Where to go when we need true rest.

Last week my family took part in the hip and, for many, obligatory recession trend of 2009. Yes, that’s right—we went on “staycation.”

I don’t know who originally coined this concept, but I began to see the word showing up in popular media last summer. Gas prices had hit an average of 4 dollars a gallon, so families—wanting to save money—decided to discover the sites closer to home. “Staycation” even became number 6 on Time Magazine’s Top 10 Buzzwords of 2008.

When my husband and I first talked about jumping on the bandwagon, I was incredulous. It seemed, well, boring. However, I was soon persuaded by the romantic notion of “exploring my own backyard.” The concept of a staycation is quaint—conjuring up nostalgic images of a time when families enjoyed one another and their local surroundings without many of the modern “conveniences” we have today. There’s a simplicity and sweetness found in the idea.

If I could speak to the star-mom of Jon & Kate Plus Eight, here’s what I’d tell her

Dear Kate:

In the past you’ve been vocal about your Christian faith. To be sure, I don’t know all the circumstances of your situation. I haven’t “walked in your shoes” or carried the burdens you’ve had to bear. I’ve heard the rumors that there’s been infidelity with possibly no repentance. And if that’s true, my heart breaks for all you’ve had to experience through that situation. I’ve seen “up close and personal” the devastation that infidelity can have on a marriage and family.

Having said that, as a sister in Christ to you, take what I’m about to say in the spirit of love and concern: Please don’t do what you’re doing.

And I’m not just talking to you. I’m talking to your husband too.

For too long I’ve watched Christian couples live self-centered lives, pursuing their own desires, talking about following Christ and the principles of our faith, but not actually living them out. And when life gets difficult—as it does for every couple—they throw in the towel, acting helpless, showing to the world that when the apostle Paul said, “We are more than conquerors through Christ,” he didn’t actually mean it.

Trouble can seep into your relationship if you’re not on the lookout for it.

Anne LaBarbara finally snapped. Her husband, Frank, told her he wouldn’t be leaving his workplace at 5 p.m. to start their vacation as he’d promised. Instead, he opted to take care of some machinery that was breaking down at the plant his family owned.

If only he’d opted to take care of his wife who was breaking down.

When Anne Stormed into his office and demanded he shut down the factory, her mother-in-law was there and tried to intervene. In the ensuing brawl, Anne punched her beloved MIL several times, yelling, “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this!”

Unfortunately, another woman tried to break up the fight (no word on what Frank was actually doing during this time!), so Anne grabbed a plaque and smacked her with it. As the former good Samaritan yanked clumps of hair from Anne’s head, the women wrestled to the floor. Finally Frank broke it up—just in time for Anne to stomp out, yelling, “We’re through!” They’re now divorced.

We all fall down.

It is worse than I imagined.

Outwardly the house looks the same—a homey colonial flanked by maples bedecked with colorful bird feeders, surrounded by well-tended gardens spilling over with blooms. But inside it’s acrid and cavernous; footfalls echo uncomfortably off bare floors and walls. Distraught, I walk through each room with my father, surveying the smoke damage, capturing with my digital camera the images of stained paneling, sooty wallpaper, filthy flooring, smudged ceramic, and blackened ceiling tiles.

This is home—or rather, my parents’ home, the place where they’ve lived for 31 years. A week ago, a fire ravaged it while my mother and father attended their church’s midweek service. When they arrived home, black smoke billowed out from their basement as alarms blared. Five firetrucks heeded their 911 call; by midnight, my parents were booked into a nearby hotel with only the clothes on their backs and a few items hastily stuffed into a couple of suitcases.

My kindergartener and I both needed to pray for and extend grace to his classmate.

A couple weeks after starting kindergarten, my son shared with me his affection for one of his school table-mates. A private boy, like his father, Nikolas told me about her only after I was sworn to secrecy—this would become an Eickhoff family secret.

I was privately pleased with my discerning son. Nikolas had his sights set on “Heather,” and from what I observed from volunteering in his class, she was not only cute-as-a-button, she was one of the most well behaved and smartest kids in his class. Heather was the kind of girl who would never be put on “yellow.”

Nik’s teacher used the image of a traffic light to handle discipline problems in class. All students started the day on “green,” but if they had to be reprimanded several times, they had to move their handprint to “yellow,” and on the very rare occasion, the dreaded “red.”

God is merciful not only when he gives, but also when he takes away.

Like “grace,” “mercy” is a word I use too lightly.

I do it unintentionally, because in my mind “mercy” seems synonymous with “compassion” or “blessings.” In fact, Webster's Dictionary defines mercy as implied compassion that forbears punishing, even when justice demands it.

So when I say, “God was so merciful” as I tell others about my husband's healing from cancer, I'm right: God spared our family from this life-threatening disease.

And when I say, “God's so merciful” as I mention to a friend the good things going on in my life, I'm right again. I don't deserve the health I enjoy, the home we live in, the family I love, the gifts and talents I've been granted, even my ability to move, and speak, and see, and serve others in the many ways I take for granted.

My mother-in-law’s tears reminded me about the value of grief and remembrance.

Last year for Mother’s Day, my husband, Scott, and I, along with Scott’s brother and sister-in-law, treated my mother-in-law to a special brunch at an upscale club. She received roses, and the staff treated her like royalty. We were surrounded by a light and celebratory atmosphere as the music of the ’20s, ’30s, and ’40s serenaded us. My mother-in-law was delighted as she listened to the tunes and named each one along with the song’s vocalist.

About halfway through the meal, the waitress checked up on us and asked my mother-in-law how many children she had.

“Six.”

“Wow,” the waitress said. “That’s quite a bunch. You definitely deserve this special day!”

My mother-in-law only nodded, a tight grin plastered on her face.

Six. My husband and I knew only five.