Love.
As I write this, shrouded in a fragrant cluster of lilacs, in May, almost a year after Phil’s death, in Hope’s backyard, I have a familiar thought progression prompting me to write; it always begins with Hope. I’ve just spent thirty six consecutive hours with her. I came over last night with a chai, and we began talking. It was almost like having a cup of coffee with Phil… it was almost better… it was different though, not quite comparable. Anyway, we were up all night. Whispering when we could help it, trying to when we could not. She has left for work, and she’ll be tired, but that’s something she’s used to. I was recapping all of the open memories stored away, bottled up, still bubbling over from the conversations that jarred them, disturbed them, spilled them onto the table. I was thinking of how I’ve once again approached a place in a relationship where a choice is inevitably on the horizon. It’s a choice that has previously been answered for me by my neglecting to acknowledge it. It’s a frightening concept… it is the epitaph of hope… it is Love.
1 Corinthians 13 is merely a definition and definitions have little application in life circumstance. Definitions are absolutes. Absolutes, and justification in Scrabble or semantic arguments. Love is a very subjective term these days at any rate, thus hard to define. It's usually thought to be a feeling, and feelings are, by my own definition, largely indefinable. I think love is too often confused with passion, or lust, or sex. Things that the books and the words are inadequate in expressing. ‘Love’ is too, which is probably why it’s so readily confused with those lesser sentiments, but I think however you write it, say it, or other wise try to interpret it, apart from living it out everyday of your life, love is just too broad to be defined. God is Love. God is boundless in everything that is good. I think the same holds true for love… at least, capital ‘L’ Love.
Perhaps I’ve been too influenced by books and movies and songs. Maybe I am naïve to believe that such a thing exists, being God or Love, but I think some beliefs are to die for. I lose no great privilege should I be mistaken, but I forfeit all I hold dear if I’m right and I take a big enough step in the wrong direction… like off of a balcony.
I think the evidence for love lies in the ability to choose. Without choice, love can’t exist. Therefore love is in both act and intent; it requires both to be effectively demonstrated, even though it is often impossible for us to know what designs an action is built upon. It’s easy to discredit motives too; it’s easy to assume the lowest common denominator. I’m so skeptical that I can’t even believe I’m capable of believing that my motivations are what I wish they were. I want to be doing things for others. I want to die to myself and live a selfless existence and prove that it can be done and done well. I want to illustrate that happiness comes foremost in making others happy. I want to be set apart and different. I want to love the way I want to be loved. I want to give. I want to offer. I want to sacrifice. In so doing, I don’t want to expect a return. I want to be perfect… I want to follow the example. It’s so inconsistent a philosophy, so full of circular perplexities and so lacking proof I can’t help but get discouraged… it seems like even questioning it is to fail it… and I question everything. And yet, it’s so simple, so easy, when it’s approached one deed at a time, one person at a time.
I can choose.
Correction: I do choose. The only thing there is no choice in doing is choosing.
Unfortunately, I usually choose to oppose my lofty standards.
The truth is I have a lot to confess, especially if I’m going to see these daunting hopes in a less consuming light, but it’s not an easy thing to do or come to terms with. Sin is such a taboo subject… if it’s even thought to exist, but if choice exists, then sin does too. I’m a sinner, that goes without saying… and if I were really convinced of my own convictions, I’d probably have more resolve to change. We’re creatures of comfort and habit. We should be creatures of risk and spontaneity if we’re going to come close to realizing the potential life has to offer. I’d rather die young and in love than old and knowing that all my hopes are well beyond my anemic grasp; ideally though, to be old and in love, having loved every passing day so far as my strength would allow.
Presently I live in a claustrophobic terror... a long way from where I’d like to take up residence. For years now my greatest fear has been that I’m cursed to sow my judgments: all my relationships doomed to failure for those I’ve criticized, unable to escape the phantom of divorce that travels back through my family tree and rots it from root to bud, that pride will drag me down in all of its various forms, even that I’ll take my life because I can’t forgive my friend for taking his… it’s not even my wrong to forgive. There are days that I believe all of that, and days when I’ll only take on the latter. I think the time has come to put all such fears aside. We take upon ourselves so much weight, as though our own sins aren’t enough. It’s about time I come to admit that I can’t do everything myself. I need someone to help me sort through all of this garbage before I trip on it… and land too hard or too far to get back up. I need more than a Hope… I need a Love, because I can’t promise a just return… I can only promise all that I am and all that I’ll ever be.
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