Someone picks a name. Everyone who loves them shows up. One of these names is on your phone right now.
For Eleanor, turning ninety on Saturday.
Her two sons, eight grandchildren, fourteen great-grandchildren, and the entire Phoenix Symphony Women's Guild she chaired in 1979. Her youngest granddaughter recorded hers three times because she kept laughing.
For Marcus, going into surgery Tuesday morning.
His college roommates, his coach, the neighbor whose dog he walked every morning for a year without being asked, and his sister, who organized the whole thing in twenty-four hours from a hospital parking lot.
For James, who served three tours and still has trouble sleeping.
His unit, his pastor, the V.A. counselor who answered the phone at two in the morning, and the daughter who was nine when he left and twenty-one when he got back.
For Mrs. Patterson, who taught fifth grade for forty-one years.
Two hundred and seventeen former students, now grown, recording from kitchens and offices and locker rooms across the country. One of them is a senator. He still calls her Mrs. Patterson.
For Gloria, who became an American citizen on Friday.
Her family back in Manila watching on a phone propped against a rice cooker, the ESL teacher who walked her through the test four times, the immigration attorney, and the friend who gave her the ride and cried harder than she did.
For little Sam, four years old, having his tonsils out tomorrow.
Grandma in Boise, grandpa in Tampa, both godparents, the whole soccer team, and the cousin who taught him every silly face he knows. He watched it twice before bed and fell asleep holding the phone.
For Bishop Charles, retiring after thirty-eight years of ministry.
Every couple he married. Every family he sat with at the end. The choir that has sung him through every Easter since 1989. The altar boy from 1992 who is now a deacon himself.
For Diane, ninety-six and the last of her sisters.
Three generations of nieces and nephews she held together through every argument and every holiday, all of them with the same Sunday afternoon free for once in their lives. She does not know it is coming.
For Pastor Adam, on the Sunday he turns fifty.
Every Stephen Minister he has trained. Every confirmation class. Every casserole-bringer. The grown children of the children he baptized. His wife started it and kept the secret for six weeks.
"Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God."
Matthew 5:9
If you are the one gathering them, this is yours. From every tradition and none.