Yellow Daffodils by Rev. Dr. Joan Malick

On a beautiful 350 acre retirement community in Indiana, there are 650 residents who call it home. I met JP when he and his wife of over 60 years moved into Assisted Living. JP was the full time caregiver for his wife. He immediately signed up to be in one of the 6 caregiver support groups available, meeting two times a month, each for a one hour session.

For these support groups, in my retirement, I serve as the facilitator for the caregiver support groups. I like to use a variety of resources to share with the participants: current medical research on the particular diagnosis each caregiver is learning, nutrition and exercise guidelines, helpful articles on keeping caregivers strong, poetry, the different steps and stages each disease takes, and mindfulness/meditation. As a retired ordained clergyperson, I also include spirituality. JP was eager for all of these supportive documents.

JP was sunshine in the support group room. He had a likeable and receptive personality that encouraged others to be honest. Following his wife’s death, he decided to return to Florida and buy a house in a beautiful retirement community where he and his wife had lived before. However, he could not find a support group or resources to sustain him in the misery and agony of grief, the profound loneliness of being a widower, and the lifestyle changes of living alone. He asked if I could send him a variety of resources for his comfort and continuing learning about this transition.

I gladly sent him a package with an encouraging greeting card on top. It was a year and 2 months after his wife’s death.

His new little neighborhood had a Friday late afternoon social time for getting acquainted and welcoming new residents. Everyone was invited to bring a simple food or snacks to share. JP brought a bag of candy.

JP called to say thank you for the supportive information I had sent. He updated me and said he had been putting up screens on his sun porch. He was annoyed his dryer took an hour and a half to dry towels. I told him I had to have a new shelf put in under the kitchen sink due to an old drip. He had discovered his front door lock did not catch. I mentioned I had been gardening and could just see the tops of the yellow Daffodils so far.

We talked about such common and ordinary things like his weather and my weather, his 2 wonderful grown children and their summer plans, and my daughter hoping for a vacation. Our phone calls began at 7:30 pm and lasted until 9:00 pm. We both were reluctant to hang up. These were becoming like phone dates.

On one of those phone dates, he said: “When was the last time you were in Florida?” I thought that was a really weird question. I told JP I was in Florida when I entered a residency program in 1996 at the beginning of my PhD program. He said Florida had changed.

He asked me if I liked to eat fish? I thought that question was also strange. I told him I loved fresh fish. And then he asked me how long it had been since I walked on the warm sand of the beach and collected seashells? I told him a long time ago: childhood.

JP then invited me to be a guest in his 3 bedroom home. He said: “You probably need a vacation. The weather would be hot. But I want to show you the beach and the long long long pier and my favorite everyday places for delicious freshly caught and cooked fish. Try Allegiant Airlines for cheap direct flights.” He reminded me to bring my calendar.

I made three trips to see JP. He was uncommonly tall, uncommonly handsome, uncommonly soft spoken, uncommonly tenderhearted, uncommonly happy, and uncommonly affectionate. We agreed we needed to seriously talk about how we could bring our lives together. I had been thinking about that too every day. We decided we wanted to tell our families and friends we had fallen in love. What would they say? We weren’t sure what to call ourselves. Beloved friends? Committed companions? A sacred oneness? Co-partners? In our mid 80’s, we were too old for “boy friend and girl friend.”

We did our serious, intentional, shared thinking and dreaming of our tomorrows on a piece of furniture he had purchased for my first visit. We both agreed this should be a serious conversation. JP bought a love seat.

We said our promises and our commitment to each other. We gave our love to each other. “I love you, Joan.” “I love you, JP.”

We discovered we wanted to walk hand in hand into the future together, perhaps for only a few months, perhaps for only a year or two — whatever time we had — until we were with each other, daily taking care of each other, and until we heard each other’s dying breaths. We made lifelong promises to love each other. We made a forever and ever sacred commitment. We kissed on it.

We had not talked about this new oneness lasting for just long holiday weekends or for mere days or weeks. We were forever and ever oriented.

The call came to me on a Friday afternoon. His granddaughter had found grandpa on the floor. She had been staying at his home while completing an internship in Veterinary Medicine. She called the ambulance. JP was rushed to ER. An MRI discovered a probable brain bleed. His son and daughter took the next plane and arrived the next day, Saturday, at noon. The doctors said there was nothing they could do except keep him comfortable. Nothing. He had no pain. None at all.

JP died the next day, Sunday, surrounded by the overflowing love of 3 beloved family members in his hospital room.

His eventual church service was beautiful, filled with sunshine, warm, reverent and full of glorious love from family and friends. He was remembered for his marriage, his love for his family, his extensive education and his career as a beloved and tireless pastor and preacher and for being a happy outdoorsman.

His friends and colleagues remembered him for his service to his denomination and his remarkable travels to support church wide giving. His colleagues remembered him as a warm and loving friend.

I was there too. I wanted to witness to my oneness with JP, our sacred shared promises and our commitment that had begun, and had no end. I wanted our covenantal love to be like the yellow daffodils: just beginning to be seen — and having within them an internal commitment to stay together and keep growing into a beautiful new intentional shared life, rooted and growing in love.

Want to share your love story? Click here to learn more and start sharing your story.