Rooted in the Reminder: Slow down

This year, everything is a little different.

A new vehicle—the 4Runner—sits in the driveway, ready to carry us forward. But with it comes a fresh layer of complexity. New seats to claim. New ways to fit our bags, our snacks, our rhythm. New conversations about who sits where, what stays behind, and how to make space for the things that matter most.

And this year, like last year, one of my four isn’t coming. Not because they don’t want to. Last year one stayed behind because she was 1 week post knee surgery - and the Oregon Coast would have been too much. This year, one has stepped into their own world now—university, new city, new beginnings. Schedules and logistics and awaiting another surgery for another child make coordination that much more difficult.

And as I move through the motions of packing and planning, I feel the ache of that quiet space where they would’ve been. The van has always been full—of children, noise, crumbs, and chaos. And now, it's changing.

But that’s what this trip has always been about.

Not the gear.

Not the destination.

But the slowing.

The shifting.

The deep remembering.

We bring our necessities. They are not packed in bins or zipped into duffels. They are the essentials of the soul:

Patience.

Laughter.

Shared silence.

Time stretched wide enough to breathe.

The trail doesn’t ask us to be efficient. It invites us to be here. Even in the mess of refiguring, even when we’re one short in the backseat.

This year, more than ever, I’m holding tight to the truth that we only get so many summers like this. So we slow down. We adapt. We leave room.

Not just in the back of the 4Runner—but in ourselves. For growth. For grief. For grace. For joy that comes in a quieter form than it used to.

This is still our road. Just a little different now. And maybe, beautifully so.

What are you carrying into this season that feels different than years before? Where are you being invited to leave room—for change, for rest, for what truly matters?

Rooted in release. Carried by wonder. There’s a quiet kind of magic in letting go—watching something simple and light take flight, not knowing where it will land, only that it was meant to soar. From the top of the Astoria Column, we send it into the wind and trust the journey.

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