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.