For my sixtieth birthday I wanted Just one gift to mark the year— A photograph with every face, Every child we both held dear. From New York, Florida, Oklahoma, Oregon—they made their way; We finally had a home big enough To bring one family home that day. Standing beside the Brigham Tabernacle, Little families took their turn, Trying to catch the children's smiles Before their patience started to burn. Two empty places disappointed me, After everything we'd done— But still I looked across those gathered faces And saw our family becoming one. That is what this picture meant, Not his side standing next to mine— Not two families standing side by side, But one family, intertwined. This day was meant to bring us closer, To gather every branch as one— I thought that picture would finally capture The family we'd become. We got the big one—almost everyone— The photograph I'd planned to frame. Then suddenly the lines were drawn again, And everything about it changed. His four children gathered round their dad, Leaving mine outside the frame, And on the day I'd tried to make us one, It felt like two became our name. It wasn't that I begrudged that picture— I'd taken dozens just like that. Whenever all his kids were gathered, I was usually behind the camera, in fact. But this day had a different meaning, Every ticket, every mile— I'd brought us there to photograph The family I'd been building all the while. That is what this picture meant, Not his side standing next to mine— Not two families standing side by side, But one family, intertwined. This day was meant to bring us closer, To gather every branch as one— I thought that picture would finally capture The family we'd become. Not long after we were married, On another picture day, My sister called my children over: “Just your family now,” she'd say. But I looked at all eight children, And I knew just what to say "We just did. This is my family.” I wouldn't split us up that day. “We just did.” Eight children were the family. There wasn't “yours” and “mine.” I wouldn't draw a circle That left four outside the line. But standing there that birthday, Hurt more than I could say, I gathered up my four kids... And drew that line that day. I never yelled or made a scene, Never told them they were wrong. I tried to swallow all the anger, Took my picture, moved along. They knew that I was fuming; I didn't hide it very well. But there was one thing that didn't happen— And Lauren would later tell... Their actions destroyed what the picture meant— One family gathered into view. But somewhere in the disappointment, Something else came shining through. Lauren later shared she'd thought that day Might bring our first real fight— But when the picture couldn't hold us all, Rick and I still held on tight. She said when even that day passed Without a fight between us two, She knew if we could weather that, There wasn't much we couldn't make it through. We planned that day to capture The family we had made— Every branch together, Every face we hoped would stay. But what that camera couldn't capture Was the strongest thing that day... We came to capture one whole family, But our marriage proved its strength that day.
