What Is Love?

 

Everyone seems to know what love is.  We’ve been in love, been loved, and spent much of our lives trying to understand it.  Yet ask someone to define love, and you may be surprised how difficult it is to put into words.

Perhaps that’s because love isn’t really something you explain.  It’s something you feel, experience, and more importantly, demonstrate.

For centuries, people have tried to capture it through music, art, and poetry.  Eric Clapton expressed the unimaginable grief of losing his young son in Tears in Heaven.  Bonnie Raitt and Adele have given voice to the heartbreak and longing of love.  Artists such as Rodin and Magritte have tried to capture it in a moment, while poets like Shakespeare, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and William Butler Yeats have searched for the words to describe it.

Yet sometimes the most profound descriptions of love come from those who know the least about explaining it.

When children were asked, “What is Love?”, their answers were wonderfully simple.

Rebecca, age eight, said: “When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over to paint her toenails anymore.  So my grandfather does it for her, even when his hands got arthritis too.  That’s love.”

Danny, age seven, offered this observation: “Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and takes a sip before giving it to him to make sure it tastes okay.”

Apparently, even romance has its quality-control department!

Tommy, age six, said: “Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.”

And then there was the four-year-old boy whose elderly neighbor had recently lost his wife.  Seeing the old man sitting alone and crying, the little boy climbed into his lap and sat quietly with him.  Later, when his mother asked what he had said to the man, the little boy replied, “Nothing.  I just helped him cry.”

Perhaps that little boy understood love better than most adults ever will.

I was fortunate to grow up with loving parents. My mother never hesitated to tell me she loved me; from the time I was a little boy until the day she died. My father was different. I knew he loved me, and I loved him, but neither of us ever said it.

That was the way many men of our generation were raised. Men were supposed to be tough. Affection was demonstrated, not discussed. We could fix a broken engine, build a house, or work a sixteen-hour day, but somehow three little words could leave us speechless.

As my father lay dying, that silence began to weigh heavily on me. I realized that despite a lifetime of knowing how much we loved each other, I had never actually told him.

For several days, I struggled with it. Finally, I confided in a dear friend, explaining my regret and my inability to find the courage to say those words.

She listened and then, quite emphatically, said, "Jeff, you must tell him!"

So, I did.

I went to my father's bedside. He was weak, struggling to breathe. I took his hand, and as his eyes slowly opened and focused on me, I knew he understood I was there.

With tears filling my eyes, I leaned toward him and said, "I love you, Dad."

He didn't have the strength to speak. But he squeezed my hand and gave me the slightest smile.

That was all.

No speech, no grand gesture, no elaborate expression of emotion. Just a squeeze of the hand and a smile. Somehow, it said everything.

I knew he loved me. He knew I loved him. Perhaps we had always known. But at that moment, I discovered something important: Knowing you love someone and telling them are not necessarily the same thing.

So, what is love?

Maybe it's a grandfather painting his wife's toenails when his own hands hurt. Maybe it's tasting someone's coffee before handing it to them. Maybe it's a little boy who doesn't know what to say but understands when someone needs a shoulder to cry on.

Or perhaps it's a lifetime of quiet devotion, a hand squeezed from a hospital bed, or three simple words spoken when there may not be another opportunity.

I've come to believe that love isn't measured by how eloquently we describe it, how extravagantly we express it, or even how often we say it. It's measured by the little things we do, the sacrifices we make, the tears we share, and the people who know they never have to face life alone.

But there is one thing I've learned.

Don't assume someone knows you love them. Don't wait for a special occasion, the perfect moment, or a reason to say it.

Tell your parents, your children, your spouse, your siblings, and your friends.

Tell them while you can.

After all, three little words may be the simplest thing we ever say, but they can become the most meaningful words someone ever hears.

And sometimes, they are the words we wish we had said just a little sooner.

 

Oh, How I Miss My Camino!

 

After walking 538 miles across Spain in 42 days, from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France to Santiago de Compostela, I find myself missing so much about the Camino.

I miss the people from every corner of the world, young and old, some eager to share their stories, others quietly keeping to themselves.  I miss the conversations, both brief and lasting, and the simple greeting that followed me every day, Buen camino!  I miss the laughter around crowded dinner tables, the chance encounters over a café con leche, and the warm smiles of shopkeepers in villages along dusty paths, and busy plazas.

I miss the endless green fields of barley and wheat, stretching toward the horizon, with a narrow ribbon of trail leading me forward.  I miss the reassuring yellow arrows, the cobblestone streets of sleepy villages, the sandy paths and even the rugged, unforgiving rocks of the Pyrenees.  I miss the inexpensive wine, the cold mugs of cerveza, the crusty bread, the savory ham and cheeses, and the simple pleasure of warm goat cheese atop fresh arugula, sprinkled with walnuts and sweet cherry tomatoes.  Somehow, even the simplest meals tasted extraordinary.

I miss the cathedrals, grand and small.  The great ones, with their soaring naves, ancient paintings, and solemn statures.  The hushed reverence, the shuffle of footsteps echoing through vast stone interiors, and the little chapels, tucked away in quiet places, where flickering candlelight softened the shadows and time seemed to stand still.

But most of all, I miss the simplicity of being a pilgrim.

Wake up.  Walk.  Eat.  Sleep.  Repeat.

Each morning, I put on the same clothes, shoulder my pack, and follow the yellow arrows toward a single destination, Santiago de Compostela.  Nothing more was required of me.  No schedules to keep, no endless decisions, no burdens beyond the miles ahead and the weight on my back.  Life had been stripped down to its essentials, and somehow, by having so little, I felt I had so much.

The Camino was physically demanding and, at times, mentally exhausting.  Yet within its simple rhythm, I found a quiet peace.  Somewhere between the long miles, the unexpected friendships, the solitude, and the beauty of the Spanish countryside, I discovered parts of myself I had never known.  The Camino asked me to slow down, to pay attention, and to appreciate what I might otherwise have passed by. 

Perhaps that is the gift of a pilgrimage. You begin walking across a country, but somewhere along the way, you begin walking inward.  You arrive at your destination changed, carrying home memories of places and people, but also a deeper understanding of yourself.

Now, back home, I find myself longing for the life I left behind on those Spanish trails.  I miss the people, the places, the rhythm, and the peace.  I miss the freedom of not knowing exactly what the day would bring, trusting only the path beneath my feet and the arrow pointing the way.

The miles are behind me, but a part of me remains there.  In the quiet villages, the open fields, the ancient chapels, and the footsteps of fellow pilgrims moving toward a common destination.

Oh, how I miss my Camino!

Buen Camino, my friends. Until we meet again!

 

I completed the Camino Frances, in 2023, with my buddy Doug and was so moved by the experience, I completed the Portuguese Way and the Camino Finisterre in 2024.  God willing, I will return to retrace my footsteps on the Camino Frances in 2027, with Doug once again, in hopes of once again finding peace.

The Stuff Inside

 

 

Rick and I decided one summer night, while we camped in the Great Smoky Mountains, to hike up Deep Creek Trail in search of the synchronized fireflies.  In the Great Smokies, every year for about ten days, late May to early June, these little creatures, called fireflies, display their show.  The most popular place to view them is around Elkmont, but as the crowds grew to watch the spectacle, the National Park was forced to limit visitation, and now issues permits via a lottery system.  Rick and I both had researched and had come to discover that the synchronized fireflies were not only unique to Elkmont but had been seen in many places throughout the National Park.  One of the places mentioned was Deep Creek, where we just so happened to be.

It was late, when Rick and I headed out of camp and maneuvered through the woods to the trail head of Deep Creek.  We left our headlamps off, not wanting to disturb the show we had come so far to see.

As we walked, the forest seemed to come alive around us.  Cicadas sang their evening song, crickets chirped from the shadows, and a soft breeze whispered through the leaves.

Our hike eventually brought us to Tom Branch Falls.   We stopped, found a place to stand quietly, and waited.

Then, against the backdrop of the black forest, something magical happened.

The hillside began to glow!

Eight seconds on

Four seconds off.

Eight seconds on.  Then off.

Hundreds, then thousands of tiny neon-green lights blinked in perfect rhythm, as if the forest itself had found a heartbeat.

I stood there watching, and suddenly I was transported back nearly forty years, to a night when my daughter was only five years old.

We had been sitting in our backyard watching fireflies dance through the darkness.  I suggested we catch some, just as I did when I was a boy.  Soon we had a jar filled with them.

We sat on the patio, watching the little jar mysteriously light up.

On-Off-On.

My daughter looked at me with the wonderfully curious expression only a five-year-old can have.

“What makes them light up, Daddy?”

Being a pharmacist and having an extensive background in chemistry, I launched into my best scientific explanation.  I told her about chemical reactions, bioluminescence, and how the light was part of a mating signal.

She listened carefully; her little brow furrowed in concentration.

Then came the question that stopped my scientific lecture cold.

With an Aire of enlightenment, she says, “Oh! So, it’s the stuff inside them?”

I grinned.

“Yes, I said.  “It’s simply the stuff inside.”

Now, forty years later, standing beside Rick in the darkness of the forest, I watched those same little creatures perform their ancient dance.

Rick broke the silence.

“What makes them light up?”

I smiled in the darkness, and responded, “I once was told be an authority on the subject, that it’s the stuff inside.”

We both laughed

And for a moment, standing there beneath that glowing hillside, I wasn’t an old man hiking through the woods with a buddy.

I was a young father sitting on a patio with his five-year-old daughter, watching a jar of fireflies come alive.

Some things change with time.

Some things don’t.

And sometimes, the simplest explanation is still the best one.

It’s the Stuff Inside.

I Remember When

 

I remember when life seemed to move at the pace of a summer breeze. In the 1960’s, five cents could buy an ice-cold Coke, and an empty afternoon was all we needed for adventure. We played tic-tac-toe on scraps of paper, wore the grass thin with hide-and-seek, stumbled through blind man’s bluff, and hopped from square to square on chalk-drawn hopscotch.  We laughed until the streetlights came on, and somehow, that was enough.

Then came the late ’60s, and childhood gave way to horsepower and chrome. Pontiac GTOs, Mustangs, Camaros, and Chevelles lined the parking lots. They drank gas at eight miles per gallon, but no one cared. Gas was barely 30 cents a gallon, and freedom was measured by the miles ahead.

Friday nights belonged to high school football beneath bright stadium lights. Saturdays meant sock hops, drive-in diners, drive-in movies, hot dogs wrapped in paper, crispy onion rings, and cherry Cokes shared through two straws. Those were the days when forever seemed just around the corner.

But adulthood has a way of arriving without asking permission.

A place called Vietnam suddenly became part of everyday conversation. Young men traded letter jackets for uniforms. Some came home carrying invisible burdens and too many never came home at all. College dreams, student deferments, carefully planned futures—all could disappear in four short years.

Life marched on anyway.

 College brought Pabst Blue Ribbon, Budweiser, and bowls of hunch punch filled weekends, offering young adults the illusion that tomorrow would somehow take care of itself. We believed we had all the time in the world.

Then came marriage. We promised “till death do us part,” never imagining that even forever could sometimes have an expiration date.

Fatherhood changed everything.

The moment I held my daughter, my dreams became less about me and more about her. Responsibility became purpose. Work became necessity. Careers offered security, but they quietly stole pieces of life that could never be reclaimed. First steps I barely saw. Birthdays missed because of business trips. Vacations shortened by deadlines. Precious moments traded for promotions and paychecks.

I remember when.

Now, in the twilight of my life, I sit quietly with memories that remain as vivid as the day they were made. The fears that once kept me awake. The joys that made my heart soar. The unexpected turns I never could have planned. The victories that seemed enormous and the failures that taught me who I was.

An ordinary life, somehow, became extraordinary. 

I’ve learned that life isn’t measured by the money we earned, the cars we drove, or the titles we carried. It’s measured by the hands we held, the people we loved, the tears we wiped away, and the memories that refuse to fade.

As I close my eyes, I can still hear the cheers from those Friday night football games, the rumble of a GTO pulling away from a drive-in, the laughter of children playing until dusk, and the tiny footsteps of my little girl running into my arms.

Those moments never really left.

They simply became…

“I remember when.”

Let Freedom Ring

 

Even at four years old, Troy began to realize what the flag stood for.  It represented his freedom! Troy was born on January 11, 1925, the youngest of four children. Raised in poverty, he learned early the values of hard work, faith in God, and love of country. When he was fourteen, he defended his mother from his abusive father and sent him away for good. From then on, Troy and his siblings worked together to help support their family, never seeing themselves as victims, but as people determined to build a better life.

Through delivering groceries, collecting bottles, and doing whatever work he could find, Troy discovered that success comes through perseverance. America did not promise an easy life. It offered something greater. The freedom to earn one through hard work and determination.

At just seventeen, with his mother’s permission, Troy enlisted in the U.S. Army during World War II. He fought in New Guinea and the Philippines, took part in multiple beach assaults, and earned five military decorations, including two Bronze Stars and a Silver Star. He learned firsthand that freedom is never free. It is preserved by the courage and sacrifice of those willing to defend it.

Returning home, Troy found that his mother had passed away. Despite hardship and loss, he never pitied himself. Instead, he remained grateful for the opportunities America provided. Until his death on July 11, 2012, he stood proudly whenever the flag was raised and the National Anthem was played. He believed that the greatest gift this nation offered was not wealth or comfort, but freedom for every person to pursue their own destiny.

Troy was my father, my hero, and my friend.  He taught me to love this country and what it stood for.  He taught me the simple ideal, for which he fought for his entire life and for which this Republic represents.  Our Freedom!

 

Best Present Ever

Father's Day came and went, but one memory kept rolling back into my mind. A birthday present my dad gave me 64 years ago.

I was about to turn ten, which was a big deal. Double digits! I had one goal, convince my parents I desperately needed a brand-new red Sting-Ray bike with a black banana seat and ape-hanger handlebars.

Dad looked up from his newspaper just long enough to say, "What's wrong with the bike you've got?"

Everything, I thought.

My bike was an archaeological artifact. Heavy as a tractor, covered in scratches, rust, dents, and sporting fake gas tank that fooled absolutely no one. My friends were popping wheelies on shiny Sting-Rays while I was making my bike sound faster by clipping playing cards to the spokes.

As my birthday approached, my parents sent me to stay with a friend for a few days. Looking back, I probably should have been suspicious.

Birthday morning arrived. Pancakes, bacon, happy birthdays... then Dad quietly slipped into the garage.

This is it, I thought. My Sting-Ray has arrived.

I heard a bike rolling toward the kitchen.

It was...my old bike.

Only now it had been sanded, painted fire-engine red, stripped of its fenders and fake gas tank, and fitted with a brand-new black banana seat. Dad proudly pointed out every improvement.

To ten-year-old me, it looked like someone had cut the roof off an old pickup, painted it red, slapped a Corvette emblem on the hood, and called it a sports car.

I was crushed.

But then I looked at my dad.

He wasn't seeing an old bike. He was seeing two days of hard work, love, determination, and pride. He had taken what we had and transformed it into the very best gift he could give.

That wasn't the Sting-Ray bike I'd wanted.

It was something far better. It was loving effort and care for his son.

Best present ever.

Thanks, Dad.

A Story of Forty-five Years

Forty-five years ago, Rhonda and I stood at the beginning of a journey with hearts full of dreams.  We imagined a good life, one filled with happiness, success, good health, deep love, and lasting friendship.  We did not know what the years would bring, but we knew one thing for certain: we would face them together.

There were the good days, the hard days that tested our strength.  There were long days, fleeting days, busy days, and boring days.  Sweet days filled with laughter and tired days when simply making it through together was enough.  There were moments so ordinary they barely seemed worth noticing, yet somehow, they became the memories we treasure most.

Over forty-five years, we learned that marriage is not a collection of perfect moments, but a beautiful mixture of the messy and the magical.  It is patience and forgiveness, joy and sorrow, holding on and letting go.  It is two lives woven together so tightly that the story belongs to neither one alone.

And now, as we look back through the pages of our life together, we see that every chapter mattered.  The triumphs, the struggles, the quiet moments, and the celebrations all became part of something larger than we could have imagined.

They are the pages of our story.  A story of friendship, faithfulness, respect, and love.  Forty-five years later, it remains the greatest story we have ever written together.

Happy 45^th Anniversary to my beautiful Wife and co-author of our story!