in honor of monotonous matrimony

June 5, 1970 was the day my parents made vows.  That's forty years of obedience in the same direction.  As the oldest child -- and precociously perceptive at that -- I noted each dip in the ebb and flow of long love. The romantic hilarity and teeth-gritting shouldering on the vows demanded.  As an adult, I've walked with Brian nearly twenty years in their footsteps.In the same way they've followed in the 64-year-old worn-down path my grandparents are travelling.

Sometimes the love is fierce as hate and sometimes it is supple as a half-awake midnight caress. It is hard-fought and exhausting in its familiarity.  It is insistent to remember one face, one form, one essence only, and no other.  It is cisterns and wells of living water and tromps through vineyards. Pomegranates and gazelles and all that.  My beloved is mine and I am his.  

Glorious monotony.

My grandmother said, "My back doesn't bend anymore!"  

My grandfather said, "Mine does!"

My dad has given the last forty years of his life to his wife, his children (well, 39  years for that) and the Church.  This summer he leaves one of those calls behind him.  It is my great joy to be a daughter to a man who chooses the greater calling above all others.  I, for one, can't wait to do a happy dance when he and mom get to walk out the doors the last time as Pastor Doug and Nancy.  You won't need a picture of that because this one says it all.

*Thank you, Lindsey Davern, for the goooorgeous photos!*