I sit in a bedroom of my grandparent’s old house, a shelf over my head containing hundreds of thimbles collected by my grandmother who had no use for them, her fingers tougher than any ceramic after sewing the blue jeans, feed sack dresses, and cloth diapers of seven children. As I look at the pictures of a farm on the wall, I can hear my granddad speak with his typical reverence at the privilege of working the land he was given, of the surprises it contained, and of the disappointments he withstood like a corn stalk in the wind.

            Before me is a picture of their wedding, taken in 1946: no wrinkles, no shoulders slouching, eyes radiant with expectation as they stand shoulder to shoulder, arms folded together, easy smiles on their faces. In the background, trombones squeal swing music while feet scuffle along the worn wooden floor in the parish hall of a small German town.

            What color were the flowers in grandmother’s hand? How did granddad look at her that day with his piercing blue eyes as he promised his life to her? How did it feel, their calloused hands clasped together?

***

            The water, cool and clear, tumbles over grey sandstone, then brushes the bottom branches of a juniper tree as if to greet it gently. Birds sing in the budding branches of cottonwoods further down the ravine. The air is fresh, crisp, cleansed.

            A month ago, the gentleman I am with, Mark, planted his knee in the red dirt of some nearby canyons and asked the young lady to his left, Amy, to be his wife. Today, we are having a marriage preparation session in the morning light of the same canyons.

            We weave through a grove of trees, new spring grass softly stretching upward over a bed of leaves that are yielding their own being to give this new life. Mark assists Amy atop a boulder beneath a cliff and they turn to see the canyon landscape: a treasure of beauty uncovered by the persistence and patience of a million years.

***

            My granddad’s blue eyes peer at me softly. He is seated on a black wheelchair, a red handkerchief half-folded and resting upon his lap. His hands, now wrinkled, tell the story of a man who tended sheep, caressed his children, moved rosary beads, and lifted his cap to wipe the sweat of his brow. Now they hold the hands of his beloved wife in the 67^th year of their marriage. She looks at the camera, smiling sweetly, serenely, her heart beating with the same love that filled dinner plates, bathed children, and stocked the freezer for grandkids.

I am here for this photo, their last: the flowers on her shirt are turquoise, he looks at her with reverence, and their hands fold together, like cool, clear streams that bounce the branches of juniper trees. A love that carves canyons. A love that signals the squealing trumpets of angels.

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