My beloved aunt and uncle are being honored today. Frank and Louise Rose were pioneers for many of us who trailed behind them. They ignited church camps, and small groups. They believed in counseling and became compassionate listeners. 

I recall a conversation with Uncle Frank. He talked about the Native American concept of seven generations, and how it can expand our consciousness past the current snafu in traffic. Or the inflated dental bill. Or a disappointment at work. The span of seven generations can seem too broad to wrap your arms around. Just the twigs reaching back on a family tree. But Uncle Frank personally knew six. His own grandfather, his father who is also my grandfather, himself, his son, his granddaughter, and his great granddaughter. Who is adorable I might add. Those are people who all fit nicely inside his heart without splitting the seams. 

My connection to Uncle Frank goes back to my childhood. He told stories about a little purple man who went on large adventures. Every summer he led a ribbon of campers through the stately hemlocks to a grove by the stream. Convinced those same campers to wait on the side of a mountain to watch the moon slide below the horizon. He was my father's best friend, and not merely because they share a birthday. They took on brave actions together in their passion for bringing fresh life into hurting homes. He once told me that if your uniform isn't dirty you aren't in the game.

His was definitely muddy.

Aunt Louise and my mother shared a lot of laughter, and as it happened have the same birthday too. She brought sisterhood to the women who married ministers and tried to free us of tangled expectations about how we should behave. 

 

Perhaps the most significant thing she taught me was that love is invisible. Like gratitude, electricity, and magnetism, it cannot be seen. But the effects of those three strong forces are all around us. They keep us on the planet, pull us toward one another, provide directions, and give power to our homes. Much the same as love.

Plus, Uncle Frank married us. He didn't flinch when we explained that we wanted to have the wedding outside in a field, with an altar of twelve stones. That we would like to be offered bread and wine privately before the ceremony, and that we would have no shoes on. 

"Anything else?"

The else turned out to be pivotal. They taught us that marriage is a verb. Something you invest time in, read books about. Go to workshops in search of better ways of communicating. They were transparent enough to have tough discussions in front of us, like the one where Aunt Louise was eager to retire and he wanted to keep working. The thing about being a witness to people as they wrangle with this mustang called marriage is the particulars do not need to be identical for us to learn. We can swap in our own circumstances and benefit from having seen another couple care enough to struggle. Listen. Compromise. 

Their legacy will most certainly stretch for seven generations.