Celebrating
70 Years of Grace

Before the doctorate, before the title on your name,

Before the lab, before the lectern, before the world knew your fame—

There was a girl on the island, Grandma Zetta's eldest child,

With seven brothers and sisters trailing behind her single file.

You crossed the waters, changed the shores, but never changed the root.

Jamaica stays on your chest — the flag, the soil, the fruit.

From the Caribbean to Huntsville, from Kingston to Mastin Lake,

You built a home, you built a school, you built for all our sake.

In the den and the garage downstairs, we learned before we knew—

Before we ever saw a classroom, every lesson came from you.

Nate and Elisa, Joseph, Chillel, Mariah, and the rest,

You gave us five years' head start — by kindergarten we were blessed.

"My mother created her everlasting legacy within us by her instructions"—

That's not a quote from scripture, though it carries the same unction.

That's the testimony of a son who watched you pour and pour,

Who saw you turn a daycare into an open door.

Twenty years inside that lab — Dr. Isaac, Director, Chief—

Generations of children passed through your gentle belief

That every child could flourish if they just had someone near

Who saw them, truly saw them, and removed their every fear.

And when the island kids came over, far from home and terrified,

You opened up your table, and you let them come inside.

Abigail and Izzy, and how many more unnamed—

Not blood, but family nonetheless, loved exactly the same.

Bahah didn't know what hit him when he married Mrs. Grace—

Barry, Nate, and Jon — three men wrapped in one woman's embrace.

"I felt like I had more than enough of a female presence," I confess—

You overpowered all of us with nothing but your tenderness.

And when Mimi walked her red carpet at ninety,

The whole family stood beside her — regal, steady, and almighty.

And when she left this earth and someone had to hold the line,

You took on the role of mothering once more — the throne was by design.

Now Georgia runs to you for counsel, Locksley writes you poems,

Joan celebrates beside you, William visits in your home,

Robert plays his tennis, Dennis grins from ear to ear,

And Shirley sends her love — eight siblings, and you're the one they revere.

And then there's Naomi — your twin, your spitting image, your delight—

From her first steps on your Persian rug to spinning purple in the light.

She blows you kisses in her school dress, dances in your living room,

And raids your purse like it's her birthright — because in your house, there's always room.

She calls your mother Mimi. And so the line extends—

Zetilda, then Elaine, then Naomi — where one ends, another begins.

Four generations deep, the love just keeps compounding,

And the woman at the center of it all? Still astounding.

You stole Bahah away to Hawaii — he didn't know until the gate.

He saw Honolulu on the ticket and couldn't even be irate.

Now he's hiking volcanic trails with a "Hazardous" sign ignored,

And you're standing in the rain in your St. Lucia shirt — adored.

Every Christmas at Uncle David's house, the whole family fills the floor—

Nate dances with Naomi, David spins Grandma Flo once more.

Barry with Grace and Anne-Marie, laughter from the kitchen deep—

And Aunt Inez on the couch beside me, watching memories we keep.

I've watched you kiss your brother William after an eternity away from the states.

I've watched you sit in Oakwood's pews with Naomi on your heart.

I've watched you in the garden reaching into peonies and light.

I've watched you in the cherry blossoms posing like a queen in flight.

It is my life's mission for these next twenty years

To make you proud, to honor you, to quiet every fear.

May your next twenty be your best twenty — just like Grandma before—

From seventy to ninety, may God give you even more.