We went on a date, the eldest and I. He's been curious about coffee for some time, and I can only assume this is a result of the frequent "Dad's Meeting Someone For Coffee"-and-"Mommy's Working From the Coffeeshop"-convos we have with the little people. He wasn't so sure on actually trying any of the black stuff, but was curious about this White Coffee his sister talks so much about (she who was known to finish our homemade lattes at the ripe old age of 2).

So we set a time: Sunday, dusk. Cold snap and rain clouds. Tall steamed milk with peppermint (him) and tall nonfat pumpkin spiced chai (me). In mugs, for maximum foaminess, please. We chat over the Sunday paper.

"So, how was your week?" he asks in his very best Man Tone.

"Oh, it was ok. Some good days and some not to good days," I reply.

"Yeah, I know... because of the little ones..." he says out of the side of his mouth, whispering behind his hand. This is our secret: how crazy they are and how mature he is. 



He wants to know about church and Operation Christmas Child and if my coffee is good and how I feel about moving.

"Are you excited to go back to Ireland?" he asks.

We are close now, so close. Really just days away from buying plane tickets, though I've been saying that for a month now. But the end is near, the lease is unsigned, the date to vacate is set...

"Yeah, I am... but I wish we had tickets. Once we buy plane tickets, then I know it's really happening." We can talk like this, I think. He's seen it all. This is his life, this waiting and going and coming back.

He looks me in the eyes, smiles, nods his head, "It IS happening, Mom. It is."

Dead serious, that lad. He knows a thing or two about patience, about calling, about God.

"I know," I say, sighing at the gentle reproof. Faith staring me in the eye.

I know.


Has a kiddo laid a faith-bomb on you recently?

Remembering to go

18 months ago today we came back to the States. My soul was sad and weary and I did not yet know where we were going or if we were staying.

15 months ago we had a better idea, a refined vision, a calmed heart as we knew where we didn't belong and were ready to tackle the steady climb back.

12 months ago we were embedded in a community, in fellowship with a new body of believers, thankful for a detour that allowed us time and training and companionship, yet still anxious to go and to give and to love, both here and there.

6 months ago the wheels hit the ground as we finally - finally - received our invitation back, and with it the go ahead to travel, to fundraise, to spread the word, and when finances allowed, to go back to our home and our life we had made for ourselves.

3 months ago we didn't leave as planned, but knew where we were going.

2 months ago a door closed. It wasn't the only door, but it was big enough and loud enough and strong enough to throw us off our game, to crush the spirit, to wonder outloud and inside what God was up to and how it would all turn out.

1 month ago we knew Him to still be good and we knew His voice had said and was still saying: "Go."

Today... oh today. I don't remember my life there. We've spent over 7 years working towards something, 2 years living in it, and today I don't remember what it felt like to be hugged by an Irish granny or to read aloud in book club or to laugh with the Thursday morning moms. All I can remember is that He told me to go.

So, ok, Lord. When do we go?

Thoughts on Going

The original title for this was "Thoughts on Leaving", but leaving implies a whole lot of permanence, and though sneaking doubt and fear lies at every corner, our going is a temporary thing. With that in mind...

I hate to go. I hate to say goodbye. I cry a lot. I hug a lot. I get awkward. My words get all messed up and my heart hurts a lot. Like, physically hurts. I can literally feel little pinpricks of pain in my soul. I want to say the things I didn't get the chance to say, but don't know how to say them. I get frustrated. I feel like I should've done more. I wish there was more time. I get afraid. I worry about the future. I'm afraid I'll be forgotten. I'm afraid I'll forget. I want to take everyone and everything with me.

But...

This is all temporary. Only a fleeting a moment. Reunion waits on the other side. Will things be forgotten? Yes. Will things stay the same? Probably not. Going always involves a little bit of sacrifice, from both sides of the ocean. But to go back and be remembered... that will be sweet.

See you soon, Ireland. Wait for me.