The Peaches Always Need a Few Days

Each summer, in the soft exhale after peony harvest ends, we pick up our box of Georgia peaches. It’s always June, when the coolers are still full, our hands are raw from snipping, bundling, hauling—but the biggest push is over. The flowers have been cut, the rows quieted, and we’re tired in that good way. Satisfied. Soul-worn and sun-soaked.

And that’s when the peaches come.

We hear about it through our local Youth for Christ fundraiser, and when pickup day arrives, we make haste to get there before they sell out—often grabbing an extra box for my in-laws. As soon as the peaches are placed in the back of the car, the kids are already peeking into the box, marveling at the treasures inside. They usually ask to eat one before we’ve even pulled out of the parking lot.

But we all know better now.

You could eat one. You’d be tempted. They’re golden and blushed, fragrant and full, and they feel like summer itself.

But Georgia peaches always need a few days.

We set the whole box on the kitchen counter, where it sits like a promise. The smell is rich and sweet and steady, filling the house. The kids peek in each time they walk by, lifting the lid just to be sure.

We wait.

The peaches soften slowly, quietly, day by day.

Then, one morning, someone picks one up and it gives just slightly in their hand—and we know. They’re ready.

And then comes the feast.

Peaches eaten juicy and warm, straight out of the hand.

Peaches grilled with supper—topped with whipped cream, a dusting of cinnamon, and a drizzle of honey.

Peaches with homemade ice cream, made into jam, folded into crisp.

The fruit of waiting, savored in every way we can.

They always taste like grace.

Over the years, I’ve come to believe life is like those peaches.

Sometimes the fruit is already here.

The dream, the gift, the calling, the healing. It shows up right on time—but it still needs to ripen.

You can’t force it.

You can’t microwave sweetness.

It comes slow—by warmth and rest and time.

It happens while we’re busy doing other things—like laundry or coffee or just remembering to breathe.

The best things soften quietly.

Ripening doesn’t make a sound.

So now I trust the waiting. I trust the slow change. I’m learning to let things sit in the light for a few more days.

Because sometimes the good thing is already yours—

it just needs time to become what it’s meant to be.