There was a gathering for a bride on the eve of her wedding. Aunts and cousins, sisters and friends all crowded into the chairs and couches, eager to pour their love into one special woman. She was the hub of a wheel, each of us around the circle like spokes connected to her.

Her grandmother was present, the one who skillfully made the wedding dress, and offered wisdom from her half century of commitment. How do you smash experience into a few sentences, the way two bridesmaids wiggle into a single chair? 

An aunt shared what her husband does on a regular day. With his arm around his daughter, he leans in and whispers, loudly, with his eyes locked on his wife. 

"Isn't she beautiful?" He says it as if it is a fresh discovery, to wake up and find this lovely lady in his kitchen frying eggs. 

They have been married a mere quarter of a century, yet the fire has not waned. 

Another woman made us laugh. She and her husband have an agreement. If one of them says one half of the dyad, the other is required to finish it. 

"I can respect that. It makes sense."

"I love you I love you I love you!"

It is no secret that their marriage is a feisty one. Humor is one of the hinges that keeps them folding back in toward each other after an outward swing. 

Everyone arrived that evening eager to give. The miracle is that we all went home with more than we gave.