My Papa Joe is 85 years old. He has been married to my grandma for 60 years—six decades of life side by side, weathering storms and celebrating joys, always together. These days, his memory is slipping. He is slowing down. The man who once moved with strength and confidence now takes tiny, cautious steps with the help of his cane. And yet, behind those frail movements, his love for my grandma still shines as fiercely as ever.
This morning, he surprised me by asking if I would take him to Walmart. At first, I thought he simply wanted to get out of the house for a while. Honestly, I was glad he asked—because as many of us know, he shouldn’t be driving anymore. I figured a small trip would do him some good, and it might also give grandma a few hours of quiet at home without having to worry about him.
When we arrived, I watched him slowly make his way through the aisles, cane tapping lightly against the floor. His steps were so tiny, so deliberate, that my heart ached a little. I assumed he was just walking for the sake of walking, enjoying the feeling of being out in the world. But as the cart began to fill, I noticed something. There was a pattern to the things he was choosing.
First, he reached for a bottle of soda—my grandma’s favorite kind. Then he carefully selected a bag of grapes, the very ones she always keeps in the fridge. A few aisles later, he stopped, studied the shelves, and placed a small lemon pie into the cart. It took me a moment to realize: this wasn’t a trip to pass the time. This was a mission.
Then came the moment that undid me. Papa Joe, moving slower than ever, shuffled toward the flower section. He stood there, looking at bouquet after bouquet, studying the colors with care. Finally, he picked the one with the most purple—her favorite color. My eyes filled with tears. His hands might tremble now, his memory might falter, but his heart remembered what mattered most: her.
On the drive home, he wasn’t finished. He insisted we stop to pick up a sandwich for grandma’s lunch. He wanted to bring her something warm, something thoughtful, something to make her smile.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, I realized this wasn’t just an errand. It was a love story. A quiet, ordinary, extraordinary act of devotion. After 60 years, Papa Joe is still intentional. Still thoughtful. Still putting her first.
May we all learn from him. Love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect words. It’s about the small things, chosen carefully, day after day, year after year. It’s about noticing, remembering, and giving—even when your body is weak and your memory fades.
Papa Joe taught me today that love never stops being intentional. And if we are lucky, may we all love, and be loved, like that.
