They were both 94 years old and had been married for four years.  Despite their children's concerns, they got married because, as Beth said, "After all, we were so in love."

John lived in a huge house, and Beth lived in a one-bedroom apartment. He moved in because he liked her bed better than his own. They would have three wonderful years of joy and happiness. But in their fourth year of marriage, John began to get sick, and he was unable to recover.

At this time in their lives, their pastor asked me to join the team of caregivers. At first, I declined. The clients in my practice were young people who had been diagnosed with a terminal disease and had six months or less to live. I rarely counseled adults. But their pastor said, "Bill, these two are just like kids. They are head over heels in love and don't care what anyone thinks. Give them a moment, and you will be glad you included them." 

He was right. These were two kids in 94-year-old bodies who couldn't get enough of each other. They were embarrassing to be around. "Get a room!" people would say to them. 

But, John was declining and fast. I assisted them in getting connected with hospice so they would get the treatment they both deserved. She was there for him every minute she could be. "Dr. Stephenson, what am I going to do? I can't watch this man I love so much just go and die on me!  What am I going to do?"

But she knew what to do, and I simply reminded her of their wedding vows. I saw them nearly every day. There she was, beside him, holding his hand, stroking his hair, and talking to him even though he was now unconscious. She would tell him about her service in WWII and recall his service as well. They were two old vets madly in love with each other. 

The night before Veteran's Day, Beth said to me, "What do I need to do to get him to know that it's okay to let go, to die? I don't want him to hold on for my sake. I want him to be at peace."

"Beth, I urge you to go in and tell him just that. Remind him that he is a wonderful husband, but now it is time to let go. Hold his hand and tell him, 'You can go now, John. I will be fine. I'm not alone, and I have good support. I will be okay. You can let go.'"

The next day, she went into his room and told him exactly what I urged her to do. John died on Veteran's Day. 

The next Sunday was Veteran's Day, and I went to church with Beth. She was dressed in her WWII army vest, which was filled with medals, pins, and a baseball cap. She spoke to a capacity audience about her devotion to God, country, and a man who was equally devoted.

The next day was their anniversary—a love story I almost missed.