Bill loved Ann. That had been true since they were kids. Passing each other in the house brought a glance, a smile, a touch, and a shot of endorphins. They were literally addicting and addicted to one another. They were happy.

But Bill lost his sweetheart of over 60 years. He had now to live life without her glance, smile, touch, or kind words. Bill found himself in a prison of grief. But even there her memory was a rich source of joy to him. He looked forward to the day when he would hold Ann’s hand once more.

When I visited Bill, he greeted me with a smile and a “How are you?” He shared a hot cup of coffee with me. But during our conversation a tear escaped his eye and, though he would not say, I knew he was thinking of Ann.

Did Bill do anything notable in his life? Did he make newspaper headlines? No. Had he done anything manly or heroic? Just this: he loved Ann. Long and well. She was his joy. And he was a good man. A gentle man. A real man.

Image from the Alban Psalter