There once was a place that sang the most enchanting three-part harmony of life, love, and belonging.  From the awkward family pictures hanging in mismatched frames to the collections of Connect 4, chess, and Monopoly pieces in the recesses of stained sofa cushions, the space strongly conveyed a sense of “YES, we have kids.”

There was the study where all would work (parents included) on homework after dinner.  Then there was the kitchen where one could always find at least one other sibling, most often times disobediently sitting on the counter with his or her hand directly in the Tupperware.  Then there were the walls, though originally plain and white, were spotted with patches of $6 DAP plaster repair where adolescent boys had lost their temper and miscalculated golf club lengths and strengths.

In hindsight, the most treasured part of it all was that my parents, a pediatrician and internist, could have had the affluent lifestyle so many dream of.  Instead, they chose family over the fortune and stability of a large medical firm, and subsequently created a space although modestly furnished was lavish in love.  Now I reflect back on the sacrifices they made in order that we kids would know what a worthwhile life looks like.  And as a hurting and homesick comrade clings to his sweetheart’s picture so close to his chest, so I cling to those memories, for they remind me of how much I have to be thankful for.