The Best Vacation We Never Took

When money was tight, imagination carried us farther than we expected.

STUCK.

Feeling stuck is the name of the game most days. I check again a bank account balance that wobbles feebly from paycheck to paycheck, never completely under, but never quite ahead. Bills, like a small snowdrift, pile on my desk. Part of my brain seems to believe that if I wait long enough, they might just melt away like one.

It wasn’t always like this. Three years and one kid ago, it almost felt easy. Our budget didn’t wince when I ordered groceries. The gas tank on our van was half full instead of half empty. We took trips!

I was determined to teach my children how to travel—how to move themselves in this world with confidence, smart planning, and no fear. Hawaii had been our first bold check off the family bucket list, back when we had the change to spare. And the very morning we got back from Kona, my 5-year-old son Oliver and I were already daydreaming of our next destination: Iceland, where the volcanoes are.

You’ve never met a young kid more saturated with knowledge about magma, pyroclastic flows, and volcanic basalt than Oliver. That was what took us to Hawaii in the first place—to see Kilauea. We’d eaten pizza and pesto one night at a restaurant perched on the rim of the mile-wide volcanic crater. I’ve never seen Ollie smile more contentedly in my life. And all I want is to give my children more of that magic.

That was three years ago, before the birth of our third child and the subsequent hospital bills. If I had my way, I’d be on a plane tomorrow with my husband and kids to seek our next adventure on God’s glorious earth. Our bank account currently does not agree with those plans—or with my grocery list for the week.

These days it feels like finances keep us grounded, floundering, and frustrated.

Stuck. How can we make ends meet?

Stuck. How can I afford to get us somewhere?

Stuck. How can I still take my kids out to see the world?

And that’s when I remind myself of the day Oliver and I indeed went to Iceland. We put on our coats one gray winter afternoon and boarded an airplane in between the townhome buildings where we live. The plane was green and squarish—oddly similar to an electrical transformer box—but it flew us smoothly and quickly to the rocky dirt sprawled behind our house where we landed in beautiful Iceland.

Peaked mounds of dirt dotted the stretch of unexcavated townhomes behind ours, obvious markers of the famous Icelandic volcanoes, whose names I don’t even try to pronounce. We hiked from one volcano to the other, watching the lava flows. Oliver’s eyes were bright, as if he could really see it.

We booked a cozy room at a bed and breakfast situated right behind the neighborhood sign at the entrance to our street. The complimentary breakfast in the morning was beyond lovely. With awe and excitement we explored the mint-green and blue hot springs and the other breathtaking geological sites and then ended the trip with a cup of cocoa at a cafe located back inside our own kitchen.

Today I’m astounded at how clear my imaginary Iceland memories are. Just an hour or two of full imaginary play outside, and I can still picture the lava and blue waters as if I’d really visited those places. So can Oliver, as if we’d really been there.

When I feel stuck, I remember Iceland. We’ll see the real one someday. But the Iceland that I visited with Ollie is proof that all the magic we dream of is available to us right now through simple presence, imagination, and gratitude.

I smile at the memory.

I log out of my bank app.

I set down my phone.

And I head downstairs to see what adventure my boys would like to go on today.