to have and to hold.

they spoke the words shy into the hush of the church. for richer, for poorer. in sickness and in health.

and they kissed like a promise and the world was their oyster and they didn’t know then, some thirty-nine years ago, all that lay ahead. but they could hope and hold on,






and just look at them smile.

so they held on and hoped through early years of tiny rooms and growing churches and scraping by.







they held on through the bustling of children and soccer and sleep-jolting phone calls summoning my father to mediate another 4am crisis. through weddings and deaths and breaking ground for a new building and watching their sons sing like wonder.







they held on when the keening of a siren split the night, when my dad’s brain shuddered and bled and the doctors shook their heads.

they held on when dad woke to a world shaken wrong, and they each flopped around in ill-fitting roles. they wove their hands together, clinging, watching dreams shrivel small.

and now life is slow, and dad putters about the house, volunteers now and then at the bookstore or senior center. mom comes home from long days at the preschool, stirs beef and broccoli on the stove, waters banana trees that line the back fence. and the phone sits quiet and the children are grown, and still: they hold on.



this is what it means to have and to hold.






and just look at them smile.


* * *

gratitude list, #50-56

parents who cherish each other

the husband of mine who makes the choice, every day, to view me with tenderness

cable heat

peppermint bark

everyone feeling quite healthy, all at the same time

God coming to the very least of us