At 6:41 a.m., love is patient.

He is patient with me as I press “snooze” on my phone alarm once, then twice, finally a third time. He waits as I check my email, scroll social media, and sip my coffee before finally pulling out his Word. He does not hold my tardiness against me but welcomes me into his presence.

I haven’t even read a page when my daughter wakes early from a nightmare and wants to cuddle in bed while I finish my time in his Word. At first, I’m frustrated—delayed by my distraction and then by my daughter’s early waketime—then I remember my Father’s patience. I take a deep breath and pull my daughter’s body closer to me.

“Due caffe latte, per favore,” my husband requests our normal order to our waitress. We sit across from each other in front of the café, at a metal table set atop uneven cobblestones. I have the perfect view to people watch. Local shopkeepers prepare their stores for the hordes of tourists to descend later. A man on a bike delivers produce to the restaurant behind us (including the biggest lemons I’ve ever seen). Occasionally, luggage wheels click down the cobblestone as a couple like us walks to the train and away from this idyllic, little town.

We unhurriedly sip our espresso and savor croissants for another thirty minutes before we, too, roll our luggage to the train station up the hill.