Two weekends ago, we had the best weekend full of memorable family moments. From Friday-Sunday, the weekend was packed with great things like the first time to climb a tree and going back to church for the first time since Corona. We’d had special desserts and sat outside in the cooler temps. It was simply lovely. 

The weekend was rocking and rolling right along, and then it stopped rolling and mainly rocked. We woke up Monday morning and found one of our pups dead and rushed another to the vet. All bets were off for the productive Monday we had planned.

I sat at home alone on a Saturday morning and tears filled my eyes. At first, I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. After a little more exploration, I was quick to realize that it was all catching up with me.

In the last 30 days, I’ve moved from a house that healed me to a new place with an entirely different way of life. At the old house, we picked up a lot of Johnny’s Pizza. At the new one, there are no quick trips to the store and we cook almost every meal. At the old house, I worked from home all hours of the day. At the new house, cell service is sparse.