On Love and Marriage

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Nicholas Sparks was on NPR yesterday, explaining why his novels were always about love.

I couldn't help remembering an incident, years ago, in a Jiffy Lube waiting room. I was in limbo while my car's oil was refilled with no available diversion save for a few tattered copies of People, some car magazines, and a coffee machine with a carafe of stale caffeine.

There was one other occupant of the room. He was an ordinary little fellow, rather older than me. We introduced ourselves. He started talking about his late wife. How they met, how soon they married, what they meant to each other. What her virtues were. He didn't elevate her to the status of Saint Wife. But it was clear how much they loved one another. And, listening to him, I could tell that it was the love they'd had which made her death bearable to him.

You could pass this man on the street and think nothing of him. If you knew he was a widower, you might well pity him. But, hearing his story, I realized he was one of the blessed of God. He had married the exact right woman for him, and as a result his life was rich and good. Even in her absence, he had her memory.

When he was done, he apologized for boring me. Then he left.

I think of this man from time to time and what an enviable life he had.

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