Love In The Repetition

My husband's family says "I love you" all the time. My family didn't.

That's not because my parents didn't love me. I never doubted that they did. They just expressed it differently. 

My mom's love was impossible to miss. She always seemed to know what to say when I was anxious, uncertain, or overwhelmed by a situation. I think her advice mattered so much because it came from someone who consistently lived what she taught. She was the one I went to with worries, questions, and the everyday things that felt big when I was young. I felt safe just being near her and was deeply attached to her. My mom may have rarely said "I love you," but I heard it every day.

Throughout my life, my mom always dropped everything when I needed her most. At my children's births, she was right there beside me. She helped Matt and me navigate C-sections, the twins’ NICU stay, and Lily’s Down syndrome diagnosis. She grieved with me during difficult times, but never let me fall into despair. She encouraged me and shared wisdom that helped me become the advocate that all of my kids needed. 

My dad's love looked different. He spoke a different dialect of the same language. He was quieter. He wasn't one for long conversations or grand declarations. He was a hard-working man who left for work every morning and came home in time for dinner. I never questioned his love for me. It was simply there, woven into the life he built for our family and the consistency with which he showed up year after year. He also had that twinkle in his eye and a ready smile that I can still picture today.

My dad earned the nickname "Grumpa" honestly. By the time he died, there were twenty-eight grandchildren (and one on the way), and my parents' house was often filled with noise and chaos, particularly at Christmas. Most of the grandchildren gravitated toward my mom. Lily gravitated toward my dad.

While the other kids were outside, in the basement, or filling the family room with activity, Lily would often be found sitting on the dining room floor near my dad's favorite spot in the house. They both seemed to prefer a little less chaos. I remember one visit to my parents' house after my dad had been in the hospital. Lily made a beeline to Grumpa in his La-Z-Boy chair because she'd missed him. She gave him a Lily version of a hug and said "Aww, BumpPa...Awww."

She never seemed to outgrow her need for Grumpa's attention. He would bounce her on his knee, sing silly songs, and play along while pretending to be annoyed. Their relationship was beautiful, unexpected, and uniquely their own. 

Watching the two of them together helped me see parts of my father I hadn't fully appreciated when I was younger. In some ways, it even healed a few old hurts as I watched the tenderness he showed my daughter.

My parents may have spoken different dialects of the same language, but together they taught me how love looks when it's lived instead of simply spoken.

The same was true of my siblings. We weren’t big on saying “I love you,” but I never doubted it was there. As adults, I've come to appreciate that even more. Love showed up in texts, phone calls, hospital visits, helping hands, shared burdens, and simply knowing someone would be there when it mattered. 

As time passed, I found myself speaking that same language with my own family. 

Motherhood, for me, was made up of both defining moments and a multitude of ordinary ones. There were diagnoses, IEP meetings at school, therapy appointments near and far, doctor's visits, adoption, and all the decisions that came with them. There was also the daily rhythm of playing short-order cook, mountains of laundry, supplements carefully doled out, rides across town, helping with homework, fostering individual interests and activities, and conversations that seemed to loop day after day.

Some of those moments carried more weight than others, but all of them required showing up.

What I didn't realize at the time was that I was learning to speak the same language my parents had spoken all along.

When my dad was lying in the hospital dying from cancer, I showed him my love in simple ways. I rubbed his arthritic fingers, shaved his beard, combed his hair, clipped his nails, and scratched his back. 

As Alzheimer’s slowly stole my mom’s memories, I learned that loving someone could look very different than it had as a mother. 

One thing my mom could never seem to remember was that my dad had died years earlier. At first, I’d gently remind her. Every time, it was as though she was hearing the news for the first time. She would cry and ask why no one had told her. Why hadn’t she been at the funeral? 

For a while, I tried to help her remember. I would remind her of two things that often triggered her memory: the priest telling us that it was the largest funeral he’d ever done and Matt singing “My Old Friend” by Tim McGraw a cappella at the gravesite. 

But eventually my siblings and I realized that every conversation was forcing her to grieve my dad all over again. 

So when she asked where Dad was, we simply told her he was at work.

The answer wasn’t entirely random. My dad had spent decades leaving for work every morning and coming home in time for dinner. Work was exactly where my mom expected him to be.

She would nod, accept the answer, and move on.

It wasn’t the truth, but it was kind. And in that season, kindness mattered more than accuracy.

The older I get, the more I realize that love rarely stays the same. It changes with the seasons of our lives. What doesn’t change is the willingness to keep showing up.

Maybe this is part of how God loves us too. 

Not always through dramatic moments or extraordinary experiences, but through daily grace, daily provision, and daily presence. The same way manna appeared every morning in the desert. The same way Christ meets us again and again in the Eucharist. The same way mercy is offered again tomorrow after we failed today.

Some of the deepest expressions of love don't sound like anything at all.

They look like showing up.

Again and again.

Until one day you realize that was "I love you" all along.