Sometimes when we travel, I like to bring my own pillow.
Silly, I know, but for whatever reason, it makes me feel comfortable. My pillows are all goose-down and super cozy, and I’m used to them.
Last week I jumped in the truck with my son, and we made our way to Oregon. I honestly wasn’t sure where I would be sleeping any given night, so I brought my favorite pillow along.
I’m glad I did too, because I used it when I came down with a head cold. That pillow was a soothing relief each night.
Despite my cold, we ended up getting things done, and my son somewhat settled into his new place. John and I planned on taking the long way home on Saturday and checking out the Southern Oregon Coast.
But when we got a distress signal from another son early Saturday morning, we threw our stuff in the car and drove 720 miles to help. Only, I forgot my pillow.
John was sweet and said, “I’ll buy you a new one, honey”, but for some reason I was unusually bummed about leaving it behind.
We spent the rest of the weekend helping and finding a solution to an overwhelming problem. But when it was finally time to rest Saturday night, all I could think about was that damn pillow.
It’s just a pillow! It means nothing really. I have no attachment to it, so why do I even care about it?
But sitting here writing this, I’m almost in tears over leaving it behind.
I didn’t cry when I said goodbye – too quickly – to my son. Nor did I cry when we were surprised by, and helped another son through a very emotional situation. I just did the work that had to be done.
And later, cried over the loss of an easily replaceable pillow…