My amazing parents

I turned 38 this year, a rather uneventful number, as it really is only a number.  I don't know what it is, be it this number or that it's been almost a year since I left my career in science to stay at home and raise my family.  But, something has changed.  No.  A lot has changed.

I have looked more closely at my parents, and really tried to understand things from their perspective.  It's not easy.  I have portions of their genetic makeup, been taught their morals and values, fought against these very same ideals, and watched them change as they raised their children in a foreign country.  And, I've watched them age.  It's not easy.

By the time my mother was my age, she had given birth to six children.  She held her youngest in her arms, and herded the other three as she escaped her war-torn country.  During the escape, as she headed towards China Beach to meet my dad and remaining two kids, she watched other escapees get gunned down by Viet Cong snipers, fall to the ground, get roughly kicked out of the path to make room for others running where everyone else was going, rivers of blood marking the road in a macabre map to safety.  All the while, holding her baby in her arms, keeping a watchful eye over her other children, counting to make sure the number was right: "Yes, yes, they are all here."  

In the midst of the confusion and hysteria of the escape, she was separated from my father, and did not know if she would ever see her country, her husband or her extended family ever again.  As the overly-crowded American ship transported the hundreds of refugees to Guam, a storm brewed around the ship in the night.  My mother, alone with her thoughts that have not been given voice to this day, stood on the deck, gripped the railing, and stared blankly into the night.  The rain and ocean mixed together in a furious fight with the winds, hitting her from every direction, soaking her and whipping her face and long hair.  But she stood, serene, and watched it.  Watched her life as she had known it simply disappear.

She and my father were eventually reunited, and waited months in desperate hopes the remainder of their families would also successfully escape from what was once South Vietnam, but now fallen to the Communist North.  They waited until they realized their family would not arrive, and waited as fate took them here, to the United States.  They were both 35.  Every day since that fateful day in April when they left Vietnam, then reunited and were brought to this country, they have thanked God for His many blessings.  They made it out with all of their children, alive.  

I have watched as my parents age, slowly losing their memory, but unbelievably growing stronger every day in their gratitude for the graces God gave them, and their love for their children and grandchildren.  Their love is boundless.  They are amazing, this little old couple with such a tremendous story.  A story I've been told I should share, but I simply do not have the words.  

I don't know what made me write this entry; I only know I've been wanting to talk about them for a very long time, but the words just would not come.  We sometimes drive each other crazy, but they are the most amazing people I have ever known.  I am so grateful and proud to be their daughter, and as I watch them, I hope that I make them happy.  And I hope that as their memory dims, they don't remember the times I lose my patience.