No one doesn’t love romance, right? Even in our dark nights of the soul when we’re reeling from painful experiences in that department, isn’t there still a hope that strong, enduring love is out there in the world, that maybe we’ll one day be blessed to find and create our own happily ever after?
In my family the bar for this kind of relationship was set by my maternal grandparents, and tales of their lifelong-long love affair have never gotten old. Although Papa died when I was in the second grade, I remember the tenderness that characterized his interactions with my grandmother, whom we always called Mother. They weren’t given to grand displays of affection (at least while company was around), but they also couldn’t pass up an opportunity to pat one another as they walked past, smile like they were on a first date or refer to each other by special terms of endearment no matter who else was present. No doubt about it, they were utterly devoted to their children, but their mutual adoration was the stuff of legends. When Papa died in 1979, Mother’s world crumbled and from that day until she passed away in 2010 I don’t recall seeing her smile ever again reach her eyes.
I believe it was from Mother and Papa, both my firsthand experiences and the stories shared with me growing up, that I developed my beliefs of what a relationship, in this case marriage, should look like. Theirs was a service-driven love. By all observations and accounts, they put their love into action. She would wake early to bake biscuits and fry chicken to pack in his lunchbox and fill his thermos with freshly-percolated coffee. Work in a mill was neither joyful nor easy, and so Mother wanted Papa to have a lunch that would nourish both his heart and his body. In return, on the days the dope wagon made its rounds Papa would take the change from his pocket (I won’t call it “spare” change because such a thing did not exist for them) and buy Mother a Baby Ruth to tuck into his lunchbox as a surprise when she opened it at the end of the day. After they worked in the garden on the hottest August South Carolina days, Papa would get a small wash basin and gently clean the dirt from Mother’s legs while she sat on the back porch of the house he’d built for his family. She would only shake her head and smile when he’d return from the jockey lot with one more new stray animal—a malnourished fox, a mangy dog, or orphaned goat—that needed time and care, even though money was tight. If asked, I’m positive that neither of them would have said that their marriage was something to look at in amazement. No, they would likely be puzzled by the idea that a married couple should behave any different from them.
Depending on who you ask, the reason partnerships end with such frequency these days varies. And we’d all agree, I’m sure, that some truly need to end because they are not healthy and cannot be healed. We’re fast approaching summer, the unofficial wedding season (I, too, married during this popular nuptial timeframe—although to be honest I’d have married David on a rainy Wednesday morning in January, or any time for that matter), and we tend to focus on the fresh-faced young couple that is ready to take on the world, certain that theirs is a fairy tale for the ages. I hope they are all right. For selfish reasons, though, I’m more interested in the mature, second-chance marriages. Even though they don’t receive the same press, I find them to be more hopeful, optimistic, and beautiful.
With age comes clarity about what matters most in life and in relationships. Instead of preferring the partner who can stay out all night party-hopping, we value the one who is constant, who we can fully trust with our hearts and our retirement savings. Our spouses are the ones who will be with us long after children grow up, leave home, and have their own life adventures. They will be the ones who hold our hands when we hear a scary diagnosis, need to talk about aging parents, or require assistance standing up due to our bad knees. There is something much more real about second act marriages, as though we realize that time no longer permits pretense and we never needed it anyway. Finding love that endures and protecting that gift becomes the priority. It’s not so important to point out our spouse’s flaws, hide who we are, or worry too much about not looking like we’re still 25 because we know that all we can do is be our best for the one we love, and for that person this is more than enough.
My grandfather was quite a bit older than my grandmother when they met and married; neither had had an easy life to that point and in one another they appreciated what it takes some of us a second chance at love to recognize: when we meet someone who shows up for us each day, who chooses to see the best in us, and who considers it a privilege to serve us—in short, turning love from a noun to a verb—we hold onto it, nurture it. What a beautiful gift it is to find that one who, in the words of Ram Dass, will walk us home, even when our pace slows and we need to lean heavier on one another. Or maybe especially when.
PartWolf 