I was having a conversation with my grandson the other day and he told me he had just written an essay for a creative-writing class on the meaning of love. I thought it would be interesting to see what an 18-year-old thinks about love.
In our discussion, I discovered he had written a very well thought-out essay on the word “love.” He offered a scholarly, intelligent definition of the word. It became clear to me his definition was only of the word, though, and had very little to do with the emotion, the feeling we call “love.” As I examined the situation, I was convinced his understanding was that of a youngster who had never experienced true love. That conversation caused me to think about it.
I remember when I was 18. I fell in love a lot. A lot of my friends did also. I managed to survive my teenage years without too much drama on the girlfriend front, joined the Army, did a tour of duty in Germany and returned home to start my life. Soon after returning home to Tennessee, I moved to California. It seemed to me a good idea. There was to be more opportunity there.
In early 1962, I met Linda. She was beautiful, smart, classy and all the things I had looked for in a lady. I, on the other hand, was a rough-and-tumble hillbilly with no discernible talent and limited potential. Why she ever looked at me twice is still a mystery.
But we fell in love. We dated for several months and then I was transferred across the state 500 miles from her. We decided to get married. We knew we were in love and that was all that was important. I was 22 and she was 21. We thought we knew all we needed to know to be married.
Obviously, it wasn’t easy. We were so young and so inexperienced. We had to learn the hard way. But the love we had for each other carried us through. That love was what I would call “young love.” It was real to us. But it would be tested.
That testing came in the form of children, bills, money problems, career decisions and business failures. Had we not had that love, we surely would have failed as a couple. But we survived the tests. We went through a period of what I would call “mature love.” It was a reliance on each other. It was a dependence on each other. It was a knowledge by each of us that the other was there, regardless.
Well, the kids grew up, the money troubles began to solve themselves, and we got older. We began to prepare for our retirement. Our love for each other never waned. It only grew.
When retirement came, we found ourselves in each other’s company every day, every night, all of the time. What kind of love would we need to live out our lives in each other’s exclusive company? I think I will call it “true love.”
Love brought us together. Love kept us together when situations and events tried to pull us apart. Love allowed us to get to where we are. I am convinced true love is a love that grows in stages. I am reminded of the candle. When first lit, the flame is small with little warmth but as it burns and the candle shows its wrinkles, the flame grows larger and brighter. More warmth comes from the flame. And then, at its end, just before it goes out, the flame is brightest.
I’ve discovered love is not a noun. It’s a verb. In December, Linda and I will celebrate our 54th anniversary. There is no one with whom I would rather spend my last days. That is what I call “true love.”
