This week was a beautiful, whirlwind dash to spend time with my sisters in Colorado. Just three days before we left, I surprised the kids with plane tickets — and their reaction was pure joy. Squeals, disbelief, jumping up and down. One of those moments you tuck away and replay later when life feels heavy.
When Distance is the Cost of the Calling
Being a military family means we move — often. Every few years, the Air Force points at Luke and says, “You — go. Now.” And we do. With our marching orders, we pack up our life and start again somewhere new. What that often means is that our roots run shallow. Church relationships, friendships, even work can feel temporary. You learn to bloom quickly, but you also learn not to dig too deep.
Distance from family is one of the quiet costs of this life.
Grace Tucked Inside Uncertainty
In 2019, my sister and her active-duty husband was stationed in Seattle while we were in Spokane. A five-hour drive with a mountain pass in between felt daunting — especially on short weekends. Then COVID hit. It was a hard season for so many, but the unexpected gift for us was time. Telework meant we saw each other almost monthly. Cousins grew close. Familiarity replaced distance. It felt like grace, tucked inside uncertainty.
Fast forward six years (how is that even possible?) and we’re back in the Pacific Northwest — but now my youngest sister lives in the Colorado Springs area. When I found out my other sister was visiting her, I knew I had to join in. Commence OPERATION No sister left behind.
OPERATION No Sister Left Behind
So, I booked the ticket using points and a little creativity, pinched pennies where I could, and prayed it would be enough. And He provided!
What we gained was five full days together.
My middle sister, Terri, lives in California with her family. She was the first of us to have children — which means we’re now staring down our first high school graduation among the cousins this summer. She homeschools her kids with care and conviction and does it beautifully.
My youngest sister, Jen, lives in Colorado Springs. She’s a General Manager for a cosmetic company — a workhorse with a sharp mind and a big heart. Her husband is active-duty Army, and together they’re raising three tall, respectful, athletic boys who somehow manage to be kind and grounded in a world that doesn’t always encourage either.
Our days started slowly. Coffee, always. Snuggles with the younger kids on the couch. Then the familiar morning chaos — breakfast, showers, getting ready. Each morning, Jen would pull out makeup and products, teaching us little techniques — how to moisturize properly, how to make tired eyes look brighter. It was sweet in a way that caught me off guard. The kind of sisterhood I didn’t know I was missing.
And I found myself quietly thanking God.
“The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.” — Psalm 126:3
What Was Broken, God Has Been Healing
I don’t share this lightly, but to give context to the weight of that moment: our childhood was not an easy one. We spent time in and out of foster care — sometimes together, sometimes apart. When we were finally under our mother’s roof, the home was deeply unsafe. Abuse marked those years in ways no child should have to endure. We each ran hard and fast the moment we were old enough, and in doing so, we never really learned how to grow up together.
So watching my youngest sister carefully apply mascara to my middle sister’s eyelashes felt sacred. Redeemed. Like something God had patiently been healing long before I noticed.
God Sets the Lonely in Families
Later, we took the kids to the neighborhood park. All of them — from fifteen down to five — played together. Swings, merry-go-rounds, laughter, games of tag. I stood back and watched it unfold, something in my chest loosening.
“God sets the lonely in families.” — Psalm 68:6
I didn’t know how much I needed to see that until I did.
We ate greasy food, stayed up late talking about raising kids (because wow, it’s hard), and gently revisited pieces of the past we wish had been different. There was no fixing it — just honoring what was and celebrating what is.
Leaving With Trust Instead of Fear
When it was time to leave, I loaded the kids into the rental car and drove toward the airport with a conflicted heart. Not because I didn’t want to return home — my husband held down the fort, kept the dog and chickens alive, and deserves a medal — but because leaving family always seems to reopen something tender.
It used to feel like a wound that scarred over thicker every time.
Now, I recognize it for what it is. And I give it to the Lord.
I don’t know when we’ll all be together again. Military life rarely offers neat timelines. But I trust that God is still moving, still healing, still redeeming stories that once felt fractured beyond repair.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3
And for now, that is enough.
Thanks for joining me here this week. Please consider sharing this with someone you think would benefit from gathering around my hearth.
Until next time, friends.
