My Grandpa was hard man. Mean. Not a nice guy.
He stayed with his second wife as she died from Alzheimer’s. He stopped farming, the only thing he truly loved to do, and drove into town every day to sit with her till evening. He did it till he no longer could because of his own declining health. That is love.
My Robertson is at best a bad theologian. I suspect he has had someone close to him who did this, and is trying to support them.
That is love. Giving of yourself, with no thought of return. Such times show what people are made of.