“Consider it nothing but joy.” – James 1:2

July twelfth is and always will be my parents’ anniversary. In preparation, I asked for a Mass to be said for them at the church where I pray and work — for the parish office.

In the beautiful blue apse above the altar, there are stars that memorialize our late loved ones. Years ago, I got one for my son. It never occurred to me to do more until recently when a colleague said she got one for both of her parents.

I got the paperwork to do the same for mine, wrote the check, and then did the math, surprised to find that my parents got married seventy years ago.

*

Separately, I designed a charm for myself and reached out to Grace Cathedral in San Francisco for their marriage record. Both arrived yesterday. I see my parents’ names written seventy years ago; I note their witnesses. Nothing new, but important to me, nonetheless.

*

On July 12, 1956, a young couple — she 27, he 29 — made vows to each other that they kept, for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health. It was not without struggle or testing, doubt or even despair at times, but in his last hour, she was there.

It has taken me time to appreciate all the gifts the two of them gave me from when I arrived, thirteen years after that vow, to their deaths, but as I live today, awareness arrives like a zephyr: I am their legacy, and especially in the early years, I was their delight.

*

Growing up, I always thought 27 was the perfect age to marry. Until now, I had not connected the dots that was how old my mother was. I knew, but I didn’t. She never talked about her age, and when she did she invariably fibbed.

For the past few years, I have been picking up the pieces of my fragmented life story that I have held, neatly compartmentalized, in my consciousness. Like the age of my mother at marriage, I am amazed at the way I can hold differing or un-reconciled truths in my mind. This lack of integration was once a form of protection.

Lately, I am facing the ubiquity of the unknown with less fear, with more acceptance. I am allowing the quadrants holding separated bits of insight to meet, often sparking epiphanies. An example: I know that my father died when I was 24. Through therapy, I know that part of my individual development was frozen at 24. Also, I know that my daughter, G, is now 24.

An epiphany: what my daughter thinks about, developmentally, may be relevant to my own story. I begin to listen to her with a different ear.

A separate epiphany: on July 4^th, G turned the age I was when my dad died. 24 years, 4 months, 1 day. Recently, I said to her: I want you to know something. I do not know how to be a parent after that. All of it will be new to us.

*

Epiphanies arrive when they feel like it.

The work of integration is real.

Love is an elixir.

Independence helps. (Responsible for only myself, I cannot hide in someone else’s need.)

*

“I am still part child,” my girl said recently, while waxing professionally about another topic. We laughed at the contrast between her newfound wisdom and her still-growing wings.

I began worrying about my parents’ longevity at four.

I left home at fourteen.

I did not realize at twenty-four how young it really is.

Honestly, I feel younger in spirit now than I did then, in November 1993, when I was almost two years married, in our fourth home, with two cats, in shock over losing Dad, weeks from the biggest row my husband and I will ever have (that will freeze part of me and teach me about shrinking to fit). In the winter, my mother and I will have our biggest row, which will sprain our already fragile bond, never fully to heal.

*

Before I started my current job, I spent three years writing, editing, and completing works in various stages of development. Among the last projects was a reprint of my first book, Puzzle Pieces. A roman à clef, it is completely fictional in parts (because I have no idea what really happened) blended with what I remember. Nothing about it is true, and yet a lot of it is.

I want to pick up the pieces. I want the puzzle to be whole.

*

When I struggled with infertility for the better part of a decade, I went everywhere for help. One therapist said that I needed to resolve my relationship with my mother in order to get pregnant. I went to work trying to make peace and apologize for having hurt her, for not being the ideal daughter she wanted.

After my son was born (and died before he could live because my cervix could not hold him), I went to a therapist who specialized in grief and anxiety. During the early weeks of harboring G in my womb, I talked about my fears and a bit about my childhood, and she said: it’s not your fault.

In hindsight, I can see how Dad was trying to say that, too.

*

As a child, I triangulated with my parents; growing up, their bond seemed to have nothing to do with me. As an adult, I have kept thoughts about each of them in separate compartments in my mind; rarely have I considered us as a unit.

I took our family for granted until it was gone, or until, decades later, I allowed the littlest me to come forward. It turns out that she treasures our memories like jewels: all of us holding hands, family walks in the neighborhood, going down the stairs as a trio with Mom’s hand on Dad’s shoulder and my hand on hers. Dad kissing Mom when he walked in the door from work and taking me on his back or shoulders upstairs to take off his coat and tie.

Conversations that happened in passing, dinner altogether in the kitchen or the dining room or on trays in the library if something was on television we didn’t want to miss. (My mother said altogether was my favorite word.)

Gardening. Going to church. Sunday drives inland to the vineyards or out to the sea.

Much of what I recall is with one parent: my mother and I, preparing meals or going to school or making the home; my father and I, going to the farm market, to the dump, washing cars, or raking leaves.

I want to remember all the things we shared when we were three.

Once I was away at school, we shared wonderful holidays in the sun. Golf for Dad, tennis for Mom, a pool and books for me. We rented a condo and filled it with the present moment. It’s silly, but I loved going grocery shopping, all three of us, for an empty fridge. I loved having them teach me how to play bridge.

A recent epiphany: I miss my family. Not just the one we had, but the one we never got to be.

*

So here I am, 24 going on 57, approaching my parents’ anniversary and discovering it is their seventieth year, the way we keep time here. I write the check and request the star in the apse. Sunday Mass will be said, and the Sanctuary Lamp will be lit for the week in their memory.

A few days after I complete the paperwork for the star, I have a dream.

My mother, my father, and I are in an elevator that is as big as three rooms, all connected, rising and falling as one. Each of us is in our own room. Mine is to the west, connected to Mom’s, which is to the east, and Dad’s is to the north, connected to hers. The elevator ceiling is partly collapsed and the whole cabin is falling, albeit slowly. We may die. We crawl in closer to each other. I reach out to my mom, grab her left hand, and say, “I love you.” I reach out to my dad, grab his right hand, and say, “I love you.” They hold hands, too. As the elevator continues to descend, we decide to squat, to absorb the impending impact.

We hit the ground. And we bounce. We survive. And we are overjoyed.

*

Today I wake early and dress for early morning Mass. I put on the charm I had made for today, their initials inside a heart.

When I get to church, I light candles and pray a rosary of gratitude for my parents. For the vow that never broke.

I look up at the stars in the apse and see the one for my son. I do not know which one will be assigned to my parents; I say silently, “you are somewhere in the stars.” I think about Dad being the first to meet my son; both of them greeting my mom; and all of them receiving our beloved pets, Z and Q.

Then I turn my attention to the liturgy. Each reading speaks to me: “Just as from the heavens the rain and snow come down and do not return there until they have watered the earth” (Isaiah 55:10) … “you have visited the land and watered it; greatly have you enriched it” (Psalm 65:10) … “the seed that falls on good ground will yield a fruitful harvest” (Luke 8:8).

Father Robert asks us, “Are you good soil? Do you try to love and heal and help others?” adding, “It’s not about the lost seeds – we all fail at times – but it is about continuing to sow. Faithfulness is more important than success … You cannot control the harvest, but keep sowing,” he urges, “God can do more with one seed that lands in good soil than one thousand in your hand.”

*

Once his homily is complete, a familiar parishioner stands to read the Prayers of the Faithful. I am thinking about the one seed; I have written an intention about this parable (as part of my job). I listen to him read it aloud.

Observing him, I notice how he wears his navy blazer and tie, how he speaks formally, a bit like my dad did. And then, seemingly out of the blue, he says, “for Marie.” It startles me. My mother’s name!

And then, of course, he says, “… and Les Belden, for whom this Mass is offered.”

Big, hot tears fall down my cheeks.

*

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for being my good soil.