I spent the afternoon with my grandpa. There was talk of missing Grandma and her voice saying good night. Her gravy… “she made the best gravy.” And how beautiful she was when they were first married.
“I sure know how to pick ‘em.”
True commitment. Sixty-five years of working together to work it out. Working together.
“I was with her for most of my life.”
Even when it hurts, even when it costs us, even when we are tired of working. Choosing to help each other instead of turning against each other when the going gets tough. Choosing to love, even when you don’t feel like it.
Then I stumbled upon this beautiful slideshow and was a weepy mess.
Commitment doesn’t just happen. Sixty-five years doesn’t happen without bumps along the way. A marriage is a living thing that requires cultivating and planting and watering and nurturing and weeding and harvesting. Has our fast-paced culture robbed us of the patience required to maintain commitment? I wonder sometimes.
I am determined to work with my husband instead of against him. To nurture and protect our relationship. To continue to dream together. And play together. In good times and in bad. Because I want what my grandparents had.