This morning I wake up early, not to soothe a crying baby or to fix breakfast for hungry children, but to sit by the ocean, with coffee in hand. I forget my Bible, don't have a notebook, my phone doesn't work, so I just sit. And squint. Because the sun reflecting off the water is too bright and too pure for my morning eyes.
(even now I hear the baby on the monitor, talking to himself in sing-song oohs and ahhs... I think he knows I'm writing and resting, so he gives me this time and sings to me instead)
The air is warm and the breeze is slight. People walk along the beach: couples and singles, grandparents and children. My dad is out there and I missed it again; he is an even earlier riser and I'm always just a step or two behind. He'll come back around, though, and I'll grab a kid or two and walk with him, up and down the beach with water and seashells tickling our toes.
We are on vacation - a term I rarely use and feels foreign to say. But yes, we are on vacation with my dad's family, even though the ocean feels more familiar than the parking lot we usually wake up to. I know Ireland is thousands of miles away still, but somehow I think if I can just get in the water and float on my back, the Atlantic will carry me straight home.