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.