The Gifts August Left Behind

August arrived full of sunshine, long days, and possibilities—and somehow, it left behind a collection of moments that felt both ordinary and extraordinary.

It was a busy month. A social month. A delicious month. A month filled with friendship, family, faith, movement, laughter, vulnerability, and reflection. It reminded me that life does not have to be perfect to be beautiful. Sometimes, we simply have to pay attention to the little moments that quietly say, This is your life. Be present for it.

There were meals shared around tables, food prepared with love, and summer gatherings filled with meaningful conversations about life and faith. There was the kind of laughter that stays with you long after the table has been cleared.

Food has always been more than food to me. It is care, culture, creativity, connection, and memory—and August gave me many reminders of that.

It was also a month of saying yes, even when my first instinct was to stay home.

After one especially long workweek and an even longer Friday, I came very close to canceling plans to attend an outdoor summer concert with friends. I was tired, my workday had run late, and staying home sounded much easier. But I gave myself a little pep talk, got ready, and went.

I laughed, danced, sang, and had the best time.

That evening reminded me how easily an ordinary week can become extraordinary when we step outside our comfort zone and allow joy to find us. It also reminded me of the gift of genuine friendship—the people who make room for others naturally and make you feel welcomed, included, and loved. There is something sacred about knowing you have a seat at someone’s table.

But August was not all high energy and celebration.

There were days when I felt lethargic, unmotivated, and drained. For an entire week, I skipped my usual morning walks and only managed a few shorter ones in the evenings. One morning, I finally talked myself out of bed and onto the pavement.

I wanted to turn around after the first lap, but I kept telling myself, Just one more.

And it worked.

I returned home, poured my first cup of coffee, listened to the washer and dryer running, and felt that—for that moment—all was well with the world.

Sometimes, caring for ourselves does not look dramatic. Sometimes, it is simply getting out of bed, putting on our shoes, and taking the next step.

Faith remained woven throughout the month—not only through church, prayer, and the work I do, but also through how I tried to see the people and experiences around me. I kept returning to the belief that every sunrise is another opportunity to begin again and to offer kindness, love, and friendship to everyone we meet.

August also invited vulnerability. I reflected on what happens when we share the tender parts of ourselves and are met with silence. Some lessons arrive through joy; others arrive quietly through disappointment. Both can deepen us if we allow them to.

Through it all, I kept noticing the sacredness of ordinary life: morning coffee, cooler evening walks, meals prepared at home, fresh produce shared by a friend, laughter with good people, music under the summer sky, and conversations around a table.

And then came the final day of August.

Today would have been my brother’s 52nd birthday. He died five years ago, and I still miss him every day.

He loved Chinese food. He spoke some Chinese and was fascinated by the language and culture. In honor of his memory, my family goes out for Chinese food every year on his birthday.

Tonight, Stan, Bella, and I sat together at one of our favorite Chinese restaurants. We raised our cups of hot tea and cheered in his honor. Around the table, we shared our favorite memories of him and talked about the qualities we loved most—the things that made him uniquely himself.

I cried a little as I remembered the wonderful times we shared and felt the familiar ache of the void he left behind. Grief changes as the years pass, but it does not disappear. Love does not disappear either.

As we were getting ready to pay, our waitress brought the bill and said, “I brought an extra fortune cookie.”

Not three, but four.

We all looked at one another and immediately said, “One for him.”

My brother. Bella’s uncle. Stan’s brother-in-law.

It was such a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like something more—a gentle reminder that he is still part of our family story, still part of our conversations, and still present in the love we share for him.

Before leaving, we took a selfie in front of the restaurant. We went home grateful for our time together and deeply blessed for the gift of having been part of his life.

Perhaps that is the lesson August leaves with me: life is made of invitations. Invitations to show up, to move our bodies, to sit at the table, to welcome others, to tell the truth, to laugh, to remember, to love, and to begin again.

This month was full—full of work, food, people, feelings, memories, and grace. There were moments of exhaustion and moments of pure joy. There were tears, laughter, long walks, delicious meals, and gentle reminders that even grief and gratitude can sit together at the same table.

August, you were busy, beautiful, tender, and good.

I am leaving you with a full plate, a full heart, and one extra fortune cookie. 🥠✨