“There now, steady, love; so few come and don’t go”

 

Someone was making fun of me recently (story of my life) about the fact that I label myself a realist because sometimes I refuse to live in a fantasy world where everything is a possible attempt at greatness, where every moment we breathe is worry-free because we’re still “ok", and beauty still exists.  Oh, the nerve I possess sometimes. 

Last week, I was sitting in the lounge studying (and, ok, maybe people- watching a little bit) and overheard the girl sitting next to me explain into her phone that “he told her he’d leave his fiancé for her, but she wasn’t ready to leave her boyfriend yet.”  I was done listening after I heard that.  It was made apparent the extent to which our generation has been desensitized to unfaithfulness and infidelity as I’d heard her explain the situation in a level tone while multi-taskingly checking her facebook, half listening to the person on the other line.  I, however, am not desensitized.

Seeing people- witnessing the world- love so conditionally, and emptily, and falsely has always been hard for me.  Because, even before I knew it had been defined by God, I believed in love.  And I believed in its ability to sustain forever.  [Interesting coming from self-proclaimed cynicism; I am aware.] 
I never understood how people could place the ones they loved in unfair or callous and obstinate positions… willingly, in some circumstances.  It’s not enough that we unintentionally hurt the ones we say we love, but there are those of us that choose to hurt the ones we claim to love when we can help it.  And why?  Selfishness.  There is never a reason to place someone into such miniscule importance unless you’ve determined that your well-being and joy is somehow above theirs.  But I guess that’s where I’d argue that your love for said person cannot possibly be so strong—if you can’t make their joy and well-being priority over yours.

It’s strange.  I believe that, yet I count myself quite selfish on many an occasion with many a person I myself have claimed to love.  It’s another one of those things that’s “just the way of the world,” as I’m learning.  The incredibly cool thing is that I know the difference.  I don’t look at the empty form of love man has learned to abuse one another with and imagine that its touched its full potential.  I know love when I see it.  And I dare say I’ve seen it.

I’ve actually been reading a true love story, and sitting in the wonder of it, noting its purity and loveliness.  One in which a broken soul so undeserving was rescued from the depth of large darkness and redeemed by a Savior, the definitive Defender that created light. And everyday I am silenced and stilled by the beauty of it.  The beauty of His effortless success of greatness.
And it is an absolute wonder to me that I can be so “realistic,” so cynical, about the abilities of love to conquer in my life.  How can I look at the story of his life, leaking of sacrifice and fairness and at the same time,salvation and faithfulness, and doubt the power that love had when it nailed my failings to the cross?  How can I look at my hurt, the brokenness I kept hidden, knowing that I’ve never been capable of healing myself, and not see how great His affection is for me? 

It’s incredible how it’s written around us: love.  I am fascinated, captivated, entranced, overwhelmed, overcome--absolutely in love-- with it: love.

“Love is more than three words mumbled before bedtime.  Love is sustained by action, a pattern of devotion in the things we do for each other every day.” – Good ol’ Nick Sparks