Last week was big at our house. We celebrated the tenth birthday of our first grandchild and reveled in the memories of his birth and all the deliciousness he has provided for our clan since then. John Michael is the adored elder cousin for everyone else, and he handles the weight of that well.

We also celebrated the first solo visit of our tenth grandchild. Nola Serenity came to stay while her parents enjoyed an overdue anniversary trip. She was perfect and perfectly adored by all of us.

In between those two events, we were scheduled to attend Wendell’s twenty-fifth class reunion from medical school. Twenty-five years has not dimmed my memories of that day. Here are a few:

A knock at the door early in the morning. We opened it to find Wendell’s brother, Rees, had flown in from Florida to attend the ceremony.

The sight of Wendell walking across the stage to receive his diploma and his hood.

Wendell’s father getting in position for the best camera shot, and then stepping out to shake Wendell’s hand as he came off the stage.

Four-year-old Joseph following his grandfather’s example and working his way to the aisle to shake his daddy’s hand as the procession marched out.

It goes on and on. But here is the real point of this post. We skipped the reunion. Wendell was supposed to get a twenty-five year pin and various accolades at dinner that evening. But, we didn’t go. The day before we’d had a terrible tragedy in our  community that included a drowning in our lake. Wendell had worn double hats as a doctor and a deputy all night long. Then he got up the next day and took care of ailing patients from morning till night.

He was too busy doing the stuff to be rewarded for it. And so, we celebrated that milestone in our compfy house, snuggled on our sofa, grateful for every minute of our life and every person that we love.

It was great.