I was driving along the familiar stretch of highway—just another day in a packed schedule—when a rather ordinary scene caught my eye: an elderly man walking steadily by the roadside, phone in hand, searching with concern. My first reaction was concern. What could he possibly need out here?
I pulled over, my heart a little heavier than usual. “Are you okay?” I asked gently. His voice, calm but weary, came back: “I wrecked my car.” A simple explanation, yet it felt like so much more in that moment. I motioned for him to hop into my car, offering help without overthinking it. He agreed, and we drove back to his stalled vehicle, tucked into a shallow rut.
Together we pushed, nudged, and with a satisfying scrape and thud, the car freed itself. Relief was mutual. I turned to him and asked if he needed anything else. His eyes glistened—this small kindness, he said, “made my day even better.” His voice cracked slightly, and I felt it: compassion is contagious.
He looked at me with a soft, honest smile. “I just came to see my wife,” he said. I glanced at the cemetery entrance looming ahead and felt my chest clench—quiet realization settling in.
When I asked how long it had been, he looked up, still smiling. “Fifteen years—tomorrow,” he said. Tomorrow. The word echoed. I asked how often he visits, and his smile widened with bittersweet routine: “Every Saturday morning. At first, every day. But over time, I couldn’t do that anymore.”
In that moment, time seemed to stretch. Missing someone so deeply, even years later—it’s a weight, I imagined. And yet here he stood, steadfast in that ritual, reverent in his remembrance.
He reached over and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. “If you ever love someone like I loved her, this,” he said, gesturing to his weekly pilgrimage, “is the smallest thing I could do to show everyone that I love her more than life itself.” He looked me in the eye. “God bless you for the help… and the chat.”
I was quiet, humbled. We shook hands, and he opened his back door, pulling out a small bouquet of flowers—the kind chosen with care. He walked toward the cemetery entrance, carrying love, memory, and devotion with every step.
As I resumed driving, I felt like I’d been given a sign—exactly what I’d been hoping for during a time when I needed one most. Love, I realized, doesn’t perish. It endures beyond days, months, years—housing itself in the smallest acts, the persistent routines, the Saturday mornings when we still show up. Someday, perhaps, that enduring love will reconnect us—in this world, or the next.