Rachel was 21. Vivacious. Fun. Ornery. Mother of 6 month old Kyle, Jr. Kyle, Sr was 23. He was willing to go along with things the craziness of his wife, but having been married for two years and having a baby, the increasing responsibilities of life had begun to take hold. You could look at these two and see not only love, but a growing respect. And the baby was a healthy and happy little guy. I had met them at the funeral home, where I worked, at grandparents funeral, first when Rachel was verypregnant and then once just after the baby. I took an immediate liking to all three of them.

          Everything was great. Until that night at work when an accident fatally injured Kyle. He held on for four days, but the injuries were too severe. He never regained consciousness and he was never able to whisper “I love you” to Rachel one last time. He left behind a 21 year old wife and a 6 month old baby who bore his name.

          Both Rachel’s parents and Kyle’s parents were very worried about Rachel. What was she going to do? What would happen to her? How could she deal with a child all alone? It was all so overwhelming. Rachel seemed to be in shock. She answered questions with single words. She clutched to Kyle, Jr. She had that look in her eyes; seeing something other than what was in front of her. An empty look.

          I knew something that her parents and Kyle’s parents didn’t know. I had seen similar situations. I had watched young people climb out of the pit. I had a real feeling that Rachel would eventually bounce back. She just needed a little help. That was my job, at least at the beginning.

          Five years later I heard my name called out in a grocery store. Turning, I saw Rachel, now 26, flying down the aisle pushing her cart in front of her. She came to a sliding stop when she got to me and gave me a big hug. Usually, when I worked at the funeral home, I dealt with grieving spouses or parents or adult children in the first 6 months of their grief. Because there were so many, I had to file them away deep in my brain and move on after our time together was done. While Rachel was running toward me, my mind was clicking away through faces, trying to place this wide eyed, laughing girl. By the time the arms wrapped around my neck, I had connected the dots. I pried her arms away (I don’t hug very often) and held her at arm’s length. She was laughing, but tears were in her eyes.

          “I want you to meet someone. You remember Kyle.” A shy little smile from a little face peeking around the leg of a young man I didn’t know. “And this is my husband, Geoff.” They had been married almost 9 months and now lived in a neighboring town. Little Kyle was trying to get Geoff’s attention by pulling on his pant’s leg. “Daddy, I have to pee!” We all laughed and Geoff scooped the boy up and carried him off, leaving Rachel and me to talk. “Am I an awful person that I met someone else?” “No, of course not! You need someone to share your love with and Kyle really needs a daddy. You are fine, girl!”

          Was her love for Kyle real? Of course it was real. So is her love for Geoff. Young love is intense and resilient. Young love carries with it hope and ambition and a little fire. But…love at 21 is very different than love at 81.

          I am still on the e-mail notification for obituaries at that funeral home in Ohio. There are notifications almost every day. More often that not, the names are familiar to me. This morning I saw one that made me chuckle. Mr. Kuebler, a WWII vet, had been married to Dorothy for 72 years and they had lived in the same house all those years. When Dot passed, he went to live with his daughter. I asked him one day how he managed so many years of marriage. He winked and said that he had been born on Valentine’s Day, so it would have just been wrong not to have been married all that time. Mr. Kuebler was 104 years old when he passed away this past Monday. The other obituary was a gentleman I had never met, but I wish now I had. Mr. Etzel, also a WWII vet, also passed away on Monday. He was 97 years old. At the time of his death, he and Bernadette had been married 73 years. She survives him. All those years, all that love, all that experience.

          It all brought my mind to the losses of this week here at the church. Comparatively speaking, Jim Krom, at 82 years of age, and Richard Miller at 81 years, are just young whipper snappers. And, compared to Mr. Kuebler and Mr. Etzel, both were virtually newlyweds. Jim and Carol were only married 63 years and Richard and Janice just 62 years.

          Rachel and Kyle were really, truly, in love. But that love was very, very different from the love that the Kueblers and the Etzells and the Kroms and the Millers shared. Rachel and Kyle probably would have gotten there if the accident hadn’t happened, but it would have required change. Crisis in the form of deaths and sicknesses and financial issues and whatever else can happen. Weathering all the storms together. Facing disappointments and angry moments. And the fights! Oh, my, the fights! When you are 21 you never imagine that you and your partner will ever fight! But you will. It will be epic. You will deal with it.

          I see in a long marriage an amazing love. My one and only regret I have in my own life is that I will never have that amazing love. But it has been my privilege to see it. To be around people who have been married and in love for 50 and 60 and 70 years. It always makes my heart lift in joy.

          I believe I have shared this before on these pages, but maybe not. A great example of love. While at the funeral home, a gentleman died whom I had known since my pastoring days. His wife was so precious. Both of them were gracious people. They had been married more than 60 years when he passed away.

          He was a pretty big guy. As I talked with the wife and her children, she gave me a picture of them on their wedding day. She still looked much the same, but he was a skinny little guy, just home from the war. I smiled and told her we would place the picture on a special table of mementos.  Then she handed me some clothing in a sealed plastic container like what a new shirt might come in. “Pastor, this was the suit we were married in and I want him to be buried in it. It was the only suit he ever owned.” Her son took her hand and said, “Mom, that suit isn’t going to fit anymore.” She turned to her son and said, “Why not? It will be fine.” All I could do was take the suit. But it was going to be way, way to small.

          When it came to the point that I could dress him and get him into his casket, I determined I would make every effort with the suit. By the time I had finished I had just about worn out a pair of scissors. We always said that we could make anything fit, but there are limits. It did not look good. I had a suit provided by the funeral home on standby. The family would be in early and I knew that when she saw the suit, she would want to go with the funeral home suit. I led her into the viewing room and she got her first look at her husband in his suit. She began to weep, which I had expected. It didn’t look good. Finally, she turned to me. She laid her hand on my cheek. “Pastor, thank you! He looks just like he did the day we were married!”

          Love like that is beyond words.

          And we are witnesses to it this week.

          Blessings.