I believe in goals. I believe in knowing what race you are in and running toward that finish line. I believe in knowing what road you are on and what the destination is.
Love. I want my love to be sticky.
Newlywed James and Caroline were magnificently in love with love. We promised and we dreamed but we were only tying on our tennis shoes and the gun had not even yet been shot. Counseled, researched, planned, and eager, we set out in the race of marriage and a life together. But we had not yet gotten shin splints, holes in our tennis shoes, and the weather was a perfect sixty-five degree sunny day.
Newlywed James and Caroline sat in the food court of the shopping mall, planning where the day and our life would take us. And then we got some of the best advice new love can be given.
Their age was old. The kind of old that can barely move and the movements are slow and thought through. She sat with white hair and a shriveled body in a wheelchair pushed by a white haired man, leaning over using her wheelchair as a cane. Her hand was held across her body and her fingers were gnarled. Their short walk from the door was an exercise in and of itself.
They sat. Sat at the table right beside us. He slowly and patiently moved the chair at the table and replaced it with her wheelchair. There was no talking, just slow movements. And then, she was left, left waiting. He, the more mobile one, departed and began a slow shuffle just a few feet away but each step was a goal accomplished. He achieved what he had set out for and slowly returned to her side.
He dipped the spoon into the cold, creamy vanilla. Their eyes met and they lovingly smiled at each other. He lifted the spoon to her lips, his hands were shaking with a tremor and uncontrolled movements. She opened her mouth as the spoon fluttered forward.
Love. Love fed her ice cream. Love was sticky all over her face. Their painstaking and exhausting mission was to set out and share an ice cream. After a couple of bites, she had it all over her face, sitting smiling, smiling at her love.
The cup was emptied. With great labor, he threw away the cup. With great pains, he returned the chair to the table. And they began their slow march to the exit.
James took my hand in his. We smiled at each other. We each had the same goal.
Now, the gun has been shot. We have gone through a few pairs of tennis shoes. We have helped each other up a few times. We run and run. Quitting is not an option. One day we will sit and have our celebratory ice cream and then we will pick ourselves up and soar one last time right through the finish line.
We never talked to them, but their actions spoke louder: Love can be sticky.