I remember the Christmas, long ago now, that we had a Family Reunion here in Montana, in this cabin. We five “kids” lived all across the country, nearly in its four corners, with our little families. Just getting us all here and a spot for everyone to sleep was a challenge. It was glorious! But the image that is scrapbooked in my memory of that occasion is Mom and Dad early Christmas Eve, heads together, sitting on the couch in my brother’s new living room, going over their list. Daddy’s wearing the old jeweler’s magnifying glasses, checking each name with Mom…Was it wrapped? Under the tree? Did we miss anybody? The tree from the woods rises nearly to the peaked ceiling. Snow falls outside the big windows. Carols play. The kitchen is filled with women’s voices and laughter, and the ham and rolls baking. Carpeted stairs thump with herds of little ones running up and down to the playroom. Mom and Dad sit in perfect peace in the middle of it all, their favorite place to be. Only the early signs of Mom’s changing and forgetfulness are there.

This year we are sitting in the middle of the bustling at our kids’ houses. I go in bursts since arriving, shopping with a daughter or granddaughter for just those few things left on my list. Grampa and I make Wilma Violet’s Toffee for the kids, and Caramel Corn another afternoon, and we wrap packages. Rex does the boxes and books, wrapping paper corners perfectly aligned. I do the fluff and bag. In between, I sit in the chair by the bedroom window to rest, checking my lists again . . . and think of Mom and Dad.

I remember thinking when Daddy left us first that nothing would ever be the same again. How could it be? Our North Star was gone. And it wasn’t ever the same . . . yet, somehow, it is. They are with us still, shaping the work of our hands, embedded in the traditions we perpetuate, in our kids’ generosity and their never-too-full tables. Still in the hearts that felt their unconditional love.

I’d written this prayer in my morning journal as we prepared to gather. “Give us joy in each gathering, each conversation. Not reticence or awkwardness, but hearts fully open to one another. Remind us again of the treasure of family. Give us grace for our differences and let love reign in each heart.”

The world keeps turning, circling. We are children and adults, parents and grandparents all someday, with only love to bind us together. I don’t want to miss any of it. Don’t want to get it wrong because I know now, with certainty, that it all matters.

To everything turn, turn, turn
There is a season turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under Heaven . . .

—Turn! Turn! Turn!, The Byrds