An Umbrella Means Love.

Dad (Keith) has always promoted light, efficient packing - large items first, fill each box so it can close, no loose items. Mom has always wanted to be prepared for the myriad of situations that may occur - aloe vera  lotion for sunburns that may happen (they did), extra plastic cups, an extra pair of socks. The compromises Mom and Dad made in every day life for each other are expressions of a deep love rooted in eternal covenants.

Most of these sacrifices of personal interest, motives, and schedules went unnoticed by me, but one remains clear. Taking an umbrella says I love you. As Dad prepared to take Kara Jenny and I (David) on a full day bike trip we packed the needed items: patch kit, lunches, water bottles, and helmets. Ever watchful, Mom had checked the weather the night before; it was most likely a 20% chance of rain or some other low number. Mom promptly suggested that we all take umbrellas on the mountain biking trip. It would horrible to bike sopping wet, and Mom would rather that we not catch colds.

Although Dad may have protested a bit, there were 3-4 umbrellas in the car as we went biking.

Seeking our greatest comfort and joy is always Mom's aim; Dad will always support Mom even if the idea of mountain biking while holding an umbrella is silly.

It was a small gesture from Dad and Mom that said, "I love you and I'm happy todo this little thing to build that love a little more."