As I sat down to read and pray earlier this week, I realized that on this day, sixty-eight years ago, my parents got married.  Wow.  I have posted on a wall of my study a photo of Mom and Dad on the day of their wedding, smiling at each other at the reception in my grandparents' backyard of apricot and peach trees in the Los Angeles of long ago.  I marvel at how out of that day, a day that for most other people was just another day in many, many days, an entire family, two boys and two girls, came.  And how out of these two boys and two girls came more children in turn and, we hope, one day more children from them.
     It's a remarkable statement to the wonder of human existence.  We live and we die, yes, but while we live, we testify, each and every day, to the fact of the universe's progenitive and creative impulses without which nothing could be.
     And, I hope, we will always wonder why.  What did we do to deserve such meaning, such transcendent and enduring meaning?
     And love.  Without a creator's love, without a personal originating presence, what could possibly be?