I thrive on rhythms and routines that spare me decision fatigue and keep momentum moving in a positive direction.

I love my morning routine.

Opening my Bible before most of the house wakes. Lifting weights. Squeezing a lemon. Starting the day’s load of laundry. There is something deeply satisfying about ordinary faithfulness repeated day after day.

But I also love adventure.

I love new experiences and the feeling of stepping into a story much older than my own.

These two desires naturally collide during international travel.

I want to see the wonders, and I wonder how an eight-hour time difference will affect taking my meticulously counted supplements.

This is 42…

I certainly never wondered such things while traveling Europe at 19.

At 19, I backpacked through Europe with a friend, guided by a folded map. On a recent trip to Italy, my husband navigated our travels using five different apps!

It was wonderful to leave that task to him.

The world has changed, and yet the heart of Rome still holds the old-world wonder that draws crowds year after year.

This July, we took our two oldest to Italy for my sister's wedding.

The first evening, after taking far too long to figure out the lock at our Airbnb, we settled into the spacious apartment we were sharing with my mom for two nights in Rome.

After supper, I hit a hard wall of jet lag; it was around 5:30 p.m., and my husband suggested walking to St. Paul’s Basilica, which wasn’t too far from where we were, to push through a few more hours before calling it a day.

FOMO (fear of missing out) is powerful when you've just arrived in a new country, but sleep deprivation had already won.

I took some time to regulate my desperate emotions before falling asleep, only to be awakened when they returned because the door handle to our bedroom dropped onto the floor.

Travel has a way of revealing our delights and our fragility.

By morning, I felt human again as we set out early to beat the crowds and view Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon before our scheduled bus tour through the Vatican Gardens.

No photo or video captures the opulence of the cathedrals, the heat of the vias in July, or the grit of ancient wonders.

Standing in the Colosseum made me consider my place in time and the mystery of all the generations who have gone before.

But any deep thoughts had to be tucked into my little suitcase and brought home for later reflection because we were always on the go.

The morning after roaming Rome, we squeezed five people and all our luggage into the smallest Uber XL, picked up our rental car, and drove north into the picturesque province of Umbria to begin the itinerary my sister and her fiancé had lovingly planned.

Our family settled into a beautiful countryside villa, complete with a stunning pool overlooking rolling hills.

The engaged couple rented a fortress where many of their friends from around the world stayed together for over a week.

There were places to explore, meals to linger over, conversations with people we had never met before.

We wandered through the Roman ruins of Carsulae, which felt even more personal than the famous sites in Rome.

There were no massive crowds.

No rush.

Just ancient stones quietly telling their story.

It felt the same at the only Christian catacombs in Umbria.

Italians live a nightlife far different from North Americans, and are just getting started with supper when we would normally be brushing our teeth and calling it a night.

Gathering seventy people from around the world on adventures makes for fascinating characters.

During the welcome evening, once most guests had arrived, it felt like we were part of a murder mystery dinner party. My husband called it My Big Fat Italian Wedding.

There was the German model with a heart for sharing the gospel.
His lovely mother, who I heard sang worship songs as she swam each morning at the fortress.
There was the German lawyer who was to officiate the wedding ceremony, his young wife, and his adventurous mother—who happily enjoyed many activities in her bikini.
There was a family of four from Palestine, a Jewish scholar accompanied by his partner and children, and relatives from both sides of the family.

For about a week, seventy lives overlapped.

Another day brought an antique market, complete with gelato, followed by an evening at the lively jazz festival in Perugia, where a few of us struggled through exhaustion and miscommunication about transportation.

There was a pool party where I didn’t bring my swimsuit, as I had left it drying at our villa, only to be grateful my sister had a second one, a deep green one-piece that left very little to the imagination up top.

I won't share that photo!

But I did have my brother send it to my husband, who was enjoying a much-needed “solo mio” day, wisely recharging his introvert battery for the days ahead.

We rented a boat on Europe’s largest lake, Lake Bolsena.

My husband and our two oldest happily took turns driving the boat, swam to explore a cave, and cliff jumped.

Meanwhile, I hoped the boat didn’t flip or sink along with our passports, wallets, and phones.

I do wish I had relaxed just a little more in retrospect.

But I had no problem doing that on the beach later!

Before we knew it, the wedding rehearsal day came.

And there, waiting quietly, was one empty chair.

It had been reserved in honour of my dad.

He’s been living his best life in heaven for more than four years after his brief battle with blood cancer.

Watching my brother—who carries so much of Dad in appearance and gentle strength and humour—walk my sister Cherisse down the aisle during the rehearsal was touching.

At Dad's Celebration of Life, I lamented how I wanted to watch him walk my sisters down the aisle and hold their babies one day.

Instead, here we were.

We were living the legacy he left us as we gathered under a tree and sang about Christ being our vision to wrap up the rehearsal.

That afternoon, some of my extended family enjoyed relief from the heat in our pool before preparing for the big day ahead.

The wedding day arrived beneath a blazing Italian sun.

Thirty-eight degrees!

We spent the morning getting ready, keeping my sister hidden inside the castle. It was a gorgeous space for photos, but desperately lacking in air conditioning.

Beads of sweat rolled down our backs as we paused between pictures that afternoon, searching for whatever pockets of shade or cool air we could find.

Evening came, and the groom looked as though he might burst with joy as my sister made her way toward him.

She was radiant.

She worshipped and shared her vows from a place of deep love.

The ceremony flowed naturally into cocktails, a live Italian band, a three-course dinner under twinkle lights, and a dance floor that moved into early morning hours.

The next day, instead of sleeping in, we were off to the ocean.

This wasn't on the group itinerary but mattered to my husband.

We spent peaceful hours by the east coast before making our way to Assisi, where St. Francis once stripped himself of everything to devote his life fully to Christ.

This was a fitting place to end our adventures.

Soon enough, we were returning our rental car, squeezing into a shuttle to the Rome airport, and beginning the journey home.

One of my sisters, my mom, and the four of us were on the same flight back to Canada.

Everything had gone remarkably well during our travels.

Until the final flight!

The short hop from Calgary to Edmonton should have taken less than an hour.

Instead, just before it began its descent, our plane jolted.

We bounced hard enough that some passengers screamed.

Many prayed.

Still half asleep, I grabbed my husband's thigh through the rough ride and cried out, “Oh, Jesus, help us.”

Soon it was completely calm, and the pilot announced we needed to get away from a storm and were returning to the city we came from to refuel and wait for conditions to improve for landing.

By the time we finally climbed into beds, it was nearly three o'clock in the morning.

The next day, laundry was hung, we watched church online as our groceries were delivered, and in the afternoon our four younger children were welcomed home from the special time they had with their grandparents.

Life quietly picked up where we had left it.

As the mornings unfolded, the fog from jet lag began to lift.

Heading to bed extra early meant a return to my sweet early mornings.

I opened my Bible, lifted weights, squeezed a lemon, and started the laundry.

I felt peace as I eased back into satisfying morning rhythms.

Italy felt surreal…

Ancient ruins
Cathedral ceilings
Rolling hills
Late-night dinners
Gelato
A fortress filled with people from around the world
A sister becoming a wife

I am grateful for all of it.

But I had returned to the life God has entrusted to me.

To ordinary mornings.

To quiet faithfulness.

To the unseen moments of working towards keeping a home and attuning to hearts.

The Teacher in Ecclesiastes reminds us that even the most beautiful things "under the sun" cannot carry the weight of eternity.

Not because they aren't good.

But because they were never meant to be ultimate.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift of travel: it allows us to delight in the beauty of this world while loosening our grip on it.

It reminds us that we were made for something beyond breathtaking views.

We were made for the kingdom of God.

That is the life my husband and I aim to build together.

That is how we are trying to raise our six children.

It is how we are choosing to invest our time, our finances, and our hearts.

I can't wait to explore more of the world with my family, all while knowing it is the sweet rhythms of home that are the trellis that brings us closer to Christ!

How about you?
I would love to hear how traveling has impacted your view of life, the world, and God. You are welcome to reflect in the comments below or on the socials!