There are certain things in life that come with an expiration date.
Summer holidays.
Long weekends.
Sunsets.
Children being willing to hold your hand in public.
And ice cream cones.
Particularly ice cream cones.
Now, I have always admired the honesty of an ice cream cone.
It makes no promises about longevity.
A chocolate bar can sit patiently in a cupboard for weeks.
A bag of chips can linger indefinitely.
An ice cream cone, however, arrives with a sense of urgency.
It is perhaps the only food item that quietly whispers:
“You should probably deal with this immediately.”
Especially on a hot July afternoon.
Now, I should confess that I have never been particularly gifted at eating ice cream cones.
Some people possess remarkable skill.
They proceed with calm confidence and mathematical precision.
The scoop remains perfectly balanced.
The cone remains structurally sound.
The experience concludes with dignity intact.
I have never been one of those people.
My relationship with ice cream cones has always involved a certain amount of suspense.
There is planning.
There is strategy.
There is vigilance.
And then there is the inevitable moment when gravity reminds everyone that it remains fully operational.
Grace abounds.
Now, summer is filled with moments like this.
Moments that cannot be postponed.
Moments that cannot be stored away for later.
Moments that must simply be enjoyed while they are here.
A cool evening breeze.
A campfire conversation.
The laughter of friends around a picnic table.
A grandchild’s delight.
A walk beside the water.
A perfect July afternoon.
These things arrive.
And then they pass.
Which, if we are honest, is both their sadness and their beauty.
Now, most of us spend a great deal of life attempting to hold onto things.
We save.
We preserve.
We archive.
We photograph.
We document.
We create backups for our backups.
There is nothing wrong with that.
Memory is a gift.
Yet there is a subtle danger in becoming so focused on preserving a moment that we fail to fully live it.
I have occasionally observed entire groups of people standing before something breathtakingly beautiful while concentrating primarily on taking photographs of it.
The sunset remains magnificent.
The view remains spectacular.
But nobody is actually looking at it.
They are busy documenting it.
Now, before anyone writes to me, I should acknowledge that I too have taken photographs of sunsets.
Many photographs.
Far more photographs than any reasonable person requires.
The evidence is overwhelming.
Still, the point remains.
Life is not meant only to be recorded.
It is meant to be lived.
And perhaps nowhere is that more obvious than with an ice cream cone.
An ice cream cone cannot be admired indefinitely.
At some point you simply have to enjoy it.
And I suspect there is something profoundly spiritual about that.
Because one of the great temptations of modern life is postponement.
We tell ourselves that we will enjoy life later.
When the project is finished.
When the mortgage is paid.
When the schedule calms down.
When the circumstances improve.
When everything finally comes together.
The difficulty, of course, is that life keeps moving.
Summer passes.
Children grow.
Friends relocate.
Opportunities disappear.
And the ice cream melts.
Now, this does not mean we should become reckless.
Nor does it mean we abandon responsibility.
The Christian life is not an invitation to carelessness.
It is an invitation to attentiveness.
To gratitude.
To recognizing the gifts God places before us today.
Not someday.
Today.
Jesus seemed remarkably attentive to the present moment.
He noticed birds and flowers.
Children and fishermen.
Meals and celebrations.
Again and again He invited people to pay attention to the life unfolding right in front of them.
Not because tomorrow does not matter.
But because today is where God meets us.
I think this is one of the hidden lessons of Ordinary Time.
God is not waiting only in extraordinary moments.
God is present in ordinary joys.
In family gatherings.
In summer evenings.
In conversations that linger.
In laughter shared with friends.
And perhaps even in an ice cream cone enjoyed on a warm July afternoon.
Now, I realize this may not sound like particularly advanced theology.
There are undoubtedly scholars somewhere discussing matters of far greater complexity.
Yet I suspect that gratitude is often far more important than complexity.
The ability to receive a simple gift with joy is itself a spiritual discipline.
To notice beauty.
To savour goodness.
To give thanks.
To be fully present.
These things shape the soul.
So if this July finds you standing in line at an ice cream stand, pondering whether one scoop is sufficient or whether two scoops represent a reasonable expression of Christian freedom, I encourage you to choose joy.
Sit in the sunshine.
Enjoy the moment.
Laugh when the ice cream begins its inevitable migration toward your elbow.
And give thanks.
Because life is a gift.
Summer is a gift.
The people we love are gifts.
And sometimes the Kingdom of God arrives looking remarkably like a slightly melting ice cream cone.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the simple gifts that fill our days.
For laughter and friendship,
for summer sunshine and cool breezes,
for beauty that cannot be preserved forever,
and for moments that invite us simply to be present.
Teach us to receive your gifts with gratitude.
Help us not to rush through life
or postpone joy until some future day.
Open our eyes to your presence here and now,
in ordinary moments and simple pleasures.
And remind us that every good gift comes from you.
Through Christ our Lord.
Amen.