Sarah Harmon

It is hard for me to tell these days who my family is. Until recently, I would have said that my family included four people: my parents, my brother, and me. My parents' home in Illinois was my home too. It's where I climbed trees with my brother and attended church with my parents. These three people were the ones I spent my days with. My family met my basic physical needs as well as spiritual and emotional needs. They are as much my family today as they were when I was eight. But our connections have changed. My parents still live in that house I grew up in, while I live in Oregon. My brother is equally far away, in Arizona. Now we share Christmas and send emails, rather than talking face to face over nightly dinners.

This past spring, I discovered what it's like to parent my own parents. I was living overseas for a year and after much persuasion, my parents agreed to meet me in France for a week. It was the first family vacation in years and I was nervous. Suddenly it was my responsibility to read subway signs, order meals, and make sure all four Harmons were on a train together with validated tickets. When my dad had an emergency dental situation, I took him to a dentist, explained the situation to the receptionist, sat with him during the procedure to translate, and even managed to have it billed through my French medical insurance. Was this how my parents felt when I was growing up? The constant pressure to make sure everyone was taken care of was wearing. But my understanding of love was greater. I wanted them to have the best trip possible, and I was willing to do whatever was in my power to see that happen. The choices my parents made for me while growing up came from that same place of unconditional love.