The Real Packing List

We’re leaving for a few days.

That simple sentence has meant very different things at different points in my life.

There was a time when getting ready for a trip meant throwing just enough clothes into a bag the night before, making sure someone would grab the mail, and locking the front door on the way out.

These days, the suitcase is almost an afterthought. The real packing list started weeks ago, and it looked a lot more like a list of questions than a list of clothes.

• Who will feed the bulls?
• Is there enough grass in the pasture, and will someone know when it’s time to move the herd?
• Did we refill the mineral?
• Does everyone know which gates stay open and which ones absolutely don’t?

Then there are all the what ifs. What if a water tank decides this is the perfect week to quit working? What if a storm blows through? What if…

And somewhere in the middle of all those questions, I realized something. The hardest part of this trip isn’t going to be the flight. Or the passport. Or remembering which outlet adapter to pack.

It’s pulling out of the driveway.

We’re headed to Ireland for a friend’s wedding. People keep asking if we’re excited.

We are.

But before we can leave for another country, we have to make sure 141 acres in Missouri keep running as if we never left. The cows don’t know we’re going to Ireland. And honestly, they don’t care.

Tomorrow morning they’ll still expect breakfast. To them, it’ll be jus another morning – not the first day of our vacation.

Life on the ranch doesn’t pause just because our calendar says vacation. Owning a ranch isn’t something you completely walk away from, even for a few days. There are too many lives depending on you. But as we prepare for this trip, I remember one piece of advice we got early from Grampa Brown.

“You can’t let the cattle run your life.”

Tom and I nodded when he said. I’m not sure we fully understood it.

At first, I thought he simply meant you still had to take vacations, go to weddings, and occasionally leave the ranch. Seven years later, I think he meant something much bigger. Learning to leave is part of learning to ranch. And learning to ranch is, in many ways, learning to trust.

The hesitation we feel isn’t because we don’t trust the people helping us.

We do.

Completely.

We trust them enough to hand them the keys, the chore list, and a hundred little pieces of information we’ve collected over the past seven years.

What doesn’t come quite as easily is trusting ourselves to leave.

To believe everything will be okay if we’re not the ones checking the water tanks, watching the radar, or making the evening rounds.

That surprised me. I always assumed the hardest part of traveling overseas would be the travel itself. Turns out, it’s letting go.

Stewardship isn’t measured by never leaving.

Sometimes it’s measured by knowing you’ve built something, and surrounded yourself with people, you trust enough to leave.

So yes…

We’re excited about Ireland.

We’re excited to celebrate our friends.

We’re excited to experience another country, another culture, and maybe even learn another new language along the way.

But before we board that plane, I have a feeling Tom will make one more walk through the fields, taking one more look at each cow, calf, and bull.

I’ll probably check the weather at home one more time.

One of us will remember one more thing to add to the chore list.

And when we finally back out of the driveway, I know neither of us will be thinking,

“I hope we packed enough.”

We’ll be thinking,

“I hope we remembered everything.”