There Goes Life

It’s almost like you are waiting and waiting and waiting and you could wait years or you could wait a few days and you wait for one second one part of a second before it’s gone and you don’t even have time to wave goodbye because you are plunged into the next waiting.  I am always waiting, and I used to think it was patience but now I know it’s not.  I am waiting because I am waiting to live my idea of one moment.  I am waiting because I am not living now.  I am waiting because I see no importance in now.  How existentialistic.

I want to be the person who stops waiting and looking ahead for the train that will take her to the next place and just stops to look around at everything to sing a song or two not because she is good at singing but because she can sing, the person who just breathes deeply, breathes so deeply that she can taste the smell of a place.

Because I strive too much.  I strive to finish things, I strive to do too much, I strive to please too many people, I strive to get the things I want and does that sound so healthy? Typical American, obsessed with busyness.

But what I desire more than anything is to be able to seize the second, what I want is to be able to rest completely in the grace of God, what I want is to be free from all the weight and pain and worry I bring upon myself by not resting or else I wear my life away striving.

And what is it really, what’s at the back of it all? Is it really the fact that I don’t think I have a story, and I am striving to get to the point where I will have a story? As Mumford and Sons would say… “Now how I long to grow old.” However,  Fydor Dostoevsky popped up in my newsfeed the other day, and I won’t say anything else after what he says because after he says this… there’s nothing left to say.

“But how could you live and have no story to tell?”

 

 

Tend

Words, single words, their singular shapes, lines, curves; their meanings that splatter themselves on the window of your soul like a raindrops, exploding.  With multiple words we draw up a sentence that conveys a feeling, produces a spark, spurs an emotion, ignites a flaming soul.  But one word—say one word, and what do you see? what do you think?

Say one word to me, and an image is drawn up in my head, the same image for the same word, and then thoughts come, and more images, and they play off each other, streaming seamlessly like a movie.  It’s like watching a movie.  And all because of a single word.  I hear one word, and I might know its literal denotative meaning, but what leaps into the face of my mind and imbeds itself in my soul is the connotative meaning.

Tend.

I tend to things.  Things tend to me.  I am tended. Things are tended.  Tend.  I tend, because he tends.

My soul is being nurtured, honed, beautified.  And through this glorious, painful, burning process of sanctification, a broken, shattered, rotten garden is reviving, the stream is flowing, and there is holiness in this place.  This is the nature of tending. Where there was fear is reconciliation, total unity, and we abide.

Abide.

To not only live, inhabit, be in a place, but to thrive there.  To rest there, to gather strength and sustenance.

Sustenance.

Feeding on grace.

The mental images come up, the movie plays, fast-forward smooth, because my mind moves like the wind.

…Time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea. (T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

This is how fast we think.  That in one minute I can explore the logistics of a decision, and decide for it, and also decide against it after weighing the pros and cons again.  Every second is filled with images, with thoughts moving thousands of miles per hour across a limitless landscape, gathering and reaping.

Tend.

Allow myself to be tended; allow the hand to lay heavy on my shoulders; allow my body to bow before holiness; allow my soul to be nurtured toward holiness.  Thigmotropism—an organism’s growth response towards touch.  Phototropism.  An organism’s growth response towards light.  God’s touch, and his emanating light. I feel it, see it, and my soul is enlarged to receive more love, more joy, more spiritual gifts, to empty more and to fill more. I grow to conform to his image (Romans 8:29).

He is tending me.  Taking care of me, and using sandpaper to smooth the rough surface, rounding the corners.  Being tended is being sanctified.  We are not allowed to rot away and wallow in our blood (Ezekiel 16:6).

Tend.

Pre-Moving Thoughts

God’s victory means our defeat, means our humiliation; it means God’s mocking anger at all human arrogance, being puffed up, trying to be important in our own right. It means reducing the world and its clamor to silence; it means the crossing through of all our ideas and plans, it means the Cross. The Cross above the World. It means that man, even the noblest, must, whether he likes it or not, fall in the dust and with him all the gods and idols and lords of this world. The Cross of Jesus Christ, that means the bitter scorn of God in all human depths, the rule of God over the whole world.
The people came to victorious Gideon; it is the final clamor and the final temptation: ‘rule thou over us!’ But Gideon does not forget his history or the history of his nation… ‘God shall rule over you, and you shall have no other Lord.’ At these words the altars of the gods and the idols are cast down, all worship of man is cast down, all apotheosis of man by himself, they are judged, condemned, crossed out, they are all crucified and flung down into the dust by him who alone is Lord. And beside us kneels Gideon, the man who has been brought to faith out of the midst of fears and doubts, kneels before the altar of the one God, and with us Gideon prays: ‘Lord on the Cross, be thou alone our Lord. Amen.’ – Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 1933

I was sitting alone in Panera bread around 7:30 AM when I read this.  I had left the house an hour before to have study time.  In this tortuous storm of moving, I needed the quiet.  The morning air, the grogginess, even the cheap, bad tasting caramel latte. But it was all worth it.  This time was spent writing a letter to a dear friend, studying the Bible, and reading Bonhoeffer’s biography.  I knew I needed to wake up early this morning, even though it will be the first of two of the busiest days of this year.  Not to run away from what needed to be done, but to grab some time and in it, revert into peace and calm and good cheer.
I’ll be leaving the home I’ve lived in for ten years, and the area that I’ve lived my whole life in.  But strangely, I don’t feel nostalgic or anything.  I feel excited, eager, ready for a challenge and ready for an opportunity to embrace my challenge.  “But for those who fear my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall.” – Malachi 4:2.  I feel like those fresh cows now, leaping with the vitality of life.  I was particularly encouraged by that passage of Bonhoeffer’s sermon up there.  To just be reminded: “It’s not about you.  Nothing is about you.  It’s all about God.  He is not only the reason everything is here, but the reason that everything is happening, and to him belongs the glory,” is not only convicting, but a great relief.  To keep things God-focused is hard at first, but after awhile, it becomes joy and relief.  To know that my sinful human self will not conquer.  It won’t conquer in the short run or in the long run.  I have given myself up to God once, but I do it again over and over, every day.  To say, Lord, lead us, guide us, be our God and our one Lord.   I have been encouraged to know that my strength is crushed, and that I must depend entirely upon God.  Even this knowledge strengthens me.
I will miss things about this house (mainly all the built in bookshelves) but it is amazing to me to see how at first I didn’t want to move, and now, because it is God’s will, he has brought my mind and my heart about face, and has confronted me, and graciously made me ready.

Another thing, before I close.  I was reading about Gideon today in Judges, and I noticed that when he’s getting ready to go down and defeat the Midianites & Amalekites, God commands him to go at once, but then says: “But if you are too afraid… go down to the camp tonight and listen to what they say.”  He knows Gideon’s weaknesses, and takes care of him.  He knows my weaknesses, and is compassionate and kind as he takes care of me and guides me.  He will do the same for you, if you trust in him.

Now, I tell myself, more than ever, seize the day!

P.S. If you haven’t noticed, please read the text below the header (Carpe Diem.)  It used to be a quote by C.S. Lewis— “Reason is the natural order of truth, but imagination is the organ of meaning”—but I changed it to something more fitting for the purpose of this blog.

‘Sorrow Drips Into Your Heart’

Early in the morning, before you can quite see the sun, but when there is enough light to see the growing sky and the branches of trees, an autumnal wind usually blows scurrying leaves across the pavement and a feeling of life into your soul.  If I listen very intently, I can feel the energy in the atmosphere around me, the beating of my own heart, the urge to stride through the slight mist.  These times, in the early morning, are the easiest times for me to pray.  If I listen I hear nature’s chirps and calls, the wind in the trees, and I feel the air, see the sky growing golden and light blue.  I feel closest to God, for I am reveling in the cycle of Life that he has created.

But this time is also dangerous to me, for it makes me want to be alone, to make myself solitary so I can think.  It makes me want to grasp the early morning, to make it stay.  Once, not very long ago, I hoped that perhaps God would make the sun still in the sky somewhere far away, so I could keep this early light to myself.

So easily we taint our God-given pleasures.  We turn them into things that must stay, that must be present with us always.  Our blessings become our gods, and we give, as I heard in a book the other night, our “living affection to dying things.”  Things like nature serve a purpose, not only for the earth and the ecosystems they’re placed in—not only for the cycle of life but to enhance our appreciation of God and his masterful and intelligent design.  It is not the things we enjoy that demand our love and our undivided worship, it is God.

We waste so much of our sorrow on these passing things because they’re passing.  If our love and our faith and our entire being were implanted and embedded in God, then we would not have any sorrow to waste on passing things.  Rather, we would see nature and all the other gifts and pleasures in life through the eyes of righteousness, and they become what they are: blessings.  Enjoy your youth.  Don’t lament because it’s passing (this is my biggest problem) but embrace the whole cycle of growing up.  Enjoy your motherhood or fatherhood, your singleness or your married life, your old age.  Embrace it and come to terms with it.  Don’t weep because a time of your life you loved has passed, but keep on living with the assurance that you enjoyed it, and lived to the best of your ability, and now there is another adventure ahead of you.  Even we are passing, these bodies we have now, and there’s nothing we can do about it.  But our soul, the essence of our being, is eternal, and when we die, it will not linger on this earth to lament about lost pleasures.  It will haste on its way, called to stand before God and give an account of that life it just left.

The only reason we have for rejoicing is that there is a God in the heavens who has loved his people enough to give his own life for them, in order that they might live.  It’s because of this that we can laugh and sing and dance, that we can rejoice and be glad, that we can find joy in the blessings he has given us, and joy in him because of the assurance that we will one day be called into his presence.  Don’t let the world shape your view of God, but let your belief in God and your faith shape your view of the world.  For the world changes with its fashions and its phases, but God never changes, and that should be our greatest comfort: he is steadfast.

The Life Worth Living

I wonder sometimes why people don’t think life is worth living.  As a Christian, I see it worth living because of its great end, because of the afterlife.  I see it worth living because I’m fighting for something, and I know in advance that the battle is as good as done.  But that’s me.  And to an extent, I’m wrapped up in my own Christian worldview, and have a difficulty understanding the world views of others when I come into one on one contact with them.  It’s easy enough to define a worldview, or to name a worldview and list all the things that people believe, but people are themselves are much more complex than that.  Sometimes you find them to be a whole mix of things.

The point is, I never expect to hear from people that life isn’t worth living, unless they tell me right up front they’re an Atheist.  In my mind, the question is always “Why isn’t life worth living?” and the answer is: “Because you have nothing to live for, nothing lasting.” It’s nothing personal against Atheists, it would just make much more sense for them to say it than for a Christian.

But now here’s the point.  If you feel that life isn’t worth living, find the life that is.  There is only one, because the life worth living is the one that takes everything away and then gives you something back after the end.  It’s the Life that deprives you even of your clothes and your body, your personal belongings, your family, the people you’ve loved, leaving your bare, shivering soul that is laying its eyes on this Life, and embracing it, and finally living it to the full. O, yes, I am an idealist, and this all sounds very idealistic, because it’s true idealism.  The grimier life gets, the harder it gets, the bloodier, the more painful, that makes this Life more worth living than ever before. It gives you hope, and hope has never been like a beacon, or a light, in my experience.  It has always been a desperate prayer, and faith that the prayer will be answered.  Because in my darkest moments, there is only one way to look, and that is forwards, and forwards has always been black.  There never was any light.  Hope was desperate clinging, but knowledge and faith that there was something to cling to.  We know when we live a nightmare of a life at times, that that life is not lasting, but the Life worth living is what we fight for, and it will come later, and last forever, and never give us the blackness or pain.

The Life worth living has love, and righteous anger, and hope, and faith, and self-sacrifice, and virtue. It is peaceful, and does not seek a quarrel, yet it is a war-filled life, battling against the forces that seek to push it down to the ground.  But it will come out victorious.

But there have been those times, in the physical life, where you may have gotten up early in the morning and walked in your bare feet, and felt the cold dew on the grass sink into your skin.  Or you may have stayed up late, and listened to the humming of nature, or heard that one bird that sang clearly and wouldn’t let your mind rest, its song was so beautiful.  There may have been someone you loved, someone who loved you back who made your work seem light just because of the thought of them.  There may have been a day where it rained and ruined your plans, so you sat with a cup of coffee, and felt the pulsing, trembling life pass around the world. And if you have experienced anything like this at all, hasn’t it made you feel like perhaps there is something, something in this life that has given you grace to be alive and enjoy it all?

Be like Henry David Thoreau, and suck out all the marrow of life.  Find out what it is really is, and live it.  Don’t waste your time.  You’re alive now, and you might as well find out why you are so.

What I Called Mine

My youth was what I called mine.  And more and more, I realize it never was.  As I grow older, I see it was only a part of me; something that defined me; but it never belonged to me, nor I to it.  It was something fleeting, something that gave me a glimpse of everything I would wish to be, and then threw me headlong into something like grief, and I saw it was gone. And suddenly I faced something much darker, and there were more shadows than before, but behind me was that bright light, and sometimes I looked over my shoulder at it, and reached out towards it.  But we never go back, because there is no going back. There is only forwards, and that’s the best we can do, just the next thing.

And O, I wish that I wasn’t quite so old.  Today in the store I saw an old friend of my family.  She worked at the hospital where I was born.  She asked me how old I was, and when I told her, she said: “Oh my, I never thought you would get that old.” “Well I certainly didn’t think I would either,” I said.  And we laughed, but my heart broke.

Even now my memory is fading, and with a kind of desperation I try to cling to something that loses itself, and I feel a dull kind of ache in place of it.

I’m still young, I’m still young.  There is still so much to learn, and ahead are years packed with new memories. But I am so hesitant to let go, so unwilling to part with something I always associated with truth and light and goodness and purity, so unwilling to walk steadily into the unknown.

Eyes wide open, full of images.  Ears filled with many sounds, and a heart so full I think it will break, mind open, thirsting for learning.  Soul reaching out with love, receiving love, binding itself to my Savior.  And from that perspective, I am blessed.  I might go mad, I might forget everything.  But how can I ever forget the essence of my life, the Redeemer of my soul? I can’t ever, and that is the important thing.  I am eternally bound.

A Young Thinker

This young man’s name is Luther Whitfield Closson Hopkins. Now, with a name like that, you can’t help but be some sort of thinker, or at least a person with very special and intelligent thoughts.  Luther is a quiet sort, but sometimes he likes to ramble.  He can tell you all the habits of all the different kinds of lizards, and he’ll tell you exactly what sorts of things they like as if he had a conversation with them.  Today we were out in some woods, and we were reptile hunting together.  I remember exactly where he said something that made my heart ache it was so beautiful.  All his own words too.  We had passed by a space where long grass was growing in front of a forest of dead, mysterious looking pine trees.  We had been commenting on how bright the grass was, and how mysterious the forest looked.  All of a sudden, this came out of his mouth.

There are sometimes when you feel hot, and you want water, but you want to wait til you’re even hotter, so the water will taste even colder. And you lay there, waiting, and then the cicadas start singing, and you feel like you’re going to die.”

Whoa.  “And you lay there, waiting, and then the cicadas start singing and you feel like you’re going to die.” That struck me as being beautiful. I asked him, later on, if he felt like he had lived a really long time.  He answered no, not really, but when he thinks of a hotel we went to a long time ago with our cousins, and he stepped in the hot tub and the water went over his head, and when he got set on the refrigerator to watch everybody, well, when he remembered that he felt like it was a long time ago, and it made him feel old.  Luther and his whole nine years. He has the ability to draw up a wonderful image, and make you feel that you are living something so simple and beautiful that it aches.  Perhaps it was his attitude.  He had no idea what he was saying. It came naturally to him, as naturally as breathing, and he didn’t know that he was creating something so beautiful to me that I couldn’t answer him right away at times.  I wish I could write it all down, I wish I could remember everything he said.

I love this about Luther: his deep, thoughtful mind. the questions that he asks, his understanding and his simplicity.  All of my siblings have this element about them, but Luther has seemed a bit scholarly since the time he was born.  When he was a toddler he would put on glasses and pretend to read “The Tale of Jeremy Fisher” but he couldn’t read…. instead he was reciting it from memory.

I can’t wait to see what God has in store for this young man.

Immortal

It was only croquet, last night.  A small game, and a simple thing, but we all laughed at each other, for none of us were really good at it.  My brother made funny shots; one made the ball jump over the wicket instead of through it.  He turned to me, and he smiled.  And my heart ached when I saw him smile, for I saw all his youth —right before me, I saw our youth and a million memories, and how quickly it was going.  I saw how happy we were, how young and inexperienced and naive, but happy because we knew the things we loved. Already, because I am noticing it, I am growing out of simplicity, into a complex future where there is less room for this funny, carefree life, where love will be challenged, and principles tested.  And I prayed then that our youth would last as long as possible, like a dream that you know will end.

And now, I see other things.  “I should have felt ‘the joy of grief'” as Keats would put it.  I see a beauty in the struggle, a deeper enjoyment than could have been experienced.  For our minds will expand and grow larger, able to adapt to the tribulations of living in this world.  There is a beauty, a joy, and an adventure in learning new things.  Leaving youth is saying goodbye to something you always knew and were used to.  And however much you might want it all to stay the same, it must change, and I at least cannot help but take delight in the things the future brings.

There is this conflict, this irony about our lives.  How we at once seek to be young and be grown up.  How we wish to die, yet wish to be immortal. How we wish to order our own lives, yet be free from constraint and responsibility.  There are smiles, laughs, a face that stays with you in your mind forever, an image that you never forget, even if it is disconnected from everything you know, like seeing the smile of someone you’ve never met, and will never see again.  This is the beauty of memory, that even in life, the rush of life, there comes a quiet moment and a thought, and the memory itself, and it seems like time stops as you relive the memory, and you think: “I will always remember this.”

 

Untitled

I think about people,

And the way they rush

I think about how they rush for the sake of rushing.

 

I think about foxes,

And how they dash through the woods,

Sneaky, daring, and scarlet red.

 

I think about the summer sun,

About the people it burns,

The people it warms,

And the cold dead who can’t feel it.

 

I think about the helpless dead

Who can do no more than they have done;

Who will never get a second chance.

 

They sing a strange song,

Silent like an autumn wind,

That makes its sound through the trees;

Their song lulls me when I sit

And consider the end.

 

The living become the dead.

The scarlet hair falls from the fox

Leaving his bare bones,

And God spins life on.

 

And there is no silence in the rush of life

We are forced out of grief

Forward into our lives,

 

And we cannot stop anything.

 

It’s A Crime Against The Character

Dear Writers,

Please do justice by the characters you create.  Let them be their own characters, not yours.  Let the things they do, the way the act, the thoughts they have, be in sync with their personalities, with their standards, in short, with their characters.  Let the developments be such as you would find in a persons of a specific character.  Write according to the laws of their characters.  The greatest injustice you can do to your own book or story is to make uncharacteristic type characters who do things that only help you reach your affirmed plot.  Change your plot to fit your characters, otherwise you’ll have a strained, forced ending.  We are not made with such personalities to do uncharacteristic things in order to fulfill the divine plan in this world, but rather, the divine plan is fulfilled simply by being who we are when we exercise our natural, God-given characters.  Don’t make them characters of many characters, but let them be their own characters with many characteristics.

My dear, dear friend Hayley posted a resolution on her blog, back when we were doing Fifty-Six Stories, and I just now remembered it and would like to share it with you.  If you are writing stories, even just for practice, this might be a good exercise.  Head in the clouds | According To…

Just remember all that.  We feel the justice in a sad ending like Othello or Romeo and Juliet or The Idiot or Narcissus and Goldmund, even, because we feel that the endings came about because the characters were perfectly characteristic.  Remember, “A good novel tells us the truth about its hero, but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” (G.K. Chesterton)  If you write a good novel where the characters are actually characteristic, then people will see your hero or heroine as something perfectly rational, and will thus aspire after the good characteristics.  But if they see how irrational your characters are, they will naturally think that you have a very poor view on the true state of humanity and how it acts.  Really, it’s a crime against the character.

Love Revolution

Youth is the time for ideals.  Adulthood is the time to achieve those ideals.  It’s what the stages of life are about, it’s what we live for, these ideals.  Each person changes the world, because the world cannot stay the same. We can’t help having ideals, we can only guide them.

One of the greatest ideals is love.  Real love, the love that everyone seeks for and few find because they look for it in the wrong places.  What kind of love is the ideal? Divine love or earthly love?

Unlike divine love, earthly love does not have the power, the knowledge, or the will to achieve what it longs for. (Wendell Berry)

What we long for is the love that can achieve what it longs for: the love that will satisfy, divine love.  Though we don’t often know it, we are consumed by a desire to be completed, and this desire, some find too late, does not come from our physical being but from our soul.

The sober person lives deeply. His pleasures are not primarily those of the senses, like the pleasures of the drunkard, for instance, but those of the soul. He is by no means a stoic, on the contrary, with a full measure of joyful anticipation he looks forward to the return of the Lord but he doesn’t run away from his task. – William Hendrickson

Imagine a love that is founded in respect, that contains gratitude and humility, that takes its chief delight in sacrifice in order to serve.

Maybe I always saw the past as beautiful because it was fleeting.  As the future met me, it passed, and became the past, and was beautiful.  I had an aversion to change, and it seemed like everyone was changing, breaking out and flying away.  I didn’t see myself as changing, but others must have thought so, because I was caught up in the change of those closest to me, and it was their change that changed me.

The only changeful thing I did was to get married, and even that had been predicted.  Clyde was sick, had been crippled from birth.  I had known him since I was born, and when I was a girl I used to go and read to him, or amuse him.  He liked that, though he was six years older, and I liked to make him laugh.  He became a natural part of my life, and I never wanted anything more than to take care of him.

When we were still children, he asked me if I would up and leave the town someday. I told him no, because then he couldn’t come with me.  Later when I promised to marry him, he was hesitant to tie me down.  I told him I would make the same commitment if he was well or sick, but I liked it best when I could take care of him.

We live quietly, others come and go.  My heart aches with all this change, because it doesn’t happen quietly.  They are caught up in an external change.  They don’t know what it is to care for someone so as to sacrifice your life to their service, they don’t know what it is to do so joyfully.  They missed the inner change in their rush, the quiet, the sublime.

The above was a story I wrote when I was thinking deeply about this idea of real love.   I thought about how it is founded in sacrifice, I thought about how my heart beats and how my life is sustained by the breath of life, but how my soul is saved and redeemed by a sacrifice, and so, by love.

If we could have this love!  If we could only love each other in the way love was meant to be demonstrated!  We cheapen it, we make it less than it’s worth, and you see it rampant in the culture and even, sadly, in the Church.  It is more than a feeling; love is your soul, your existence.

Why is it that the hero who gives up his life or himself for love inspires us?  We admire those Sydney Cartons and those Cyrano de Bergeracs, and yet we throw our love away, or we throw away the feeling that might have, with effort and work, deepened into an actual reality.

Love cannot be restored.  How can it be restored if it can never be taken away? It is fixed—real love is.  If you stopped loving someone you never truly loved them.  Love never ends, it is always there, always present, always with us, in us, around us.  It is either our failure to see, or our misuse of love that makes us believe it is a sham.  The word sham reminds me of a quote.

Sham love ends in compromise and common philosophy; but real love has always ended in bloodshed. – Orthodoxy (G.K. Chesterton)

Chesterton also says that because love desires personality it desires division.

It is the instinct of Christianity to be glad that God has broken the universe into little pieces, because they are living pieces. It is her instinct to say “little children love one another” rather than to tell one large person to love himself.

Love was meant to be given away, not with-held.  But there is a difference between emotional love and soul-love, just as there is a difference between sibling love and marital love, though the parallel is different.  Soul-love, the real love, cannot be hurt or offended in the way emotional love can be.  It is constant, and cannot be quenched.  It can only be given, like a sacrifice.  It delights in returned love, but does not require it.  Emotional love that is rejected, whether by just any person or by a prospect for marriage, will always tear the heart down. I’m not saying emotional love is bad.  The emotions must be contained within soul-love, but emotional love should not exist as its own entity.

Do you know how the Christian old-maid can be perfectly content?  Because she is already loved with real love, and she is preparing for the day when she can return that love perfectly.  She will go through phases of discontent, but will always find her tranquility and peace in something deeper.  For when the mind and soul are truly committed, the senses can be controlled.

I admire such a woman, and I would be like her if I could.  Even if I get married, I want to be like this before marriage, for I would learn how to love the true Object, Christ, and be fulfilled.  1 Corinthians 13 is a wonderful passage, but isn’t paid attention to as it ought to be.  It describes love as the essence of life, basically.   It describes it as being patient, self-sacrificial, never-ending, able to endure the stormiest weather.   Love can bear all things, yet it is tender, it is strong, yet kind, it is not arrogant or rude, but it is truthful, desires truth, and rejoices with the truth.

Death and love are seldom thought of together in a proper sense.  I have two friends, the first friend told me: “You get annoyed with love and fascinated by death.”  And it’s true.  I get annoyed with the meaningless expression and feeling that people call love.  The second friend told me: “The funny thing is that death and love are intertwined.  Without love, death is hopeless.”  They are so connected with each other, because love pushes for death that it might attain the perfect love, that it might finally reach its object.  Also, because the ultimate death occurred by and through love.  Christ died for us because he loved us, was willing to suffer infinite humiliation and death because he cares for us.

I imagine the dead waking, dazed, into a shadowless light in which they know themselves altogether for the first time. It is a light that is merciless until they can accept its mercy; by it they are at once condemned and redeemed. It is Hell until it is Heaven.  Seeing themselves in that light, if they are willing, they see how far they have failed the only justice of loving one another; it punishes them by their own judgment. And yet, in suffering that light’s awful clarity, in seeing themselves within it, they see its forgiveness and its beauty, and are consoled.  In it they are loved completely, even as they have been, and so are changed into what they could not have been but what, if they could have imagined it, they would have wished to be. – A World Lost (Wendell Berry)

The love described there was the kind of love that achieved what it longed for.  It was a love not created by us but developed in us, and realized by death and rebirth.

If the purpose of marriage was love (not real love) then the divorce rate would be 99.9%.  The .1% is for the couples who actually stayed “in love” for the whole of their married lives.  Thankfully, marriage is not about love.  It is a commitment with divine sanctioning, that aims at deeper ends than for the participants to be near each other for the rest of their lives.  I realize I’ve never been married and have no right to speak in depth about this, but I have to say this.  There is work in marriage I think, hard work, and if it is the right kind it results in satisfaction.  If we could try to pursue real love then we would find that we could really be satisfied.  For to me, marriage is partly a joint-effort, not to find love for each other, but to pursue real love and to reach the Object of that real love.

It is a zeal tempered with prudence, softened with meekness, soberly aiming at great ends by the gradual operation of well adapted means, supported by a courage which no danger can intimidate, and a quiet constancy which no hardships can exhaust. – A Practical View of Christianity (William Wilberforce)

This is a description of the Christian’s zeal in the Church.  I imagine that love is the exact same.  Yet listen to what he says about the Affections within a Christian.

Of the two most celebrated systems of philosophy, the one expressly confirmed the usurpation of the passions; while the other, despairing of being able to regulate, saw nothing left but to extinguish them. The former acted like a weak government, which gives independence to a rebellious province, which it cannot reduce.  The latter formed its bloated scheme merely upon the plan of that barbarous policy, which composes the troubles of a turbulent land by the extermination of its inhabitants.  This is the calm, not of order, but of inaction; it is not the tranquillity, but the stillness of death. (To plunder, butcher, steal, these things they misname empire: they make a desolation and call it a peace. – Tacitus.) – A Practical View of Christianity  (William Wilberforce)

I’m not proposing stoicism at all.  I think that passion is an important part of love, but I believe most fervently that it is not love.  It can be its own entity, but when separated from Love, it becomes a beast, and makes animals of us all.

Love does not concern itself with advantages.  It is not competitive.  It allows us to confront in kindness, but it has nothing to do with self-pride.  It allows us to live in humility.

We need a love revolution.  And a revolution takes work.  When looking for a husband or wife, the first person to catch your eye is not always the right one.  (“Less vividly is the mind stirred by what finds entrance through the ears than by what is brought before the trusty eyes. . . ” – Horace)  Don’t listen to your heart, which is and has proved to be deceitful above all things, but listen to the principles that are firmly grounded within you.  Why should we forsake all our work?  The woman preparing to be a spinster loses nothing in all her work when she unexpectedly gets a husband.  She has someone to work alongside now, a further encouragement, another object for the love she’s seeking to imitate.

I have been convicted about love.  Adulthood is the time to carry out and pursue ideals, and I am entering on that stage.  This is the one pursuit that will not disappoint.  How can it, when it is founded in Christ?  It is done for him, and for him alone.  He is the only Object.  He has brought me into the world in his providence, he will take me out, he will greet me in death, he is sanctifying and will finally perfect me.  He is the solid foundation, the aim I’m working towards.  He is love, and I pray for his love to flow through me, so that I become wrapped in it, enamored with it, so that it is in me and through me, so that it becomes my very being.