Family of the Heart

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

Son #1 and his wife just celebrated their 28^th wedding anniversary. They met at BYU Idaho. She thought he was arrogant (he was); he thought she was brilliant (she is). I don’t know much about the dating dance that brought them together, but I do know that the smartest thing my son ever did is convince her to marry him. Once that was settled, he dragged her through dozens of moves from literally one end of the globe to the other. On the way, they’ve had five children, two of whom have dual citizenship—one in Australia and one in Canada.

Unlike their mother, my other children have proven to be equally adventurous—having served missions in six foreign countries and traveled for work or humanitarian projects across virtually every state in this  country and on every continent except Antarctica—which Daughter #1, at least—has on her bucket list. With all that geographic upheaval, the one tradition which has bound us together is Sunday dinner.

From the time we were first married, my husband, the unrepentant extrovert, began randomly inviting neighbors and friends for dinner on Sunday afternoon. He loved to show off his cooking skills and tell his seriously bad jokes to a new, unsuspecting audience. They always laughed obligingly the first time, but generally not the second through fifteenth time. When Son #1 got married, Sunday dinner meant one less meal they had to finance, so they were happy to join the crowd.

 For almost thirty years, our family has gathered on Sunday afternoons at our house (or that of one of my children) and enjoyed Sunday dinner together. The pandemic interrupted that tradition for a while, but we are back to  our regular schedule. We keep a calendar on the fridge, and families sign up to provide a dinner for the group when they have the time or maybe a menu they want to try out on a sympathetic audience. Both my daughters and all of my sons cook, and they had the good judgement to marry accomplished folks who also know their way around a kitchen—including mine.

Over time, our Sunday crowd has expanded beyond my own children to include a foster daughter and her husband with now three foster children of their own, a former neighbor who lives across the valley but drops in at least once a month for food and fellowship, a couple of my sister’s daughters and their families, two sisters-in-laws in-laws (it’s complicated) and their families, and assorted teen-agers who join my grandchildren for a free meal with dessert guaranteed. Most Sundays we feed somewhere between 30 and 40. (If you drop in around 5:30, you are always welcome.)

Yep. It can be a lot of work. It also gives us a chance to celebrate birthdays, school and athletic awards, promotions, support family members who are out of work or going to school full time, play with grandbabies, plan family projects (many a basement finish or remodel has been designed and volunteered for over our dining room table), and have a venue for building relationships with a growing crowd of teen-agers who think most of us are BORING.

My husband likes to call this “rag tag” group our Family of the Heart. And the title fits. We bicker over politics and football games (half love BYU, half U of U); we disagree about movies and the books they came from; we argue over music–country vs. rock (both of which are frowned upon by my classically trained husband). And yet, this week, though we are not all of the same faith—some not even believers—, together we are praying for a beloved family member who has breast cancer.

Families can take all kinds of forms. Most are composed of moms and dad, aunts and uncles, etc., but some develop at the workplace, some in neighborhoods, some with roommates, some with like-minded groups in politics or charities or faith. Wherever a family forms, it becomes an anchor for its members—a place of safety and support.

I read a report recently which claimed that many millennials are “divorcing” themselves from their families. Instead they venture out on their own, free of the pull of families whom they may feel have created boundaries within which they cannot thrive. I get it. Different generations—different expectations. But where do they go, I wonder, when like all the rest of us, they are confronted with the troubles which come to each of us no matter how carefully we plan? As Robert Frost insisted (and I heartily endorse), “Home is the place where, when we go there, they have to take us in.” Keeping open the door of home requires generosity, forgiveness, commitment, and plain hard work. If family is not worth that, what is?