Last weekend, I spent a couple of days with my parents in my hometown. I flew up to Des Moines partly to celebrate my mom’s birthday early and partly to give my parents a pre-Thanksgiving squeeze since I’ll be celebrating the holiday with Mitch’s family. 

The weekend was full of one of my favorite things—a whole lot of nothing. My mom and I snuggled up in bed and pajamas and embarked on a Chicago PD marathon. We played the NYTimes daily puzzles and compared scores (still in pajamas, this time on the couch). We went to a fun dinner. We told stories and caught up and laughed. It was ordinary and simple and special all the same. 

Upon my return to DFW and re-entry into this week’s regular rhythms, I reflected on what traveling—even for 48 hours—offers us. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments: what you love about travel, what it brings into your life, and what you realize when you come home!

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I love the way travel makes us evaluate things. I love the treasure of perspective it leaves on our doorstep if we’re willing to open the door and give it a good look. Somehow, returning home to a Monday evening routine can make us realize it isn’t routine at all. Suddenly, we have eyes to see that how we do things is just that—how we do things, not everyone else. 

The habits and details and preferences that make Monday evenings my own are starting to sparkle in my mind—the vat of tea I boil for Mitch, the “You Can Call Me Al” dance party while I’m stirring a pot on the stove or chopping broccoli. The deep we-made-it-through-Monday exhale as we sit down to share our highs and lows of the day. These actions may be typical to-dos (any other Paul Simon fans out there?!), but the unique combination of them in our story makes them just that—uniquely ours. 

I love that a weekend away illuminates these details, the string of blessings woven throughout what appears to be a mundane Monday night. Because these little moments are the big moments. These fleeting details—a smile or wink across the kitchen, a peaceful home, a prayer, a pre-dinner dance party—create a marriage and/or a family’s culture. These are the moments. We may not remember them all clearly in three decades, but we will remember the laughter, the safety of a warm, snuggly hug, and the “at home-ness” that settles in our hearts like a puzzle piece sovereignly snapping into place. 

These are the moments. I’m grateful for the perspective that makes me cherish the simplest of weeknight evenings. May I never view them as a burden, but rather a blessing. May I abstain from thinking they’re boring, but rather a beautiful, purposeful, holy collection of life well-lived. Thank you, Jesus, for days like these and this sweet reminder after a weekend away.