I wake up in a bed without children, for the first time in ages. It's so unfamiliar to me I can't even place where I am, which bed I woke up in, what country we live in. The sun is up, but that's meaningless. What feels like 10am could be 5am, as the littlest ones know full well. Today it is 8am and the house is still asleep.

Two years ago this time we awoke to a Carolina beach. The parents asked for liquid coffee creamer, but all I could find in the extremely busy and equally limited town grocer was the powder stuff. I was given a slight disapproving eye, but we all used it anyway. Powder our coffee in the morning, sit on the balcony, and watch the hazy sun rise over the Atlantic. It was beautiful, and tasty, and all we had was time. No phones, no appointments, no clocks. Just time.

It's a minor injustice that I can't find liquid creamer anywhere on our current stretch of island. Yes, it speaks to our coffee addiction that milk just doesn't cut it and making the homemade Pinterest creamer wears one out eventually. I told him to leave and not come back without the powder stuff. I just need something, I said.

I'm done with milk in my coffee, it offers no memories.

Two-heaping teaspoons and I remember North Carolina. The powder on the rim of the mug. The way we woke before the children, how they waddled in all blurry. The smell of the ocean and the silence of happily exhausted humans, sitting side by side. We barely talk, breathing in together. Communion.

I remember you this morning, my family. Asher as a baby. Ella in a nightgown. Jack reading his book on whales. Walking on sand with my dad. Drinks with my sisters. Cousins holding hands.

My mug is filled with memories. My morning free from time.

I remember you.

When we were a family of three

The last few posts have had me digging through old photo albums. Given that we've moved ten times in 14 years, old photographs and albums and picture frames are scattered to the nether reaches of family attics and basements. We've only got a smattering here with us, consisting mainly of our wedding albums, the first few years of our marriage, and a few painfully created Easter poses of the elder two wearing coordinating pastels (yes, that happened, and it was adorable).

Today's photo is brought to you from the year 2003, when we first became a family of three.



I love remembering Jack at 9 months, all 30 chunky pounds of him. I particularly like his dazed and confused look here. But today, this photo makes me remember us more. Me and Matt. Young and exhausted and fragile, but content and peaceful and proud.

That's it, not much else to say. I just wanted to share it with you, to remember. And to admit: I'm still this. Content and proud and exhausted and fragile. We never really grow out of it, do we?

I'm sure there's more to come...

The first time

"Matt & I are so grateful for our new home, though we do give in to occassional bouts of wistfulness thinking about all the times we have moved house, started over... But as we drive through the hills, take our children to the ocean, worship with Irish believers, and meet new friends, we are reminded of God's goodness in inviting us to share this all with Him." | May 2008

In five years, everything can change and look remarkably the same. We moved to Ireland, the first time, on this day. I can hardly remember it, and yet it doesn't seem like it should be this way, like it should feel so long ago.

Ella had just learnt to walk. Jack hadn't even begun primary school. And Asher was just a dream.



We sat around the dining room table remembering, visiting the home of our old neighbours. Hans poured wine and Matt looked up, "Five years ago this week was when we first met." We toasted and laughed, thinking of the babies and the warm spring day we picnicked on a farm. It was a lifetime ago (Asher's lifetime and then some, actually).

I'm pausing, remembering. We have come back different people. 

I'm tempted to grieve it, though I'm not sure what we've lost. Continuity, idealism, adventure? These all went home and came back with us, but still we are different. Ireland is different.

Still beautiful, still green, still filled with songs, still calling our hearts, still making us home. The point is, it's our anniversary, nonetheless. Five years ago was the start and today we celebrate it, here.

Where were you five years ago today? Did you think you'd be here, wherever you are?

Me on a Plane :: A One Woman Show

I should not be allowed to travel alone.

There was an incident with lotion (all over my shirt… at 5 am; commence silent wardrobe meltdown in the fickle darkness of an apartment filled with sleeping children), too many Entertainment Weeklys torn and stuffed into the carryon, a late night panic attack over a misplaced library book, and a showdown between the nook and three paperbacks I was highly unlikely to read. 

All that being said, this chaotic one-woman show is nothing compared to flying overseas with three children, the lotion was not baby vomit, and I don’t have to worry at all about packing an extra pair of trousers and underwear for myself (too much information? Have you ever been on a plane with a baby/toddler/older strong-willed child with a small bladder and a bottomless cup of sprite?). 

Today, the diaper bag has been replaced with the laptop bag, and I am spending the day in the city where I fell in love. 

Truth be told, I fell in love with both the city and the boy, and this is where we started our life together. It’s a strange thing to come back as visitor to the place you once called home. As we descended over a dizzying maze of suburbs and highways, I tried to think back before all the moves and all the babies and most of the heartache and a dozen years, when it was just us and an apartment in the city. 

And a cat. I forgot about the cat.
And a red Honda hatchback with a blue fender. We called her The Egg.
And a cell phone the size of an iPad.
And beautiful, impractical dreams.
And a lake the size of the Irish Sea.

It’s good to be home. Again.

Of cocoa puffs and cobblestone streets

I like to think that my children lead a very glamorous life.

Airplanes and oceans and languages... strollers on cobblestone streets and nursing baby across from the opera house and stamps filling up the passport. These are fantastic memories, and when I load my children into the minivan at 6am in the morning for a 10 hour drive from our apartment to Granny's stoop, I close my eyes and remember.

Fresh, cold wind on red cheeks.

Our life seems not so glamorous now. A catastrophic cocoa puff spill. Pulling of hair and calling of names. Carefully weighing the risk asessment of boredom versus the dvd player. Sitting shotgun, in reverse on both knees, pointing and yelling and throwing paper towels and putting out friendly-fires. At 75 mph on the interstate.



But this is what we do. We get in the van (or the plane), and we go. We travel, we seek, we wait. We wake up early and get dressed and pack our sippy cups for the next mission.

"Mom, remember when you woke me up at 4 in the morning to fly to another country? The sun was up then, not dark like today."

Well, the sun is always up at 4 in the morning in Ireland in August. And he remembers... the 4am wake-up call in 2008 to catch a flight to Hungary.

Yes, these are fantastic memories for burgeoning adventurers.

This time (the year before the year before) last year.

Holidays will do that to you.

Remind you of what was, or what isn't. You find yourself saying, "this time last year" or the year before, or the year before that.  You smile when you think of the first Ash Wednesday your son remembers, more for the pancakes than the ashes. And you walk the aisles of the supermarket, intent on maintaining any semblance of tradition through the years and the moves and the countries.

It's not terribly hard, not really all that sad. But it is movement, it is change, it is a longing for security and steadiness and sanity. It is not wanting to forget but also trying to move forward. It is hope and doubt, rolled into one. It is faith.

The email pings just now, a hotel or an airline or a booking agency. The emails never end, hinting that we should be going somewhere. We will, even if it's the slow steady ascent up the faith mountain, or a drive into the city to claim and wear the ashes.

After all... it's the Person - not the place - we seek. 

Putting down roots near the rivers...

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?