and yet. all this stuff.

Kevin spent the first two weeks of September in another country.

Riley will be spending ten months in another country.

All summer we all knew The Trip was coming.

Our summer was consumed with packing and repacking and weighing bags to be certain they didn’t surpass the 50 pound limit.

(And when they did, trying to decide which items mattered least.)

And then, suddenly, the day was upon us.

Riley’s favorite breakfast of french toast was served.  A trip to the airport was taken.  Hugs and kisses and farewells and waves and deep sighs.

And then the drive home.

The house – with six instead of eight.

And I think I sort of panicked.

I just didn’t want to be there.

So when a friend of a friend generously offered the use of their beach side condo for a week, I nearly burst with enthusiasm.

I arranged pet care.  I shopped for groceries.  I tossed swimsuits, three outfits per kid and all of our school supplies into the back of the Suburban.

And then I drove.

We listened to an audio book and we didn’t stop until we reached our destination.

(I don’t care for bathroom breaks.  I think it’s the Carl Eibert coming out in me.  Just drive.  Just hold it.  Must keep moving.)

We reached our destination.

The beach was sunny.  Warm.  Lovely.  Stunning.

The pool was glistening.  Large.  Almost empty every day of any human except ourselves.

We swam in the pool each morning.  Then, as the sun rose to its full height, we retreated inside and conquered school work.  In the afternoon we walked to the beach.  Splashed in the waves until dinner.  Ate dinner.  Headed back to the pool for night swimming.  Back to dry clothes, a story and hitting the sheets only to repeat it all the next day.

Sounds dreamy – right?

I was looking to pass the time in a place that was not my own house.

That’s what we did.

And I love the beach.  I love the sand and the waves and the long horizon and the clouds that look whiter pushed up against the ocean and the sky that looks bluer when it’s so wide open.

I was grateful.  Couldn’t believe my good fortune, really.  Blessed so incredibly by another family in our church.

And yet.

Oh and yet.

I know how this will sound.

It will sound ungrateful.

It will sound whiny.  Complaining.  Discontent.

And that will be true.

And yet.

And yet, it won’t be true.

I was at the beach and it was beautiful.

But I was struggling.

I was ill at ease.

I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I couldn’t figure me out.

I went dark, if you will.

I had my phone but I barely surfaced.

Hardly glanced at Facebook. Rarely texted.  Didn’t call.

Kevin and I were able to exchange a few random texts to ensure safety and cover the basics but full communication was very limited due to time zones and schedules and wifi availability from a third world country.

There was the water and the waves and the happy children.

And there was me.

Just sort of watching.

But kind of wishing for time to pass faster or differently or something.

And then my friend texted me.

After I complained a bit to her she said, “The beach is a magical place, but not magical enough to make all this stuff disappear into your deep subconcious and leave you be for a whole week.”

All this stuff.

My husband and daughter on another continent.

One to return in two weeks and one not to return for ten months.

The passage of so much time that allows one daughter to stop being seven and start being nineteen.  To stop being a hand-holding kid and become another-country-living adult.

A husband who is trekking up a mountain while I’m reading bedtime stories and helping a third grader to know when to use “you’re” and “your”.

Two weeks of meals for six instead of eight and routines that involve long days with no “dad’s home” announcements to break up the schedule.

All this stuff.

No amount of sand and surf makes all that stuff disappear.

Or sting less.

Frankly, it was a little weird to have a vacation without Kevin.

I can’t say that I really cared for that.

And yet there we were.

Another long drive home looming over me and the thoughts that I should be grateful battling with the thoughts that I just wanted my family to all be in the same time zone.

It was harder than I expected.

My escape plan, I mean.

I knew the departure would be tricky.  I knew the distance would be overwhelming.

But I think I thought driving away from the familiar and planting ourselves in the sunshine would fix everything.

A little sand and salt seemed like the perfect cure.

And, believe me, they were a welcome distraction.

But I was disappointed to discover that they were not enough.

They were not balm and solution and remedy all rolled into one.

In fact, there was no remedy.

No outside force or external blanket I could wrap around all that stuff that was going on inside my head.

There was no quick fix.

There has been no one-drop-cures-all.

It was only time.

The waiting.

The pushing down of fear and the filling up of grace.

The trading in of lies for truth.

The powering through and the waiting until and the calm enough.

The clock ticking and the sun setting and the focusing on the task at hand.

The night praying and the little kid hugging and the mantra repeating.

Until the days passed and the jet landed and we were there in the airport’s carpeted waiting area with paper signs and full hearts and we all heard Kevin’s whistle and saw Uncle Stin’s new Nepalese hat.

And I sighed.