Indefinable

I write about love a lot. How it’s foolish. How it shouldn’t exist, but it does. I right angry posts about the church missing it.

But what is “it?”  I’ve come to realize I had no idea what love means. How do I even go about defining the word? How does anyone?

‘So what is love, to me?

I can speak only from what I have seen.

Love is so many things.

Love is in broken whispers between sisters in the dead of night.

Love is a girl picking up her teammate in the chute after a bad race.

Love is in chocolate-tea-giggles-pride-and-prejudice movie nights with the friends who know you well and like you anyway.

Love is crossing the lunchroom to sit with the girl who sits alone.

Love is a woman who asks about a knee injury and sees the deeper hurts.

Love is choosing poverty to make someone else rich.

Love is kissing skinned knees.

Love is a woman and her two granddaughters playing solitaire with too many players.

Love is a girl who was never able to see the barriers between people.

Love is the people who can see more than scars on a battered arm.

Love isn’t saying anything.

Love isn’t being a good speaker.

Love isn’t good theology.

Love isn’t good politics.

Love isn’t sounding good.

Love isn’t being perfect.

Love is broken.

Love is beautiful.

Love is nail-scars that cover blade-scars.

Love is bleeding, battered, bruised.

Love is a struggle.

Love is a lion, a lamb, a bridge-builder.

Love is a thousand things.

Love is one thing.

Love is Him.

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