In the mid 1960’s, a handsome airman pursued a lovely young lady who caught his eye in the church they attended.  No sooner were they married when he received orders to go overseas for a time, and his bride moved across the country to join his family while he was away.  In due time, I was born there, where I napped in my grandfather’s arms, my aunt fussed over me like a baby doll, and my uncle tried to teach me to burp (the lesson caught on many years later).  Air Force life took us to Arizona, Taiwan, and Myrtle Beach before we settled in Ohio.

Rare fortune, also known as Divine Plan, arranged for our family to be stationed with two other families on multiple occasions while in the military.  One family included an adopted daughter, an Asian child, as beloved a member of the family as her older brothers.  One family included a mentally retarded son and a deaf aunt.  In my toddlerhood, I was already beginning to learn that God made as many different people as He made different kinds of animals, a blessed lesson not afforded to everyone.  The world of my childhood included the Jewish lady my mom worked for, the large Catholic family down the street, and the nurse next door with her son who had Down’s Syndrome and her daughter who adopted two boys, one white, one black.  Prejudice has never been an active word in my vocabulary, and diversity is a matter of fact, thanks to my parents.

It was my parents who showed me through random events over many years to honor friends, greet strangers, help in a time of need, sit with the grieving, compete heartily, and embrace variety.  I watched how they handled ‘for better or worse’, ‘for richer or poorer’, and ‘in sickness and health’, and I watch still.  Life included a sudden layoff, handyman jobs all over town (and with them, a wider pool of different people), pots of chili for my father and his coworkers when they were up to their knees in the icy water of water lines frozen to the breaking point, annual surgeries to treat mom’s benign but aggressive cyst disease, and too many deaths in the extended family over too few years.  In between these, our home was open to parties and bonfires and teenagers from our church.  There was a time when oatmeal, s.o.s., and two Arby’s $1 sandwiches split three ways were common meals.  I actually miss those days, because they were never made to be about money, they were just the menu du jour.

Thanks to Dad, I know how to identify and use a variety of hand and power tools, troubleshoot and resolve issues with the commode, change the oil & tires on my car, and have a B.S. alarm go off when some repairman forgets there’s a brain beneath my blonde hair.  Thanks to Mom, I can go from gardening in cutoffs to dining and dancing at a black tie affair, and any event between.  Because they worked both in front of me and with me, I have what it takes to build a house, decorate it, clean it, pack it up, tear it down, and sort raw materials from rubble to make something else.  Between the two of them, I learned how to tear down and rebuild furniture, machines, jigsaw and logic puzzles, math problems, and words with equal ease.  Because they borrowed or built whatever was needed to do any job or craft, I can too, with wood, fabric, or several other mediums.  Creativity, adaptability, and sustainability are gifts this generation cries out for, gifts my parents gave me.

On the weekend of her 50th birthday, Mom graduated with the first of two Bachelor’s degrees, earned while working a full time job that included two years of weekly out of town travel.  Wrapped up in that statement is perseverance, dedication, second chances, late nights, family pride, and a moment embedded in our memories that can still cause us to laugh until tears roll.  Four years ago, I asked for their support in my decision to return to school to complete my Bachelor’s degree.  Once again, we explore perseverance, dedication, second (make that third) chances, late nights, family pride, and I’m a little worried that Mom will get an opportunity to return the favor of the memorable moment.

There are a million stories… cross country trips, camping clubs, the hunt for a purple bunny, motorcycle traditions, a blue ambulance before the age of cell phones, the day Dad & I both arrived home from the store without Mom, the weekend we built a house, adventures in foster care, a giant snow family, and there’s no forgetting the popsicle-stick Fort Washington, large enough to consume the entire area under a twin bed.

Above and beyond loving, providing, protecting, training, encouraging, supporting, and dozens of other positive active verbs, they also gave me the gift that exceeds all others – they brought me to the place where I met my Lord, Jesus Christ.  Before I was born, I was promised to Him; as a baby, I was dedicated to His call and service; as a child, I was taught His stories; as a young person, I was brought to His congregation and surrounded by His people; as a young adult, and again as a mature adult, I was supported in moving from the comforts of home to the corridors of His colleges.  One day, owing in part to the faith and faithfulness of my parents, I will move from this earth to the home He has been preparing for me, and preparing me for.  There is no greater gift a parent can give a child than a heritage in and introduction to the Creator who gave all for love of His creation.

A thanks that cannot be over-expressed is long overdue.
Let no one ever doubt or wonder that I am
in love with, proud of, and intensely thankful for
My Parents.