so very true

The other day, I asked my mom a simple question:

“After nearly 60 years of marriage… are you still in love with Dad?”

She gave me this look — the kind that says I know the answer, but I’m not sure you’ll understand it yet.

She didn’t say a word. She just smiled.

Later that evening, my phone buzzed. It was a message from her — and it felt like a small masterpiece:

“You sometimes ask if I’m still in love with him. The question always makes me smile — not because it’s silly, but because the answer is not as easy as ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

How do I say yes, but not the way it used to be?

Not with butterflies or fireworks… but with roots.

After so many years, love isn’t something that shakes you.

It’s something that holds you.

It no longer races your heart — it calms your soul.

It doesn’t make your hands tremble — it gives you the strength to stand up every morning.

There are no more surprises, but there are rituals:

the morning coffee at the same time,

the tiny arguments about how to fold the towels,

the instinct to cover each other with a blanket when someone sneezes.

It may seem small… but it means everything.

At this stage of life, I don’t expect grand romantic gestures.

I expect that he listens when my back hurts,

that he holds me when I fall apart,

that he stays beside me even when I can’t make sense of myself.

And he does. Quietly. Steadily. Simply by being there.

Loving someone after a lifetime together isn’t like in the books.

It’s more like having a secret language only the two of you understand —

a way of looking at each other that only makes sense after sharing the same pain, the same fatigue, the same stubborn desire to keep going.

So yes… I am still in love with him.

But not like at the beginning.

I’m in love with everything we’ve built together,

with the peace that comes from knowing that no matter the storm,

he is still my safe place.”**

I read her message twice. Maybe three times.

And honestly… I think it’s one of the most beautiful lessons on love I’ve ever received. 💝

#LifeWisdom #LoveAfterYears #RelationshipTruths

growing old with the love of your life.

When we were young, love felt loud.

Exciting.

Fast.

Full of butterflies and heartbeats you could almost hear.

But as the years passed,

I learned something beautiful—

the sweetest chapter of love

doesn’t happen in the beginning.

It happens when you grow old together.

It’s in the quiet mornings,

when you wake up and realize the person beside you

has been part of your world for so long

that their presence feels like home.

It’s in the soft routines:

sharing tea,

reading in the same room,

walking together at a slower pace

because neither of you needs to rush anymore.

It’s in the familiar gestures—

the way they know your moods without words,

the way they reach for your hand automatically,

the way they laugh at the same old stories

as if they’re brand new.

Growing old with someone

means building a life made of thousands of tiny moments—

some joyful,

some difficult,

all meaningful.

It’s loving each other

through changing faces,

changing bodies,

changing seasons.

It’s looking at them one day

and realizing that the best part of your life

wasn’t the rush of the early years—

it was the gentle comfort

of all the ordinary days in between.

Growing old with someone

isn’t about holding on to who you used to be.

It’s about loving who you’ve become together.

It’s the sweetest chapter

not because it’s perfect,

but because it’s real—

two hearts, choosing each other

over and over

for a lifetime.

#emotionalhealing

today is my birthday

The Day I Realized Growing Older Was a Privilege, Not a Burden

A shift from fear to gratitude.

For years, I was afraid of getting older.

Every new line on my face,

every strand of silver hair,

every quiet reminder that time was moving—

I treated them like losses.

Like pieces of youth slipping away.

I worried about the things I couldn’t do anymore.

I compared myself to younger versions of me.

I thought growing older meant fading.

But one day, something shifted.

I was looking at an old photo of myself—

younger, brighter-eyed, carefree—

and for the first time,

I didn’t feel jealous of her.

I felt proud of the person I’ve become.

That young version of me didn’t know

how strong she could be.

She didn’t know what she would survive,

what she would build,

who she would love,

and how deeply she would learn to appreciate life.

The truth hit me quietly, like a soft sunrise:

Every year I feared was a year someone else never got.

Every wrinkle was a memory.

Every birthday was a gift.

Every grey hair was proof I kept going.

I started noticing the beauty in aging:

The wisdom behind my decisions.

The softness in my heart.

The patience I never had in my twenties.

The peace in small things.

The confidence that doesn’t need loudness.

The gratitude for simply waking up to another morning.

Growing older isn’t losing time—

it’s gaining perspective.

It’s a privilege to have lived long enough

to know what truly matters.

To love deeply.

To be loved.

To watch dreams grow roots.

To see beauty in ordinary days.

Now, when I look at myself in the mirror,

I don’t focus on what’s fading.

I focus on what’s staying:

My strength.

My resilience.

My heart.

My story.

I’ve learned that growing older

isn’t something to fear.

It’s something to honor.

Because life isn’t guaranteed.

And every year—

every season—

every breath

is a privilege many never received.

Aging is not a burden.

It’s the blessing of getting to stay.

#emotionalhealing

oreo the black tooth wonder

More expensive adventures of Oreo the black tooth wonder dog.

 Oreo went to the vet on Monday to be evaluated for dental surgery, and  cleaning.  They drew blood work to check his liver and kidneys to see if he can take anesthesia.   The vet saw at least 3 teeth that need to be extracted .

He still has hook worms from his life on the streets that we are treating.  The vet put him on antibiotics and Pepcid for acid reflux as well as suggesting we give him a small meal before bed.

The time change last week is playing havoc with his wake up time.  Between old man dog bladder and acid reflux he wakes us up at 5am.  He sleeps off and on throughout the day but I am unable to go back to sleep.

We are giving him dental chews for help with tartar build up.  He is hilarious to watch, and reminds me why I should never chew gum in public.

His breath has gone from "would gag a magot" to " oh good Lord!"   We are hoping the antibiotics will help too.

If you looked in his mouth you would you think that he just ate a whole bag of Oreos!i

Action speaks louder than words

Love isn’t measured by words alone.

“I love you so much, Mom,” I used to say over breakfast when I was fourteen.

“Really?” she’d smile. “Then next time I come home from work, just peel some potatoes — I’ll feel that love without you saying a word.”

“I adore my cat!” I’d say, pressing my cheek against his soft fur.

“Then maybe you could change his litter box,” Dad would reply. “He’s waiting for someone to care.”

Back then, I couldn’t understand why my parents always turned love into chores. Potatoes, cat litter — what did that have to do with feelings?

When I was seven, I was hospitalized for a few weeks. It was a strict children’s ward on the edge of the city. Parents could only visit at certain times and weren’t allowed inside — they had to stand in the garden and wave through the windows.

My mom came twice a day. Every morning and evening, the nurse would set a small package on my nightstand — a bit of cottage cheese, some fruit compote, a little meatball, maybe some buckwheat. Just enough for one meal, because a few hours later, there’d be another.

And always tucked inside, carefully wrapped in newspaper so it wouldn’t crease, were three or four paper outfits for my dolls. Tiny dresses, jackets, pajamas, each with delicate little tabs to fold over the shoulders. She drew them all by hand — polka dots, ribbons, fur trims, tiny hats.

I never asked for them. They weren’t medicine or vitamins or soup. She just knew I loved them. That was her way of saying, “I love you.”

It took me years to truly understand that — but I never forgot.

We often underestimate the small things. Of course, words matter — we all need to hear “I love you.” But if love isn’t shown through action, the words start to lose their meaning.

You can say “I love you” with roses, with rings, even with grand gestures — and that’s beautiful too. But love often speaks the loudest in the quietest ways.

A friend of ours has a dachshund that lost the use of its back legs. The vet said it would never walk again. Most people would’ve given up. But her husband built a tiny wheeled frame so their dog could still go for walks. For three years now, they’ve taken him out every single day — rain or shine — because love always finds a way.

When love is real, it shows itself constantly and effortlessly.

It’s in walking softly through a dark room so you don’t wake the one sleeping there.

It’s in tucking in a blanket, fixing a pillow, silencing a phone so someone can rest.

It’s in making a cup of coffee just the way they like it.

In the way you shape your child’s breakfast into something that makes them smile.

It’s in listening for hours when a friend needs you.

In giving away your last few dollars for someone’s medicine without a second thought.

Life is long, yet heartbreakingly short. And it’s these small, loving gestures that stay with us.

A true heart always knows when to say “I love you” — not in words, but in care.

I remember my mom and grandma always stepping into the hallway when Dad or Grandpa came home from work — because a man should feel that someone is waiting for him. I try to do the same.

I sit at my desk, writing, lost in thought. I hear the key turn in the lock. “Just one more line,” I tell myself. Then dinner.

And suddenly, beside me — a cup of hot tea, two sandwiches, and a couple of candies already unwrapped, so I don’t get distracted.

I look at them and hear everything I need to hear, without a single word.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need to be said. It’s already there — in every small act of care.

We just have to remember: “I love you” means the most when it’s lived, not only spoken.

love never fades

My parents were married for fifty-five years. One morning, my mom was walking downstairs to make breakfast for my dad when she suddenly collapsed — a heart attack.

My father, fragile himself, somehow found the strength to lift her, carry her to the car, and drive like a man running from death itself — ignoring lights, lanes, and every rule on the road. He just wanted to save her.

But by the time he got her to the ER, she was already gone.

At the funeral, he barely spoke. His eyes looked hollow, not from lack of tears — but from a pain too deep to show. Later that evening, as we sat together in the living room remembering her, the silence felt heavy enough to break.

Then he turned to my brother — the one who studied theology — and asked:

“Tell me… where is your mother now?”

My brother started talking about life after death, about the soul, about how love doesn’t disappear. My father listened quietly, and then cut him off:

“Take me to the cemetery.”

“Dad, it’s almost eleven at night!” we tried to object.

But he looked at us with a voice that held both grief and authority:

“Do not argue with a man who just lost the woman he lived beside for more than half a century.”

So we drove.

Under the beam of a small flashlight, he lowered himself to his knees by her grave, touched the cold stone with a trembling hand, prayed — and said something I will remember for the rest of my life:

“Fifty-five years… No one has the right to talk about real love unless they’ve lived it. We shared everything — joy and hardship, moves and new beginnings, children we raised, losses we survived, nights praying in hospitals, Christmas mornings, forgiveness after mistakes…”

He paused, swallowed hard, then whispered:

“She’s gone now. And you know what? I’m at peace. I’m grateful she went first. She didn’t have to suffer loneliness without me. Let that burden fall on me. I loved her too much to let her carry it alone.”

We all cried. He pulled us close and said quietly:

“It’s alright. Let’s go home.”

That night I finally understood what love really is.

It’s not flowers, fireworks, or the grand gestures people post online.

Real love is built in the everyday — in loyalty, in forgiveness, in holding on through storms, in choosing each other over and over again.

And when it ends, it leaves a mark that never fades.

love that endures

THE LOVE THAT ENDURES. ❤️

When you share years — or a lifetime — with the same person,

you begin to understand that love isn’t a straight road.

It twists and turns, climbs and dips, and sometimes even leads you backward.

But when you keep walking together — with respect, patience,

and the will to choose each other over and over again —

the path, however imperfect, becomes beautiful.

Don’t worry if the butterflies fade.

That spark at the beginning is only the prologue.

Real love grows through choices, through care,

through small, quiet gestures repeated every single day.

Learn to forgive gently.

To speak kindly, even in disagreement.

To argue without breaking what’s sacred between you.

Differences don’t destroy love —

silence does.

Pride does.

Indifference does.

And never fear time.

Don’t be afraid of growing old together.

We once feared routine, distance, and the slow drift of years.

But when love is protected —

when you keep choosing each other despite the storms —

it doesn’t fade; it transforms.

There will be days heavy with fatigue.

Days when you feel distant, quiet, or simply worn out.

That’s not failure — it’s real life.

Love isn’t measured by passion alone.

It’s measured by the decision to stay

when staying feels hardest.

And if ever you find yourselves apart —

take the first step.

Reach out.

Look into each other’s eyes as you did in the beginning.

Remember the reason you began.

Then start again.

And again.

As many times as it takes.

Because lasting love isn’t luck or magic —

it’s effort, tenderness, and two souls

who keep choosing to build a life together. ❤️

wisdom

Wise Advice from a Farmer's Wife

Whenever you return a borrowed pie pan, make sure it's got a warm pie in it.

Invite lots of folks to supper. You can always add more water to the soup.

There's no such thing as woman's work on a farm. There's just work.

Make home a happy place for the children. Everybody returns to their happy place.

Always keep a small light on in the kitchen window at night.

If your man gets his truck stuck in the field, don't go in after him. Throw him a rope and pull him out with the tractor.

Keep the kerosene lamp away from the the milk cow's leg.

It's a whole lot easier to get breakfast from a chicken than a pig.

Always pat the chickens when you take their eggs.

It's easy to clean an empty house, but hard to live in one.

All children spill milk. Learn to smile and wipe it up.

Homemade's always better'n store bought.

A tongue's like a knife. The sharper it is the deeper it cuts.

A good neighbor always knows when to visit and when to leave.

A city dog wants to run out the door, but a country dog stays on the porch 'cause he's not fenced-in.

Always light birthday candles from the middle outward.

Nothin' gets the frustrations out better'n splittn' wood.

The longer dress hem, the more trusting the husband.

Enjoy doing your children's laundry. Some day they'll be gone.

You'll never catch a runnin' chicken but if you throw seed around the back door you'll have a skillet full by supper.

Biscuits brown better with a little butter brushed on 'em.

Check your shoelaces before runnin' to help somebody.

Visit old people who can't get out. Some day you'll be one.

The softer you talk, the closer folks'll listen.

The colder the outhouse, the warmer the bed.