Community is a term that often strikes me as bogus, more a wish or an advertising slogan than a reality. Churches that declare themselves communities frequently seem a little too hot and bothered, like a panting teenager trying to reassure his girlfriend as to his honorable intentions. Universities talk about being a community of scholars, though many university departments have about as much community as a mob of 10 hungry cats sharing a mouse. My father lives in a gated community, where membership depends on your income. Around Waynesville and other towns I see the signs for community watches, which means that your neighbor has committed himself to calling the police if he happens to spot someone burglarizing your house. Our local papers run community calendars, listing events hosted by people or organizations I don’t know for people I’ve never met.

I had gotten to the point where I disliked the word community, so that when I heard it I wanted to reach for my running shoes (better make that walking shoes). Then one day this past year I discovered that I belonged to a community without even knowing it.

On May 12, 2004, my wife collapsed into a coma with a brain aneurysm. She died five days later without recovering consciousness. She was 52 years old.

We had loved each other for nearly 30 years. In our marriage vows we had promised to be with each other “in the good and the bad seasons of our love.” In our marriage those bad seasons were sometimes frequent and sometimes long, but we stayed together, always aware that we were meant and made for each other. We honored the good seasons of love by enduring the bad ones.

The months since her death have brought many challenges for our family. Holidays this past year were particularly difficult. Kris loved all holidays. On Independence Day she would line our sidewalk with tiny flags. On Thanksgiving she would put a centerpiece in the dining room and posters of pilgrims and turkeys in the upstairs hallway. During Advent she would spend days decorating the house for Christmas. Our children and I have gotten past all those celebrations this year, sometimes laughing about things Kris used to do, sometimes crying for the same reason.

With Christmas and the New Year having arrived and departed, I felt safe for a while. Easter would be nothing compared to Christmas, and although Mother’s Day would be hard on all of us, it was still far away. I was, I thought, past the worst of holiday pain.

Then came Valentine’s Day.

Even as a child, I was never a fan of Valentine’s Day. It was a sticky, overwrought occasion, one invented, it seemed to me, by women and greeting card companies. As a result, I rarely paid proper homage to this festival; I was often one of those men you would see on the vigil of the feast of hearts standing in a grocery store line with roses in one hand, a card in another, and a sheepish look on the face.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I found myself suffering a major case of the blues as Valentine’s Day approached. The holiday to which I had formerly given such scant respect now threatened to whack me upside the head (and the heart) in an even worse way than Christmas.

After a couple of days I realized two causes for my melancholy: I missed Kris and I missed sending a Valentine to someone I loved. Other than prayer, dreams, and memory, there wasn’t much I could do about missing Kris. There was, however, something I could do about sending a Valentine to a loved one. Or in this case, to a community of loved ones.

For a number of years now I have coached home-schoolers in Latin, history, and literature. We taught our own children at home, Kris and I, and I began helping other home-schoolers learn about those subjects that I myself loved, first here in Haywood County and then in Asheville, where eventually my classes attracted quite a few students.

Kris collapsed early in the evening that Wednesday in May. By the time I arrived at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Asheville — we had followed the ambulance first to Haywood Regional Hospital, but were quickly sent to Asheville — word had spread about our crisis. There were 10 home-schoolers, students and parents, waiting for me in the lobby of the hospital.

As that long night wore on, and then the days afterwards, days and nights that still seem to me an utter blur, the home-schooling families kept coming to the hospital. Students and parents brought food to the waiting area. Flowers were given to our family, and money, and kind words. Many of these people gave in overwhelming ways of themselves, offering an apartment to members of my family for a week, donating large gifts of food and money, babysitting Jeremy.

After Kris’ death and funeral, this aid continued at a remarkable pace. Throughout the summer and into the fall home-schooling families brought us meals, wrote encouraging notes, donated money to an educational fund set up for the children, kept us in their prayers. Even now in this winter and new year, once a week, different families bring us meals. The Wilsons and the Jensens; the Kaminers, the Vishes, the Franklins; the Handermanns, the Baltsalls, the Murphys, the Bevilacquas: there are a hundred other names I could put down here.

Many non-home-schooling families helped us as well. Anne Simmons and her daughter undertook the formidable task of cleaning our house while we were in the hospital. Various doctors from Haywood County stopped by the hospital to see Kris and to offer counsel. Father Arnsparger of St. Barnabas remained nearly all night with me that first night and was there at dawn the next morning to greet my two older children who had driven through the night from college. The staff at the Haywood Country Public Library has been generous and kind in so many ways. Then there were the Gordons with their clear-headed advice, the fine nurses of the neurological ICU, the many other friends who helped in various ways, the members of my family who stood vigil with me through the dark places of the summer.

I don’t take favors or aid well. They embarrass me. Believe me when I say that it truly is more blessed to give than to receive. As one friend told me, “Jeff, you’re just going to have to accept the help from your friends and develop some humility.” Well, I’ve developed humility all right. One proof of it is in the writing of this column.

At any rate, this is my Valentine to a community that I was too blind to see. My Valentine doesn’t have chocolates or ribbons, perfumes or romantic music. But it is my Valentine, my note of love, my thank you to all those who gave me gifts that I did not deserve and could not earn, who thereby taught me the lesson of grace. It is to you that I write with love and appreciation. You gave of yourselves and your resources when I had nothing to offer in return but gratitude and prayers. You taught me that we don’t make our way through this world alone. You taught me humility.

In a way, I suppose that this column might also serve as my Valentine to Kris. The morning of her death we spoke by phone. I had called home to get some information for an exam I was giving to my students. After answering my questions, my wife ended her conversation by saying to me, “I love you.” I responded by saying carelessly, “I’ve gotta go See you this evening.”

To my last breath I will regret those hasty words. So let me conclude by reminding you to treasure those you love. Don’t wait for Valentine’s Day. Tell them you love them today. Show them you love them. And to those who have given so generously to my own family, let me add that we will treasure you forever.

God bless.

(Jeff Minick is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at saintsbookco@aol.com.)