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Show 711 It was a secret message, an encoded warning developed long ago to give shape and balance to his l i f e . Each of the mothers had similar, special gestures or habits to warn him of some old trouble or danger. My father caught himself and the poker expressions about the room relaxed and smiled again. Dear A u n t S a r a h , I thought. She, too, had to conceal the passion of t h e i r relationship for fear of hurting the o t h e r s . But she had not closed her eyes to my father"s human f o i b l e s . She had once said, while speaking in meeting, that we should strive to be children in the eyes of God - but that i t made no sense to be children to one another. "Otherwise, who will rear the children?" And as my f a t h e r ' s children grew into pubescence and the turmoils of near-adulthood, i t was she who commented, "Well, raising kids i s n ' t much l i k e playing dolls is i t ? " I thought how desperately the group - the world - needed more like her, who faced r e a l i t y yet believed in God, who refused to behave like the polygamous o s t r i c h and bury her head, who claimed the dignity of her human perspective saying, "Happiness is a do-it-yourself p r o j e c t ." AuntG e r d asuggested that the ' p a r t y ' get underway with each of the wives sharing a personal memory of him. Aunt Helga led the reminiscence. "Not too long ago, a man came to your daddy complaining that he had suffered from hiccups for three months. Can you imagine? He was t h i n and weak, his stomach a l l but ruined by the constant wrenching of his diaphram." She described toe P i s t o n - l i k e motion with her f i s t . "He couldn't eat or sleep. His hands trembled and his face was pasty-grey. We |