Last night was my grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary. During the celebratory dinner, my grandparents told us about the mailbox where my grandfather first found the courage to talk to my grandmother, about the show they drove to in my grandfather’s ’59 Chevy for their first date, and how my grandmother awaited my grandfather’s return from the army to get married.
I’ve always prided myself on my commitment. When I set my mind to achieving a goal, I don’t do it half-heartedly. In elementary school, when I was obsessed with building Legos, each time I was given a new set I woke before 5:30 AM to start construction until it was finished. Last night, my eyes were opened to a whole different magnitude of what commitment means.
After dinner, my grandfather opened the phone he never uses to play their wedding song, Always by Frank Sinatra, and offered his hand to his wife. After their dance my grandfather reached into his pocket for a piece of paper on which he’d written some of the lyrics. My grandmother knew the lyrics by heart, and she mouthed along as he read to her, “Days may not be fair always, That's when I'll be there always, Not for just an hour, not for just a day, Not for just a year, but always.”
My grandmother has struggled with Parkinson’s over the last few years, but there was no evidence of it in that moment. I could see them 62 years ago, teenagers running on the beach in the suburbs of Boston. I was reminded how commitment to people is so much more important than commitment to goals or activities. Last night highlighted the steadfast commitment to people that has shaped my family, and made me, in my own life, determined to honor that legacy.