. 

The longing quieted, not erased but transformed, as she sensed a divine invitation to pause and notice the beauty right in front of her. Each trip she had taken brought back more that photographs; they were gifts—memories stitched together like a patchwork quilt, warm and vivid, each story a testament to God’s faithfulness. Her yard, though simple, was a sanctuary for laughter and peace, a place where the birds gathered and chattered noisily around the feeders, a place of intense enjoyment, and a place where she found God each morning waiting. She recalled moments when she’d felt the Lord’s nearness—the way He

guided her steps, protected her, and surprised her with small joys in unexpected places.

Her friends and neighbors had their pools, but she had her journeys, each one shaped by God’s steady hand. As she reflected, she realized that happiness wasn’t defined by what she lacked, but by what she cherished. Slowly, gratitude bloomed in her heart—a gentle, sacred awareness that God had given her exactly what she needed, in each season of her life. She thought of the Psalmist’s words: “The Lord is my shepherd; I lack nothing.” Contentment, she discovered, was not a product of circumstance but a gift from God, revealed in moments of humble praise and quiet trust.

She sat in her yard, sunlight warming her face, and closed her eyes. In the hush of the morning, she prayed: “Lord, help me to see as You see. Let gratitude fill my heart for what You have placed in my life, teach me to trust Your wisdom in what You withhold.” The answer was not a booming voice, but a quiet assurance, a sense of peace settling over her. She felt her longing soften, replace by a gentle joy—a joy that had always been there, waiting for her to notice, shaped by God’s love and the simple pleasures He provided.

On that Summer day, she felt truly blessed in the life God had given her. The longing was no longer a burden, but a passage to deeper trust and thankfulness. With each breath, she gave thanks for the gifts that filled her world. Wrapped in the warmth of divine presence, she kew she had all she needed, and her heart was content.

* As an extra treat, we wanted to share a poem written for us by Randy Williams on the theme of the perfect Summer day.

"No Place at All"

by Randy Williams

If I must endure a summer day,

There’s only one place I would stay.

Soaring seagulls set the tone,

Along the seashore I would roam.

Unfettered they glide up in the air,

Erasing all my burdens of care.

Their familiar song is all I hear,

A soothing surf unveils as I draw near.

Back and forth, back and forth, the tease goes on,

Then, lapping water joins the song.

The trio suspends the hot humid air.

While a gentle breeze transports me elsewhere,

And stronger winds remind the sea is a fickle place,

or is it really a place at all?

Its boundaries scream it is so,

But places don’t have faces,

and now I’m sure there are at least two.

Alluring one moment, raging the next.

Taunting and testing letting me know,

It’s not confined to one place at all.

The chaos created,

makes me question my call.

Deadly for some,

Giving life to all.

The ideal summer day me?

Well, that’s no place at all.

Turn the AC up,

And pray for fall.

********

We hope you enjoyed reading this month's writing challenge winners, and we encourage you to keep writing and submitting!

Want to participate in the August writing challenge? The challenge for this month is to write a poem based on a color. You can write a poem of any size or style Send your entry to scwritersconference@gmail.com with the subject line "August writing challenge." The deadline to submit it August 30.


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