My daughter flew to Montana to visit her grandmother over the weekend, and my phone filled with smiling selfies—some capturing the two of them together, mirror images of joy across generations; others featuring curious deer pausing mid-browse; many showcasing mountains ablaze with golden larches in the autumn light. Two of my favorite women and kindred spirits, they baked cookies and chocolate chip pumpkin bread, excavated the pantry's archaeological layers (unearthing pasta dated 2003), made pilgrimages to the Clavadetscher family's beloved gluten-free haunts, and caught up on everything from national headlines to personal histories. Their gathering warmed my heart with a heat that surprised me—until Aden told me about visiting Papa's grave and leaving him with a flag for Veteran's Day, when unexpected tears welled up and spilled over.
My emotions, never particularly hidden even in the best of times, currently roil just beneath a thin veneer of middle-aged composure. During Friday's therapeutic yet uncomfortable deep tissue massage, my tormentor-slash-masseuse mentioned that his daughter was expecting her third baby any day. Without warning, I launched into the story of Aden's birth—how my parents were present in the room, how the midwife struggled to stop my bleeding and called for medicine that wasn't there, how my non-medical father went sprinting down the hospital corridor to find someone, anyone, who could help "his baby." The memory cascaded forward: Aden now with my mom, the profound absence of my dad, and suddenly tears were rolling from the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks in a slow, steady fountain to the pillow below. Trapped on the massage table with no arms free to wipe them away and no means of retreat to pull myself together, I felt uncomfortably exposed. Yet I remain grateful for the memories and the feelings—proof that love persists even when loved ones are gone, that the body remembers what the heart cannot forget.
Aden's home now, and William returns from New York a week from Friday—God willing and the airports cooperating. We'll gather with dear friends for Thanksgiving, and I find myself counting down the days with almost childlike anticipation. In this fractured world spinning faster than feels manageable, what ultimately matters reduces to something elegantly simple: "your people are OK," as a coaching coworker reminded me on Sunday. As of November 2026, many families and communities are not OK: are not paid, insured, or even fed. I think of how to help those without a safety net, how important it is to keep those members of our communities also in my mind.
Our relationships with friends and family and coworkers, the deliberate work we do to nurture and maintain these connections—these bonds are sacred, the only wealth that counts. I feel fortunate that my parents taught me about the strength and vital importance of family, the sustaining power of community. Even more grateful that our children understand the same truth, carrying it forward into their own lives like a torch passed from one generation to the next, its flame steady despite the wind.
