I sit beside my husband on a rainy Sunday morning and I watch my three boys serve communion to the congregation. Carter is in his bare feet and at first I fret about what someone might think, but only for a second. Three boys, and here they all are, and the one with whom I made them beside me.

All the grandparents are here, too, and one of my sisters, because of the youngest boy’s baptism and the oldest boy’s graduation. And some other relatives make the trip, eight in a van, and I’m touched that they drove all this way. Friends come too, from out-of-town, and of course the familiar every-Sunday faces, and its enough to make a mother feel blessed beyond measure.



I watch the day with taking-pictures-for-my-heart eyes. I smile through tears as my dad baptizes my son and I whisper I love you into a wet boy’s ear as I wrap him, dripping, in a towel. I’m touched by a grandpa’s prayer, and I share lunch with those who stay, and I listen to the middle boy as he speaks a few words about his brothers and about the day they are sharing. Our preacher prays over the oldest, soon leaving, and the words are a blessing. And the youngest thanks them all for coming and for staying and for the witnessing.

And we sing. Big songs with good friends and laughter filling in for the words we forget.


Some of them come home with us and we talk and we eat again, here at the farm. Catching up and sharing stories and munching chips and hotdogs and drinking cans of pop, and cake and watermelon for dessert.

It’s a day of family and friends and sharing memories and laughter and a few tears, of children growing up and making growing up decisions, and by the end of it I am full.