One day my children’s children’s children will tell stories about me.

I can’t wait.


I’ll be perched on a rocking chair with glasses and a gray messy bun still wearing yoga pants and red lipstick…..

….listening to every word.

This one will say this and that one will say that and they’ll laugh and giggle and roll their eyes and wonder if the stories are true. They’ll talk about the time I brought the roast to the garden club and the day I wore Lee Press-On Nails and how I almost cried in a newspaper publisher’s office.

But the best story of all?

The real hero here at Thistlewood?

The one who shows up every day and makes sure they have gas in their car and pulls out atlases to show them the world and hands out sage advice at a moment’s notice and helps them find their way when they get lost and is the rock that holds this entire family together?

Their dad.

This past Sunday the twins had a graduation party.

We had been planning it for weeks.

We planned a coffee truck that pulled up to the back of the house that served iced coffee and sodas.

We planned corn hole and croquet and tons of outdoor activities in the backyard.

We planned an outdoor seating area with white tablecloths and ribbons and flower arrangements and white chairs festooned with helium balloons.

Every little detail all planned out to perfection.

It was going to be amazing.

And then?

An hour before the party started, a thunderstorm showed up.

It was actually more like a maelstrom.

An overwhelming deluge.


As we stood and watched the rain poured down out of the sky, we did what all good party planners do.

We pivoted.

We brought the chairs under the carport and moved the balloons to the dining room and found umbrella stands and racks to hang wet jackets and organized an entire army of little people with umbrellas to escort the guests from their car.

I was worried because I thought the rain would keep people away.

I was worried because I thought no one would come.

I was worried because I had enough cookies and cake and cheese and crackers for half the state of Texas sitting on my dining room table.

But the rain didn’t win.

They showed up.

One hour into the party, our house was full to the brim.

Full to the bursting of wet party guests without shoes laughing and talking and drinking iced coffee and chips and dip and cookies with bears on them.

All those people.

All those incredible individuals who have poured into our family and supported our twins and prayed for them through the years.

A little bit of overwhelming inclement weather couldn’t keep them away.

They poured into our house bringing laughter and gifts and joy.

They showed up.

Every. Single. One.

And just when I thought my heart couldn’t get any more full?

I looked outside.

There was their dad.

Standing in the rain, soaking wet, sweeping the water off the porch so the guests wouldn’t have to walk through a river on their way to the front door.

A man and his broom against the mighty forces of nature.

It was a losing battle, but he never gave up. He never stopped trying. He never stopped fighting the fight.

He stayed out there for over an hour until the rain let up.

Quietly doing his job without anyone really noticing.

Showing up for every sweep of the way.

The foundation of this family is built on the shoulders of that sweet, kind, incredible, faithful porch sweeper.

And so my sweet twinnies.

One day when you tell your stories.

One day when I’m old and gray and my rocking chair has a cup holder full of coffee.

I want you to remember that maelstrom and that party.

And all that showing up.

Showing up when it counted.

Showing up in the hard times.

Showing up in sunshine.

And showing up in the rain.

PS We had all our party guests write their hearts on a piece of a Jenga game with a sharpie. The twins can take it to college along with all the encouragement.

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