Sunday morning, early, and I’m not supposed to be getting ready to leave. This isn’t what Sunday mornings are about, usually. Not in my world, anyway.

But here I am, packed and ready and waiting for the coffee to finish perking so I can have a cup before I go. Off for a week to the west coast, where the forecast is rain for every one of the six days I will be gone.

But there won’t be any snow and I’ll be able to smell the ocean, and a walk in the rain never hurt anyone.

Off to spend some days, heart-stirred and kingdom-blessed, with women who love and serve and honour. Blessed by communion.

I’m torn, as I always am when I leave my family behind. I’m torn between where my heart lives and where my heart leads. It’s always been this way. It’s the way of wives and mothers whose lives are very knit into the ones they love. It’s hard to leave.

They’ll be fine.

Three boys can take care of one dad for one week.

The loaves of bread and the cookies are in the freezer, and the kombucha is made and ready. The list for the meals (easy, frozen and packaged stuff that makes me cringe a little) is on the board. The chores are second nature, and the school work, well, they’ll do a little but probably not everything they should.

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But they’ll be fine.

And I’ll fly away, heart-torn but thankful for the tearing. It’s love, you know.

I’ll be gone until next weekend, and I don’t think I’ll be able to blog in that time. Have a great week, and may you be blessed with love, my friends.

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