It was the summer of 2006, and we had just been hired by AMR, the parent company of American Eagle. To say we were excited would be a gross understatement. We were THRILLED. We had worked so hard and given up so much, and it finally felt like something good was coming our way. I can still picture Jeff telling me the news. There was relief in his face, and a quiet kind of pride that made the moment feel real. He would be a first officer on the smaller regional jets, and even though it was just the beginning, it meant everything to us. Thinking back on that younger version of ourselves, finally catching a bit of hope, still gets to me.

We were so broke at the time that our big celebration was McDonald’s. The five of us shared a couple of value meals, and somehow it felt like a win. The kids were happy, Jeff was smiling, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like we were stepping into something better.

I was working at a doctor’s office during the day, checking patients in, and Jeff was still instructing while we waited for an official training date. So much of our life up to that point had been spent apart while Jeff earned his ratings and I tried to keep things steady for our three kids. February would be the month we officially started with American Eagle.

Once we made it back to Orlando, still riding the high of accomplishment, we had decisions to make. Where would we live? What could we afford? Jeff would be traveling a lot, which meant the kids and I would be on our own much of the time. After a lot of prayer and careful thought, we chose the small town of Brewton, Alabama, where my parents and sister lived. It was close enough to Pensacola for Jeff to commute, and I would have family nearby to help with the kids.

Not long after we made that decision, a friend called to tell me she was leaving Brewton and wanted to recommend me for the job she was leaving behind. My Mom was also looking for work, so we came up with the idea to job share. To our surprise, the Methodist church hired us as a secretary team.

I want to pause here for a moment.

When we moved to Brewton in the summer of 2006, we had no idea my Mom would only live another eight years before going home to heaven. For eight years, I had the privilege of sharing a job and my everyday life with her. After living away for so long, moving closer felt like coming home. I did not know it then, but God was giving me the gift of time. We talked constantly, went to lunch together, attended church together. There was very little in my life she was not a part of.

Then came the hardest season I have ever lived. She was diagnosed with cancer in February 2013, on Valentine’s Day, and she went to heaven in October of 2014. There are no words for that kind of loss. It hits in a way nothing else does, a gut punch that takes your breath and changes the shape of your world.

But in the summer of 2006, God had given us both a job. Jeff would work for the airlines, and I would work alongside my Mom at the church. Everything felt like it was finally coming together, and our joy ran deep.

When we first arrived in Brewton, we stayed with my parents for a few nights before moving into our rental. Our things had been in storage in an old building owned by the church my Dad pastored, so we didn’t have to buy a houseful of furniture. It was a blessing, because every dime we had went into the first month’s rent. Once we settled in, Jeff began the daunting routine of traveling to Dallas every week for training.

Those were lonely days for both of us. The excitement had dimmed, and the reality of a life built around travel started to sink in. For weeks, the kids and I would load up in our green minivan and drive to Montgomery, almost two hours away, to pick Jeff up or drop him off at the airport. Every weekend he came home, we were thrilled to see him, but the constant moving, the long hours, and the time apart began to take a toll.

We needed a break, but it was only the beginning.

I remember crying myself to sleep more nights than I care to admit. New town, new job, new neighborhood, new schools. The only familiar thing in my world was my family. Jeff was studying nonstop, sitting through long classes, and spending hours in the simulator. He was exhausted, but he never complained. Not once. He was so grateful to be a pilot that all he would say was “thank the Lord.”

All of his little boy dreams of flying an airplane were coming true.

Over the next several years, the regionals became a second home to Jeff. The challenges he faced and overcame were nothing short of heroic. He would tell you that those early days at American Eagle were some of the hardest and best years of his life.

And next week, I’ll tell you why.