Growing up, there was nothing more intriguing—and confusing—than love. It’s supposed to make the world go round, but really, it just made me dizzy. People would fall into it, and then out of it. And to my young ears, every emotional response sounded strangely similar to a stomach ache from eating too much candy.
Cradling me in her arms, my mother whispered the word to me. And I sensed it as I was consoled by my father, telling me that the bully’s words didn’t matter. I heard it when Nana reminded me I was important to her.
And it might have pricked a tiny hole in my heart as I watched Jill ride by on her bicycle, and I wondered what it would be like to talk to her. I wrote her name with a piece of chalk on the driveway and then hosed it away before anyone would find it.
I heard four fab singers tell me love was all I needed. I opened up my King James and found a tawdry song by Solomon. The pastor spoke of phileo, eros, and agape. It was Greek to me.
What a mysterious thing.
I saw the words of love scrawled in trees and watched it play out from the stage and big screen. It was a simple scale of notes on the old piano and a raging symphony all at once.
I thought I observed hints of it in others. Watching the couple at the restaurant, laughing and then narrowing their eyes in resolute seriousness. She, throwing her hair back while he, watching in marvel. Love always seemed to change people. It made them happy. And crazy.
Webster-defined, it’s constrained, almost tidy. Really, no help there. Four letters. One syllable. True love, I thought, should be something more.
When the carnival came to town, I never missed the funhouse mirrors, where everything was out of proportion. Maybe this is what love is like? A mystery, by design.
It never seemed to be a sacred thing, tossed casually and carelessly into the air. I heard people use it to shower affection on their cats. Or their cars. Or flannel sheets. Even worse, I saw the fleshly pursuits without a true heart, twisting the word so far beyond recognition that I yearned for another that might come closer to the truth.
No greater love than this. Was it really more about giving, than taking? Sacrifice. Maybe the ultimate sacrifice?
I would fight for love, kicking at the darkness until it bled daylight. But it was less about a fight and more about surrender. And when I thought I had found it, I swore I’d never lose it. Until I did.
The mystery is still unfolding.
Looking into the sky, the pinpricks of light show promise of wonder. The Author of the word keeps dropping hints, that all of this is a pale reflection of what is true. I have no idea how wide, how long, how high, and how deep true love is. But I’m getting closer.
Like looking at that fun house mirror, puzzling reflections of who I ought to be.
Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert
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