Today would have been my parents' anniversary - they were married on August 3, 1968.
For many people, an anniversary is marked with flowers, dinner reservations, and the opportunity to celebrate another year together. For our family, it looks a little different. My father passed away on October 1, 2009, so there isn't a card to sign or a dinner to share.
Instead, there is reflection.
As the years have passed, I've realized something I never fully understood when I was younger.
Love leaves more than memories.
It leaves values.
It leaves traditions.
It leaves examples.
It leaves a way of treating people that quietly becomes part of who we are.
As a child, I didn't recognize the countless sacrifices my parents made. I didn't notice the small acts of kindness, the compromises, or the daily commitment that held our family together. Like most kids, I simply assumed those things would always be there.
It wasn't until I became an adult that I began to appreciate what I had been witnessing all along.
And it wasn't until I became a husband that I truly understood it.
Marriage has a way of changing your perspective.
You begin to realize that lasting relationships aren't built on grand gestures. They're built on ordinary days. They're built on conversations after long workdays, choosing patience over pride, extending grace when it's needed most, and deciding—day after day—that your commitment matters more than convenience.
Those are lessons my parents taught me without ever sitting me down to explain them.
They simply lived them.
Dad has now been gone for more than a decade and a half, yet I still find myself wishing I could tell him about the life that's unfolded since he left. I'd love to tell him about my career, the people I've been fortunate to mentor, and the opportunities I've been blessed to experience.
Most of all, I'd want to tell him about Charlene.
I'd want him to know the incredible woman I married. I'd tell him about her heart, her strength, and the way she makes every day better simply by being herself. I think he would have loved watching us build a life together, and I know I would have cherished seeing the two of them get to know each other.
While that opportunity never came, something else did.
The example he and my mom gave me continues to shape the marriage Charlene and I are building today.
Every time we choose to communicate instead of assume, support instead of criticize, or encourage instead of discourage, I can see pieces of what my parents modeled years ago.
That may be the greatest gift they ever gave me.
Not possessions.
Not accomplishments.
An example.
Legacy isn't measured by what we leave behind on a shelf.
It's measured by what lives on in the people we love.
The patience we show.
The integrity we practice.
The compassion we extend.
The faithfulness we demonstrate when no one else is watching.
Those things don't disappear when we're gone. They become part of someone else's story.
Today, I'm grateful for my parents' marriage.
I'm grateful for my mom, whose strength has carried our family through seasons neither of us would have chosen.
I'm grateful for my dad, whose influence continues to guide me, even though our conversations now take place only in my memories.
And I'm grateful that Charlene and I have the opportunity to continue building a legacy of our own—one day, one choice, and one act of love at a time.
Love leaves more than memories.
If we're fortunate, it leaves people who know how to love a little better because of the example we set.
As I reflect on my parents' anniversary today, that's the question I find myself asking:
What kind of legacy will our love leave behind?
