Long Love
I attended the retirement ceremony of my nephew-in-law, an Air Force pilot of 23 years. I had officiated his wedding twenty years earlier and he asked me to say a few words about their next twenty.
“Long love” is what I called it at the end of the military retirement ceremony. Theirs was “medium love”—at twenty years—an accomplishment of no small measure. After four kids, living at multiple military bases, 4,900 flight hours, 861 combat hours, and even fire drops from a C-130 over my own town of Santa Clarita in January of this year, twenty years of marriage in the military was turning into a new chapter.
At first glance, twenty to forty might just seem like more of the same. But it’s not. It can be surprisingly different. People grow in ways neither of them expected. Roles can shift. Politics sometimes migrate. New ambitions crop up.
That’s what happened to my parents. My dad was also a military aviator and retired at almost the same age as Jesse, my nephew-in-law. And that’s when my mom saw new opportunities as latent ambitions were awakened. She went into real estate and even opened her own brokerage. Raising kids and being the wife of an officer were things of the past. But it was a tough transition. My dad was uncomfortable moving to second fiddle. Mom was determined to succeed, which included investing money they’d saved over a long period (something dad did not want to do). I wasn’t living at home at the time, but there were more than a few times they gave my brother and sister a few bucks to go to Dairy Queen so they could air it out at home.
Twenty to forty is tougher than most people think.
My niece, Amber, is a lot like my mom, Olga. And she and Jesse may have a few times when she says, “Here’s a few bucks, kids. Why don’t you all head off to Dairy Queen and enjoy a cone.”
That’s why I suggested they prepare for “long love.” Joyce and I have found it takes two things. Patience. And. Humility.
Patience. In the one paragraph in all the Bible that defines love, the very first quality listed is patience. It’s first! But does first mean most important? Probably not. But at least it’s something. It’s notable. It’s worth sitting up and paying attention.
Patience is how I am with “the other.” Slow to get annoyed. Slow to interrupt. Slow to say, “you always do that.” Slow to say, “If you tell that joke one more time I’m going to shoot you.” (I just don’t want Joyce to end up on an episode of “Dateline.”) Slow to say, “Yeah, you already told me that.” Slow to roll my eyes. Slow to open my big yapper. Slow to let years of quirks turn into a Scarlet Letter she has to wear.
Patience is slow. It’s molasses. It’s not about not saying something … it’s about the speed with which you say something. How many times have I gotten irritated only to realize an hour later that it was me who was the irritable one?
Humility. It’s about how I see myself. It’s the sobriety with which I look in the mirror. Do I see the blemishes and wrinkles? Do I admit them? Humility is not a given just because you’re older. Old or young, you’ve still got to admit and acknowledge and remember all the knucklehead things you’ve said and done, lower your head a bit, and know that you need grace. Then, once you’ve been given it, giving it as well.
I love seeing humble mature couples, noticing the slight grins and nods they give each other, the pulling back of one of the partners, the biting of the tongue, the smiling and nodding, the checking out when a story is being told for the thousandth time, and even the quiet walking away when it is needed.
I don’t want to be caustic in long love. I don’t want to be cynical. I don’t want to be irritable. I want Joyce and me to be that mature, humble, patient, gracious, kind couple.
I know I’m dreaming, but it’s a picture I aspire to. And I know Joyce does, too.
And I know Jesse and Amber do as well. So, may this next twenty years be as fruitful as the past twenty. Amber, may you use that USC master’s degree in social work to help the hurting. And may you use that unlimited energy and vision and optimism and goodness in your soul to help others. And when you retire, they probably won’t have medals or commendations or an Air Force colonel pinning anything on your lapel. But there will be many people who owe you a big, fat thank you.
And it is my hope, and I know yours and Jesse’s too, that you will also have the distinction of being able to say, “We have long love.”
Be patient and humble, and you just might.
Good luck. And may God help you both.
So very good. Humility, so hard but necessary but patience really rings a bell. It’s so easy to speak or act without thinking and such words or acts once done are hard to undo.