Let’s just say that our house was never featured on anyone’s Pinterest board. Nor was it ever the chosen location for anyone’s baby/bridal shower. Twice, in fact, separate friend-groups staged an intervention in response to my pioneering pastor-man’s stress level.

The browning Christmas tree awaits its final fate at the curb. It’s the kind of grey January day that signals the return to schedules, alarm clocks, routine. I like it. I find beauty in the constants. But after weeks of family sleeping everywhere and tripping in line outside our one bathroom, an aching emptiness throbs in my throat.