When Romance Was What I Wanted

Yesterday morning I woke up to the news that my Grandpa Loyal was unresponsive. My family, led by my Grandma Mary, rushed to the nursing home, fearing that it'd be the last chance we'd have to say our official goodbye. All morning we waited, watching his skin grow grayer in color and his chest rise and fall less frequently. We were almost certain it was his last day with us.

Then, suddenly, he woke up. He was full of more energy than I've seen him have in a long time. He joked around for a while with each of us, then asked my grandma to sit next to him in the bed.

"Did ya miss me?" he asked. And her eyes filled with tears.

Man, if he only knew.

This was the woman who agonized over the decision to send him to the nursing home, only surrendering when she realized her four-foot-ten-inch frame couldn't possibly lift his six-foot body if he were to fall again. She visited him day after day, bringing him pictures from home so he'd have more to look at than the 13" TV in his room. It tore her apart that this was what was left of his life, so she made the concerted effort to suffer alongside him, giving up hours in her own comfortable home to sit by his bed while he was sleeping, determined to make herself breathe the same stale air and see the same things under florescent lights.

Of course she missed him. She missed what they were, and when he had almost left us, she missed what they'd been, even in the sad scenery that was the nursing home.

And then there's my other set of grandparents. Grandmom has stage four lung cancer and no appetite, so yesterday, Granddad decided to make her bottle of Boost taste better by adding ice cream and making a milkshake. He stirred that shake for twenty minutes to get it just right. Then he delivered it to her and said, "Look what your boyfriend made ya."

For the first time since she got home from the hospital, she drank the whole thing. With hopeful eyes and a strong gait, he set out to the grocery store and came back with more ice cream. "Figured I better stock up," he told me, hoping the words would hold more weight than the look in his eyes.

He paused before coming in and cut a rose and a marigold off of their stems with his pocketknife. Knowing how much she loves her flowerbeds, he put the two flowers in a jar for her to enjoy.

At 93, he leaned his old, achy body over and helped her out of her chair and to the bathroom, encouraging her the whole time with, "Doing great!" and "Getting stronger every day!"

And last night, before I left, he was placing her oxygen on her face and took a moment to caress her cheek. He didn't know I was watching, and I was glad because I had to hide my tears.

Up until this point in my life, I would have never described my grandparents as romantic couples. My grandpas were blue-collar workers who were more comfortable with dirt under their nails and sweat on their brow than they ever were when they were dressed up on a date. And my grandmas were the kind of women who showed love and respect for their husbands by keeping the house cleaned and making them a home-cooked meal every night. They never tried to make the other swoon with over-the-top acts of love.

But what is love, if it's not what my grandparents are doing for each other?

I've always thought I needed romance: the flowers and the poems and the dates and the surprises. But what I really need is what they have: a lifetime love. This kind of love is pure. It's genuine and loyal. It belongs to those who took an oath decades ago to love, honor, and cherish another person. And through the years - despite the hard times with no money, no passion, and no hope - they loved, anyway.

Yesterday God made me realize that we all need to appreciate our spouses a little more. We need to ride out the tough times and show them grace when our marriages feel bland. 

Because lifetime love is the best kind of love.

It can't be bought and isn't fueled or fooled by lustful desires. It's earned after a person has spent so much time with another that both of them feel like two bodies sharing a single soul.

Let's hold onto that kind of love, folks.

Because someday, I want my 93 year old hunk to make me a milkshake and tell me I'm his girlfriend.