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| *Photo Cred: The wildly talented Jennifer Joy Photography |
When I was growing up, they would dance in the kitchen. And they would smile and laugh. They sang together. They would hold hands. Or reach for the other’s and give it a squeeze. They would compliment one another. And make the other blush. And say please. And thank you. Over and over. They carved out time most every night, to sit at the dinner table with the whole family, and eat together. They would go to church together. They always kissed each other goodbye and also, hello. And several times in between. And they said “I love you”. Every day. As often as they felt like it.
I don’t know that there can ever be one definition for love, but as a little girl, I believe that I knew their kind of love as the kind that I wanted to find. The kind that would fill my life and my heart like theirs was filling every moment of theirs. The kind that I could fall into. Completely. The kind where I wouldn’t just love the person, but would genuinely like their company. The kind that would stand the test of time and life.
It’s crazy to think that they started out as two high schoolers — two people who thought they were just committing to a Winter Dance — and turned it into a few years of dating, 42 years of marriage, 3 kids, 3 by-marriage kids, seven grandsons, one granddaughter, one trailer, three houses, two rentals, countless friendships, some ups and some downs, a growing list of travels, a few glasses of wine, a meal or two here and there, and endless memories — and through it all, they were creating this life that they were meant to live, together.
And they still dance in the kitchen. And anywhere they can. And smile and laugh. They hold hands and reach out to one another for a squeeze. They still compliment one another. And make the other blush. And say please. And thank you. Over and over. They carve out time many evenings, to sit and eat or drink wine together. They still share their faith. They always kiss each other goodbye and also, hello. And several times in between. And they still say, “I love you”. Every day. As often as they feel like it. And for forty-two years, it’s worked for them. And they hope it works another 42 more. As do I.
Happy 42nd anniversary, mom and dad. May each one continue to be better than the next! And cheers to all that you have become, together.
