I didn’t set out to write a blog about love on Valentine’s Day, but nevertheless that’s where I found myself. The irony of it all isn’t lost on me, but the healing it promises beckons me forward. Often a defensive cynic at first pass and a hopeless romantic at heart, I’ve always known love to be the four letter word that can make me squirm. Even just trying to collect my thoughts on the subject is akin to herding cats. I can feel the pull to bury my truth and keep my words at a distance, but a different choice wins out. As the secrets of my softened heart spill onto this page, I sink into the journey of getting here.
I’ve been trying to nail down love for a long time, consciously for the last year and a half, subconsciously for almost the whole of my 25 years. Honestly, I’ve made a mess of it. I realized that the only lens through which I’ve viewed love most of my life is pain, and so naturally, I avoided it. The very thing I long for, the very thing I was made for, the very thing that willed me into existence, I ran from. I ran hard, all the while not realizing that I was running from love.
I’ve had my heart broken and I’ve broken some hearts. I’ve looked up to see eyes of rejection staring back at me, most often in a reflection. I’ve convulsed on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, listening to my own gasps for air in between sobs of longing, resolute in self-pity and devoid of the will to change, crying out for someone, anyone, to find me there and make me whole again. I was hurt. It wasn’t any particular person, event, or even circumstance. It just simply felt like all at once life itself had left me broken-hearted. The outside shell I showed the world was cracking while anger, bitterness, and manipulation spilled out in a futile attempt to cover up the pain.
I was afraid that if people really knew me, if I let them in, they’d see what I saw. I was afraid that I was too much and not enough all at the same time. I was afraid that what I’d done would define who I was. I hated how I used people, how I lashed out at people, how I hurt those I cared the most about. I couldn’t understand how anyone could choose to love what I’d become, and so I took away their choice.
I hid behind almost anything could think of, relationships, success, adventure, being a good person, but life fell short and I fell short again and again. I didn’t know how to love myself and I didn’t know how to love others. I couldn’t stop trying to fix it. I couldn’t to stop trying to make love smaller so I could understand it. I couldn’t stop telling love what loss, heartache, and pain had taught me it was, and eventually I just couldn’t keep up.
Love found me exasperated with all my good intentions, my fading will power, and in my inability to fix the mess I was in. Love found me clinging to the hope that it was more than a fairy tale, that it was real. Love showed me that my longing to understand it was a veiled attempt to understand the Father, to know Him and be know by Him, to see Him and be seen by Him, to love Him and be loved by Him, but I had it backwards. This whole time He had known, seen, and loved me.
God doesn’t sit there hoping we’ll get it right. He doesn’t wait for us to see Him or know Him or love Him. Instead, He hopes beyond hope that we’ll realize how loved we are. He loves us before we know what love is. He loves us so that when the day comes, when we start asking those questions, when we find ourselves and our lives coming up short, we’ll see that this whole time love, not fear, has governed who we are. He loves us so much so, that one day we can love ourselves.
And all we have to do is let him.
