In a recent interview with the Wall Street Journal, 85-year-old, award-winning actor Ian McKellen was asked about his pet peeves. “It baffles me,” he said, “why so many people these days, if they’re sitting in public, they’ll be talking to their iPhone…I want to stop them and say, ‘Do you realize the love of your life just walked by and you didn’t see them?'”
I wasn’t sitting in public, nor did I miss the love of my life, for I have found her. But I did observe the love of another’s life passing by, and though the scene pained me, I was blessed, for it validated the truth that some blessings carry agonies too tender for any observer to know fully. I witnessed a small sacrificial expression of love, the tiny tip of a much deeper devotion to which I, a mere onlooker, am not privy. As the biblical proverb says, “No one else can know your sadness” (Proverbs 14:10).
But first, there’s the issue with my cell phone. “Dad’s on his cell phone again,” I hear the refrain from my kids. In my defense, I tell them I am reading important emails and feeds from news sources. Significant stuff. For real? Okay, probably not.
I was in the company of extended family, many of whom I had just met. Our granddaughter, Stella, was celebrating her third birthday. After she had opened most of her presents—demonstrating unusual restraint for a three-year-old, enjoying each one for a moment before unwrapping the next gift—we all let her blow out her birthday candles. Not looking down at my cell phone was easy. What grandad would miss his granddaughter blowing out birthday candles because of a silly cell phone?
After the cake, some adults settled into couches and chairs while others worked the kitchen. Then, the temptation to retreat into my cell phone and hide in essential matters like college football and basketball scores, Instagram posts, or emails presented itself.
But McKellen’s quote kept coming back to me. So, returning my phone to my back pocket, I looked around and stared. Sitting to my left, Kayla’s father, Allen, and Kayla’s mother, Sue, were in front of me on the couch. From where I sat behind them, I had an angle and could watch them unnoticed, as if I were a fly on the wall.
Allen had been playing with the grandchildren, something Sue could not and no longer knows to do. She was diagnosed several years ago with Parkinson’s. The disease has progressed, steadily stealing her life. Now, Allen sat beside her, with her yet alone.
Whenever Sue was restless, which was frequent, Allen sensed it immediately, so attentive was he to her slightest irritation, patting her shoulder or arm, alternating the pats with strokes—not in grand, abrupt movements, but small, smooth ones, unnoticed. I sat in silence, with a herd of children cackling while building a fort from couch pillows in front of me and all around the room: adults chatted while grazing on homemade chili, cake, and cookies.
And in front of me, to my left, I was witnessing a live episode of Love Story.
Then Sue grew restless once again and wanted to get up and walk. And like a humble assistant, there was Alan, holding her arm, steadying her steps, guiding her wherever she needed to go, he, her tender rock.
I imagined, as I observed them, what their wedding day was like. I could see a young, vibrant couple (Sue played basketball for the University of Tennessee under legendary coach Pat Summitt) skipping out of the church building after the ceremony, the future a dream to share, the two lovers grinning from ear to ear, eyes ablaze with passion, having confirmed their love with “I do’s.”
But this day, peering down the other end of love’s long and winding road, I witnessed the “I do’s” of love and commitment earned through sickness and, yes, the prospect of death.
McKellen was right. I shall ever be thankful I put my cell phone down.
For had I been preoccupied with it,
I would have missed the love of two lovers walking by.
Oh how lovely and heartbreaking! Thank you!