We were leaving home. After five months of residing in my parent's “Basement O' Refugees,” the kids and I were headed off to my husband's next duty station to wait for him. That morning we were packing everything into the back of a minivan and leaving home. So I bounded upstairs at 5:30 a.m. to do my happy dance in the shower. California or bust.

I stopped at the top of the stairs. My mother was sitting in the dark, cradling her coffee by the light of the VCR.

“What are you doing up?” I asked.

“I'm often up this early,” she whispered. “I wake up this way.”

I was not sure that I believed her. Mom stood up and moved to the couch, pushing aside pillows to make room for me. She gripped my hand. We were leaving. After five months of cooking sausages and watching “Lost” and wearing out her Maytag, we were leaving.

“I'm afraid that my being so eager to go is hurting you,” I said into the dark. “You and Daddy have been so great and we've been awful -- crazy, even. And Kelsey….”

I stopped. I lowered my head onto her shoulder. She is so little, so thin.

“Oh, honey,” my mom said, patting my knee with our clasped hands. “Your life isn't here. You have to move on.”

Every civilian in their community told us that we should stay for the whole school year. But my mom has been married to a military guy since 1959. She talked about how many hours I had to drive today and whether we needed cheese sticks for the ride. And all I heard was: Love is patient. Love is kind.

It's a phrase from 1 Corinthians 13. I heard it at my wedding and dozens of other weddings. I've seen rendered on keychains and posters and kitchen canisters. It's a phrase I've seen it so often that it does not strike me anymore. I see it and think yes, yes. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Is not easily angered. Love is great. Get some. Give some. Got it.

But ever since we signed our lease in San Diego, ever since I started feeling like myself again, I have heard this passage in my head every day. Because in these past few months my parents have done nothing but teach me, again, the meaning of love. Maybe that is the most important thing parents ever teach their kids -- what love is and what love isn't.

Because Love isn't a doormat. Love isn't a blank check. Love means that when people are going through a bad situation and they behave badly, love blames the situation, not the people. Love doesn't keep track of the things you said and did not mean. Love works on science fair projects. Love renders waffles.

Love stands in the kitchen while you get ready to leave, and moves just enough in your way so that you bump into each other over and over. And over and over there are no words to say. So you make a peanut butter and honey sandwich. Find a ziplock. Ask if there is ice for the cooler.

Love checks the Weather Channel, follows you to your car. Love looks into a car that is already full to bursting and thinks you ought to take a bucket, a laundry basket, a lamp.

Love kisses you goodbye and laughs when you cry. “Drive safely,” love says. “Call when you get to the hotel.”

And if you look at your window, love will stand on the driveway waving and smiling. And you'll notice that it is the same bright and determined smile that you saw over your own narrow shoulder when you walked into Kindergarten. It's the same smile that waited in the pew at your wedding. It's the same smile that tells you that your life isn't here. That you should run to it with open arms and that Love will be waiting right here when you return.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

1 Corinthians 13 (New International Version)