I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we learn to love, and more importantly, how we learn to recognize love when it doesn't look exactly like our own.
I noticed something about my father-in-law. He has a consistent habit of giving money to me, my wife, and my kids. He does this for others, too. It’s not about flashing wealth; it’s just what he does. His own father did the same thing.
For a long time, I have to admit, I struggled with this. My instinct was to be cynical. Giving money isn't my "love language," so I often interpreted it as "buying love" or a transactional substitute for real connection. It felt impersonal to me.
But I’ve realized that I was looking at his actions through my own self-centered lens. I was judging his actions by my preferred methods. The reality is that for his generation, and the one before him, providing resources was the ultimate expression of duty and care. When he hands over cash, he isn’t buying affection; he’s saying, in his own dialect: "I want to make sure you are safe. I want to know that I am still useful to you."
It got me thinking about the generational gap and how easily we miss the love of those who came before us.
The Scent of Strawberry Candy I remember going to my Grandma's house as a kid. To be honest, it was often awkward. It was boring, she was old, and her house smelled funny. I was the youngest quiet kid, and I didn't know how to relate to her, and she didn't know what to do with me.
But now that I’m getting older (and probably starting to smell funny myself), I look back with different eyes. I see that Grandma really did love me fiercely; I was just too young and self-absorbed to translate her actions.
Her house wasn't huge, but she made sure we were comfortable, even if that meant I got the hide-a-bed couch. She was an amazing cook and always fed us really well (I can almost smell the cinnamon rolls). And, inevitably, there was the candy bowl filled with those strawberry hard candies—the ones in the red wrapper that looked like a strawberry, with the soft jelly center.
For birthdays, I’d get a card with money. For Christmas, I’d get socks. As a ten-year-old, socks are a terrible gift. As an adult, a fresh pair of socks on Christmas morning is a top-tier present. That shift represents my own movement from wanting excitement to appreciating provision. Her love was quiet, steady, and based on meeting needs I didn’t even know I had.
The Love Gap in Marriage We bring these inherited styles into our marriages, and it creates what I call a "Love Gap." Our natural, self-centered nature says, "My way of showing love is the right way," and we judge our spouse for doing it differently.
When I got married, I realized my wife came from a family of "Loud Lovers," while I came from a family of "Quiet Lovers."
My wife would say "I love you" so often—sometimes dozens of times in a conversation—that to my ears, it started to suffer from inflation. It felt like it was losing its value.
In contrast, I almost never said it. I’m sure my own dad said it to me, but I honestly can't remember a specific time. To my wife, my silence felt like a famine.
It created a cycle: the quieter I got, the louder she got in an attempt to get a response. We both had to learn. She had to learn that the words hit the target harder for me when they weren't used as filler. And I had to learn the hard truth that she needs to hear the words more often than once every twenty years—and crucially, I need to say them unprompted.
Becoming Bilingual The Bible holds a fascinating tension regarding how we show love. In Matthew 5, Jesus tells us to let our light shine before men so they can see our good deeds. In the very next chapter, Matthew 6, He warns us not to practice our righteousness before men just to be seen.
Which is it? Loud or quiet?
I think the answer is that we need to be Loud for their sake, and Quiet for our own soul’s sake. Love must be visible enough so the recipient feels secure, but humble enough that we aren't doing it for applause.
Now, as a father to teenage boys, I’m seeing the pattern repeat. One son is a "loud lover" who needs physical touch and constant verbal affirmation. The other is a "quiet lover" whose highest compliment is putting his phone down just to sit in the same room with me in silence.
I am learning that part of maturing as a husband, a father, and a follower of Christ is becoming "bilingual" in love. We have to learn to speak the dialect of the person standing in front of us, rather than just shouting in our own native tongue and wondering why they don't understand.
We need to learn to value their language more than our own comfort. Love is about being consistent, intentional, and—when necessary—out loud.
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