Trick or Treat or Trick

I spent weeks sewing up costumes for the boys. The Bear had a spot on Woody costume, babe's Rex costume was also quite adorable. Cubs topped them all with a tech-savvy rendition of Buzz Lightyear. Two days before halloween, the Bear decided that Woody would not do. He cried, he sniffed, he whined. I made him try on the costume to make sure the fit was right. When I slipped the cowhide vest over his shoulders, he stroked the fur and said quite happily, "OH, Mom. You guessed my secret wish to be Bongo from One hunner and One Dalma-tations."

Sigh.

What else could I do? Bongo from One hunner and One Dalma-tations? It was just too cute to ignore. So I worked day and night, whipping up a new Pongo costume from cow print fabric. He loved it and went around talking about "Bongo" with a twinkle in his eyes.

Halloween morning I was putting the finishing touches on babe's costumes when Cubs choked on a pre-trick or treat lollipop and hurled all over the baby's freshly sewn Rex outfit.

Ugh.

No way was I going to sew something new. Sorry, baby. My mom saved the day with a quick Target run. One monster outfit later, I assured baby's older brothers that he was in fact "The Backson" from the new Winnie-the-Pooh movie. They were satisfied. Baby looked delicious. Problem solved.

Cubs slipped into his Buzz Lightyear costume and glowed with pride. Each time he would press the button on his sleeve, prompting his wings to pop out from their jet pack and light up, Cubs' face would light up too. He would check one side and then the other, looking over his shoulders with a cheeky smile and a smug look. He was down right vain about the whole thing. He loved it. And all the laughter and smiles we received from him last night made every moment of sewing worth it.

We headed out to my grandmother's house for some trick or treating in her neighborhood. This band of houses has the distinction of being one of the few communities left in Miami that actually stay at home, eager to welcome dozens of kids with candy, spooks and laughter. My mom, aunt and uncle were the first generation to make the rounds. My sister and I followed. Now, my little boys get to share in the halloween fun of this old school neighborhood.

I must share, however, that my older boys behaved like a pair of seasoned con artists last night. All the adults gathered on the sidewalk were cracking up as we watched these two tiny little boys march up the sidewalk and bang on doors. I had to keep reminding them not to shout "Open your door!!!" but rather "Trick or Treat!" Once the door opened, people usually shifted their candy bowl to one side and went down on one knee to get a closer looks at my pint sized cuties. It helped that the moment the door opened, the Bear would attack at full volume...

"Hi, I'm Bongo! And this is my friend Buzz Lightyear. Do you like coatis? How about sifaka lemurs or maybe a blue tongued skink or a three toed sloth? How about an oxpecker? An oxpecker is a symbiotic animal. Hey!! What about an okapi? Or maybe you like an anteater? They eat ants with their long long tongues. Look at my tongue...its long too..."

You get the picture. The Bear had their complete and total attention as he launched into his long speeches about animals, halloween, whatever dog was nearby, anything. These homeowners were enchanted.

Entranced.

Distracted.

Definitely not paying attention....

to the silent brother. The one in the Buzz Lightyear get up.

As his big brother chatted away to the homeowners left, Buzz would sweep in on the right side and started manhandling the candy. Yup, he would help himself to at least four or five handfuls of candy while his brother chatted away.

The kicker is that once the homeowner straightened up, they'd look down and see poor little Buzz standing all alone and give him an extra piece of candy.

Cubs' bag broke after just a few houses and after we exchanged for different bags, his was so full I had to pour some of his candy into the Bear's bag.

Thirty minutes into the excursion, the Bear started letting us know he'd had enough.

"My weg hurts."

"Oh Mom, I am so sleepy! (yawn)"

"Uh-oh, its getting dark."

and then flat out...

"Let's just go back to Abi's house now, ok Mom?"

At one point someone asked, "Sweetheart, are you ready to go home now?" The Bear sniffed and said, "Yeah" with a sweet little sigh.

"I'm NOT!!!" piped up Cubs, throwing his two cents before continuing down the street with a skip in his step.

This kid could have walked all night.

Halloween is a holiday he can get on board with. Costumes and candy? Sign him up! He loved it!

Today and Yesterday

I vividly remember her introduction to our class. We were the first class in the newly built 6th grade wing. The new students dutifully shuffled forward and stood in a line.

Hi my name is________

When I grow up I want to be _____________

The assigned format given and off they went. Our class had all been together since at least the first grade with a good handful having survived since pre-K. We looked at the newbies with wolfish little eyes.

I remember when she stepped up. Clearly nervous, flustered in a uniform she was not used to wearing. She stated her name and said that when she grew up she wanted to be an Archeologist. My ears perked up immediately! I had loved Archeology since the first grade and to my knowledge, most of my classmates had no idea what the word meant. At our first "break," the term "recess" being beneath our dignity as 6th graders, I walked up to meet her. I liked her right away. She was kind. Smart. Funny. There was something different about her that took me years to understand. Essentially, when she spoke with someone, she was entirely focused on them. Genuinely, sincerely, interested in what others had to say. Actively desiring to put you at ease and love you.

We spent a fair amount of time together in middle school. High school never brought us together often as I was sucked into the third dimension that is choir and yearbook. Yet she always had a smile and a joke to share and an easy laugh that made you feel better just for having heard it.

She died this morning.

A painful sentence to write. A horrid reality for her friends and family. Such deep, deep sadness. Even though I never kept in touch with her beyond school, it is not difficult to imagine the depth of their pain, because she is a person that feels impossible to lose. She was always so enmeshed with those closest to her. How could she be gone while we are all still here?

She was our class president. We all loved her. Those who mourn her do not need to scrape the barrel to come up with nice things to say about her. It is an overflowing, endless stream of sincere remembrances. Simply put, she was the heart beat of our class in those last years. She worked endlessly on our behalf, organizing events and helping out friends. I have no doubt that her service will be full to overflowing, because I can not imagine that she has lived the past ten years any differently than she lived her life growing up. She loved to the core of her being, even to people that weren't her best friends despite the fact that she was surrounded by bratty private school kids. No easy feat.

I have been pondering those last years at WCS today.

It boils down to this. After twelve years of private school, our class reached a fever pitch... a desperation, for freedom from all that we thought had restrained us. I am aware that not every single person felt this way, but as a class, we certainly gave off that collective vibe of "GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" I know this is a common teenage angst, but those feelings were exacerbated and clearly festering after living in the same petri dish of roughly 120 classmates and 120 rules for over a decade.

I remember leaving those halls and swearing that I would never return, unless it was to visit my beloved teacher, Mrs. W.

I lost touch with the majority of my class over the years and felt pretty content in my decision never to attend any reunions. Partially in my wish to avoid certain people/memories and again, because I remembered being such a shallow, attention seeking drama queen in high school that I feel embarrassed at the thought of having to encounter old friends that once put up with my awful behavior on a daily basis.

Lastly, I felt so far removed from this school that played such a large part in my life. It had nothing to do with my life now, so why return? Even for just one night...no thank you. In light of our facebook age, the need to reconnect in person with people I might have awkward conversation with felt less and less appealing when I could just send a message from the safety of my computer.

Yet, this morning, when my sister called to bring me the news of an awful rumor spreading of this tragic death, my first thought was of those fellow classmates, I needed to hear one of those voices say, "Its just a rumor. It is not true. She lives."

I immediately contacted my friend, L, whom I have known since the first grade. She was one of my best friends when I first arrived at WCS. As we grew up, our interests went in different directions and we never had occasion to intersect, and yet I have always loved her. As soon as I heard her voice on the other end of the telephone, my tears started falling. Not only for this wonderful woman that had passed on at such a young age, but for the voice on the other end of the phone. For this friend that I shared endless birthday cakes and field trips with. We took tests together, played hopscotch together, won a tug of war game together at Field Day one year, sung in choir clad in the most humiliating costumes known to man, we have pictures of each other sporting terrible hair cuts...in short, we bore witness to each other's lives. And that is no small thing.

I heard in her voice immense sadness and shock. My heart broke for her and I could not stop wishing that I were close enough to reach out and hug her.

As the day continued, I reunited with friend after friend after friend. A note from a dear friend far away in Italy expressing love and sorrow. How I miss him! Some friends I had not exchanged words with in years and yet we did not bother with awkward small talk today, as I had once feared. Almost as if our friend had passed away before the first bell rang and we were getting the word out between second and third period that something had gone terribly wrong. Its funny how you can spend ten years apart and fall back in line within ten seconds, despite the maturing and changing that has taken place for us all. No one I spoke with missed a beat. Even as we grappled with the fact that she had passed away at such a young age. A Doctor, ready to heal and help, years of training, so much LIFE before her, suddenly gone. Yet we all seemed to be on the same page in the midst of this unspeakable horror and confusion.

I know that for most of us, this beautiful unity that goes beyond all earthly reasoning is quite easily explained. It is the unity we have in Christ. We knew our friend had passed into a glorious eternity with Jesus. No doubt about. Not even for a second. The ground we met on was level and it drew our eyes to the One who rejoices over her this night.

Rest in peace, sweet friend. It is no coincidence that you continue to bring your classmates together, even in the heartbreaking hours following your death. Your love drew us in...it always will.

Habits

It didn't take us long to notice that our boys try to imitate pretty much everything we say and do.

At the beginning of the motherhood trail, I was acutely aware of the stress inducing reality that my children would soon mimic all of my naughty habits for the whole world to see. I could break out in a cold sweat now just thinking of the pressure I felt back then.

I say "back then" because those worries were broken down repeatedly by the Lord over the course of my first two years of motherhood (slow learning curve, remember?) Just that small lesson of living in grace and not by works, living in the Spirit and not by myself....you know, that beautiful concept of God supplying us with the strength and wisdom to follow through with his commands?

Yeah.

It took a long time to learn those things and I am still learning to apply them in different areas of my life.

Back to habits. It was around the beginning of year three that I noticed my children also picking up my good habits. Praise God for showing me that! It was a freeing thing to suddenly know that God was working on me every day and with each refinement, my children were watching the process of ashes turned beautiful.

Today I am celebrating two moments of joy that God granted me this past week. Evidence that He knows my heart and continues to build up my family in His word.

The first happened a few days ago, in our newly constructed book nook. A former closet, cleaned out, door unhinged, and space reclaimed for the reading of books. I found Cubby inside one afternoon. Curled up on a large pillow, dressed in his dragon costume, crayon in one hand, children's bible in the other hand. He was scribbling inside the pages.

The litgeek in me wanted to scream out "DO NOT WRITE IN YOUR BOOKS." But, I don't want them to think of his bible as "just a book" and besides, Cubs never colors inside his books. Thankfully, I paused before correcting anything and asked, "What are you doing?"

"My bible study" he blinks up owlishly at me with those endless blue eyes.

The boys watch me working in my Bible Study Fellowship notes each day, answering questions and spending time in the word. He watched. He absorbed. He acted.

"What are you studying?" I asked, wondering if my child might not also be a book nook genius.

"The bible," he repeated as if I were a little slow.

Nope, not a genius, just a child of God in training, which in my book is an even better kind of wisdom.

JOY!

The second moment came today, this very morning.

I try to do my bible study each morning at the breakfast table while they eat. They watch me sing a few hymns, the hear me pray out loud, they witness my exploration of the bible.

Today after I finished singing the last hymn, the Bear interrupted with the following:

"Um, Mom? Mom!!! Wait, wait, wait, its just my turn to sing to God."

"You want to sing a song? Ok. How about Jesus loves the little children?"

"NO! No, Mom. Its a song I wrote for God."

"You wrote a song for God?" I ask, the smile on my face practically sliding off into my cereal.

"Yup! Here it goes!!!!"

And he started singing.

I wish I could have understood all of the toddlereese that followed in the middle of his song. But I understood the beginning and the end quite clearly.

It began, "God because you love me, you made the stars and the animals and they were so good..."

It ended, "And then Jesus went to the disciples and he showed himself to those disciples."

The ending, by the way, was something he learned at his own BSF class. Last week they studied Jesus appearing to the disciples and followers after His resurrection.

You can rest easy knowing that I thoroughly squeezed and kissed him after the song ended.

Afterwards he shouted up towards the ceiling, "Did you like it God, did you?? I LOVE YOU, GOD!!!"

Another habit he has picked up from his Mama. I am always shouting things up at God, trying to get the message across to the kids that they can talk to Him anytime, about anything.

I hit the oasis this morning. I left the usual desert wanderings behind and just enjoyed watching the sight of my little men, learning and growing in His word.

This makes me feel like dancing. In fact, I am off to do just that. Its laundry day after all and every laundry day should start with some dancing to help us get through the misery of matching thousands of tiny socks.

Thank you for making the ashes so very beautiful, Lord. As always, you have taken me by surprise!

Ancient of Days

We have been working on knowing the attributes of God and the names of God for a while now. Little by little, day by day, He is becoming an inextricable part of my sons' lives. Little men of God and His word. Thats what I am reaching for. And yet as summer drew to a close, I found myself missing days of lessons. Adding brick by brick, a wall of self doubt in my abilities as a mother and teacher. I do that to myself. Right on schedule, every couple of months, enough life issues happen and I begin preparing the bricks. I start organizing them and placing them one by one. A brick for the guilt of a temper lost. Another for the grief over the missed opportunity of a teaching moment that passed me by. Another brick for the ways I let people down, the things I leave unfinished, the words I have left unsaid. The wall takes shape and the self-doubt now has a new corner of my heart to grow in.

The boys and I walked through the zoo last week. The heat beating down on us, draining us and slowing our steps. Everything felt sluggish. Despite the fire in their cheeks and the weight of heavy feet on a humid summer day, their curiosity stayed lit, teeming with the need to be kindled.

Dripping sweat and joy, naming and guessing, exploring what God made. We paused by the large enclosure of giant tortoises and we marveled at them. Their homes upon their backs, the slow, deliberate moves. Not an ounce of energy wasted, purposeful creatures I find myself envying a bit. What does living at a slow pace feel like? I can hardly remember. Three boys seem to accelerate my life to a dizzying pace with each passing week. The tortoises continue their rusty march towards the fence line. Their large eyes watching the small boys at my side.

The Bear leans down and whispers, "He looks so old."

"He is ancient," I agree.

Ancient.

A word he has been hearing with frequency. It clicks in his mind. An audible revelation of history and love and familiarity and bone deep knowledge.

"He is ancient because the Ancient of Days made him!" he shouts.

And in that moment I am undone.

As if the miserable sun suddenly ceased beating my back and a rain cloud of grace had burst open over my heads and spent its rivulets of grace upon my heart.

Though I fail to teach well each and every day, the Holy Spirit never ceases to step in and intercede for me. Because despite the enormity of teaching a child about God and his universe, we are not defeated by our own sinful shortcomings, for He dwells over our children and enables them to grasp Him with their small hands. And then when we least expect it, He uses them to teach us.

He shouted, "Ancient of Days!"

Just as he has shouted, "Adonai, Yaweh, Shaddai," and "Messiah Jesus," a few days later.

This one God of endless names is oh so very faithful to his promises. There is not one out of his reach. Not one person too old or too young to be used for His work.

He always knows just when to encourage me. Right when the cup has nearly emptied. When the crevices begin to reopen and the parched desperation of a life too full of earthly sorrows begins to choke and mire the view...

He sends the rain.

He calls my son by name and leads that very son to call him by His name.

Oh, Ancient of Days.

It was spoken with a shout of joy. And the wall of self doubt my life was in the process of building came crumbling down, a defeated Jericho. Felled by a 3 year old in the grip of the Spirit.

Telling 2s

We are home. After a week long sojourn in Allentown, Pennsylvania with the grandparents, we are once again tucked back into the bungalow. The boys picked peaches, rolled in the sweet summer grass, rode horses, fed cows, brushed goats, rode a train, saw wild bison and deer, played on Sesame Street, rode down a huge water slide, went fishing, ate treats, chased their grandparents for hours and helped celebrate their great grandmother's birthday. A lovely, energetic week built around making memories. I wiped many little tears off two small faces today after our goodbyes.

I have been meaning to jot the following thoughts down for awhile. Needing to record them for Cubby to look back upon one day, especially if his children are anything like himself or his mother. Particularly since all of his children will eventually be two years old for 12 laughter filled, tear drenched months...

Two year olds.

A two year old can take down the most sensible, rational, patient adult in ten minutes, easy. Its true... year two stinks at times.

I have always strongly disliked the term "terrible 2s," I cringe a bit whenever someone throws that in my face while my two year old is screaming in the corner. I dislike the feeling of having to make some excuse for his behavior. I scratched the term "terrible 2s" from my Mommy vocab even while pregnant with the Bear, declining a relationship to the phrase all together.

And yet, I have seen the anger and frustration year two can bring. It needed a term in my mind. And no, for as well meaning as all the perky women who have piped up with "The TERRIFIC 2s!!!" I can not call it that either. At least not while I live with and care for a two year old twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. When I am their Sunday school teacher once a week I will think of it that way in my mind, but for now, "TERRIFIC 2s!" feels like a tall drink of false advertising.

I have settled on the "Telling 2s" for my Cubby. Because every reaction from him is telling me something about him. His tantrums are the greatest teaching moments for me as a mother. Those moments of frustration for him that can only be verbalized by a Mt Vesuvius of screaming, crying, and wailing. I am given a small window of opportunity to assess, react and then teach. A telling moment for us all.

For example: Cubs needs direction, guidance and trust. He needs me to trust him with big projects, then guide and direct him to finish them. He loves helping out and accomplishing small goals. Whenever there is a fit of tears on the horizon, it can almost always be averted by simply letting him help with some sort of menial task usually done by adults. I will clarify that we do not cave into his every whim or desire, especially if my sweet toothed boy is begging for more treats, we simply look for the Cubs-styled exit sign out of the situation. If he happens to learn a lesson on the way out the door, then praise Jesus.

This afternoon as we struggled with the herculean effort that is passing through airport security with three children three and under, I watched Cubby's line of thinking as he surveyed the scene. Well, I took in as much as I could while taking off 3 pairs of shoes, two laptops out of their cases, handled four bags and removed several jars of medication, and a few sippy cups for TSA. And that was only my share, folks. J was balancing the babe on one arm while working on two more bags, his shoes, belt and other odds and ends. Cubby stood, glancing at the line, and then staring at the stacks of bins.

Now my instinct at any and all airports is to spend every twenty seconds repeating "DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!!" Especially to Cubby, our button pusher, who pushes all the alarm buttons on elevators, makes a bee line for every fire alarm in sight, and is currently in the delightful phase of wanting to lick everything around him. But I could see the wheels turning in his mind today and my options were pretty obvious. I could let him start removing the plastic bins that held the germ content of a public bathroom in Calcutta or I could say no and drag him through the remainder of security and possibly onto the airplane at a dead weight screaming fit of rage. Hmmmm...a tough one, I know.

We let him pick up the bins. He helped us load our things. He stayed by my side. He waited patiently as our items were scanned and then helped put everything back together. He felt entrusted with responsibility and valued as a part of our family. He contributed to the journey and walked a bit taller next to his father. Did he also make a bit of a mess and slow things down a bit for us? Yes. But really, let the children make a mess. What are four extra minutes in the TSA line when there are tantrums to be avoided and little boys to raise?

I am over the halfway mark of the telling 2s and have had an earful of all the things Cubby needed to say. So far, I can honestly say that 85% (definitely not 100%) of the tantrums were well worth it. I learned hard and valuable lessons from them. They helped me learn about my son. He hit me over the head with his personality, learning style, character, sins, habits, and quirks time and time again.

I always smile a bit whenever other Mommies ask for advice on their two year olds. I wish I had some fool proof method for angelic behavior to offer them, but then if it existed, we wouldn't have the miserable joy of discovering our children in all their sinful human glory. I am glad not to have unearthed a secret instant remedy. I believe I would have spent all my life setting some ill placed, unattainable bar of perfection for my children. They would have gone through childhood misunderstood, uninspired and with the constant burden of feeling like they failed some misbegotten expectation.

So Cubs as you sit and read this one day... I ask of you as your mother... and for the sake of any grandchildren that inherit our passions and tempers...

Listen to the telling twos, they are the guide and map for the rest of those childhood years. And I have a sneaky suspicion, the teenage years as well. I love you and have learned immensely from and about you this year. Keep all this in mind and whatever your children plague you with remember this: You used to lick my shoes and pull the fire alarm, all in the span of fifteen seconds.

Books and Nooks

Hello. Its raining outside today. The proverbial cats and dogs are flooding the garden and our street front. Usually, the boys go a bit batty on days like today. But today, they are happily ensconced in the world of page and print. Cheerfully bouncing along the lines of A.A. Milne and Shel Silverstein.

I took full advantage of Border's closing sale and ended up coming home with about twenty books, eight posters, and four CDs. Three of the four CDs are vintage Sesame Street tunes which the boys are really loving! The book range from Dinosaur Encyclopedias to Architecture books to the newest cravings....all things cartography related...MAPS.

The Bear is often overheard reciting the names of his favorite dinosaurs. It makes my head spin at times, he knows around forty to fifty names I'd wager. Saurolophus, Ornatotholus, Ceratosaurus, Spinosaurus, Oviraptor, he can go on forever. We snatched this little A-Z dinosaur name book for about a dollar. He curled up with it on the sofa for a good half hour. Once in a while, his head would pop up and he would call out, "Mom? Mom? What is the name of this guy? What is he afraid of?"
Cubby is loving on ships and airplanes. I bought him an encyclopedia of each and he loves flipping through the pages as I call out the names of the different crafts and teach him the names of each feature. His little nose crinkles and his long lashes sweep down towards the pages as I hold him on my lap. I love snuggling a child in my arms when there is a big book on our laps. The child stills, the pages turn, and I can hear the wheels of imagination begin to churn.

Oh, boys and cartography. We are flooded with maps and the boys still can't seem to get enough. Map puzzles, books about maps, maps on the walls. The little explorers are fascinated with the world God has made.

This fantastic jigsaw book ended up being $3.00! It has eight puzzles inside stored in book form. The Bear is especially intrigued by Africa. He knows that our new baby cousin was adopted from Ethiopia and so he is ever curious to look at her home country. "Does B love coffee?" he asked with a furrowed brow. "There are pictures of coffee on Africa, Mom. I think baby B loves coffee!"

We ended our rainy day by baking some chocolate chip zuccini bread for Daddy and cutting out some ninjabread men for our little afternoon bookpaloozah. Cubs used his Robot measuring cups to assist in putting together the bread. He grated the zuccinis and ate several morsels of bittersweet chips. I think he could crack eggs all day...

My boys are tucked under big blankets as I type this. The rain is pouring outside, grey light streaming into the bungalow. I am excited to begin work on the boy's book nook later next month. It will be nice to have a small space for them to curl into with a book.

This rainy day really hasn't been so bad...

Little eyes are devouring the books strewn about them. Ninjabread crumbs cover their shirt fronts, hot cocoa has cooled into their little dinosaur cups. I am peppered with questions and warmth and love.

I don't think I want this particular rainy day to end.

55

She shared what she remembered with me a few weeks ago. The reception planned by the family, the food they served, the fact that her brother was not present at the wedding because someone had to guard their house at all times. The weather, the road, the types of fruit in season. Her ivory skirt and her best shoes and the run to meet her two friends that would stand witness. The groom was thirteen hundred miles away, waiting for her in the new country they would both call home. She was the lone bride on her wedding day. She shared the day and the celebration food with everyone around her but him. My Abuelita went before the judge and stood next to her future father-in-law and married my Abuelo by proxy.

She is telling me this story while we make croquettas together. We are rolling the ground, spiced ham into the proper form. Hands reaching into the large cast iron pot, scooping up the ham and repeating the long learned ritual passed between us, this generational rhythm, a synchronized history of food preparation. Our hands are the same hands really, I need only glance over to see what my hands will look like at age seventy. I am proud to have her hands. We roll and form, roll and form, she keeps telling me the stories.

The morning spent watching one final surgery at the village hospital, the hasty shower back in her dirt floor home, the tearful, heart wrenching goodbye to her mother. Abuela hopping on the bus from her village to Havana, traveling down the road to a city she has never seen. The following morning, February 9, 1956, she pulls on her traveling clothes and boards an airplane. Everything is foreign to her and there is a horrible storm that day. The plane shakes and she recalls the fear climbing up her throat and plummeting to her stomach again. She gives a small smile when she tells me that she was the last off the plane that day. That my Abuelo had stood there, anxiously waiting, wondering if something had happened or if she had changed her mind.

"What happened then?" I asked.

"He hugged me and handed me a large coat that he had brought for me. I've never felt so cold in all my life," she smiles again.

"Did he kiss you?" I need to know.

"Of course. He better have, I went all that way just for him."

"Were you very in love?"

She looks down at her hands, rolling and forming the croquettas, and her eyebrows lift slightly. She lets out a small sigh, "Oh, yes. We loved each other very much."

The heavy shuffle of feet comes down the hall, a slow drag of stubbornness, and he walks to the table and begins watching us as we work. He starts giving orders. Roll this way, form that way, use more breading. He turns and leaves again. Shoulders slumped, voice raised, arms seeking out great grandsons to hold.

"He taught me how to cook" she confides.

She had worked every day and never learned the most basic elements of cooking. That first meal in their new apartment had been a supper of rice and beans. He gagged and asked whether or not she was trying to kill him. She cried. He taught her how to cook.

He interrupts us several times, wanting us to do things his way. They begin to argue and I watch them. Wrinkled faces, work worn hands, once dark hair now shot through with white. I think of the miserable jobs they have held, the brutal sacrifices, the impossible mountains they moved to provide physical necessities for their children. The indelible mark they placed upon us by never once walking away from their Lord. I think of their entire lives pouring into one element that is us, our family, their children, their children's children, their children's children's children. The small bodies playing just one room away from their bickering. My children. My children who are watching television in a house with electricity, running water and a floor made of wood and not dirt.

I smile to think of what their love has built. They argue all the time. He is perfectly horrible to live with, and yet he is what holds it all together, he is the heartbeat and sinew and blood. He loves so fiercely, despite the brokenness and pain he came from, his hands cling tightly to the frays and he pulls them into himself.

They both grew up on that small island, the reality of third world poverty stained to their very core. They do not love extravagantly, with gifts and vacations and such. They love simply. To the depth and breadth of what they have, they give to each other. What are flowery poems and diamonds when one has known hunger and hard labor? There is no need for material surplus.

He is her anchor and she is his lodestar.

There is not a basic need unmet, they tend and provide and shelter. I have never seen one grab a piece of fruit without first offering half to the other. It is true love right down to the very last mango, even if they are both shouting at each other as they slice it.

We finish breading the corquettas and she wanders away from her stories, into the next room of her mind, something about prescriptions and a doctor's visit and warnings of mosquitos that bring encephalitis. We pack the food into bags and shoo the kids out of the house and into the cars. Everyone exchanges hugs and as we pull out of the driveway for our seven block drive home, they sit together on the porch wrapped up in fifty five years worth of marriage, watching the fruits of their labor and love drive away.

Happy Anniversary to my grandparents. 55 years together. I treasure every day that I have with you.